The Man From Saturn by Frank Harriet Jr

Author:Frank, Harriet Jr. [Frank, Harriet Jr.]
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction, Romance
Publisher: Amazing Stories
Published: 1953-07-08T05:00:00+00:00

We found a little place under the eaves in a funny, sagging old house near the park. It was on a narrow, sedate street which still had the high-collared respectability of Henry James’ New York. The landlady was Swedish and near=sighted. “This is a gentlemanonly house,” she said, peering at me.

“I’m just helping my cousin settle in,” I told her. “My aunt specifically wanted me to help him settle in.”

“That may be as is,” she said, “but rent in advance, no smoking in bed or cooking whatsoever.”

“No problem there,” I muttered, and we followed her up the stairs. The room was lovely, full of nooks and crannies and antimacassars. It was the kind of room to lie abed in with someone you loved when the rain sounded on the roof. It was a room for tea parties and the smell of lavender sachet, and I stood in it with a man from another world who didn’t know I was alive. I sighed and sat down on the brass bed. It had a friendly creak. Sam remained planted firmly in the middle of the room.

“Look at your view,” I said, strangled with the sense of intimacy and remoteness, both at the same time, which emanated from him.

He moved obediently to the window. “Roofs,” he said. “And sky.” His tone softened over that. “Sky…Blue sky…It’s somewhere out there…my home…”

I came and stood beside him. He didn’t stir. He seemed lost to me as he stared out the window. I wanted to wrench him back down to Earth—to fix him here—to keep him here. My shoulder touched his. His eyes remained on the horizon.

“Sam,” I said, in my most seductive tone. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, he dropped his gaze. I had had momentary wild urges, but they paled and vanished under that curiously unemotional look. What was the matter with him! Or better yet, what was the matter with me? I don’t like to brag, but nothing like this had ever happened to me. There is a certain class of men who respond to my type—if you happen to like medium to small brunettes with good dispositions and acceptable measurements. But not old Sam. Oh, no.

I said, “Okay, I’m a dud. Forget it.”

He answered slowly. “Betsy, are you trying to tell me something?”

“Who—me?” I said dejectedly. “What gave you that idea? ”

He put his hand under my chin and tilted my head up. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“I’ll settle for that,” I sighed. “If that’s all I have coming. I’m not one to press an issue.”

He turned away from the window. “I’d better forget all that out there. Begin making a life for myself here.” He patted me impersonally. “You’ll have to show me how.”

“How far would you care to take that?” I said tightly. “There’s a lot to living.”

“Tell me,” he said in an interested tone.

“I’ll show you—up to a point.”

I showed him—up to a point.

After that we went on the town. I bought him a soda at Schrafts and made him drink it. “Some people eat to live.

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