following him." The Professor's Coltish Daughter was
currently soaking up both jive and _Alice_.

* * * * *

When the Professor checked his wristwatch, his expression grew troubled.
"By George, he is taking his time! Though, of course, we don't know how
much time Martians ... I wonder."

"I listened for a while, Pop," his son volunteered. "He was running the
water a lot."

"Running the water, eh? We know Mars is a water-starved planet. I
suppose that in the presence of unlimited water, he might be seized by a
kind of madness and ... But he seemed so well adjusted."

Then his wife spoke, voicing all their thoughts. Her outlook on life
gave her a naturally sepulchral voice.

"_What's he doing in there?_"

Twenty minutes and at least as many fantastic suggestions later, the
Professor glanced again at his watch and nerved himself for action.
Motioning his family aside, he mounted the stairs and tiptoed down the
hall.

He paused only once to shake his head and mutter under his breath, "By
George, I wish I had Fenchurch or von Gottschalk here. They're a shade
better than I am on intercultural contracts, especially taboo-breakings
and affronts ..."

His family followed him at a short distance.

The Professor stopped in front of the bathroom door. Everything was
quiet as death.

He listened for a minute and then rapped measuredly, steadying his hand
by clutching its wrist with the other. There was a faint splashing, but
no other sound.

Another minute passed. The Professor rapped again. Now there was no
response at all. He very gingerly tried the knob. The door was still
locked.

When they had retreated to the stairs, it was the Professor's Wife who
once more voiced their thoughts. This time her voice carried overtones
of supernatural horror.

"_What's he doing in there?_"

"He may be dead or dying," the Professor's Coltish Daughter suggested
briskly. "Maybe we ought to call the Fire Department, like they did for
old Mrs. Frisbee."

The Professor winced. "I'm afraid you haven't visualized the
complications, dear," he said gently. "No one but ourselves knows that
the Martian is on Earth, or has even the slightest inkling that
interplanetary travel has been achieved. Whatever we do, it will have to
be on our own. But to break in on a creature engaged in--well, we don't
know what primal private activity--is against all anthropological
practice. Still--"

"Dying's a primal act