Stranger in a Strange Land

  “I don’t know. But if it is the same one . . . I don’t think there’s any use looking for him.”

  “Mmm . . . talk, girl.”

  “Jubal . . . I’m terribly sorry—but I didn’t tell you everything.”

  “People rarely do. All right, out with it.”

  Stumbling and stammering, Gillian told about the men who had disappeared. “And that’s all,” she concluded sadly. “I screamed and scared Mike . . . and he went into that trance—and then I had a terrible time getting here. I told you about that.”

  “Mmm . . . yes. I wish you had told me this, too.”

  She turned red. “I didn’t think anybody would believe me. And I was scared. Jubal, can they do anything to us?”

  “Eh?” Jubal seemed surprised.

  “Send us to jail, or something?”

  “Oh. My dear, it is not a crime to be present at a miracle. Nor to work one. But this has more aspects than a cat has hair. Let me think.”

  Jubal held still about ten minutes. Then he opened his eyes and said, “I don’t see your problem child. He’s probably on the bottom of the pool—”

  “He is.”

  “—so dive in and get him. Bring him to my study. I want to see if he can repeat this . . . and we don’t want an audience. No, we need one; tell Anne to put on her Witness robe—I want her in her official capacity. I want Duke, too.”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  “You’re not privileged to call me ‘Boss’; you’re not tax deductible.”

  “Yes, Jubal.”

  “Mmm . . . I wish we had somebody who never would be missed. Can Mike do this stunt with inanimate objects?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We’ll find out. Haul him out and wake him up.” Jubal blinked. “What a way to dispose of—no, I mustn’t be tempted. See you upstairs, girl.”

  XII.

  A FEW minutes later Jill reported to Jubal’s study. Anne was there in the white robe of her guild; she glanced up, said nothing. Jill found a chair and kept quiet, as Jubal was dictating to Dorcas; he did not look up and went on:

  “—under the sprawled body, soaking a corner of the rug and seeping out in a dark red pool on the hearth, where it was attracting the attention of two unemployed flies. Miss Simpson clutched at her mouth. ‘Dear me!’ she said in a distressed voice, ‘Daddy’s favorite rug! . . . and Daddy, too, I do believe.’ End of chapter, Dorcas, and of first installment. Mail it off. Git.”

  Dorcas left, taking her shorthand machine and smiling to Jill. Jubal said, “Where’s Mike?”

  “Dressing,” answered Gillian. “He’ll be along soon.”

  “ ‘Dressing’?” Jubal repeated peevishly. “I didn’t say the party was formal.”

  “But he has to dress.”

  “Why? It makes no never-mind whether you kids wear skin or overcoats. Chase him in.”

  “Please, Jubal. He’s got to learn.”

  “Humph! You’re forcing on him your own narrow-minded, middle-class, Bible Belt morality.”

  “I am not! I’m simply teaching him necessary customs.”

  “Customs, morals—is there a difference? Woman, here, by the grace of God and an inside straight, we have a personality untouched by the psychotic taboos of our tribe—and you want to turn him into a copy of every fourth-rate conformist in this frightened land! Why not go whole hog? Get him a briefcase.”

  “I’m not doing anything of the sort! I’m just trying to keep him out of trouble. It’s for his own good.”

  Jubal snorted. “That’s the excuse they gave the tomcat before his operation.”

  “Oh!” Jill appeared to count ten. She said bleakly, “This is your house, Doctor Harshaw, and we are in your debt. I will fetch Michael at once.” She stood up.

  “Hold it, Jill.”

  “Sir?”

  “Sit down—and quit trying to be as nasty as I am; you don’t have my years of practice. Now let’s get something straight: you are not in my debt. Impossible—because I never do anything I don’t want to. Nor does anyone, but in my case I know it. So please don’t invent a debt that does not exist, or next you will be trying to feel gratitude—and that is the treacherous first step toward complete moral degradation. You grok that?”

  Jill bit her lip, then grinned. “I’m not sure what ‘grok’ means.”

  “Nor I. I intend to go on taking lessons from Mike until I do. But I was speaking seriously. ‘Gratitude’ is a euphemism for resentment. Resentment from most people I do not mind—but from pretty little girls it is distasteful.”

  “Why, Jubal, I don’t resent you—that’s silly.”

  “I hope you don’t . . . but you will if you don’t root out of your mind this delusion that you are indebted to me. The Japanese have five ways to say ‘thank you’—and every one translates as resentment, in various degrees. Would that English had the same built-in honesty! Instead, English can define sentiments that the human nervous system is incapable of experiencing. ‘Gratitude,’ for example.”

  “Jubal, you’re a cynical old man. I do feel grateful to you and I shall go on feeling grateful.”

  “And you are a sentimental young girl. That makes us a complementary pair. Let’s go to Atlantic City for a weekend of illicit debauchery, just us two.”

  “Why, Jubal!”

  “You see how deep your gratitude goes?”

  “Oh. I’m ready. When do we leave?”

  “Hummph! We should have left forty years ago. The second point is that you are right; Mike must learn human customs. He must take off his shoes in a mosque, wear his hat in a synagogue, and cover his nakedness when taboo requires, or our shamans will burn him for deviationism. But, child, by the myriad aspects of Ahriman, don’t brainwash him. Make sure he is cynical about it.”

  “Uh, I’m not sure I can. Mike doesn’t seem to have any cynicism in him.”

  “So? Well, I’ll lend a hand. Shouldn’t he be dressed by now?”

  “I’ll go see.”

  “In a moment. Jill, I explained why I am not anxious to accuse anyone of kidnapping Ben. If Ben is unlawfully detained (to put it at its sweetest), we have not crowded anyone into getting rid of evidence by getting rid of Ben. If he is alive, he stands a chance of staying alive. But I took other steps the first night you were here. You know your Bible?”

  “Uh, not very well.”

  “It merits study, it contains practical advice for most emergencies. ‘—every one that doeth evil hateth the light—’ John something or other, Jesus to Nicodemus. I have been expecting an attempt to get Mike away from us, for it didn’t seem likely that you had covered your tracks. But this is a lonely place and we haven’t any heavy artillery. There is one weapon that might balk them. Light. The glaring spotlight of publicity. So I arranged for any ruckus here to have publicity. Not just a little that might be hushed up—but great gobs, world wide and all at once. Details do not matter—where cameras are mounted and what linkages have been rigged—but if a fight breaks out here, it will be seen by three networks and hold-for-release messages will be delivered to a spread of V.I.P.s—all of whom would like to catch our Honorable Secretary General with his pants down.”

  Harshaw frowned. “But I can’t maintain it indefinitely. When I set it up, my worry was to move fast enough—I expected trouble at once. Now I think we are going to have to force action, while I can still keep a spotlight on us.”

  “What sort of action, Jubal?”

  “I’ve been fretting about it the past three days. You gave me a glimmering of an approach with that story of what happened in Ben’s apartment.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, Jubal. I didn’t think anybody would believe me—and it makes me feel good that you do.”

  “I didn’t say I believed you.”

  “What? But you—”

  “I think you told the truth, Jill. But a dream is a true experience of a sort and so is a hypnotic delusion. But what happens in this room during the next hour will be seen by a
Fair Witness and by cameras which are—” He pressed a button. “—rolling now. I don’t think Anne can by hypnotized when she’s on duty and I’ll lay odds that cameras can’t be. We will find out what kind of truth we’re dealing with—after which we can consider how to force the powers-that-be to drop the other shoe . . . and maybe figure a way to help Ben, too. Go get Mike.”

  Mike’s delay was not mysterious. He had tied his left shoe-string to his right—had stood up, tripped himself, fallen flat, and jerked the knots almost hopelessly tight. He spent the rest of the time analyzing his predicament and slowly getting the snarl untied and the strings correctly tied. He was not aware that he had taken long but was troubled that he had failed to repeat correctly something which Jill had taught him. He confessed his failure even though he had it repaired when she came to fetch him.

  She soothed him, combed his hair, herded him in. Harshaw looked up. “Hi, son. Sit down.”

  “Hi, Jubal,” Valentine Michael Smith answered gravely, sat down—waited.

  Harshaw said, “Well, boy, what have you learned today?”

  Smith smiled happily, then answered—as always with a pause. “I have today learned to do a one-and-a-half gainer. That is a jumping, a dive, for entering our water by—”

  “I know, I saw you. Keep your toes pointed, knees straight, and feet together.”

  Smith looked unhappy. “I rightly did not it do?”

  “You did it very rightly, for a first time. Watch Dorcas.”

  Smith considered this. “The water groks Dorcas. It cherishes him.”

  “‘Her.’ Dorcas is ‘her,’ not ‘him.’ ”

  “ ‘Her,’ ” Smith corrected. “Then my speaking was false? I have read in Webster’s New International Dictionary of the English Language, Third Edition, published in Springfield, Massachusetts, that the masculine gender includes the feminine gender in speaking. In Hagworth’s Law of Contracts, Fifth Edition, Chicago, Illinois, 1978, on page 1012, it says—”

  “Hold it,” Harshaw said hastily. “Masculine forms do include the feminine, when you are speaking in general—but not when talking about a particular person. Dorcas is always ‘she’ or ‘her’—never ‘he’ or ‘him.’ ”

  “I will remember.”

  “You had better—or you may provoke Dorcas into proving just how female she is.” Harshaw blinked thoughtfully. “Jill, is the lad sleeping with you? Or one of you?”

  She hesitated, then answered flatly, “So far as I know, Mike doesn’t sleep.”

  “You evaded my question.”

  “Then you can assume that I intended to. However, he is not sleeping with me.”

  “Mmm . . . damn it, my interest is scientific. Mike, what else have you learned?”

  “I have learned two ways to tie my shoes. One way is only good for lying down. The other way is good for walking. And I have learned conjugations. I am, thou art, he is, we are, you are, they are, I was, thou wast—”

  “Okay, that’s enough. What else?”

  Mike smiled delightedly. “To yesterday I am learning to drive the tractor, brightly, brightly, and with beauty.”

  “Eh?” Jubal turned to Jill. “When was this?”

  “Yesterday while you were napping, Jubal. It’s all right—Duke was careful not to let him get hurt.”

  “Umm . . . well, obviously he didn’t. Mike, have you been reading?”

  “Yes, Jubal.”

  “What?”

  “I have read,” Mike recited, “three more volumes of the Encyclopedia, Maryb to Mushe, Mushr to Ozon, P to Planti. You have told me not to read too much of the Encyclopedia at one reading, so I then stopped. I then read the Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet by Master William Shakespeare of London. I then read the Memoirs of Jacques Casanova de Seingalt as translated into English by Arthur Machen. I then read The Art of Cross-Examination by Francis Wellman. I then tried to grok what I had read until Jill told me that I must come to breakfast.”

  “And did you grok it?”

  Smith looked troubled. “Jubal, I do not know.”

  “Something bothering you?”

  “I do not grok all fullness of what I read. In the history written by Master William Shakespeare I found myself full of happiness at the death of Romeo. Then I read on and learned that he had discorporated too soon—or so I thought I grokked. Why?”

  “He was a blithering young idiot.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “I don’t know, Mike.”

  Smith considered this. Then he muttered in Martian and added, “I am only an egg.”

  “Eh? You say that when you want to ask a favor, Mike. What is it?”

  Smith hesitated. Then he blurted, “Jubal my brother, would please you ask Romeo why he discorporated? I cannot ask him; I am only an egg. But you can—and then you could teach me the grokking of it.”

  Jubal saw that Mike believed that Romeo had been a living person and managed to grasp that Mike expected him to conjure up Romeo’s ghost and demand explanations for his conduct in the flesh. But to explain that the Capulets and Montagues had never had corporated existence was another matter. The concept of fiction was beyond Mike’s experience; there was nothing on which it could rest. Jubal’s attempts to explain were so upsetting to Mike that Jill was afraid that he was about to roll up into a ball.

  Mike saw how perilously close he was to that necessity and had learned that he must not resort to this refuge in the presence of friends, because (with the exception of his brother Doctor Nelson) it caused them emotional disturbance. So he made a mighty effort, slowed his heart,’ calmed his emotions, and smiled. “I will waiting till a grokking comes of itself.”

  “Good,” agreed Jubal. “Hereafter, before you read anything, ask me or Jill, or somebody, whether or not it is fiction. I don’t want you mixed up.”

  “I will ask, Jubal.” Mike decided that, when he did grok this strange idea, he must report the fullness to the Old Ones . . . and found himself wondering if the Old Ones knew about “fiction.” The incredible idea that there might be something as strange to the Old Ones as it was to himself was so much more revolutionary than the weird concept of fiction that he put it aside to cool, saved it for meditation.

  “—but I didn’t,” his brother Jubal was saying, “call you in to discuss literary forms. Mike, remember the day that Jill took you away from the hospital?”

  “ ‘Hospital’?” Mike repeated.

  “I’m not sure, Jubal,” Jill interrupted, “that Mike knew it was a hospital. Let me try.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Mike, you remember where you were, where you lived alone in a room, before I dressed you and took you away.”

  “Yes, Jill.”

  “Then we went to another place and I undressed you and gave you a bath.”

  Smith smiled in recollection. “Yes. It was great happiness.”

  “Then I dried you off—and two men came.”

  Smith’s smile wiped away. He began to tremble and huddle into himself.

  Jill said, “Mike! Stop it! Don’t you dare go away!”

  Mike took control of his being. “Yes, Jill.”

  “Listen, Mike. I want you to think about that time—but you mustn’t get upset. There were two men. One of them pulled you out into the living room.”

  “The room with the joyful grasses,” he agreed.

  “That’s right. He pulled you into the room with the grass floor and I tried to stop him. He hit me. Then he was gone. You remember?”

  “You are not angry?”

  “What? No, no, not at all. One man disappeared, then the other pointed a gun at me—and then he was gone. I was frightened—but I was not angry.”

  “You are not angry with me now?”

  “Mike, dear—I have never been angry with you. Jubal and I want to know what happened. Those two men were there; you did something . . . and they were gone. What was it you did? Can you tell us?”

  “I will tell. The man—the big man—hit you . . . and I frightene
d, too. So I—” He croaked in Martian, looked puzzled. “I do not know words.”

  Jubal said, “Mike, can you explain it a little at a time?”

  “I will try, Jubal. Something is in front of me. It is a wrong thing and must not be. So I reach out—” He looked perplexed. “It is an easy thing. Tying shoe laces is much more hard. But the words not are. I am very sorry.” He considered it. “Perhaps the words are in Plants to Raym, or Rayn to Sarr, or Sars to Sorc. I will read them tonight and tell you at breakfast.”

  “Maybe,” Jubal admitted. “Just a minute, Mike.” He went to a comer and returned with a case which had contained brandy. “Can you make this go away?”

  “This is a wrong thing?”

  “Well, assume that it is.”

  “But—Jubal, I must know that it is a wrong thing. This is a box. I do not grok it exists wrongly.”

  “Mmm—Suppose I picked this up and threw it at Jill?”

  Smith said with gentle sadness, “Jubal, you would not do that to Jill.”

  “Uh . . . damn it, I guess not. Jill, will you throw the box at me? Hard—a scalp wound at least, if Mike can’t protect me.”

  “Jubal, I don’t like the idea.”

  “Oh, come on! In the interest of science . . . and Ben Caxton.”

  “But—” Jill jumped up, grabbed the box, threw it at Jubal’s head. Jubal intended to stand fast—but reflex won; he ducked.

  “Missed me,” he said. “Confound it, I wasn’t watching. I meant to keep my eyes on it.” He looked at Smith. “Mike, is that the—What’s the matter boy?”

  The Man from Mars was trembling and looking unhappy. Jill put her arms around him. “There, there, it’s all right, dear! You did it beautifully. It never touched Jubal. It simply vanished.”

  “I guess it did,” Jubal admitted, looking around and chewing his thumb. “Anne, were you watching?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you see?”

  “The box did not simply vanish. The process lasted some fraction of a second. From where I am sitting it appeared to shrink, as if it were disappearing into the distance. But it did not go outside the room; I could see it up to the instant it disappeared.”