Stranger in a Strange Land, Page 24

  “I grok its fullness . . . or I would have refused to drink.”

  “All right. May you always drink deep. May our eggs share a nest.” Tears started down her cheeks; she drank and passed the glass hastily to Miriam.

  Miriam whispered, “Pull yourself together, kid,” then spoke to Mike, “With water we welcome our brother,”—then added to Mahmoud, “Nest, water, life.” She drank. “Our brother.” She offered him the glass.

  Mahmoud drank what was left and spoke, but in Arabic: “ ‘And if ye mingle your affairs with theirs, then they are your brothers.’ ”

  “Amen,” Jubal agreed.

  Dr. Mahmoud looked quickly at him, decided not to inquire whether Harshaw had understood; this was not the place to say anything which might lead to unbottling his own troubles, his doubts. Nevertheless he felt warmed in his soul—as always—by water ritual . . . even though it reeked of heresy.

  His thoughts were cut short by the assistant chief of protocol bustling up. “You’re Dr. Mahmoud. You belong on the far side, Doctor. Follow me.”

  Mahmoud smiled. “No, I belong here. Dorcas, may I pull up a chair and sit between you and Valentine Michael?”

  “Certainly, Doctor. I’ll scrunch over.”

  The a.c. of p. was almost tapping his foot. “Dr. Mahmoud, please! The chart places you on the other side of the room! The Secretary General will be here any moment—and the place is still simply swarming with reporters and goodness knows who else . . . and I don’t know what I’m going to do!”

  “Then do it someplace else, bub,” Jubal suggested.

  “What? Who are you? Are you on the list?” He worriedly consulted a seating chart.

  “Who are you?” Jubal answered. “The head waiter? I’m Jubal Harshaw. If my name is not on that list, you can tear it up. Look, buster, if the Man from Mars wants Dr. Mahmoud by him, that settles it.”

  “But he can’t sit here! Seats at the conference table are reserved for High Ministers, Chiefs of Delegations, High Court Justices, and equal ranks—and I don’t know how I can squeeze them in if any more show up—and the Man from Mars, of course.”

  “ ‘Of course,’ ” Jubal agreed.

  “And of course Dr. Mahmoud has to be near the Secretary General—just back of him, so that he’ll be ready to interpret. I must say you’re not being helpful.”

  “I’ll help.” Jubal plucked the paper out of the official’s hand. “Mmm . . . lemme see now. The Man from Mars will sit opposite the Secretary General, near where he happens to be. Then—” Jubal took a pencil and attacked the chart. “—this half, from here to here, belongs to the Man from Mars.” Jubal scratched cross marks and joined them with a thick black arc, then began scratching out names assigned to that side of the table. “That takes care of half of your work . . . because I’ll seat anybody on our side.”

  The protocol officer was too shocked to talk. His mouth worked but only noises came out. Jubal looked at him mildly. “Something the matter? Oh—I forgot to make it official.” He scrawled under his amendments: “J. Harshaw for V. M. Smith.” “Trot back to your top sergeant, son, and show him that. Tell him to check his rule book on official visits from heads of friendly planets.”

  The man opened his mouth—left without stopping to close it. He returned on the heels of an older man. The newcomer said in a no-nonsense manner, “Dr. Harshaw, I’m LaRue, Chief of Protocol. Do you actually need half the main table? I understood that your delegation was quite small.”

  “That’s beside the point.”

  LaRue smiled briefly. “I’m afraid it’s not beside the point. I’m at my wit’s end for space. Almost every official of first rank has elected to be present. If you are expecting more people—though I do wish you had notified me—I’ll have a table placed behind these two seats reserved for Mr. Smith and yourself.”

  “No.”

  “I’m afraid that’s the way it must be. I’m sorry.”

  “So am I—for you. Because if half the main table is not reserved for Mars, we are leaving. Tell the Secretary General you busted up his conference by being rude to the Man from Mars.”

  “Surely you don’t mean that?”

  “Didn’t you get my message?”

  “Uh . . . well, I took it as a jest.”

  “I can’t afford to joke, son. Smith is either top man from another planet paying an official visit to the top man of this planet—in which case he is entitled to all the side boys and dancing girls you can dig up—or he is just a tourist and gets no official courtesies of any sort. You can’t have it both ways. Look around you, count the ‘officials of first rank’ as you call them, and guess whether they would be here if, in their minds, Smith is just a tourist.”

  LaRue said slowly, “There’s no precedent.”

  Jubal snorted. “I saw the Chief of Delegation from the Lunar Republic come in—go tell him there’s no precedent. Then duck!—I hear he’s got a quick temper. But, son, I’m an old man and I had a short night and it’s none of my business to teach you your job. Tell Mr. Douglas that we’ll see him another day . . . when he’s ready to receive us properly. Come on, Mike.” He started to pry himself painfully out of his chair.

  LaRue said hastily, “No, no, Dr. Harshaw! We’ll clear this side of the table. I’ll—Well, I’ll do something. It’s yours.”

  “That’s better.” Harshaw remained poised to get up. “But where’s the Flag of Mars? And how about honors?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Never seen a day when I had so much trouble with plain English. Look—See that Federation Banner back of where the Secretary is going to sit? Where’s the one over here, for Mars?”

  LaRue blinked. “I must admit you’ve taken me by surprise. I didn’t know the Martians used flags.”

  “They don’t. But you couldn’t possibly whop up what they use for high state occasions.” (Nor could I, boy, but that’s beside the point!) “So we’ll let you off easy and take an attempt for the deed. Piece of paper, Miriam—now. like this.” Harshaw drew a rectangle, sketched in it the traditional human symbol for Mars, a circle with an arrow leading out to upper right. “Make the field in white and the sigil of Mars in red—should be sewed in silk of course, but with a sheet and some paint any Boy Scout could improvise one. Were you a Scout?”

  “Uh, some time ago.”

  “Good. You know the Scout’s motto. Now about honors—You expect to play ‘Hail to Sovereign Peace’ as the Secretary comes in?”

  “Oh, we must.”

  “Then you’ll want to follow it with the anthem for Mars.”

  “I don’t see how I can. Even if there is one . . . we don’t have it. Dr. Harshaw, be reasonable!”

  “Look, son. I am being reasonable. We came here for a small, informal meeting. We find you’ve turned it into a circus. Well, if you’re going to have a circus, you’ve got to have elephants. Now we realize you can’t play Martian music, any more than a boy with a tin whistle can play a symphony. But you can play a symphony—‘The Nine Planets Symphony.’ Grok it? I mean, ‘Do you catch on?’ Have the tape cut in at the beginning of the Mars movement; play that . . . or enough bars to let the theme be recognized.”

  LaRue looked thoughtful. “Yes, I suppose we could—but, Dr. Harshaw, I don’t see how I can promise sovereign honors even on this improvised scale. I—I don’t think I have the authority.”

  “Nor the guts,” Harshaw said bitterly. “Well, we didn’t want a circus—so tell Mr. Douglas that we’ll be back when he’s not so busy. Been nice chatting with you, son. Stop by the Secretary’s office and say hello when we come back—if you’re still here.” He again went through the slow, apparently painful act of being too old and feeble to get out of a chair easily.

  LaRue said, “Dr. Harshaw, please don’t leave! Uh . . . the Secretary won’t come in until I send word that we are ready—so let me see what I can do. Yes?”

  Harshaw relaxed with a grunt. “Suit yourself. But one more thing, while you�
�re here. I heard a ruckus a moment ago—what I could catch, some crew members of the Champion wanted in. They’re friends of Smith, so let ’em in. We’ll accommodate ’em. Help to fill up this side of the table.” Harshaw sighed and rubbed a kidney.

  “Very well, sir,” LaRue agreed stiffly and left.

  Miriam whispered: “Boss—did you sprain your back doing those hand stands night before last?”

  “Quiet, girl, or I’ll paddle you.” With satisfaction Jubal surveyed the room, which was continuing to fill with high officials. He had told Douglas that he wanted a “small, informal” talk—knowing that the announcement would fetch the powerful and power-hungry as light attracts moths. And now (he felt sure) Mike was about to be treated as a sovereign by those nabobs—with the world watching. Let ’em try to roust the boy around after this!

  Sanforth was shooing out newsmen and the unfortunate assistant chief of protocol was jittering like a nervous babysitter in his attempt to play musical chairs with too few chairs and too many notables. They continued pouring in and Jubal concluded that Douglas had never intended to convene earlier than eleven and that everyone else had been informed—the hour given Jubal was to permit the private pre-conference meeting that he had refused. Well, the delay suited Jubal.

  The leader of the Eastern Coalition came in. Mr. Kung was, by choice, not Chief of Delegation for his nation; his status under strict protocol was merely that of Assemblyman—but Jubal was not surprised to see the assistant chief of protocol drop everything and rush to seat Douglas’s chief political enemy at the main table near the seat reserved for the Secretary General; it reinforced Jubal’s opinion that Douglas was no fool.

  Dr. Nelson, surgeon of the Champion, and Captain van Tromp, her skipper, came in together and were greeted with delight by Mike. Jubal was pleased, as it gave the boy something to do under the cameras, instead of sitting like a dummy. Jubal made use of the disturbance to rearrange seating. He placed Mike opposite the Secretary General’s chair and himself took the chair on Mike’s left—where he could touch Mike. Since Mike had foggy notions of human manners, Jubal had arranged signals as imperceptible as those used in putting a high-school horse through dressage—“stand up,” “sit down,” “bow,” “shake hands”—except that Mike was not a horse and his training had required only five minutes to achieve perfection.

  Mahmoud broke away from his shipmates and spoke to Jubal. “Doctor, the Skipper and the Surgeon are also water brothers of our brother—and Valentine Michael wanted to confirm it by again using ritual, all of us. I told him to wait. Do you approve?”

  “Eh? Yes, certainly. Not in this mob.” Damn it, how many water brothers did Mike have? “Maybe you three can come with us when we leave? And have a bite and a talk in private.”

  “I shall be honored. I feel sure the other two will come also.”

  “Good. Dr. Mahmoud, do you know of any other brothers of our young brother who are likely to show up?”

  “No. Not from the Champion, there are no more.” Mahmoud decided not to ask the complementary question, as it would hint at how disconcerted he had been—at first—to discover his own conjugational commitments. “I’ll tell Sven and the Old Man.”

  Harshaw saw the Papal Nuncio come in, saw him seated at the main table, and smiled inwardly—if that long-eared debit, LaRue, had any lingering doubt about the official nature of this meeting, he would do well to forget them!

  A man tapped Harshaw on the shoulder. “Is this where the Man from Mars hangs out?”

  “Yes,” agreed Jubal.

  “I’m Tom Boone—Senator Boone, that is—and I’ve got a message for him from Supreme Bishop Digby.”

  Jubal put his cortex into emergency high speed. “I’m Jubal Harshaw, Senator—” He signalled Mike to stand and shake hands. “—and this is Mr. Smith. Mike, this is Senator Boone.”

  “How do you do, Senator Boone,” Mike said in perfect dancing-school form. He looked at Boone with interest. He had it straightened out for him that “Senator” did not mean “Old One” as the words seemed to shape; nevertheless he was interested in seeing a “Senator.” He decided that he did not grok it.

  “Pretty well, thank you, Mr. Smith. I won’t take up your time; they seem about to get this shindig started. Mr. Smith, Supreme Bishop Digby sent me to give you a personal invite to attend services at Archangel Foster Tabernacle of the New Revelation.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  Jubal moved in. “Senator, as you know, many things here—everything—is new to the Man from Mars. But it happens that Mr. Smith has seen one of your services by stereovision—”

  “Not the same thing.”

  “I know. He expressed great interest and asked many questions—many of which I could not answer.”

  Boone looked keenly at him. “You’re not one of the faithful?”

  “I must admit I am not.”

  “Come along yourself. Always hope for a sinner.”

  “Thank you, I will.” (I surely will, friend!—I won’t let Mike go into your trap alone!)

  “Next Sunday—I’ll tell Bishop Digby.”

  “Next Sunday if possible,” Jubal corrected. “We might be in jail.”

  Boone grinned. “There’s always that, ain’t th’r? Send word around to me or the Supreme Bishop and you won’t stay in long.” He looked around the room. “Kind o’ short on chairs. Not much chance for a plain senator with all those muckamucks elbowing each other.”

  “Perhaps you would honor us by joining us, Senator,” Jubal answered smoothly, “at this table?”

  “Eh? Why, thank you, sir! Don’t mind if I do—ringside seat.”

  “That is,” Harshaw added, “if you don’t mind the implications of being seen seated with the Mars delegation. We aren’t trying to crowd you into an embarrassing situation.”

  Boone barely hesitated. “Not at all! Matter of fact, between you and I, the Bishop is very, very interested in this young fellow.”

  “Fine. There’s a chair by Captain van Tromp—probably you know him.”

  “Van Tromp? Sure, sure, old friends, know him well—met him at the reception.” Senator Boone nodded at Smith, swaggered down and seated himself.

  Fewer were getting past the guards. Jubal watched one argument over seating and the longer he watched the more he fidgeted. At last he could not sit still and watch this indecency go on. So he spoke with Mike, made sure that, if Mike did not understand why, at least he knew what Jubal wanted.

  “Jubal, I will do.”

  “Thanks, son.” Jubal got up and approached a group of three: the assistant chief of protocol, the Chief of the Uruguayan Delegation, and a man who seemed angry and baffled. The Uruguayan was saying: “—seat him, then you must find seats for all local chiefs of state—eighty or more. This is Federation soil and no chief of state has precedence over any other. If exceptions are made—”

  Jubal interrupted by addressing the third man. “Sir—” He waited long enough to gain attention, plunged on. “—the Man from Mars has instructed me to ask you to do him the great honor of sitting with him . . . if your presence is not required elsewhere.”

  The man looked startled, then smiled broadly. “Why, yes, that would be satisfactory.”

  The other two, palace official and Uruguayan dignitary, started to object; Jubal turned his back. “Let’s hurry, sir—we have very little time.” He had seen men coming in with what appeared to be a stand for a Christmas tree and a bloody sheet—but what was certainly the “Martian Flag.” As they hurried, Mike stood up and was waiting.

  Jubal said, “Sir, permit me to present Valentine Michael Smith. Michael—the President of the United States!”

  Mike bowed very low.

  There was barely time to seat him on Mike’s right while the improvised flag was being set up. Music sounded, everyone stood, and a voice proclaimed:

  “The Secretary General!”

  XX.

  JUBAL HAD considered having Mike remain seated while Douglas came in, but
had rejected the idea; he was not trying to place Mike higher than Douglas but merely to establish that the meeting was between equals. So, when he stood up, he signalled Mike to do so. Great doors at the back of the hall opened at the first strains of “Hail to Sovereign Peace” and Douglas came in. He went to his chair and started to sit down.

  Instantly Jubal signalled Mike to sit down, the result being that Mike and the Secretary General sat down simultaneously—with a respectful pause before anyone else did so.

  Jubal held his breath. Had LaRue done it? He hadn’t quite promised—

  The fortissimo tocsin of the “Mars” movement filled the room—the “War God” theme that startles even an audience expecting it. With his eyes on Douglas and Douglas looking back at him, Jubal was up out of his chair like a recruit snapping to attention.

  Douglas stood, not as quickly but promptly.

  But Mike did not; Jubal had not signalled him. He sat, unembarrassed by the fact that everyone else got back on his feet when the Secretary General did. Mike did not understand any of it and was content to do what his water brother wanted.

  Jubal had puzzled over this, after he had demanded the “Martian Anthem.” If the demand was met, what should Mike do? The answer depended on what role Mike was playing in this comedy—

  The music stopped. On Jubal’s signals Mike stood up, bowed quickly, and sat down, seating himself about as the Secretary General and the rest were seated. They all sat down more quickly this time, as no one missed the glaring point that Mike had remained seated through the “anthem.”

  Jubal sighed with relief. He had gotten away with it. Many years earlier he had seen one of the vanishing tribe of royalty (a reigning queen) receive a parade—and he had noticed that the royal lady bowed after her anthem was played, i.e., she had acknowledged a salute offered to her sovereign self.

  But the head of a democracy stands for his nation’s anthem like any citizen—he is not a sovereign.

  As Jubal had pointed out, one couldn’t have it two ways. Either Mike was a private citizen, in which case this gymkhana should never have been held—or, by the theory inherent in the Larkin Decision, the kid was sovereign all by his lonesome.