Stranger in a Strange Land

  The flapper system was unknown on Mars. Martian Old Ones would have as little use for flappers as a snake has for shoes. Martians still corporate could have used flappers but did not; the concept ran contrary to their way of living.

  A Martian needing a few minutes or years of contemplation simply took it; if a friend wished to speak with him, the friend would wait. With eternity to draw on there could be no reason for hurrying—“hurry” was not a concept in Martian. Speed, velocity, simultaneity, acceleration, and other abstractions of the pattern of eternity were part of Martian mathematics, but not of Martian emotion.

  Contrariwise, the unceasing rush of human existence came not from mathematical necessities of time but from the frantic urgency implicit in human sexual bipolarity.

  On the planet Terra the flapper system developed slowly. Time was when any Terran sovereign held public court so that the lowliest might come before him without intermediary. Traces of this persisted long after kings became scarce—an Englishman could “Cry Harold!” (although none did) and the smarter city bosses still left their doors open to any gandy dancer or bindlestiff far into the twentieth century. A remnant of the principle was embalmed in Amendments I & IX of the United States Constitution, although superseded by the Articles of World Federation.

  By the time the Champion returned from Mars the principle of access to the sovereign was dead in fact, regardless of the nominal form of government, and the importance of a personage could be told by the layers of flappers cutting him off from the mob. They were known as executive assistants, private secretaries, secretaries to private secretaries, press secretaries, receptionists, appointment clerks, et cetera—but all were “flappers” as each held arbitrary veto over communication from the outside.

  These webs of officials resulted in unofficials who flapped the Great Man without permission from official flappers, using social occasions, or back-door access, or unlisted telephone numbers. These unofficials were called: “golfing companion,” “kitchen cabinet,” “lobbyist,” “elder statesman,” “five-percenter,” and so forth. The unofficials grew webs, too, until they were almost as hard to reach as the Great Man, and secondary unofficials sprang up to circumvent the flappers of primary unofficials. With a personage of foremost importance the maze of unofficials was as complex as the official phalanxes surrounding a person merely very important.

  Dr. Jubal Harshaw, professional clown, amateur subversive, and parasite by choice, had an almost Martian attitude toward “hurry.” Being aware that he had but a short time to live and having neither Martian nor Kansan faith in immortality, he purposed to live each golden moment as eternity—without fear, without hope, with sybaritic gusto. To this end he required something larger than Diogenes’ tub but smaller than Kubla’s pleasure dome; his was a simple place, a few acres kept private with electrified fence, a house of fourteen rooms or so, with running secretaries and other modern conveniences. To support his austere nest and rabble staff he put forth minimum effort for maximum return because it was easier to be rich than poor—Harshaw wished to live in lazy luxury, doing what amused Harshaw.

  He felt aggrieved when circumstances forced on him a necessity for hurry and would never admit that he was enjoying himself.

  This morning he needed to speak to the planet’s chief executive. He knew that the flapper system made such contact all but impossible. Harshaw disdained to surround himself with flappers suitable to his own rank—he answered his telephone himself if he happened to be at hand because each call offered odds that he could be rude to some stranger for daring to invade his privacy without cause—“cause” by Harshaw’s definition. He knew that he would not find such conditions at the Executive Palace; Mr. Secretary General would not answer his own phone. But Harshaw had years of practice in outwitting human customs; he tackled the matter cheerfully, after breakfast.

  His name carried him slowly through several layers of flappers. He was sufficiently a narrow-gauge V.I.P. that he was never switched off. He was referred from secretary to secretary and wound up speaking to an urbane young man who seemed willing to listen endlessly no matter what Harshaw said—but would not connect him with the Honorable Mr. Douglas.

  Harshaw knew that he would get action if he claimed to have the Man from Mars with him, but he did not think that the result would suit him. He calculated that mention of Smith would kill any chance of reaching Douglas while producing reaction from subordinates—which he did not want. With Caxton’s life at stake Harshaw could not risk failure through a subordinate’s lack of authority or excess of ambition.

  But this soft brush-off tried his patience. Finally he snarled, “Young man, if you have no authority, let me speak to someone who has! Put me through to Mr. Berquist.”

  The stooge suddenly lost his smile and Jubal thought gleefully that he had at last pinked him. So he pushed on. “Well? Don’t just sit there! Get Gil on your inside line and tell him you’ve kept Jubal Harshaw waiting.”

  The face said woodenly, “We have no Mr. Berquist here.”

  “I don’t care where he is. Get him! If you don’t know Gil Berquist, ask your boss. Mr. Gilbert Berquist, personal assistant to Mr. Douglas. If you work around the Palace you’ve seen Mr. Berquist—thirty-five, six feet and a hundred and eighty pounds, sandy hair thin on top, smiles a lot and has perfect teeth. If you don’t dare disturb him, dump it in your boss’s lap. Quit biting your nails and move!”

  The young man said, “Please hold on. I will inquire.”

  “I certainly will. Get me Gil.” The image was replaced by an abstract pattern; a voice said, “Please wait while your call is completed. This delay is not charged to your account. Please relax while—” Soothing music came up; Jubal sat back and looked around. Anne was reading, out of the telephone’s vision angle. On his other side the Man from Mars was also out of pickup and was watching stereovision and listening via ear plugs.

  Jubal reflected that he must have that obscene babble box returned to the basement. “What you got, son?” he asked, reached over and turned on the speaker.

  Mike answered, “I don’t know, Jubal.”

  The sound confirmed what Jubal had feared: Smith was listening to a Fosterite service; the Shepherd was reading church notices: “—junior Spirit-in-Action team will give a demonstration, so come early and see the fur fly! Our team coach, Brother Hornsby, has asked me to tell you boys to fetch only your helmets, gloves, and sticks—we aren’t going after sinners this time. However, the Little Cherubim will be on hand with their first-aid kits in case of excessive zeal.” The Shepherd paused and smiled broadly, “And now wonderful news, My Children! A message from Angel Ramzai for Brother Arthur Renwick and his good wife Dorothy. Your prayer has been approved and you will go to heaven at dawn Thursday morning! Stand up, Art! Stand up, Dottie! Take a bow!”

  Camera made reverse cut, showing the congregation and centering on Brother and Sister Renwick. To wild applause and shouts of “Hallelujah!” Brother Renwick was responding with a boxer’s handshake, while his wife blushed and smiled and dabbed at her eyes beside him.

  Camera cut back as the Shepherd held up his hand for silence. He went on briskly, “The Bon Voyage party starts at midnight and doors will be locked at that time—so get here early and let’s make this the happiest revelry our flock has ever seen; we’re all proud of Art and Dottie. Funeral services will be held thirty minutes after dawn, with breakfast immediately following for those who have to get to work early.” The Shepherd suddenly looked stem and camera zoomed in until his head filled the tank. “After our last Bon Voyage, the sexton found an empty pint bottle in one of the Happiness rooms—of a brand distilled by sinners. That’s past and done; the brother who slipped confessed and paid penance sevenfold, even refusing the usual cash discount—I’m sure he won’t backslide. But stop and think, My Children—Is it worth risking eternal happiness to save a few pennies on an article of worldly merchandise? Always look for that happy, holy seal-of-approval with Bishop Digby’s smiling face
on it. Don’t let a sinner palm off on you something ‘just as good.’ Our sponsors support us; they deserve your support. Brother Art, I’m sorry to have to bring up such a subject—”

  “That’s okay, Shepherd! Pour it on!”

  “—at a time of such great happiness. But we must never forget that—” Jubal switched off the speaker circuit.

  “Mike, that’s not anything you need.”

  “Not?”

  “Uh—” Shucks, the boy was going to have to learn about such things. “All right, go ahead. But talk to me later.”

  “Yes, Jubal.”

  Harshaw was about to add advice to offset Mike’s tendency to take literally anything he heard. But the telephone’s “hold” music went down and out, and the screen filled with an image—a man in his forties whom Jubal labeled as “cop.”

  Jubal said aggressively, “You aren’t Gil Berquist.”

  “What is your interest in Gilbert Berquist?”

  Jubal answered with pained patience, “I wish to speak to him. See here, my good man, are you a public employee?”

  The man hesitated. “Yes. You must—”

  “I ‘must’ nothing! I am a citizen and my taxes help pay your wages. All morning I have been trying to make a simple phone call—and I have been passed from one butterfly-brained bovine to another, every one of them feeding out of the public trough. And now you. Give me your name, job title, and pay number. Then I’ll speak to Mr. Berquist.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Come, come! I don’t have to; I am a private citizen. You are not—and the question I asked any citizen may demand of any public servant. O’Kelly versus State of California 1972. I demand that you identify yourself—name, job, number.”

  The man answered tonelessly, “You are Doctor Jubal Harshaw. You are calling from—”

  “So that’s what took so long? That was stupid. My address can be obtained from any library, post office, or telephone information. As to who I am, everyone knows. Everyone who can read. Can you read?”

  “Dr. Harshaw, I am a police officer and I require your cooperation. What is your reason—”

  “Pooh, sir! I am a lawyer. A citizen is required to cooperate with police under certain conditions only. For example, during hot pursuit—in which case the police officer may still be required to show credentials. Is this ‘hot pursuit,’ sir? Are you about to dive through this blasted instrument? Second, a citizen may be required to cooperate within reasonable and lawful limits in the course of police investigation—”

  “This is an investigation.”

  “Of what, sir? Before you may require my cooperation, you must identify yourself, satisfy me as to your bona-fides, state your purpose, and—if I so require—cite the code and show that ‘reasonable necessity’ exists. You have done none of these. I wish to speak to Mr. Berquist.”

  The man’s jaw muscles were jumping but he answered, “I am Captain Heinrich of the Federation S.S. Bureau. The fact that you reached me by calling the Executive Palace should be proof that I am who I say I am. However—” He took out a wallet, flipped it open, and held it to his pickup. Harshaw glanced at the I.D.

  “Very well, Captain,” he growled. “Will you now explain why you are keeping me from speaking with Mr. Berquist?”

  “Mr. Berquist is not available.”

  “Then why didn’t you say so? Transfer my call to someone of Berquist’s rank. I mean one of the people who work directly with the Secretary General, as Gil does. I don’t propose to be fobbed off on some junior assistant flunky with no authority to blow his own nose! If Gil isn’t there, then for God’s sake get me someone of equal rank!”

  “You have been trying to telephone the Secretary General.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Very well, you may explain what business you have with the Secretary General.”

  “And I may not. Are you a confidential assistant to the Secretary General? Are you privy to his secrets?”

  “That’s beside the point.”

  “That’s exactly the point. As a police officer, you know better. I shall explain, to some person known to me to be cleared for sensitive material and in Mr. Douglas’s confidence, just enough to make sure that the Secretary General speaks to me. Are you sure Mr. Berquist can’t be reached?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Then it will have to be someone else—of his rank.”

  “If it’s that secret, you shouldn’t be calling over a phone.”

  “My good Captain! Since you had this call traced, you know that my phone is equipped to receive a maximum-security return call.”

  The S.S. officer ignored this. Instead he answered, “Doctor, I’ll be blunt. Until you explain your business, you aren’t going to get anywhere. If you call again, your call will be routed to this office. Call a hundred times—or a month from now. Same thing. Until you cooperate.”

  Jubal smiled happily. “It won’t be necessary now, as you have let slip—unwittingly, or was it intentional?—the one datum needed before we act. If we must. I can hold them off the rest of the day . . . but the code word is no longer ‘Berquist.’ ”

  “What the devil do you mean?”

  “My dear Captain, please! Not over an unscrambled circuit—But you know, or should know, that I am a senior philosophunculist on active duty.”

  “Repeat?”

  “Haven’t you studied amphigory? Gad, what they teach in schools these days! Back to your pinochle game; I don’t need you.” Jubal switched off, set the phone for ten minutes’ refusal, said, “Come along, kids,” and returned to his loafing spot near the pool. He cautioned Anne to keep her Witness robe at hand, told Mike to stay in earshot, and gave Miriam instructions concerning the telephone. Then he relaxed.

  He was not displeased. He had not expected to reach the Secretary General at once. His reconnaissance had uncovered one weak spot in the wall surrounding the Secretary and he expected that his bout with Captain Heinrich would bring a return call from a higher level.

  If not, the exchange of compliments with the S.S. cop had been rewarding in itself and had left him in a warm glow. Harshaw held that certain feet were made for stepping on, in order to improve the breed, promote the general welfare, and minimize the ancient insolence of office; he had seen at once that Heinrich had such feet.

  But he wondered how long he could wait? In addition to the pending collapse of his “bomb” and the fact that he had promised Jill to take steps on behalf of Caxton, something new was crowding him: Duke was gone.

  Gone for the day, gone for good (or for bad), Jubal did not know. Duke had been at dinner, had not shown up for breakfast. Neither was noteworthy in Harshaw’s household and no one else seemed to miss Duke.

  Jubal looked across the pool, watched Mike attempt to perform a dive exactly as Dorcas had just performed it, and admitted to himself that he had not asked about Duke this morning, on purpose. The truth was that he did not want to ask the Bear what had happened to Algy. The Bear might answer.

  Well, there was only one way to cope with weakness. “Mike! Come here.”

  “Yes, Jubal.” The Man from Mars got out of the pool and trotted over like an eager puppy. Harshaw looked him over, decided that he must weigh twenty pounds more than he had on arrival . . . all of it muscle. “Mike, do you know where Duke is?”

  “No, Jubal.”

  Well, that settled it; the boy didn’t know how to lie—wait, hold it! Jubal remembered Mike’s computer-like habit of answering only the question asked . . . and Mike had not appeared to know where that pesky box was, once it was gone. “Mike, when did you see him last?”

  “I saw Duke go upstairs when Jill and I came downstairs, this morning when time to cook breakfast.” Mike added proudly, “I helped cooking.”

  “That was the last time you saw Duke?”

  “I am not see Duke since, Jubal. I proudly burned toast.”

  “I’ll bet you did. You’ll make some woman a fine husband, if you aren
’t careful.”

  “Oh, I burned it most carefully.”

  “Jubal—”

  “Huh? Yes, Anne?”

  “Duke grabbed an early breakfast and lit out for town. I thought you knew.”

  “Well,” Jubal temporized, “I thought he intended to leave after lunch.” Jubal suddenly felt a load lifted. Not that Duke meant anything to him—of course not! For years he had avoided letting any human being be important to him—but it would have troubled him. A little, anyhow.

  What statute was violated in turning a man ninety degrees from everything else?

  Not murder, as long as the lad used it only in self-defense, or in the proper defense of another, such as Jill. Pennsylvania laws against witchcraft might apply . . . but it would be interesting to see how an indictment would be worded.

  A civil action might lie—Could harboring the Man from Mars be construed as “maintaining an attractive nuisance?” It was likely that new rules of law must evolve. Mike had already kicked the bottom out of medicine and physics, even though the practitioners of such were aware of the chaos. Harshaw recalled the tragedy that relativity had been for many scientists. Unable to digest it, they had taken refuge in anger at Einstein. Their refuge had been a dead end; all that inflexible old guard could do was die and let younger minds take over.

  His grandfather had told him of the same thing in medicine when germ theory came along; physicians had gone to their graves calling Pasteur a liar, a fool, or worse—without examining evidence which their “common sense” told them was impossible.

  Well, he could see that Mike was going to cause more hoorah than Pasteur and Einstein combined. Which reminded him—“Larry! Where’s Larry?”

  “Here, Boss,” the loudspeaker behind him announced. “Down in the shop.”

  “Got the panic button?”