Stranger in a Strange Land, Page 47

  Caxton added, “So that’s one more power bloc against us. Not just the Fosterites and other churches—but now the syndicate and the city machine. I think that job on the Temple was done by professionals—I doubt if the Fosterite goon squads touched it.”

  While they talked, people came in, went out, formed groups. Jubal found in them a most unusual feeling, an unhurried relaxation that was also dynamic tension. No one seemed excited, never in a hurry . . . yet everything they did seemed purposeful, even gestures as apparently unpremeditated as encountering one another and marking it with a kiss or a greeting. It felt to Jubal as if each move had been planned by a choreographer.

  The quiet and the increasing tension—or ‘expectancy,’ he decided; these people were not tense in any morbid fashion—reminded Jubal of something. Surgery? With a master at work, no noise, no lost motions?

  Then he remembered. Many years earlier when chemically-powered rockets were used for the earliest human probing of space, he had watched a count-down in a blockhouse. He recalled the same low voices, the relaxed, very diverse but coordinated actions, the same rising exultant expectancy. They were “waiting for fullness,” that was certain. But for what? Why were they so happy? Their Temple and all they had built had been destroyed . . . yet they seemed like kids on a night before Christmas.

  Jubal had noted when he arrived that the nudity Ben had been disturbed by on his first visit to the nest did not seem to be the practice here, although private enough for it. He failed to notice it when it did appear; he had become so much in the unique close-family mood that being dressed or not was irrelevant.

  When he did notice, it was not skin but the thickest, most beautiful cascade of black hair he had ever seen, gracing a young woman who came in, spoke to someone, threw Ben a kiss, glanced gravely at Jubal, and left. Jubal followed her with his eyes, appreciating that flowing mass of midnight plumage. Only after she left did he realize that she had not been dressed other than in that queenly glory . . . and then realized that she was not the first of his brothers in that fashion.

  Ben noticed his glance. “That’s Ruth,” he said. “New high priestess. She and her husband have been on the other coast—to prepare a branch temple, I think. I’m glad they’re back. It looks as if the whole family will be home.”

  “Beautiful head of hair. I wish she had tarried.”

  “Why didn’t you call her over?”

  “Eh?”

  “Ruth certainly came in here to catch a glimpse of you—they must have just arrived. Haven’t you noticed that we have been left pretty much alone?”

  “Well . . . yes.” Jubal had been braced to ward off undue intimacy—and found that he had stepped on a step that wasn’t there. He had been treated hospitably, but it was more like the politeness of a cat than that of an over-friendly dog.

  “They are all terribly interested in the fact that you are here and very anxious to see you . . . but they are in awe of you.”

  “Me?”

  “Oh, I told you last summer. You’re a myth, not quite real and more than life size. Mike has told them that you are the only human he knows who can ‘grok in fullness’ without learning Martian. Most of them suspect that you read minds as perfectly as Mike does.”

  “What poppycock! I hope you disabused them?”

  “Who am I to destroy a myth? If you do, you wouldn’t admit it. They are a bit afraid of you—you eat babies for breakfast and when you roar the ground trembles. Any of them would be delighted to have you call them over . . . but they won’t force themselves on you. They know that even Mike stands at attention when you speak.”

  Jubal dismissed the idea with one explosive word. “Certainly,” Ben agreed. “Mike has blind spots—I told you he was human. But you’re the patron saint—and you’re stuck with it.”

  “Well . . . there’s somebody I know, just came in. Jill! Jill! Turn around, dear!”

  The woman turned hesitantly. “I’m Dawn. But thank you.” She came over and Jubal thought that she was going to kiss him. But she dropped to one knee, took his hand and kissed it. “Father Jubal. We welcome and drink deep of you.”

  Jubal snatched his hand away. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, child! Get up and sit down. Share water.”

  “Yes, Father Jubal.”

  “Huh? Call me Jubai—and spread the word that I don’t appreciate being treated like a leper. I’m in the bosom of my family—I hope.”

  “You are . . . Jubal.”

  “So I expect to be called Jubal and treated as a water brother—no more, no less. The first one who treats me with respect will stay after school. Grok?”

  “Yes, Jubal,” she agreed. “I’ve told them.”

  “Huh?”

  “Dawn means,” explained Ben, “that she’s told Patty, probably, and that Patty is telling everybody who can hear—with his inner ear—and they are passing the word to any who are still a bit deaf, like myself.”

  “Yes,” agreed Dawn, “except that I told Jill—Patty has gone outside for something Michael wants. Jubal, have you been watching stereo? It’s very exciting.”

  “Eh? No.”

  “You mean the jail break, Dawn?”

  “Yes, Ben.”

  “We hadn’t discussed that. Jubal, Mike didn’t merely crash out and come home; he gave them miracles to chew on. He threw away every bar and door in the county jail as he left . . . did the same at the state prison near here—and disarmed all police. Partly to keep ’em busy . . . and partly because Mike purely despises locking a man up for any reason. He groks it great wrongness.”

  “That fits,” Jubal agreed. “Mike is gentle. It would hurt him to have anybody locked up. I agree.”

  Ben shook his head. “Mike isn’t gentle, Jubal. Killing a man wouldn’t worry him. But he’s the ultimate anarchist—locking a man up is a wrongness. Freedom of self—and utter personal responsibility for self. Thou art God.”

  “Wherein lies the conflict, sir? Killing a man may be necessary. But confining him is an offense against his integrity—and your own.”

  Ben looked at him. “Mike is right. You do grok in fullness—his way. I don’t quite . . . I’m still learning.” He added, “How are they taking it, Dawn?”

  She giggled slightly. “Like stirred-up hornets. The mayor is frothing. He’s demanded help from the state and from the Federation—and getting it; we’ve seen lots of troop carriers landing. But as they climb out, Mike is stripping them—not just weapons, even their shoes—and as soon as a carrier is empty, it goes, too.”

  Ben said, “I grok he’ll stay withdrawn until they give up. Handling that many details he would almost have to stay on eternal time.”

  Dawn looked thoughtful. “I don’t think so, Ben. I would have to, to handle even a tenth. But I grok Michael could do it riding a bicycle standing on his head.”

  “Mmm . . . I wouldn’t know, I’m still making mud pies.” Ben stood up. “Sometimes you miracle workers give me a slight pain, honey child. I’m going to watch the tank.” He stopped to kiss her. “You entertain old Pappy Jubal; he likes little girls.” Caxton left and a package of cigarettes followed him, placed itself in one of his pockets.

  Jubal said, “Did you do that? Or Ben?”

  “Ben. He’s always forgetting his cigarettes; they chase him all over the Nest.”

  “Hmm . . . fair-sized mud pies he makes.”

  “Ben is advancing much faster than he admits. He’s a very holy person.”

  “Umph. Dawn, you are the Dawn Ardent I met at Foster Tabernacle, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, you remember!” She looked as if he had handed her a lollipop.

  “Of course. But you’ve changed. You seem much more beautiful.”

  “That because I am,” she said simply. “You mistook me for Gillian. And she is more beautiful, too.”

  “Where is that child? I expected to see her at once.”

  “She’s working.” Dawn paused. “But I told her and she’s coming in.” She paused again. “I am to tak
e her place. If you will excuse me.”

  “Run along, child.” She got up and left as Dr. Mahmoud sat down.

  Jubal looked at him sourly. “You might have had the courtesy to let me know that you were in this country instead of letting me meet my goddaughter through the good offices of a snake.”

  “Oh, Jubal, you’re always in a bloody hurry.”

  “Sir, when one is of—” Jubal was interrupted by hands placed over his eyes. A voice demanded:

  “Guess who?”

  “Beelzebub?”

  “Try again.”

  “Lady Macbeth?”

  “Closer. Third guess, or forfeit.”

  “Gillian, stop that, come around, and sit beside me.”

  “Yes, Father.” She obeyed.

  “And knock off calling me ‘Father’ anywhere but home. Sir, I was saying that when one is of my age, one is necessarily in a hurry about some things. Each sunrise is a precious jewel . . . for it may never be followed by its sunset.”

  Mahmoud smiled. “Jubal, are you under the impression that if you stop cranking, the world stops going around?”

  “Most certainly, sir—from my viewpoint.” Miriam joined them silently, sat down on Jubal’s free side; he put an arm around her. “While I might not yearn to see your ugly face again . . . nor even the somewhat more acceptable one of my former secretary—”

  Miriam whispered, “Boss, are you honing for a kick in the stomach? I’m exquisitely beautiful; I have it on highest authority.”

  “Quiet.—new goddaughters are another category. Through your failure to drop me a postcard, I might have missed seeing Fatima Michele. In which case I would have returned to haunt you.”

  “In which case,” Miriam pointed out, “you could look at Micky at the same time . . . rubbing strained carrots in her hair. A disgusting sight.”

  “I was speaking metaphorically.”

  “I wasn’t. She’s a sloppy trencherman.”

  “Why,” asked Jill quietly, “were you speaking metaphorically, Boss?”

  “Eh? ‘Ghost’ is a concept I feel no need for, other than as a figure of speech.”

  “It’s more than that,” insisted Jill.

  “Uh, as may be. I prefer to meet baby girls in the flesh, including my own.”

  Dr. Mahmoud said, “But that is what I was saying, Jubal. You aren’t about to die. Mike has grokked you. He says you have many years ahead.”

  Jubal shook his head. “I set a limit of three figures years ago.”

  “Which three figures, Boss?” Miriam inquired innocently. “The three Methuselah used?”

  He shook her shoulders. “Don’t be obscene!”

  “Stinky says women should be obscene but not heard.”

  “Your husband speaks rightly. The day my clock first shows three figures I discorporate, whether Martian style or my own crude methods. You can’t take that away from me. Going to the showers is the best part of the game.” “I grok you speak rightly, Jubal,” Jill said slowly, “about its being the best part of the game. But don’t count on it any time soon. Your fullness is not yet. Allie cast your horoscope just last week.”

  “A horoscope? Oh, my God! Who is ‘Allie?’ How dare she! Show her to me! Swelp me, I’ll turn her into the Better Business Bureau.”

  “I’m afraid you can’t, Jubal,” Mahmoud put in, “as she is working on our dictionary. As to who she is, she’s Madame Alexandra Vesant.”

  Jubal looked delighted. “Becky? Is she in this nut house, too?”

  “Yes, Becky. We call her ‘Allie’ because we’ve got another Becky. Don’t scoff at her horoscopes, Jubal; she has the Sight.”

  “Oh, balderdash, Stinky. Astrology is nonsense and you know it.”

  “Oh, certainly. Even Allie knows it. And most astrologers are clumsy frauds. Nevertheless Allie practices it even more assiduously than she used to, using Martian arithmetic and Martian astronomy—much fuller than ours. It’s her device for grokking. It could be a pool of water, or a crystal ball, or the entrails of a chicken. The means do not matter. Mike has advised her to go on using the symbols she is used to. The point is: she has the Sight.”

  “What the hell do you mean by ‘the Sight,’ Stinky?”

  “The ability to grok more of the universe than that piece near you. Mike has it from years of Martian discipline; Allie was an untrained semi-adept. That she used as meaningless a symbol as astrology is beside the point. A rosary is meaningless, too—a Muslim rosary, I’m not criticizing our competitors.” Mahmoud reached into his pocket, got out one, started fingering it. “If it helps to turn your hat around during a poker game—then it helps. It is irrelevant that the hat has no magic powers.”

  Jubal looked at the Islamic device and ventured a question. “You are still one of the Faithful? I thought perhaps you had joined Mike’s church all the way.”

  Mahmoud put away the beads. “I have done both.”

  “Huh? Stinky, they’re incompatible.”

  “Only on the surface. You could say that Maryam took my religion and I took hers. But, Jubal my beloved brother, I am still God’s slave, submissive to His will . . . and nevertheless can say: ‘Thou art God, I am God, all that groks is God.’ The Prophet never asserted that he was the last of all prophets nor did he claim to have said all there was to say. Submission to God’s will is not to be a robot, incapable of choice and thus of sin. Submission can include—does include—utter responsibility for the fashion in which I, and each of us, shape the universe. It is ours to turn into a heavenly garden . . . or to rend and destroy.” He smiled. “‘With God all things are possible,’ if I may borrow—except the one Impossible. God cannot escape Himself, He cannot abdicate His own total responsibility—He forever must remain submissive to His own will. Islam remains—He cannot pass the buck. It is His—mine . . . yours . . . Mike’s.”

  Jubal heaved a sigh. “Stinky, theology always gives me the pip. Where’s Becky? I’ve seen her only once in twenty-odd years; that’s too long.”

  “You’ll see her. But she can’t stop now, she’s dictating. Let me explain. Up to now, I’ve spent part of each day in rapport with Mike—just a few moments although it feels like an eight-hour day. Then I immediately dictated all that he poured into me onto tape. From those tapes other people, trained in Martian phonetics, made longhand transcriptions. Then Maryam typed them, using a special typer—and this master copy Mike or I—Mike by choice, but his time is choked—would correct by hand.

  “But now Mike groks that he is going to send Maryam and me away to finish the job—or, more correctly, he has grokked that we will grok such a necessity. So Mike is getting months and years of tape completed in order that I can take it away and break it into phonetics. Besides that, we have stacks of Mike’s lectures—in Martian—that need to be transcribed when the dictionary is finished.

  “I am forced to assume that Maryam and I will be leaving soon, because, busy as Mike is, he’s changed the method. There are eight bedrooms here equipped with tape recorders. Those who can do it—Patty, Jill, myself, Maryam, your friend Allie, some others—take turns in those rooms. Mike puts us into trance, pours language—definitions, idioms, concepts—into us for moments that feel like hours . . . then we dictate at once what he has poured into us, while it’s fresh. But it can’t be just anybody. It requires a sharp accent and the ability to join trance rapport and then spill out the results. Sam, for example, has everything but the accent—he manages, God knows how, to speak Martian with a Bronx accent. Can’t use him, it would cause endless errata. That is what Allie is doing— dictating. She’s in the semi-trance needed for total recall and, if you interrupt her, she’ll lose what she hasn’t recorded.”

  “I grok,” Jubal agreed, “although the picture of Becky Vesey as a Martian adept shakes me a little. Still, she was one of the best mentalists in show business; she could give a cold reading that would scare a mark out of his shoes. Stinky, if you are going away for peace and quiet while you unwind this, why don’t you
come home? Plenty of room in the new wing.”

  “Perhaps we shall. Waiting is.”

  “Sweetheart,” Miram said earnestly, “that’s a solution I would love—if Mike pushes us out of the Nest.”

  “If we grok to leave the Nest, you mean.”

  “Same thing.”

  “You speak rightly, my dearest. But when do we eat around here? I feel a most unMartian urgency. The service was better in the Nest.”

  “You can’t expect Patty to work on your dratted old dictionary, see to it that everyone is comfortable, run errands for Mike, and still have food on the table the instant you get hungry, my love. Jubal, Stinky will never achieve priesthood—he’s a slave to his stomach.”

  “Well, so am I.”

  “You girls might give Patty a hand,” her husband added.

  “That’s a crude hint. You know we do all she’ll let us—and Tony will hardly allow anyone in his kitchen.” She stood up. “Come on Jubal, let’s see what’s cooking. Tony will be flattered if you visit his kitchen.”

  Jubal went with her, met Tony, who scowled until he saw who was with Miriam, then was beamingly proud to show off his workshop—accompanied by invective at the scoundrels who had destroyed “his” kitchen in the Nest. In the meantime a spoon, unassisted, continued to keel a pot of spaghetti sauce.

  Shortly thereafter Jubal refused to sit at the head of a long table, grabbed a place elsewhere. Patty sat at one end; the head chair remained vacant . . . except for a feeling which Jubal suppressed that the Man from Mars was sitting there and that everyone but himself could see him.

  Across the table was Dr. Nelson.

  Jubal discovered that he would have been surprised only if Dr. Nelson had not been present. He nodded and said, “Hi, Sven.”

  “Hi, Doc. Share water.”

  “Never thirst. What are you? Staff physician?”

  Nelson shook his head. “Medical student.”

  “So. Learning anything?”

  “I’ve learned that medicine isn’t necessary.”

  “If youda ast me, I coulda told yuh. Seen Van?”

  “He ought to be in late tonight or early tomorrow. His ship grounded today.”