Stranger in a Strange Land Read online

  “Where did it go?”

  “That is all I can report.”

  “Mmm . . . we’ll run films later—but I’m convinced. Mike—”

  “Yes, Jubal?”

  “Where is that box?”

  “The box is—” Smith paused. “Again I have not words. I am sorry.”

  “I’m confused. Son, can you reach in and haul it out?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “You made it go away; now make it come back.”

  “How can I? The box is not.”

  Jubal looked thoughtful. “If this method becomes popular, it’ll change the rules for corpus delicti. ‘I’ve got a little list . . . they never will be missed.’ Mike, how close do you have to be?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “If you had been in the hallway and I had been back by the window—oh, thirty feet—could you have stopped it from hitting me?”

  Smith appeared mildly surprised. “Yes.”

  “Hmm . . . come to the window. Suppose Jill and I were on the far side of the pool and you were here. Could you have stopped the box?”

  “Yes, Jubal.”

  “Well . . . suppose Jill and I were down at the gate, a quarter of a mile away. Is that too far?”

  Smith hesitated. “Jubal, it is not distance. It is not seeing. It is knowing.”

  “Hmm . . . let’s see if I grok it. It doesn’t matter how far. You don’t even have to see it. If you know that a bad thing is happening, you can stop it. Right?”

  Smith looked troubled. “Almost is right. But I am not long out of the nest. For knowing I must see. An Old One does not need eyes to know. He knows. He groks. He acts. I am sorry.”

  “I don’t know why you’re sorry,” Jubal said gruffly. “The High Minister for Peace would have declared you Top Secret ten minutes ago.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Never mind.” Jubal returned to his desk, picked up a heavy ash tray. “Jill, don’t aim at my face. Okay, Mike, stand in the hallway.”

  “Jubal . . . my brother . . . please not!”

  “What’s the trouble? I want one more demonstration—and this time I won’t take my eyes off it.”

  “Jubal—”

  “Yes, Jill?”

  “I grok what is bothering Mike.”

  “Well, tell me.”

  “We did an experiment where I was about to hurt you with that box. But we are his water brothers—so it upset Mike that I even tried. I think there is something very unMartian about such a situation.”

  Harshaw frowned. “Maybe it should be investigated by the Committee on unMartian Activities.”

  “I’m not joking, Jubal.”

  “Nor I. All right, Jill, I’ll re-rig it.” Harshaw handed the ash tray to Mike. “Feel how heavy it is, son. See those sharp corners.”

  Smith examined it gingerly. Harshaw went on, “I’m going to throw it up—and let it hit me in the head as it comes down.”

  Mike stared. “My brother . . . you will now discorporate?”

  “Eh? No, no! But it will hurt me—unless you stop it. Here we go!” Harshaw tossed it straight up within inches of the high ceiling.

  The ash tray topped its trajectory, stopped.

  Harshaw looked at it, feeling stuck in one frame of a motion picture. He croaked, “Anne. What do you see?”

  She answered in a flat voice, “That ash tray is five inches from the ceiling. I do not see anything holding it up.” She added, “Jubal, I think that’s what I’m seeing . . . but if the cameras don’t show the same thing, I’m going to tear up my license.”

  “Um. Jill?”

  “It floats . . .”

  Jubal went to his desk and sat down without taking his eyes off the ash tray. “Mike,” he said, “why didn’t it disappear?”

  “But, Jubal,” Mike said apologetically, “you said to stop it; you did not say to make it go away. When I made the box go away, you wanted it to be again. Have I done wrongly?”

  “Oh. No, you have done exactly right. I keep forgetting that you take things literally.” Harshaw recalled insults common in his early years—and reminded himself never to use such to Mike—if he told the boy to drop dead or get lost, Harshaw felt certain that the literal meaning would ensue.

  I am glad,” Smith answered soberly. ”I am sorry I could not make the box be again. I am sorry twice that I wasted food. Then a necessity was. Or so I grokked.”

  “Eh? What food?”

  Jill said hastily, “He’s talking about those men, Jubal. Berquist and the man with him.”

  “Oh, yes.” Harshaw reflected that he retained unMartian notions of food. “Mike, don’t worry about wasting that ‘food.’ I doubt if a meat inspector would have passed them. In fact,” he added, recalling the Federation convention about “long pig,” “they would have been condemned as unfit to eat. Besides, it was a necessity. You grokked the fullness and acted rightly.”

  “I am much comforted,” Mike answered with relief in his voice. “Only an Old One can always be sure of right action at a cusp . . . and I have much learning to learn and growing to grow before I may join the Old Ones. Jubal? May I move it? I am tiring.”

  “You want to make it go away? Go ahead.”

  “But I cannot.”

  “Eh? Why not?”

  “Your head is no longer under it. I do not grok wrongness in its being, where it is.”

  “Oh. All right. Move it.” Harshaw continued to watch, expecting it to float to the spot now over his head and thus regain a wrongness. Instead the ash tray slanted downward until it was close above his desk, hovered, then came in to a landing.

  “Thank you, Jubal,” said Smith.

  “Eh? Thank you, son!” Jubal picked up the ash tray. It was as commonplace as ever. “Yes, thank you. For the most amazing experience I’ve had since the hired girl took me up into the attic.” He looked up. “Anne, you trained at Rhine.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you seen levitation before?”

  She hesitated. “I’ve seen what was called telekinesis with dice—but I’m no mathematician and cannot testify that it was telekinesis.”

  “Hell’s bells, you wouldn’t testify that the sun had risen if the day was cloudy.”

  “How could I? Somebody might be supplying artificial light above the cloud layer. One of my classmates could apparently levitate objects about the mass of a paper clip—but he had to be three drinks drunk. I was not able to examine it closely enough to testify . . . because I had been drinking, too.”

  “You’ve never seen anything like this?”

  “No.”

  “Mmm . . . I’m through with you professionally. If you want to stay, hang up your robe and drag up a chair.”

  “Thanks, I will. But, in view of your lecture about mosques and synagogues, I’ll change in my room.”

  “Suit yourself. Wake up Duke and tell him I want the cameras serviced.”

  “Yes, Boss. Don’t let anything happen until I get back.” Anne headed for the door.

  “No promises. Mike, sit at my desk. Now, can you pick up that ash tray? Show me.”

  “Yes, Jubal.” Smith reached out and took it in his hand.

  “No, no!”

  “I did wrongly?”

  “No, it was my mistake. I want to know if you can lift it without touching it?”

  “Yes, Jubal.”

  “Well? Are you tired?”

  “No, Jubal.”

  “Then what’s the matter? Does it have to have a ‘wrongness’?”

  “No, Jubal.”

  “Jubal,” Jill interrupted, “you haven’t told him to—you just asked if he could.”

  “Oh.” Jubal looked sheepish. “Mike, will you please, without touching it, lift that ash tray a foot above the desk?”

  “Yes, Jubal.” The ash tray raised, floated above the desk. “Will you measure, Jubal?” Mike said anxiously. “If I did wrongly, I will move it.”

  “That’s fine! Can you hold it? If you get tired, te
ll me.”

  “I will tell.”

  “Can you lift something else, too? Say this pencil? If you can, do it.”

  “Yes, Jubal.” The pencil ranged itself by the ash tray.

  By request, Mike added other articles to the floating objects. Anne returned, pulled up a chair and silently watched. Duke came in carrying a step ladder, glanced, looked a second time, said nothing and set up the ladder. At last Mike said uncertainly, “I am not sure, Jubal. I—” He seemed to search for a word. “I am idiot in these things.”

  “Don’t wear yourself out.”

  “I can think one more. I hope.” A paper weight stirred, lifted—and the dozen-odd floating objects all fell down. Mike seemed about to weep. “Jubal, I am utmostly sorry.”

  Harshaw patted his shoulder. “You should be proud. Son, what you just did is—” Jubal searched for a comparison within Mike’s experience. “What you did is harder than tying shoe-strings, more wonderful than doing a one-and-a-half gainer perfectly. You did it, uh, ‘brightly, brightly, and with beauty.’ You grok?”

  Mike looked surprised. “I should not feel shame?”

  “You should feel proud.”

  “Yes, Jubal,” he answered contentedly. “I feel proud.”

  “Good. Mike, I cannot lift even one ash tray without touching it.”

  Smith looked startled. “You cannot?”

  “No. Can you teach me?”

  “Yes, Jubal. You—” Smith stopped, looked embarrassed. “I again have not words. I will read and read and read, until I find words. Then I will teach my brother.”

  “Don’t set your heart on it.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Mike, don’t be disappointed if you do not find the words. They may not be in the English language.”

  Smith considered this. “Then I will teach my brother the language of my nest.”

  “You may have arrived fifty years late.”

  “I have acted wrongly?”

  “Not at all. You might start by teaching Jill your language.”

  “It hurts my throat,” objected Jill.

  “Try gargling aspirin.” Jubal looked at her. “That’s a feeble excuse, Nurse. You’re hired as research assistant for Martian linguistics . . . which includes extra duties as may be necessary. Anne, put her on the payroll—and be sure it gets in the tax records.”

  “She’s been doing her share in the kitchen. Shall I date it back?”

  Jubal shrugged. “Don’t bother me with details.”

  “But, Jubal,” Jill protested, “I don’t think I can learn Martian!”

  “You can try.”

  “But—”

  “What was that about ‘gratitude?’ Do you take the job?”

  Jill bit her lip. “I’ll take it. Yes . . . Boss.”

  Smith timidly touched her hand. “Jill . . . I will teach.”

  Jill patted his. “Thanks, Mike.” She looked at Harshaw. “I’m going to learn it just to spite you!”

  He grinned at her. “That motive I grok—you’ll learn it. Mike, what else can you do that we can’t?”

  Smith looked puzzled. “I do not know.”

  “How could he,” protested Jill, “when he doesn’t know what we can and can’t do?”

  “Mmm . . . yes. Anne, change that title to ‘assistant for Martian linguistics, culture, and techniques.’ Jill, in learning their language you are bound to stumble onto things that are different, really different—and when you do, tell me. And, Mike, if you notice anything which you can do but we don’t, tell me.”

  “I will tell, Jubal. What things will be these?”

  “I don’t know. Things like you just did . . . and being able to stay on the bottom of the pool longer than we can. Hmm . . . Duke!”

  “Boss, I’ve got both hands full of film.”

  “You can talk, can’t you? I noticed the pool is murky.”

  “I’m going to add precipitant tonight and vacuum it in the morning.”

  “How’s the count?”

  “It’s okay, the water is safe enough to serve at the table. It just looks messy.”

  “Let it be. I’ll let you know when I want it cleaned.”

  “Hell, Boss, nobody likes to swim in dishwater.”

  “Anybody too fussy can stay dry. Quit jawing, Duke. Films ready?”

  “Five minutes.”

  “Good. Mike, do you know what a gun is?”

  “A gun,” Smith answered carefully, “is a piece of ordnance for throwing projectiles by force of some explosive, as gunpowder, consisting of a tube or barrel closed at one end, where the—”

  “Okay, okay. Do you grok it?”

  “I am not sure.”

  “Have you ever seen a gun?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Why, certainly you have,” Jill interrupted. “Mike, think back to that time we talked about, in the room with the grass floor—but don’t get upset! One man hit me.”

  “Yes.”

  “The other pointed something at me.”

  “He pointed a bad thing at you.”

  “That was a gun.”

  “I had thinked that the word for that bad thing might be ‘gun.’ Webster’s New International Dictionary of the English Language, Third Edition, published in—”

  “That’s fine, son,” Harshaw said hastily. “Now listen. If someone points a gun at Jill, what will you do?”

  Smith paused longer than usual. “You will not be angry if I waste food?”

  “No. Under those circumstances no one would be angry at you. But I want to know something else. Could you make the gun go away, without making the man go away?”

  Smith considered it. “Save the food?”

  “Uh, that isn’t what I mean. Could you cause the gun to go away without hurting the man?”

  “Jubal, he would not hurt. I would make the gun go away, the man I would just stop. He would feel no pain. He would simply discorporate. The food would not damage.”

  Harshaw sighed. “Yes, I’m sure that’s the way it would be. But could you cause to go away just the gun? Not ‘stop’ the man, not kill him, just let him go on living?”

  Smith considered it. “That would be easier than doing both at once. But, Jubal, if I left him corporate, he might still hurt Jill. Or so I grok it.”

  Harshaw stopped to remind himself that this baby innocent was neither babyish nor innocent—was in fact sophisticated in a culture which he was beginning to realize was far in advance of human culture in mysterious ways . . . and that these naive remarks came from a superman—or what would do for a “superman.” He answered Smith, choosing words carefully as he had in mind a dangerous experiment.

  “Mike . . . if you reach a—‘cusp’—where you must do something to protect Jill, you do it.”

  “Yes, Jubal. I will.”

  “Don’t worry about wasting food. Don’t worry about anything else. Protect Jill.”

  “Always I will protect Jill.”

  “Good. But suppose a man pointed a gun—or simply had it in his hand. Suppose you did not want to kill him . . . but needed to make the gun go away. Could you do it?”

  Mike paused briefly. “I think I grok it. A gun is a wrong thing. But it might be needful for the man to remain corporate.” He thought. “I can do it.”

  “Good. Mike, I am going to show you a gun. A gun is a wrong thing.”

  “A gun is a wrong thing. I will make it go away.”

  “Don’t make it go away as soon as you see it.”

  “Not?”

  “Not. I will lift the gun and start to point it at you. Before I can get it pointed at you, make it go away. But don’t stop me, don’t hurt me, don’t kill me, don’t do anything to me. Don’t waste me as food, either.”

  “Oh, I never would,” Mike said earnestly. “When you discorporate, my brother Jubal, I hope to be allowed to eat of you myself, praising and cherishing you with every bite . . . until I grok you in fullness.”

  Harshaw controlled a reflex
and answered gravely, “Thank you, Mike.”

  “It is I who must thank you, my brother—and if it should be that I am selected before you, I hope that you will find me worthy of grokking. Sharing me with Jill. You would share me with Jill? Please?”

  Harshaw glanced at Jill, saw that she kept her face serene—reflected that she probably was a rock-steady scrubbed nurse. “I will share you with Jill,” he said solemnly. “But, Mike, none of us will be food any time soon. I am going to show you this gun—and you wait until I say . . . and then be very careful, because I have many things to do before I am ready to discorporate.”

  “I will be careful, my brother.”

  “All right.” Harshaw opened a drawer. “Look in here, Mike. See the gun? I’m going to pick it up. But don’t do anything until I tell you.” Harshaw reached for the gun, an elderly police special, took it out. “Get ready, Mike. Now!” Harshaw did his best to aim the weapon at Smith.

  His hand was empty.

  Jubal found that he was shaking, so he stopped. “Perfect!” he said. “You got it before I had it aimed.”

  “I am happy.”

  “So am I. Duke, did that get in the camera?”

  “Yup.”

  “Good.” Harshaw sighed. “That’s all, kids. Run along.”

  Anne said, “Boss? You’ll tell me what the films show?”

  “Want to stay and see them?”

  “Oh, no! I couldn’t, not the parts I Witnessed. But I want to know—later—whether or not they show that I’ve slipped my clutches.”

  “Okay.”

  XIII.

  WHEN THEY had gone, Harshaw started to give orders to Duke—then said grumpily, “What are you looking sour about?”

  “Boss, when do we get rid of that ghoul?”

  “ ‘Ghoul’? Why, you provincial lout!”

  “Okay, so I’m from Kansas. Never was any cannibalism in Kansas. I’m eating in the kitchen until he leaves.”

  Harshaw said icily, “So? Anne can have your check ready in five minutes. It ought not to take more than ten to pack your comic books and your other shirt.”

  Duke had been setting up a projector. He stopped. “Oh, I didn’t mean I was quitting.”

  “It means that to me, son.”

  “But—what the hell? I’ve eaten in the kitchen lots of times.”

  “Other circumstances. Nobody under my roof refuses to eat at my table because he won’t eat with others who eat there. I am an almost extinct breed, an old-fashioned gentleman—which means I can be a cast-iron son of bitch when it suits me. It suits me right now . . . which is to say that no ignorant, superstitious, prejudiced bumpkin is permitted to tell me who is fit to eat at my table. I dine with publicans and sinners, that is my business. I do not break bread with Pharisees.”