Stranger in a Strange Land Page 21

  Harshaw grinned in admiration—why, the old thief had rolled with the punch and turned a defeat into a coup for the administration. “That’s perfect, Mr. Secretary! We’ll back you right down the line!”

  “Thank you. Now about this Caxton person—Letting the press in does not apply to him. He can watch it over stereovision and make up his lies from that. But he will not be present.”

  “Then there will be no talks, Mr. Secretary, no matter what you told the press.”

  “I don’t believe you understand me, Counsellor. This man is offensive to me. Personal privilege.”

  “You are correct, sir. It is a matter of personal privilege.”

  “Then we’ll say no more about it.”

  “You misunderstand me. It is indeed personal privilege. But not yours. Smith’s.”

  “Eh?”

  “You are privileged to select your advisers—and you can fetch the Devil himself and we shall not complain. Smith is privileged to select his advisers and have them present. If Caxton is not present, we will not be there. We will be at some quite different conference. One where you won’t be welcome. Even if you speak Hindi.”

  Harshaw thought clinically that a man of Douglas’s age should not indulge in rage. At last Douglas spoke—to the Man from Mars.

  Mike had stayed on screen, as silently and as patiently as the Witness. Douglas said, “Smith, why do you insist on this ridiculous condition?”

  Harshaw said instantly, “Don’t answer, Mike!”—then to Douglas: “Tut, tut, Mr. Secretary! The Canons! You may not inquire why my client has instructed me. And the Canons are violated with exceptional grievance in that my client has but lately learned English and cannot hold his own against you. If you will learn Martian, I may permit you to put the question . . . in his language. But not today.”

  Douglas frowned. “I might inquire what Canons you have played fast and loose with—but I haven’t time; I have a government to run. I yield. But don’t expect me to shake hands with this Caxton!”

  “As you wish, sir. Now back to the first point, I haven’t been able to find Caxton.”

  Douglas laughed. “You insisted on a privilege—one I find offensive. Bring whom you like. But round them up yourself.”

  “Reasonable, sir. But would you do the Man from Mars a favor?”

  “Eh? What favor?”

  “Talks will not begin until Caxton is located—that is not subject to argument. But I have not been able to find him. I am merely a private citizen.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I spoke disparagingly of the Special Service squadrons—check it off to the irk of a man who has had his door broken down. But I know that they can be amazingly efficient . . . and they have the cooperation of police forces everywhere. Mr. Secretary, if you were to call in your S.S. Commandant and tell him that you wanted to locate a man at once—well, sir, it would produce more activity in an hour than I could in a century.”

  “Why on Earth should I alert police forces everywhere to find one scandal-mongering reporter?”

  “Not ‘on Earth,’ my dear sir—on Mars. I ask you this as a favor to the Man from Mars.”

  “Well . . . it’s preposterous but I’ll go along.” Douglas looked at Mike. “As a favor to Smith. I expect similar cooperation when we get down to cases.”

  “You have my assurance that it will ease the situation enormously.”

  “Well, I can’t promise anything. You say the man is missing. He may have fallen in front of a truck, he may be dead.”

  Harshaw looked grave. “Let us hope not, for all our sakes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve tried to point out that possibility to my client—but he won’t listen to the idea.” Harshaw sighed. “A shambles, sir. If we can’t find this Caxton, that is what we will have: a shambles.”

  “Well . . . I’ll try. Don’t expect miracles, Doctor.”

  “Not I, sir. My client. He has the Martian viewpoint . . . and does expect miracles. Let’s pray for one.”

  “You’ll hear from me. That’s all I can say.”

  Harshaw bowed without getting up. “Your servant, sir.”

  As Douglas’s image cleared Jubal stood up—and found Gillian’s arms around his neck. “Oh, Jubal, you were wonderful!”

  “We aren’t out of the woods, child.”

  “But if anything can save Ben, you’ve just done it.” She kissed him.

  “Hey, none of that! I swore off before you were born. Kindly show respect for my years.” He kissed her carefully and thoroughly. “That’s to take away the taste of Douglas—between kicking him and kissing him I was getting nauseated. Go smooch Mike. He deserves it—for holding still to my lies.”

  “Oh, I shall!” Jill let go of Harshaw, put her arms around the Man from Mars. “Such wonderful lies, Jubal!” She kissed Mike.

  Jubal watched as Mike initiated a second section of the kiss himself, performing it solemnly but not quite as a novice. Harshaw awarded him B-minus, with A for effort.

  “Son,” he said, “you amaze me. I would have expected you to curl up in one of your faints.”

  “I so did,” Mike answered seriously, without letting go, “on first kissing time.”

  “Well! Congratulations, Jill. A.C., or D.C.?”

  “Jubal, you’re a tease but I love you anyhow and refuse to let you get my goat. Mike got a little upset once—but no longer, as you can see.”

  “Yes,” Mike agreed, “it is a goodness. For water brothers it is a growing-closer. I will show you.” He let go of Jill.

  Jubal put up a palm. “No.”

  “No?”

  “You’d be disappointed, son. It’s a growing-closer for water brothers only if they are young girls and pretty—such as Jill.”

  “My brother Jubal, you speak rightly?”

  “I speak very rightly. Kiss girls all you want to—it beats the hell out of card games.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “It’s a fine way to grow closer . . . with girls. Hmm . . .” Jubal looked around. “I wonder if that first-time phenomenon would repeat? Dorcas, I want your help in a scientific experiment.”

  “Boss, I am not a guinea pig! You go to hell.”

  “In due course, I shall. Don’t be difficult, girl; Mike has no communicable diseases or I wouldn’t let him use the pool—which reminds me: Miriam, when Larry gets back, tell him I want the pool cleaned—we’re through with murkiness. Well, Dorcas?”

  “How do you know it would be our first time?”

  “Mmm, there’s that. Mike, have you ever kissed Dorcas?”

  “No, Jubal. Only today did I learn that Dorcas is my water brother.”

  “She is?”

  “Yes. Dorcas and Anne and Miriam and Larry. They are your water brothers, my brother Jubal.”

  “Mmm, yes. Correct in essence.”

  “Yes. It is essence, the grokking—not sharing of water. I speak rightly?”

  “Very rightly, Mike.”

  “They are your water brothers.” Mike paused to think words. “In catenative assemblage, they are my brothers.” Mike looked at Dorcas. “For brothers, growing-closer is good.”

  Jubal said, “Well, Dorcas?”

  “Huh? Oh, Heavens! Boss, you’re the world’s worst tease. But Mike isn’t teasing. He’s sweet.” She went to him, stood on tiptoes, held up her arms. “Kiss me, Mike.”

  Mike did. For some seconds they “grew closer.”

  Dorcas fainted.

  Jubal kept her from falling. Jill had to speak sharply to Mike to keep him from trembling into withdrawal. Dorcas came out of it and assured Mike that she was all right and would happily grow closer again—but needed to catch her breath. “Whew!”

  Miriam had watched round-eyed. “I wonder if I dare risk it?”

  Anne said, “By seniority, please. Boss, are you through with me as a Witness?”

  “For the time being.”

  “Then hold my cloak. Want to bet on it?”


  “Which way?”

  “Seven-to-two I don’t faint—but I wouldn’t mind losing.”

  “Done.”

  “Dollars, not hundreds. Mike dear . . . let’s grow lots closer.”

  Anne was forced to give up through hypoxia; Mike, with Martian training, could have gone without oxygen much longer. She gasped for air and said, “I wasn’t set right. Boss, I’m going to give you another chance.”

  She started to offer her face again but Miriam tapped her shoulder. “Out.”

  “Don’t be so eager.”

  “‘Out,’ I said. The foot of the line, wench.”

  “Oh, well!” Anne gave way. Miriam moved in, smiled, and said nothing. They grew close and continued to grow closer.

  “Front!”

  Miriam looked around. “Boss, can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “All right! Get out of the way—I’ll answer the phone myself.”

  “Honest, I didn’t hear it.”

  “Obviously. But we’ve got to pretend to a modicum of dignity—it might be the Secretary General.”

  It was Mackenzie. “Jubal, what the devil is going on?”

  “Trouble?”

  “I got a call from a man who urged me to drop everything and get cracking, because you’ve got something for me. I had ordered a mobile unit to your place—”

  “Never got here.”

  “I know. They called in, after wandering around north of you. Our despatcher straightened them out and they should be there any moment. I tried to call you, your circuit was busy. What have I missed?”

  “Nothing yet.” Damnation, he should have had someone monitor the babble box. Was Douglas committed? Or would a new passel of cops show up? While the kids played post office! Jubal, you’re senile. “Has there been any special news flash this past hour?”

  “Why, no—oh, one item: the Palace announced that the Man from Mars had returned and was vacationing in the—Jubal! Are you mixed up in that?”

  “Just a moment. Mike, come here. Anne, grab your robe.”

  “Got it, Boss.”

  “Mr. Mackenzie—meet the Man from Mars.”

  Mackenzie’s jaw dropped. “Hold it! Let me get a camera on this! We’ll pick it up off the phone—and repeat in stereo as quick as those jokers of mine get there. Jubal . . . I’m safe on this? You wouldn’t—”

  “Would I swindle you with a Fair Witness at my elbow? I’m not forcing this on you. We should wait and tie in Argus and Trans-Planet.”

  “Jubal! You can’t do this to me.”

  “I won’t. The agreement with all of you was to monitor the cameras when I signalled. And use it if newsworthy. I didn’t promise not to give interviews in addition.” Jubal added, “Not only did you loan equipment but you’ve been helpful personally, Tom. I can’t express how helpful.”

  “You mean, uh, that telephone number?”

  “Correct! But no questions about that, Tom. Ask me privately—next year.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t think of it. You keep your lip buttoned and I’ll keep mine. Now don’t go away—”

  “One more thing. Those messages you’re holding. Send them back to me.”

  “Eh? All right—I’ve kept them in my desk, you were so fussy. Jubal, I’ve got a camera on you. Can we start?”

  “Shoot.”

  “I’m going to do this one myself!” Mackenzie turned his face and apparently looked at the camera. “Flash news! This is your NWNW reporter on the spot while it’s hot! The Man from Mars just phoned and wants to talk to you! Cut. Monitor, insert flash-news acknowledgement to sponsor. Jubal, anything special I should ask?”

  “Don’t ask about South America. Swimming is your safest subject. You can ask me about his plans.”

  “End of cut. Friends, you are now face to face and voice to voice with Valentine Michael Smith the Man from Mars! As NWNW, always first with the burst, told you earlier, Mr. Smith has just returned from high in the Andes—and we welcome him back! Wave to your friends, Mr. Smith—”

  (“Wave at the telephone, son. Smile and wave.”)

  “Thank you, Valentine Michael Smith. We’re happy to see you so healthy and tan. I understand you have been gathering strength by learning to swim?”

  “Boss! Visitors. Or something.”

  “Cut!—after the word ‘swim.’ What the hell, Jubal?”

  “I’ll see. Jill, ride herd on Mike—it might be General Quarters.”

  But it was the NWNW unit landing—and again rose bushes were damaged—Larry returning from phoning Mackenzie, and Duke, returning. Mackenzie decided to finish the telephone interview quickly, since he was now assured of depth and color through his unit. In the meantime its crew would check equipment on loan to Jubal. Larry and Duke went with them.

  The interview finished with inanities, Jubal fielding questions Mike failed to understand; Mackenzie signed off with a promise that a color and depth interview would follow. “Stay synched with this station!” He waited for his technicians to report.

  Which the crew boss did, promptly. “Nothing wrong with this field setup, Mr. Mackenzie.”

  “Then what was wrong before?”

  The technician glanced at Larry and Duke. “It works better with power. The breaker was open at the board.”

  Harshaw stopped a wrangle about whether Duke had, or had not, told Larry that a circuit breaker must be reset if the equipment was to be used. Jubal did not care who was to blame—it all confirmed his conviction that technology had reached its peak with the Model-T Ford and had been growing decadent ever since. They got through the depth and color interview. Mike sent greetings to his friends of the Champion, including one to Dr. Mahmoud delivered in throat-rasping Martian.

  At last Jubal set the telephone for two hours’ refusal, stretched and felt great weariness, wondered if he were getting old. “Where’s dinner? Which one of you wenches was supposed to cook tonight? Gad, this household is falling to rack and ruin!”

  “It was my turn tonight,” Jill answered, “but—”

  “Excuses, always excuses!”

  “Boss,” Anne interrupted sharply, “how do you expect anyone to cook when you’ve kept us penned up all afternoon?”

  “That’s the moose’s problem,” Jubal said dourly. “If Armageddon is held on these premises, I expect meals hot and on time right up to the final trump. Furthermore—”

  “Furthermore,” Anne completed, “it is only seven-forty and plenty of time to have dinner by eight. So quit yelping. Cry-baby.”

  “Only twenty minutes of eight? Seems like a week since lunch. You haven’t left a civilized amount of time for a pre-dinner drink.”

  “Poor you!”

  “Somebody get me a drink. Get everybody a drink. Let’s skip dinner; I feel like getting as tight as a tent rope in the rain. Anne, how are we fixed for smörgåsbord?”

  “Plenty.”

  “Why not thaw out eighteen or nineteen kinds and let everybody eat when he feels like it? What’s all the argument?”

  “Right away,” agreed Jill.

  Anne stopped to kiss him on his bald spot. “Boss, you’ve done nobly. We’ll feed you and get you drunk and put you to bed. Wait, Jill, I’ll help.”

  “I may to help, too?” Smith said eagerly.

  “Sure, Mike. You can carry trays. Boss, dinner will be by the pool. It’s a hot night.”

  “How else?” When they left, Jubal said to Duke, “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Thinking.”

  “Doesn’t pay. Makes you discontented. Any results?”

  “Yes,” said Duke, “I’ve decided that what Mike eats is his business.”

  “Congratulations! A desire not to butt into other people’s business is eighty percent of all human wisdom.”

  “You butt into other people’s business.”

  “Who said I was wise?”

  “Jubal, if I offered Mike a glass of water, would he go through that lodge routine?”

  “I think he would. Duke, the only
human characteristic Mike has is an overwhelming desire to be liked. But I want to make sure that you know how serious it is. I accepted water brotherhood with Mike before I understood it—and I’ve become deeply entangled with its responsibilities. You’ll be committing yourself never to lie to him, never to mislead him, to stick by him come what may. Better think about it.”

  “I have been thinking about it. Jubal, there’s something about Mike that makes you want to care of him.”

  “I know. You’ve probably never encountered honesty before. Innocence. Mike has never tasted the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil . . . so we don’t understand what makes him tick. Well, I hope you never regret it.” Jubal looked up. “I thought you had stopped to distill the stuff.”

  Larry answered, “Couldn’t find a corkscrew.”

  “Machinery again. Duke, you’ll find glasses behind ‘The Anatomy of Melancholy’ up there—”

  “I know where you hide them.”

  “—and we’ll have a quick one before we get down to serious drinking.” Duke got glasses; Jubal poured and raised his own. “Here’s to alcoholic brotherhood . . . more suited to the frail human soul than any other sort.”

  “Health.”

  “Cheers.”

  Jubal poured his down his throat. “Ah!” he said happily, and belched. “Offer some to Mike, Duke, and let him learn how good it is to be human. Makes me feel creative. Front! Why are those girls never around when I need them? Front!”

  “I’m ‘Front,’ ” Miriam answered, at the door, “but—”

  “I was saying: ‘—to what strange, bittersweet fate my tomboy ambition—’ ”

  “I finished that story while you were chatting with the Secretary General.”

  “Then you are no longer ‘Front.’ Send it off.”

  “Don’t you want to read it? Anyhow, I’ve got to revise it—kissing Mike gave me new insight.”

  Jubal shuddered. “ ‘Read it?’ Good God! It’s bad enough to write such a thing. And don’t consider revising, certainly not to fit the facts. My child, a true-confession story should never be tarnished by any taint of truth.”