Stranger in a Strange Land Page 9

  Smith outweighed her, but muscles acquired handling patients twice her size enabled her to dump him into the big bag. She had to refold him to close it. His muscles resisted force but under gentle steady pressure could be repositioned like putty. She padded the comers with some of Ben’s clothes. She tried to punch air holes but the bag was glass laminate. She decided that he could not suffocate with respiration so minimal and metabolic rate as low as it must be.

  She could barely lift the packed bag, straining with both hands, and she could not carry it. But it was equipped with “Red Cap” casters. They cut ugly scars in Ben’s grass rug before she got it to the parquet of the entrance way.

  She did not go to the roof; another cab was the last thing she wanted. She went out by the service door in the basement. There was no one there but a young man checking a kitchen delivery. He moved aside and let her roll the bag out onto the pavement. “Hi, sister. What you got in the keister?”

  “A body,” she snapped.

  He shrugged. “Ask a jerky question, get a jerky answer. I should learn.”

  Part Two

  HIS PREPOSTEROUS HERITAGE

  IX.

  THE THIRD PLANET FROM SOL held 230,000 more humans this day than yesterday; among five billion terrestrials such increase was not noticeable. The Kingdom of South Africa, Federation associate, was again cited before the High Court for persecution of its white minority. The lords of fashion, gathered in Rio, decreed that hem lines would go down and navels would be covered. Federation defense stations swung in the sky, promising death to any who disturbed the planet’s peace; commercial space stations disturbed the peace with endless clamor of endless trademarked trade goods. Half a million more mobile homes had set down on the shores of Hudson Bay than had migrated by the same date last year; the Chinese rice belt was declared an emergency malnutrition area by the Federation Assembly; Cynthia Duchess, known as the Richest Girl in the World, paid off her sixth husband.

  The Reverend Doctor Daniel Digby, Supreme Bishop of the Church of the New Revelation (Fosterite) announced that he had nominated the Angel Azreel to guide Federation Senator Thomas Boone and that he expected Heavenly confirmation later today; news services carried it as straight news, the Fosterites having wrecked newspaper offices in the past. Mr. and Mrs. Harrison Campbell VI had a son and heir by host-mother at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital while the happy parents were vacationing in Peru. Dr. Horace Quackenbush, Professor of Leisure Arts at Yale Divinity School, called for a return to faith and cultivation of spiritual values; a betting scandal involved half the professionals of the West Point football squad; three bacterial warfare chemists were suspended at Toronto for emotional instability; they announced that they would carry their cases to the High Court. The High Court reversed the United States Supreme Court in re-primaries involving Federation Assemblymen in the case of Reinsberg vs. the State of Missouri.

  His Excellency, the Most Honorable Joseph E. Douglas, Secretary General of the World Federation of Free States, picked at his breakfast and wondered why a man could not get a decent cup of coffee. His morning newspaper, prepared by the night shift of his information staff, moved past his eyes at his optimum reading speed in a feedback scanner. The words flowed as long as he looked in that direction. He was looking at it now, but simply to avoid the eyes of his boss across the table. Mrs. Douglas did not read newspapers; she had other ways of finding things out.

  “Joseph—”

  He looked up, the machine stopped. “Yes, my dear?”

  “You have something on your mind.”

  “Eh? What makes you say that, my dear?”

  “Joseph! I’ve coddled you and darned your socks and kept you out of trouble for thirty-five years—I know when something is on your mind.”

  The hell of it is, he admitted, she does know. He looked at her and wondered why he had ever let her bully him into a no-termination contract. She had been his secretary, back in “The Good Old Days” when he had been a state legislator. Their first contract had been a ninety-day cohabitation agreement, to economize campaign funds by saving on hotel bills; both had agreed that it was merely a convenience, with “cohabitation” to be construed simply as living under one roof—and she hadn’t darned his socks even then!

  He tried to remember how it had changed. Mrs. Douglas’s biography Shadow of Greatness: One Woman’s Story stated that he had proposed during ballot counting in his first election—and such was his romantic need that nothing would do but old-fashioned, death-do-us-part marriage.

  Well, there was no use arguing with the official version.

  “Joseph! Answer me!”

  “Eh? Nothing, my dear. I spent a restless night.”

  “I know. When they wake you in the night, don’t I know it?”

  He reflected that her suite was fifty yards across the palace from his. “How do you know it, my dear?”

  “Hunh? Woman’s intuition. What was the message Bradley brought you?”

  “Please, my dear—I’ve got to finish the news before Council meeting.”

  “Joseph Edgerton Douglas, don’t evade me.”

  He sighed. “We’ve lost sight of that beggar Smith.”

  “Smith? You mean the Man from Mars? What do you mean: ‘—lost sight of—’? Ridiculous!”

  “Be that as it may, my dear, he’s gone. Disappeared from his hospital room yesterday.”

  “Preposterous! How could he?”

  “Disguised as a nurse, apparently.”

  “But—Never mind. He’s gone, that’s the main thing. What muddle-headed scheme are you using to get him back?”

  “Well, we have people searching. Trusted ones. Berquist—”

  “That garbage head? When you should be using every police officer from the FDS down to truant officers you send Berquist!”

  “But, my dear, you don’t see the situation. We can’t. Officially he isn’t lost. You see there’s—well, the other chap. The, uh, ‘official’ Man from Mars.”

  “Oh . . .” She drummed the table. “I told you that substitution scheme would get us in trouble.”

  “But, my dear, you suggested it.”

  “I did not. And don’t contradict me. Mmm . . . send for Berquist.”

  “Uh, Berquist is out on his trail. He hasn’t reported back yet.”

  “Uh? Berquist is half way to Zanzibar by now. He’s sold us out. I never did trust that man. I told you when you hired him that—”

  “When I hired him?”

  “Don’t interrupt.—that any man who takes money two ways would take it three ways.” She frowned. “Joseph, the Eastern Coalition is behind this. You can expect a vote-of-confidence move in the Assembly.”

  “Eh? I don’t see why. Nobody knows it.”

  “Oh, for Heaven’s sake! Everybody will know; the Eastern Coalition will see to that. Keep quiet and let me think.”

  Douglas shut up. He read that the Los Angeles City-County Council had petitioned the Federation for aid in their smog problem, on the grounds the Ministry of Health had failed to provide something or other—a sop must be thrown to them as Charlie was going to have a tough time being reelected with the Fosterites running their own candidate. Lunar Enterprises was up two points at closing—

  “Joseph.”

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “Our ‘Man from Mars’ is the only one; the one the Eastern Coalition will pop up with is a fake. That is how it must be.”

  “But, my dear, we can’t make it stick.”

  “What do you mean, we can’t? We’ve got to.”

  “But we can’t. Scientists would spot the substitution at once. I’ve had the devil’s own time keeping them away from him this long.”

  “Scientists!”

  “But they can, you know.”

  “I don’t know anything of the sort. Scientists indeed! Half guess work and half superstition. They ought to be locked up; they ought to be prohibited by law. Joseph, I’ve told you repeatedly, the only true science is astrology.”


  “Well, I don’t know, my dear. I’m not running down astrology—”

  “You’d better not! After all it’s done for you.”

  “—but these science professors are pretty sharp. One was telling me the other day about a star that weighs six thousand times as much as lead. Or was it sixty thousand? Let me see—”

  “Bosh! How could they know a thing like that? Keep quiet, Joseph. We admit nothing. Their man is a fake. In the meantime we make full use of our Special Service squads and grab him back, if possible before the Eastern Coalition makes its disclosure. If strong measures are necessary and this Smith person gets shot resisting arrest or something, well, it’s just too bad. He’s been a nuisance all along.”

  “Agnes! Do you know what you are suggesting?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. People get hurt every day. This matter must be cleared up, Joseph, for everybody. The greatest good of the greatest number, as you are always saying.”

  “I don’t want the lad hurt.”

  “Who said anything about hurting him? You must take firm steps, Joseph; it’s your duty. History will justify you. Which is more important?—to keep things on an even keel for five billion people, or to go soft and sentimental about one man who isn’t even properly a citizen?”

  Douglas didn’t answer. Mrs. Douglas stood up. “Well, I can’t waste time arguing intangibles; I’ve got to get Madame Vesant to cast a new horoscope. I didn’t give the best years of my life putting you where you are to throw it away through lack of backbone. Wipe the egg off your chin.” She left.

  The chief executive of the planet stayed for two more cups of coffee before he felt up to going to the Council Chamber. Poor old Agnes! He guessed he had been a disappointment to her . . . and no doubt the change of life wasn’t making things easier. Well, at least she was loyal, right to her toes . . . and we all have shortcomings; she was probably as sick of him as he—no point in that!

  He straightened up. One damn sure thing!—he wasn’t going to let them be rough with that Smith lad. He was a nuisance, granted, but rather appealing in a helpless, half-witted way. Agnes should have seen how easily he was frightened, then she wouldn’t talk that way. Smith would appeal to the maternal in her.

  But did Agnes have any “maternal” in her? When she set her mouth, it was hard to see it. Oh shucks, all women had maternal instincts; science had proved that. Well, hadn’t they?

  Anyhow, damn her guts, he wasn’t going to let her push him around. She kept reminding him that she had put him into the top spot, but he knew better . . . and the responsibility was his alone. He got up, squared his shoulders, and went to Council.

  All day he kept expecting someone to drop the other shoe. But no one did. He was forced to conclude that the fact that Smith was missing was close held in his own staff, unlikely as that seemed. The Secretary General wanted to close his eyes and have the whole horrid mess go away, but events would not let him. Nor would his wife.

  Agnes Douglas did not wait for her husband to act in the case of the Man from Mars. Her husband’s staff took orders as readily from her as from him—or more readily. She sent for the executive assistant for civil information, as Mr. Douglas’ flack was called, then turned to the most urgent need, a fresh horoscope. There was a scrambled private link from her suite to Madame Vesant’s studio; the astrologer’s plump features came on screen at once. “Agnes? What is it, dear? I have a client.”

  “Your circuit is hushed?”

  “Of course.”

  “Get rid of the client.”

  Madame Alexandra Vesant showed no annoyance. “Just a moment.” Her features faded out, were replaced by the “Hold” signal. A man entered and stood by Mrs. Douglas’s desk; she saw that it was James Sanforth, the press agent she had sent for.

  “Have you heard from Berquist?” she demanded.

  “Eh? I wasn’t handling that; that’s McCrary’s pidgin.”

  She brushed it aside. “You’ve got to discredit him before he talks.”

  “You think Berquist sold us out?”

  “Don’t be naive. You should have checked with me before you used him.”

  “But I didn’t. It was McCrary’s job.”

  “You are supposed to know what is going on. I—” Madame Vesant’s face came back on screen. “Wait over there,” Mrs. Douglas said to Sanforth. She turned to the screen. “Allie dear, I want fresh horoscopes for Joseph and myself, right away.”

  “Very well.” The astrologer hesitated. “I can be of greater assistance, dear, if you tell me the nature of the emergency.”

  Mrs. Douglas drummed on the desk. “You don’t have to know?”

  “Of course not. Anyone possessing the necessary rigorous training, mathematical skill, and knowledge of the stars could calculate a horoscope, knowing nothing but the hour and place of birth of the subject. You could learn it . . . if you weren’t so terribly busy. But remember: the stars incline but do not compel. If I am to make a detailed analysis to advise you in a crisis, I must know in what sector to look. Are we most concerned with the influence of Venus? Or possibly with Mars? Or—”

  Mrs. Douglas decided. “With Mars,” she interrupted. “Allie, I want a third horoscope.”

  “Very well. Whose?”

  “Uh . . . Allie, can I trust you?”

  Madame Vesant looked hurt. “Agnes, if you do not trust me, you had best not consult me. Others can give you scientific readings. I am not the only student of the ancient knowledge. Professor von Krausemeyer is well thought of, even though he is inclined to . . .” She let her voice trail off.

  “Please, please! I wouldn’t think of letting anyone else perform a calculation for me. Now listen. No one can hear from your side?”

  “Of course not, dear.”

  “I want a horoscope for Valentine Michael Smith.”

  “‘Valentine Mich—’ The Man from Mars?”

  “Yes, yes. Allie, he’s been kidnapped. We’ve got to find him.”

  Two hours later Madame Alexandra Vesant pushed back from her desk and sighed. She had had her secretary cancel all appointments; sheets covered with diagrams and figures and a dog-eared nautical almanac testified to her efforts. Alexandra Vesant differed from some astrologers in that she did attempt to calculate the “influences” of heavenly bodies, using a paper-backed book titled The Arcane Science of Judicial Astrology and Key to Solomon’s Stone which had belonged to her late husband, Professor Simon Magus, mentalist, stage hypnotist and illusionist, and student of the Arcanum.

  She trusted the book as she had trusted him; there was no one who could cast a horoscope like Simon, when he was sober—half the time he had not needed the book. She knew that she would never have that degree of skill; she always used both almanac and manual. Her calculations were sometimes fuzzy; Becky Vesey (as she had been known) had never really mastered multiplication tables and was inclined to confuse sevens with nines.

  Nevertheless her horoscopes were eminently satisfactory; Mrs. Douglas was not her only distinguished client.

  She had been a touch panicky when Mrs. Douglas demanded a horoscope for the Man from Mars—she had felt the way she used to feel when some idiot from the audience had retied her blindfold just before the Professor was to ask her questions. But she had discovered ’way back then, as a girl, that she had talent for the right answer; she had suppressed her panic and gone on with the show.

  So she had demanded of Agnes the exact hour, date, and place of birth of the Man from Mars, being fairly sure that they were not known.

  But precise information had been supplied, after short delay, from the Envoy’s log. By then she was not panicky, had simply accepted the data and promised to call back with the horoscopes.

  But, after two hours of painful arithmetic, although she had completed findings for Mr. and Mrs. Douglas, she had nothing for Smith. The trouble was simple—and insuperable. Smith had not been born on Earth.

  Her astrological bible did not include such an idea; its anony
mous author had died before the first rocket to the Moon. She had tried to find a way out of the dilemma, on the assumption that principles were unchanged and that she must correct for displacement. But she grew lost in a maze of unfamiliar relationships; she was not sure the signs of the Zodiac were the same from Mars . . . and what could one do without signs of the Zodiac?

  She could as easily have extracted a cube root, that being the hurdle that had caused her to quit school.

  She got out a tonic she kept for difficult occasions. She took one dose quickly, poured another, and thought about what Simon would have done. Presently she could hear his steady tones: “Confidence, kiddo! Have confidence and the yokels will have confidence in you. You owe to them.”

  She felt much better and started writing the horoscopes for the Douglas’s. It then turned out to be easy to write one for Smith; she found, as always, that words on paper proved themselves—they were so beautifully true! She was finishing as Agnes Douglas called again. “Allie? Haven’t you finished?”

  “Just completed,” Madame Vesant answered briskly. “You realize that young Smith’s horoscope presented an unusual and difficult problem in the Science. Born, as he was, on another planet, every aspect had to be recalculated. The influence of the Sun is lessened; that of Diana is almost missing. Jupiter is thrown into a novel, I should say ‘unique,’ aspect, as I am sure you see. This required computation of—”

  “Allie! Never mind that. Do you know the answers?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Oh, thanks goodness! I thought you were telling me that it was too much for you.”

  Madame Vesant showed injured dignity. “My dear, the Science never alters; only configurations alter. The means that predicted the instant and place of the birth of Christ, that told Julius Caesar the moment and method of his death . . . how could it fail? Truth is Truth, unchanging.”