Stranger in a Strange Land (11 page)

Jill let out a sigh. “I must stop playing. I don't know how long we will be safe.”

“Safe?”

“We can't stay here. They may be checking on everything that left the Center.” She frowned in thought. Her place would not do, this place would not do—and Ben had intended to take him to Jubal Harshaw. But she did not know Harshaw, nor where he lived—somewhere in the Poconos, Ben had said. Well, she would have to find out; she had nowhere else to turn.

“Why are you not happy, my brother?”

Jill snapped out of it and looked at Smith. Why, the poor infant didn't know anything was wrong! She tried to look at it from his point of view. She failed, but did grasp that he had no notion that they were running away from . . . from what? The cops? The hospital authorities? She was not sure what she had done, what laws she had broken; she simply knew that she had pitted herself against the Big People, the Bosses.

How could she tell the Man from Mars what they were up against when she herself did not know? Did they have policemen on Mars? Half the time talking to him was like shouting down a rain barrel.

Heavens, did they even have rain barrels on Mars? Or rain?

“Never mind,” she said soberly. “You just do what I tell you to.”

“Yes.”

It was an unlimited acceptance, an eternal yea. Jill suddenly felt that Smith would jump out the window if she told him to—and she was correct; he would have jumped, enjoyed every second of the twenty-story drop, and accepted without surprise or resentment discorporation on impact. Nor would he have been unaware that such a fall would kill him; fear of death was an idea beyond him. If a water brother selected for him such strange discorporation, he would cherish it and try to grok.

“Well, we can't stand here. I've got to feed us, I've got to get you into different clothes, and we've got to leave. Take those off.” She left to check Ben's wardrobe.

She selected a travel suit, a beret, shirt, underclothes, shoes, then returned. Smith was snarled like a kitten in knitting; he had one arm prisoned and his face wrapped in the skirt. He had not removed the cape before trying to take off the dress.

Jill said, “Oh, dear!” and ran to help.

She got him loose from the clothes, then stuffed them down the oubliette . . . she would pay Etta Schere later and she did not want cops finding them—just in case. “You are going to have a bath, my good man, before I dress you in Ben's clean clothes. They've been neglecting you. Come along.” Being a nurse, she was inured to bad odors, but (being a nurse) she was fanatic about soap and water . . . and it seemed that no one had bathed this patient recently. While Smith did not stink, he did remind her of a horse on a hot day.

With delight he watched her fill the tub. There was a tub in the bathroom of suite K-12 but Smith had not known its use; bed baths were what he had had and not many of those; his trancelike withdrawals had interfered.

Jill tested the temperature. “All right, climb in.”

Smith looked puzzled.

“Hurry!” Jill said sharply. “Get in the water.”

The words were in his human vocabulary and Smith did as ordered, emotion shaking him. This brother wanted him to place
his whole body
in the water of life! No such honor had ever come to him; to the best of his knowledge no one had ever been offered such a privilege. Yet he had begun to understand that these others did have greater acquaintance with the stuff of life . . . a fact not grokked but which he must accept.

He placed one trembling foot in the water, then the other . . . slipped down until water covered him completely.

“Hey!” yelled Jill, and dragged his head above water—was shocked to find that she seemed to be handling a corpse. Good Lord! he couldn't
drown
, not in that time. But it frightened her, she shook him. “Smith! Wake up! Snap out of it.”

From far away Smith heard his brother call, and returned. His eyes ceased to be glazed, his heart speeded up, he resumed breathing. “Are you all right?” Jill demanded.

“I am all right. I am very happy . . . my brother.”

“You scared me. Look, don't get under the water again. Just sit up, the way you are now.”

“Yes, my brother.” Smith added something in a croaking meaningless to Jill, cupped a handful of water as if it were precious jewels and raised it to his lips. His mouth touched it, then he offered it to Jill.

“Hey, don't drink your bath water! Now, I don't want it, either.”

“Not drink?”

His defenseless hurt was such that Jill did not know what to do. She hesitated, then bent her head and touched her lips to the offering. “Thank you.”

“May you never thirst!”

“I hope you are never thirsty, too. But that's enough. If you want a drink, I'll get you one. Don't drink any more of this water.”

Smith seemed satisfied and sat quietly. By now Jill knew that he had never had a tub bath and did not know what was expected. No doubt she could coach him . . . but they were losing precious time.

Oh, well! It was not as bad as tending disturbed patients in N.P. wards. Her blouse was wet to the shoulders from dragging Smith off the bottom; she took it off and hung it up. She had been dressed for the street and was wearing a little pediskirt that floated around her knees. She glanced down. Although the pleats were permanized, it was silly to get it wet. She shrugged and zipped it off; it left her in brassière and panties.

Smith was staring with the interested eyes of a baby. Jill found herself blushing, which surprised her. She believed herself to be free of morbid modesty—she recalled suddenly that she had gone on her first bareskin swimming party at fifteen. But this childlike stare bothered her; she decided to put up with wet underwear rather than do the obvious.

She covered discomposure with heartiness. “Let's get busy and scrub the hide.” She knelt beside the tub, sprayed soap on him, and started working it into lather.

Presently Smith reached out and touched her right mammary gland. Jill drew back hastily. “Hey! None of that!”

He looked as if she had slapped him. “Not?” he said tragically.

“ ‘Not,' ” she agreed firmly, then looked at his face and added softly, “It's all right. Just don't distract me, I'm busy.”

Jill cut the bath short, letting water drain and having him stand while she showered him off. Then she dressed while the blast dried him. The warm air startled him and he began to tremble; she told him not to be afraid and had him hold the grab rail.

She helped him out of the tub. “There, you smell better and I bet you feel better.”

“Feel fine.”

“Good. Let's get clothes on you.” She led him into Ben's bedroom. But before she could explain, demonstrate, or assist in getting shorts on him a man's voice scared her almost out of her senses:

Jill dropped the shorts. Did they know anyone was inside? Yes, they must—else they would never have come here. That damned robocab must have given her away!

Should she answer? Or play-'possum?

The shout over the announcing circuit was repeated. She whispered to Smith,
“Stay here!”
then-went into the living room. “Who is it?” she called out, striving to keep her voice normal.

“Open in the name of the law!”

“Open in the name of what law? Don't be silly. Tell- me who you are before I call the police.”

“We
are
the police. Are you Gillian Boardman?”

“Me? I'm Phyllis O'Toole and I'm waiting for Mr. Caxton. I'm going to call the police and report an invasion of privacy.”

“Miss Boardman, we have a warrant for your arrest. Open up or it will go hard with you.”

“I'm not ‘Miss Boardman' and I'm calling the police!”

The voice did not answer. Jill waited, swallowing. Shortly she felt radiant heat against her face. The door's lock began to glow red, then white; something crunched and the door slid open. Two men were there; one stepped in, grinned and said, “That's the babe! Johnson, look around and find him.”

“Okay, Mr. Berquist.”

Jill tried to be a road block. The man called Johnson brushed her aside and went toward the bedroom. Jill said shrilly, “Where's your warrant? This is an outrage!”

Berquist said soothingly, “Don't be difficult, sweetheart. Behave yourself and they might go easy on you.”

She kicked at his shin. He stepped back nimbly. “Naughty, naughty,” he chided. “Johnson! You find him?”

“He's here, Mr. Berquist. Naked as an oyster—three guesses what they were up to.”

“Never mind that. Bring him.”

Johnson reappeared, shoving Smith ahead, controlling him by twisting one arm. “He didn't want to come.”

“He'll come!”

Jill ducked past Berquist, threw herself at Johnson. He slapped her aside. “None of that, you little slut!”

Johnson did not hit Jill as hard as he used to hit his wife before she left him, not nearly as hard as he hit prisoners who were reluctant to talk. Until then Smith had shown no expression and had said nothing; he had simply let himself be forced along. He understood none of it and had tried to do nothing at all.

When he saw his water brother struck by this other, he twisted, got free—and reached toward Johnson—

—and Johnson was gone.

Only blades of grass, straightening up where his big feet had been, showed that he had ever been there. Jill stared at the spot and felt that she might faint.

Berquist closed his mouth, opened it, said hoarsely, “What did you do with him?” He looked at Jill.

“Me? I didn't do
anything.”

“Don't give me that. You got a trap door or something?”

“Where did he
go?”

Berquist licked his lips. “I don't know.” He took a gun from under his coat. “But don't try your tricks on me. You stay here—I'm taking him.”

Smith had relapsed into passive waiting. Not understanding what it was about, he had done only the minimum he had to do. But guns he had seen, in the hands of men on Mars, and the expression of Jill's face at having one aimed at her he did not like. He grokked that this was one of the critical cusps in the growth of a being wherein contemplation must bring forth right action in order to permit further growth. He acted.

The Old Ones had taught him well. He stepped toward Berquist; the gun swung to cover him. He reached out—and Berquist was no longer there.

Jill screamed.

Smith's face had been blank. Now it became tragically forlorn as he realized that he must have chosen wrong action at cusp. He looked imploringly at Jill and began to tremble. His eyes rolled up; he slowly collapsed, pulled himself into a ball and was motionless.

Jill's hysteria chopped off. A patient needed her; she had no time for emotion, no time to wonder how men disappeared. She dropped to her knees and examined Smith.

She could not detect respiration, nor pulse; she pressed an ear to his ribs. She thought that heart action had stopped but, after a long time, she heard a lazy
lub-dub,
followed in four or five seconds by another.

The condition reminded her of schizoid withdrawal, but she had never seen a trance so deep, not even in class demonstrations of hypnoanesthesia. She had heard of such deathlike states among East Indian fakirs but had never really believed the reports.

Ordinarily she would not have tried to rouse a patient in such a state but would have sent for a doctor. These were not ordinary circumstances. Far from shaking her resolve, the last events made her more determined not to let Smith fall back into the hands of the authorities. But ten minutes of trying everything she knew convinced her that she could not rouse him.

In Ben's bedroom she found a battered flight case, too big for hand luggage, too small to be a trunk. She opened it, found it packed with voicewriter, toilet kit, an outfit of clothing, everything a busy reporter might need if called out of town—even a licensed audio link to patch into phone service. Jill reflected that this packed bag showed that Ben's absence was not what Kilgallen thought it was but she wasted no time on it; she emptied the bag and dragged it into the living room.

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.”

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.