Stranger in a Strange Land (18 page)

“And did you grok it?”

Smith looked troubled. “Jubal, I do not know.”

“Something bothering you?”

“I do not grok all fullness of what I read. In the history written by Master William Shakespeare I found myself full of happiness at the death of Romeo. Then I read on and learned that he had discorporated too soon—or so I thought I grokked. Why?”

“He was a blithering young idiot.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I don't know, Mike.”

Smith considered this. Then he muttered in Martian and added, “I am only an egg.”

“Eh? You say that when you want to ask a favor, Mike. What is it?”

Smith hesitated. Then he blurted, “Jubal my brother, would please you ask Romeo why he discorporated? I cannot ask him; I am only an egg. But you can—and then you could teach me the grokking of it.”

Jubal saw that Mike believed that Romeo had been a living person and managed to grasp that Mike expected him to conjure up Romeo's ghost and demand explanations for his conduct in the flesh. But to explain that the Capulets and Montagues had never had corporated existence was another matter. The concept of fiction was beyond Mike's experience; there was nothing on which it could rest. Jubal's attempts to explain were so upsetting to Mike that Jill was afraid that he was about to roll up into a ball.

Mike saw how perilously close he was to that necessity and had learned that he must not resort to this refuge in the presence of friends, because (with the exception of his brother Doctor Nelson) it caused them emotional disturbance. So he made a mighty effort, slowed his heart,' calmed his emotions, and smiled. “I will waiting till a grokking comes of itself.”

“Good,” agreed Jubal. “Hereafter, before you read anything, ask me or Jill, or somebody, whether or not it is fiction. I don't want you mixed up.”

“I will ask, Jubal.” Mike decided that, when he did grok this strange idea, he must report the fullness to the Old Ones . . . and found himself wondering if the Old Ones knew about “fiction.” The incredible idea that there might be something as strange to the Old Ones as it was to himself was so much more revolutionary than the weird concept of fiction that he put it aside to cool, saved it for meditation.

“—but I didn't,” his brother Jubal was saying, “call you in to discuss literary forms. Mike, remember the day that Jill took you away from the hospital?”

“ ‘Hospital'?” Mike repeated.

“I'm not sure, Jubal,” Jill interrupted, “that Mike knew it was a hospital. Let me try.”

“Go ahead.”

“Mike, you remember where you were, where you lived alone in a room, before I dressed you and took you away.”

“Yes, Jill.”

“Then we went to another place and I undressed you and gave you a bath.”

Smith smiled in recollection. “Yes. It was great happiness.”

“Then I dried you off—and two men came.”

Smith's smile wiped away. He began to tremble and huddle into himself.

Jill said, “Mike! Stop it! Don't you dare go away!”

Mike took control of his being. “Yes, Jill.”

“Listen, Mike. I want you to think about that time—but you mustn't get upset. There were two men. One of them pulled you out into the living room.”

“The room with the joyful grasses,” he agreed.

“That's right. He pulled you into the room with the grass floor and I tried to stop him. He hit me. Then he was gone. You remember?”

“You are not angry?”

“What? No, no, not at all. One man disappeared, then the other pointed a gun at me—and then he was gone. I was frightened—but I was not angry.”

“You are not angry with me now?”

“Mike, dear—I have
never
been angry with you. Jubal and I want to know what happened. Those two men were there; you did something . . . and they were gone. What was it you did? Can you tell us?”

“I will tell. The man—the big man—hit you . . . and I frightened, too. So I—” He croaked in Martian, looked puzzled. “I do not know words.”

Jubal said, “Mike, can you explain it a little at a time?”

“I will try, Jubal. Something is in front of me. It is a wrong thing and must not be. So I reach out—” He looked perplexed. “It is an easy thing. Tying shoe laces is much more hard. But the words not are. I am very sorry.” He considered it. “Perhaps the words are in Plants to Raym, or Rayn to Sarr, or Sars to Sorc. I will read them tonight and tell you at breakfast.”

“Maybe,” Jubal admitted. “Just a minute, Mike.” He went to a comer and returned with a case which had contained brandy. “Can you make this go away?”

“This is a wrong thing?”

“Well, assume that it is.”

“But—Jubal, I must
know
that it is a wrong thing. This is a box. I do not grok it exists wrongly.”

“Mmm—Suppose I picked this up and threw it at Jill?”

Smith said with gentle sadness, “Jubal, you would not do that to Jill.”

“Uh . . . damn it, I guess not. Jill, will you throw the box at me? Hard—a scalp wound at least, if Mike can't protect me.”

“Jubal, I don't like the idea.”

“Oh, come on! In the interest of science . . . and Ben Caxton.”

“But—” Jill jumped up, grabbed the box, threw it at Jubal's head. Jubal intended to stand fast—but reflex won; he ducked.

“Missed me,” he said. “Confound it, I wasn't watching. I meant to keep my eyes on it.” He looked at Smith. “Mike, is that the—What's the matter boy?”

The Man from Mars was trembling and looking unhappy. Jill put her arms around him. “There, there, it's all right, dear! You did it beautifully. It never touched Jubal. It simply vanished.”

“I guess it did,” Jubal admitted, looking around and chewing his thumb. “Anne, were you watching?”

“Yes.”

“What did you see?”

“The box did not simply vanish. The process lasted some fraction of a second. From where I am sitting it appeared to shrink, as if it were disappearing into the distance. But it did not go outside the room; I could see it up to the instant it disappeared.”

“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.”