Stranger in a Strange Land (19 page)

“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, tell 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.”

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.”

Duke said slowly, “I ought to pop you one—and I would, if you were my age.”

“Don't let that stop you. I may be tougher than you think. If not, the commotion will fetch the others. Do you think you can handle the Man from Mars?”

“Him?
I could break him in two with one hand!”

“Probably . . . if you could lay a hand on him.”

“Huh?”

“You saw me try to point a pistol at him. Duke—
where's
that pistol?
Find that pistol. Then tell me whether you still think you can break Mike in two. But find the pistol first.”

Duke went ahead setting up the projector. “Some sleight-of-hand. The films will show it.”

Harshaw said, “Duke. Stop fiddling with that. Sit down. I'll take care of it after you've left.”

“Huh? Jubal, I don't want you touching this projector. You always get it out of whack.”

“Sit down, I said.”

“But—”

“Duke, I'll bust the damned thing if it suits me. I do not accept service from a man after he has resigned.”

“Hell, I didn't resign! You got nasty and fired me—for no reason.”

“Sit down, Duke,” Harshaw said quietly, “and let me try to save your life—or get off this place as fast as you can. Don't stop to pack. You might not live that long.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“Exactly what I say. Duke, it's irrelevant whether you resigned or were fired; you ended your employment when you announced that you would not eat at my table. Nevertheless I would find it distasteful for you to be killed on my premises. So sit down and I will do my best to avoid it.”

Duke looked startled and sat down. Harshaw went on, “Are you Mike's water brother?”

“Huh? Of course not. Oh, I've heard such chatter—it's nonsense, if you ask me.”

“It is not nonsense and nobody asked you; you aren't competent to have an opinion.” Harshaw frowned. “Duke, I don't want to fire you; you keep the gadgetry working and save me from annoyance by mechanical buffoonery. But I must get you safely off the place—and then find out who else is not a water brother to Mike . . . and see that they become such—or send them away, too.” Jubal chewed his lip. “Maybe it would be enough to exact a promise from Mike not to hurt anyone without my permission. Mmmm . . . no, too much horse play around here—and Mike is prone to misinterpret things. Say if you—or Larry, since you won't be here . . . picked up Jill and tossed her into the pool, Larry might wind up where that pistol went before I could explain to Mike that Jill was not in danger. Larry is entitled to live his life without having it cut short through my carelessness. Duke, I believe in everyone's working out his own damnation but that is no excuse to give a dynamite cap to a baby.”