Stranger in a Strange Land (21 page)

Duke frowned. “Reckon I'll stay.”

“I wash my hands of it. You saw those movies; if you're bright enough to pound sand, you've figured out that this man-Martian can be dangerous.”

Duke nodded. “I'm not as stupid as you think, Jubal. But I won't let Mike run me off the place.” He added, “You say he's dangerous. But I'm not going to stir him up. Shucks, Jubal, I
like
the little dope, most ways.”

“Mmm . . . damn it, you still underestimate him, Duke. See here, if you feel friendly toward him, the best thing you can do is to offer him a glass of water. Understand me? Become his ‘water brother.' ”

“Uh . . . I'll think about it.”

“But, Duke, don't fake it. If Mike accepts your offer, he'll be dead serious. He'll trust you utterly,—so don't do it unless you are willing to trust him and stand by him, no matter how rough things get. Either all out—or don't do it.”

“I understood that. That's why I said, ‘I'll think about it.' ”

“Okay. Don't take too long making up your mind . . . I expect things to get very rough soon.”

IN LAPUTA, according to Lemuel Gulliver, no person of importance listened or spoke without help of a “climenole”—or “flapper” in English translation, as such servant's duty was to flap the mouth and ears of his master with a bladder whenever,
in the opinion of the servant,
it was desirable for his master to speak or listen. Without the consent of his flapper it was impossible to converse with any Laputian of the master class.

The flapper system was unknown on Mars. Martian Old Ones would have as little use for flappers as a snake has for shoes. Martians still corporate could have used flappers but did not; the concept ran contrary to their way of living.

A Martian needing a few minutes or years of contemplation simply took it; if a friend wished to speak with him, the friend would wait. With eternity to draw on there could be no reason for hurrying—“hurry” was not a concept in Martian. Speed, velocity, simultaneity, acceleration, and other abstractions of the pattern of eternity were part of Martian mathematics, but not of Martian emotion.

Contrariwise, the unceasing rush of human existence came not from mathematical necessities of time but from the frantic urgency implicit in human sexual bipolarity.

On the planet Terra the flapper system developed slowly. Time was when any Terran sovereign held public court so that the lowliest might come before him without intermediary. Traces of this persisted long after kings became scarce—an Englishman could “Cry Harold!” (although none did) and the smarter city bosses still left their doors open to any gandy dancer or bindlestiff far into the twentieth century. A remnant of the principle was embalmed in Amendments I & IX of the United States Constitution, although superseded by the Articles of World Federation.

By the time the
Champion
returned from Mars the principle of access to the sovereign was dead in fact, regardless of the nominal form of government, and the importance of a personage could be told by the layers of flappers cutting him off from the mob. They were known as executive assistants, private secretaries, secretaries to private secretaries, press secretaries, receptionists, appointment clerks, et cetera—but all were “flappers” as each held arbitrary veto over communication from the outside.

These webs of officials resulted in unofficials who flapped the Great Man without permission from official flappers, using social occasions, or back-door access, or unlisted telephone numbers. These unofficials were called: “golfing companion,” “kitchen cabinet,” “lobbyist,” “elder statesman,” “five-percenter,” and so forth. The unofficials grew webs, too, until they were almost as hard to reach as the Great Man, and secondary unofficials sprang up to circumvent the flappers of primary unofficials. With a personage of foremost importance the maze of unofficials was as complex as the official phalanxes surrounding a person merely very important.

 

Dr. Jubal Harshaw, professional clown, amateur subversive, and parasite by choice, had an almost Martian attitude toward “hurry.” Being aware that he had but a short time to live and having neither Martian nor Kansan faith in immortality, he purposed to live each golden moment as eternity—without fear, without hope, with sybaritic gusto. To this end he required something larger than Diogenes' tub but smaller than Kubla's pleasure dome; his was a simple place, a few acres kept private with electrified fence, a house of fourteen rooms or so, with running secretaries and other modern conveniences. To support his austere nest and rabble staff he put forth minimum effort for maximum return because it was easier to be rich than poor—Harshaw wished to live in lazy luxury, doing what amused Harshaw.

He felt aggrieved when circumstances forced on him a necessity for hurry and would never admit that he was enjoying himself.

This morning he needed to speak to the planet's chief executive. He knew that the flapper system made such contact all but impossible. Harshaw disdained to surround himself with flappers suitable to his own rank—he answered his telephone himself if he happened to be at hand because each call offered odds that he could be rude to some stranger for daring to invade his privacy without cause—“cause” by Harshaw's definition. He knew that he would not find such conditions at the Executive Palace; Mr. Secretary General would not answer his own phone. But Harshaw had years of practice in outwitting human customs; he tackled the matter cheerfully, after breakfast.

His name carried him slowly through several layers of flappers. He was sufficiently a narrow-gauge V.I.P. that he was never switched off. He was referred from secretary to secretary and wound up speaking to an urbane young man who seemed willing to listen endlessly no matter what Harshaw said—but would not connect him with the Honorable Mr. Douglas.

Harshaw knew that he would get action if he claimed to have the Man from Mars with him, but he did not think that the result would suit him. He calculated that mention of Smith would kill any chance of reaching Douglas while producing reaction from subordinates—which he did not want. With Caxton's life at stake Harshaw could not risk failure through a subordinate's lack of authority or excess of ambition.

But this soft brush-off tried his patience. Finally he snarled, “Young man, if you have no authority, let me speak to someone who has! Put me through to Mr. Berquist.”

The stooge suddenly lost his smile and Jubal thought gleefully that he had at last pinked him. So he pushed on. “Well? Don't just sit there! Get Gil on your inside line and tell him you've kept Jubal Harshaw waiting.”

The face said woodenly, “We have no Mr. Berquist here.”

“I don't care where he is. Get him! If you don't know Gil Berquist, ask your boss. Mr. Gilbert Berquist, personal assistant to Mr. Douglas. If you work around the Palace you've seen Mr. Berquist—thirty-five, six feet and a hundred and eighty pounds, sandy hair thin on top, smiles a lot and has perfect teeth. If you don't dare disturb him, dump it in your boss's lap. Quit biting your nails and move!”

The young man said, “Please hold on. I will inquire.”

“I certainly will. Get me Gil.” The image was replaced by an abstract pattern; a voice said, “Please wait while your call is completed. This delay is not charged to your account. Please relax while—” Soothing music came up; Jubal sat back and looked around. Anne was reading, out of the telephone's vision angle. On his other side the Man from Mars was also out of pickup and was watching stereovision and listening via ear plugs.

Jubal reflected that he must have that obscene babble box returned to the basement. “What you got, son?” he asked, reached over and turned on the speaker.

Mike answered, “I don't know, Jubal.”

The sound confirmed what Jubal had feared: Smith was listening to a Fosterite service; the Shepherd was reading church notices: “—junior Spirit-in-Action team will give a demonstration, so come early and see the fur fly! Our team coach, Brother Hornsby, has asked me to tell you boys to fetch only your helmets, gloves, and sticks—we aren't going after sinners this time. However, the Little Cherubim will be on hand with their first-aid kits in case of excessive zeal.” The Shepherd paused and smiled broadly, “And now wonderful news, My Children! A message from Angel Ramzai for Brother Arthur Renwick and his good wife Dorothy. Your prayer has been approved and you will go to heaven at dawn Thursday morning! Stand up, Art! Stand up, Dottie! Take a bow!”

Camera made reverse cut, showing the congregation and centering on Brother and Sister Renwick. To wild applause and shouts of
“Hallelujah!”
Brother Renwick was responding with a boxer's handshake, while his wife blushed and smiled and dabbed at her eyes beside him.

Camera cut back as the Shepherd held up his hand for silence. He went on briskly, “The Bon Voyage party starts at midnight and doors will be locked at that time—so get here early and let's make this the happiest revelry our flock has ever seen; we're all proud of Art and Dottie. Funeral services will be held thirty minutes after dawn, with breakfast immediately following for those who have to get to work early.” The Shepherd suddenly looked stem and camera zoomed in until his head filled the tank. “After our last Bon Voyage, the sexton found an empty pint bottle in one of the Happiness rooms—of a brand distilled by sinners. That's past and done; the brother who slipped confessed and paid penance sevenfold, even refusing the usual cash discount—I'm sure he won't backslide. But stop and think, My Children—Is it worth risking eternal happiness to save a few pennies on an article of worldly merchandise? Always look for that happy, holy seal-of-approval with Bishop Digby's smiling face on it. Don't let a sinner palm off on you something ‘just as good.' Our sponsors support us; they deserve your support. Brother Art, I'm sorry to have to bring up such a subject—”

“That's okay, Shepherd! Pour it on!”

“—at a time of such great happiness. But we must never forget that—” Jubal switched off the speaker circuit.

“Mike, that's not anything you need.”

“Not?”

“Uh—” Shucks, the boy was going to have to learn about such things. “All right, go ahead. But talk to me later.”

“Yes, Jubal.”

Harshaw was about to add advice to offset Mike's tendency to take literally anything he heard. But the telephone's “hold” music went down and out, and the screen filled with an image—a man in his forties whom Jubal labeled as “cop.”

Jubal said aggressively, “You aren't Gil Berquist.”

“What is your interest in Gilbert Berquist?”

Jubal answered with pained patience, “I wish to speak to him. See here, my good man, are you a public employee?”

The man hesitated. “Yes. You must—”

“I ‘must' nothing! I am a citizen and my taxes help pay your wages. All morning I have been trying to make a simple phone call—and I have been passed from one butterfly-brained bovine to another, every one of them feeding out of the public trough. And now
you.
Give me your name, job title, and pay number. Then I'll speak to Mr. Berquist.”

“You didn't answer my question.”

“Come, come! I don't have to; I am a private citizen. You are
not
—and the question I asked any citizen may demand of any public servant. O'Kelly versus State of California 1972. I demand that you identify yourself—name, job, number.”

The man answered tonelessly, “You are Doctor Jubal Harshaw. You are calling from—”

“So that's what took so long? That was stupid. My address can be obtained from any library, post office, or telephone information. As to who I am, everyone knows. Everyone who can read. Can you read?”

“Dr. Harshaw, I am a police officer and I require your cooperation. What is your reason—”

“Pooh, sir! I am a lawyer. A citizen is required to cooperate with police under certain conditions only. For example, during hot pursuit—in which case the police officer may still be required to show credentials. Is this ‘hot pursuit,' sir? Are you about to dive through this blasted instrument? Second, a citizen may be required to cooperate within reasonable and lawful limits in the course of police investigation—”

“This is an investigation.”

“Of what, sir? Before you may require my cooperation, you must identify yourself, satisfy me as to your bona-fides, state your purpose, and—if I so require—cite the code and show that ‘reasonable necessity' exists. You have done none of these. I wish to speak to Mr. Berquist.”

The man's jaw muscles were jumping but he answered, “I am Captain Heinrich of the Federation S.S. Bureau. The fact that you reached me by calling the Executive Palace should be proof that I am who I say I am. However—” He took out a wallet, flipped it open, and held it to his pickup. Harshaw glanced at the I.D.

“Very well, Captain,” he growled. “Will you now explain why you are keeping me from speaking with Mr. Berquist?”

“Mr. Berquist is not available.”

“Then why didn't you say so? Transfer my call to someone of Berquist's rank. I mean one of the people who work directly with the Secretary General, as Gil does. I don't propose to be fobbed off on some junior assistant flunky with no authority to blow his own nose! If Gil isn't there, then for God's sake get me someone of equal rank!”

“You have been trying to telephone the Secretary General.”

“Precisely.”

“Very well, you may explain what business you have with the Secretary General.”

“And I may not. Are you a confidential assistant to the Secretary General? Are you privy to his secrets?”