Stranger in a Strange Land (26 page)

“I don't know any of
them
, either. I don't mean politicos. Who can call him on a private line and invite him to play poker?”

“Um . . . you don't want much, do you? Well, there's Jake Allenby.”

“I've met him. He doesn't like me. I don't like him. He knows it.”

“Douglas doesn't have many intimate friends. His wife rather discourages—Say, Jubal . . . how do you feel about astrology?”

“Never touch the stuff. Prefer brandy.”

“Well, that's a matter of taste. But—see here, Jubal, if you ever let on I told you this, I'll cut your lying throat.”

“Noted. Agreed. Proceed.”

“Well, Agnes Douglas
does
touch the stuff . . . and I know where she gets it. Her astrologer can call Mrs. Douglas any time—and, believe you me, Mrs. Douglas has the ear of the Secretary General. You can call her astrologer . . . and the rest is up to you.”

“I don't recall any astrologers on my Christmas card list,” Jubal answered dubiously. “What's his name?”

“Her. Her name is Madame Alexandra Vesant, Washington Exchange. That's V, E, S, A, N, T.”

“I've got it,” Jubal said happily. “Tom, you've done me a world of good!”

“Hope so. Anything for the network?”

“Hold it.” Jubal glanced at a note Miriam had placed at his elbow. It read:
“Larry says the transceiver won't trans-he doesn't know why.”
Jubal went on, “That spot coverage failed through a transceiver failure.”

“I'll send somebody.”

“Thanks. Thanks twice.”

Jubal switched off, placed the call by name and instructed the operator to use hush and scramble if the number was equipped for it. It was, not to his surprise. Soon Madame Vesant's dignified features appeared in his screen. He grinned at her and called, “Hey, Rube!”

She looked startled, then stared. “Why, Doc Harshaw, you old scoundrel! Lord love you, it's good to see you. Where have you been hiding?”

“Just that, Becky—hiding. The clowns are after me.”

Becky Vesey answered instantly, “What can I do to help? Do you need money?”

“I've got plenty of money, Becky. I'm in much more serious trouble than that—and nobody can help me but the Secretary General himself. I need to talk to him—right away.”

She looked blank. “That's a tall order, Doc.”

“Becky, I know. I've been trying to get through to him . . . and I can't. But don't you get mixed up in it . . . girl, I'm hotter than a smoky bearing. I took a chance that you might be able to advise me—a phone number, maybe, where I could reach him. But I don't want you in it personally. You'd get hurt—and I'd never be able to look the Professor in the eye . . . God rest his soul.”

“I know what the Professor would want me to do!” she said sharply. “Knock off the nonsense, Doc. The Professor always swore that you were the only sawbones fit to carve people. He never forgot that time in Elkton.”

“Now, Becky, we won't bring that up. I was paid.”

“You saved his life.”

“I did no such thing. It was his will to fight—and your nursing.”

“Uh . . . Doc, we're wasting time. Just how hot are you?”

“They're throwing the book . . . and anybody near me will get splashed. There's a warrant out—a Federation warrant—and they know where I am and I
can't
run. It will be served any minute . . . and Mr. Douglas is the
only
person who can stop it.”

“You'll be sprung. I guarantee that.”

“Becky . . . I'm sure you would. But it might take a few hours. It's that ‘back room,' Becky. I'm too old for a session in the back room.”

“But—Oh, goodness! Doc, can't you give me some details? I ought to cast a horoscope, then I'd know what to do. You're Mercury, of course, since you're a doctor. But if I knew what house to look in, I could do better.”

“Girl, there isn't time.” Jubal thought rapidly. Whom to trust? “Becky, just knowing could put you in as much trouble as I am in.”

“Tell me, Doc. I've never taken a powder at a clem yet—and you know it.”

“All right. So I'm ‘Mercury.' But the trouble lies in Mars.”

She looked at him sharply. “How?”

“You've seen the news. The Man from Mars is supposed to be in the Andes. Well, he's not. That's just to hoax the yokels.”

Becky seemed not as startled as Jubal had expected. “Where do you figure in this, Doc?”

“Becky, there are people all over this sorry planet who want to lay hands on that boy. They want to use him, make him geek. He's my client and I won't hold still for it. But my only chance is to talk with Mr. Douglas.”

“The Man from Mars is your client? You can turn him up?”

“Only to Mr. Douglas. You know how it is, Becky—the mayor can be a good Joe, kind to children and dogs. But he doesn't know everything his town clowns do—especially if they haul a man in and take him into that back room.”

She nodded. “Cops!”

“So I need to dicker with Mr. Douglas before they haul me in.”

“All you want is to talk to him?”

“Yes. Let me give you my number—and I'll sit here, hoping for a call . . . until they pick me up. If you can't swing it . . . thanks anyway, Becky. I'll know you tried.”

“Don't switch off!”

“Eh?”

“Keep the circuit, Doc. If I have any luck, they can patch through this phone and save time. So hold on.” Madame Vesant left the screen, called Agnes Douglas. She spoke with calm confidence, pointing out that this was the development foretold by the stars—exactly on schedule. Now had come the critical instant when Agnes must guide her husband, using her womanly wit and wisdom to see that he acted wisely and without delay. “Agnes dear, this configuration will not be repeated in a thousand years—Mars, Venus, and Mercury in perfect trine, just as Venus reaches meridian, making Venus dominant. Thus you see—”

“Allie, what do the Stars tell me to do? You know I don't understand the scientific part.”

This was hardly surprising, since the described relationship did not obtain. Madame Vesant had not had time to compute a horoscope and was improvising. She was untroubled by it; she was speaking a “higher truth,” giving good advice and helping her friends. To help two friends at once made Becky Vesey especially happy. “Dear, you do understand it, you have born talent. You are Venus, as always, and Mars is reinforced, being both your husband and that young man Smith for the duration of this crisis. Mercury is Dr. Harshaw. To offset the imbalance caused by the reinforcement of Mars, Venus must sustain Mercury until the crisis is past. But you have very little time; Venus waxes in influence until reaching meridian, only seven minutes from now—after that your influence will decline. You must act quickly.”

“You should have warned me.”

“My dear, I have been waiting by my phone all day, ready to act instantly. The Stars tell us the nature of each crisis; they never tell details. But there is still time. I have Dr. Harshaw on the telephone; all that is necessary is to bring them face to face—before Venus reaches meridian.”

“Well—All right, Allie. I must dig Joseph out of some silly conference. Give me the number of the phone you have this Doctor Rackshaw on—or can you transfer the call?”

“I can switch it here. Just get Mr. Douglas. Hurry, dear.”

“I will.”

When Agnes Douglas left the screen, Becky went to another phone. Her profession required ample phone service; it was her largest business expense. Humming happily she called her broker.

AS BECKY left the screen Jubal leaned back. “Front,” he said.

“Okay, Boss,” Miriam acknowledged.

“This is for the ‘Real-Experiences' group. Specify that the narrator must have a sexy contralto voice—”

“Maybe I should try for it.”

“Not that sexy. Dig out that list of null surnames we got from the Census Bureau, pick one and put an innocent, mammalian first name with it, for pen name. A girl's name ending in ‘a'—that always suggests a ‘C' cup.”

“Huh! And not one of us with a name ending in ‘a.' You louse!”

“Flat-chested bunch, aren't you? ‘Angela.' Her name is ‘Angela.' Title: ‘I Married a Martian.' Start: All my life I had longed to become an astronaut. Paragraph. When I was just a tiny thing, with freckles on my nose and stars in my eyes, I saved box tops just like my brothers—and cried when Mummy wouldn't let me wear my Space Cadet helmet to bed. Paragraph. In those carefree childhood days I did not dream to what strange, bittersweet fate my tomboy ambition would—”

“Boss!”

“Yes, Dorcas?”

“Here come two more loads.”

“Hold for continuation Miriam, sit at the phone.” Jubal went to the window, saw two air cars about to land. “Larry, bolt this door. Anne, your robe. Jill, stick close to Mike. Mike, do what Jill tells you to.”

“Yes, Jubal. I will do.”

“Jill, don't turn him loose unless you have to. And I'd much rather he snatched guns and not men.”

“Yes, Jubal.”

“This indiscriminate liquidation of cops must stop.”

“Telephone, Boss!”

“All of you stay out of pickup. Miriam, note another title: ‘I Married a Human.' ” Jubal slid into the seat and said, “Yes?”

A bland face looked at him. “Doctor Harshaw?”

“Yes.”

“The Secretary General will speak with you.”

“Okay.”

The screen changed to the tousled image of His Excellency the Honorable Joseph Edgerton Douglas, Secretary General of the World Federation of Free Nations. “Dr. Harshaw? Understand you need to speak with me.”

“No, sir.”

“Eh?”

“Let me rephrase it, Mr. Secretary.
You
need to speak with
me.”

Douglas looked surprised, then grinned. “Doctor, you have ten seconds to prove that.”

“Very well, sir. I am attorney for the Man from Mars.”

Douglas stopped looking tousled. “Repeat?”

“I am attorney for Valentine Michael Smith. It may help to think of me as
de-facto
Ambassador from Mars . . . in the spirit of the Larkin Decision.”

“You must be out of your mind!”

“Nevertheless I am acting for the Man from Mars. And he is prepared to negotiate.”

“The Man from Mars is in Ecuador.”

“Please, Mr. Secretary, Smith—the real Valentine Michael Smith, not the one who appeared in newscasts—escaped from Bethesda Medical Center on Thursday last, in company with Nurse Gillian Boardman. He kept his freedom—and will continue to keep it. If your staff has told you anything else, then someone has been lying.”

Douglas looked thoughtful. Someone spoke to him from off screen. At last he said, “Even if what you said were true, Doctor, you can't speak for young Smith. He's a ward of the State.”

Jubal shook his head. “Impossible. The Larkin Decision.”

“Now see here, as a lawyer, I assure you—”

“As a lawyer myself, I must follow my own opinion—and protect my client.”

“You are a lawyer? I thought you claimed to be attorney-in-fact, rather than counsellor.”

“Both. I am an attorney, admitted to practice before the High Court.” Jubal heard a dull boom from below and glanced aside. Larry whispered,
“The front door, I think, Boss
—
Shall I go look?”

Jubal shook his head. “Mr. Secretary, time is running out. Your men—your S.S. hooligans—are breaking into my house. Will you abate this nuisance? So that we can negotiate? Or shall we fight it out in the High Court with all the stink that would ensue?”

Again the Secretary appeared to consult off screen. “Doctor, if Special Service police are trying to arrest you, it is news to me. I—”

“If you'll listen, you'll hear them tromping up my staircase, sir! Mike! Anne! Come here.” Jubal shoved his chair back to allow the angle to include them. “Mr. Secretary General—the Man from Mars!” He could not introduce Anne, but she and her white cloak of probity were in view.

Douglas stared at Smith; Smith looked back and seemed uneasy. “Jubal—”

“Just a moment, Mike. Well, Mr. Secretary? Your men have broken into my house—I hear them pounding on my study door.” Jubal turned his head. “Larry, open the door.” He put a hand on Mike. “Don't get excited, lad.”

“Yes, Jubal. That man. I have know him.”

“And he knows you.” Over his shoulder Jubal called out, “Come in, Sergeant.”

An S.S. sergeant stood in the doorway, mob gun at ready. He called out, “Major! Here they are!”

Douglas said, “Let me speak to the officer commanding them, Doctor.”

Jubal was relieved to see that the major showed up with his sidearm holstered; Mike had been trembling ever since the sergeant's gun had come into view—Jubal lavished no love on these troopers but he did not want Smith to display his powers.

The major glanced around. “You're Jubal Harshaw?”

“Yes. Come here. Your boss wants you.”

“None of that. Come along. I'm also looking for—”

“Come
here!
The Secretary General wants a word with you.”

The S.S. major looked startled, came into the study, and in sight of the screen—looked at it, snapped to attention and saluted. Douglas nodded. “Name, rank, and duty.”

“Sir, Major C. D. Bloch, Special Service Squadron Cheerio, Enclave Barracks.”