Stranger in a Strange Land (29 page)

Larry answered, “Couldn't find a corkscrew.”

“Machinery again. Duke, you'll find glasses behind ‘The Anatomy of Melancholy' up there—”

“I know where you hide them.”

“—and we'll have a quick one before we get down to serious drinking.” Duke got glasses; Jubal poured and raised his own. “Here's to alcoholic brotherhood . . . more suited to the frail human soul than any other sort.”

“Health.”

“Cheers.”

Jubal poured his down his throat. “Ah!” he said happily, and belched. “Offer some to Mike, Duke, and let him learn how good it is to be human. Makes me feel creative. Front! Why are those girls never around when I need them?
Front!”

“I'm ‘Front,' ” Miriam answered, at the door, “but—”

“I was saying: ‘—to what strange, bittersweet fate my tomboy ambition—' ”

“I finished
that
story while you were chatting with the Secretary General.”

“Then you are no longer ‘Front.' Send it off.”

“Don't you want to read it? Anyhow, I've got to revise it—kissing Mike gave me new insight.”

Jubal shuddered.
“ ‘Read
it?' Good God! It's bad enough to write such a thing. And don't consider revising, certainly not to fit the facts. My child, a true-confession story should never be tarnished by any taint of truth.”

“Okay, Boss. Anne says to come to the pool and have a bite before you eat.”

“Can't think of a better time. Shall we adjourn, gentlemen?”

The party progressed liquidly, with bits of fish and other Scandinavian comestibles added to taste. At Jubal's invitation Mike tried brandy. Mike found the result disquieting, so he analyzed his trouble, added oxygen to ethanol in an inner process of reverse fermentation and converted it to glucose and water.

Jubal had been observing the effect of liquor on the Man from Mars—saw him become drunk, saw him sober up even more quickly. In an attempt to understand, Jubal urged more brandy on Mike—which he accepted since his water brother offered it. Mike sopped up an extravagant quantity before Jubal conceded that it was impossible to get him drunk.

Such was not the case with Jubal, despite years of pickling; staying sociable with Mike during the experiment dulled his wits. So, when he asked Mike what he had done, Mike thought that he was inquiring about the raid by the S.S.—concerning which Mike felt latent guilt. He tried to explain and, if needed, receive Jubal's pardon.

Jubal interrupted when he realized what the boy was talking about. “Son, I don't want to know. You did what was needed—just perfect. But—” He blinked owlishly. “—don't tell me. Don't ever tell
anybody.”

“Not?”

“‘Not.' Damnedest thing I've seen since my uncle with two heads debated free silver and refuted himself. An explanation would spoil it.”

“I do not grok?”

“Nor I. So let's have another drink.”

Reporters started arriving: Jubal received them with courtesy, invited them to eat, drink, and relax—but refrain from badgering himself or the Man from Mars.

Those who failed to heed were tossed into the pool.

Jubal kept Larry and Duke at flank to administer baptism. While some became angry, others added themselves to the dousing squad with the fanatic enthusiasm of proselytes—Jubal had to stop them from ducking the doyen lippmann of the
New York Times
a third time.

Late in the evening Dorcas sought out Jubal and whispered: “Telephone, Boss.”

“Take a message.”

“You must answer, Boss.”

“I'll answer it with an ax! I've been intending to get rid of that Iron Maiden—and I'm in the mood. Duke, get me an ax.”

“Boss! It's the man you spoke to for a long time this afternoon.”

“Oh. Why didn't you say so?” Jubal lumbered upstairs, bolted his door, went to the phone. Another of Douglas's acolytes was on screen but was replaced by Douglas. “It took you long enough to answer your phone.”

“It's my phone, Mr. Secretary. Sometimes I don't answer it at all.”

“So it seems. Why didn't you tell me Caxton is an alcoholic?”

“Is he?”

“He certainly is! He's been on a bender. He was sleeping it off in a fleabag in Sonora.”

“I'm glad to hear he has been found. Thank you, sir.”

“He's been picked up for ‘vagrancy.' The charge won't be pressed—we are releasing him to you.”

“I am in your debt, sir.”

“Oh, it's not entirely a favor! I'm having him delivered as he was found—filthy, unshaven, and, I understand, smelling like a brewery. I want you to see what a tramp he is.”

“Very well, sir. When may I expect him?”

“A courier left Nogales some time ago. At Mach four it should be overhead soon. The pilot will deliver him and get a receipt.”

“He shall have it.”

“Now, Counsellor, I wash my hands of it. I expect you and your client to appear whether you bring that drunken libeller or not.”

“Agreed. When?”

“Tomorrow at ten?”

“ ‘ 'Twere best done quickly.' Agreed.”

Jubal went downstairs and outside.
“Jill!
Come here, child.”

“Yes, Jubal.” She trotted toward him, a reporter with her.

Jubal waved him back. “Private,” he said firmly. “Family matter.”

“Whose family?”

“A death in yours. Scat!” The newsman grinned and left. Jubal leaned over and said softly, “He's safe.”

“Ben?”

“Yes. He'll be here soon.”

“Oh, Jubal!” She started to bawl.

He took her shoulders. “Stop it. Go inside until you get control.”

“Yes, Boss.”

“Go cry in your pillow, then wash your face.” He went out to the pool. “Quiet everybody! I have an announcement. We've enjoyed having you—but the party is over.”

“Toss him in the pool. I'm an old man and need my rest. And so does my family. Duke, cork those bottles. Girls, clear the food away.”

There was grumbling, the more responsible quieted their colleagues. In ten minutes they were alone.

In twenty minutes Caxton arrived. The S.S. officer commanding the car accepted Harshaw's signature and print on a prepared receipt, left while Jill sobbed on Ben's shoulder.

Jubal looked him over. “Ben, I hear you've been drunk for a week.”

Ben cursed, while continuing to pat Jill's back. “ 'M drunk, awri'—but haven't had a drink.”

“What happened?”

“I don' know. I don't
know!”

An hour later Ben's stomach had been pumped; Jubal had given him shots to offset alcohol and barbiturates; he was bathed, shaved, dressed in borrowed clothes, had met the Man from Mars, and was sketchily brought up to date, while ingesting milk and food.

But he was unable to bring them up to date. For Ben, the week had not happened—he had become unconscious in Washington; had been shaken into wakefulness in Mexico. “Of course I
know
what happened. They kept me doped and in a dark room . . . and wrung me out. But I can't prove
anything.
And there's the village
Jefe
and the madman of this dive—plus, I'm sure, other witnesses—to swear how this gringo spent his time. And there's nothing I can do about it.”

“Then don't,” Jubal advised. “Relax and be happy.”

“The hell I will! I'll get that—”

“Tut, tut! Ben, you're alive . . . which I would have given long odds against. And Douglas is going to do exactly what we want him to—and like it.”

“I want to talk about that. I think—”

“I think you're going to bed. With a glass of warm milk to conceal Old Doc Harshaw's Secret Ingredient for secret drinkers.”

Soon Caxton was snoring. Jubal was heading for bed and encountered Anne in the upper hall. He shook his head tiredly. “Quite a day, lass.”

“Yes. I wouldn't have missed it and don't want to repeat it. Go to bed, Boss.”

“In a moment. Anne? What's so special about the way that lad kisses?”

Anne looked dreamy, then dimpled. “You should have tried it.”

“I'm too old to change. But I'm interested in everything about the boy. Is this something different?”

Anne pondered it. “Yes.”

“How?”

“Mike gives a kiss his whole attention.”

“Oh, rats! I do myself. Or did.”

Anne shook her head. “No. I've been kissed by men who did a very good job. But they don't give kissing their whole attention. They
can't.
No matter how hard they try parts of their minds are on something else. Missing the last bus—or their chances of making the gal—or their own techniques in kissing—or maybe worry about jobs, or money, or will husband or papa or the neighbors catch on. Mike doesn't have technique . . . but when Mike kisses you he isn't doing
anything
else. You're his whole universe . . . and the moment is eternal because he doesn't have any plans and isn't going anywhere. Just kissing you.” She shivered. “It's overwhelming.”

“Hmm—”

“Don't ‘Hmm' at me, you old lecher! You don't understand.”

“No. I'm sorry to say I never will. Well, goodnight—and, by the way . . . I told Mike to bolt his door.”

She made a face at him. “Spoilsport!”

“He's learning fast enough. Mustn't rush him.”

THE CONFERENCE was postponed twenty-four hours, which gave Caxton time to recuperate, to hear about his missing week, and to “grow closer” with the Man from Mars—for Mike grokked that Jill and Ben were “water brothers,” consulted Jill, and solemnly offered water to Ben.

Ben had been briefed by Jill. It caused him much soul searching. Ben was bothered by an uneasy feeling: he felt irked at the closeness between Mike and Jill. His bachelor attitudes had been changed by a week of undead oblivion; he proposed to Jill again, as soon as he got her alone.

Jill looked away. “Please, Ben.”

“Why not? I've got a steady job, I'm in good health—or will be, as soon as I get their ‘truth' drugs out of my system . . . and since I haven't, I feel a compulsion to tell the truth. I love you. I want to marry you and rub your poor tired feet. Am I too old? Or are you planning to marry somebody else?”

“No, neither one! Dear Ben . . . Ben, I love you. But don't ask me this now, I have . . . responsibilities.”

He could not budge her.

He finally realized that the Man from Mars wasn't a rival—he was Jill's patient—and a man who marries a nurse must accept the fact that nurses feel maternal toward their charges—accept it and like it, for if Gillian had not had the character that made her a nurse, he would not love her. It was not the figure-eight in which her pert fanny moved when she walked, nor the lush view from the other direction—he was not the infantile type, interested solely in the size of mammary glands! No, it was herself he loved.

Since what she was would make it necessary for him to take second place to patients who needed her, then he was bloody-be-damned not going to be jealous! Mike was a nice kid—as innocent and guileless as Jill had described him.

And he wasn't offering Jill a bed of roses; the wife of a newspaperman had things to put up with. He might be gone for weeks at times and his hours were always irregular. He wouldn't like it if Jill bitched. But Jill wouldn't.

Having reached this summing up, Ben accepted water from Mike whole-heartedly.

Jubal needed the extra day to plan. “Ben, when you dumped this in my lap I told Gillian that I would not lift a finger to get this boy his so-called ‘rights.' I've changed my mind. We're not going to let the government have the swag.”

“Certainly not
this
administration!”

“Nor any, the next will be worse. Ben, you undervalue Joe Douglas.”

“He's a cheap politician, with morals to match!”

“Yes. And ignorant to six decimal places. But he is also a fairly conscientious world chief—better than we deserve. I would enjoy poker with him . . . he wouldn't cheat and he would pay up with a smile. Oh, he's an S.O.B.—but that reads ‘Swell Old Boy,' too. He's middlin' decent.”

“Jubal, I'm damned if I understand you. You told me that you had been fairly certain that Douglas had had me killed . . . and it wasn't far from it! You juggled eggs to get me out alive and God knows I'm grateful! But do you expect me to forget that Douglas was behind it? It's none of his doing that I'm alive—he would rather see me dead.”

“I suppose he would. But, yup, just that—forget it.”

“I'm damned if I will!”

“You'll be silly not to. You can't prove anything. And there's no call to be grateful to me and I won't let you lay this burden on me. I didn't do it for
you.”

“Huh?”

“I did it for a little girl who was about to go charging out and maybe get herself killed. I did it because she was my guest and I stood in loco parentis. I did it because she was all guts and gallantry but too ignorant to monkey with such a buzz saw. But you, my cynical and sin-stained chum, know all about buzz saws. If your carelessness causes you to back into one, who am I to tamper with your karma?”

“Mmm . . . Okay, Jubal, you can go to hell—for monkeying with my karma. If I have one.”

“A moot point. The predestinationers and free-willers were tied in the fourth quarter, last I heard. Either way, I have no wish to disturb a man sleeping in a gutter. Do-gooding is like treating hemophilia—the real cure is to let hemophiliacs bleed to death . . . before they breed more hemophiliacs.”