Stranger in a Strange Land (33 page)

Jubal had puzzled over this, after he had demanded the “Martian Anthem.” If the demand was met, what should Mike do? The answer depended on what role Mike was playing in this comedy—

The music stopped. On Jubal's signals Mike stood up, bowed quickly, and sat down, seating himself about as the Secretary General and the rest were seated. They all sat down more quickly this time, as no one missed the glaring point that Mike had remained seated through the “anthem.”

Jubal sighed with relief. He had gotten away with it. Many years earlier he had seen one of the vanishing tribe of royalty (a reigning queen) receive a parade—and he had noticed that the royal lady bowed
after
her anthem was played, i.e., she had acknowledged a salute offered to her sovereign self.

But the head of a democracy stands for his nation's anthem like any citizen—he is not a sovereign.

As Jubal had pointed out, one couldn't have it two ways. Either Mike was a private citizen, in which case this gymkhana should never have been held—or, by the theory inherent in the Larkin Decision, the kid was sovereign all by his lonesome.

Jubal felt tempted to offer LaRue a pinch of snuff. Well, the point had not been missed by one—the Papal Nuncio kept his face straight but his eyes were twinkling.

Douglas started to speak: “Mr. Smith, we are honored and happy to have you as our guest. We hope that you will consider Earth your home quite as much as the planet of your birth, our neighbor—our good neighbor—Mars—” He went on in rounded, pleasant periods. Mike was welcomed—but whether as a sovereign, as a tourist, or as a citizen returning home, was impossible to tell.

Jubal watched Douglas, looking for some sign that would show how Douglas had taken the letter Jubal had sent to him. But Douglas never looked at him. Presently Douglas concluded, having said nothing and said it very well.

Jubal said, “Now, Mike.”

Smith addressed the Secretary General—in Martian.

He cut it off and said gravely: “Mr. Secretary General of the Federation of Free Nations of the Planet Earth—” then went on again in Martian.

Then in English: “—we thank you for our welcome here today. We bring greetings to the peoples of Earth from the Ancient Ones of Mars—” and shifted again into Martian.

Jubal felt that “Ancient Ones” was a good touch; it carried more bulge than “Old Ones” and Mike had not objected. It had been Jill's idea to alternate a Martian version with the English one—and Jubal admitted with warm pleasure that her gimmick puffed up a formal little speech as devoid of content as a campaign promise into something as rollingly impressive as Wagnerian opera. (And as hard to figure out!)

It didn't matter to Mike. He could insert the Martian as easily as he could memorize and recite the English. If it would please his water brothers to say these sayings, it made Mike happy.

Someone touched Jubal's shoulder, shoved an envelope in his hand, and whispered, “From the Secretary General.” Jubal looked up, saw that it was Bradley, hurrying silently away. Jubal opened the envelope, glanced inside.

The note was one word: “Yes,” and had been signed with “J.E.D.”—in the famous green ink.

Jubal looked up, found Douglas's eyes on him; Jubal nodded and Douglas looked away. The conference was over; all that remained was to let the world know it.

Mike concluded the sonorous nullities; Jubal heard his own words: “—growing closer, with mutual benefit to both worlds—” and “each race according to its own nature—” Douglas then thanked the Man from Mars, briefly but warmly.

Jubal stood up. “Mr. Secretary General—”

“Yes, Dr. Harshaw?”

“Mr. Smith is here in a dual role. Like some visiting prince in the history of our own great race, traveling by caravan and sail across uncharted vastnesses to a distant realm, he brings the good wishes of the Ancient Powers of Mars. But he is also a human being, a citizen of the Federation of the United States of America. As such, he has rights and properties and obligations.” Jubal shook his head. “Pesky ones. As attorney for his capacity as a citizen and a human being, I have been puzzling over his affairs and I have not even managed a complete list of what he owns—much less decide what to tell tax collectors.”

Jubal stopped to wheeze. “I'm an old man, I might not live to complete the task. You know that my client has no business experience in the human sense—Martians do these things differently. But he is a young man of great intelligence—the whole world knows that his parents were geniuses—and blood will tell. There's no doubt that in a few years he could, if he wished, do nicely on his own without the aid of one old, broken-down lawyer. But his affairs need attention
today;
business won't wait.

“But, he is more eager to learn the history and arts and ways of the people of this, his second home, than he is to bury himself in debentures and stock issues and royalties—and I think in this he is wise. Mr. Smith possesses a direct wisdom that continues to astonish me . . . and astonishes all who meet him. When I explained the trouble, he looked at me with a clear gaze and said, ‘That's no problem, Jubal—we'll ask Mr. Douglas.' ” Jubal paused and said anxiously, “The rest is personal business, Mr. Secretary. Should I see you privately? And let these ladies and gentlemen go home?”

“Go ahead, Dr. Harshaw.” Douglas added, “Protocol is dispensed with. Anyone who wishes to leave please feel free to do so.”

No one left. “All right,” Jubal went on. “I can wrap it up in one sentence. Mr. Smith wants to appoint you his attorney-in-fact, with full power to handle all his business affairs.”

Douglas looked convincingly astonished. “That's a tall order, Doctor.”

“I know it is, sir. I pointed out to him that you are the busiest man on this planet and didn't have
time
for his affairs.” Jubal shook his head and smiled. “I'm afraid I didn't impress him—seems on Mars the busier a person is the more is expected of him. Mr. Smith simply said, ‘We can ask him.' So I'm asking you. Of course we don't expect an answer off-hand—that's another Martian trait; Martians are never in a hurry. Nor are they inclined to make things complicated. No bond, no auditing, none of that claptrap—a written power of attorney if you want it. But it does not matter to him; he would do it just as readily, orally and right now. That's another Martian trait; if a Martian trusts you, he trusts you all the way. Oh, I should add: Mr. Smith is
not
making this request of the Secretary General; he's asking a favor of Joseph Edgerton Douglas, you personally. If you retire from public life, it will not affect this. Your successor in office doesn't figure in it. It's
you
he trusts . . . not just whoever happens to occupy the Octagon Office in this Palace.”

Douglas nodded. “Regardless of my answer, I feel honored . . . and humble.”

“Because if you decline to serve, or can't serve, or take on this chore and want to drop it later, or anything, Mr. Smith has his second choice—Ben Caxton, it is. Stand up, Ben; let people see you. And if both you and Caxton can't or won't, his next choice is—well, I guess we'll reserve that for the moment; just let it rest that there are successive choices. Uh, let me see now—” Jubal looked fuddled. “I'm out of the habit of talking on my feet. Miriam, where is that paper we listed things on?”

Jubal accepted a sheet from her and added, “Better give me the other copies, too.” She passed over a thick stack of sheets. “This is a memo we prepared for you, sir—or for Caxton, if it turns out that way. Mmm, lemme see—oh yes, steward to pay himself what he thinks the job is worth but not less than—well, a considerable sum, nobody else's business, really. Steward to deposit monies in a drawing account for living expenses of party of the first part—uh, oh yes, I thought maybe you would want to use the Bank of Shanghai, say, as depository, and say, Lloyd's as your business agent—or the other way around—just to protect your name and fame. But Mr. Smith won't hear of fixed instructions—just an unlimited assignment of power, revocable by either side. But I won't read all this; that's why we wrote it out.” Jubal peered vacantly around. “Uh, Miriam—trot around and give this to the Secretary General, that's a good girl. Um, these other copies, I'll leave them here. You may want to pass 'em out . . . or you may need them yourself. Oh, I'd better give one to Mr. Caxton—here, Ben.”

Jubal looked anxiously around. “Uh, I guess that's all, Mr. Secretary. Did you have anything to say to us?”

“Just a moment. Mr. Smith?”

“Yes, Mr. Douglas?”

“Is this what you want? Do
you
want
me
to do what it says on this paper?”

Jubal held his breath, avoided glancing at his client. Mike had been coached to expect such a question . . . but there had been no telling what form it would take, nor any way to tell how Mike's literal interpretations could trip them.

“Yes, Mr. Douglas.” Mike's voice rang out in the room—and in a billion rooms around the planet.

“You want me to handle your business affairs?”

“Please, Mr. Douglas. It would be a goodness. I thank you.”

Douglas blinked. “Well, that's clear enough. Doctor, I'll reserve my answer—but you shall have it promptly.”

“Thank you, sir. For myself as well as for my client.”

Douglas started to stand up. Assemblyman Kung's voice interrupted. “One moment! How about the Larkin Decision?”

Jubal grabbed it. “Ah, yes, the Larkin Decision. I've heard a lot of nonsense about the Larkin Decision—mostly from irresponsible persons. Mr. Kung, what about it?”

“I'm asking
you.
Or your . . . client. Or the Secretary General.”

Jubal said gently, “Shall I speak, Mr. Secretary?”

“Please do.”

“Very well.” Jubal took out a handkerchief and blew his nose in a prolonged blast, a minor chord three octaves below middle C. He fixed Kung with his eye and said solemnly, “Mr. Assemblyman, I'll address
you
—because I know it is unnecessary to address it to the government in the person of the Secretary. A long time ago, when I was a little boy, another boy and I formed a club. Since we had a club, we had to have rules . . . and the first rule we passed—unanimously—was that henceforth we could call our mothers ‘Crosspatch.' Silly, of course . . . but we were very young. Mr. Kung, can you deduce the outcome?”

“I won't guess, Dr. Harshaw.”

“I implemented our ‘Crosspatch' decision just once. Once was enough and it saved my chum from the same mistake. All it got
me
was my bottom warmed with a peach switch. And that was the end of the ‘Crosspatch' decision.”

Jubal cleared his throat. “Knowing that someone was certain to raise this non-existent issue I tried to explain the Larkin Decision to my client. He had trouble realizing that anyone could think that this legal fiction would apply to Mars. After all, Mars is inhabited, by an old and wise race—much older than yours, sir, and possibly wiser. But when he did understand it, he was amused. Just that, sir—tolerantly amused. Once—just once—I underrated my mother's power to punish impudence. That lesson was cheap. But this planet cannot afford such a lesson on a planetary scale. Before we parcel out lands which do not belong to us, it behooves us to be very sure what peach switches are hanging in the Martian kitchen.”

Kung looked unconvinced. “Dr. Harshaw, if the Larkin Decision is no more than a small boy's folly . . .
why were sovereign honors rendered to Mr. Smith?”

Jubal shrugged. “That should be put to the government, not to me. But I can tell you how
I
interpreted them—as elementary politeness . . . to the Ancient Ones of Mars.”

“Please?”

“Mr. Kung, those honors were no hollow echo of the Larkin Decision. In a fashion beyond human experience, Mr. Smith is the Planet Mars!”

Kung did not blink. “Continue.”

“Or, rather, the Martian race. In Smith's person, the Ancient Ones of Mars are visiting us. Honors to him are honors to them—and harm done to him is harm to them. This is true in a literal but utterly unhuman sense. It was prudent for us to render honors to our neighbors today—but the wisdom has nothing to do with the Larkin Decision. No responsible person has argued that the Larkin precedent applies to an inhabited planet—I venture to say that none ever will.” Jubal looked up, as if asking Heaven for help. “But, Mr. Kung, be assured that the ancient rulers of Mars notice how we treat their ambassador. Honors rendered them through him were a gracious symbol. I am certain that the government of this planet showed wisdom thereby. In time,
you
will learn that it was a prudent act as well.”

Kung answered blandly, “Doctor, if you are trying to frighten me, you have not succeeded.”

“I did not expect to. But, fortunately for the welfare of this planet,
your
opinion did not control.” Jubal turned to Douglas. “Mr. Secretary, this is the longest public appearance I have made in years . . . and I am fatigued. Could we recess? While we await your decision?”

THE MEETING adjourned. Jubal found his intention of getting his flock quickly away balked by the American President and Senator Boone; both realized the enhanced value of being seen on intimate terms with the Man from Mars—and both were aware that the eyes of the world were on them.

Other hungry politicos were closing in.

Jubal said quickly, “Mr. President, Senator—we're leaving at once to have lunch. Can you join us?” He reflected that two in private would be easier to handle than two dozen in public—and he had to get Mike away before anything came unstuck.