Stranger in a Strange Land (35 page)

Jubal explained that they were simply waiting on the Secretary General. “If he means business, we will hear from him soon. If we had stayed in the Palace, he might have been tempted to dicker. Here we can refuse to dicker.”

“Dicker for what?” asked Captain van Tromp. “You gave him what he wanted.”

“Not all he wanted. Douglas would rather have it be irrevocable . . . instead of on good behavior, with the power reverting to a man he detests—namely that scoundrel with the innocent smile, our brother Ben. But others would want to dicker, too. That bland buddha Kung—hates my guts, I snatched the rug out from under him. But if he could figure a deal that might tempt us, he would offer it. So we stay out of
his
way, too. Kung is one reason why we are eating and drinking nothing that we did not fetch.”

“You feel that's something to worry about?” asked Nelson. “Jubal, I assumed that you were a gourmet who demanded his own cuisine. I can't imagine being poisoned in a hotel such as this.”

Jubal shook his head sorrowfully. “Sven, nobody wants to poison
you
—but your wife might collect your insurance because you shared a dish with Mike.”

“You really think so?”

“Sven, I'll call room service for anything you want. But I won't touch it and won't let Mike touch it. They know where we are and they've had a couple of hours in which to act—so I must assume that any waiter is on Kung's payroll . . . and maybe two or three others. My prime worry is to keep this lad alive while we sterilize the power he represents.”

Jubal frowned. “Consider the black widow spider. A timid little beastie, useful, and the prettiest of the arachnids, with its patent-leather finish and its hourglass trademark. But the poor thing has the misfortune of too much power for its size. So everybody kills it.

“The black widow can't help it, it has no way to avoid its venomous power.”

“Mike is in the same dilemma. He isn't as pretty as a black widow—”

“Why, Jubal!” Dorcas said indignantly. “What a mean thing to say! And how
untrue!”

“Child, I don't have your glandular bias. Pretty or not, Mike can't get rid of that money, nor is it safe for him to have it. Not just Kung. The High Court is not as ‘non-political' as it might be . . . although their methods would make a prisoner out of him rather than kill him—a fate which, for my taste, is worse. Not to mention other interested parties, in and out of office, who have turned over in their minds how it would affect
their
fortunes if Mike were guest of honor at a funeral. I—”

“Telephone, Boss.”

“Anne, you hail from Porlock.”

“No, Dallas.”

“I will not answer the phone.”

“She said to tell you it was Becky.”

“Why didn't you say so?” Jubal hurried out of the room, found Madame Vesant's face in the screen. “Becky! I'm glad to see you, girl!”

“Hi, Doc. I caught your act.”

“How'd it look?”

“I've never seen a tip turned more expertly. Doc, the profession lost a great talker when you weren't born twins.”

“That's high praise, Becky.” Jubal thought rapidly. “But you set up the act; I just cashed in on it—and there's plenty of cash. So name your fee, Becky.”

Madame Vesant frowned. “You've hurt my feelings.”

“Becky! Anybody can clap and cheer—but applause worth while will be found in a pile of soft, green folding money. The Man from Mars picks up this tab and, believe me, he can afford it.” He grinned. “All you'll get from me is a hug and kiss that will crack your ribs.”

She relaxed and smiled. “I remember how you used to pat my fanny while you assured me that the Professor was sure to get well—you always could make a body feel better.”

“Surely I never did anything so unprofessional.”

“You know you did. You weren't fatherly about it, either.”

“Maybe it was the treatment you needed. I've given up fanny-patting-but I'll make an exception in your case.”

“You'd better.”

“And you'd better figure out that fee. Don't forget the zeroes.”

“Doc, there are more ways of collecting a fee than by making a fast count on the change. Have you been watching the market today?”

“No, and don't tell me. Come have a drink instead.”

“Uh, I'd better not. I promised, well, a rather important client that I would be available.”

“I see. Becky, would the stars show that this matter would turn out best for everybody if it were signed and sealed today? Maybe just after the market closes?”

She looked thoughtful. “I'll look into it.”

“Do. And come visit us. You'll like the boy. He's as weird as snake's suspenders but sweet as a stolen kiss.”

“Uh . . . I will. Thanks, Doc.”

They said good-by. Jubal found that Dr. Nelson had taken Mike into a bedroom to examine him. The surgeon was looking baffled. “Doctor,” Nelson said, “I saw this patient only ten days ago. Tell me where he got those muscles?”

“Why, he sent in a coupon from ‘Rut: The Magazine for He-Men.' You know, the ad that tells how a ninety-pound weakling can—”

“Doctor, please!”

“Why not ask
him?”

Nelson did so. “I thinked them,” Mike answered.

“That's right,” Jubal agreed. “He ‘thinked' 'em. When I got him, last week, he was a mess, slight, flabby, and pale. Looked as if he had been raised in a cave—I gather he was. So I told him to grow strong. He did.”

“Exercises?” Nelson said doubtfully.

“Some swimming.”

“A few days' swimming won't make a man look as if he had been sweating over bar bells for years!” Nelson frowned. “I know Mike has control of the so-called ‘involuntary' muscles. But that has precedent. This, however, requires one to assume—”

“Doctor,” Jubal said gently, “why not admit you don't grok it?”

Nelson sighed. “I might as well. Put on your clothes, Michael.”

 

Later, Jubal unburdened himself privately to the three officers of the
Champion
. “The financial end was simple: just tie up Mike's money so that a struggle couldn't take place. Not even if he dies, because I've told Douglas that Mike's death ends his stewardship whereas a rumor from a usually reliable source—me—has reached Kung and others that Mike's death gives Douglas permanent control. Of course, if I had magic powers, I would have stripped the boy of every penny. That—”

“Why, Jubal?” the Captain interrupted.

Harshaw stared. “Are you wealthy, Skipper? I mean
rich.”

“Me?”
Van Tromp snorted. “I've my salary, a pension someday, a mortgaged house—and two girls in college. I'd like to be wealthy!”

“You wouldn't like it.”

“Huh!
You wouldn't say that if you had daughters in school.”

“I put four through college—and went in debt to my armpits. One is a star in her profession . . . under her married name because I'm an old bum instead of a revered memory. The others remember my birthday and don't bother me; education didn't harm them. I mention my offspring only to prove that I know that a father often needs more than he has. But you can go with some firm that will pay you several times what you're getting just for your name on their letterhead. You've had offers?”

“That's beside the point,” Captain van Tromp answered stiffly. “I'm a professional man.”

“Meaning that money can't tempt you into giving up commanding space ships.”

“I wouldn't mind having money, too!”

“A little is no good. Daughters can spend ten percent more than a man can make in any usual occupation. That's a law of nature, to be known henceforth as ‘Harshaw's Law.' But, Captain,
real
wealth, on the scale that calls for a battery of finaglers to hold down taxes, would ground you as certainly as resigning would.”

“Nonsense! I'd put it into bonds and just clip coupons.”

“Not if you were the type who acquires great wealth in the first place. Big money isn't hard to come by. All it costs is a lifetime of devotion. But no ballerina ever works harder. Captain, that's not your style; you don't want to make money, you simply want to
spend
money.”

“Correct, sir! So I can't see why you would want to take Mike's wealth away from him.”

“Because great wealth is a curse—unless you enjoy money-making for its own sake. Even then it has serious drawbacks.”

“Oh, piffle! Jubal, you talk like a harem guard trying to sell a whole man on the advantages of being a eunuch.”

“Possibly,” agreed Jubal. “The mind's ability to rationalize its own shortcomings is unlimited; I am no exception. Since I, like yourself, sir, have no interest in money other than to spend it, it is impossible for me to get rich. Conversely, there has never been any danger that I would fail to scrounge the modest amount needed to feed my vices, since anyone with the savvy not to draw to a small pair can do that. But great wealth? You saw that farce. Could I have rewritten it so that I acquired the plunder—become its manager and defacto owner while milking off any income I coveted—and still have rigged it so that Douglas would have supported the outcome? Mike trusts me; I am his water brother. Could I have stolen his fortune?”

“Uh . . . damn you, Jubal, I suppose so.”

“A certainty. Because our Secretary General is no more a money-seeker than you are.
His
drive is power—a drum whose beat I do not hear. Had I guaranteed (oh, gracefully!) that the Smith estate would continue to bulwark his administration, then I would have been left with the boodle.”

Jubal shuddered. “I thought I was going to have to do that, to protect Mike from vultures—and I was panic-stricken. Captain, you don't
know
what an Old Man of the Sea great wealth is. Its owner is beset on every side, like beggars in Bombay, each demanding that he invest or give away part of his wealth. He becomes suspicious—honest friendship is rarely offered him; those who could have been friends are too fastidious to be jostled by beggars, too proud to risk being mistaken for one.

“Worse yet, his family is always in danger. Captain, have your daughters ever been threatened with kidnapping?”

“What? Good Lord, no!”

“If you possessed the wealth Mike had thrust on him, you would have those girls guarded night and day—still you would not rest, because you would never be sure of the guards. Look at the last hundred or so kidnappings and note how many involved a trusted employee . . . and how few victims escaped alive. Is there anything money can buy which is worth having your daughters' necks in a noose?”

Van Tromp looked thoughtful. “I'll keep my mortgaged house, Jubal.”

“Amen. I want to live my own life, sleep in my own bed—and not be
bothered!
Yet I thought I was going to be forced to spend my last years in an office, barricaded by buffers, working long hours as Mike's man of business.

“Then I had an inspiration. Douglas lives behind such barricades, has such a staff. Since we were surrendering the power to insure Mike's freedom, why not make Douglas pay by assuming the headaches? I was not afraid that he would steal; only second-rate politicians are money hungry—and Douglas is no pipsqueak. Quit scowling, Ben, and hope that he never dumps the load on
you.

“So I dumped it on Douglas—and now I can go back to my garden. But that was simple, once I figured it out. It was the Larkin Decision that fretted me.”

Caxton said, “I think you lost your wits on that, Jubal. That silly business of letting them give Mike sovereign ‘honors.' You should simply have had Mike sign over all interest, if any, under that ridiculous Larkin theory.”

“Ben m'boy,” Jubal said gently, “as a reporter you are sometimes readable.”

“Gee, thanks! My fan.”

“But your concepts of strategy are Neanderthal.”

Caxton sighed. “That's better. For a moment I thought you had gone soft.”

“When I do, please shoot me. Captain, how many men did you leave on Mars?”

“Twenty-three.”

“And what is their status under the Larkin Decision?”

Van Tromp frowned. “I'm not supposed to talk.”

“Then don't,” Jubal advised. “We can deduce it.”

Dr. Nelson said, “Skipper, Stinky and I are civilians again. I shall talk as I please—”

“And I,” agreed Mahmoud.

“—and they know what they can do with my reserve commission. What business has the government, telling us
we
can't talk? Those chair-warmers didn't go to Mars.”

“Stow it, Sven. I intend to talk—these are our water brothers. But, Ben, I would rather not see this in print.”

“Captain, if you'll feel easier, I'll join Mike and the girls.”

“Please don't leave. The government is in a stew about that colony. Every man signed away his Larkin rights—to the government. Mike's presence on Mars confused things. I'm no lawyer, but I understood that, if Mike did waive his rights, that would put the administration in the driver's seat when it came to parceling out things of value.”

“What
things of value?” demanded Caxton. “Look, Skipper, I'm not running down your achievement, but from all I've heard, Mars isn't valuable real estate for human beings. Or are there assets still classified ‘drop dead before reading'?”

Van Tromp shook his head. “No, the technical reports are all de-classified. But, Ben, the Moon was a worthless hunk of rock when we got it.”