Stranger in a Strange Land (38 page)

There arrived in the mail, from Mr. Secretary General Joseph Edgerton Douglas, a checkbook and papers; his brother Jubal took pains to explain what money was and how it was used. Mike failed to understand, even though Jubal showed him how to make out a check, gave him “money” in exchange for it, taught him to count it.

Then suddenly, with grokking so blinding that he trembled, he understood money. These pretty pictures and bright medallions were not “money”; they were symbols for an idea which spread through these people, all through their world. But
things
were not money, any more than water shared was growing-closer. Money was an
idea,
as abstract as an Old One's thoughts—money was a great structured symbol for balancing and healing and growing closer.

Mike was dazzled with the magnificent beauty of money.

The flow and change and countermarching of symbols was beautiful in small, reminding him of games taught nestlings to encourage them to reason and grow, but it was the totality that dazzled him, an entire world reflected in one dynamic symbol structure. Mike then grokked that the Old Ones of this race were very old indeed to have composed such beauty; he wished humbly to be allowed to meet one.

Jubal encouraged him to spend money and Mike did so, with the timid eagerness of a bride being brought to bed. Jubal suggested that he “buy presents for friends” and Jill helped, starting by placing limits: one per friend and a total cost not even a reciprocal filled-three of the sum in his account—Mike had intended to spend
all.

He learned how difficult it was to spend money. There were so many things, all wonderful and incomprehensible. Surrounded by catalogs from Marshall Field's and the Ginza, Bombay and Copenhagen, he felt smothered in riches. Even the Sears & Montgomery catalog was too much.

Jill helped. “No. Duke would not want a tractor.”

“Duke likes tractors.”

“He's got one, or Jubal has, which is the same thing. He might like one of those cute little Belgian unicycles—he could take it apart and put it together all day long. But even that is too expensive. Mike dear, a present ought not to be expensive—unless you are trying to get a girl to marry you—or something. A present should show that you considered that person's tastes. Something he would enjoy but probably would not buy.”

“How?”

“That's the problem. Wait, I just remembered something in this morning's mail.” She was back quickly. “Found it! Listen to this: ‘Living Aphrodite: A de-luxe Album of Feminine Beauty in Gorgeous Stereo-Color by the World's Greatest Artists of the Camera. Notice: this item cannot be mailed. Orders cannot be accepted from addresses in the following states—' Um, Pennsylvania is on the list—but we'll find a way—for if I know Duke's tastes, this is what he likes.”

It was delivered via S.S. patrol car—and the next ad boasted: “—as supplied to the Man from Mars, by special appointment,” which pleased Mike and annoyed Jill.

Picking a present for Jubal stumped Jill. What does one buy for a man who has everything he wants that money can buy? Three Wishes? The fountain that Ponce de Leon failed to find? Oil for his ancient bones, or one golden day of youth? Jubal had long forsworn pets, because he outlived them, or (worse yet) it was now possible that a pet would outlive him, be orphaned.

They consulted others. “Shucks,” Duke told them, “didn't you know? The boss likes statues.”

“Really?” Jill answered. “I don't see any sculpture around.”

“The stuff he likes mostly isn't for sale. He says the crud they make nowdays looks like disaster in a junk yard and any idiot with a blow torch and astigmatism calls himself a sculptor.”

Anne nodded. “Duke is right. You can tell by looking at books in Jubal's study.”

Anne picked out three books as bearing evidence (to her eyes) of having been looked at most often. “Hmm . . .” she said. “The Boss likes anything by Rodin. Mike, if you could buy one of these, which would you pick? Here's a pretty one—‘Eternal Springtime.' ”

Mike glanced at it and turned pages. “This one.”

“What?” Jill shuddered. “Mike, that's
dreadful!
I hope I die long before I look like that.”

“That is beauty,” Mike said firmly.

“Mike!” Jill protested. “You've got a depraved taste—you're worse than Duke.”

Ordinarily such a rebuke, especially from Jill, would shut Mike up, force him to spend the night in trying to grok his fault. But in his he was sure of himself. The portrayed figure felt like a breath of home. Although it pictured a human woman it gave him a feeling that a Martian Old One should be near, responsible for its creation. “It is beauty,” he insisted. “She has her own face. I grok.”

“Jill,” Anne said slowly, “Mike is right.”

“Huh? Anne! Surely you don't
like
that?”

“It frightens me. But the book falls open in three places; this page has been handled more than the other two. This other one—‘The Caryatid Fallen under Her Stone'—Jubal looks at almost as often. But Mike's choice is Jubal's pet.”

“I buy it,” Mike said decisively.

Anne telephoned the Rodin Museum in Paris and only Gallic gallantry kept them from laughing.
Sell
one of the Master's works? My dear lady, they are not only not for sale but may not be reproduced. Non, non, non! Quelle Idée!

But for the Man from Mars unlikely things are possible. Anne called Bradley; two days later he called back. As a compliment from the French government—with a request that the present never be exhibited—Mike would receive a full-size, microscopically-exact bronze photo-pantogram of “She Who Used to Be the Beautiful Heaulmière,”

Jill helped select presents for the girls but when Mike asked what he should buy for
her
, she insisted that he not buy anything.

Mike was beginning to realize that, while water brothers spoke rightly, sometimes they spoke more rightly than others. He consulted Anne.

“She has to tell you that, dear, but you give her a present anyhow. Hmm. . .” Anne selected one which puzzled him—Jill already smelled the way Jill should smell.

When the present arrived, its size and apparent unimportance added to his misgivings—and when Anne had him whiff it before giving it to Jill, Mike was more in doubt than ever; the odor was very strong and not at all like Jill.

Jill was delighted with the perfume and insisted on kissing him at once. In kissing her he grokked that this gift was what she wanted and that it made them grow closer.

When she wore it at dinner that night, he discovered that in some unclear fashion it made Jill smell more deliciously Jill than ever. Still stranger, it caused Dorcas to kiss him and whisper, “Mike hon . . . the negligee is just lovely—but perhaps someday you'll give
me
perfume?”

Mike could not grok why Dorcas would want it; Dorcas did not smell like Jill, so perfume would not be proper for her . . . nor would he want Dorcas to smell like Jill; he wanted Dorcas to smell like Dorcas.

Jubal interrupted: “Quit nuzzling the lad and let him eat! Dorcas, you reek like a Marseilles cat house; don't wheedle Mike for more stinkum.”

“Boss, mind your own business.”

It was puzzling—that Jill could smell still more like Jill . . . but Dorcas should wish to smell like Jill when she smelled like herself . . . that Jubal would say that Dorcas smelled like a cat. There was a cat on the place (not a pet, but co-owner); on occasion it came to the house and deigned to accept a handout. The cat and Mike grokked each other; Mike found its carniverous thoughts most pleasing and quite Martian. He discovered that the cat's name (Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche) was not the cat's name, but he had not told anyone because he could not pronounce the cat's real name; he could only hear it in his head.

The cat did not smell like Dorcas.

Giving presents was a great goodness and taught Mike the true value of money. But he did not forget other things he was eager to grok. Jubal put off Senator Boone twice without mentioning it and Mike did not notice; his grasp of time made “next Sunday” no particular date. But the next invitation came addressed to Mike; Boone was under pressure from Supreme Bishop Digby and sensed that Harshaw was stalling.

Mike took it to Jubal. “Well?” Jubal growled. “Do you want to go? You don't have to. We can tell 'em to go to hell.”

A Checker Cab with a human pilot (Harshaw refused to trust a robocab) called next Sunday morning to deliver Mike, Jill, and Jubal to the Archangel Foster Tabernacle of the Church of the New Revelation.

ALL THE way to church Jubal was trying to warn Mike—of what, Mike was not certain. He listened—but the landscape tugged for attention; he compromised by storing what Jubal said. “Look, boy,” Jubal admonished, “these Fosterites are after your money. And the prestige of having the Man from Mars join their church. They'll work on you—you'll have to be firm.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Damn it, you're not listening.”

“I am sorry, Jubal.”

“Well . . . look at it this way. Religion is a solace to many and it is conceivable that some religion, somewhere, is Ultimate Truth. But being religious is often a form of conceit. The faith in which I was brought up assured me that I was better than other people; I was ‘saved,' they were ‘damned'—we were in a state of grace and the rest were ‘heathens.' By ‘heathen' they meant such as our brother Mahmoud. Ignorant louts who seldom bathed and planted corn by the Moon claimed to know the final answers of the Universe. That entitled them to look down on outsiders. Our hymns were loaded with arrogance—self-congratulation on how cozy we were with the Almighty and what a high opinion he had of us, what hell everybody else would catch some Judgment Day. We peddled the only authentic brand of Lydia Pinkham's—”

“Jubal!” Jill protested. “He doesn't grok it.”

“Uh? Sorry. My folks tried to make a preacher of me; I guess it shows.”

“It does.”

“Don't scoff, girl. I would have made a good one if I hadn't fallen into the fatal folly of reading. With a touch more confidence and a liberal helping of ignorance I would have been a famous evangelist. Shucks, this place we're headed for would be known as ‘Archangel Jubal Tabernacle.' ”

Jill shuddered. “Jubal, please! Not so soon after breakfast.”

“I mean it. A confidence man knows he's lying; that limits his scope. But a successful shaman believes what he says—and belief is contagious; there is no limit to
his
scope. But I lacked the necessary confidence in my own infallibility; I could never become a prophet . . . just a critic—a sort of fourth-rate prophet with delusions of gender.” Jubal frowned. “That's what worries me about Fosterites, Jill. I think they are sincere. Mike is a sucker for sincerity.”

“What do you think they'll try to do?”

“Convert him. Then get their hands on his fortune.”

“I thought you had things fixed so that nobody could?”

“No, just so that nobody can grab it against his will. Ordinarily he couldn't give it away without the government stepping in. But giving it to a politically powerful church is another matter.”

“I don't see why.”

Jubal scowled. “My dear, religion is a null area in the law. A church can do anything any organization can do—and has no restrictions. It pays no taxes, need not publish records, is effectively immune to search, inspection, or control—and a church is
anything
that calls itself a church. Attempts have been made to distinguish between ‘real' religions entitled to immunities, and ‘cults.' It can't be done, short of establishing a state religion . . . a cure worse than the disease. Both under what's left of the United States Constitution and under the Treaty of Federation, all churches are equally immune—especially if they swing a bloc of votes. If Mike is converted to Fosterism . . . and makes a will in favor of his church . . . then ‘goes to heaven' some sunrise, it will be, in the correct tautology, ‘as legal as church on Sunday.' ”

“Oh, dear! I thought we had him safe at last.”

“There is no safety this side of the grave.”

“Well . . . what are you going to do, Jubal?”

“Nothing. Just fret.”

Mike stored their conversation without trying to grok it. He recognized the subject as one of utter simplicity in his own language but amazingly slippery in English. Since his failure to achieve mutual grokking even with his brother Mahmoud, through imperfect translation of the all-embracing Martian concept as: “Thou art God,” he had waited. Waiting would fructify at its time; his brother Jill was learning his language and he would explain it to her. They would grok together.

 

Senator Boone met them at the Tabernacle's landing flat. “Howdy, folks! May the Good Lord bless you this beautiful Sabbath. Mr. Smith, I'm happy to see you again. And you, too, Doctor.” He took his cigar out of his mouth and looked at Jill. “And this little lady—didn't I see you at the Palace?”

“Yes, Senator. I'm Gillian Boardman.”

“Thought so, m'dear. Are you saved?”

“Uh, I guess not, Senator.”

“It's never too late. We'll be happy to have you attend seekers' service in the Outer Tabernacle—I'll find a Guardian to guide you. Mr. Smith and the Doc will be going into the Sanctuary.”

“Senator—”

“Uh, what, Doc?”

“If Miss Boardman can't go into the Sanctuary, we had better attend seekers' service. She's his nurse.”