Stranger in a Strange Land (43 page)

“At first I was homesick,” he answered. “I was lonely always.” He rolled toward her and took her in his arms. “But now I am not lonely. I grok I shall never be lonely again.”

“Mike darling—” They kissed, and went on kissing.

Presently his water brother said breathlessly. “Oh, my! That was almost worse than the first time.”

“You are all right, my brother?”

“Yes. Yes indeed. Kiss me again.”

A long time later, by cosmic clock, she said, “Mike? Is that—I mean, ‘Do you know—' ”

“I know. It is for growing closer. Now we grow closer.”

“Well . . . I've been ready a long time—goodness, we
all
have, but . . . never mind, dear; turn just a little. I'll help.”

As they merged, grokking together, Mike said softly and triumphantly: “Thou art God.”

Her answer was not in words. Then, as their grokking made them ever closer and Mike felt himself almost ready to discorporate her voice called him back: “Oh!
. . . Oh! Thou
art God!”

“We grok God.”

ON MARS humans were building pressure domes for the male and female party that would arrive by next ship. This went faster than scheduled as the Martians were helpful. Part of the time saved was spent on a preliminary estimate for a long-distance plan to free bound oxygen in the sands of Mars to make the planet more friendly to future human generations.

The Old Ones neither helped nor hindered this plan; time was not yet. Their meditations were approaching a violent cusp that would shape Martian art for many millennia. On Earth elections continued and a very advanced poet published a limited edition of verse consisting entirely of punctuation marks and spaces;
Time
magazine reviewed it and suggested that the Federation Assembly Daily Record should be translated into the medium.

A colossal campaign opened to sell more sexual organs of plants and Mrs. Joseph (“Shadow of Greatness”) Douglas was quoted as saying: “I would no more sit down without flowers on my table than without serviettes.” A Tibetan swami from Palermo, Sicily, announced in Beverly Hills a newly discovered, ancient yoga discipline for ripple breathing which increased both pranha and cosmic attraction between sexes. His chelas were required to assume the matsyendra posture dressed in hand-woven diapers while he read aloud from Rig-Veda and an assistant guru examined their purses in another room—nothing was stolen; the purpose was less immediate.

The President of the United States proclaimed the first Sunday in November as “National Grandmothers' Day” and urged America to say it with flowers. A funeral parlor chain was indicted for price-cutting. Fosterite bishops, after secret conclave, announced the Church's second Major Miracle: Supreme Bishop Digby had been translated bodily to Heaven and spot-promoted to Archangel, ranking with-but-after Archangel Foster. The glorious news had been held up pending Heavenly confirmation of the elevation of a new Supreme Bishop, Huey Short—a candidate accepted by the Boone faction after lots had been cast repeatedly.

L‘Unita
and
Hoy
published identical denunciations of Short's elevation,
l'Osservatore
Romano and the
Christian Science Monitor
ignored it,
Times of India
snickered at it, and the Manchester
Guardian
simply reported it—the Fosterites in England were few but extremely militant.

Digby was not pleased with his promotion. The Man from Mars had interrupted him with his work half finished—and that stupid jackass Short was certain to louse it up. Foster listened with angelic patience until Digby ran down, then said, “Listen, junior, you're an angel now—so forget it. Eternity is no time for recriminations. You too were a stupid jackass until you poisoned me. Afterwards you did well enough. Now that Short is Supreme Bishop he'll do all right, he can't help it. Same as with the Popes. Some of them were warts until they got promoted. Check with one of them, go ahead—there's no professional jealousy here.”

Digby calmed down, but made one request.

Foster shook his halo. “You can't touch him. You shouldn't have tried to. Oh, you can submit a requisition for a miracle if you want to make a fool of yourself. But, I'm telling you, it'll be turned down—you don't understand the System yet. The Martians have their own setup, different from ours, and as long as they need him, we can't touch him. They run their show their way—the Universe has variety, something for everybody—a fact you field workers often miss.”

“You mean this punk can brush me aside and I've got to hold still for it?”

“I held still for the same thing, didn't I? I'm helping you now, am I not? Now look, there's work to be done and lots of it. The Boss wants performance, not gripes. If you need a Day off to calm down, duck over to the Muslim Paradise and take it. Otherwise, straighten your halo, square your wings, and dig in. The sooner you act like an angel the quicker you'll feel angelic. Get Happy, junior!”

Digby heaved a deep ethereal sigh. “Okay, I'm Happy. Where do I start?”

Jubal did not hear of Digby's disappearance when it was announced, and, when he did, while he had a fleeting suspicion, he dismissed it; if Mike had had a finger in it, he had gotten away with it—and what happened to supreme bishops worried Jubal not at all as long as he wasn't bothered.

His household had gone through an upset. Jubal deduced what had happened but did not know with whom—and didn't want to inquire. Mike was of legal age and presumed able to defend himself in the clinches. Anyhow, it was high time the boy was salted.

Jubal couldn't reconstruct the crime from the way the girls behaved because patterns kept shifting—ABC
vs
D, then BCD
vs
A . . . or AB
vs
CD, or AD
vs
CB, through all ways that four women can gang up on each other.

This continued most of the week following that ill-starred trip to church, during which period Mike stayed in his room and usually in a trance so deep that Jubal would have pronounced him dead had he not seen it before. Jubal would not have minded it if service had not gone to pieces. The girls seemed to spend half their time tiptoeing in “to see if Mike was all right” and they were too preoccupied to cook, much less be secretaries. Even rock-steady Anne—Hell, Anne was the worst! Absent-minded, subject to unexplained tears . . . Jubal would have bet his life that if Anne were to witness the Second Coming, she would memorize date, time, personae, events, and barometric pressure without batting her calm blue eyes.

Late Thursday Mike woke himself and suddenly it was ABCD in the service of Mike, “less than the dust beneath his chariot wheels.” The girls resumed giving Jubal service, so he counted his blessings and let it lie . . . except for a wry thought that, if he demanded a showdown, Mike could quintuple their salaries by a post card to Douglas—but the girls would just as readily support Mike.

With domestic tranquility restored Jubal did not mind that his kingdom was ruled by a mayor of the palace. Meals were on time and better than ever; when he shouted “Front!” the girl who appeared was bright-eyed, happy, and efficient—such being the case, Jubal did not give a hoot who rated the most side boys. Or girls.

Besides, the change in Mike was interesting. Before that week Mike had been docile in a fashion that Jubal classed as neurotic; now he was so self-confident that Jubal would have described it as cocky had it not been that Mike continued to be unfailingly polite and considerate.

He accepted homage from the girls as if a natural right, he seemed older than his age rather than younger, his voice deepened, he spoke with forcefulness rather than timidly. Jubal decided that Mike had joined the human race; he could discharge this patient.

Except (Jubal reminded himself) on one point: Mike still did not laugh. He could smile at a joke and sometimes did not ask to have them explained. Mike was cheerful, even merry—but he never laughed.

Jubal decided that it was not important. This patient was sane, healthy—and human. Short weeks earlier Jubal would have given odds against a cure. He was humble enough not to claim credit; the girls had had more to do with it. Or should he say “girl?”

From the first week of his stay Jubal had told Mike almost daily that he was welcome . . . but that he should stir out and see the world as soon as he felt able. Jubal should not have been surprised when Mike announced one breakfast that he was leaving. But he was surprised and, to his greater surprise, hurt.

He covered it by using his napkin unnecessarily. “So? When?”

“We're leaving today.”

“Um. Plural. Are Larry and Duke and I going to have to put up with our own cooking?”

“We've talked that over,” Mike answered. “I need somebody, Jubal; I don't know how people do things yet—I make mistakes. It ought to be Jill because she wants to go on learning Martian. But it could be Duke or Larry if you can't spare one of the girls.”

“I get a vote?”

“Jubal, you must decide. We know that.”

(Son, you've probably told your first lie. I doubt if I could hold even Duke if you set your mind.) “I guess it should be Jill. But look, kids—This is your home.”

“We know that—we'll be back. Again we will share water.”

“We will, son.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Jubal, there is no Martian word for ‘father.' But lately I grokked that you are my father. And Jill's father.”

Jubal glanced at Jill. “Mmm, I grok. Take care of yourselves.”

“Yes. Come, Jill.” They were gone before he left the table.

IT WAS the usual carnival—rides, cotton candy, the same flat joints separating marks from dollars. The sex lecture deferred to local opinion concerning Darwin's opinions, the posing show wore what local lawmen decreed, Fearless Fenton did his Death-Defying Dive before the last bally. The ten-in-one did not have a mentalist, it had a magician; it had no bearded lady, it had a half-man-half-woman; no sword swallower but a fire eater, no tattooed man but a tattooed lady who was also a snake charmer, and for the blow-off she appeared “absolutely
nude! . . .
clothed only in bare living flesh in exotic designs!”—any mark who found one square inch untattooed below her neckline would win twenty dollars.

The prize went unclaimed. Mrs. Paiwonski posed in “bare living flesh”—her own and a fourteen-foot boa constrictor named “Honey Bun”—with the snake looped so strategically that the ministerial alliance could not complain. As further protection (for the boa) she stood on a stool in a canvas tank containing a dozen cobras.

Besides, the lighting was poor.

But Mrs. Paiwonski's claim was honest. Until his death her husband had a tattooing studio in San Pedro; when trade was slack they decorated each other. Eventually the art work on her was so complete from neck down that there was no room for an encore. She took pride in being the most decorated woman in the world, by the world's greatest artist—such being her opinion of her husband.

Patricia Paiwonski associated with grifters and sinners unharmed; she and her husband had been converted by Foster himself, she attended the nearest Church of the New Revelation wherever she was. She would gladly have dispensed with any covering in the blow-off because she was clothed in conviction that she was canvas for religious art greater than any in museum or cathedral. When she and George saw the light, there was about three square feet of Patricia untouched; before he died she carried a pictorial life of Foster, from his crib with angels hovering around to the day of glory when he had taken his appointed place.

Regrettably much of this sacred history had to be covered. But she could show it in closed Happiness meetings of the churches she attended if the shepherd wanted her to, which he almost always did. Patricia couldn't preach, she couldn't sing, she was never inspired to speak in tongues—but she was a living witness to the light.

Her act came next to last; this left time to put away her photographs, then slip behind the rear canvas for the blow-off. Meanwhile the magician performed.

Dr. Apollo passed out steel rings and invited the audience to make sure that each was solid; then he had them hold the rings so that they overlapped—tapped each overlap with his wand. The links formed a chain. He laid his wand in the air, accepted a bowl of eggs from his assistant, juggled half a dozen. His juggling did not attract many eyes, his assistant got more stares. She wore more than the young ladies in the posing show; nevertheless there seemed slight chance that she was tattooed anywhere. The marks hardly noticed six eggs become five, then four . . . three, two—at last Dr. Apollo was tossing one egg in the air.

He said, “Eggs are scarcer every year,” and tossed it into the crowd. He turned away and no one seemed to note that the egg never reached a destination.

Dr. Apollo called a boy to the platform. “Son, I know what you are thinking. You think I'm not a real magician. For that you win a dollar.” He handed the kid a dollar bill. It disappeared.

“Oh, dear! We'll give you one more chance. Got it? Get out of here fast—you should be home in bed.” The kid dashed away with the money. The magician frowned. “Madame Merlin, what should we do now?”

His assistant whispered to him, he shook his head. “Not in front of all these people?”

She whispered again; he sighed. “Friends, Madame Merlin wants to go to bed. Will any of you gentlemen help her?”

He blinked at the rush. “Oh, too many! Were any of you in the Army?”

There were still many volunteers; Dr. Apollo picked two and said, “There's an army cot under the platform, just lift the canvas—now, will you set it up on the platform? Madame Merlin, face this way, please.”