Stranger in a Strange Land (50 page)

“That's just to comfort Pat—I'd never go again if you weren't sure that she needs to know that we haven't given up.”

“She does need to. We can't lie—you don't know how and I can't, not to Patty.”

“Actually,” he admitted, “the Fosterites have quite a lot. All twisted, of course. They are groping—the way I did as a carnie. They'll never correct their mistakes, because this—” He caused Patty's book to lift. “—is mostly crap!”

“Yes. But Patty doesn't see those parts. She is wrapped in innocence. She is God and behaves accordingly . . . only She doesn't know She is.”

“Uh, huh,” he agreed. “That's our Pat. She believes it only when I tell her—with proper emphasis. But, Jill, there are only three places to look. Science—and I was taught more about how the universe ticks while I was still in the nest than human scientists can yet handle. So much that I can't talk to them, even about as elementary a gimmick as levitation. I'm not disparaging scientists. What they do is as it should be; I grok that fully. But what they are after is
not
what
I
am looking for—you don't grok a desert by counting its grains of sand. Then there's philosophy—supposed to tackle everything. Does it? All any philosopher ever comes out with is what he walked in with—except for self-deluders who prove their assumptions by their conclusions. Like Kant. Like other tail-chasers. So the answer ought to be
here.”
He waved at piles of books. “Only it's
not.
Bits that grok true, but never a pattern—or if there is, they ask you to take the hard part on
faith!
Faith! What a dirty monosyllable—Jill, why didn't you mention that one when you were teaching me the short words that mustn't be used in polite company?”

She smiled. “Mike, you made a joke.”

“I didn't mean it as a joke . . . and I can't see that it's funny. Jill, I haven't even been good for
you
—you used to laugh. I haven't learned to laugh; instead you've forgotten. Instead of my becoming human . . . you're becoming Martian.”

“I'm happy, dear. You probably just haven't noticed me laughing.”

“If you laughed clear down on Market Street, I would hear. I grok. Once I quit being frightened by it I always noticed it—you, especially. If I grokked it, I would grok people—I think. Then I could help somebody like Pat . . . teach her what I know and learn what she knows. We could understand each other.”

“Mike, all you need to do for Patty is to see her occasionally. Why don't we, dear? let's get out of this dreary fog. She's home now; the carnie is closed for the season. Drop south and see her. . . and I've always wanted to see Baja California; we could go on south into warmer weather—and take her with us, that would be fun!”

“All right.”

She stood up. “Let me get a dress. Do you want to save those books? I could ship them to Jubal.”

He flipped his fingers and all were gone but Patricia's gift. “We'll take that one; Pat would notice. But, Jill, right now I need to go to the zoo.”

“All right.”

“I want to spit back at a camel and ask him what he's sour about. Maybe camels are the ‘Old Ones' on this planet . . . and that's what's wrong with the place.”

“Two jokes in one day, Mike.”

“I ain't laughing. Neither are you. Nor the camel. Maybe he groks why. Is this dress all right? Do you want underclothes?”

“Please, dear. It's chilly.”

“Up easy.” He levitated her a couple of feet. “Pants. Stockings. Garter belt. Shoes. Down you go and lift your arms. Bra? You don't need one. Now the dress—and you're decent. And pretty, whatever that is. You look good. Maybe I can get a job as lady's maid if I'm not good for anything else. Baths, shampoos, massages, hair styling, make-up, dressing for all occasions—I've even learned to do your nails so it suits you. Will that be all, Modom?”

“You're a perfect lady's maid, dear.”

“Yes, I grok I am. You look so good I think I'll toss it away and give you a massage. The growing-closer kind.”

“Yes, Michael!”

“I thought you had learned waiting? First you have to take me to the zoo and buy me peanuts.”

“Yes, Mike.”

It was windy cold at Golden Gate Park but Mike did not notice and Jill had learned how not to be cold. But it was pleasant to relax control in the warm monkey house. Aside from its heat Jill did not like the monkey house—monkeys and apes were depressingly human. She was, she thought, finished forever with prissiness; she had grown to cherish an ascetic, almost Martian joy in all things physical. The public copulations and evacuations of these simians did not offend her; these poor penned people possessed no privacy, they were not at fault. She could watch without repugnance, her own fastidiousness untouched. No, it was that they were “Human, All Too Human”—every action, every expression, every puzzled troubled look reminded her of what she liked least about her own race.

Jill preferred the Lion House—the great males arrogant even in captivity, the placid motherliness of the big females, the lordly beauty of Bengal tigers with jungle staring out of their eyes, little leopards swift and deadly, reek of musk that air-conditioning could not purge. Mike shared her tastes; they would spend hours there or in the aviary or the reptile house or in watching seals—once he told her that, if one had to be hatched on this planet, to be a sea lion would be of greatest goodness.

When first he saw a zoo, Mike was much upset; Jill was forced to order him to wait and grok, as he had been about to free the animals. He. conceded presently that most of them could not live where he proposed to turn them loose—a zoo was a nest, of a sort. He followed this with hours of withdrawal, after which he never again threatened to remove bars and glass and grills. He explained to Jill that bars were to keep people out more than to keep animals in, which he had failed to grok at first. After that Mike never missed a zoo wherever they went.

But today even the misanthropy of camels could not shake Mike's moodiness. Nor did monkeys and apes cheer him up. They stood in front of a cage containing a family of capuchins, watching them eat, sleep, court, nurse, groom, and swarm aimlessly around, while Jill tossed them peanuts.

She tossed one to a monk; before he could eat it a larger male not only stole his peanut but gave him a beating. The little fellow made no attempt to pursue his tormentor; he pounded his knucks against the floor and chattered helpless rage. Mike watched solemnly.

Suddenly the mistreated monkey rushed across the cage, picked a monkey still smaller, bowled it over and gave it a dubbing worse than the one he had suffered. The third monk crawled away, whimpering. The other monkeys paid no attention.

Mike threw back his head and laughed—and went on laughing, uncontrollably. He gasped for breath, started to tremble and sink to the floor, still laughing.

“Stop it, Mike!”

He did cease folding up but his guffaws went on. An attendant hurried over. “Lady, do you need help?”

“Can you call us a cab? Ground, air, anything—I've got to get him out of here.” She added, “He's not well.”

“Ambulance? Looks like he's having a fit.”

“Anything!” A few minutes later she led Mike into a piloted air cab. She gave their address, then said urgently “Mike, listen to me! Quiet down.”

He became somewhat quiet but continued to chuckle, laugh aloud, chuckle again, while she wiped his eyes, all the minutes it took to get home. She got him inside, got his clothes off, made him lie down. “All right, dear. Withdraw if you need to.”

“I'm all right. At last I'm all right.”

“I hope so.” She sighed. “You scared me, Mike.”

“I'm sorry, Little Brother. I was scared, too, the first time I heard laughing.”

“Mike, what happened?”

“Jill . . . I grok people!”

“Huh?” (
“????”
)

(
“I speak rightly, Little Brother. I grok.”
) “I grok people now, Jill . . . Little Brother . . . precious darling . . . little imp with lively legs and lovely lewd lascivious lecherous licentious libido . . . beautiful bumps and pert posterior . . . soft voice and gentle hands. My baby darling.”

“Why, Michael!”

“Oh, I knew the words; I simply didn't know when or why say them . . . nor why you wanted me to. I love you, sweetheart—I grok ‘love' now, too.”

“You always have. And I love you . . . you smooth ape. My darling.”

“ ‘Ape,' yes. Come here, she ape, put your head on my shoulder and tell me a joke.”

“Just tell you a joke?”

“Well, nothing more than snuggling. Tell me a joke I've never heard and see if I laugh at the right place. I will, I'm sure of it—and I'll tell you
why
it's funny. Jill . . .
I grok people!”

“But how, darling? Can you tell me? Does it need Martian? Or mind-talk?”

“No, that's the point. I grok people. I
am
people . . . so now I can say it in people talk. I've found out why people laugh. They laugh because it hurts . . . because it's the only thing that'll make it stop hurting.”

Jill looked puzzled. “Maybe I'm the one who isn't people. I don't understand.”

“Ah, but you
are
people, little she ape. You grok it so automatically that you don't have to think about it. Because you grew up with people. But I didn't. I've been like a puppy raised apart from dogs—who couldn't be like his masters and had never learned how to be a dog. So I had to be taught. Brother Mahmoud taught me, Jubal taught me, lots of people taught me . . . and you taught me most of all. Today I got my diploma—and I laughed. That poor little monk.”

“Which one, dear? I thought that big one was just mean . . . and the one I flipped the peanut to turned out to be just as mean. There certainly wasn't anything funny.”

“Jill, Jill my darling! Too much Martian has rubbed off on you. Of course it wasn't funny; it was tragic. That's why I had to laugh. I looked at a cageful of monkeys and suddenly I saw all the mean and cruel and utterly unexplainable things I've seen and heard and read about in the time I've been with my own people—and suddenly it hurt so much I found myself laughing.”

“But—Mike dear, laughing is what you do when something is nice . . . not when it's horrid.”

“Is it? Think back to Las Vegas—When you girls came out on stage, did people laugh?”

“Well . . . no.”

“But you girls were the nicest part of the show. I grok now, that if they had laughed, you would have been hurt. No, they laughed when a comic tripped over his feet and fell down . . . or something else that is not a goodness.”

“But that's not
all
people laugh at.”

“Isn't it? Perhaps I don't grok its fullness yet. But find me something that makes you laugh, sweetheart . . . a joke, anything—but something that gave you a belly laugh, not a smile. Then we'll see if there isn't a wrongness somewhere and whether you would laugh if the wrongness wasn't there.” He thought. “I grok when apes learn to laugh, they'll be people.”

“Maybe.” Doubtfully but earnestly Jill started digging into her memory for jokes that had struck her as irresistably funny, ones which had jerked a laugh out of her:

“—her entire bridge club.” . . . “Should I bow?” . . . “Neither one, you idiot—
instead!” . . .
“—the Chinaman objects.” . . . “—broke her leg.” . . . “—make trouble for
me!”
. . . “—but it'll spoil the ride for me.” . . . “—and his mother-in-law fainted.” . . . “Stop you? I bet three to one you could do it!” . . . “—something has happened to Ole.” . . . “—and so are you, you clumsy ox!”

She gave up on “funny” stories, pointing out that such were just fantasies, and tried to recall real incidents. Practical jokes? All practical jokes supported Mike's thesis, even ones as mild as a dribble glass—and when it came to an interne's notion of a joke—internes should be kept in cages. What else? The time Elsa Mae lost her panties? It hadn't been funny to Elsa Mae. Or the—

She said grimly, “Apparently the pratt fall is the peak of all humor. It's not a pretty picture of the human race, Mike.”

“Oh, but it is!”

“Huh?”

“I had thought—I had been told—that a ‘funny' thing is a thing of goodness. It isn't. Not ever is it funny to the person it happens to. Like that sheriff without his pants. The goodness is in the laughing. I grok it is a bravery . . . and a sharing . . . against pain and sorrow and defeat.”

“But—Mike, it is not a goodness to laugh
at
people.”

“No. But I was not laughing at the little monkey. I was laughing at
us.
People. And suddenly I knew I was people and could not stop laughing.” He paused. “This is hard to explain, because you have never lived as a Martian, for all that I've told you about it. On Mars there is
never
anything to laugh at. All the things that are funny to us humans either cannot happen on Mars or are not permitted to happen—sweetheart, what you call ‘freedom' doesn't exist on Mars; everything is planned by the Old Ones—or the things that
do
happen on Mars which we laugh at here on Earth aren't funny because there is no wrongness about them. Death, for example.”

“Death isn't funny.”

“Then why are there so many jokes about death? Jill, with us—us humans—death is so sad that we
must
laugh at it. All those religions—they contradict each other on every other point but each one is filled with ways to help people be brave enough to laugh even though they know they are dying.” He stopped and Jill could feel that he had almost gone into trance. “Jill? Is it possible that I was searching them the wrong way? Could it be that
every one
of
all
religions is true?”