Stranger in a Strange Land (56 page)

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Mike,” Caxton said slowly, “could sell shoes to snakes.”

“Ben, I grok something is bothering you.”

“No,” he answered. “Not anything I can put my finger on.”

“I'll ask you again in a week or two. No hurry.”

“I won't be here a week.”

“You have columns on the spike?”

“Three. But I shouldn't stay that long.”

“I think you will . . . then you'll phone in a few, probably about the Church. By then you will grok to stay much longer.”

“I don't think so.”

“Waiting is, until fullness. You know it's not a church?”

“Patty said something of the sort.”

“Let's say it's not a religion. It
is
a church, in every legal and moral sense. But we're not trying to bring people to God; that's a contradiction, you can't say it in Martian. We're not trying to save souls, souls can't be lost. We're not trying to get people to have faith, what we offer is not faith but truth—truth they can check. Truth for here-and-now, truth as matter of fact as an ironing board and as useful as bread . . . so practical that it can make war and hunger and violence and hate as unnecessary as . . . well, as clothes in the Nest. But they have to learn Martian. That's the hitch—finding people honest enough to believe what they see, willing to work hard—it
is
hard—to learn the language it must be taught in. This truth can't be stated in English any more than Beethoven's Fifth can be.” She smiled. “But Mike never hurries. He screens thousands . . . finds a few . . . and some trickle into the Nest and he trains them further. Someday Mike will have us so thoroughly trained that we can start other nests, then it can snowball. But there's no hurry. None of us is really trained. Are we, dear?”

Ben looked up at Jill's last words—was startled to find bending over to offer him a plate a woman he recognized as the other high priestess—Dawn, yes, that was right. His surprise was not reduced by her being dressed in Patricia's fashion, minus tattoos.

Dawn smiled. “Your supper, my brother Ben. Thou art God.”

“Uh, thou art God. Thanks.” She kissed him, got plates for herself and Jill, sat down on his right and began to eat. Ben was sorry that she did not sit where he could see her better—she had the best attributes associated with goddesses.

“No,” Dawn agreed, “not yet, Jill. But waiting will fill.”

“For example, Ben,” Jill continued, “I took a break to eat. But Mike hasn't eaten since day before yesterday . . . and won't until he's not needed. Then he'll eat like a pig and that will carry him as long as necessary. Besides that, Dawn and I get tired. Don't we, sweet?”

“We surely do. But I'm not tired, Gillian. Let me take this service and you stay with Ben. Give me that robe.”

“You're crazy in your little pointy head, my love. Ben, she's been on duty almost as long as Mike. We can take a long stretch—but we eat when we're hungry and sometimes we need sleep. Speaking of robes, Dawn, this was the last in the Seventh Temple. I meant to tell Patty she'd better order a gross or two.”

“She has.”

“I should have known. This one seems tight.” Jill wiggled in a fashion that disturbed Ben. “Are we putting on weight?”

“A little.”

“Good. We were too skinny. Ben, you noticed that Dawn and I have the same figure? Height, bust, waist, hips, weight, everything—not to mention coloration. We were almost alike when we met . . . then, with Mike's help, we matched exactly. Even our faces are more alike—but that comes from doing and thinking the same things. Stand up and let Ben look at us, dear.”

Dawn put her plate aside and did so, in a pose that reminded Ben of Jill, more than resemblance justified—then he realized it was the pose Jill had been in when she stood revealed as Mother Eve.

Jill said, with her mouth full, “See, Ben? That's me.”

Dawn smiled. “A razor's edge of difference, Gillian.”

“Pooh. I'm almost sorry we'll never have the same face. It's handy, Ben, for us to be alike. We must have two high priestesses; it's all two can do to keep up with Mike. And besides,” she added, “Dawn can buy a dress and it fits me, too. Saves me the nuisance of shopping.”

“I wasn't sure,” Ben said slowly, “that you wore clothes. Except these priestess things.”

Jill looked surprised. “How could we go out dancing in
these?
That's our favorite way of not getting sleep. Sit down and finish your supper; Ben has stared at us long enough. Ben, there's a man in that transition group who's a perfectly dreamy dancer and this town is loaded with night clubs. Dawn and I have kept the poor fellow up so many nights that we've had to help him stay awake in language classes. But he'll be all right; once you reach Eighth Circle you don't need much sleep. What made you think we never dressed, dear?”

“Uh—” Ben blurted out his dilemma.

Jill looked wide-eyed, barely giggled—stopped at once. “I see. Darling, I'm wearing this robe because I have to gobble and git. Had I grokked
that
was troubling you, I would have chucked it before I said hello. We're so used to dressing or not according to what we do that I forgot that it might not be polite. Sweetheart, wear those shorts—or not, exactly as suits you.”

“Uh—”

“Just don't fret.” Jill smiled and dimpled. “Reminds me of the time Mike tried a public beach. 'Member, Dawn?”

“I'll never forget!”

“Ben, you know how Mike is. I had to teach him everything. He couldn't see any point to clothes, until he grokked—to his great surprise—that we aren't invulnerable to weather. Body-modesty isn't a Martian concept, couldn't be. Mike grokked clothes as ornaments only after we started experimenting with costuming our acts.

“But while Mike always did what I told him to, whether he grokked it or not, you can't imagine how many
little
things there are to being human. We take twenty years or more to learn them; Mike had to learn almost overnight. There are still gaps. He does things not knowing that isn't how a human behaves. We all teach him—all but Patty, who is sure that anything Michael does is perfect. He's still grokking clothes. He groks they're a wrongness that keeps people apart—gets in the way of letting love cause them to grow closer. Lately he's grokked that you need a barrier—with outsiders. But for a long time Mike wore clothes only when I told him to.

“And once I failed to tell him.

“We were in Baja California; it was when we met—or remet—Dawn. Mike and I checked in at night at a beach hotel and he was so anxious to grok the ocean that he let me sleep next morning and went down by himself for his first encounter with the sea.

“Poor Mike! He got to the beach, threw off his robe, and headed for the water . . . looking like a Greek god and just as unaware of conventions—and the riot started and I came awake fast and rushed down to keep him out of jail.”

Jill got a faraway look. “He needs me now. Kiss me good-night, Ben; I'll see you in the morning.”

“You'll be gone all night?”

“Probably. It's a fairly big transition class.” She stood up, pulled him to his feet and went into his arms.

Presently she murmured, “Ben darling, you've been taking lessons.
Whew!”

“Me? I've been utterly faithful to you—in my own way.”

“The same way I've been to you. I wasn't complaining; I just think Dorcas has been helping you practice kissing.”

“Some, maybe. Nosy.”

“The class can wait while you kiss me again. I'll try to be Dorcas.”

“Be yourself.”

“I would, anyway. Self. Mike says that Dorcas kisses more thoroughly—‘groks a kiss more'—than anyone.”

“Quit chattering.”

She did, then sighed. “Transition class, here I come—glowing like a lightning bug. Take care of him, Dawn.”

“I will.”

“And kiss him right away and see what I mean!”

“I intend to.”

“Ben, be a good boy and do what Dawn tells you.” She left, not hurrying—but running.

Dawn flowed up against him, put up her arms.

Jubal cocked an eyebrow. “Are you going to tell me that at
that
point, you went chicken?”

“I didn't have much choice. I, uh, ‘cooperated with the inevitable.”'

Jubal nodded. “You were trapped. Whereupon the best a man can do is try for a negotiated peace.”

“JUBAL,” Caxton said earnestly, “I wouldn't say a word about Dawn—I wouldn't tell any of this—if it weren't necessary for explaining why I'm worried about them . . .
all
of them, Duke and Mike and Dawn as well as Jill, and Mike's other victims. Mike has them fascinated. His new personality is powerful. Cocky and too much supersalesman—but very compelling. And Dawn is compelling in her own way—by morning I was lulled into thinking everything was all right. Weird, but jolly—”

Ben Caxton awakened not knowing where he was. It was dark; he was lying on something soft. Not a bed—

The night came back in a rush. The last he clearly remembered was lying on the soft floor of the Innermost Temple, talking quietly and intimately with Dawn. She had taken him there, they had immersed, shared water, grown closer—

Frantically he groped around, found nothing.
“Dawn!”

Light swelled to dimness. “Here, Ben.”

“Oh! I thought you had gone!”

“I didn't intend to wake you.” She was wearing—to his sudden disappointment—her robe of office. “I must start the Sunrisers' Outer Service. Gillian isn't back. As you know, it was a big class.”

Her words brought back things she had told him last night . . . things which had upset him despite her gentle explanations . . . and she had soothed him until he found himself agreeing. He still didn't grok it all—but, yes, Jill was busy with rites as high priestess—a task, or happy duty, that Dawn had offered to take for her. Ben felt that he should be sorry that Jill had refused—

But he did not feel sorry. “Dawn . . . do you
have
to leave?” He scrambled to his feet, put his arms around her.

“I must, Ben dear . . . dear Ben.” She melted against him.

“Right
now?”

“There is never,” she said softly, “that much hurry.” The robe no longer kept them apart. He was too bemused to wonder what had become of it.

He woke a second time, found that the “little nest” lighted when he stood up. He stretched, discovered that he felt wonderful, looked around for his shorts. He tried to recall where he had left them and had no recollection of taking them off. He had not worn them into the water. Probably beside the pool—He went out and found a bathroom.

Some minutes later, shaved, showered, and refreshed, he looked into the Innermost Temple, failed to find his shorts and decided that somebody had put them in the foyer where everybody kept street wear . . . said to hell with it and grinned at himself for having made an issue out of wearing them. He needed them, here in the Nest, like a second head.

He didn't have a trace of a hangover although he had had more than several drinks with Dawn. Dawn didn't seem affected by liquor—which was probably why he had gone over his quota. Dawn . . . what a gal! She hadn't even seemed annoyed when, in a moment of emotion, he had called her Jill—she had seemed pleased.

He found no one in the big room and wondered what time it was. Not that he gave a damn but he was hungry. He went into the kitchen to see what he could scrounge.