Stranger in a Strange Land (60 page)

FOSTER LOOKED UP FROM WORK IN PROGRESS. “Junior!”

“Sir?”

“That youngster you wanted—he's available now. The Martians have released him.”

Digby looked puzzled. “I'm sorry. There was some young creature toward whom I have a duty?”

Foster smiled angelically. Miracles were
never
necessary—in Truth the pseudo-concept “miracle” was self-contradicting. But these young fellows always had to learn it for themselves. “Never mind,” he said gently. “It's a minor martyrdom and I'll guard it myself—and Junior?”

“Sir?”

“Call me ‘Fos,' please—ceremony is all right in the field but we don't need it in the studio. And remind me not to call you ‘Junior'—you made a very nice record on that temporary duty assignment. Which name do
you
like to be called?”

His assistant blinked. “I have another name?”

“Thousands. Do you have a preference?”

“Why, I really don't recall at this eon.”

“Well . . . would you like to be called ‘Digby'?”

“Uh, yes. That's a very nice name. Thanks.”

“Don't thank me. You earned it.” Archangel Foster turned back to his work, not forgetting the minor duty he had assumed. Briefly he considered how this cup might be taken from little Patricia—then chided himself for such unprofessional, almost human, thought. Mercy was not possible in an angel; angelic compassion left no room for it.

The Martian Old Ones had reached an elegant trial solution to their major esthetic problem and put it aside for a few filled-threes to let it generate new problems. At which time, unhurriedly and almost absentmindedly, the alien nestling which they had returned to his proper world was tapped of what he had learned of his people and dropped, after cherishing, since he was of no further interest to their purposes.

They took the data he had accumulated and, with a view to testing that trial solution, began to work toward considering an inquiry leading to an investigation of esthetic parameters involved in the possibility of the artistic necessity of destroying Earth. But much waiting would be, before fullness would grok decision.

The Daibutsu at Kamakura was again washed by a giant wave secondary to a seismic disturbance 280 kilometers off Honshu. The wave killed 13,000 people and lodged a male infant high in the Buddha image's interior, where it was found and succored by surviving monks. This infant lived ninety-seven Terran years after the disaster that wiped out his family and produced no progeny nor anything of note aside from a reputation for sustained belching. Cynthia Duchess entered a nunnery with all benefits of modern publicity and left without fanfare three days later. Ex-Secretary General Douglas suffered a stroke which impaired the use of his left hand but not his ability to conserve assets entrusted to him. Lunar Enterprises, Ltd., published a prospectus on a bond issue for the wholly-owned subsidiary Ares Chandler Corporation. The Lyle-Drive Exploratory Vessel
Mary Jane Smith
landed on Pluto. Fraser, Colorado, reported the coldest February of its recorded history.

Bishop Oxtongue, at the New Grand Avenue Temple, preached on the text (Matt. XXIV:24): “For there shall arise false Christs, and false prophets, and shall shew great signs and wonders; insomuch that, if it were possible, they shall deceive the very elect.” He made clear that his diatribe did not refer to Mormons, Christian Scientists, Roman Catholics, nor Fosterites—especially not the last—nor to any fellow travelers whose good works counted more than inconsequential differences in creed or ritual . . . but solely to upstart heretics who were seducing faithful contributors away from the faiths of their fathers. In a subtropical resort city in the same nation three complainants swore on information charging public lewdness on the part of a pastor, three of his assistants, and John Doe, Mary Roe, et al. , plus charges of running a disorderly house and contributing to delinquency of minors. The county attorney had no interest in prosecuting as he had on file a dozen like it—complaining witnesses always failed to appear at arraignment.

He pointed this out. Their spokesman said, “You'll have plenty of backing this time. Supreme Bishop Short is determined that this antichrist shall flourish no longer.”

The prosecutor was not interested in antichrists—but there was a primary coming up. “Well, just remember I can't do much without backing.”

“You'll have it.”

Dr. Jubal Harshaw was not aware of this incident but knew of too many others for peace of mind. He had succumbed to that most insidious vice, the news. Thus far he had merely subscribed to a clipping service instructed for “Man from Mars,” “V. M. Smith,” “Church of All Worlds,” and “Ben Caxton.” But the monkey was on his back—twice lately he fought off an impulse to order Larry to set up the babble box.

Damn it, why couldn't those kids tape him an occasional letter?—instead of letting him worry.
“Front!”

Anne came in but he continued to stare out at snow and an empty swimming pool. “Anne,” he said, “rent us a tropical atoll and put this mausoleum up for sale.”

“Yes, Boss.”

“But get a lease before you hand this back to the Indians; I will not put up with hotels. How long has it been since I wrote pay copy?”

“Forty-three days.”

“Let that be a lesson to you. Begin ‘Death Song of a Wood's Colt.'

“There,” he added briskly, “sign it ‘Louisa M. Alcott' and send it to
Togetherness
magazine.”

“Boss, is that your idea of ‘pay copy'?”

“Huh? It will be worth something later; put it on file and my literary executor can use it to help settle death duties. That's the catch in artistic pursuits; the best work is worth most after the workman can't be paid. The literary life—
Dreck!
It consists in scratching the cat till it purrs.”

“Poor Jubal! Nobody ever feels sorry for him, so he has to feel sorry for himself.”

“Sarcasm yet. No wonder I don't get any work done.”

“Not sarcasm, Boss. Only the wearer knows where the shoe pinches.”

“My apologies. All right, here's pay copy. Title: ‘One for the Road.'

“Jubal,” Anne said worriedly, “is your stomach upset?”

“Always.”

“That's for file, too?”

“Huh? That's for the
New Yorker.”

“They'll bounce it.”

“They'll buy it. It's morbid, they'll buy it.”

“And besides, there's something wrong with the scansion.”

“Of course! You have to give an editor
something
to change, or he gets frustrated. After he pees in it, he likes the flavor better, so he buys it. My dear, I was avoiding honest work before you were born—don't teach Grandpa how to suck eggs. Or would you rather I nursed Abby while you turn out copy? Hey! It's Abigail's feeding time! You weren't ‘Front,' Dorcas is ‘Front.' ”

“It won't hurt Abby to wait. Dorcas is lying down. Morning sickness.”

“Nonsense. Anne, I can spot pregnancy two weeks fore a rabbit can—and you know it.”

“Jubal, you let her be! She's scared she didn't catch . . . and she wants to think she did, as long as possible. Don't you know
anything
about women?”

“Mmm . . . come to think about it—no. All right, I won't heckle her. Why didn't you bring our baby angel and nurse her here?”

“I'm glad I didn't. She might have understood what you were saying—”

“So I corrupt babies, do I?”

“She's too young to see the marshmallow syrup underneath, Boss. But you don't do any work if I bring her; you just play with her.”

“Can you think of a better way of enriching empty hours?”

“Jubal, I appreciate the fact that you are dotty over my daughter; I think she's pretty nice myself. But you've been spending all your time either playing with Abby . . . or moping.”

“How soon do we go on relief?”

“That's not the point. If you don't crank out stories, you get spiritually constipated. It's reached the point where Dorcas and Larry and I are biting our nails—when you yell ‘Front!' we jitter with relief. But it's always a false alarm.”

“If there's money to meet the bills, what are you worried about?”

“What are
you
worried about, Boss?”

Jubal considered it. Should he tell her? Any doubt as to the paternity of Abigail had been settled, in his mind, in her naming; Anne had wavered between “Abigail” and “Zenobia”—then had loaded the infant with both. Anne never mentioned the meanings of those names . . . presumably she did not know that he knew them—

Anne went on firmly, “You're not fooling anyone, Jubal. Dorcas and Larry and I all know that Mike can take care of himself. But you've been so frenetic about it—”

“‘Frenetic!'
Me?”

“—Larry set up the tank in his room and one of us has been catching the news, every broadcast. Not because
we
are worried—except about you. But when Mike gets into the news—and of course he does—we know it before those silly clippings reach you. I wish you would quit reading them.”

“How do you know about any clippings? I went to a lot of trouble to see that you didn't.”

“Boss,” she said in a tired voice, “somebody has to dispose of the trash. Do you think Larry can't read?”

“So. That confounded oubliette hasn't worked right since Duke left. Damn it, nothing has!”

“Just send word to Mike—Duke will show up at once.”

“You know I can't do that.” It graveled him that what she said was almost certainly true . . . and the thought was followed by bitter suspicion. “Anne! Are you still here because Mike told you to?”

She answered promptly, “I am here because I wish to be.”

“Mmm . . . I'm not sure that's responsive.”

“Jubal, sometimes I wish you were small enough to spank. May I finish what I was saying?”

“You have the floor.” Would
any
of them be here? Would Maryam have married Stinky and gone off to Beirut if Mike had not approved? The name “Fatima Michele” might be an acknowledgment of her adopted faith plus her husband's wish to compliment his closest friend—or it might be code as explicit as baby Abby's double name. If so, did Stinky wear his antlers unaware? Or with serene pride as Joseph was alleged to have done? Uh . . . it must be concluded that Stinky knew the minutes of his houri; water-brothership permitted no omission so important. If it was important, which as a physician and agnostic Jubal doubted. But to
them
it would be—

“You aren't listening.”

“Sorry. Woolgathering.”—and stop it, you nasty old man . . . reading meanings into names that mothers give their children! Next you'll be taking up numerology . . . then astrology . . . then spiritualism—until senility has progressed so far that all there is left is custodial treatment for a hulk too dim-witted to discorporate in dignity. Go to locked drawer nine in the clinic, code “Lethe”—and use two grains, although one is more than enough—

“There's no need for those clippings, because we check the news about Mike . . . and Ben has given us a water promise to let us know any private news we need at once. But, Jubal, Mike
can't
be hurt. If you would visit the Nest, as we three have, you would know this.”

“I have never been invited.”

“We didn't have invitations, either. Nobody has to have an invitation to his own home. You're making excuses, Jubal. Ben urged you to, and both Dawn and Duke sent word.”

“Mike hasn't invited me.”

“Boss, that Nest belongs to me and to you quite as much as it does to Mike. Mike is first among equals . . . as you are here. Is this Abby's home?”

“Happens,” he answered, “that title vests in her . . . with lifetime tenancy for me.” Jubal had changed his will, knowing that Mike's will made it unnecessary to provide for any water brother of Mike's. But not being sure of the ‘water' status of this nestling—save that she was usually wet—he had made redispositions in her favor and in favor of descendants of certain others. “I hadn't intended to tell you, but there is no harm in your knowing.”