Stranger in a Strange Land (68 page)

“And I thought so, Jubal, at first. I led them to think so.

“But, Jubal, I had missed a key point:

“Humans are not Martians.

“I made this mistake again and again—corrected myself . . . and still made it. What works for Martians does not necessarily work for humans. Oh, the conceptual logic which can be stated only in Martian
does
work for both races. The logic is invariant . . . but the data are different. So the results are different.

“I couldn't see why, when people were hungry, some of them didn't volunteer to be butchered so that the rest could eat . . . on Mars this is obvious—and an honor. I couldn't understand why babies were so prized. On Mars our two little girls in there would be dumped outdoors, to live or die—and nine out of ten nymphs die their first season. My logic was right but I misread the data: here babies do not compete but adults do; on Mars adults never compete, they've been weeded out as babies. But one way or another, competing and weeding takes place . . . or a race goes downhill.

“But whether or not I was wrong in trying to take the competition out at both ends, I have lately begun to grok that the human race won't let me, no matter what.”

Duke stuck his head into the room. “Mike? Have you been watching outside? There is a crowd gathering around the hotel.”

“I know,” agreed Mike. “Tell the others that waiting has not filled.” He went on to Jubal, “ ‘Thou art God.' It's not a message of cheer and hope, Jubal. It's a defiance—and an unafraid unabashed assumption of personal responsibility.” He looked sad. “But I rarely put it over. A very few, just these few here with us, our brothers, understood me and accepted the bitter along with the sweet, stood up and drank it—grokked it. The others, hundreds and thousands of others, either insisted on treating it as a prize without a contest—a ‘conversion'—or ignored it. No matter what I said they insisted on thinking of God as something outside themselves. Something that yearns to take every indolent moron to His breast and comfort him. The notion that the effort has to be
their own
. . . and that the trouble they are in is all their own doing . . . is one that they can't or won't entertain.”

The Man from Mars shook his head. “My failures so greatly out-number my successes that I wonder if full grokking will show that I am on the wrong track—that
this race must
be split up, hating each other, fighting, constantly unhappy and at war even with their own individual selves . . . simply to have that weeding out that every race must have. Tell me, Father? You must tell me.”

“Mike, what in hell led you to believe that I was infallible?”

“Perhaps you are not. But every time I have needed to know something, you have always been able to tell me—and fullness always showed that you spoke rightly.”

“Damn it, I refuse this apotheosis! But I do see one thing, son. You have always urged everyone else never to hurry—‘waiting will fill,' you say.”

“That is right.”

“Now you are violating your own rule. You have waited only a little—a very short time by Martian standards—and you want to throw in the towel. You've proved that your system works for a small group—and I'm glad to confirm it; I've never seen such happy, healthy, cheerful people. That ought to be enough for the short time you've put in. Come back when you have a thousand times this number, all working and happy and unjealous, and we'll talk it over again. Fair enough?”

“You speak rightly, Father.”

“I ain't through. You've been fretting that since you failed to hook ninety-nine out of a hundred, the race couldn't get along without its present evils, had to have them for weeding out. But damn it, lad, you've been
doing
the weeding—or rather, the failures have been doing it by not listening to you. Had you planned to eliminate money and property?”

“Oh, no! Inside the Nest we don't need it, but—”

“Nor does any healthy family. But outside you need it in dealing with other people. Sam tells me that our brothers, instead of getting unworldly, are slicker with money than ever. Right?”

“Oh, yes. Money making is a simple trick once you grok.”

“You've just added a new beatitude: ‘Blessed is the rich in spirit, for he shall make dough.' How do our people stack up in other fields? Better or worse than average?”

“Oh, better, of course. You see, Jubal, it's
not
a faith; the discipline is simply a method of efficient functioning in anything.”

“You've answered yourself, son. If all you say is true—and I'm not judging; I'm asking, you're answering—then competition, far from being eliminated, is rougher than ever. If one tenth of one percent of the population is capable of getting the news, then all you have to do is
show
them—and in a matter of some generations the stupid ones will die out and those with your discipline will inherit the Earth. Whenever that is—in a thousand years or ten thousand—will be soon enough to worry about some new hurdle to make them jump higher. But don't get faint-hearted because only a handful have turned into angels overnight. I never expected
any
to manage it. I thought you were making a damn fool of yourself by pretending to be a preacher.”

Mike sighed and smiled. “I was beginning to be afraid I was—worrying that I had let my brothers down.”

“I still wish you had called it ‘Cosmic Halitosis' or some such. But the name doesn't matter. If you've got the truth you can demonstrate it. Talking doesn't prove it.
Show
people.”

Mike did not answer. His eyelids drooped, he held perfectly still, his face was without expression. Jubal stirred restlessly, afraid that he had said too much, crowded the lad into a need to withdraw.

Then Mike's eyes opened, he grinned merrily. “You've got me all squared away, Father. I'm ready to show them now—I grok the fullness.” the Man from Mars stood up. “Waiting is ended.”

JUBAL and the Man from Mars strolled into the room with the big stereo tank. The entire Nest was gathered, watching it. It showed a dense and turbulent crowd, somewhat restrained by policemen. Mike glanced at it and looked serenely happy. “They come. Now is the fullness.” The sense of ecstatic expectancy Jubal had felt growing ever since his arrival swelled greatly, but no one moved.

“It's a might big tip, sweetheart,” Jill agreed.

“And ready to turn,” added Patty.

“I'd better dress for it,” Mike commented. “Have I got any clothes around this dump? Patty?”

“Right away, Michael.”

Jubal said, “Son, that mob looks ugly to me. Are you sure this is time to tackle them?”

“Oh, sure,” said Mike. “They've come to see me . . . so now I go down to meet them.” He paused while some clothing got out of the way of his face; he was being dressed at break-neck speed with the unnecessary help of several women—each garment seemed to know where to go and how to drape itself. “This job has obligations as well as privileges—the star has to show up for the show . . . grok me? The marks expect it.”

Duke said, “Mike knows what he's doing, Boss.”

“Well . . . I don't trust mobs.”

“That crowd is mostly curiosity seekers, they always are. Oh, there are some Fosterites and some others with grudges—but Mike can handle any crowd. You'll see. Right, Mike?”

“Keerect, Cannibal. Pull in a tip, then give 'em a show. Where's my hat? Can't walk in the noonday sun without a hat.” An expensive Panama with a sporty colored bank glided out and settled itself on his head; he cocked it jauntily. “There! Do I look all right?” He was dressed in his usual outer-services mufti, a smartly tailored, sharply creased, white business suit, shoes to match, snowy shirt, and luxurious dazzling scarf.

Ben said, “All you lack is a brief case.”

“You grok I need one? Patty, do we have one?”

Jill stepped up to him. “Ben was kidding, dear. You look just perfect.” She straightened his tie and kissed him—and Jubal felt kissed. “Go talk to them.”

“Yup. Time to turn the tip. Anne? Duke?”

“Ready, Mike.” Anne was wearing her Fair Witness cloak, wrapping her in dignity; Duke was just the opposite, being sloppily dressed, with a lighted cigarette dangling from his face, an old hat on the back of his head with a card marked “PRESS” stuck in its band, and himself hung about with cameras and kit.

They headed for the door to the foyer common to the four penthouse suites. Only Jubal followed; all the others, thirty and more, stayed around the stereo tank. Mike paused at the door. There was a hall table there, with a pitcher of water and glasses, a dish of fruit and a fruit knife. “Better not come any farther,” he advised Jubal, “or Patty would have to escort you back through her pets.”

Mike poured himself a glass of water, drank part of it. “Preaching is thirsty work.” He handed the glass to Anne, then took the fruit knife and sliced off a chunk of apple.

It seemed to Jubal that Mike sliced off one of his fingers . . . but his attention was distracted as Duke passed the glass to him. Mike's hand was not bleeding and Jubal had grown somewhat accustomed to legerdemain. He accepted the glass and took a sip, finding that his own throat was very dry.

Mike gripped his arm and smiled. “Quit fretting. This will take only a few minutes. See you later, Father.” They went out through the guardian cobras and the door closed. Jubal went back to the room where the others were, still carrying the glass. Someone took it from him; he did not notice, as he was watching images in the big tank.

The mob seemed denser, surging about and held back by police armed only with night sticks. There were a few shouts but mostly just the unlocalized muttering of the crowd.

Someone said, “Where are they now, Patty?”

“They've dropped down the tube. Michael is a little ahead, Duke stopped to catch Anne. They're entering the lobby. Michael has been spotted, pictures are being taken.”

The scene in the tank resolved into enormous head and shoulders of a brightly cheerful newscaster: “This is NWNW New World Networks' mobile newshound on the spot while it's hot—your newscaster, happy Holliday. We have just learned that the fake messiah, sometimes known as the Man from Mars, has crawled out of his hide-out in a hotel room here in beautiful St. Petersburg the City that Has Everything to Make You Sing. Apparently Smith is about to surrender to the authorities. He crashed out of jail yesterday, using high explosives smuggled in to him by his fanatic followers. But the tight cordon placed around this city seems to have been too much for him. We don't know yet—I repeat, we don't know yet—so stay with the chap who covers the map—and now a word from your local sponsor who has given you this keyhole peep at the latest leap—”

“Thank you, Happy Holiday and all you good people watching via NWNW! What Price Paradise? Amazingly Low! Come out and see for yourself at Elysian Fields, just opened as home-sites for a restricted clientele. Land reclaimed from the warm waters of the glorious Gulf and every lot guaranteed at least eighteen inches above mean high water and only a small down payment on a Happy—oh, oh, later, friends—phone Gulf nine-two eight two eight!”

“And thank
you
, Jick Morris and the developers of Elysian Fields! I think we've got something, folks! Yes, sir, I think we do—”

(“They're coming out the front entrance,” Patty said quietly. “The crowd hasn't spotted Michael yet.”)

“Maybe not yet . . . but soon. You are now looking at the main entrance of the magnificent Sans Souci Hotel, Gem of the Gulf, whose management is in no way responsible for this hunted fugitive and who have cooperated with the authorities throughout according to a statement just issued by Police Chief Davis. And while we're waiting to see what will happen, a few high lights in the strange career of this half-human monster raised on Mars—”

The live scene was replaced by quick cuts of stock shots: The
Envoy
blasting off years earlier, the
Champion
floating upwards silently and effortlessly under Lyle Drive, Martians on Mars, the triumphant return of the
Champion
, a quick of the first faked interview with the “Man from Mars”—“What do you think of the girls here on Earth?” . . .
Gee!“
—a quicker shot of the conference in the Executive Palace and the much-publicized awarding of a doctorate in philosophy, all with rapid-fire commentary.

“See anything, Patty?”

“Michael is at the top of the steps, the crowd is at least a hundred yards away, being kept off the hotel grounds. Duke has grabbed some pix and Mike is waiting to let him change lenses. No hurry.”

Happy Holliday went on, as the tank shifted to the crowd, semi-close and panning: “You understand, friends, that this wonderful community is in a unique condition today. Something strange has been going on and these people are in no mood to trifle. Their laws have been flouted, their security forces treated with comtempt, they are angry, righteously so. The fanatic followers of this alleged antichrist have stopped at nothing to create turmoil in a futile effort to let their leader escape the closing net of justice. Anything can happen—anything!”

The announcer's voice climbed: “Yes, he's coming out now—he's walking toward the people!” The scene cut to reverse; Mike was walking directly toward camera. Anne and Duke were behind and dropping farther behind. “This is it! This is it! This is the blow-off!”

Mike continued to walk unhurriedly toward the crowd until he loomed up in the stereo tank in life size, as if he were in the room with his water brothers. He stopped on the grass verge in front of the hotel, a few feet from the crowd. “You called me?”