Stranger in a Strange Land (69 page)

He was answered with a growl.

The sky held scattered clouds; at that instant the sun came out from behind one and a shaft of light hit him.

His clothes vanished. He stood before them, a golden youth, clothed only in beauty—beauty that made Jubal's heart ache, thinking that Michaelangelo in his ancient years would have climbed down from his high scaffolding to record it for generations unborn. Mike said gently, “Look at me. I am a son of man.”

The scene cut for a ten-second plug, a line of can-can dancers singing:

The tank filled with foamy suds amid girlish laughter and the scene cut back to newscast:

“God damn you!”
a half brick caught Mike in the ribs. He turned his face toward his assailant. “But you yourself are God. You can damn only yourself . . . and you can never escape yourself.”

“Blasphemer!”
A rock caught him over his left eye and blood welled forth.

Mike said calmly, “In fighting me, you fight yourself . . . for Thou art God . . . and I am God . . . and all that groks is God—there is no other.”

More rocks hit him, he began to bleed in several places. “Hear the Truth. You need not hate, you need not fight, you need not fear. I offer you the water of life—” Suddenly his hand held a tumbler of water, sparkling in sunlight. “—and you may share it whenever you so will . . . and walk in peace and love and happiness together.”

A rock caught the glass and shattered it. Another struck him in the mouth.

Through bruised and bleeding lips he smiled at them, looking straight into the camera with an expression of yearning tenderness on his face. Some trick of sunlight and stereo formed a golden halo back of his head. “Oh my brothers, I love you so! Drink deep. Share and grow closer without end. Thou art God.”

Jubal whispered it back to him. The scene made a five-second cut:
“Cahuenga Cave!
The night club with
real
Los Angeles smog, imported fresh every day. Six exotic dancers.”

“Lynch him! Give the bastard a nigger necktie!” A heavy gauge shotgun blasted at close range and Mike's right arm was struck off at the elbow and fell. It floated gently down, then came to rest on the cool grasses, its hand curved open in invitation.

“Give him the other barrel, Shortie—and aim closer!” The crowd laughed and applauded. A brick smashed Mike's nose and more rocks gave him a crown of blood.

“The Truth is simple but the Way of Man is hard. First you must learn to control your
self
. The rest follows. Blessed is he who knows himself and commands himself, for the world is his and love and happiness and peace walk with him wherever he goes.” Another shotgun blast was followed by two more shots. One short, a forty-five slug, hit Mike over the heart, shattering the sixth rib near the sternum and making a large wound; the buckshot and the other slug sheered through his left tibia five inches below the patella and left the fibula sticking out at an angle, broken and white against the yellow and red of the wound.

Mike staggered slightly and laughed, went on talking, his words clear and unhurried. “Thou art God. Know that and the Way is opened.”

“God damn it—let's
stop
this taking the Name of the Lord in vain!”—“Come on, men! Let's finish him!” The mob surged forward, led by one bold with a club; they were on him with rocks and fists, and then with feet as he went down. He went on talking while they kicked his ribs in and smashed his golden body, broke his bones and tore an ear loose. At last someone called out, “Back away so we can get the gasoline on him!”

The mob opened up a little at that warning and the camera zoomed to pick up his face and shoulders. The Man from Mars smiled at his brothers, said once more, softly and clearly, “I love you.” An incautious grasshopper came whirring to a landing on the grass a few inches from his face; Mike turned his head, looked at it as it stared back at him. “Thou art God,” he said happily and discorporated.

FLAME AND billowing smoke came up and filled the tank. “Golly!” Patty said reverently. “That's the best blow-off ever used.”

“Yes,” agreed Becky judicially, “the Professor himself never dreamed up a better one.”

Van Tromp said very quietly, apparently to himself: “In style. Smart and with style—the lad finished in style.”

Jubal looked around at his brothers. Was he the
only
one who felt anything? Jill and Dawn were seated each with an arm around the other—but they did that whenever they were together; neither seemed disturbed. Even Dorcas was dry-eyed and calm.

The inferno in the tank cut to smiling Happy Holliday who said, “And now, folks, a few moments for our friends at Elysian Fields who so graciously gave up their—” Patty cut him off.

“Anne and Duke are on their way back up,” she said. “I'll let them through the foyer and then we'll have lunch.” She started to leave.

Jubal stopped her. “Patty? Did you
know
what Mike was going to do?”

She seemed puzzled. “Huh? Why, of course not, Jubal. It was necessary to wait for fullness. None of us knew.” She turned and left.

“Jubal—” Jill was looking at him. “Jubal our beloved father . . . please stop and grok the fullness. Mike is not dead. How can he be dead when no one can be killed? Nor can he ever be away from us who have already grokked him. Thou art God.”

“ ‘Thou art God,' ” he repeated dully.

“That's better. Come sit with Dawn and me—in the middle.”

“No. No, just let me be.” He went blindly to his own room, let himself in and bolted the door after him, leaned heavily with both hands gripping the foot of the bed. My son, oh my son! Would that I had died for thee! He had had so much to live for . . . and an old fool that he respected too much had to shoot off his yap and goad him into a needless, useless martyrdom. If Mike had given them something
big
—like stereo, or bingo—but he gave them the Truth. Or a piece of the Truth. And who is interested in Truth? He laughed through his sobs.

After a while he shut them off, both heart-broken sobs and bitter laugh, and pawed through his traveling bag. He had what he wanted with him; he had kept a supply in his toilet kit ever since Joe Douglas's stroke had reminded him that all flesh is grass.

Now his own stroke had come and he couldn't take it. He prescribed three tablets to make it fast and certain, washed them down with water, and lay quickly on the bed. Shortly the pain went away.

From a great distance the voice reached him. “Jubal—”

“ 'M resting. Don't bother me.”

“Jubal!
Please
, Father!”

“Uh . . . yes, Mike? What is it?”

“Wake up! Fullness is not yet. Here, let me help you.”

Jubal sighed. “Okay, Mike.” He let himself be helped and led into the bath, let his head be held while he threw up, accepted a glass of water and rinsed out his mouth.

“Okay now?”

“Okay, son. Thanks.”

“Then I've got some things to attend to. I love you, Father. Thou art God.”

“I love you, Mike. Thou art God.” Jubal puttered around a while longer, making himself presentable, changing clothes, taking one short brandy to kill the slightly bitter taste still in his stomach, then went out to join the others.

Patty was alone in the room with the babble tank and it was switched off. She looked up. “Some lunch now, Jubal?”

“Yes, thanks.”

She came up to him. “That's good. I'm afraid most of them simply ate and scooted. But each of them left a kiss for you. And here it is, all in one package.” She managed to deliver in full all the love placed in her proxy cemented together with her own; Jubal found that it left him feeling strong, with her serene acceptance shared, no bitterness left.

“Come out into the kitchen,” she said. “Tony's gone so most of the rest are there—not that his growls ever really chased anybody out.” She stopped and tried to stare down the back of her neck. “Isn't that final scene changing a little? Sort of smoky, maybe?”

Jubal solemnly agreed that he thought it was. He couldn't see any change . . . but he was not going to argue with Patty's idiosyncrasy. She nodded. “I expected it. I can see around me all right—except myself. I still need a double mirror to see my back clearly. Mike says my Sight will include that presently. No matter.”

In the kitchen perhaps a dozen were lounging at a table and elsewhere; Duke was at the range, stirring a small sauce pan. “Hi, Boss. I ordered a twenty-place bus. That's the biggest that can land on our little landing flat . . . and we'll need one almost that big, what with the diaper set and Patty's pets. Okay?”

“Certainly. Are they all coming home?” If they ran out of bedrooms, the girls could make up doses that would do in the living room and here and there—and this crowd would probably double up anyhow. Come to think of it, he might not be allowed to sleep solo himself . . . he made up his mind not to fight it. It was friendly to have a warm body on the other side of the bed, even if your intentions weren't active. By God, he had forgotten how friendly it was! Growing closer—

“Not everybody. Tim will pilot us, then turn in the bus and go to Texas for a while. The Skipper and Beatrix and Sven we're going to drop off in New Jersey.”

Sam looked up from the table. “Ruth and I have got to get back to our kids. And Saul is coming with us.”

“Can't you stop by home for a day or two first?”

“Well, maybe. I'll talk it over with Ruth.”

“Boss,” put in Duke, “how soon can we fill the swimming pool?”

“Well, we never filled it earlier than April before—but with the new heaters I suppose we could fill it anytime.” Jubal added, “But we'll still have some nasty weather—snow still on the ground yesterday.”

“Boss, lemme clue you. This gang can walk through snow hip deep on a tall giraffe and not notice it—and will, to swim. Besides that, there are cheaper ways of keeping that water from freezing than with those big oil heaters.”

“Jubal!”

“Yes, Ruth?”

“We'll stop for a day or maybe more. The kids don't miss me—and I'm not aching to take over being motherly without Patty to discipline them anyhow. Jubal, you've never really seen me until you've seen me with my hair floating around me in the water—looking like Mrs. DoAsYouWouldBeDoneBy.”

“It's a date. Say, where is the Squarehead and the Dutchman? Beatrix has never been home—they can't be in such a hurry.”

“I'll tell 'em, Boss.”

“Patty, can your snakes stand a clean, warm basement for a while? Until we can do better? I don't mean Honey Bun, she's people. But I don't think the cobras should have the run of the house.”

“Of course, Jubal.”

“Mmm—” Jubal looked around. “Dawn, can you take short-hand?”

“She doesn't need it,” put in Anne, “any more than I do.”

“I should have known. Use a typewriter?”

“I will learn, if you wish it,” Dawn answered.

“Consider yourself hired—until there's a vacancy for a high priestess somewhere. Jill, have we forgotten anybody?”

“No, Boss. Except that all those who left feel free to camp on you anytime, too. And they will.”

“I assumed that. Nest number two, when and as needed.” He went over to the range, glanced into the pan Duke was stirring. It held a small amount of broth. “Hmm . . . Mike?”

“Yup.” Duke dipped out a little in the spoon, tasted it. “Needs a little salt.”

“Yes, Mike always did need a little seasoning.” Jubal took the spoon and tasted the broth. Duke was correct; the flavor was sweet and could have used salt. “But let's grok him as he is. Who's left to share?”

“Just you. Tony left me here with strict instructions to stir by hand, add water as needed, and wait for you. Not to let it scorch.”

“Then grab a couple of cups. We'll share it and grok together.”

“Right, Boss.” Two cups came sailing down and rested by the sauce pan. “This is a joke on Mike—he always swore that he would outlive me and serve me up for Thanksgiving. Or maybe the joke's on me—because we had a bet on it and now I can't collect.”

“You won only by default. Split it evenly.”

Duke did so. Jubal raised his cup. “Share!”

“Grow ever closer.”

Slowly they drank the broth, stretching it out, savoring it, praising and cherishing and grokking their donor. Jubal found, to his surprise, that although he was overflowing with emotion, it was a calm happiness that did not bring tears. What a quaint and gawky puppy his son had been when first he saw him . . . so eager to please, so naive in his little mistakes—and what a proud power he had become without ever losing his angelic innocence. I grok you at last, son—and would not change a line!

Patty had his lunch waiting for him; he sat down and dug in, hungry and feeling that it had been days since breakfast. Sam was saying, “I was telling Saul that I grok no need to make any change in plans. We go on as before. If you've got the right merchandise, the business grows, even though the founder has passed on.”

“I wasn't disagreeing,” Saul objected. “You and Ruth will found another temple—and we'll found others. But we'll have to take time now to accumulate capital. This isn't a street comer revival, nor yet something to set up in a vacant shop; it requires staging and equipment. That means money—not to mention such things as paying for a year or two on Mars for Stinky and Maryam . . . and that's just as essential.”