Stranger in a Strange Land

by Robert A. Heinlein

  Smith: I do not know. I was sent by the Old Ones. (Long untranscribable speech, sounds like a bullfrog fighting a cat.)

  Secretary General: Damn it, they should have taught him more English by now. See here, son, you don’t have to worry. Just let me have your thumb print at the bottom of this page. Let me have your right hand. No, don’t twist around that way. Hold still! I’m not going to hurt you . . . Doctor! Doctor Nelson!

  Second Doctor: Yes, sir?

  Secretary General: Get Doctor Nelson?

  Second Doctor: Doctor Nelson? But he left, sir. He said you took him off the case.

  Secretary General: Nelson said that? Damn him! Well, do something. Give him artificial respiration. Give him a shot. Don’t just stand there—can’t you see the man is dying?

  Second Doctor: I don’t believe there is anything to be done, sir. Just let him alone until he comes out of it. That’s what Doctor Nelson always did.

  Secretary General: Blast Doctor Nelson!

  The Secretary General’s voice did not appear again, nor that of Doctor Nelson. Jill could guess, from gossip she had picked up, that Smith had gone into one of his cataleptiform withdrawals. There were two more entries. One read: No need to whisper. He can’t hear you. The other read: Take that tray away. We’ll feed him when he comes out of it.

  Jill was rereading it when Ben reappeared. He had more onionskin sheets but he did not offer them; instead he said, “Hungry?”

  “Starved.”

  “Let’s go shoot a cow.”

  He said nothing while they went to the roof and took a taxi, still kept quiet during a flight to Alexandria platform, where they switched cabs. Ben picked one with a Baltimore number. Once in the air he set it for Hagerstown, Maryland, then relaxed. “Now we can talk.”

  “Ben, why the mystery?”

  “Sorry, pretty foots. I don’t know that my apartment is bugged—but if I can do it to them, they can do it to me. Likewise, while it isn’t likely that a cab signaled from my flat would have an ear in it, still it might have; the Special Service squads are thorough. But this cab—” He patted its cushions. “They can’t gimmick thousands of cabs. One picked at random should be safe.”

  Jill shivered. “Ben, you don’t think they would . . .” She let it trail off.

  “Don’t I, now! You saw my column. I filed that copy nine hours ago. You think the administration will let me kick it in the stomach without kicking back?”

  “But you have always opposed this administration.”

  “That’s okay. This is different; I have accused them of holding a political prisoner. Jill, a government is a living organism. Like every living thing its prime characteristic is the instinct to survive. You hit it, it fights back. This time I’ve really hit it.” He added, “But I shouldn’t have involved you.”

  “I’m not afraid. Not since I turned that gadget back to you.”

  “You’re associated with me. If things get rough, that could be enough.”

  Jill shut up. The notion that she, who had never experienced worse than a spanking as a child and an occasional harsh word as an adult, could be in danger was hard to believe. As a nurse, she had seen the consequences of ruthlessness—but it could not happen to her.

  Their cab was circling for a landing before she broke the moody silence. “Ben? Suppose this patient dies. What happens?”

  “Huh?” He frowned. “That’s a good question. If there are no other questions, the class is dismissed.”

  “Don’t be funny.”

  “Hmm . . . Jill, I’ve been awake nights trying to answer that. Here are the best answers I have: If Smith dies, his claim to Mars vanishes. Probably the group the Champion left on Mars starts a new claim—and almost certainly the administration worked out a deal before they left Earth. The Champion is a Federation ship but it is possible that such a deal leaves all strings in the hands of Secretary General Douglas. That could keep him in power a long time. On the other hand, it might mean nothing at all.”

  “Huh? Why?”

  “The Larkin Decision might not apply. Luna was uninhabited, but Mars is—by Martians. At the moment, Martians are a legal zero. But the High Court might take a look at the political situation and decide that human occupancy meant nothing on a planet inhabited by non-humans. Then rights on Mars would have to be secured from the Martians.”

  “But, Ben, that would be the case anyhow. This notion of a single man owning a planet . . . it’s fantastic!”

  “Don’t use that word to a lawyer; straining at gnats and swallowing camels is a required course in law schools. Besides, there is precedent. In the fifteenth century the Pope deeded the western hemisphere to Spain and Portugal and nobody cared that the real estate was occupied by Indians with their own laws, customs, and property rights. His grant was effective, too. Look at a map and notice where Spanish is spoken and where Portuguese is spoken.”

  “Yes, but—Ben, this isn’t the fifteenth century.”

  “It is to a lawyer. Jill, if the High Court rules that the Larkin Decision applies, Smith is in a position to grant concessions which may be worth millions, more likely billions. If he assigns his claim to the administration, then Secretary Douglas controls the plums.”

  “Ben, why should anybody want that much power?”

  “Why does a moth fly toward light? But Smith’s financial holdings are almost as important as his position as nominal king-emperor of Mars. The High Court could knock out his squatter’s rights but I doubt if anything could shake his ownership of the Lyle Drive and a chunk of Lunar Enterprises. What happens if he dies? A thousand alleged cousins would pop up, of course, but the Science Foundation has fought off such money-hungry vermin for years. It seems possible that, if Smith dies without a will, his fortune reverts to the state.”

  “Do you mean the Federation or the United States?”

  “Another question to which I have no answer. His parents come from two countries of the Federation and he was born outside them all . . . and it will make a crucial difference to some people who votes that stock and licenses those patents. It won’t be Smith; he won’t know a stock proxy from a traffic ticket. It is likely to be whoever can grab him and hang on. I doubt if Lloyd’s would insure his life; he strikes me as a poor risk.”

  “The poor baby! The poor, poor infant!”

  VI.

  THE RESTAURANT in Hagerstown had “atmosphere”—tables scattered over a lawn leading down to a lake and more tables in the boughs of three enormous trees. Jill wanted to eat in a tree, but Ben bribed the maitre d’hôtel to set up a table near the water, then ordered a stereo tank placed by it.

  Jill was miffed. “Ben, why pay these prices if we can’t eat in the trees and have to endure that horrible jitterbox?”

  “Patience, little one. Tables in trees have microphones; they have to have them for service. This table is not gimmicked—I hope—as I saw the waiter take it from a stack. As for the tank, not only is it un-American to eat without stereo but the racket will interfere with a directional mike—if Mr. Douglas’s investigators are taking an interest.”

  “Do you really think they’re shadowing us, Ben?” Jill shivered. “I’m not cut out for a life of crime.”

  “Pish and likewise tush! When I was on the General Synthetics scandals I never slept twice in one place and ate nothing but packaged food. You get to like it—stimulates the metabolism.”

  “My metabolism doesn’t need it. All I require is one elderly, wealthy patient.”

  “Not going to marry me, Jill?”

  “After my future husband kicks off, yes. Or maybe I’ll be so rich I can keep you as a pet.”

  “How about starting tonight?”

  “After he kicks off.”

  During the dinner the musical show which had been banging their eardrums stopped. An announcer’s head filled the tank; he smiled and said, “NWNW, New World Networks and its sponsor, Wise Girl Malthusian Lozenges, is honored to surrender time for a history-making broadcast by the Federati
on Government. Remember, friends, every wise girl uses Wise Girls. Easy to carry, pleasant to take, guaranteed no-fail, and approved for sale without prescription under Public Law 1312. Why take a chance on old-fashioned, unesthetic, harmful, unsure methods? Why risk losing his love and respect?” The lovely, lupine announcer glanced aside and hurried the commercial: “I give you the Wise Girl, who in turn brings you the Secretary General!”

  The 3-D picture cut to a young woman, so sensuous, so mammalian, so seductive, as to make any male unsatisfied with local talent. She stretched and wiggled and said in a bedroom voice, “I always use Wise Girl.”

  The picture dissolved and an orchestra played Hail to Sovereign Peace. Ben said, “Do you use Wise Girl?”

  “None o’ your business!” Jill looked ruffled and added, “It’s a quack nostrum. Anyhow, what makes you think I need it?”

  Caxton did not answer; the tank had filled with the fatherly features of Secretary General Douglas. “Friends,” he began, “fellow citizens of the Federation, I have tonight a unique honor and privilege. Since the triumphant return of our trailblazing Champion—” He continued to congratulate the citizens of Earth on their successful contact with another planet, another race. He managed to imply that the exploit was the personal accomplishment of every citizen, that any one of them could have led the expedition had he not been busy with serious work—and that he, Secretary Douglas, had been their humble instrument to work their will. The notions were never stated baldly, the assumption being that the common man was the equal of anyone and better than most—and that good old Joe Douglas embodied the common man. Even his mussed cravat and cowlicked hair had a “just folks” quality.

  Ben Caxton wondered who had written it. Jim Sanforth, probably—Jim had the slickest touch of any of Douglas’s staff in selecting loaded adjectives to tickle and soothe; he had written commercials before he went into politics and had no compunctions. Yes, that bit about “the hand that rocks the cradle” was Jim’s work—Jim was the type who would entice a young girl with candy.

  “Turn it off!” Jill demanded.

  “Quiet pretty foots. I must hear this.”

  “. . . and so, friends, I have the honor to bring you our fellow citizen Valentine Michael Smith, the Man from Mars! Mike, we know you are tired and have not been well—but will you say a few words to your friends?”

  The stereo scene cut to a semi-close of a man in a wheel chair. Hovering over him was Douglas and on the other side was a nurse, stiff, starched, and photogenic.

  Jill gasped. Ben whispered, “Keep quiet!”

  The smooth babyface of the man in the chair broke into a shy smile; he looked at the camera and said, “Hello, folks. Excuse me for sitting down. I’m still weak.” He seemed to speak with difficulty and once the nurse took his pulse.

  In answer to questions from Douglas he paid compliments to Captain van Tromp and his crew, thanked everyone for his rescue, and said that everyone on Mars was terribly excited over contact with Earth and that he hoped to help in welding friendly relations between the two planets. The nurse interrupted but Douglas said gently, “Mike, do you feel strong enough for one more question?”

  “Sure, Mr. Douglas—if I can answer it.”

  “Mike? What do you think of the girls here on Earth?”

  “Gee!”

  The babyface looked awestruck and ecstatic and turned pink. The scene cut to head and shoulders of the Secretary General. “Mike asked me to tell you,” he went on in fatherly tones, “that he will be back to see you as soon as he can. He has to build up his muscles, you know. Possibly next week, if the doctors say he is strong enough.” The scene shifted to Wise Girl lozenges and a playlet made clear that a girl who did not use them was not only out of her mind but a syntho in the hay; men would cross the street to avoid her. Ben switched channels, then turned to Jill and said moodily, “Well, I can tear up tomorrow’s column. Douglas has him under his thumb.”

  “Ben!”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s not the Man from Mars!”

  “What? Baby, are you sure?”

  “Oh, it looked like him. But it was not the patient I saw in that guarded room.”

  Ben pointed out that dozens of persons had seen Smith—guards, internes, male nurses, the captain and crew of the Champion, probably others. Quite a few of them must have seen this newscast—the administration would have to assume that some of them would spot a substitution. It did not make sense—too great a risk.

  Jill simply stuck out her lower lip and insisted that the person on stereo was not the patient she had met. Finally she said angrily, “Have it your own way! Men!”

  “Now, Jill . . .”

  “Please take me home.”

  Ben went for a cab. He did not order one from the restaurant but selected one from the landing flat of a hotel across the way. Jill remained chilly on the flight back. Ben got out the transcripts and reread them. He thought a while, and said, “Jill?”

  “Yes, Mr. Caxton?”

  “I’ll ‘mister’ you! Look, Jill, I apologize. I was wrong.”

  “And what leads you to this conclusion?”

  He slapped the papers against his palm. “This. Smith could not have shown this behavior yesterday and then given that interview tonight. He would have flipped his contols . . . gone into one of those trance things.”

  “I am gratified that you have finally seen the obvious.”

  “Jill, will you kindly kick me, then let up? Do you know what this means?”

  “It means they used an actor to fake it. I told you an hour ago.”

  “Sure. An actor and a good one, carefully typed and coached. But it implies more than that. As I see it, there are two possibilities. The first is that Smith is dead and—”

  “Dead!” Jill was suddenly back in that curious water-drinking ceremony and felt the strange, warm, unworldly flavor of Smith’s personality, felt it with unbearable sorrow.

  “Maybe. In which case this ringer will stay ‘alive’ as long as they need him. Then the ringer will ‘die’ and they will ship him out of town, with a hypnotic injunction so strong he would choke up with asthma if he tried to spill it—or maybe even a lobotomy. But if Smith is dead, we can forget it; we’ll never prove the truth. So let’s assume he’s alive.”

  “Oh, I hope so!”

  “What is Hecuba to you, or you to Hecuba?” Caxton misquoted. “If he is alive, it could be that there is nothing sinister about it. After all, public figures do use doubles. Perhaps in two or three weeks our friend Smith will be in shape to stand the strain of public appearance, then they will trot him out. But I doubt it like hell!”

  “Why?”

  “Use your head. Douglas has already failed one attempt to squeeze out of Smith what he wants. But Douglas can’t afford to fail. So I think he will bury Smith deeper than ever . . . and we will never see the true Man from Mars.”

  “Kill him?” Jill said slowly.

  “Why be rough? Lock him in a private nursing home and never let him learn anything.”

  “Oh, dear! Ben, what are we going to do?”

  Caxton scowled. “They own the bat and ball and are making the rules. But I am going to walk in with a Fair Witness and a tough lawyer and demand to see Smith. Maybe I can drag it into the open.”

  “I’ll be right behind you!”

  “Like mischief you will. As you pointed out, it would ruin you professionally.”

  “But you need me to identify him.”

  “Face to face, I can tell a man who was raised by non-humans from an actor pretending to be such. But if anything goes wrong, you are my ace in the hole—a person who knows that they are pulling hanky-panky and has access to the inside of Bethesda Center. Honey, if you don’t hear from me, you are on your own.”

  “Ben, they wouldn’t hurt you?”

  “I’m fighting out of my weight, youngster.”

  “Ben, I don’t like this. Look, if you get in to see him, what are you going to do?”

/>   “I’ll ask him if he wants to leave the hospital. If he says yes, I’m going to invite him to come with me. In the presence of a Fair Witness they won’t dare stop him.”

  “Uh . . . then what? He does need medical attention, Ben; he’s not able to take care of himself.”

  Caxton scowled again. “I’ve been thinking of that. I can’t nurse him. We could put him in my flat—”

  “—and I could nurse him. We’ll do it, Ben!”

  “Slow down. Douglas would pull some rabbit out of his hat and Smith would go back to pokey. And so would both of us, maybe.” He wrinkled his brow. “I know one man who might get away with it.”

  “Who?”

  “Ever heard of Jubal Harshaw?”

  “Huh? Who hasn’t?”

  “That’s one of his advantages; everybody knows who he is. It makes him hard to shove around. Being both a doctor of medicine and a lawyer he is three times as hard to shove. But most important, he is so rugged and individualist that he would fight the whole Federation with just a pocket knife if it suited him—and that makes him eight times as hard. I got acquainted with him during the disaffection trials; he is a friend I can count on. If I can get Smith out of Bethesda, I’ll take him to Harshaw’s place in the Poconos—and then just let those jerks try to grab him! Between my column and Harshaw’s love for a fight we’ll give ’em a bad time.”

  VII.

  DESPITE A late evening Jill relieved as floor nurse ten minutes early. She intended to obey Ben’s order to stay out of his attempt to see that Man from Mars but she planned to be close by. Ben might need reinforcements.

  There were no guards in the corridor. Trays, medications, and two patients for surgery kept her busy for two hours; she had only time to check the door to suite K-12. It was locked, as was the door to the sitting room. She considered sneaking in through the sitting room, now that the guards were gone, but had to postpone it; she was busy. Nevertheless she kept close check on everyone who came onto her floor.

  Ben did not show up and discreet questions asked of her assistant on the switchboard assured her that neither Ben nor anyone had gone into suite K-12 while Jill was elsewhere. It puzzled her; Ben had not set a time but he had intended to storm the citadel early in the day.