Stranger in a Strange Land

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Allie, what do the Stars tell me to do? You know I don’t understand the scientific part.”

  This was hardly surprising, since the described relationship did not obtain. Madame Vesant had not had time to compute a horoscope and was improvising. She was untroubled by it; she was speaking a “higher truth,” giving good advice and helping her friends. To help two friends at once made Becky Vesey especially happy. “Dear, you do understand it, you have born talent. You are Venus, as always, and Mars is reinforced, being both your husband and that young man Smith for the duration of this crisis. Mercury is Dr. Harshaw. To offset the imbalance caused by the reinforcement of Mars, Venus must sustain Mercury until the crisis is past. But you have very little time; Venus waxes in influence until reaching meridian, only seven minutes from now—after that your influence will decline. You must act quickly.”

  “You should have warned me.”

  “My dear, I have been waiting by my phone all day, ready to act instantly. The Stars tell us the nature of each crisis; they never tell details. But there is still time. I have Dr. Harshaw on the telephone; all that is necessary is to bring them face to face—before Venus reaches meridian.”

  “Well—All right, Allie. I must dig Joseph out of some silly conference. Give me the number of the phone you have this Doctor Rackshaw on—or can you transfer the call?”

  “I can switch it here. Just get Mr. Douglas. Hurry, dear.”

  “I will.”

  When Agnes Douglas left the screen, Becky went to another phone. Her profession required ample phone service; it was her largest business expense. Humming happily she called her broker.

  XVII.

  AS BECKY left the screen Jubal leaned back. “Front,” he said.

  “Okay, Boss,” Miriam acknowledged.

  “This is for the ‘Real-Experiences’ group. Specify that the narrator must have a sexy contralto voice—”

  “Maybe I should try for it.”

  “Not that sexy. Dig out that list of null surnames we got from the Census Bureau, pick one and put an innocent, mammalian first name with it, for pen name. A girl’s name ending in ‘a’—that always suggests a ‘C’ cup.”

  “Huh! And not one of us with a name ending in ‘a.’ You louse!”

  “Flat-chested bunch, aren’t you? ‘Angela.’ Her name is ‘Angela.’ Title: ‘I Married a Martian.’ Start: All my life I had longed to become an astronaut. Paragraph. When I was just a tiny thing, with freckles on my nose and stars in my eyes, I saved box tops just like my brothers—and cried when Mummy wouldn’t let me wear my Space Cadet helmet to bed. Paragraph. In those carefree childhood days I did not dream to what strange, bittersweet fate my tomboy ambition would—”

  “Boss!”

  “Yes, Dorcas?”

  “Here come two more loads.”

  “Hold for continuation Miriam, sit at the phone.” Jubal went to the window, saw two air cars about to land. “Larry, bolt this door. Anne, your robe. Jill, stick close to Mike. Mike, do what Jill tells you to.”

  “Yes, Jubal. I will do.”

  “Jill, don’t turn him loose unless you have to. And I’d much rather he snatched guns and not men.”

  “Yes, Jubal.”

  “This indiscriminate liquidation of cops must stop.”

  “Telephone, Boss!”

  “All of you stay out of pickup. Miriam, note another title: ‘I Married a Human.’ ” Jubal slid into the seat and said, “Yes?”

  A bland face looked at him. “Doctor Harshaw?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Secretary General will speak with you.”

  “Okay.”

  The screen changed to the tousled image of His Excellency the Honorable Joseph Edgerton Douglas, Secretary General of the World Federation of Free Nations. “Dr. Harshaw? Understand you need to speak with me.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Eh?”

  “Let me rephrase it, Mr. Secretary. You need to speak with me.”

  Douglas looked surprised, then grinned. “Doctor, you have ten seconds to prove that.”

  “Very well, sir. I am attorney for the Man from Mars.”

  Douglas stopped looking tousled. “Repeat?”

  “I am attorney for Valentine Michael Smith. It may help to think of me as de-facto Ambassador from Mars . . . in the spirit of the Larkin Decision.”

  “You must be out of your mind!”

  “Nevertheless I am acting for the Man from Mars. And he is prepared to negotiate.”

  “The Man from Mars is in Ecuador.”

  “Please, Mr. Secretary, Smith—the real Valentine Michael Smith, not the one who appeared in newscasts—escaped from Bethesda Medical Center on Thursday last, in company with Nurse Gillian Boardman. He kept his freedom—and will continue to keep it. If your staff has told you anything else, then someone has been lying.”

  Douglas looked thoughtful. Someone spoke to him from off screen. At last he said, “Even if what you said were true, Doctor, you can’t speak for young Smith. He’s a ward of the State.”

  Jubal shook his head. “Impossible. The Larkin Decision.”

  “Now see here, as a lawyer, I assure you—”

  “As a lawyer myself, I must follow my own opinion—and protect my client.”

  “You are a lawyer? I thought you claimed to be attorney-in-fact, rather than counsellor.”

  “Both. I am an attorney, admitted to practice before the High Court.” Jubal heard a dull boom from below and glanced aside. Larry whispered, “The front door, I think, Boss—Shall I go look?”

  Jubal shook his head. “Mr. Secretary, time is running out. Your men—your S.S. hooligans—are breaking into my house. Will you abate this nuisance? So that we can negotiate? Or shall we fight it out in the High Court with all the stink that would ensue?”

  Again the Secretary appeared to consult off screen. “Doctor, if Special Service police are trying to arrest you, it is news to me. I—”

  “If you’ll listen, you’ll hear them tromping up my staircase, sir! Mike! Anne! Come here.” Jubal shoved his chair back to allow the angle to include them. “Mr. Secretary General—the Man from Mars!” He could not introduce Anne, but she and her white cloak of probity were in view.

  Douglas stared at Smith; Smith looked back and seemed uneasy. “Jubal—”

  “Just a moment, Mike. Well, Mr. Secretary? Your men have broken into my house—I hear them pounding on my study door.” Jubal turned his head. “Larry, open the door.” He put a hand on Mike. “Don’t get excited, lad.”

  “Yes, Jubal. That man. I have know him.”

  “And he knows you.” Over his shoulder Jubal called out, “Come in, Sergeant.”

  An S.S. sergeant stood in the doorway, mob gun at ready. He called out, “Major! Here they are!”

  Douglas said, “Let me speak to the officer commanding them, Doctor.”

  Jubal was relieved to see that the major showed up with his sidearm holstered; Mike had been trembling ever since the sergeant’s gun had come into view—Jubal lavished no love on these troopers but he did not want Smith to display his powers.

  The major glanced around. “You’re Jubal Harshaw?”

  “Yes. Come here. Your boss wants you.”

  “None of that. Come along. I’m also looking for—”

  “Come here! The Secretary General wants a word with you.”

  The S.S. major looked startled, came into the study, and in sight of the screen—looked at it, snapped to attention and saluted. Douglas nodded. “Name, rank, and duty.”

  “Sir, Major C. D. Bloch, Special Service Squadron Cheerio, Enclave Barracks.”

  “Tell me what you are doing.”

  “Sir, that’s rather complicated. I—”

  “Then unravel it. Speak up, Major.”

  “Yes, sir. I came here pursuant to orders. You see—”

  “I don’t see.”

  “Well, sir, an hour and a half ago a flying squad was sent here to make several arrests. When we co
uldn’t raise them by radio, I was sent to find them and render assistance.”

  “Whose orders?”

  “Uh, the Commandant’s, sir.”

  “And did you find them?”

  “No, sir. Not a trace.”

  Douglas looked at Harshaw. “Counsellor, did you see anything of another squad?”

  “It’s not my duty to keep track of your servants, Mr. Secretary.”

  “That is hardly an answer to my question.”

  “You are correct, sir. I am not being interrogated. Nor will I be, other than by due process. I am acting for my client; I am not nursemaid to these uniformed, uh, persons. But I suggest, from what I have seen, that they could not find a pig in a bath tub.”

  “Mmm . . . possibly. Major, round up your men and return.”

  “Yes, sir!” The major saluted.

  “Just a moment!” Harshaw interrupted. “These men broke into my house. I demand to see their warrant.”

  “Oh. Major, show him your warrant.”

  Major Bloch turned red. “Sir, the officer ahead of me had the warrants.”

  Douglas stared. “Young man . . . are you telling me that you broke into a citizen’s home without a warrant?”

  “But—Sir, you don’t understand! There are warrants. Captain Heinrich has them. Sir.”

  Douglas looked disgusted. “Get on back. Place yourself under arrest. I’ll see you later.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hold it,” Harshaw demanded. “I exercise my right to make citizen’s arrest. I shall have him placed in our local lockup. ‘Armed breaking and entering.’ ”

  Douglas blinked. “Is this necessary?”

  “I think it is. These fellows seem awfully hard to find—I don’t want this one to leave our local jurisdiction. Aside from criminal matters, I haven’t had opportunity to assess property damage.”

  “You have my assurance, sir, that you will be fully compensated.”

  “Thank you, sir. But what is to keep another uniformed joker from coming along later? He wouldn’t even need to break down the door! My castle stands violated, open to any intruder. Mr. Secretary, only the moments of delay afforded by my once-stout door kept this scoundrel from dragging me away before I could reach you . . . and you heard him say that there is another like him at large—with, so he says, warrants.”

  “Doctor, I know nothing of any such warrant.”

  “Warrants, sir. He said ‘warrants for several arrests.’ Perhaps a better term would be ‘lettres de cachet.’ ”

  “That’s a serious imputation.”

  “This is a serious matter.”

  “Doctor, I know nothing of these warrants, if they exist. But I give you my personal assurance that I will look into it at once, find out why they were issued, and act as the merits may appear. Can I say more?”

  “You can say a great deal more, sir. I can reconstruct why those warrants were issued. Someone in your service, in an excess of zeal, caused a pliant judge to issue them . . . for the purpose of seizing the persons of myself and my guests in order to question us, out of your sight. Out of anyone’s sight, sir! We will discuss issues with you . . . but we will not be questioned by such as this—” Jubal hooked a thumb at the major. “—in some windowless back room! Sir, I hope for justice at your hands . . . but if those warrants are not canceled at once, if I am not assured beyond quibble that the Man from Mars, Nurse Boardman, and myself will be undisturbed, free to come and go, then—” Jubal shrugged helplessly. “—I must seek a champion. There are persons and powers outside the administration who hold deep interest in the affairs of the Man from Mars.”

  “You threaten me.”

  “No, sir. I plead with you. We wish to negotiate. But we cannot while being hounded. I beg you, sir—call off your dogs!”

  Douglas glanced aside. “Those warrants, if any, will not be served. As soon as I can track them down they will be canceled.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Douglas looked at Major Bloch. “You insist on booking him?”

  “Him? Oh, he’s merely a fool in uniform. Let’s forget damages, too. You and I have serious matters to discuss.”

  “You may go, Major.” The S.S. officer saluted and left abruptly. Douglas continued, “Counsellor, the matters you raise cannot be settled over the telephone.”

  “I agree.”

  “You and your, uh, client will be my guests at the Palace. I’ll send my yacht. Can you be ready in an hour?”

  Harshaw shook his head. “Thank you, Mr. Secretary. We’ll sleep here . . . and when it comes time I’ll dig up a dog sled, or something. No need to send your yacht.”

  Mr. Douglas frowned. “Come, Doctor! As you pointed out, conversations will be quasi-diplomatic. In proffering protocol I have conceded this. Therefore I must be allowed to provide official hospitality.”

  “Well, sir, my client has had too much official hospitality—he had the Devil’s own time getting shut of it.”

  Douglas’s face became rigid. “Sir, are you implying—”

  “I’m not implying anything. Smith has been through a lot and is not used to high-level ceremony. He’ll sleep sounder here. And so shall I. I am an old man, sir; I prefer my own bed. I might point out that talks may break down and my client would be forced to look elsewhere—in which case we would find it embarrassing to be guests under your roof.”

  The Secretary General looked grim. “Threats again. I thought you trusted me, sir? I distinctly heard you say that you were ‘ready to negotiate.’ ”

  “I do trust you, sir.” (—as far as I could throw a fit!) “And we are ready to negotiate. But I use ‘negotiate’ in its original sense, not in this new-fangled meaning of ‘appeasement.’ However, we will be reasonable. But we can’t start talks at once; we’re shy one factor and must wait. How long, I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We expect the administration to be represented by whatever delegation you choose—and we have the same privilege.”

  “Surely. But let’s keep it small. I shall handle this myself, with an assistant or two. The Solicitor General . . . our experts in space law. To transact business requires a small group—the smaller the better.”

  “Most certainly. Our group will be small. Smith—myself—I’ll bring a Fair Witness—”

  “Oh, come now!”

  “A Witness does not hamper. We’ll have one or two others—but we lack one man. I have instructions that a fellow named Ben Caxton must be present . . . and I can’t find the beggar.”

  Jubal, having spent hours of maneuvering in order to toss in this one remark, waited. Douglas stared. “ ‘Ben Caxton?’ Surely you don’t mean that cheap winchell?”

  “The Caxton I refer to has a column with one of the syndicates.”

  “Out of the question!”

  Harshaw shook his head. “Then that’s all, Mr. Secretary. My instructions give me no leeway. I’m sorry to have wasted your time. I beg to be excused.” He reached out as if to switch off.

  “Hold it!”

  “Sir?”

  “I’m not through speaking to you!”

  “I beg the Secretary-General’s pardon. We will wait until he excuses us.”

  “Yes, yes, never mind. Doctor, do you read the tripe that comes out of this Capitol labeled news?”

  “Good Heavens, no!”

  “I wish I didn’t have to. It’s preposterous to talk about having journalists present. We’ll see them after everything is settled. But even if we were to admit them, Caxton would not be one. The man is poisonous . . . a keyhole sniffer of the worst sort.”

  “Mr. Secretary, we have no objection to publicity. In fact, we insist on it.”

  “Ridiculous!”

  “Possibly. But I serve my client as I think best. If we reach agreement affecting the Man from Mars and the planet which is his home, I want every person on this planet to know how it was done and what was agreed. Contrariwise, if we fail, people must hear how the talks br
oke down. There will be no star chamber, Mr. Secretary.”

  “Damn it, I wasn’t speaking of a star chamber and you know it! I mean quiet, orderly talks without elbows jostled!”

  “Then let the press in, sir, through cameras and microphones . . . but with elbows outside. Which reminds me—we will be interviewed, my client and I, over the networks later today—and I shall announce that we want public talks.”

  “What? You mustn’t give out interviews now—why, that’s contrary to the whole spirit of this discussion.”

  “I can’t see that it is. Are you suggesting that a citizen must have your permission to speak to the press?”

  “No, of course not, but—”

  “I’m afraid it’s too late. Arrangements have been made and the only way you could stop it would be by sending more carloads of thugs. My reason for mentioning it is that you might wish to give out a news release—in advance—telling the public that the Man from Mars has returned and is vacationing in the Poconos. So as to avoid any appearance that the government was taken by surprise. You follow me?”

  “I follow you.” The Secretary General stared at Harshaw. “Please wait.” He left the screen.

  Harshaw motioned Larry to him while his other hand covered the sound pickup. “Look, son,” he whispered, “with that transceiver out I’m bluffing on a busted flush. I don’t know whether he left to issue that release . . . or has gone to set the dogs on us again. You high-tail out, get Tom Mackenzie on another phone, tell him that if he doesn’t get the setup working, he’s going to miss the biggest story since the Fall of Troy. Then be careful coming home—there may be cops.”

  “How do I call Mackenzie?”

  “Uh—” Douglas was back on screen. “Speak to Miriam.”

  “Dr. Harshaw, I took your suggestion. A release much as you worded it . . . plus substantiating details.” Douglas smiled in his homespun persona. “I added that the administration will discuss interplanetary relations with the Man from Mars—as soon as he had rested from his trip—and would do so publicly . . . quite publicly.” His smile became chilly and he stopped looking like good old Joe Douglas.