Jubal felt tempted to offer LaRue a pinch of snuff. Well, the point had not been missed by one—the Papal Nuncio kept his face straight but his eyes were twinkling.
Douglas started to speak: “Mr. Smith, we are honored and happy to have you as our guest. We hope that you will consider Earth your home quite as much as the planet of your birth, our neighbor—our good neighbor—Mars—” He went on in rounded, pleasant periods. Mike was welcomed—but whether as a sovereign, as a tourist, or as a citizen returning home, was impossible to tell.
Jubal watched Douglas, looking for some sign that would show how Douglas had taken the letter Jubal had sent to him. But Douglas never looked at him. Presently Douglas concluded, having said nothing and said it very well.
Jubal said, “Now, Mike.”
Smith addressed the Secretary General—in Martian.
He cut it off and said gravely: “Mr. Secretary General of the Federation of Free Nations of the Planet Earth—” then went on again in Martian.
Then in English: “—we thank you for our welcome here today. We bring greetings to the peoples of Earth from the Ancient Ones of Mars—” and shifted again into Martian.
Jubal felt that “Ancient Ones” was a good touch; it carried more bulge than “Old Ones” and Mike had not objected. It had been Jill’s idea to alternate a Martian version with the English one—and Jubal admitted with warm pleasure that her gimmick puffed up a formal little speech as devoid of content as a campaign promise into something as rollingly impressive as Wagnerian opera. (And as hard to figure out!)
It didn’t matter to Mike. He could insert the Martian as easily as he could memorize and recite the English. If it would please his water brothers to say these sayings, it made Mike happy.
Someone touched Jubal’s shoulder, shoved an envelope in his hand, and whispered, “From the Secretary General.” Jubal looked up, saw that it was Bradley, hurrying silently away. Jubal opened the envelope, glanced inside.
The note was one word: “Yes,” and had been signed with “J.E.D.”—in the famous green ink.
Jubal looked up, found Douglas’s eyes on him; Jubal nodded and Douglas looked away. The conference was over; all that remained was to let the world know it.
Mike concluded the sonorous nullities; Jubal heard his own words: “—growing closer, with mutual benefit to both worlds—” and “each race according to its own nature—” Douglas then thanked the Man from Mars, briefly but warmly.
Jubal stood up. “Mr. Secretary General—”
“Yes, Dr. Harshaw?”
“Mr. Smith is here in a dual role. Like some visiting prince in the history of our own great race, traveling by caravan and sail across uncharted vastnesses to a distant realm, he brings the good wishes of the Ancient Powers of Mars. But he is also a human being, a citizen of the Federation of the United States of America. As such, he has rights and properties and obligations.” Jubal shook his head. “Pesky ones. As attorney for his capacity as a citizen and a human being, I have been puzzling over his affairs and I have not even managed a complete list of what he owns—much less decide what to tell tax collectors.”
Jubal stopped to wheeze. “I’m an old man, I might not live to complete the task. You know that my client has no business experience in the human sense—Martians do these things differently. But he is a young man of great intelligence—the whole world knows that his parents were geniuses—and blood will tell. There’s no doubt that in a few years he could, if he wished, do nicely on his own without the aid of one old, broken-down lawyer. But his affairs need attention today; business won’t wait.
“But, he is more eager to learn the history and arts and ways of the people of this, his second home, than he is to bury himself in debentures and stock issues and royalties—and I think in this he is wise. Mr. Smith possesses a direct wisdom that continues to astonish me . . . and astonishes all who meet him. When I explained the trouble, he looked at me with a clear gaze and said, ‘That’s no problem, Jubal—we’ll ask Mr. Douglas.’ ” Jubal paused and said anxiously, “The rest is personal business, Mr. Secretary. Should I see you privately? And let these ladies and gentlemen go home?”
“Go ahead, Dr. Harshaw.” Douglas added, “Protocol is dispensed with. Anyone who wishes to leave please feel free to do so.”
No one left. “All right,” Jubal went on. “I can wrap it up in one sentence. Mr. Smith wants to appoint you his attorney-in-fact, with full power to handle all his business affairs.”
Douglas looked convincingly astonished. “That’s a tall order, Doctor.”
“I know it is, sir. I pointed out to him that you are the busiest man on this planet and didn’t have time for his affairs.” Jubal shook his head and smiled. “I’m afraid I didn’t impress him—seems on Mars the busier a person is the more is expected of him. Mr. Smith simply said, ‘We can ask him.’ So I’m asking you. Of course we don’t expect an answer off-hand—that’s another Martian trait; Martians are never in a hurry. Nor are they inclined to make things complicated. No bond, no auditing, none of that claptrap—a written power of attorney if you want it. But it does not matter to him; he would do it just as readily, orally and right now. That’s another Martian trait; if a Martian trusts you, he trusts you all the way. Oh, I should add: Mr. Smith is not making this request of the Secretary General; he’s asking a favor of Joseph Edgerton Douglas, you personally. If you retire from public life, it will not affect this. Your successor in office doesn’t figure in it. It’s you he trusts . . . not just whoever happens to occupy the Octagon Office in this Palace.”
Douglas nodded. “Regardless of my answer, I feel honored . . . and humble.”
“Because if you decline to serve, or can’t serve, or take on this chore and want to drop it later, or anything, Mr. Smith has his second choice—Ben Caxton, it is. Stand up, Ben; let people see you. And if both you and Caxton can’t or won’t, his next choice is—well, I guess we’ll reserve that for the moment; just let it rest that there are successive choices. Uh, let me see now—” Jubal looked fuddled. “I’m out of the habit of talking on my feet. Miriam, where is that paper we listed things on?”
Jubal accepted a sheet from her and added, “Better give me the other copies, too.” She passed over a thick stack of sheets. “This is a memo we prepared for you, sir—or for Caxton, if it turns out that way. Mmm, lemme see—oh yes, steward to pay himself what he thinks the job is worth but not less than—well, a considerable sum, nobody else’s business, really. Steward to deposit monies in a drawing account for living expenses of party of the first part—uh, oh yes, I thought maybe you would want to use the Bank of Shanghai, say, as depository, and say, Lloyd’s as your business agent—or the other way around—just to protect your name and fame. But Mr. Smith won’t hear of fixed instructions—just an unlimited assignment of power, revocable by either side. But I won’t read all this; that’s why we wrote it out.” Jubal peered vacantly around. “Uh, Miriam—trot around and give this to the Secretary General, that’s a good girl. Um, these other copies, I’ll leave them here. You may want to pass ’em out . . . or you may need them yourself. Oh, I’d better give one to Mr. Caxton—here, Ben.”
Jubal looked anxiously around. “Uh, I guess that’s all, Mr. Secretary. Did you have anything to say to us?”
“Just a moment. Mr. Smith?”
“Yes, Mr. Douglas?”
“Is this what you want? Do you want me to do what it says on this paper?”
Jubal held his breath, avoided glancing at his client. Mike had been coached to expect such a question . . . but there had been no telling what form it would take, nor any way to tell how Mike’s literal interpretations could trip them.
“Yes, Mr. Douglas.” Mike’s voice rang out in the room—and in a billion rooms around the planet.
“You want me to handle your business affairs?”
“Please, Mr. Douglas. It would be a goodness. I thank you.”
Douglas blinked. “Well, that’s clear enough. Doctor, I’
ll reserve my answer—but you shall have it promptly.”
“Thank you, sir. For myself as well as for my client.”
Douglas started to stand up. Assemblyman Kung’s voice interrupted. “One moment! How about the Larkin Decision?”
Jubal grabbed it. “Ah, yes, the Larkin Decision. I’ve heard a lot of nonsense about the Larkin Decision—mostly from irresponsible persons. Mr. Kung, what about it?”
“I’m asking you. Or your . . . client. Or the Secretary General.”
Jubal said gently, “Shall I speak, Mr. Secretary?”
“Please do.”
“Very well.” Jubal took out a handkerchief and blew his nose in a prolonged blast, a minor chord three octaves below middle C. He fixed Kung with his eye and said solemnly, “Mr. Assemblyman, I’ll address you—because I know it is unnecessary to address it to the government in the person of the Secretary. A long time ago, when I was a little boy, another boy and I formed a club. Since we had a club, we had to have rules . . . and the first rule we passed—unanimously—was that henceforth we could call our mothers ‘Crosspatch.’ Silly, of course . . . but we were very young. Mr. Kung, can you deduce the outcome?”
“I won’t guess, Dr. Harshaw.”
“I implemented our ‘Crosspatch’ decision just once. Once was enough and it saved my chum from the same mistake. All it got me was my bottom warmed with a peach switch. And that was the end of the ‘Crosspatch’ decision.”
Jubal cleared his throat. “Knowing that someone was certain to raise this non-existent issue I tried to explain the Larkin Decision to my client. He had trouble realizing that anyone could think that this legal fiction would apply to Mars. After all, Mars is inhabited, by an old and wise race—much older than yours, sir, and possibly wiser. But when he did understand it, he was amused. Just that, sir—tolerantly amused. Once—just once—I underrated my mother’s power to punish impudence. That lesson was cheap. But this planet cannot afford such a lesson on a planetary scale. Before we parcel out lands which do not belong to us, it behooves us to be very sure what peach switches are hanging in the Martian kitchen.”
Kung looked unconvinced. “Dr. Harshaw, if the Larkin Decision is no more than a small boy’s folly . . . why were sovereign honors rendered to Mr. Smith?”
Jubal shrugged. “That should be put to the government, not to me. But I can tell you how I interpreted them—as elementary politeness . . . to the Ancient Ones of Mars.”
“Please?”
“Mr. Kung, those honors were no hollow echo of the Larkin Decision. In a fashion beyond human experience, Mr. Smith is the Planet Mars!”
Kung did not blink. “Continue.”
“Or, rather, the Martian race. In Smith’s person, the Ancient Ones of Mars are visiting us. Honors to him are honors to them—and harm done to him is harm to them. This is true in a literal but utterly unhuman sense. It was prudent for us to render honors to our neighbors today—but the wisdom has nothing to do with the Larkin Decision. No responsible person has argued that the Larkin precedent applies to an inhabited planet—I venture to say that none ever will.” Jubal looked up, as if asking Heaven for help. “But, Mr. Kung, be assured that the ancient rulers of Mars notice how we treat their ambassador. Honors rendered them through him were a gracious symbol. I am certain that the government of this planet showed wisdom thereby. In time, you will learn that it was a prudent act as well.”
Kung answered blandly, “Doctor, if you are trying to frighten me, you have not succeeded.”
“I did not expect to. But, fortunately for the welfare of this planet, your opinion did not control.” Jubal turned to Douglas. “Mr. Secretary, this is the longest public appearance I have made in years . . . and I am fatigued. Could we recess? While we await your decision?”
XXI.
THE MEETING adjourned. Jubal found his intention of getting his flock quickly away balked by the American President and Senator Boone; both realized the enhanced value of being seen on intimate terms with the Man from Mars—and both were aware that the eyes of the world were on them.
Other hungry politicos were closing in.
Jubal said quickly, “Mr. President, Senator—we’re leaving at once to have lunch. Can you join us?” He reflected that two in private would be easier to handle than two dozen in public—and he had to get Mike away before anything came unstuck.
To his relief both had duties elsewhere. Jubal found himself promising not only to fetch Mike to that obscene Fosterite service but also to bring him to the White House—well, the boy could get sick, if necessary. “Please, girls!”
Mike was convoyed to the roof, Anne creating a bow wave with her height, her Valkyrie beauty, her impressive cloak. Jubal, Ben, and the officers from the Champion covered the rear. Larry and the bus were waiting; minutes later the driver left them on the roof of the New Mayflower. Newsmen caught up with them there, but the girls guarded Mike on down to a suite Duke had taken. They were enjoying it; Miriam and Dorcas displayed ferocity that reminded Jubal of a cat defending her young. A reporter that closed within three feet courted a spiked instep.
They found their corridor patrolled by S.S. troopers and an officer outside their suite.
Jubal’s back hair rose, but he realized that their presence meant that Douglas was carrying out the bargain. The letter Jubal had sent before the conference had included a plea to Douglas to use his power to protect Mike’s privacy—so that the unfortunate lad could lead a normal life.
So Jubal called out, “Jill! Keep Mike under control. It’s okay.”
“Right, Boss.”
The officer at the door saluted, Jubal glanced at him. “Well! Howdy, Major. Busted down any doors lately?”
Major Bloch turned red and did not answer. Jubal wondered if the assignment was punishment? Duke was waiting inside. Jubal said, “Sit down, gentlemen. How about it, Duke?”
Duke shrugged. “Nobody has bugged this suite since I took it. But, Boss, any dump can be bugged so you can’t find it.”
“Yes, yes—I didn’t mean that. I mean, ‘How about our supplies?’ I’m hungry, boy, and thirsty—and we’ve got three more for lunch.”
“Oh, that. The stuff was unloaded under my eyes; I put it in the pantry. You’ve got a suspicious nature, Boss.”
“You’d better acquire one if you want to live as long as I have.”
“I don’t hanker to.”
“Matter of taste. I’ve had a good time, on the whole. Get crackin’, girls. First one back with a drink for me skips her next turn at ‘Front.’ After our guests, I mean. Do sit down, gentlemen. Sven, what’s your favorite poison? Akvavit? Larry, duck out and buy a couple of bottles. And Bols gin for the Captain.”
“Hold it, Jubal,” Nelson said. “I’d rather have Scotch.”
“Me, too,” agreed van Tromp.
“Got enough to drown a horse. Dr. Mahmoud? If you prefer soft drinks, I’m sure the girls tucked some in.”
Mahmoud looked wistful. “I should not be tempted by strong drink.”
“Allow me.” Jubal looked him over. “Son, you’ve been under nervous strain. Having no meprobamate, I’m forced to substitute two ounces of ninety-proof ethanol, repeat as needed. Any particular flavor?”
Mahmoud smiled. “Thank you, Doctor—but I’ll sin my own sins. Gin, please, with water on the side. Or vodka. Or whatever is available.”
“Or medicinal alcohol,” Nelson added. “Don’t let him kid you, Jubal. Stinky drinks anything—and regrets it.”
“I do regret it,” Mahmoud said earnestly. “It is sinful.”
“Don’t needle him, Sven,” Jubal said brusquely. “If Stinky gets more mileage out of his sins by regretting, that’s his business. To each his own. How about victuals, Stinky? Anne stuffed a ham into one of those hampers—and there may be other unclean items. Shall I check?”
Mahmoud shook his head. “I’m not a traditionalist, Jubal. That legislation was given long ago, for the needs of the time. The times are different now.”
Jubal suddenly looked sad. “Yes. But for the better? Never mind, this too shall pass. Eat what you will, my brother—God forgives necessity.”
“Thank you. But I often do not eat in the middle of the day.”
“Better eat or ethanol will do more than relax you. Besides, these kids who work for me may sometimes misspell words . . . but they are all superb cooks.”
Miriam was entering with a tray of drinks, orders filled while Jubal ranted. “Boss,” she broke in, “will you put that in writing?”
“What?” He whirled around. “Snooping! Stay after school and write one thousand times: ‘I will not flap my ears at private conversations.’ ”
“Yes, Boss. This is for you, Captain . . . and you, Dr. Nelson . . . and yours, Dr. Mahmoud. Water on the side, you said?”
“Yes, Miriam. Thank you.”
“Usual Harshaw service—sloppy but fast. Here’s yours, Boss.”
“You put water in it!”
“Anne’s orders. You’re too tired to have it on the rocks.”
Jubal looked long-suffering. “See what I put up with, gentlemen? We should never have put shoes on ’em. Miriam, make that ‘one thousand times’ in Sanskrit.”
“Yes, Boss.” She patted him on the head. “Go ahead and have your tizzy, dear; you’ve earned it. We’re proud of you.”
“Back to the kitchen, woman. Has everybody got a drink? Where’s Ben?”
“They have by now. Ben is phoning in his column, his drink is at his elbow.”
“Very well. You may back out quietly—and send Mike in. Gentlemen! Me ke aloha pau ole!” He drank, they joined him.
“Mike’s helping. I think he’s going to be a butler when he grows up.”
“I thought you had left. Send him in anyhow; Dr. Nelson wants to examine him.”
“No hurry,” put in the ship’s surgeon. “Jubal, this is excellent Scotch—but what was the toast?”
“Sorry. Polynesian. ‘May our friendship be everlasting.’ Call it a footnote to the water ceremony. By the way, gentlemen, Larry and Duke are water brothers to Mike, too, but don’t let it fret you. They can’t cook . . . but they’re the sort to have at your back in a dark alley.”
Stranger in a Strange Land Page 25
