Stranger in a Strange Land

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “If you possessed the wealth Mike had thrust on him, you would have those girls guarded night and day—still you would not rest, because you would never be sure of the guards. Look at the last hundred or so kidnappings and note how many involved a trusted employee . . . and how few victims escaped alive. Is there anything money can buy which is worth having your daughters’ necks in a noose?”

  Van Tromp looked thoughtful. “I’ll keep my mortgaged house, Jubal.”

  “Amen. I want to live my own life, sleep in my own bed—and not be bothered! Yet I thought I was going to be forced to spend my last years in an office, barricaded by buffers, working long hours as Mike’s man of business.

  “Then I had an inspiration. Douglas lives behind such barricades, has such a staff. Since we were surrendering the power to insure Mike’s freedom, why not make Douglas pay by assuming the headaches? I was not afraid that he would steal; only second-rate politicians are money hungry—and Douglas is no pipsqueak. Quit scowling, Ben, and hope that he never dumps the load on you.

  “So I dumped it on Douglas—and now I can go back to my garden. But that was simple, once I figured it out. It was the Larkin Decision that fretted me.”

  Caxton said, “I think you lost your wits on that, Jubal. That silly business of letting them give Mike sovereign ‘honors.’ You should simply have had Mike sign over all interest, if any, under that ridiculous Larkin theory.”

  “Ben m’boy,” Jubal said gently, “as a reporter you are sometimes readable.”

  “Gee, thanks! My fan.”

  “But your concepts of strategy are Neanderthal.”

  Caxton sighed. “That’s better. For a moment I thought you had gone soft.”

  “When I do, please shoot me. Captain, how many men did you leave on Mars?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “And what is their status under the Larkin Decision?”

  Van Tromp frowned. “I’m not supposed to talk.”

  “Then don’t,” Jubal advised. “We can deduce it.”

  Dr. Nelson said, “Skipper, Stinky and I are civilians again. I shall talk as I please—”

  “And I,” agreed Mahmoud.

  “—and they know what they can do with my reserve commission. What business has the government, telling us we can’t talk? Those chair-warmers didn’t go to Mars.”

  “Stow it, Sven. I intend to talk—these are our water brothers. But, Ben, I would rather not see this in print.”

  “Captain, if you’ll feel easier, I’ll join Mike and the girls.”

  “Please don’t leave. The government is in a stew about that colony. Every man signed away his Larkin rights—to the government. Mike’s presence on Mars confused things. I’m no lawyer, but I understood that, if Mike did waive his rights, that would put the administration in the driver’s seat when it came to parceling out things of value.”

  “What things of value?” demanded Caxton. “Look, Skipper, I’m not running down your achievement, but from all I’ve heard, Mars isn’t valuable real estate for human beings. Or are there assets still classified ‘drop dead before reading’?”

  Van Tromp shook his head. “No, the technical reports are all de-classified. But, Ben, the Moon was a worthless hunk of rock when we got it.”

  “Touché,” Caxton admitted. “I wish my grandpappy had bought Lunar Enterprises.” He added, “But Mars is inhabited.”

  Van Tromp looked unhappy. “Yes. But—Stinky, you tell him.”

  Mahmoud said, “Ben, there is plenty of room on Mars for human colonization and, so far as I was able to find out, the Martians would not interfere. We’re flying our flag and claiming extraterritoriality right now. But our status may be like that of one of those ant cities under glass one sees in school rooms. I don’t know where we stand.”

  Jubal nodded. “Nor I. I had no idea of the situation . . . except that the government was anxious to get those so-called rights. So I assumed that the government was equally ignorant and went ahead. ‘Audacity, always audacity.’ ”

  Jubal grinned. “When I was in high school, I won a debate by quoting an argument from the British Colonial Shipping Board. The opposition was unable to refute me—because there never was a ‘British Colonial Shipping Board.’

  “I was equally shameless this morning. The administration wanted Mike’s ‘Larkin rights’ and was scared silly that we might make a deal with somebody else. So I used their greed and worry to force that ultimate logical absurdity of their fantastic legal theory, acknowledgment in unmistakable protocol that Mike was a sovereign—and must be treated accordingly!” Jubal looked smug.

  “Thereby,” Ben said dryly, “putting yourself up the well-known creek.”

  “Ben, Ben,” Jubal said chidingly, “by their own logic they had crowned Mike. Need I point out that, despite the old saw about heads and crowns, it is safer to be publicly a king than a pretender in hiding? Mike’s position was much improved by a few bars of music and an old sheet. But it was still not an easy one. Mike was, for the nonce, the acknowledged sovereign of Mars under the legalistic malarky of the Larkin precedent . . . and empowered to hand out concessions, trading rights, enclaves, ad nauseam. He must either do these things and be subjected to pressures even worse than those attendant on great wealth—or he must abdicate and allow his Larkin rights to devolve on those men now on Mars, i.e., to Douglas.”

  Jubal looked pained. “I detested both alternatives. Gentlemen, I could not permit my client to be trapped into such a farce. The Larkin Decision itself had to be nullified with respect to Mars—without giving the High Court a chance to rule.”

  Jubal grinned. “So I lied myself blue in the face to create a theory. Sovereign honors had been rendered Mike; the world had seen it. But sovereign honors may be rendered to a sovereign’s alter ego, his ambassador. So I asserted that Mike was no cardboard king under a precedent not in point—but the ambassador of the great Martian nation!”

  Jubal shrugged. “Sheer bluff. But I was staking my bluff on my belief that others—Douglas, and Kung—would be no more certain of the facts than was I.” Jubal looked around. “I risked that bluff because you three were with us, Mike’s water brethren. If you did not challenge me, then Mike must be accepted as Martian ambassador—and the Larkin Decision was dead.”

  “I hope so,” Captain van Tromp said soberly, “but I did not take your statements as lies, Jubal.”

  “Eh? I was spinning fancy words, extemporizing.”

  “No matter. I think you told the truth.” The skipper of the Champion hesitated. “Except that I would not call Mike an ambassador—an invasion force is probably closer.”

  Caxton’s jaw dropped. Harshaw answered, “In what way, sir?”

  Van Tromp said, “I’ll amend that. I think he’s a scout, reconnoitering for his Martian masters. Don’t mistake me—I’m as fond of the boy as you are. But there’s no reason for him to be loyal to us—to Earth, I mean.” The Captain frowned. “Everybody assumes that a man found on Mars would jump at the chance to go ‘home’—but it wasn’t that way. Eh, Sven?”

  “Mike hated the idea,” agreed Nelson. “We couldn’t get close to him; he was afraid. Then the Martians told him to go with us . . . and he behaved like a soldier carrying out orders that scared him silly.”

  “Just a moment,” Caxton protested. “Captain—Mars invade us? Mars? Wouldn’t that be like us attacking Jupiter? We have two and a half times the surface gravity that Mars has; Jupiter has two and a half times ours. Analogous differences on pressure, temperature, atmosphere, and so forth. We couldn’t live on Jupiter . . . and I don’t see how Martians could stand our conditions. Isn’t that true?”

  “Close enough,” admitted van Tromp.

  “Why should we attack Jupiter? Or Mars attack us?”

  “Ben, have you seen the proposals for a beachhead on Jupiter?”

  “Nothing has gone beyond the dream stage. It isn’t practical.”

  “Space flight wasn’t practical a few years ago. Engin
eers calculate that, by using all we’ve learned from ocean exploration, plus equipping men with powered suits, it is possible to tackle Jupiter. Don’t think that Martians are less clever than we are. You should see their cities.”

  “Uh—” said Caxton. “Okay, I still don’t see why they would bother.”

  “Captain?”

  “Yes, Jubal?”

  “I see another objection. You know the classification of cultures into ‘Apollonian’ and ‘Dionysian.’ ”

  “I know in general.”

  “Well, it seems to me that even Zuni culture would be called ‘Dionysian’ on Mars. You’ve been there—but I’ve been talking with Mike. That boy was raised in an Apollonian culture—such cultures are not aggressive.”

  “Mmm . . . I wouldn’t count on it.”

  Mahmoud said suddenly, “Skipper, there’s evidence to support Jubal. You can analyse a culture from its language—and there isn’t any Martian word for ‘war.’ At least, I don’t think there is. Nor for ‘weapon’ . . . nor ‘fighting.’ If a word isn’t in a language, then its culture never has the referent.”

  “Oh, twaddle, Stinky! Animals fight—ants conduct wars. Do they have words for it?”

  “They would have,” Mahmoud insisted, “in any verbalizing race. A verbalizing race has words for every concept and creates new ones or new definitions whenever a new concept evolves. A nervous system able to verbalize cannot avoid verbalizing. If the Martians know what ‘war’ is, they have a word for it.”

  “There’s a way to settle it,” Jubal suggested. “Call in Mike.”

  “Just a moment,” van Tromp objected. “I learned years ago never to argue with a specialist. But I also learned that history is a long list of specialists who were dead wrong—sorry, Stinky.”

  “You’re right, Captain—only I’m not wrong this time.”

  “All Mike can settle is whether he knows a certain word . . . which might be like asking a two-year-old to define ‘calculus.’ Let’s stick to facts. Sven? About Agnew?”

  Nelson answered, “It’s up to you, Captain.”

  “Well . . . this is among water brothers, Gentlemen. Lieutenant Agnew was our junior medical officer. Brilliant, Sven tells me. But he couldn’t stand Martians. I had given orders against going armed once it appeared that Martians were peaceful.

  “Agnew disobeyed me—at least we were never able to find his side arm and the men who saw him alive say that he was wearing it. But all my log shows is: ‘Missing and presumed dead.’

  “Two crewmen saw Agnew go into a passage between two large rocks. Then they saw a Martian enter the same way—whereupon they hurried, as Dr. Agnew’s peculiarity was well known.

  “Both heard a shot. One says that he reached this opening in time to glimpse Agnew past the Martian. And then he didn’t see Agnew. The second man says that when he got there the Martian was just exiting, sailed on past and went his way. With the Martian out of the way they could see the space between the rocks . . . and it was a dead end, empty.

  “That’s all, gentlemen. Agnew might have jumped that rock wall, under Mars’ low gravity and the impetus of fear—but I could not and I tried—and to mention that these crewmen were wearing breathing gear—have to, on Mars—and hypoxia makes a man’s senses unreliable. I don’t know that the first crewman was drunk through oxygen shortage; I mention it because it is easier to believe than what he reported—which is that Agnew vanished in the blink of an eye. I suggested that he had suffered hypoxia and ordered him to check his breather gear.

  “I thought Agnew would show up and I was looking forward to chewing him out for going armed.

  “But we never found him. My misgivings about Martians date to that incident. They never again seemed to be just big, gentle, harmless, rather comical creatures, even though we never had trouble and they always gave us anything we wanted, once Stinky figured out how to ask for it. I played down the incident—can’t let men panic when you’re a hundred million miles from home. I couldn’t play down the fact that Dr. Agnew was missing; the ship’s company searched for him. But I squelched any suggestion of anything mysterious—Agnew got lost among those rocks, died when his oxygen ran out . . . was buried under sand drift. I used it to clamp down on always traveling in company, staying in radio contact, checking breather gear. I did not tell that crewman to keep his mouth shut; I simply hinted that his story was ridiculous since his mate did not confirm it. I think the official version prevailed.”

  Mahmoud said slowly, “Captain, this is the first I’ve heard that there was any mystery. And I prefer your ‘official’ version—I’m not superstitious.”

  Van Tromp nodded. “That’s what I wanted. Only Sven and myself heard that wild tale. But, just the same—” The captain suddenly looked old. “—I wake up in the night and ask myself: ‘What became of Agnew?’ ”

  Jubal listened without comment. Had Jill told Ben about Berquist and that other fellow—Johnson? Had anyone told Ben about the battle of the swimming pool? It seemed unlikely; the kids knew that the “official” version was that the first task force had never showed up, they had all heard his phone call with Douglas.

  Damn it, the only course was to keep quiet and keep on trying to impress the boy that he must not make unpleasant strangers disappear!

  Jubal was saved from further soul-searching by Anne’s arrival. “Boss, Mr. Bradley is at the door. The one who called himself ‘senior executive assistant to the Secretary General.’ ”

  “You didn’t let him in?”

  “No. We talked through the speakie. He says he has papers to deliver to you and that he will wait for an answer.”

  “Have him pass them through the flap. This is still the Martian Embassy.”

  “Just let him stand outside?”

  “Anne, I know you were gently reared—but this is a situation in which rudeness pays off. We don’t give an inch, until we get what we want.”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  The package was bulky with copies; there was only one document. Jubal called in everyone and passed them around. “I am offering one lollipop for each loophole, boobytrap, or ambiguity.”

  Presently Jubal broke the silence. “He’s an honest politician—he stays bought.”

  “Looks that way,” admitted Caxton.

  “Anybody?” No one claimed a prize; Douglas had merely implemented the agreement. “Okay,” said Jubal, “everybody witness every copy. Get your seal, Miriam. Hell, let Bradley in and have him witness, too—then give him a drink. Duke, tell the desk we’re checking out. Call Greyhound and get our go-buggy. Sven, Skipper, Stinky—we’re leaving the way Lot left Sodom . . . why don’t you come up in the country and relax? Plenty of beds, home cooking, no worries.”

  The married men asked for rain checks; Dr. Mahmoud accepted. The signing took rather long because Mike enjoyed signing his name, drawing each letter with artistic satisfaction. The remains of the picnic had been loaded by the time all copies were signed and sealed, and the hotel bill had arrived.

  Jubal glanced at the fat total, wrote on it: “Approved for payment—J. Harshaw for V. M. Smith,” and handed it to Bradley.

  “This is your boss’s worry.”

  Bradley blinked. “Sir?”

  “Oh, Mr. Douglas will doubtless turn it over to the Chief of Protocol. I’m rather green about these things.”

  Bradley accepted the bill. “Yes,” he said slowly, “LaRue will voucher it—I’ll give it to him.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bradley—for everything!”

  Part Three

  HIS ECCENTRIC EDUCATION

  XXII.

  IN ONE LIMB OF A SPIRAL GALAXY, close to a star known as “Sol” to some, another star became nova. Its glory would be seen on Mars in three-replenished (729) years, or 1370 Terran years. The Old Ones noted it as useful, shortly, for instruction of the young, while never ceasing the exciting discussion of esthetic problems concerning the new epic woven around the death of the Fifth Planet.

  The departure
of the Champion they noted without comment. A watch was kept on the strange nestling sent back in it, but nothing more, since there would be waiting before it would be fruitful to grok the outcome. The humans left on Mars struggled with environment lethal to naked humans but less difficult than that in the Free State of Antarctica. One discorporated through an illness sometimes called “homesickness.” The Old Ones cherished the wounded spirit and sent it where it belonged for further healing; aside from that Martians left Terrans alone.

  On Earth the exploding star was not noticed, human astronomers then being limited by speed of light. The Man from Mars was briefly in the news. The Federation Senate minority leader called for “a bold, new approach” to problems of population and malnutrition in southeast Asia, starting with increased grants-in-aid to families with more than five children. Mrs. Percy B. S. Souchek sued the Los Angeles City-County supervisors over the death of her pet poodle Piddle which had taken place during a five-day stationary inversion. Cynthia Duchess announced that she was going to have the Perfect Baby by a scientifically selected donor and an equally perfect host-mother as soon as experts completed calculating the instant for conception to insure that the wonder child would be equally a genius in music, art, and statesmanship—and that she would (with the aid of hormonal treatments) nurse her child herself. She gave an interview on the psychological benefits of natural feeding and permitted (insisted) that the press take pictures to prove that she was endowed for this.

  Supreme Bishop Digby denounced her as the Harlot of Babylon and forbade any Fosterite to accept the commission, either as donor or host-mother. Alice Douglas was quoted: “While I do not know Miss Duchess, one cannot help but admire her. Her brave example should be an inspiration to mothers everywhere.”

  Jubal Harshaw saw one of her pictures in a magazine. He posted it in the kitchen, then noted that it did not stay up long, which made him chuckle.

  He did not have many chuckles that week; the world was too much with him. The press ceased bothering Mike when the story was over—but thousands of people did not forget Mike. Douglas tried to insure Mike’s privacy; S.S. troopers patrolled Harshaw’s fence and an S.S. car circled overhead and challenged any car that tried to land. Harshaw resented needing guards.