“—there still remains,” Jubal pointed out, “one requisite attribute of houris.”
“Mmmm—” said Mahmoud, “we need not go into that. In Paradise, rather than a temporary physical condition, it would be a permanent spiritual attribute. Yes?”
“In that case,” Jubal said emphatically, “I am certain that these are not houris.”
Mahmoud sighed. “Then I’ll have to convert one.”
“Why one? There are places where you can have the full quota.”
“No, my brother. In the wise words of the Prophet, while the Legislations permit four, it is impossible to deal justly with more than one.”
“That’s some relief. Which one?”
“We’ll see. Maryam, are you feeling spiritual?”
“You go to hell! ‘Houris’ indeed!”
“Jill?”
“Give me a break,” Ben protested. “I’m working on Jill.”
“Later, Jill. Anne?”
“Sorry. I’ve got a date.”
“Dorcas? You’re my last chance.”
“Stinky,” she said softly, “just how spiritual do you want me to feel?”
Mike went upstairs to his room, closed the door, got on the bed, assumed the foetal position, rolled up his eyes, swallowed his tongue, and slowed his heart. Jill did not like him to do this in the daytime but did not object as long as he did not do it publicly—so many things he must not do publicly but only this one aroused her ire. He had been waiting since leaving that room of terrible wrongness; he needed very badly to withdraw and try to grok.
He had done something that Jill had told him not to—
He felt a human urge to tell himself that it had been forced on him, but his Martian training did not permit this escape. He had arrived at cusp, right action had been required, the choice had been his. He grokked that he had chosen correctly. But his water brother Jill had forbidden this choice—
But that would have left no choice. This was contradiction; at cusp, choice is. By choice, spirit grows.
Would Jill have approved had he taken other action, not wasting food?
No, he grokked that Jill’s injunction covered that variant.
At this point the being sprung from human genes and shaped by Martian thought, who could never be either, completed one stage of his growth, burst out and ceased to be a nestling. The solitary loneliness of predestined free will was then his and with it Martian serenity to embrace, cherish, savor its bitterness, accept its consequences. With tragic joy he knew that this cusp was his, not Jill’s. His water brother could teach, admonish, guide—but choice at cusp was not shared. Here was “ownership” beyond sale, gift, hypothecation; owner and owned grokked inseparable. He eternally was the action he had taken at cusp.
Now that he knew himself to be self he was free to grok ever closer to his brothers, merge without let. Self’s integrity was and is and ever had been. Mike stopped to cherish all his brother selves, the many threes-fulfilled on Mars, corporate and discorporate, the precious few on Earth—the unknown powers of three on Earth that would be his to merge with and cherish now that at last long waiting he grokked and cherished himself.
Mike remained in trance; there was much to grok, loose ends to puzzle over and fit into his growing—all that he had seen and heard and been at the Archangel Foster Tabernacle (not just cusp when he and Digby had come face to face alone) . . . why Bishop Senator Boone made him warily uneasy, how Miss Dawn Ardent tasted like a water brother when she was not, the smell of goodness he had incompletely grokked in the jumping up and down and wailing—
Jubal’s conversations coming and going—Jubal’s words troubled him most; he studied them, compared them with what he had been taught as a nestling, struggling to bridge between languages, the one he thought with and the one he was learning to think in. The word “church” which turned up over and over again among Jubal’s words gave him knotty difficulty; there was no Martian concept to match it—unless one took “church” and “worship” and “God” and “congregation” and many other words and equated them to the totality of the only world he had known during growing-waiting . . . then forced the concept back into English in that phrase which had been rejected (by each differently) by Jubal, by Mahmoud, by Digby.
“Thou art God.” He was closer to understanding it in English now, although it could never have the inevitability of the Martian concept it stood for. In his mind he spoke simultaneously the English sentence and the Martian word and felt closer grokking. Repeating it like a student telling himself that the jewel is in the lotus he sank into nirvana.
Before midnight he speeded his heart, resumed normal breathing, ran down his check list, uncurled and sat up. He had been weary; now he felt light and gay and clear-headed, ready for the many actions he saw spreading out before him.
He felt a puppyish need for company as strong as his earlier necessity for quiet. He stepped out into the hall, was delighted to encounter a water brother. “Hi!”
“Oh. Hello, Mike. My, you look chipper.”
“I feel fine! Where is everybody?”
“Asleep. Ben and Stinky went home an hour ago and people started going to bed.”
“Oh.” Mike felt disappointed that Mahmoud had left; he wanted to explain his new grokking.
“I ought to be asleep, too, but I felt like a snack. Are you hungry?”
“Sure, I’m hungry!”
“Come on, there’s some cold chicken and we’ll see what else.” They went downstairs, loaded a tray lavishly. “Let’s take it outside. It’s plenty warm.”
“A fine idea,” Mike agreed.
“Warm enough to swim—real Indian summer. I’ll switch on the floods.”
“Don’t bother,” Mike answered. “I’ll carry the tray.” He could see in almost total darkness. Jubal said that his night-sight probably came from the conditions in which he had grown up, and Mike grokked this was true but grokked that there was more to it; his foster parents had taught him to see. As for the night being warm, he would have been comfortable naked on Mount Everest but his water brothers had little tolerance for changes in temperature and pressure; he was considerate of their weakness, once he learned of it. But he was looking forward to snow—seeing for himself that each tiny crystal of the water of life was a unique individual, as he had read—walking barefoot, rolling in it.
In the meantime he was pleased with the warm night and the still more pleasing company of his water brother.
“Okay, take the tray. I’ll switch on the underwater lights. That’ll be plenty to eat by.”
“Fine.” Mike liked having light up through the ripples; it was a goodness, beauty. They picnicked by the pool, then lay back on the grass and looked at stars.
“Mike, there’s Mars. It is Mars, isn’t it? Or Antares?”
“It is Mars.”
“Mike? What are they doing on Mars?”
He hesitated; the question was too wide for the sparse English language. “On the side toward the horizon—the southern hemisphere—it is spring; plants are being taught to grow.”
“‘Taught to grow’?”
He hesitated. “Larry teaches plants to grow. I have helped him. But my people—Martians, I mean; I now grok you are my people—teach plants another way. In the other hemisphere it is growing colder and nymphs, those who stayed alive through the summer, are being brought into nests for quickening and more growing.” He thought. “Of the humans we left at the equator, one has discorporated and the others are sad.”
“Yes, I heard it in the news.”
Mike had not heard it; he had not known it until asked. “They should not be sad. Mr. Booker T. W. Jones Food Technician First Class is not sad; the Old Ones have cherished him.”
“You knew him?”
“Yes. He had his own face, dark and beautiful. But he was homesick.”
“Oh, dear! Mike . . . do you ever get homesick? For Mars?”
“At first I was homesick,” he answered. “I was lonely always.�
�� He rolled toward her and took her in his arms. “But now I am not lonely. I grok I shall never be lonely again.”
“Mike darling—” They kissed, and went on kissing.
Presently his water brother said breathlessly. “Oh, my! That was almost worse than the first time.”
“You are all right, my brother?”
“Yes. Yes indeed. Kiss me again.”
A long time later, by cosmic clock, she said, “Mike? Is that—I mean, ‘Do you know—’ ”
“I know. It is for growing closer. Now we grow closer.”
“Well . . . I’ve been ready a long time—goodness, we all have, but . . . never mind, dear; turn just a little. I’ll help.”
As they merged, grokking together, Mike said softly and triumphantly: “Thou art God.”
Her answer was not in words. Then, as their grokking made them ever closer and Mike felt himself almost ready to discorporate her voice called him back: “Oh! . . . Oh! Thou art God!”
“We grok God.”
XXV.
ON MARS humans were building pressure domes for the male and female party that would arrive by next ship. This went faster than scheduled as the Martians were helpful. Part of the time saved was spent on a preliminary estimate for a long-distance plan to free bound oxygen in the sands of Mars to make the planet more friendly to future human generations.
The Old Ones neither helped nor hindered this plan; time was not yet. Their meditations were approaching a violent cusp that would shape Martian art for many millennia. On Earth elections continued and a very advanced poet published a limited edition of verse consisting entirely of punctuation marks and spaces; Time magazine reviewed it and suggested that the Federation Assembly Daily Record should be translated into the medium.
A colossal campaign opened to sell more sexual organs of plants and Mrs. Joseph (“Shadow of Greatness”) Douglas was quoted as saying: “I would no more sit down without flowers on my table than without serviettes.” A Tibetan swami from Palermo, Sicily, announced in Beverly Hills a newly discovered, ancient yoga discipline for ripple breathing which increased both pranha and cosmic attraction between sexes. His chelas were required to assume the matsyendra posture dressed in hand-woven diapers while he read aloud from Rig-Veda and an assistant guru examined their purses in another room—nothing was stolen; the purpose was less immediate.
The President of the United States proclaimed the first Sunday in November as “National Grandmothers’ Day” and urged America to say it with flowers. A funeral parlor chain was indicted for price-cutting. Fosterite bishops, after secret conclave, announced the Church’s second Major Miracle: Supreme Bishop Digby had been translated bodily to Heaven and spot-promoted to Archangel, ranking with-but-after Archangel Foster. The glorious news had been held up pending Heavenly confirmation of the elevation of a new Supreme Bishop, Huey Short—a candidate accepted by the Boone faction after lots had been cast repeatedly.
L‘Unita and Hoy published identical denunciations of Short’s elevation, l’Osservatore Romano and the Christian Science Monitor ignored it, Times of India snickered at it, and the Manchester Guardian simply reported it—the Fosterites in England were few but extremely militant.
Digby was not pleased with his promotion. The Man from Mars had interrupted him with his work half finished—and that stupid jackass Short was certain to louse it up. Foster listened with angelic patience until Digby ran down, then said, “Listen, junior, you’re an angel now—so forget it. Eternity is no time for recriminations. You too were a stupid jackass until you poisoned me. Afterwards you did well enough. Now that Short is Supreme Bishop he’ll do all right, he can’t help it. Same as with the Popes. Some of them were warts until they got promoted. Check with one of them, go ahead—there’s no professional jealousy here.”
Digby calmed down, but made one request.
Foster shook his halo. “You can’t touch him. You shouldn’t have tried to. Oh, you can submit a requisition for a miracle if you want to make a fool of yourself. But, I’m telling you, it’ll be turned down—you don’t understand the System yet. The Martians have their own setup, different from ours, and as long as they need him, we can’t touch him. They run their show their way—the Universe has variety, something for everybody—a fact you field workers often miss.”
“You mean this punk can brush me aside and I’ve got to hold still for it?”
“I held still for the same thing, didn’t I? I’m helping you now, am I not? Now look, there’s work to be done and lots of it. The Boss wants performance, not gripes. If you need a Day off to calm down, duck over to the Muslim Paradise and take it. Otherwise, straighten your halo, square your wings, and dig in. The sooner you act like an angel the quicker you’ll feel angelic. Get Happy, junior!”
Digby heaved a deep ethereal sigh. “Okay, I’m Happy. Where do I start?”
Jubal did not hear of Digby’s disappearance when it was announced, and, when he did, while he had a fleeting suspicion, he dismissed it; if Mike had had a finger in it, he had gotten away with it—and what happened to supreme bishops worried Jubal not at all as long as he wasn’t bothered.
His household had gone through an upset. Jubal deduced what had happened but did not know with whom—and didn’t want to inquire. Mike was of legal age and presumed able to defend himself in the clinches. Anyhow, it was high time the boy was salted.
Jubal couldn’t reconstruct the crime from the way the girls behaved because patterns kept shifting—ABC vs D, then BCD vs A . . . or AB vs CD, or AD vs CB, through all ways that four women can gang up on each other.
This continued most of the week following that ill-starred trip to church, during which period Mike stayed in his room and usually in a trance so deep that Jubal would have pronounced him dead had he not seen it before. Jubal would not have minded it if service had not gone to pieces. The girls seemed to spend half their time tiptoeing in “to see if Mike was all right” and they were too preoccupied to cook, much less be secretaries. Even rock-steady Anne—Hell, Anne was the worst! Absent-minded, subject to unexplained tears . . . Jubal would have bet his life that if Anne were to witness the Second Coming, she would memorize date, time, personae, events, and barometric pressure without batting her calm blue eyes.
Late Thursday Mike woke himself and suddenly it was ABCD in the service of Mike, “less than the dust beneath his chariot wheels.” The girls resumed giving Jubal service, so he counted his blessings and let it lie . . . except for a wry thought that, if he demanded a showdown, Mike could quintuple their salaries by a post card to Douglas—but the girls would just as readily support Mike.
With domestic tranquility restored Jubal did not mind that his kingdom was ruled by a mayor of the palace. Meals were on time and better than ever; when he shouted “Front!” the girl who appeared was bright-eyed, happy, and efficient—such being the case, Jubal did not give a hoot who rated the most side boys. Or girls.
Besides, the change in Mike was interesting. Before that week Mike had been docile in a fashion that Jubal classed as neurotic; now he was so self-confident that Jubal would have described it as cocky had it not been that Mike continued to be unfailingly polite and considerate.
He accepted homage from the girls as if a natural right, he seemed older than his age rather than younger, his voice deepened, he spoke with forcefulness rather than timidly. Jubal decided that Mike had joined the human race; he could discharge this patient.
Except (Jubal reminded himself) on one point: Mike still did not laugh. He could smile at a joke and sometimes did not ask to have them explained. Mike was cheerful, even merry—but he never laughed.
Jubal decided that it was not important. This patient was sane, healthy—and human. Short weeks earlier Jubal would have given odds against a cure. He was humble enough not to claim credit; the girls had had more to do with it. Or should he say “girl?”
From the first week of his stay Jubal had told Mike almost daily that he was welcome . . . but that he should stir
out and see the world as soon as he felt able. Jubal should not have been surprised when Mike announced one breakfast that he was leaving. But he was surprised and, to his greater surprise, hurt.
He covered it by using his napkin unnecessarily. “So? When?”
“We’re leaving today.”
“Um. Plural. Are Larry and Duke and I going to have to put up with our own cooking?”
“We’ve talked that over,” Mike answered. “I need somebody, Jubal; I don’t know how people do things yet—I make mistakes. It ought to be Jill because she wants to go on learning Martian. But it could be Duke or Larry if you can’t spare one of the girls.”
“I get a vote?”
“Jubal, you must decide. We know that.”
(Son, you’ve probably told your first lie. I doubt if I could hold even Duke if you set your mind.) “I guess it should be Jill. But look, kids—This is your home.”
“We know that—we’ll be back. Again we will share water.”
“We will, son.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Huh?”
“Jubal, there is no Martian word for ‘father.’ But lately I grokked that you are my father. And Jill’s father.”
Jubal glanced at Jill. “Mmm, I grok. Take care of yourselves.”
“Yes. Come, Jill.” They were gone before he left the table.
XXVI.
IT WAS the usual carnival—rides, cotton candy, the same flat joints separating marks from dollars. The sex lecture deferred to local opinion concerning Darwin’s opinions, the posing show wore what local lawmen decreed, Fearless Fenton did his Death-Defying Dive before the last bally. The ten-in-one did not have a mentalist, it had a magician; it had no bearded lady, it had a half-man-half-woman; no sword swallower but a fire eater, no tattooed man but a tattooed lady who was also a snake charmer, and for the blow-off she appeared “absolutely nude! . . . clothed only in bare living flesh in exotic designs!”—any mark who found one square inch untattooed below her neckline would win twenty dollars.
Stranger in a Strange Land Page 32
