Stranger in a Strange Land

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Patty said something of the sort.”

  “Let’s say it’s not a religion. It is a church, in every legal and moral sense. But we’re not trying to bring people to God; that’s a contradiction, you can’t say it in Martian. We’re not trying to save souls, souls can’t be lost. We’re not trying to get people to have faith, what we offer is not faith but truth—truth they can check. Truth for here-and-now, truth as matter of fact as an ironing board and as useful as bread . . . so practical that it can make war and hunger and violence and hate as unnecessary as . . . well, as clothes in the Nest. But they have to learn Martian. That’s the hitch—finding people honest enough to believe what they see, willing to work hard—it is hard—to learn the language it must be taught in. This truth can’t be stated in English any more than Beethoven’s Fifth can be.” She smiled. “But Mike never hurries. He screens thousands . . . finds a few . . . and some trickle into the Nest and he trains them further. Someday Mike will have us so thoroughly trained that we can start other nests, then it can snowball. But there’s no hurry. None of us is really trained. Are we, dear?”

  Ben looked up at Jill’s last words—was startled to find bending over to offer him a plate a woman he recognized as the other high priestess—Dawn, yes, that was right. His surprise was not reduced by her being dressed in Patricia’s fashion, minus tattoos.

  Dawn smiled. “Your supper, my brother Ben. Thou art God.”

  “Uh, thou art God. Thanks.” She kissed him, got plates for herself and Jill, sat down on his right and began to eat. Ben was sorry that she did not sit where he could see her better—she had the best attributes associated with goddesses.

  “No,” Dawn agreed, “not yet, Jill. But waiting will fill.”

  “For example, Ben,” Jill continued, “I took a break to eat. But Mike hasn’t eaten since day before yesterday . . . and won’t until he’s not needed. Then he’ll eat like a pig and that will carry him as long as necessary. Besides that, Dawn and I get tired. Don’t we, sweet?”

  “We surely do. But I’m not tired, Gillian. Let me take this service and you stay with Ben. Give me that robe.”

  “You’re crazy in your little pointy head, my love. Ben, she’s been on duty almost as long as Mike. We can take a long stretch—but we eat when we’re hungry and sometimes we need sleep. Speaking of robes, Dawn, this was the last in the Seventh Temple. I meant to tell Patty she’d better order a gross or two.”

  “She has.”

  “I should have known. This one seems tight.” Jill wiggled in a fashion that disturbed Ben. “Are we putting on weight?”

  “A little.”

  “Good. We were too skinny. Ben, you noticed that Dawn and I have the same figure? Height, bust, waist, hips, weight, everything—not to mention coloration. We were almost alike when we met . . . then, with Mike’s help, we matched exactly. Even our faces are more alike—but that comes from doing and thinking the same things. Stand up and let Ben look at us, dear.”

  Dawn put her plate aside and did so, in a pose that reminded Ben of Jill, more than resemblance justified—then he realized it was the pose Jill had been in when she stood revealed as Mother Eve.

  Jill said, with her mouth full, “See, Ben? That’s me.”

  Dawn smiled. “A razor’s edge of difference, Gillian.”

  “Pooh. I’m almost sorry we’ll never have the same face. It’s handy, Ben, for us to be alike. We must have two high priestesses; it’s all two can do to keep up with Mike. And besides,” she added, “Dawn can buy a dress and it fits me, too. Saves me the nuisance of shopping.”

  “I wasn’t sure,” Ben said slowly, “that you wore clothes. Except these priestess things.”

  Jill looked surprised. “How could we go out dancing in these? That’s our favorite way of not getting sleep. Sit down and finish your supper; Ben has stared at us long enough. Ben, there’s a man in that transition group who’s a perfectly dreamy dancer and this town is loaded with night clubs. Dawn and I have kept the poor fellow up so many nights that we’ve had to help him stay awake in language classes. But he’ll be all right; once you reach Eighth Circle you don’t need much sleep. What made you think we never dressed, dear?”

  “Uh—” Ben blurted out his dilemma.

  Jill looked wide-eyed, barely giggled—stopped at once. “I see. Darling, I’m wearing this robe because I have to gobble and git. Had I grokked that was troubling you, I would have chucked it before I said hello. We’re so used to dressing or not according to what we do that I forgot that it might not be polite. Sweetheart, wear those shorts—or not, exactly as suits you.”

  “Uh—”

  “Just don’t fret.” Jill smiled and dimpled. “Reminds me of the time Mike tried a public beach. ’Member, Dawn?”

  “I’ll never forget!”

  “Ben, you know how Mike is. I had to teach him everything. He couldn’t see any point to clothes, until he grokked—to his great surprise—that we aren’t invulnerable to weather. Body-modesty isn’t a Martian concept, couldn’t be. Mike grokked clothes as ornaments only after we started experimenting with costuming our acts.

  “But while Mike always did what I told him to, whether he grokked it or not, you can’t imagine how many little things there are to being human. We take twenty years or more to learn them; Mike had to learn almost overnight. There are still gaps. He does things not knowing that isn’t how a human behaves. We all teach him—all but Patty, who is sure that anything Michael does is perfect. He’s still grokking clothes. He groks they’re a wrongness that keeps people apart—gets in the way of letting love cause them to grow closer. Lately he’s grokked that you need a barrier—with outsiders. But for a long time Mike wore clothes only when I told him to.

  “And once I failed to tell him.

  “We were in Baja California; it was when we met—or remet—Dawn. Mike and I checked in at night at a beach hotel and he was so anxious to grok the ocean that he let me sleep next morning and went down by himself for his first encounter with the sea.

  “Poor Mike! He got to the beach, threw off his robe, and headed for the water . . . looking like a Greek god and just as unaware of conventions—and the riot started and I came awake fast and rushed down to keep him out of jail.”

  Jill got a faraway look. “He needs me now. Kiss me good-night, Ben; I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “You’ll be gone all night?”

  “Probably. It’s a fairly big transition class.” She stood up, pulled him to his feet and went into his arms.

  Presently she murmured, “Ben darling, you’ve been taking lessons. Whew!”

  “Me? I’ve been utterly faithful to you—in my own way.”

  “The same way I’ve been to you. I wasn’t complaining; I just think Dorcas has been helping you practice kissing.”

  “Some, maybe. Nosy.”

  “The class can wait while you kiss me again. I’ll try to be Dorcas.”

  “Be yourself.”

  “I would, anyway. Self. Mike says that Dorcas kisses more thoroughly—‘groks a kiss more’—than anyone.”

  “Quit chattering.”

  She did, then sighed. “Transition class, here I come—glowing like a lightning bug. Take care of him, Dawn.”

  “I will.”

  “And kiss him right away and see what I mean!”

  “I intend to.”

  “Ben, be a good boy and do what Dawn tells you.” She left, not hurrying—but running.

  Dawn flowed up against him, put up her arms.

  Jubal cocked an eyebrow. “Are you going to tell me that at that point, you went chicken?”

  “I didn’t have much choice. I, uh, ‘cooperated with the inevitable.”’

  Jubal nodded. “You were trapped. Whereupon the best a man can do is try for a negotiated peace.”

  XXXII.

  “JUBAL,” Caxton said earnestly, “I wouldn’t say a word about Dawn—I wouldn’t tell any of this—if it weren’t necessary for explaining why I’m worried a
bout them . . . all of them, Duke and Mike and Dawn as well as Jill, and Mike’s other victims. Mike has them fascinated. His new personality is powerful. Cocky and too much supersalesman—but very compelling. And Dawn is compelling in her own way—by morning I was lulled into thinking everything was all right. Weird, but jolly—”

  Ben Caxton awakened not knowing where he was. It was dark; he was lying on something soft. Not a bed—

  The night came back in a rush. The last he clearly remembered was lying on the soft floor of the Innermost Temple, talking quietly and intimately with Dawn. She had taken him there, they had immersed, shared water, grown closer—

  Frantically he groped around, found nothing. “Dawn!”

  Light swelled to dimness. “Here, Ben.”

  “Oh! I thought you had gone!”

  “I didn’t intend to wake you.” She was wearing—to his sudden disappointment—her robe of office. “I must start the Sunrisers’ Outer Service. Gillian isn’t back. As you know, it was a big class.”

  Her words brought back things she had told him last night . . . things which had upset him despite her gentle explanations . . . and she had soothed him until he found himself agreeing. He still didn’t grok it all—but, yes, Jill was busy with rites as high priestess—a task, or happy duty, that Dawn had offered to take for her. Ben felt that he should be sorry that Jill had refused—

  But he did not feel sorry. “Dawn . . . do you have to leave?” He scrambled to his feet, put his arms around her.

  “I must, Ben dear . . . dear Ben.” She melted against him.

  “Right now?”

  “There is never,” she said softly, “that much hurry.” The robe no longer kept them apart. He was too bemused to wonder what had become of it.

  He woke a second time, found that the “little nest” lighted when he stood up. He stretched, discovered that he felt wonderful, looked around for his shorts. He tried to recall where he had left them and had no recollection of taking them off. He had not worn them into the water. Probably beside the pool—He went out and found a bathroom.

  Some minutes later, shaved, showered, and refreshed, he looked into the Innermost Temple, failed to find his shorts and decided that somebody had put them in the foyer where everybody kept street wear . . . said to hell with it and grinned at himself for having made an issue out of wearing them. He needed them, here in the Nest, like a second head.

  He didn’t have a trace of a hangover although he had had more than several drinks with Dawn. Dawn didn’t seem affected by liquor—which was probably why he had gone over his quota. Dawn . . . what a gal! She hadn’t even seemed annoyed when, in a moment of emotion, he had called her Jill—she had seemed pleased.

  He found no one in the big room and wondered what time it was. Not that he gave a damn but he was hungry. He went into the kitchen to see what he could scrounge.

  A man looked around. “Ben!”

  “Well! Hi, Duke!”

  Duke gave him a bear hug. “Gosh, it’s good to see you. Thou art God. How do you like your eggs?”

  “Thou art God. Are you the cook?”

  “Only when I can’t avoid it. Tony does most of it. We all do some. Even Mike unless Tony catches him—Mike is the world’s worst cook.” Duke went on breaking eggs.

  Ben moved in. “You look after toast and coffee. Any Worcestershire sauce?”

  “You name it, Pat’s got it. Here.” Duke added, “I looked in on you a while ago, but you were snoring. I’ve been busy or you have, ever since you got here.”

  “What do you do, Duke?”

  “Well, I’m a deacon. I’ll be a priest someday. I’m slow—not that it matters. I study Martian . . . everybody does. And I’m the fix-it boy, same as for Jubal.”

  “Must take a gang to maintain this place.”

  “Ben, you’d be surprised how little it takes. You must see Mike’s unique way of dealing with a stopped-up toilet; I don’t have to play plumber much. Aside from plumbing, nine-tenths of the gadgetry is in this kitchen and it’s not as gadgeted as Jubal’s.”

  “I thought you had some complicated gadgets for the temples ?”

  “Lighting controls, that’s all. Actually—” Duke grinned. “—my most important job is no work. Fire warden.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m a deputy fire warden, examined and everything, and same for sanitary-and-safety inspector. We never have to let an outsider go through the joint. They can attend outer services but they never get farther unless Mike gives an up-check.”

  They transferred food to plates and sat down. Duke said, “You’re staying, Ben?”

  “I can’t, Duke.”

  “So? I came just for a visit, too . . . went back and moped for a month before I told Jubal I was leaving. Never mind, you’ll be back. Don’t make any decisions before your Water-Sharing tonight.”

  “ ‘Water-sharing’?”

  “Didn’t Dawn tell you?”

  “Uh . . . I don’t think so.”

  “I should let Mike explain. No, people will be mentioning it all day. Sharing water you grok; you’re First-Called.”

  “ ‘First-Called?’ Dawn used that expression.”

  “Those who became Mike’s water brothers without learning Martian. Others ordinarily do not share water and grow closer until they pass to Eighth Circle . . . by then they are beginning to think in Martian—shucks, some of them know more Martian than I do. It’s not forbidden—nothing is forbidden—to share water with someone who isn’t ready for Eighth Circle. Hell, I could pick up a babe in a bar, share water, take her to bed—and then bring her to the Temple. But I wouldn’t. That’s the point; I would never want to. Ben, I’ll make a flat-footed prediction. You’ve been in bed with some fancy babes—”

  “Uh . . . some.”

  “I know damn’ well you have. But you will never again crawl in with one who is not your water brother.”

  “Hmm. . .”

  “A year from now you tell me. Now Mike may decide that someone is ready before reaching even Seventh Circle. One couple Mike offered water when they entered Third Circle—and now he’s a priest and she’s a priestess . . . Sam and Ruth.”

  “Haven’t met ’em.”

  “You will. But Mike is the only one who can be certain that soon. Very occasionally, Dawn, or Patty, will spot somebody . . . but never as far down as Third Circle and they always consult Mike. Not that they have to. Anyhow, into Eighth Circle and sharing and growing closer starts. Then Ninth Circle and the Nest itself—and that’s the transition service we mean when we say ‘Sharing Water’ even though we share water all day long. The whole Nest attends and the new brother becomes forever part of the Nest. In your case you already are . . . but we’ve never held the service, so tonight everything is pushed aside to welcome you. They did the same for me. Ben, it’s the most wonderful feeling in the world.”

  “I still don’t know what it is, Duke.”

  “Uh . . . it’s lots of things. Ever been on a real luau, the kind the cops raid and usually ends in a divorce or two?”

  “Well . . . yes.”

  “Brother, you’ve only been on Sunday School picnics! That’s one aspect. Have you ever been married?”

  “No.”

  “You are married. After tonight there will never be any doubt in your mind.” Duke looked happily pensive. “Ben, I was married before . . . and at first it was nice and then it was steady hell. This time I like it, all the time. Shucks, I love it! I don’t mean just that it’s fun to shack up with a bunch of bouncy babes. I love them—all my brothers, both sexes. Take Patty—Patty mothers us. I don’t think anybody gets over needing that. She reminds me of Jubal . . . and that old bastard had better get down here and get the word! My point is that it is not just that Patty is female. Oh, I’m not running down tail—”

  “Who is running down tail?” a contralto voice interrupted.

  Duke swung around. “Not me, you limber Levantine whore! Come here, babe, and kiss your brother Ben.”
>
  “Never charged for it in my life,” the woman denied as she glided toward them. “Started giving it away before anybody told me.” She kissed Ben carefully and thoroughly. “Thou art God, Brother.”

  “Thou art God. Share water.”

  “Never thirst. Don’t mind Duke—from the way he behaves he must have been a bottle baby.” She kissed Duke even more lingeringly while he patted her ample fundament. She was short, plump, brunette to swarthiness, and had a mane of heavy blue-black hair almost to her waist. “Duke, did you see a Ladies’ Home Journal when you got up?” She took his fork and started eating his scrambled eggs. “Mmm . . . good. You didn’t cook these, Duke.”

  “Ben did. Why would I want a Ladies’ Home Journal?”

  “Ben, stir up a couple of dozen more and I’ll scramble ’em in relays. There’s an article I want to show Patty, dear.”

  “Okay,” agreed Ben.

  “Don’t get ideas about redecorating this dump! And leave some of that for me! You think us men can do our work on mush?”

  “Tut, tut, Dukie darling. Water divided is water multiplied. Ben, Duke’s complaints never mean anything—as long as he has enough women for two men and food for three, he’s a perfect lamb.” She shoved a forkful into Duke’s mouth. “Quit making faces, brother; I’ll cook you a second breakfast. Or will it be your third?”

  “Not even the first, yet. You ate it. Ruth, I was telling Ben how you and Sam pole-vaulted to Ninth. He’s uneasy about the Sharing-Water tonight.”

  She pursued the last bite on Duke’s plate, moved over and started preparations to cook. “Duke, I’ll send you out something other than mush. Take your coffee and skedaddle. Ben, I was worried, too—but don’t you be, dear; Michael does not make mistakes. You belong here or you wouldn’t be here. You’re going to stay?”

  “Uh, I can’t. Ready for the first installment?”

  “Pour them in. You’ll be back. Someday you’ll stay. Duke is correct—Sam and I pole-vaulted. It was too fast for a middle-aged, prim and proper housewife.”

  “Middle-aged?”

  “Ben, one bonus of the discipline is that as it straightens out your soul, your body straightens out, too. That’s a matter in which Christian Scientists are right. Notice any medicine bottles in the bathrooms?”