Stranger in a Strange Land

by Robert A. Heinlein

  He looked around for something to read, found nothing to his annoyance, being addicted to this vice above all else. He sipped part of a drink instead and turned out the bed light.

  His chat with Patty seemed to have wakened and rested him. He was still awake when Dawn came in.

  He called out, “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Dawn, Jubal.”

  “It can’t be dawn yet; it was only—Oh.”

  “Yes, Jubal. Me.”

  “Damn it, I thought I bolted that door. Child, march straight out of—Hey! Get out of this bed. Git!”

  “Yes, Jubal. But I want to tell you something first.”

  “Huh?”

  “I have loved you a long time. Almost as long as Jill has.”

  “Why, the very—Quit talking nonsense and shake your little fanny out that door.”

  “I will, Jubal,” she said humbly. “But please listen to something first. Something about women.”

  “Not now. Tell me in the morning.”

  “Now, Jubal.”

  He sighed. “Talk. Stay where you are.”

  “Jubal . . . my beloved brother. Men care very much how we women look. So we try to be beautiful and that is a goodness. I used to be a peeler, as you know. It was a goodness, to let men enjoy the beauty I was for them. It was a goodness for me, to know that they needed what I had to give.

  “But, Jubal, women are not men. We care what a man is. It can be something as silly as: Is he wealthy? Or it can be: Will he take care of my children and be good to them? Or, sometimes, it can be: Is he good? As you are good, Jubal. But the beauty we see in you is not the beauty you see in us. You are beautiful, Jubal.”

  “For God’s sake!”

  “I think you speak rightly. Thou art God and I am God—and I need you. I offer you water. Will you let me share and grow closer?”

  “Uh, look, little girl, if I understand what you are offering—”

  “You grok, Jubal. To share all that we have. Ourselves. Selves.”

  “I thought so. My dear, you have plenty to share— but . . . myself—well, you arrived years too late. I am sincerely regretful, believe me. Thank you. Deeply. Now go away and let an old man sleep.”

  “You will sleep, when waiting is filled. Jubal . . . I could lend you strength. But I grok clearly that it is not necessary.”

  (Goddamit—it wasn’t necessary!) “No, Dawn. Thank you, dear.”

  She got to her knees and bent over him. “Just one more word, then. Jill told me that if you argued, I was to cry. Shall I get my tears all over your chest? And share water with you that way?”

  “I’m going to spank Jill!”

  “Yes, Jubal. I’m starting to cry.” She made no sound, but in a second or two a warm, full tear splashed on his chest—was followed by another . . . and another—and still more. She sobbed almost silently.

  Jubal cursed and reached for her... and cooperated with the inevitable.

  XXXVI.

  JUBAL WOKE up alert, rested, and happy, realized that he felt better before breakfast than he had in years. For a long, long time he had been getting through that black period between waking and the first cup of coffee by telling himself that tomorrow might be a little easier.

  This morning he found himself whistling. He noticed it, stopped himself, forgot it and started up again.

  He saw himself in the mirror, smiled wryly, then grinned. “You incorrigible old goat. They’ll be sending the wagon for you any minute now.” He noticed a white hair on his chest, plucked it out, didn’t bother with many others just as white, went on making himself ready to face the world.

  When he went outside his door Jill was there. Accidentally? He no longer trusted any ‘coincidence’ in this menage; it was as organized as a computer. She came straight into his arms. “Jubal—Oh, we love you so! Thou art God.”

  He returned her kiss as warmly as it was given, grokking that it would be hypocritical not to—and discovered that kissing Jill differed from kissing Dawn only in some fashion unmistakable but beyond definition.

  Presently he held her away from him. “You baby Messalina . . . you framed me.”

  “Jubal darling . . . you were wonderful!”

  “Uh . . . how the hell did you know I was able?”

  She gave back a gaze of clear-eyed innocence. “Why, Jubal, I’ve been certain ever since Mike was asleep—in trance—he could see around him quite a distance and sometimes he would look in on you—a question to ask or something—to see if you were asleep.”

  “But I slept alone! Always.”

  “Yes, dear. That wasn’t what I meant. I always had to explain things that he didn’t understand.”

  “Hrrrmph!” He decided not to pursue it. “Just the same, you shouldn’t have framed me.”

  “I grok you don’t mean that in your heart, Jubal. We had to have you in the Nest. All the way in. We need you. Since you are shy and humble in your goodness, we did what was needful to welcome you without hurting you. And we did not hurt you, as you grok.”

  “What’s this ‘we’ stuff?”

  “It was a full Sharing-Water of all the Nest, as you grok—you were there. Mike woke up for it . . . and grokked with you and kept us all together.”

  Jubal hastily abandoned this inquiry, too. “So Mike is awake at last. That’s why your eyes are shining.”

  “Only partly. We are always delighted when Mike isn’t withdrawn, it’s jolly . . . but he’s never really away. Jubal, I grok that you have not grokked the fullness of our way of Sharing-Water. But waiting will fill. Nor did Mike grok it, at first—he thought it was only for quickening of eggs, as it is on Mars.”

  “Well . . . that’s the primary purpose. Babies. Which makes it silly behavior on the part of a person, namely me, who has no wish, at my age, to cause such increase.”

  She shook her head. “Babies are one result . . . but not the primary purpose. Babies give meaning to the future, and that is a great goodness. But only three or four or a dozen times in a woman’s life is a baby quickened in her . . . out of thousands of times she can share herself—and that is the primary use for what we can do so often but would need to do so seldom if it were only for reproduction. It is sharing and growing closer, forever and always. Jubal, Mike grokked this because on Mars the two things—quickening eggs, and sharing-closer—are entirely separate . . . and he grokked, too, that our way is best. What a happy thing it is not to have been hatched a Martian . . . to be human . . . and a woman!”

  He looked at her closely. “Child, are you pregnant?”

  “Yes, Jubal. I grokked that waiting had ended and I was free to be. Most of the Nest have not needed to wait—but Dawn and I have been busy. But when we grokked this cusp coming, I grokked there would be waiting after cusp—and you can see that there will be. Mike will not rebuild the Temple overnight—so this high priestess will be unhurried in building a baby. Waiting always fills.”

  From this high-flown mishmash Jubal abstracted the central fact . . . or Jill’s belief concerning such a possibility. Well, no doubt she had had plenty of opportunity. He resolved to keep an eye on the matter and bring her home for it. Mike’s superman methods were all very well, but it wouldn’t hurt to have modern equipment at hand, too. Losing Jill to eclampsia or some other mishap he would not let happen, even if he had to get tough with the kids.

  He wondered about another such possibility, decided not to mention it. “Where’s Dawn? And where’s Mike? The place seems awfully quiet.” No one else was in sight and he heard no voices . . . and yet that odd feeling of happy expectancy was even stronger. He would have expected a release from tension after the ceremony he had apparently joined in himself—unbeknownst—but the air was more charged than ever. It suddenly reminded him of how he had felt, as a very small boy, when waiting for his first circus parade . . . and someone had called out: “There come the elephants!”

  Jubal felt as if, were he just a little taller, he could see the elephants, past the excited crowd. But
there was no crowd.

  “Dawn told me to give you a kiss for her; she’ll be busy for the next three hours, about. And Mike is busy, too—he went back into withdrawal.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t sound so disappointed; he’ll be free soon. He’s making a special effort so that he will be free on your account . . . and to let us all be free. Duke spent all night scouring the city for the highspeed recorders we use for the dictionary and now we’ve got everybody who can possibly do it being jammed full of Martian phonic symbols and then Mike will be through and can visit. Dawn has just started dictating; I finished one session, ducked out to say good-morning . . . and am about to go back and get poured full of my last part of the chore, so I’ll be gone a little longer than Dawn will be. And here’s Dawn’s kiss—the first one was just from me.” She put her arms around his neck and put her mouth greedily to his—at last said, “My goodness! Why did we wait so long? ’Bye for a little!”

  Jubal found a few in the dining room. Duke looked up, smiled and waved, went back to hearty eating. He did not look as if he had been up all night—nor had he; he had been up two nights.

  Becky Vesey looked around when Duke waved and said happily, “Hi, you old goat!”—grabbed his ear, pulled him down, and whispered: “I’ve known it all along—but why weren’t you around to console me when the Professor died?” She added aloud, “Sit down and we’ll get some food into you while you tell me what devilment you’ve been plotting lately.”

  “Just a moment, Becky.” Jubal went around the table. “Hi, Skipper. Good trip?”

  “No trouble. It’s become a milk run. I don’t believe you’ve met Mrs. van Tromp. My dear, the founder of this feat, the one and only Jubal Harshaw—two of him would be too many.”

  The Captain’s wife was a tall, plain woman with the calm eyes of one who has watched from the Widow’s Walk. She stood up, kissed Jubal. “Thou art God.”

  “Uh, thou art God.” He might as well relax to the ritual—hell, if he said it often enough, he might lose the rest of his buttons and believe it . . . and it did have a friendly ring with the arms of the Skipper’s vrouw firmly around him. He decided that she could teach even Jill something about kissing. She—how was it Anne described it?—she gave it her whole attention; she wasn’t going anywhere.

  “I suppose, Van,” he said, “that I shouldn’t be surprised to find you here.”

  “Well,” answered the spaceman, “a man who commutes to Mars ought to be able to palaver with the natives, don’t you think?”

  “Just for powwow, huh?”

  “There are other aspects.” Van Tromp reached for a piece of toast; the toast cooperated. “Good food, good company.”

  “Um, yes.”

  “Jubal,” Madame Vesant called out, “soup’s on!”

  Jubal returned to his place, found eggs-on-horseback, orange juice, and other choice items. Becky patted his thigh. “A fine prayer meeting, me bucko.”

  “Woman, back to your horoscopes!”

  “Which reminds me, dearie, I want to know the exact instant of your birth.”

  “Uh, I was born on three successive days. They had to handle me in sections.”

  Becky made a rude answer. “I’ll find out.”

  “The courthouse burned down when I was three. You can’t.”

  “There are ways. Want to bet?”

  “You keep heckling me and you’ll find you’re not too big to spank. How’ve you been, girl?”

  “What do you think? How do I look?”

  “Healthy. A bit spread in the butt. You’ve touched up your hair.”

  “I have not. I quit using henna months ago. Get with it, pal, and we’ll get rid of that white fringe you’ve got. Replace it with a lawn.”

  “Becky, I refuse to grow younger. I came by my decrepitude the hard way and I propose to enjoy it. Quit prattling and let a man eat.”

  “Yes, sir. You old goat.”

  Jubal was just leaving as the Man from Mars came in. “Father! Oh, Jubal!” Mike hugged and kissed him.

  Jubal gently unwound him. “Be your age, son. Sit down and enjoy your breakfast. I’ll sit with you.”

  “I didn’t come here for breakfast, I came looking for you. We’ll find a place and talk.”

  “All right.”

  They went to an unoccupied living room, Mike pulling Jubal by the hand like an excited small boy welcoming his favorite grandparent. Mike picked a big chair for Jubal and sprawled on a couch near him. They were on the side of the wing having the private landing flat; high French windows opened to it. Jubal got up to shift his chair so that he would not be facing the light; he was mildly annoyed to find that the chair shifted itself—remote control over objects was a labor-saver and probably a money-saver (certainly on laundry!—his spaghetti-splashed shirt had been so fresh that he had put it on again), and obviously to be preferred to the blind balkiness of mechanical gadgets. Nevertheless Jubal was not used to telecontrol done without wires or waves; it startled him the way horseless carriages had disturbed decent, respectable horses about the time Jubal was born.

  Duke came in and served brandy. Mike said, “Thanks, Cannibal. Are you the new butler?”

  “Somebody has to do it, Monster. You’ve got every brain in the place slaving away over a hot microphone.”

  “Well, they’ll be through in a couple of hours and you can revert to your usual lecherous sloth. The job is done, Cannibal. Pau. Thirty. Ended.”

  “The whole damn Martian language in one lump? Monster, I had better check you for burned-out capacitors.”

  “Oh, no! Only the primer knowledge that I have—had, I mean; my brain’s an empty sack. Highbrows like Stinky will be going to Mars for a century to fill in what I never learned. But I did turn out a job—six weeks of subjective time since five this morning or whenever it was we adjourned the sharing—and now the stalwart steady types can finish it while I loaf.” Mike stretched and yawned. “Feels good. Finishing a job always feels good.”

  “You’ll be slaving away at something else before the day is out. Boss, this Martian monster can’t take it or leave it alone. This is the first time he has relaxed in over two months. He ought to sign up with ‘Workers Anonymous.’ Or you ought to visit us more often. You’re a good influence.”

  “God forbid that I should ever be.”

  “Get out of here, Cannibal, and quit telling lies.”

  “Lies, hell. You turned me into a compulsive truth-teller . . . and it’s a handicap in the joints where I hang out.” Duke left.

  Mike lifted his glass. “Share water, Father.”

  “Drink deep, son.”

  “Thou art God.”

  “Mike, I’ll put up with that from the others. But don’t you come godding at me. I knew you when you were ‘only an egg.’ ”

  “Okay, Jubal.”

  “That’s better. When did you start drinking in the morning? Do that at your age and you’ll ruin your stomach. You’ll never live to be a happy old soak, like me.”

  Mike looked at his glass. “I drink when it’s a sharing. It doesn’t have any effect on me, nor on most of us, unless we want it to. Once I let it have its effect until I passed out. It’s an odd sensation. Not a goodness, I grok. Just a way to discorporate for a while without discorporating. I can get a similar effect, only much better and with no damage to repair afterwards, by withdrawing.”

  “Economical.”

  “Uh huh, our liquor bill isn’t anything. Matter of fact, running that whole. Temple hasn’t cost what it costs you to keep up our home. Except for initial investment and replacing some props, coffee and cakes was all—we made our own fun. We needed so little that I used to wonder what to do with the money that came in.”

  “Then why did you take collections?”

  “Huh? Oh, you have to charge ’em, Jubal. The marks won’t pay attention if it’s free.”

  “I knew that, I wondered if you did.”

  “Oh, yes, I grok marks, Jubal. At first I did preach f
ree. Didn’t work. We humans have to make considerable progress before we can accept a free gift, and value it. I never let them have anything free until Sixth Circle. By then they can accept . . . and accepting is much harder than giving.”

  “Hmm . . . son, maybe you should write a book on human psychology.”

  “I have. But it’s in Martian. Stinky has the tapes.” Mike took a slow sybaritic sip. “We do use some liquor. A few of us—Saul, myself, Sven, some others—like it. I’ve learned to let it have just a little effect, then hold it, and gain a euphoric growing-closer much like trance without having to withdraw.” He sipped again. “That’s what I’m doing this morning—letting myself get the mildest glow and be happy with you.”

  Jubal studied him closely. “Son, you’ve got something on your mind.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to talk it out?”

  “Yes. Father, it’s always a great goodness to be with you, even if nothing is troubling me. But you are the only human I can talk to and know that you will grok and not be overwhelmed. Jill . . . Jill always groks—but if it hurts me, it hurts her still more. Dawn the same. Patty . . . well, Patty can always take my hurt away, but she does it by keeping it herself. They are too easily hurt for me to share in full with them anything I can’t grok and cherish before I share it.” Mike looked very thoughtful. “Confession is needful. Catholics know that—they have a corps of strong men to take it. Fosterites have group confession and pass it around and thin it out. I need to introduce confession in the early purging—oh, we have it, but spontaneously, after the pilgrim no longer needs it. We need strong men for that—‘sin’ is rarely concerned with a real wrongness but sin is what the sinner groks as sin—and when you grok with him, it can hurt. I know.”

  Mike went on earnestly, “Goodness is not enough, goodness is never enough. That was one of my first mistakes, because among Martians goodness and wisdom are identical. But not with us. Take Jill. Her goodness was perfect when I met her. Nevertheless she was all mixed up inside—and I almost destroyed her, and myself too—for I was just as mixed up—before we got squared away. Her endless patience (not common on this planet) was all that saved us . . . while I was learning to be human and she was learning what I knew.