Authors: Robert A. Heinlein

Stranger in a Strange Land (70 page)

“All
right
already! Who's arguing? We wait for fullness . . . and go ahead.”

Jubal said suddenly, “Money's no problem.”

“How's that, Jubal?”

“As a lawyer I shouldn't tell this . . . but as a water brother I do what I grok. Just a momentâAnne.”

“Yes, Boss.”

“Buy that spot. The one where they stoned Mike. Better get about a hundred-foot radius around it.”

“Boss, the spot itself is public parkway. A hundred-foot radius will cut off some public road and a piece of the hotel grounds.”

“Don't argue.”

“I wasn't arguing. I was giving you facts.”

“Sorry. They'll sell. They'll reroute that route. Hell, if their arms are twisted properly, they'll donate the landâtwisting done through Joe Douglas, I think. And have Douglas claim from the morgue whatever was left when those ghouls got through with him and we'll bury him on that spotâsay a year from now . . . with the whole city mourning and the cops that didn't protect him today standing at attention.” What to put over him? The Fallen Caryatid? No, Mike had been strong enough for his stone. The Little Mermaid would be betterâbut it wouldn't be understood. Maybe one of Mike himself, just as he was when he said, “Look at me. I am a Son of Man.” If Duke didn't catch a shot of it, New World didâand maybe there was a brother, or would be a brother, with the spark of Rodin in him to do it right and not fancy it up.

“We'll bury him there,” Jubal went on, “unprotected, and let the worms and the gentle rain grok him. I grok Mike will like that. Anne, I want to talk to Joe Douglas as soon as we get home.”

“Yes, Boss. We grok with you.”

“Now about that other.” He told them about Mike's will. “So you see, each one of you is at least a millionaireâjust how much more than that I haven't estimated lately . . . but much more, even after taxes. No strings on it at all . . . but I grok that you will spend as needed for temples and similar stuff. But there's nothing to stop you from buying yachts if you wish. Oh, yes! Joe Douglas stays on as manager for any who care to let the capital ride, same pay as before . . . but I grok Joe won't last long, whereupon management devolves on Ben Caxton. Ben?”

Caxton shrugged. “It can be in my name. I grok I'll hire me a real businessman, name of Saul.”

“That wraps it then. Some waiting time but nobody will dare really fight this will; Mike rigged it. You'll see. How soon can we get out of here? Is the tab settled?”

“Jubal,” Ben said gently, “We
own
this hotel.”

Not long thereafter they were in the air, with no trouble from policeâthe town had quieted down as fast as it had flared up. Jubal sat forward with Stinky Mahmoud and relaxedâdiscovered that he was not tired, not unhappy, not even fretting to get back to his sanctuary. They discussed Mahmoud's plans to go to Mars to learn the language more deeply . . . after, Jubal was pleased to learn, completing the diction, which Mahmoud estimated at a year for his own part in checking the phonetic spellings.

Jubal said grumpily, “I suppose I shall be forced to learn the pesky stuff myself, just to understand the chatter around me.”

“As you grok, brother.”

“Well, damn it, I won't put up with assigned lessons and regular school hours! I'll work as suits me, just as I always have.”

Mahmoud was silent a moment. “Jubal, we used classes and schedules at the Temple because we were handling groups. But some got special attention.”

“That's what I'm going to need.”

“Anne, for example, is much, much farther along than she ever let you know. With her total-recall memory, she learned Martian in nothing flat, hooked in rapport with Mike.”

“Well, I don't have that sort of memoryâand Mike's not available.”

“No, but Anne is. And, stubborn as you are, nevertheless Dawn can place you in rapport with Anneâif you'll let her. And you won't need Dawn for the second lesson; Anne will then be able to handle it all. You'll be thinking in Martian inside of days, by the calendarâmuch longer by subjective time, but who cares?” Mahmoud leered at him. “You'll enjoy the warming-up exercises.”

Jubal bristled. “You're a low, evil, lecherous Arabâand besides that you stole one of my best secretaries.”

“For which I am forever in your debt. But you haven't lost her entirely; she'll give you lessons, too. She'll insist on it.”

“Go 'way and find another seat. I want to think.”

Somewhat later Jubal shouted,
“Front!”

Dorcas came forward and sat down beside him, steno gear ready.

He glanced at her before he started to work. “Child, you look even happier than usual. Glowing.”

Dorcas said dreamily, “I've decided to name him âDennis,' ”

Jubal nodded. “Appropriate. Very appropriate.” Appropriate meaning even if she were mixed up about the paternity, he thought to himself. “Do you feel like working?”

“Oh, yes! I feel grand.”

“Begin. Stereoplay. Rough draft. Working title: âA Martian Named Smith.' Opener: zoom in on Mars, using stock or bonestelled shots, unbroken sequence, then dissolving to miniature matched set of actual landing place of
Envoy
. Space ship in middle distance. Animated martians, typical, with stock as available or rephotographed. Cut to close: Interior space ship. Female patient stretched onâ”

XXXIX.

THE VERDICT to be passed on the third planet around Sol was never in doubt. The Old Ones of the fourth planet were not omniscient and in their way were as provincial as humans. Grokking by their own local values, even with the aid of vastly superior logic, they were certain in time to perceive an incurable “wrongness” in the busy, restless, quarrelsome beings of the third planet, a wrongness which would require weeding, once it had been grokked and cherished and hated.

But, by the time they would slowly get around to it, it would be highly improbable approaching impossible that the Old Ones would be able to destroy this weirdly complex race. The hazard was so slight that those concerned with the third planet did not waste a split eon on it.

Certainly Foster did not. “Digby!”

His assistant looked up. “Yes, Foster.”

“I'll be gone a few eons on a special assignment. Want you to meet your new supervisor.” Foster turned and said, “Mike, this is Archangel Digby, your assistant. He knows where every thing is around the studio and you'll find him a very steady straw boss for anything you conceive.”

“Oh, we'll get along,” Archangel Michael assured him, and said to Digby, “Haven't we met before?”

Digby answered, “Not that I remember. Of course, out of so many when-wheresâ” He shrugged.

“No matter. Thou art God.”

“Thou art God,” Digby responded.

Foster said, “Skip the formalities, please. I've left you a load of work and you don't have all eternity to fiddle with it. Certainly âThou art God'âbut who isn't?”

He left, and Mike pushed back his halo and got to work. He could see a lot of changes he wanted to makeâ