Stranger in a Strange Land (10 page)

She could hear in her head something he had said:
“—if anything goes wrong, you are my ace in the hole . . . honey, if you don't hear from me, you are on your own.”

She had not thought about it at the time, as she had not believed that anything could happen to Ben. Now she thought about it. There comes a time in the life of every human when he or she must decide to risk “his life, his fortune, and his sacred honor” on an outcome dubious. Jill Boardman encountered her challenge and accepted it at 3:47 that afternoon.

The Man from Mars sat down when Jill left. He did not pick up the picture book but simply waited in a fashion which may be described as “patient” only because human language does not embrace Martian attitudes. He held still with quiet happiness because his brother had said that he would return. He was prepared to wait, without moving, without doing anything, for several years.

He had no clear idea how long it had been since he had shared water with this brother; not only was this place curiously distorted in time and shape, with sequences of sights and sounds not yet grokked, but also the culture of his nest took a different grasp of time from that which is human. The difference lay not in longer lifetimes as counted in Earth years, but in basic attitude. “It is later than you think” could not be expressed in Martian—nor could “Haste makes waste,” though for a different reason: the first notion was inconceivable while the latter was an unexpressed Martian basic, as unnecessary as telling a fish to bathe. But “As it was in the Beginning, is now and ever shall be” was so Martian in mood that it could be translated more easily than “two plus two makes four”—which was not a truism on Mars.

Smith waited.

Brush came in and looked at him; Smith did not move and Brush went away.

When Smith heard a key in the outer door, he recalled that he had heard this sound somewhat before the last visit of his water brother, so he shifted his metabolism in preparation, in case the sequence occurred again. He was astonished when the outer door opened and Jill slipped in, as he had not been aware that it was a door. But he grokked it at once and gave himself over to the joyful fullness which comes only in the presence of one's nestlings, one's water brothers, and (under certain circumstances) in the presence of the Old Ones.

His joy was muted by awareness that his brother did not share it—he seemed more distressed than was possible save in one about to discorporate because of shameful lack or failure. But Smith had learned that these creatures could endure emotions dreadful to contemplate and not die. His Brother Mahmoud underwent a spiritual agony five times daily and not only did not die but had urged the agony on him as a needful thing. His Brother Captain van Tromp suffered terrifying spasms unpredictably, any one of which should have, by Smith's standards, produced immediate discorporation to end the conflict—yet that brother was still corporate so far as he knew.

So he ignored Jill's agitation.

Jill handed him a bundle. “Here, put these on. Hurry!”

Smith accepted the bundle and waited. Jill looked at him and said, “Oh, dear! All right, get your clothes off. I'll help.”

She was forced both to undress and dress him. He was wearing hospital gown, bathrobe, and slippers, not because he wanted to but because he had been told to. He could handle them by now, but not fast enough to suit Jill; she skinned him quickly. She being a nurse and he never having heard of the modesty taboo—nor would he have grasped it—they were not slowed by irrelevancies. He was delighted by false skins Jill drew over his legs. She gave him no time to cherish them, but taped the stockings to his thighs in lieu of garter belt. The nurse's uniform she dressed him in she had borrowed from a larger woman on the excuse that a cousin needed one for a masquerade. Jill hooked a nurse's cape around his neck and reflected that it covered most sex differences—at least she hoped so. Shoes were difficult; they did not fit well and Smith found walking in this gravity field an effort even barefooted.

But she got him covered and pinned a nurse's cap on his head. “Your hair isn't very long,” she said anxiously, “but it is as long as some girls wear it and will have to do.” Smith did not answer as he had not fully understood the remark. He tried to think his hair longer but realized that it would take time.

“Now,” said Jill. “Listen carefully. No matter what happens, don't say a word. Do you understand?”

“Don't talk. I will not talk.”

“Just come with me—I'll hold your hand. If you know any prayers,
pray!”

“Pray?”

“Never mind. Just come along and don't talk.” She opened the outer door, glanced outside, and led him into the corridor.

Smith found the many strange configurations upsetting in the extreme; he was assaulted by images he could not bring into focus. He stumbled blindly along, with eyes and senses almost disconnected to protect himself against chaos.

She led him to the end of the corridor and stepped on a slide-away leading crosswise. He stumbled and would have fallen if Jill had not caught him. A chambermaid looked at them and Jill cursed under her breath—then was very careful in helping him off. They took an elevator to the roof, Jill being sure that she could never pilot him up a bounce tube.

There they encountered a crisis, though Smith was not aware. He was undergoing the keen delight of sky; he had not seen sky since Mars. This sky was bright and colorful and joyful—a typical overcast Washington day. Jill was looking for a taxi. The roof was deserted, as she had hoped since nurses going off duty when she did were already headed home and afternoon visitors were gone. But the taxis were gone too. She did not dare risk an air bus.

She was about to call a taxi when one headed in for a landing. She called to the roof attendant. “Jack! Is that cab taken?”

“It's one I called for Dr. Phipps.”

“Oh, dear! Jack, see how quick you can get me one, will you? This is my cousin Madge—works over in South Wing—and she has laryngitis and must get out of this wind.”

The attendant scratched his head. “Well . . . seeing it's you, Miss Boardman, you take this and I'll call another for Dr. Phipps.”

“Oh, Jack, you're a lamb! Madge, don't talk; I'll thank him. Her voice is gone; I'm going to bake it out with hot rum.”

“That ought to do it. Old-fashioned remedies are best, my mother used to say.” He reached into the cab and punched the combination for Jill's home from memory, then helped them in. Jill got in the way and covered up Smith's unfamiliarity with this ceremonial. “Thanks, Jack. Thanks loads.”

The cab took off and Jill took a deep breath. “You can talk now.”

“What should I say?”

“Huh? Whatever you like.”

Smith thought this over. The scope of the invitation called for a worthy answer, suitable to brothers. He thought of several, discarded them because he could not translate, settled on one which conveyed even in this strange, flat speech some of the warm growing-closer brothers should enjoy. “Let our eggs share the same nest.”

Jill looked startled. “Huh? What did you say?”

Smith felt distressed at the failure to respond in kind and interpreted it as failure on his own part. He realized miserably that, time after time, he brought agitation to these creatures when his purpose was to create oneness. He tried again, rearranging his sparse vocabulary to enfold the thought differently. “My nest is yours and your nest is mine.”

This time Jill smiled. “Why, how sweet! My dear, I am not sure I understand you, but that is the nicest offer I have had in a long time.” She added, “But right now we are up to our ears in trouble—so let's wait, shall we?”

Smith understood Jill hardly more than Jill understood him, but he caught his water brother's pleased mood and understood the suggestion to wait. Waiting he did without effort; he sat back, satisfied that all was well between himself and his brother, and enjoyed the scenery. It was the first he had seen and on every side there was richness of new things to try to grok. It occurred to him that the apportation used at home did not permit this delightful viewing of what lay between. This almost led him to a comparison of Martian and human methods not favorable to the Old Ones, but his mind shied away from heresy.

Jill kept quiet and tried to think. Suddenly she noticed that the cab was on the final leg toward her apartment house—and realized that home was the last place to go, it being the first place they would look once they figured out who had helped Smith to escape. While she knew nothing of police methods, she supposed that she must have left fingerprints in Smith's room, not to mention that people had seen them walk out. It was even possible (so she had heard) for a technician to read the tape in this cab's pilot and tell what trips it had made and where and when.

She slapped the keys, and cleared the instruction to go to her apartment house. The cab rose out of the lane and hovered. Where could she go? Where could she hide a grown man who was half idiot and could not even dress himself?—and was the most sought-after person on the globe? Oh, if Ben were only here! Ben . . .
where are you?

She picked up the phone and rather hopelessly punched Ben's number. Her spirits jumped when a man answered—then slumped when she realized that it was not Ben but his major-domo. “Oh. Sorry, Mr. Kilgallen. This is Jill Boardman. I thought I had called Mr. Caxton's home.”

“You did. I have his calls relayed to the office when he is away more than twenty-four hours.”

“Then he is still away?”

“Yes. May I help you?”

“Uh, no. Mr. Kilgallen, isn't it strange that Ben should drop out of sight? Aren't you worried?”

“Eh? Not at all. His message said that he did not know how long he would be gone.”

“Isn't that
odd?”

“Not in Mr. Caxton's work, Miss Boardman.”

“Well . . .
I
think there is something
very
odd about his absence! I think you ought to report it. You ought to spread it over every news service in the country—in the world!”

Even though the cab's phone had no vision circuit Jill felt Osbert Kilgallen draw himself up. “I'm afraid, Miss Boardman, that I must interpret my employer's instructions myself. Uh . . . if you don't mind my saying so, there is always some ‘good friend' phoning Mr. Caxton frantically whenever he's away.”

Some babe trying to get a hammer lock on him, Jill interpreted angrily—and this character thinks I'm the current one. It squelched any thought of asking Kilgallen for help; she switched off.

Where could she go? A solution popped into her mind. If Ben was missing—and the authorities had a hand in it—the last place they would expect to find Valentine Smith would be Ben's apartment . . . unless they connected her with Ben, which seemed unlikely.

They could dig a snack out of Ben's pantry and she could borrow clothes for her idiot child. She set the combination for Ben's apartment house; the cab picked the lane and dropped into it.

Outside Ben's flat Jill put her face to the hush box and said, “Karthago delenda est!”

Nothing happened. Oh
damn!
she said to herself; he's changed the combo. She stood there, knees weak, and kept her face away from Smith. Then she again spoke into the hush box. The same circuit actuated the door or announced callers; she announced herself on the forlorn chance that Ben might have returned. “Ben, this is Jill.”

The door slid open.

They went inside and the door closed. Jill thought that Ben had let them in, then realized that she had accidentally hit on his new door combination . . . intended, she guessed, as a compliment—she could have dispensed with the compliment to have avoided that awful panic.

Smith stood quietly at the edge of the thick green lawn and stared. Here was a place so new as not to be grokked at once but he felt immediately pleased. It was less exciting than the moving place they had been in, but more suited for enfolding the self. He looked with interest at the view window at one end but did not recognize it as such, mistaking it for a living picture like those at home . . . his suite at Bethesda had no windows, it being in a new wing; he had never acquired the idea of “window.”

He noticed with approval that simulation of depth and movement in the “picture” was perfect—some very great artist must have created it. Up to now he had seen nothing to cause him to think that these people possessed art; his grokking of them was increased by this new experience and he felt warmed.

A movement caught his eye; he turned to find his brother removing false skins and slippers from its legs.

Jill sighed and wiggled her toes in the grass. “Gosh, how my feet hurt!” She glanced up and saw Smith watching with that curiously disturbing baby-faced stare. “Do it yourself. You'll love it.”

He blinked. “How do?”

“I keep forgetting. Come here. I'll help.” She got his shoes off, untaped the stockings and peeled them off. “There, doesn't that feel good?”

Smith wiggled his toes in the grass, then said timidly, “But these live?”

“Sure, it's alive, it's real grass. Ben paid a lot to have it that way. Why, the special lighting circuits alone cost more than I make in a month. So walk around and let your feet enjoy it.”

Smith missed most of this but did understand that grass was living beings and that he was being invited to walk on them. “Walk on living things?” He asked with incredulous horror.

“Huh? Why not? It doesn't hurt this grass; it was specially developed for house rugs.”

Smith was forced to remind himself that a water brother could not lead him into wrongful action. He let himself be encouraged to walk around—and found that he did enjoy it and the living creatures did not protest. He set his sensitivity for such as high as possible; his brother was right, this was their proper being—to be walked on. He resolved to enfold and praise it, an effort like that of a human trying to appreciate the merits of cannibalism—a custom which Smith found proper.