Stranger in a Strange Land (13 page)

But precise information had been supplied, after short delay, from the
Envoy's
log. By then she was not panicky, had simply accepted the data and promised to call back with the horoscopes.

But, after two hours of painful arithmetic, although she had completed findings for Mr. and Mrs. Douglas, she had nothing for Smith. The trouble was simple—and insuperable. Smith had not been born on Earth.

Her astrological bible did not include such an idea; its anonymous author had died before the first rocket to the Moon. She had tried to find a way out of the dilemma, on the assumption that principles were unchanged and that she must correct for displacement. But she grew lost in a maze of unfamiliar relationships; she was not sure the signs of the Zodiac were the same from Mars . . . and what could one do without signs of the Zodiac?

She could as easily have extracted a cube root, that being the hurdle that had caused her to quit school.

She got out a tonic she kept for difficult occasions. She took one dose quickly, poured another, and thought about what Simon would have done. Presently she could hear his steady tones: “Confidence, kiddo! Have confidence and the yokels will have confidence in you. You owe to them.”

She felt much better and started writing the horoscopes for the Douglas's. It then turned out to be easy to write one for Smith; she found, as always, that words on paper proved themselves—they were so beautifully
true!
She was finishing as Agnes Douglas called again. “Allie? Haven't you finished?”

“Just completed,” Madame Vesant answered briskly. “You realize that young Smith's horoscope presented an unusual and difficult problem in the Science. Born, as he was, on another planet, every aspect had to be recalculated. The influence of the Sun is lessened; that of Diana is almost missing. Jupiter is thrown into a novel, I should say ‘unique,' aspect, as I am sure you see. This required computation of—”

“Allie! Never mind that. Do you know the answers?”

“Naturally.”

“Oh, thanks goodness! I thought you were telling me that it was too much for you.”

Madame Vesant showed injured dignity. “My dear, the Science never alters; only configurations alter. The means that predicted the instant and place of the birth of Christ, that told Julius Caesar the moment and method of his death . . . how could it fail? Truth is Truth, unchanging.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Are you ready?”

“Let me switch on ‘recording'—go ahead.”

“Very well. Agnes, this is a most critical period in your life; never have the heavens gathered in such strong configuration. Above all, you must be calm, not hasty, and think things through. On the whole the portents are in your favor . . . provided you avoid ill-considered action. Do not let your mind be distressed by surface appearances—” She went on giving advice. Becky Vesey always gave good advice and gave it with conviction because she believed it. She had learned from Simon that, even when the stars seemed darkest, there was always a way to soften the blow, some aspect the client could use toward happiness . . .

The tense face opposite her in the screen calmed and began nodding agreement as she made her points. “So you see,” she concluded, “the absence of young Smith is a necessity, under the joint influences of three horoscopes. Do not worry; he will return—or you will hear from him—very shortly. The important thing is to take no drastic action. Be calm.”

“Yes, I see.”

“One more point. The aspect of Venus is most favorable and potentially dominant over that of Mars. Venus symbolizes yourself, of course, but Mars is both your husband and young Smith—as a result of the unique circumstances of his birth. This throws a double burden on you and you must rise to the challenge; you must demonstrate those qualities calm wisdom and restraint which are peculiarly those of woman. You must sustain your husband, guide him through this crisis, and soothe him. You must supply the earth-mother's calm wells of wisdom. That is your special genius . . . you must use it.”

Mrs. Douglas sighed. “Allie, you are simply wonderful! I don't know how to thank you.”

“Thank the Ancient Masters whose humble student I am.”

“I can't thank them so I'll thank you. This isn't covered by retainer, Allie. There will be a present.”

“No, Agnes. It is a privilege to serve.”

“And it is my privilege to appreciate service. Allie, not another word!”

Madame Vesant let herself be coaxed, then switched off, feeling warmly content from having given a reading that she just knew was right. Poor Agnes! It was a privilege to smooth her path, make her burdens a little lighter. It made her feel good to help Agnes.

It made Madame Vesant feel good to be treated as almost-equal by the wife of the Secretary General, although she did not think of it that way, not being snobbish. But young Becky Vesey had been so insignificant that the precinct committeeman could never remember her name even though he noticed her bust. Becky Vesey had not resented it; Becky liked people. She liked Agnes Douglas.

Becky Vesey liked everybody.

She sat a while, enjoying the warm glow and just a nip more tonic, while her shrewd brain shuffled the bits she had picked up. Presently she called her stockbroker and instructed him to sell Lunar Enterprises short.

He snorted. “Allie, that reducing diet is weakening your mind.”

“Listen, Ed. When it's down ten points, cover me, even if it is still slipping. Then when it rallies three points, buy again . . . then sell when it gets back to today's closing.”

There was long silence. “Allie, you know something. Tell Uncle Ed.”

“The stars tell me, Ed.”

Ed made a suggestion astronomically impossible. “All right, if you won't, you won't. Mmm . . . I never did have sense enough to stay out of a crooked game. Mind if I ride along?”

“Not at all, Ed. Just don't go heavy enough to let it show. This is a delicate situation, with Saturn balanced between Virgo and Leo.”

“As you say, Allie.”

Mrs. Douglas got busy at once, happy that Allie had confirmed all her judgments. She gave orders about the campaign to destroy the reputation of the missing Berquist, after sending for his dossier; she summoned Commandant Twitchell-of the Special Service Squadrons—he left looking unhappy and made life unbearable for his executive officer. She instructed Sanforth to release another “Man from Mars” stereocast with a rumor “from a source close to the administration” that Smith was about to go, or possibly had gone, to a sanitarium high in the Andes, to provide him with climate as much like Mars as possible. Then she thought about how to nail down Pakistan's votes.

Presently she called her husband and urged him to support Pakistan's claim to a lion's share of the Kashmir thorium. Since he had been wanting to, he was not hard to persuade, although nettled by her assumption that he had been opposing it. With that settled, she left to address the Daughters of the Second Revolution on
Motherhood in the New World.

WHILE MRS. DOUGLAS was speaking freely on a subject she knew little about, Jubal E. Harshaw, LL.B, M.D., Sc.D., bon vivant, gourmet, sybarite, popular author extraordinary, and neo-pessimist philosopher, was sitting by his pool at his home in the Poconos, scratching the grey thatch on his chest, and watching his three secretaries splash in the pool. They were all amazingly beautiful; they were also amazingly good secretaries. In Harshaw's opinion the principle of least action required that utility and beauty be combined.

Anne was blonde, Mirian red-headed, and Dorcas dark; they ranged, respectively, from pleasantly plump to deliciously slender. Their ages spread over fifteen years but it was hard to tell which was the eldest.

Harshaw was working hard. Most of him was watching pretty girls do pretty things with sun and water; one small, shuttered, soundproofed compartment was composing. He claimed that his method of writing was to hook his gonads in parallel with his thalamus and disconnect his cerebrum; his habits lent credibility to the theory.

A microphone on a table was hooked to a voicewriter but he used it only for notes. When he was ready to write he used a stenographer and watched her reactions. He was ready now. “Front!” he shouted.

“Anne is ‘front,' ” answered Dorcas. “I'll take it. That splash was Anne.”

“Dive in and get her.” The brunette cut the water; moments later Anne climbed out, put on a robe and sat down at the table. She said nothing and made no preparations; Anne had total recall.

Harshaw picked up a bucket of ice over which brandy had been poured, took a swig. “Anne, I've got a sick-making one. It's about a little kitten that wanders into a church on Christmas Eve to get warm. Besides being starved and frozen and lost, the kitten has—God knows why—an injured paw. All right; start: ‘Snow had been falling since—' ”

“What pen name?”

“Mmm . . . use ‘Molly Wadsworth'; this one is pretty icky. Title it
The Other Manger.
Start again.” He went on talking while watching her. When tears started to leak from her closed eyes he smiled slightly and closed his own. By the time he finished tears were running down his cheeks as well as hers, both bathed in catharsis of schmaltz.

“Thirty,” he announced. “Blow your nose. Send it off and for God's sake don't let me see it.”

“Jubal, aren't you ever ashamed?”

“No.”

“Someday I'm going to kick you right in your fat stomach for one of these.”

“I know. Get your fanny indoors and take care of it before I change my mind.”

“Yes, Boss.”

She kissed his bald spot as she passed behind his chair. Harshaw yelled, “Front!” and Miriam started toward him. A loudspeaker mounted on the house came to life:

“Boss!”

Harshaw uttered one word and Miriam clucked. He added, “Yes, Larry?”

The speaker answered, “There's a dame down here at the gate—and she's got a
corpse
with her.”

Harshaw considered this. “Is she pretty?”

“Uh . . . yes.”

“Then why are you sucking your thumb? Let her in.” Harshaw sat back. “Start,” he said. “City montage dissolving into medium two-shot interior. A cop is seated in a straight chair, no cap, collar open, face covered with sweat. We see the back of the other figure, depthed between us and cop. Figure raises a hand, bringing it back and almost out of the tank. He slaps the cop with a heavy, meaty sound, dubbed.” Harshaw glanced up and said, “Pick up from there.” A car was rolling up the hill toward the house.

Jill was driving; a young man was beside her. As the car stopped the man jumped out, as if happy to divorce himself from it. “There she is, Jubal.”

“So I see. Good morning, little girl. Larry, where is this corpse?”

“Back seat, Boss. Under a blanket.”

“But it's
not
a corpse,” Jill protested. “It's . . . Ben said that you . . . I mean—” She put her head down and sobbed.

“There, my dear,” Harshaw said gently. “Few corpses are worth tears. Dorcas—Miriam—take care of her. Give her a drink and wash her face.”

He went to the back seat, lifted the blanket. Jill shrugged off Miriam's arm and said shrilly, “You've got to listen! He's not dead. At least I hope not. He's . . . oh dear!” She started to cry again. “I'm so dirty . . . and so scared!”

“Seems to be a corpse,” Harshaw mused. “Body temperature down to air temperature, I judge. Rigor not typical. How long has he been dead?”

“But he's not! Can't we get him out of there? I had an
awful
time getting him in.”

“Surely. Larry, help me—and quit looking green; if you puke, you'll clean it up.” They got Valentine Michael Smith out and laid him on the grass; his body remained stiff, huddled together. Dorcas fetched Dr. Harshaw's stethoscope, set it on the ground, switched it on and stepped up the gain.

Harshaw stuck the headpiece in his ears, started sounding for heart beat. “I'm afraid you're mistaken,” he said gently to Jill. “This one is beyond my help. Who was he?”

Jill sighed. Her face was drained of expression and she answered in a flat voice, “He was the Man from Mars. I tried so hard.”

“I'm sure you did—
the Man from Mars?”

“Yes. Ben . . . Ben Caxton said you were the one to come to.”

“Ben Caxton, eh? I appreciate the confid—
hush!”
Harshaw gestured for silence. He looked puzzled, then surprise burst over his face. “Heart action! I'll be a babbling baboon. Dorcas—upstairs, the clinic—third drawer in the locked part of the cooler; the code is ‘sweet dreams.' Bring the drawer and a one cc. hypo.”

“Right away!”

“Doctor, no stimulants!”

Harshaw turned to Jill. “Eh?”

“I'm sorry, sir. I'm just a nurse . . . but this case is different. I
know.”

“Mmm . . . he's my patient now, nurse. But about forty years ago I found out I wasn't God, and ten years later I discovered I wasn't even Aesculapius. What do you want to try?”

“I want to try to wake him. If you do anything to him, he goes deeper into it.”

“Hmm . . . go ahead. Just don't use an ax. Then we'll try my methods.”

“Yes, sir.” Jill knelt, started trying to straighten Smith's limbs. Harshaw's eyebrows went up when he saw her succeed. Jill took Smith's head in her lap. “Please wake up,” she said softly. “This is your
water brother.”

Slowly the chest lifted. Smith let out a long sigh and his eyes opened. He looked up at Jill and smiled his baby smile. He looked around, the smile left him.