Stranger in a Strange Land (61 page)

“Jubal . . . you've made me cry. And you've almost made me forget what I was saying. And I must say it. Mike would never hurry you, you know that. I grok he is waiting for fullness—and I grok you are, too.”

“Mmm . . . I grok you speak rightly.”

“All right. I think you are especially glum today because Mike has been arrested again. But that's happened many—”

“‘Arrested?' I hadn't heard about this!” He added. “Damn it, girl—”

“Jubal, Jubal! Ben hasn't called; that's all we need to know. You know how many times Mike has been arrested—in the army, as a carnie, other places—half a dozen times as a preacher. He never hurts anybody; he lets them do it. They can never convict him and he gets out as soon as he wishes.”

“What is it this time?”

“Oh, the usual nonsense—public lewdness, statutory rape, conspiracy to defraud, keeping a disorderly house, contributing to the delinquency of minors, conspiracy to evade truancy laws—”

“Huh?”

“Their license to operate a parochial school was canceled; the kids didn't go back to public school. No matter, Jubal—none of it matters. The one thing they are technically guilty of can't be proved. Jubal, if you had seen the Nest you would know that even the F.D.S. couldn't sneak a spy-eye into it. So relax. After a lot of publicity, charges will be dropped—and crowds will be bigger than ever.”

“Hmm! Anne, does Mike rig these persecutions himself?”

She looked startled. “Why, I never considered the possibility, Jubal. Mike can't lie, you know.”

“Does it involve lying? Suppose he planted true rumors? But ones that can't be proved in court?”

“Do you think Michael would do that?”

“I don't know. I do know that the slickest way to lie is to tell the right amount of truth—then shut up. It wouldn't be the first time that persecution has been courted for its headline value. All right, I'll forget it unless it turns out he can't handle it. Are you still ‘Front'?”

“If you can refrain from chucking Abby under the chin and saying cootchy-coo and similar uncommercial noises, I'll fetch her. Otherwise I had better tell Dorcas to get up.”

“Bring in Abby. I'm going to make an honest effort to make commercial noises—a brand-new plot, known as boy-meets-girl.”

“Say, that's a
good
one, Boss! I wonder why nobody thought of it before? Half a sec—” She hurried out.

Jubal did restrain himself—less than one minute of uncommercial activity, just enough to invoke Abigail's heavenly smile, then Anne settled back and let the infant nurse. “Title:” he began. “‘Girls Are Like Boys, Only More So.' Begin. Henry M. Haversham Fourth had been carefully reared. He believed that there were only two kinds of girls: those in his presence and those who were not. He vastly preferred the latter sort, especially when they stayed that way. Paragraph. He had not been introduced to the young lady who fell into his lap, and he did not consider a common disaster as equivalent to a formal intro—' What the hell do
you
want?”

“Boss—” said Larry.

“Get out, close the door, and—”

“Boss!
Mike's church has burned down!”

They made a disorderly rout for Larry's room, Jubal a half length behind Larry at the turn, Anne with eleven pounds up closing rapidly. Dorcas trailed through being late out the gate; the racket wakened her.

“—midnight last night. You are viewing what was the main entrance of the cult's temple, as it appeared immediately after the explosion. This is your Neighborly Newsman for New World Networks with your midmorning roundup. Stay switched to this pitch for dirt that's alert. And now a moment for your sponsor—” The scene shimmered out and medclose shot of a lovely housewife replaced, with dolly-in.

“Damn! Larry, unplug that contraption and wheel it into the study. Anne—no, Dorcas. Phone Ben.”

Anne protested, “You know the Temple never had a telephone. How can she?”

“Then have somebody chase over and—no, the Temple wouldn't have anybody—uh, call the police chief there. No, the district attorney. The last you heard Mike was in jail?”

“That's right.”

“I hope he still is—and the others, too.”

“So do I. Dorcas, take Abby. I'll do it.”

As they returned to the study the phone was signalling, demanding hush & scramble. Jubal cursed and set the combo, intending to blast whoever it was off the frequency.

It was Ben Caxton. “Hi, Jubal.”

“Ben! What the hell is the situation?”

“I see you've had the news. That's why I called. Everything is under control.”

“What about the fire? Anybody hurt?”

“No damage. Mike says to tell you—”

“No
damage?
I just saw a shot of it; it looked like a total—”

“Oh, that—” Ben shrugged. “Jubal, please listen. I've got other calls to make. You aren't the only person who needs reassurance. But Mike said to call you first.”

“Uh . . . very well, sir.”

“Nobody hurt, nobody even scorched. Oh, a couple of million in property damage. The place was choked with experiences; Mike planned to abandon it soon. Yes, it was fireproof—but anything will burn with enough gasoline and dynamite.”

“Incendiary job, huh?”

“Please Jubal. They had arrested eight of us—all they could catch of the Ninth Circle, John Doe warrants, mostly. Mike had us bailed out in a couple of hours, except himself. He's in the hoosegow—”

“I'll be right there!”

“Take it easy. Mike says for you to come if you want to, but there is no need for it. I agree. The fire was set last night while the Temple was empty, everything canceled because of the arrests—empty, that is, except for the Nest. All of us in town, except Mike, were in the Innermost Temple, holding a Sharing-Water in his honor, when the explosion and fire were set off. So we adjourned to an emergency Nest.”

“From the looks of it, you were lucky to get out.”

“We were cut off, Jubal. We're all dead—”

“We're all listed as dead or missing. You see, nobody left the building after that holocaust started . . . by any known exit.”

“Uh . . . a ‘priest's hole'?”

“Jubal, Mike has methods for such things—and I'm not going to discuss them over the phone.”

“You said he was in jail?”

“So I did. He still is.”

“But—”

“That's enough. If you come, don't go to the Temple. It's kaput. I'm not going to tell you where we are . . . and I'm not calling from there. If you come—and I see no point in it; there's nothing you can do—just come as you ordinarily would—we'll find you.”

“But—”

“That's all. Good-by. Anne, Dorcas, Larry—and you, too, Jubal, and the baby. Share water. Thou art God.” The screen went blank.

Jubal swore. “I knew it! That's what comes of mucking around with religion. Dorcas, get me a taxi. Anne—no, finish feeding your child. Larry, pack me a bag. Anne, I'll want most of the iron money and Larry can go tomorrow and replenish the supply.”

“Boss,” protested Larry, “we're
all
going.”

“Certainly we are,” Anne agreed crisply.

“Pipe down, Anne. Close your mouth, Dorcas. This is not a time when women have the vote. That city is the firing line and anything can happen. Larry, you stay here and protect two women and a baby. Forget about going to the bank; you won't need cash because none of you is to stir off the place until I'm back. Somebody is playing rough and there is enough hook-up between this house and that church that they might play rough here, too. Larry, flood lights all night, heat up the fence, don't hesitate to shoot. And don't be slow about getting everybody into the vault if necessary—put Abby's crib there at once. Now get with it—I've got to change clothes.”

Thirty minutes later Jubal was alone in his suite. Larry called up, “Boss! Taxi landing.”

“Be right down,” he called back, then turned to look at the Fallen Caryatid. His eyes were filled with tears. He said softly, “You tried, didn't you, youngster? But that stone was always too heavy . . . too heavy for anyone.”

Gently he touched a hand of the crumpled figure, turned and left.

THE TAXI did what Jubal expected of machinery, developed trouble and homed for maintenance. Jubal wound up in New York, farther from his goal than ever. He found that he could make better time by commercial schedule than by any available charter. He arrived hours late, having spent the time cooped up with strangers, and watching stereo.

He saw an insert of Supreme Bishop Short proclaiming a holy war against the antichrist, i.e., Mike, and he saw many shots of an utterly ruined building—he failed to see how any had escaped alive. Augustus Greaves viewed with alarm everything about it . . . but pointed out that, in every spite-fence quarrel, one neighbor supplies the incitements—and in his weasel-worded opinion, the so-called Man from Mars was at fault.

At last Jubal stood on a municipal landing flat—sweltering in winter clothes, noted that palm trees still looked like a poor grade of feather duster, regarded bleakly the sea beyond, thinking that it was a dirty unstable mass contaminated with grapefruit shells and human excrement—and wondered what to do.

A man wearing a uniform cap approached. “Taxi, sir?”

“Uh, yes.” He could go to a hotel, call in the press, and give an interview that would publicize his whereabouts.

“This way, sir.” The cabby led him to a battered Yellow Cab. As he put his bag in after Jubal, he said quietly, “I offer you water.”

“Eh? Never thirst.”

“Thou art God.” The cab pilot sealed the door and got into his own compartment.

They wound up on one wing of a big beach hotel—a private four-car space, the hotel's landing flat being on another wing. The pilot set the cab to home-in alone, took Jubal's bag and escorted him in. “You couldn't have come in via the lobby,” he said, “as the foyer on this floor is filled with cobras. So if you go down to the street, be sure to ask somebody. Me, or anybody—I'm Tim.”

“I'm Jubal Harshaw.”

“I know, Brother Jubal. In this way. Mind your step.” They entered a suite of the large, extreme luxury sort, and on into a bedroom with bath; Tim said, “This is yours,” put Jubal's bag down and left. On a table Jubal found water, glasses, ice cubes, and brandy—his preferred brand. He mixed himself a quick one, sipped it and sighed, took off his winter jacket.

A woman came in bearing a tray of sandwiches. Her dress Jubal took to be the uniform of a hotel chambermaid since it was unlike the shorts, halters, sarongs and other ways to display rather than conceal that characterized this resort. But she smiled at him, said, “Drink deep and never thirst, our brother,” put the tray down, went into his bath and started a tub, then checked around in bath and in bedroom. “Is there anything you need, Jubal?”

“Me? Oh, no, everything is fine. Is Ben Caxton around?”

“Yes. He said you would want to bathe and get comfortable first. If you want anything, just say so. Ask anyone. Or ask for me. I'm Patty.”

“
Oh!
The Life of Archangel Foster.”

She dimpled and suddenly was much younger than the thirtyish Jubal had guessed. “Yes.”

“I'd like very much to see it. I'm interested in religious art.”

“Now? No, I grok you want your bath. Unless you'd like help?”

Jubal recalled that his tattooed Japanese friend had made, many times, the same offer. But he simply wanted to wash away the stink and get into summer clothes. “No, thank you, Patty. But I do want to see them, at your convenience.”

“Any time. There's no hurry.” She left, unhurried but moving very quickly.

Jubal refrained from lounging. Shortly he was checking through what Larry had packed and grunted with annoyance to find no summer-weight slacks. He settled for sandals, shorts, and a bright shirt, which made him look like a paint-splashed emu and accented his hairy, thinning legs. But Jubal had ceased worrying about such decades earlier; it would do, until he needed to go out on the street . . . or into court. Did the bar association here have reciprocity with Pennsylvania?

He found his way into a large living room having that impersonal quality of hotel accommodations. Several people were watching the largest stereovision tank Jubal had ever seen outside a theater. One glanced up, said, “Hi, Jubal,” and came toward him.

“Hi, Ben. What's the situation? Is Mike still in jail?”

“Oh, no. He got out shortly after I talked to you.”

“Is the preliminary hearing set?”

Ben smiled. “It's not that way, Jubal. Mike wasn't released, he escaped.”

Jubal looked disgusted. “What a silly thing to do. Now the case will be eight times as difficult.”

“Jubal, I told you not to worry. The rest of us are presumed dead—and Mike is missing. We're through with this city, it doesn't matter. We'll go elsewhere.”

“They'll extradite him.”

“Never fear. They won't.”

“Well . . . where is he? I must talk to him.”

“He's a couple of rooms down from you. But he's withdrawn in meditation. He left word to tell you to take no action. You can talk to him if you insist; Jill will call him out of it. But I don't recommend it. There's no hurry.”

Jubal was damnably eager to talk to Mike—and chew him out for getting into such a mess—but disturbing Mike while in trance was worse than disturbing Jubal himself when dictating a story—the boy always came out of self-hypnosis when he had “grokked the fullness,” whatever that was—or if he hadn't, then he needed to go back into it. As pointless as disturbing a hibernating bear.