Stranger in a Strange Land (65 page)

“Eh? No.”

“Didn't know it myself. Michael grokked it, sent me out for X-rays and so forth so that
I
would be sure. Then we got to work on it. ‘Faith' healing. A ‘miracle.' The clinic called it ‘spontaneous remission' which I grok means ‘I got well.' ”

Jubal nodded. “Professional double-talk. Some cancers go away, we don't know why.”

“I know why this one went away. By then I was beginning to control my body. With Mike's help I repaired the damage. Now I can do it without help. Want to feel a heart stop beating?”

“Thanks, I have observed it in Mike. My esteemed colleague, Croaker Nelson, would not be here if what you are talking about was ‘faith healing.' It's voluntary control. I grok.”

“Sorry. We all know that you do.”

“Mmm . . . I can't call Mike a liar because he isn't. But the lad is prejudiced in my case.”

Sam shook his head. “I've been talking with you all through dinner. I wanted to check it myself, despite what Mike said. You grok. I'm wondering what you could disclose if you troubled to learn the language?”

“Nothing. I'm an old man with little to contribute.”

“I reserve my opinion. All the other First Called have had to tackle the language to make any real progress. Even the three you've kept with you have had powerful coaching, kept in trance during most of the few occasions we've had them with us. All but you . . . and you don't need it. Unless you want to wipe spaghetti from your face without a towel, which I grok you aren't interested in.”

“Only to observe it.”

Most had left the table, without formality when they wished. Ruth came over and stood by them. “Are you two going to sit here all night? Or shall we move you out with the dishes?”

“I'm henpecked. Come on, Jubal.” Sam paused to kiss his wife.

They stopped in the room with the stero tank. “Anything new?” asked Sam.

“The county attorney,” someone said, “has been orating that today's disasters are our doing . . . without admitting that he doesn't know how it was done.”

“Poor fellow. He's bitten a wooden leg and his teeth hurt.” They found a quieter room; Sam said, “I had been saying that these troubles can be expected—and will get worse before we will control enough public opinion to be tolerated. But Mike is in no hurry. We close down the Church of All Worlds—it
is
closed. So we move and open the Congregation of the One Faith—and get kicked out again. Then we reopen elsewhere as the Temple of the Great Pyramid—that will bring flocking the fat and fatuous females, and some will end up neither fat nor foolish—and when we have the Medical Association and the local bar and newspapers and politicos snapping at our heels there—why, we open the Brotherhood of Baptism somewhere else. Each one gains a hard core of disciplined who can't be hurt. Mike started less than two years ago, uncertain himself and with only the help of three untrained priestesses. Now we've got a solid Nest . . . plus advanced pilgrims we can get in touch with later. Someday we'll be too strong to persecute.”

“Well,” agreed Jubal, “Jesus made quite a splash with only twelve disciples.”

Sam grinned happily. “A Jew boy. Thanks for mentioning Him. He's the top success story of my tribe—and we all know it, even though many of us don't talk about Him. He was a Jew boy Who made good and I'm proud of Him. Please note that Jesus didn't try to get it all done by Wednesday. He set up a sound organization and let it grow. Mike is patient, too. Patience is so much part of the discipline that it isn't patience; it's automatic. Never any sweat.”

“A sound attitude at any time.”

“Not an attitude. The functioning of discipline. Jubal? I grok you are tired. Would you become untired? Or would you rather go to bed? If you don't our brothers will keep you up all night, talking. We don't sleep much, you know.”

Jubal yawned. “I choose a long, hot soak and eight hours sleep. I'll visit with our brothers tomorrow . . . and other days.”

“And many other days,” agreed Sam.

Jubal found his room, was immediately joined by Patty, who drew his tub, turned back his bed without touching it, placed his setup for drinks by his bed, mixed one and placed it on the shelf of the tub. Jubal did not hurry her out; she had arrived displaying all her pictures. He knew enough about the syndrome which can lead to full tattooing to be sure that if he did not ask to examine them, she would be hurt.

Nor did he feel the fret that Ben had felt on a similar occasion; he undressed—and discovered with wry pride that it did not matter even though it had been years since the last time he had allowed anyone to see him naked. It seemed to matter not at all to Patty; she simply made sure that the tub was just right before letting him step into it.

Then she remained and told him what each picture was and in what sequence to view them.

Jubal was properly awed and appropriately complimentary, while completely the impersonal art critic. It was, he admitted to himself, the goddamndest virtuosity with a needle he had
ever
seen—it made his Japanese friend look like a cheap carpet as compared with the finest Princess Bokhara.

“They've been changing a little,” she told him. “Take the holy brith scene here—that rear wall is beginning to look curved . . . and the bed looks almost like a hospital table. I'm sure George doesn't mind. There hasn't been a needle touched to me since he went to Heaven . . . and if miraculous changes take place, I'm sure he has a finger in it.”

Jubal decided that Patty was dotty but nice . . . he preferred people who were a little dotty; “the salt of the earth” bored him. Not too dotty, he amended; Patty had whisked his discarded clothes into his wardrobe without coming near them. She was probably a clear proof that one didn't have to be sane, whatever that was, to benefit by this discipline; the boy apparently could teach anyone.

He sensed when she was ready to leave and suggested it by asking her to kiss his goddaughters goodnight—he had forgotten. “I was tired, Patty.”

She nodded. “And I am called for dictionary work.” She leaned over and kissed him, warmly but quickly. “I'll take that one to our babies.”

“And a pat for Honey Bun.”

“Yes, of course. She groks you, Jubal. She knows you like snakes.”

“Good. Share water, brother.”

“Thou art God, Jubal.” She was gone. Jubal settled back in the tub, was surprised to find that he was not tired and his bones no longer ached. Patty was a tonic . . . happiness on the hoof. He wished that he had no doubts—then admitted that he didn't want to be anything but himself, old and cranky and self-indulgent.

Finally he soaped and showered and decided to shave so that he wouldn't have to before breakfast. Presently he bolted the door, turned out the overhead light, and got into bed.

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.

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.”