Robert Heinlein - Stranger in a Strange Land

“Huh? Why?”

“The Larkin Decision might not apply. Luna was uninhabited, but Mars is inhabited—by Martians. At the moment, Martians are a legal zero. But the High Court might take a look at the political situation, stare at its collective navel, and decide that human occupancy meant nothing on a planet already inhabited by non-human natives. Then rights on Mars, if any, would have to be secured from the Martians themselves.”

“But, Ben, that would logically be the case anyhow. This notion of a single man owning a planet… it’s fantastic!”

“Don’t use that word to a lawyer; he won’t understand you. Straining at gnats and swallowing camels is a required course in all law schools. Besides, there is a case in point. In the fifteenth century the Pope deeded the entire western hemisphere to Spain and Portugal and nobody paid the slightest attention to the fact that the real estate was already occupied by several million Indians with their own laws, customs, and notions of property rights. His grant deed was pretty effective, too. Take a look at a western hemisphere map sometime and notice where Spanish is spoken and where Portuguese is spoken—and see how much land the Indians have left.”

“Yes, but—Ben, this isn’t the fifteenth century.”

“It is to a lawyer. They still cite Blackwell, Code Napoleon, or even the laws of Justinian. Mark it down, Jill; if the High Court rules that the Larkin Decision applies, Smith is in a position to grant or withhold concessions on Mars which may be worth millions, or more likely billions. If he assigns his claim to the present administration, then Secretary Douglas is the man who will hand out the plums. Which is just what Douglas is trying to rig. You saw that bug transcript.”

“Ben, why should anybody want that sort of power?”

“Why does a moth fly toward a light? The drive for power is even less logical than the sex urge… and stronger. But I said this was a two-part question. Smith’s financial holdings are almost as important as his special position as nominal king—emperor of Mars. Possibly more important, for a High Court decision could knock out his squatter’s rights on Mars but I doubt if anything could shake his ownership of the Lyle Drive and a major chunk of Lunar Enterprises; the eight wills are a matter of public record—and in the three most important cases he inherits with or without a will. What happens if he dies? I don’t know. A thousand alleged cousins would pop up, of course, but the Science Foundation has fought off a lot of such money-hungry vermin in the past twenty years. It seems possible that, if Smith dies without making a will, his enormous fortune will revert to the state.”

“‘The state?’ Do you mean the Federation or the United States?”

“Another very good question to which I do not know the answer. His natural parents come from two different member countries of the Federation and he was born outside all of them… and it is going to make a crucial difference to some people who votes those blocks of stock and who licenses those patents. It won’t be Smith; he won’t know a stock proxy from a traffic ticket. It is likely to be whoever can grab him and hang onto him. In the meantime I doubt if Lloyd’s would write a policy on his life; he strikes me as a very poor risk.”

“The poor baby! The poor, poor infant!”

THE RESTAURANT IN HAGERSTOWN had “atmosphere” as well as good food, which meant that it had tables scattered not only over a lawn leading down to the edge of a little lake but also had tables in the boughs of three enormous old trees. Over all was a force field roof which kept the outdoors dining area perpetually summer even in rain and snow.

Jill wanted to eat up in the trees, but Ben ignored her and bribed the maître d’hôtel to set up a table near the water in a spot of his choice, then ordered a portable stereo tank placed by their table.

Jill was miffed. “Ben, why bother to come here and pay these prices if we can’t eat in the trees and have to endure that horrible jitterbox?”

“Patience, little one. The tables up in the trees all have microphone circuits; they have to have them for service. This table is not gimmicked—I hope—as I saw the waiter take it from a stack of unused ones. As for the tank, not only is it un-American and probably subversive to eat without watching stereo but also the racket from it would interfere even with a directional mike aimed at us from a distance… assuming that Mr. Douglas’s investigators are beginning to take an interest in us, which I misdoubt they are.”

“Do you really think they might be shadowing us, Ben?” Jill shivered. “I don’t think I’m cut out for a life of crime.”

“Pish and likewise tush! When I was working on the General Synthetics bribery scandals I never slept twice in the same place and ate nothing but packaged food I had bought myself. After a while you get to like it—stimulates the metabolism.”

“My metabolism doesn’t need it, thank you. All I require is one elderly, wealthy private patient.”

“Not going to marry me, Jill?”

“After my future husband kicks off, yes. Or maybe I’ll be so rich I can afford to keep you as a pet.”

“Best offer I’ve had in months. How about starting tonight?”

“After he kicks off.”

During their cocktails the musical show plus lavish commercials which had been banging their eardrums from the stereo tank suddenly stopped. An announcer’s head and shoulders filled the tank; he smiled sincerely and said, “NWNW, New World Networks and its sponsor of the hour, Wise Girl Maithusian Lozenges, is honored and privileged to surrender the next few minutes to a special, history-making broadcast by the Federation Government. Remember, friends, every wise girl uses Wise Girls. Easy to carry, pleasant to take, guaranteed no-fail, and approved for sale without prescription under Public Law 1312. Why take a chance on old-fashioned, unesthetic, harmful, unsure methods? Why risk losing his love and respect? Remember—” The lovely, lupine announcer glanced aside and hurried through the rest of his commercial: “I give you the Wise Girl, who in turn brings you the Secretary General—and the Man from Mars!”

The 3-D picture dissolved into that of a young woman, so sensuous, so unbelievably mammalian, so seductive, as to make every male who saw her unsatisfied with local talent. She stretched and wiggled and said in a bedroom voice, “I always use Wise Girl.”

The picture dissolved and a full orchestra played the opening bars of Hail to Sovereign Peace. Ben said, “Do you use Wise Girl?”

“None o’ your business!” She looked ruffled and added, “It’s a quack nostrum. Anyhow, what makes you think I need it?”

Caxton did not answer; the tank had filled with the fatherly features of Mr. Secretary General Douglas. “Friends,” he began, “fellow citizens of the Federation, I have tonight a unique honor and privilege. Since the triumphant return of our trail-blazing ship Champion—” He continued in a few thousand well-chosen words to congratulate the citizens of Earth on their successful contact with another planet, another civilized race. He managed to imply that the exploit of the Champion was the personal accomplishment of every citizen of the Federation, that any one of them could have led the expedition had he not been busy with other serious work—and that he, Secretary Douglas, had been chosen by them as their humble instrument to work their will. The flattering notions were never stated baldly, but implied; the underlying assumption being that the common man was the equal of anyone and better than most—and that good old Joe Douglas embodied the common man. Even his mussed cravat and cowlicked hair had a “just folks” quality.