Robert Heinlein - Stranger in a Strange Land

“I’m Jubal Harshaw.”

“I know, brother Jubal. In this way. Mind your step.” They entered the hotel suite of the large, extreme luxury sort, and Jubal was led on into a bedroom with bath; Tim said, “This is yours,” put Jubal’s bag down and left. On the side table Jubal found water, glasses, ice cubes, and a bottle of brandy, opened but untouched. He was unsurprised to find that it was his preferred brand. He mixed himself a quick one, sipped it and sighed, then took off his heavy winter jacket.

A woman came in bearing a tray of sandwiches. She was wearing a plain dress which Jubal took to be the uniform of a hotel chambermaid since it was quite unlike the shorts, scarves, pediskirts, halters, sarongs and other bright-colored ways to display rather than conceal that characterized most females in 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 for him, then checked around by eye in bath and in bedroom. “Is there anything you need, Jubal?”

“Me? Oh, no, everything is just fine. I’ll make a quick cleanup and—is Ben Caxton around?”

“Yes. But he said you would want a bath 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 not plain but pretty, and much younger than the thirtyish Jubal had guessed her to be. “Yes.”

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

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

Jubal recalled that his Japanese friend of the many tattoos had been a bath girl in her teens and would have made—had, many times—the same offer. But Patty was not Japanese and he simply wanted to wash away the sweat and stink and get into clothes suited to the climate. “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 silently and very quickly.

Jubal soaped and dunked himself and refrained from lounging as the warm water invited his tired muscles to do; he wanted to see Ben and find out the score. Shortly he was checking through what Larry had packed for him and grunted with annoyance to find no summerweight slacks. He settled for sandals, shorts, and a bright sport shirt, which made him look like a paint-splashed emu and accented his hairy, thinning legs. But Jubal had ceased worrying about his appearance several decades earlier; it was comfortable and it would do, at least until he needed to go out on the Street… or into court. Did the bar association here have reciprocity with Pennsylvania? He couldn’t recall. Well, it was always possible to act with another attorney-of-record.

He found his way into a large living room, most comfortable but having that impersonal quality of all hotel accommodations. Several people were gathered near the largest stereovision tank Jubal had ever seen outside a theater. One of them 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.”

“He’s been arraigned then. Is the preliminary hearing set?”

Ben smiled. “That’s not quite the way it is, Jubal. Mike is technically a fugitive from justice. He wasn’t released on bail. 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. All the rest of us are presumed dead—and Mike is simply missing. We’re through with this city, so it doesn’t matter in the least. We’ll go someplace else.”

“They’ll extradite him.”

“Never fear. They won’t.”

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

“Oh, he’s right here, a couple of rooms down from you. But he’s withdrawn in meditation. He left word to tell you, when you arrived, to take no action—none. You can talk to him right now if you insist; Jill will call him out of it. But I don’t recommend it. There’s no hurry.”

Jubal thought about it, admitted that he was damnably eager to hear from Mike himself just what the score was—and chew him out for having gotten into such a mess—but admitted, too, that disturbing Mike while he was in a trance was almost certainly much worse than disturbing Jubal himself when he was dictating a story—the boy always came out of his self-hypnosis when he had “grokked the fullness,” whatever that was—and if he hadn’t, then he always needed to go back into it. As pointless as disturbing a hibernating bear.

“All right, I’ll wait. But I want to talk to him when he wakes up.”

“You will. Now relax and be happy. Let the trip get out of your system.” Ben urged him toward the group around the stereo tank.

Anne looked up. “Hello, Boss.” She moved over and made room. “Sit down.”

Jubal joined her. “May I ask what the devil you are doing here?”

“The same thing you’re doing—nothing. Watching stereo. Jubal, please don’t get heavy-handed because we didn’t do what you told us. We belong here as much as you do. You shouldn’t have told us not to come… but you were too upset for us to argue with you. So relax and watch what they’re saying about us. The sheriff has just announced that he’s going to run all us whores out of town.” She smiled. “I’ve never been run out of town before. It should be interesting. Does a whore get ridden on a rail? Or will I have to walk?”

“I don’t think there’s protocol in the matter. You all came?”

“Yes, but don’t fret. Jed McClintock is sleeping in the house. Larry and I made a standing arrangement with the McClintock boys for one of them to do so, more than a year ago—just in case. They know how the furnace works and where the switches are and things; it’s all right.”

“Hmm! I’m beginning to think I’m just a boarder there.”

“Were you ever anything else, Boss? You expect us to run it without bothering you. We do. But it’s a shame you didn’t relax and let us all travel together. We got here more than two hours ago—you must have had some trouble.”

“I did. A terrible trip. Anne, once I get home I don’t intend ever to set foot off the place again in my life… and I’m going to yank out the telephone and take a sledgehammer to the babble box.”

“Yes, Boss.”

“This time I mean it.” He glanced at the giant babble box in front of him. “Do those commercials go on forever? Where’s my goddaughter? Don’t tell me you left her to the mercies of McClintock’s idiot sons!”

“Oh, of course not. She’s here. She even has her own nursemaid, thank God.”

“I want to see her.”

“Patty will show her to you. I’m bored with her—she was a perfect little beast all the way down. Patty dear! Jubal wants to see Abby.”

The tattooed woman checked one of her unhurried dashes through the room—so far as Jubal could see, she was the only one of the several present who was doing any work, and she seemed to be everywhere at once. “Certainly, Jubal. I’m not busy. Down this way.

“I’ve got the kids in my room,” she explained, while Jubal strove to keep up with her, “so that Honey Bun can watch them.”

Jubal was mildly startled to see, a moment later, what Patricia meant by that. The boa was arranged on one of twin double beds in squared-off loops that formed a nest—a twin nest, as one bight of the snake had been pulled across to bisect the square, making two crib-sized pockets, each padded with a baby blanket and each containing a baby.

The ophidian nursemaid raised her head inquiringly as they came in. Patty stroked it and said, “It’s all right, dear. Father Jubal wants to see them. Pet her a little, and let her grok you, so that she will know you next time.”