Robert Heinlein: Stranger in a Strange Land

“And I thought so, too, at first. I led them to think so. But, Jubal, I had missed a key point: Humans are not Martians. I made this mistake again and again—corrected myself… and still made it. What works perfectly for Martians does not necessarily work for humans. Oh, the conceptual logic which can be stated only in Martian does work for both races. The logic is invariant… but the data are different. So the results are different.”

“I couldn’t see why, if people were hungry, some of them didn’t volunteer to be butchered so that the rest could eat… on Mars this is obvious—and an honor. I couldn’t understand why babies were so prized. On Mars our two little girls in there would simply be dumped outdoors, to live or to die—and on Mars nine out of ten nymphs die their first season. My logic was right but I had misread the data: here babies do not compete but adults do; on Mars adults don’t compete at all, they’ve been weeded out as babies. But one way or another, competing and weeding has to take place… or a race goes down hill.

“But whether or not I was wrong in trying to take the competition out at both ends, I have lately begun to grok that the human race won’t let me, no matter what.”

Duke stuck his head into the room. “Mike? Have you been watching outside? There is quite a crowd gathering around the hotel.”

“I know,” agreed Mike. “Tell the others that waiting has not filled.” He went on to Jubal, “‘Thou art God.’ It’s not a message of cheer and hope, Jubal. It’s a defiance—and an unafraid unabashed assumption of personal responsibility.” He looked sad. “But I rarely put it over. A very few, so far just these few here with us today, our brothers, understood me and accepted the bitter half along with the sweet, stood up and drank it—grokked it. The others, the hundreds and thousands of others, either insisted on treating it as a prize without a contest—a ‘conversion’… or ignored it entirely. No matter what I said they insisted on thinking of God as something outside themselves. Something that yearns to take every indolent moron to His breast and comfort him. The notion that the effort has to be their own… and that all the trouble they are in is of their own doing… is one that they can’t or won’t entertain.”

The Man from Mars shook his head. “And my failures are so much more numerous than my successes that I am beginning to wonder if full grokking will show that I am on the wrong track entirely—that this race must be split up, hating each other, fighting each other, constantly unhappy and at war even with their own individual selves… simply to have that weeding out that every race must have. Tell me, Father? You must tell me.”

“Mike, what in hell ever led you to believe that I was infallible?”

“Perhaps you are not. But every time I have needed to know something, you have always been able to tell me—and fullness always showed that you spoke rightly.”

“Damn it, I refuse this apotheosis! But I do see one thing, son. You are the one who has urged everyone else never to be in a hurry—‘waiting will fill,’ you say.”

“That is right.”

“And now you are violating your own prime rule. You have waited only a little while—a very short while by Martian standards, I take it—and already you want to throw in the towel. You’ve proved that your system can work for a small group—and I’m glad to confirm it; I’ve never seen such happy, healthy, cheerful people. That ought to be enough to suit you for the short time you’ve put in. Come back when you have a thousand times this number, all working and happy and unjealous, and we’ll talk it over again. Fair enough?”

“You speak rightly, Father.”

“But I ain’t through. You’ve been fretting that maybe the fact that you failed to hook more than ninety-nine out of a hundred was because the race couldn’t get along without its present evils, had to have them for weeding out. But damn it, lad, you’ve been doing the weeding out—or rather, the failures have been doing it to themselves by not listening to you. Had you planned to eliminate money and property?”

“Oh, no! Inside the Nest we don’t need it, but—”

“Nor does any family that’s working well. Yours is just bigger. But outside you need it in dealing with other people. Sam tells me that our brothers, instead of getting unworldly, are slicker with money than ever. Is that right?”

“Oh, yes. Making money is a simple trick, once you grok.”

“You’ve just added a new beatitude: ‘Blessed is the rich in spirit, for he shall make dough.’ How do our people stack up in other fields? Better or worse than average?”

“Oh, better, of course—if it’s anything worth grokking at all. You see, Jubal, it’s not a faith; the discipline is simply a method of efficient functioning at any activity you try.”

“That’s your whole answer, son. If what you say is true—and I’m not judging; I’m asking, you’re answering—then that’s all the competition you need… and a fairly one-sided race, too. If one tenth of one percent of the population is capable of getting the news, then all you have to do is show them—and in a matter of some generations all the stupid ones will die out and those with your discipline will inherit the Earth. Whenever that is—a thousand years from now, or ten thousand—will be plenty soon enough to worry about whether some new hurdle is necessary to make them jump higher. But don’t go getting faint-hearted because only a handful have turned into angels overnight. Personally, I never expected any of them to manage it. I simply thought you were making a damn fool of yourself by pretending to be a preacher.”

Mike sighed and smiled. “I was beginning to be afraid I was—worrying that I had let my brothers down.”

“I still wish you had called it ‘Cosmic Halitosis’ or some such. But the name doesn’t matter. If you’ve got the truth, you can demonstrate it. Show people. Talking about it doesn’t prove it.”

The Man from Mars stood up. “You’ve got me all squared away, Father. I’m ready now. I grok the fullness.” He looked toward the doorway. “Yes, Patty. I heard you. The waiting is ended.”

“Yes, Michael.”

JUBAL AND THE MAN FROM MARS strolled slowly into the living room with the big stereo tank. Apparently the entire Nest was gathered, watching it. It showed a dense and turbulent crowd, somewhat restrained by policemen. Mike glanced at it and looked serenely happy. “They come. Now is the fullness.” The sense of ecstatic expectancy Jubal had felt growing ever since his arrival swelled greatly, but no one moved.

“It’s a mighty big tip, sweetheart,” Jill agreed.

“And ready to turn,” added Patty.

“I’d better dress for it,” Mike commented. “Have I got any clothes around this dump? Patty?”

“Right away, Michael.”

Jubal said, “Son, that mob looks pretty ugly to me. Are you sure this is any time to tackle them?”

“Oh, sure,” said Mike. “They’ve come to see me… so now I go down to meet them.” He paused while some clothing got out of the way of his face; he was being dressed at break-neck speed with the unnecessary help of several women—unnecessary as each garment seemed to know where to go and how to drape itself. “This job has its obligations as well as its privileges—the star has to show up for the show… grok me? The marks expect it.”

Duke said, “Mike knows what he’s doing, Boss.”

“Well… I don’t trust mobs.”

“That crowd is mostly curiosity seekers, they always are. Oh, there are some Fosterites and some others with grudges—but Mike can handle any crowd. You’ll see. Right, Mike?”