Robert Heinlein - Stranger in a Strange Land

Smith did not move. Instead he looked puzzled.

“Hurry!” Jill said sharply. “Get in the water.”

The words she used were firmly parts of his human vocabulary and Smith did as she ordered, emotion shaking him. This brother wanted him to place his whole body in the water of life. No such honor had ever come to him; to the best of his knowledge and belief no one had ever before been offered such a holy privilege. Yet he had begun to understand that these others did have greater acquaintance with the stuff of life… a fact not yet grokked but which he had to accept.

He placed one trembling foot in the water, then the other… and slipped slowly down into the tub until the water covered him completely.

“Hey!” yelled Jill, and reached in and dragged his head and shoulders above water—then was shocked to find that she seemed to be handling a corpse. Good Lord! he couldn’t drown, not in that time. But it frightened her and she shook him. “Smith! Wake up! Snap out of it.”

Smith heard his brother call from far away and returned. His eyes ceased to be glazed, his heart speeded up and he resumed breathing. “Are you all right?” Jill demanded.

“I am all right. I am very happy… my brother.”

“You sure scared me. Look, don’t get under the water again. Just sit up, the way you are now.”

“Yes, my brother.” Smith added several words in a curious croaking meaningless to Jill, cupped a handful of water as if it were precious jewels and raised it to his lips. His mouth touched it, then he offered the handful to Jill.

“Hey, don’t drink your bath water! No, I don’t want it, either.”

“Not drink?”

His look of defenseless hurt was such that Jill again did not know what to do. She hesitated, then bent her head and barely touched her lips to the offering. “Thank you.”

“May you never thirst!”

“I hope you are never thirsty, too. But that’s enough. If you want a drink of water, I’ll get you one. But don’t drink any more of this water.”

Smith seemed satisfied and sat quietly. By now Jill was convinced that he had never taken a tub bath before and did not know what was expected of him. She considered the problem. No doubt she could coach him but they were already losing precious time. Maybe she should have let him go dirty.

Oh, well! It was not as bad as tending a disturbed patient in an N.P. ward. She had already got her blouse wet almost to the shoulders in dragging Smith off the bottom; she took it off and hung it up. She had been dressed for the street when she had crushed Smith out of the Center and was wearing a little, pleated pediskirt that floated around her knees. Her jacket she had dropped in the living room. She glanced down at the skirt. Although the pleats were guaranteed permanized, it was silly to get it wet. She shrugged and zipped it off; it left her in brassiere and panties.

Jill looked at Smith. He was staring at her with the innocent, interested eyes of a baby. She found herself blushing, which surprised her, as she had not known that she could. She believed herself to be free of morbid modesty and had no objection to nudity at proper times and places—she recalled suddenly that she had gone on her first bareskin swimming party at fifteen. But this childlike stare from a grown man bothered her; she decided to put up with clammily wet underwear rather than do the obvious, logical thing.

She covered her discomposure with heartiness. “Let’s get busy now and scrub the hide.” She dropped to her knees beside the tub, sprayed soap on him, and started working it into a lather.

Presently Smith reached out and touched her right mammary gland. Jill drew back hastily, almost dropping the sprayer. “Hey! None of that stuff!”

He looked as if she had slapped him. “Not?” he said tragically.

“‘Not,’” she agreed firmly. She looked at his face and added softly. “It’s all right. Just don’t distract me with things like that when I’m busy.”

He took no more inadvertent liberties and Jill cut the bath short, letting the water drain and having him stand up while she showered the soap off him. Then she dressed with a feeling of relief while the blast dried him. The warm air startled him at first and he began to tremble, but she told him not to be afraid and had him hold onto the grab rail back of the tub while he dried and she dressed.

She helped him out of the tub. “There, you smell a lot better and I’ll bet you feel better.”

“Feel fine.”

“Good. Let’s get some clothes on you.” She led him into Ben’s bedroom where she had left the clothes she had selected. But before she could even explain, demonstrate, or assist in getting shorts on him, she was shocked almost out of the shoes she had not yet put back on.

“OPEN UP IN THERE!”

Jill dropped the shorts. She was frightened nearly out of her senses, feeling the same panic she felt when a patient’s respiration stopped and blood pressure dropped in the middle of surgery. But the discipline she had learned in operating theater came to her aid. Did they actually know anyone was inside? Yes, they must know—else they would never have come here. That damned robo-cab must have given her away.

Well, should she answer? Or play ’possum?

The shout over the announcing circuit was repeated. She whispered to Smith, “Stay here!” then went into the living room. “Who is it?” she called out, striving to keep her voice normal.

“Open in the name of the law!”

“Open in the name of what law? Don’t be silly. Tell me who you are and what you want before I call the police.”

“We are the police. Are you Gillian Boardman?”

“Me? Of course not. I’m Phyllis O’Toole and I’m waiting for Mr. Caxton to come home. Now you had better go away, because I’m going to call the police and report an invasion of privacy.”

“Miss Boardman, we have a warrant for your arrest. Open up at once or it will go hard with you.”

“I’m not your ‘Miss Boardman’ and I’m calling the police!”

The voice did not answer. Jill waited, swallowing. Shortly she felt radiant heat against her face. A small area around the door’s lock began to glow red, then white; something crunched and the door slid open. Two men were there; one of them stepped in, grinned at Jill and said, “That’s the babe, all right. Johnson, look around and find him.”

“Okay, Mr. Berquist.”

Jill tried to make a road block of herself. The man called Johnson, twice her mass, put a hand on her shoulder, brushed her aside and went on back toward the bedroom. Jill said shrilly, “Where’s your warrant? Let’s see your credentials—this is an outrage!”

Berquist said soothingly, “Don’t be difficult, sweetheart. We don’t really want you; we just want him. Behave yourself and they might go easy on you.”

She kicked at his shin. He stepped back nimbly, which was just as well, as Jill was still barefooted. “Naughty, naughty,” he chided. “Johnson! You find him?”

“He’s here, Mr. Berquist. And naked as an oyster. Three guesses what they were up to.”

“Never mind that. Bring him here.”

Johnson reappeared, shoving Smith ahead of him, controlling him by twisting one arm behind his back. “He didn’t want to come.”

“He’ll come, he’ll come!”

Jill ducked past Berquist, threw herself at Johnson. With his free hand he slapped her aside. “None of that, you little slut!”

Johnson should not have slapped her. He had not hit her hard, not even as hard as he used to hit his wife before she went home to her parents, and not nearly as hard as he had often hit prisoners who were reluctant to talk. Up to this time Smith had shown no expression at all and had said nothing; he had simply let himself be forced into the room with the passive, futile resistance of a puppy who does not want to be walked on a leash. But he had understood nothing of what was happening and had tried to do nothing at all.