Robert Heinlein - Stranger in a Strange Land

“Yes, Jubal.”

“What?”

“I have read,” Mike recited carefully, “three more volumes of the Encyclopedia, Maryb to Mushe, Mushr to Ozon, P to Planti. You have told me not to read too much of the Encyclopedia at one reading, so I then stopped. I then read the Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet by Master William Shakespeare of London. I then read the Memoirs of Jacques Casanova de Seingait as translated into English by Arthur Machen. I then read The Art of Cross-Examination by Francis Weilman. I then tried to grok what I had read until Jill told me that I must come to breakfast.”

“And did you grok it?”

Smith looked troubled. “Jubal, I do not know.”

“Is anything bothering you, Mike?”

“I do not grok all fullness of what I read. In the history written by Master William Shakespeare I found myself full of happiness at the death of Romeo. Then I read on and learned that he had discorporated too soon—or so I thought I grokked. Why?”

“He was a blithering young idiot.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I don’t know, Mike.”

Smith considered this. Then he muttered something in Martian and added, “I am only an egg.”

“Eh? You usually say that when you want to ask a favor, Mike. What is it this time? Speak up.”

Smith hesitated. Then he blurted out, “Jubal my brother, would please you ask Romeo why he discorporated? I cannot ask him; I am only an egg. But you can—and then you could teach me the grokking of it.”

For the next several minutes the conversation became very tangled. Jubal saw at once that Mike believed that Romeo of Montague had been a living, breathing person, and Jubal managed with no special shock to his own concepts to realize that Mike expected him to be able, somehow, to conjure up Romeo’s ghost and demand of him explanations for his conduct when in the flesh.

But to get over to Mike the idea that none of the Capulets and Montagues had ever had any sort of corporate existence was another matter. The concept of fiction was nowhere in Mike’s experience; there was nothing on which it could rest, and Jubal’s attempts to explain the idea were so emotionally upsetting to Mike that Jill was afraid that he was about to roll up into a ball and withdraw himself.

But Mike himself saw how perilously close he was coming to that necessity and he had already learned that he must not resort to this refuge in the presence of his friends, because (with the exception of his brother Doctor Nelson) it always caused them emotional disturbance. So he made a mighty effort, slowed down his heart, calmed his emotions, and smiled. “I will waiting till a grokking comes of itself.”

“That’s better,” agreed Jubal. “But hereafter, before you read anything, ask me or ask Jill, or somebody, whether or not it is fiction. I don’t want you to get mixed up.”

“I will ask, Jubal.” Mike decided that, when he did grok this strange idea, that he must report the fullness to the Old Ones… and suddenly found himself wondering if the Old Ones knew about “fiction.” The completely incredible idea that there might be something which was as strange to the Old Ones as it was to himself was so much more revolutionary (indeed heretically so) than the sufficiently weird concept of fiction that he hastily put it aside to cool, saved it for future deep contemplation.

“—but I didn’t,” his brother Jubal was saying, “call you in here to discuss literary forms. Mike, you remember the day that Jill took you away from the hospital?”

“‘Hospital’?” Mike repeated.

“I’m not sure, Jubal,” Jill interrupted, “that Mike ever knew that it was a hospital—at least I never told him it was one. Let me try it.”

“Go ahead.”

“Mike, you remember the place where you were, where you lived alone in a room, before I dressed you and took you away.”

“Yes, Jill.’’

“Then we went to another place and I undressed you and gave you a bath.”

Smith smiled in pleased recollection. “Yes. It was a great happiness.”

“Then I dried you off—and then two men came.”

Smith’s smile wiped away. He relived that critical cusp of decision and the horror of his discovery that, somehow, he had chosen wrong action and hurt his water brother. He began to tremble and huddle into himself.

Jill said loudly, “Mike! Stop it! Stop it at once! Don’t you dare go away!”

Mike took control of his being and did what his water brother required of him. “Yes, Jill,” he agreed.

“Listen to me, Mike. I want you to think about that time—but you mustn’t get upset or go away. Just remember it. There were two men there. One of them pulled you out into the living room.”

“The room with the joyful grasses on the floor,” he agreed.

“That’s right. He pulled you out into the room with the grass on the floor and I tried to stop him. He hit me. Then he was gone. You remember?”

“You are not angry?”

“What? No, no, not at all. But I was frightened. One man disappeared, then the other one pointed a gun at me—and then he was gone, too. I was very frightened—but I was not angry.”

“You are not angry with me now?”

“Mike, dear—I have never been angry with you. But sometimes I have been frightened. I was frightened that time—but I am not afraid now. Jubal and I want to know what happened. Those two men were there, in that room with us. And then you did something… and they were gone. You did it twice. What was it you did? Can you tell us?”

“Yes, I will tell you. The man—the big man—hit you… and I was frightened, too. So I—” He croaked a phrase in Martian, then looked puzzled. “I do not know words.”

Jubal said, “Mike, can you use a lot of words and explain it a little at a time?”

“I will try, Jubal. Something is there, in front of me. It is a wrong thing and it must not be there. It must go. So I reach out and—” He stopped again and looked perplexed. “It is such a simple thing, such an easy thing. Anyone can do it. Tying shoe laces is much more hard. But the words not are. I am very sorry. I will learn more words.” He considered it. “Perhaps the words are in Plants to Raym, or Rayn to Sarr, or Sars to Sorc. I will read them tonight and tell you at breakfast.”

“Maybe,” Jubal admitted. “Just a minute, Mike.” He got up from his desk, went to a corner and returned with a large carton which had lately contained twelve fifths of brandy. “Can you make this go away?”

“This is a wrong thing and it must not be here?”

“Well, assume that it is.”

“But—Jubal, I must know that it is a wrong thing. This is a box. I do not grok that it exists wrongly.”

“Mmm—I see. I think I see. Suppose I picked up this box and threw it at Jill’s head? Threw it hard, so that it would hurt her?”

Smith said with gentle sadness, “Jubal, you would not do that to Jill.”

“Uh… damn it. I guess I wouldn’t. Jill, will you throw the box at me? Good and hard—a scalp wound at least, if Mike can’t protect me.”

“Jubal, I don’t like the idea much better than you do.”

“Oh, come on! In the interest of science… and Ben Caxton.”

“But—” Jill jumped up suddenly, grabbed the box, threw it right at Jubal’s head. Jubal intended to stand and take it—but instinct and habit won out; he ducked.

“Missed me,” he said. “But where is it?” He looked around. “Confound it, I wasn’t watching. I meant to keep my eyes right on it.” He looked at Smith. “Mike, is that the way—what’s the matter, boy?”

The Man from Mars was trembling and looking unhappy. Jill hurried to him and put her arms around his shoulders. “There, there, it’s all right, dear! You did it beautifully—whatever it is. It never touched Jubal. It simply vanished.”