Robert Heinlein - Stranger in a Strange Land

“‘Of course,’” Jubal agreed dryly.

“And of course Dr. Mahmoud has to be near the Secretary General—just back of him, so that he’ll be ready to interpret as needed. I must say you’re not being helpful.”

“I’ll help.” Jubal plucked the paper out of the official’s hand, sat down at the table and studied it. “Mmm… lemme see now. The Man from Mars will sit directly opposite the Secretary General, just about where he happens to be sitting. Then—” Jubal got out a heavy soft pencil and attacked the seating chart. “—this entire half of the main table, from here clear over to here, belongs to the Man from Mars.” Jubal scratched two big black cross marks to show the limits and joined them with a thick black arc, then began scratching out names assigned to seats on that side of the table. “That takes care of half of your work… because I’ll seat anybody who sits on our side of the table.”

The protocol officer was too shocked to talk. His mouth worked but no meaningful noises came out. Jubal looked at him mildly. “Something the matter? Oh—I forgot to make it official.” He scrawled under his amendments: “J. Harshaw for V. M. Smith.” “Now trot back to your top sergeant, son, and show him that. Tell him to check his rule book on official visits from heads of friendly planets.”

The man looked at it, opened his mouth—then left very rapidly without stopping to close it. But he was back very quickly on the heels of another, older man. The newcomer said in a firm, no-nonsense manner, “Dr. Harshaw, I’m LaRue, Chief of Protocol. Do you actually need half the main table? I understood that your delegation was quite small.”

“That’s beside the point.”

LaRue smiled briefly. “I’m afraid it’s not beside the point to me, sir. I’m at my wit’s end for space. Almost every official of first rank in the Federation has elected to be present today. If you are expecting more people—though I do wish you had notified me—I’ll have a table placed behind these two seats reserved for Mr. Smith and yourself.”

“No.”

“I’m afraid that’s the way it must be. I’m sorry.”

“So am I—for you. Because if half the main table is not reserved for the Mars delegation, we are leaving right now. Just tell the Secretary General that you busted up his conference by being rude to the Man from Mars.”

“Surely you don’t mean that?”

“Didn’t you get my message?”

“Uh… well, I took it as a jest. A rather clever one, I admit.”

“Son, I can’t afford to joke at these prices. Smith is either top man from another planet paying an official visit to the top man of this planet—in which case he is entitled to all the side boys and dancing girls you can dig up—or he is just a simple tourist and gets no official courtesies of any sort. You can’t have it both ways. But I suggest that you look around you, count the ‘officials of first rank’ as you called them, and make a quick guess as to whether they would have bothered to show up if, in their minds, Smith is just a tourist.”

LaRue said slowly, “There’s no precedent.”

Jubal snorted. “I saw the Chief of Delegation from the Lunar Republic come in a moment ago—go tell him there’s no precedent. Then duck!—I hear he’s got a quick temper.” He sighed. “But, son, I’m an old man and I had a short night and it’s none of my business to teach you your job. Just tell Mr. Douglas that we’ll see him another day… when he’s ready to receive us properly. Come on, Mike.” He started to roust himself painfully out of his chair.

LaRue said hastily, “No, no, Dr. Harshaw! We’ll clear this side of the table. I’ll—Well, I’ll do something. It’s yours.”

“That’s better.” But Harshaw remained poised to get up. “But where’s the flag of Mars? And how about honors?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”

“Never seen a day when I had so much trouble with plain English. Look—See that Federation Banner back of where the Secretary is going to sit? Where’s the one like it over here, for Mars?”

LaRue blinked. “I must admit you’ve taken me by surprise. I didn’t know the Martians used flags.”

“They don’t. But you couldn’t possibly whop up what they use for high state occasions.” (And neither could I, boy, but that’s beside the point.) “So we’ll let you off easy and take an attempt for the deed. Piece of paper, Miriam—now, like this.” Harshaw drew a rectangle, sketched in it the traditional human symbol for Mars, a circle with an arrow leading out from it to the upper right “Make the field in white and the sigil of Mars in red—should be sewed in bunting of course, but with a clean sheet and a bucket of paint any Boy Scout could improvise one in ten minutes. Were you a Scout?”

“Uh, some time ago.”

“Good. Then you know the Scout’s motto. Now about honors—maybe you’re caught unprepared there, too, eh? You expect to play ‘Hail to Sovereign Peace’ as the Secretary comes in?”

“Oh, we must. It’s obligatory.”

“Then you’ll want to follow it with the anthem for Mars.”

“I don’t see how I can. Even if there were one… we don’t have it. Dr. Harshaw, be reasonable!”

“Look, son, I am being reasonable. We came here for a quiet, small, informal meeting—strictly business. We find you’ve turned it into a circus. Well, if you’re going to have a circus, you’ve got to have elephants and there’s no two ways about it. Now we realize you can’t play Martian music, any more than a boy with a tin whistle can play a symphony. But you can play a symphony—‘The Ten Planets Symphony.’ Grok it? I mean, ‘Do you catch on?’ Have the tape cut in at the beginning of the Mars movement; play that… or enough bars to let the theme be recognized.”

LaRue looked thoughtful. “Yes, I suppose we could—but, Dr. Harshaw, I promised you half the table… but I don’t see how I can promise sovereign honors—the flag and the music—even on this improvised, merely symbolic scale. I—I don’t think I have the authority.”

“Nor the guts,” Harshaw said bitterly. “Well, we didn’t want a circus—so tell Mr. Douglas that we’ll be back when he’s not so busy… and not so many visitors. Been nice chatting with you, son. Be sure to stop by the Secretary’s office and say hello when we come back—if you’re still here.” He again went through the slow, apparently painful act of being a man too old and feeble to get out of a chair easily.

LaRue said, “Dr. Harshaw, please don’t leave! Uh… the Secretary won’t come in until I send word that we are ready for him—so let me see what I can do. Yes?”

Harshaw relaxed with a grunt. “Suit yourself. But one more thing, while you’re here. I heard a ruckus at the main door a moment ago—what I could catch, one of the crew members of the Champion wanted to come in. They’re all friends of Smith, so let ’em in. We’ll accommodate ’em. Help to fill up this side of the table.” Harshaw sighed and rubbed a kidney.

“Very well, sir,” LaRue agreed stiffly and left.

Miriam said out of the corner of her mouth: “Boss—did you sprain your back doing hand stands night before last?”

“Quiet, girl, or I’ll paddle you.” With grim satisfaction Jubal surveyed the room, which was continuing to fill with high officials. He had told Douglas that he wanted a “small, informal” talk—no formality while knowing with utter certainty that the mere announcement of such talks would fetch all the powerful and power-hungry as surely as light attracts moths. And now (he felt sure) Mike was about to be treated as a sovereign by each and every one of those nabobs—with the whole world watching. Just let ’em try to roust the boy around after this!