Robert Heinlein - Stranger in a Strange Land

“Please?”

“Mr. Kung, those honors were no hollow echo of the Larkin Decision. In a fashion quite beyond human experience, Mr. Smith is the Planet Mars.”

Kung did not even blink. “Continue.”

“Or, rather, the entire Martian race. In Smith’s person, the Ancient Ones of Mars are visiting us. Honors rendered to him are honors rendered to them—and harm done to him is harm done to them. This is true in a very literal but utterly unhuman sense. It was wise and prudent for us to render honors to our neighbors today—but the wisdom in it has nothing to do with the Larkin Decision. No responsible person has argued that the Larkin precedent applies to an inhabited planet—I venture to say that no one ever will.” Jubal paused and looked up, as if asking Heaven for help. “But, Mr. Kung, be assured that the ancient rulers of Mars do not fail to notice how we treat their ambassador. The honors rendered to them through him were a gracious symbol. I am certain that the government of this planet showed wisdom thereby. In time, you will learn that it was a most prudent act as well.”

Kung answered blandly, “Doctor, if you are trying to frighten me, you have not succeeded.”

“I did not expect to. But, fortunately for the welfare of this planet, your opinion did not control.” Jubal turned back to Douglas. “Mr. Secretary, this is the longest public appearance I have made in years… and I find that I am fatigued. Could we recess these talks? While we await your decision?”

THE MEETING ADJOURNED. Jubal found his intention of getting his flock out of the Palace balked by the presence of the American President and of Senator Boone; both wanted to chat with Mike, both were practical politicians who realized fully the freshly enhanced value of being seen on intimate terms with the Man from Mars—and both were well aware that the eyes of the world, via stereovision, were still on them.

And other hungry politicos were closing in.

Jubal said quickly, “Mr. President, Senator—we’re leaving at once to have lunch. Can you join us?” He reflected that two in private would be easier to handle than two dozen in public—and he had to get Mike out of there before anything came unstuck.

To his relief both had other duties elsewhere. Jubal found himself promising not only to fetch Mike to that obscene Fosterite service but also to bring him to the White House—oh, well, the boy could always get sick, if necessary. “Places, girls.”

With his escort again around him Mike was convoyed to the roof, Anne leading the way since she would remember it—and creating quite a bow wave with her height, her Valkyrie blonde beauty, and her impressive cloak of a Fair Witness. Jubal, Ben, and the three officers from the Champion covered the rear. Larry and the Greyhound bus were waiting on the roof; a few minutes later the driver left them on the roof of the New Mayflower. Newsmen caught up with them there, of course, but the girls guarded Mike on down to the suite Duke had taken earlier. They were becoming quite good at it and were enjoying it; Miriam and Dorcas in particular displayed ferocity that reminded Jubal of a mother cat defending her young—only they made a game of it, keeping score against each other. A reporter that closed within three feet of either of them courted a spiked instep.

They found their corridor patrolled by S.S. troopers and an officer outside the door of their suite.

Jubal’s back hair rose, but he realized (or “hoped,” he corrected himself) that their presence meant that Douglas was carrying out his half of the bargain in full measure. The letter Jubal had sent to Douglas before the conference, explaining what he was going to do and say, and why, had included a plea to Douglas to use his power and influence to protect Mike’s privacy from here on—so that the unfortunate lad could begin to lead a normal life. (If a “normal” life was possible for Mike, Jubal again corrected himself.)

So Jubal merely called out, “Jill! Keep Mike under control. It’s okay.”

“Right, Boss.”

And so it was. The officer at the door simply saluted. Jubal glanced at him, “Well! Howdy, Major. Busted down any doors lately?”

Major Bloch turned red but kept his eyes forward and did not answer. Jubal wondered if the assignment was punishment? No, likely just coincidence; there probably wouldn’t be more than a handful of S.S. officers of appropriate rank available for the chore in this area. Jubal considered rubbing it in by saying that a skunk had wandered in that door and ruined his living room furniture—and what was the major going to do about that? But he decided against it; it would not only be ungracious but untrue—Duke had rigged a temporary closure out of plywood before the party got too wet for such tasks.

Duke was waiting inside. Jubal said, “Sit down, gentlemen. How about it, Duke?”

Duke shrugged. “Who knows? Nobody has bugged this suite since I took it; I guarantee that. I turned down the first suite they offered me, just as you said to, and I picked this one because it’s got a heavy ceiling—the ballroom is above us. And I’ve spent the time since searching the place. But, Boss, I’ve pushed enough electrons to know that any dump can be bugged, so that you can’t find it without tearing the building down.”

“Fine, fine—but I didn’t mean that. They can’t keep a hotel this big bugged throughout just on the chance that we might take a room in it—at least, I don’t think they can. I mean, ‘How about the supplies?’ I’m hungry, boy, and very thirsty—and we’ve three more for lunch.”

“Oh, that. That stuff was unloaded under my eyes, carried down the same way, placed just inside the door; I put it all in the pantry. You’ve got a suspicious nature, Boss.”

“I sure have—and you’d better acquire one if you want to live as long as I have.” Jubal had just trusted Douglas with a fortune equivalent to a medium-sized national debt—but he had not assumed that Douglas’ overeager lieutenants would not tamper with food and drink. So to avoid the services of a food taster he had fetched all the way from the Poconos plenty of food, more than a plenty of liquor—and a little water. And, of course, ice cubes. He wondered how Caesar had licked the Gauls without ice cubes.

“I don’t hanker to,” Duke answered.

“Matter of taste. I’ve had a pretty good time, on the whole. Get crackin’, girls. Anne, douse your cloak and get useful. First girl back in here with a drink for me skips her next turn at ‘Front.’ After our guests, I mean. Do please sit down, gentlemen. Sven, what’s your favorite poison? Akvavit, I suppose—Larry, tear down, find a liquor store and fetch back a couple of bottles of akvavit. Fetch Bols gin for the captain, too.”

“Hold it, Jubal,” Nelson said firmly. “I won’t touch akvavit unless it’s chilled overnight—and I’d rather have Scotch.”

“Me, too,” agreed van Tromp.

“All right. Got enough of that to drown a horse. Dr. Mahmoud? If you prefer soft drinks, I’m pretty sure the girls tucked some in.”

Mahmoud looked wistful. “I should not allow myself to be tempted by strong drink.”

“No need to be. Let me prescribe for you, as a physician.” Jubal looked him over. “Son, you look as if you had been under considerable nervous strain. Now we could alleviate that with meprobamate but since we don’t have that at hand, I’m forced to substitute two ounces of ninety proof ethanol, repeat as needed. Any particular flavor you prefer to kill the medicinal taste? And with or without bubbles?”

Mahmoud smiled and suddenly did not look at all English. “Thank you, Doctor—but I’ll sin my own sins, with my eyes open. Gin, please, with water on the side. Or vodka. Or whatever is available.”