Robert Heinlein - Stranger in a Strange Land

“The black widow can’t help it, it has no way to avoid its venomous power.

“Mike is in the same dilemma. He isn’t as pretty as a black widow spider—”

“Why, Jubal!” Dorcas said indignantly. “What a mean thing to say! And how utterly untrue!”

“Sorry, child. I don’t have your glandular bias in the matter. Pretty or not, Mike can’t get rid of that money, nor is it safe for him to have it. And not just Kung. The High Court is not as ‘non-political’ as it might be although their methods would probably make a prisoner out of him rather than kill him—a fate which, for my taste, is worse. Not to mention a dozen other interested parties, in and out of public office… persons who might or might not kill him, but who have certainly turned over in their minds just how it would affect their fortunes if Mike were guest of honor at a funeral. I—”

“Telephone, Boss.”

“Anne, you have just interrupted a profound thought. You hail from Porlock.”

“No, Dallas.”

“And I will not answer the phone for anyone.”

“She said to tell you it was Becky.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Jubal hurried out of the living room, found Madame Vesant’s friendly face in the screen. “Becky! I’m glad to see you, girl!” He did not bother to ask how she had known where to call him.

“Hi, Doc. I caught your act—and I just had to call and tell you so.”

“How’d it look?”

“The Professor would have been proud of you. I’ve never seen a tip turned more expertly. Then you spilled ’em before the marks knew what had hit ’em. Dot, the profession lost a great talker when you weren’t born twins.”

“That’s high praise, coming from you, Becky.” Jubal thought rapidly. “But you set up the act; I just cashed in on it—and there’s plenty of cash. So name your fee, Becky, and don’t be shy.” He decided that, whatever figure she picked, he would double it. That drawing account he had demanded for Mike would never feel it… and it was better, far better, to pay Becky off lavishly than to let the obligation stay open.

Madame Vesant frowned. “Now you’ve hurt my feelings.”

“Becky, Becky! You’re a big girl now, dear. Anybody can clap and cheer—but applause worthwhile will be found in a pile of soft, green, folding money. Not my money. The Man from Mars picks up this tab and, believe me, he can afford it.” He grinned. “But all you’ll get from me is thanks, and a hug and a kiss that will crack your ribs the first time I see you.”

She relaxed and smiled. “I’ll hold you to it. I remember how you used to pat my fanny while you assured me that the Professor was sure to get well—you always could make a body feel better.”

“I can’t believe that I ever did anything so unprofessional.”

“You did, you know you did. And you weren’t very fatherly about it, either.”

“Maybe so. Maybe I thought it was the treatment you needed. I’ve given up fanny-patting for Lent—but I’ll make an exception in your case.”

“You’d better.”

“And you’d better figure out that fee. Don’t forget the zeroes.”

“Uh, I’ll think about it. But, truthfully, Doc, there are more ways of collecting a fee than by making a fast count on the change. Have you been watching the market today?”

“No, and don’t tell me about it. Come over and have a drink instead.”

“Uh, I’d better not. I promised, well, a rather important client that I would be available for instant consultation.”

“I see. Mmm… Becky, do you suppose that the stars would show that this whole matter would turn out best for everybody if it were all wrapped up, signed, sealed, and notarized today? Maybe just after the stock market closes?”

She looked thoughtful. “I could look into it.”

“You do that. And come stay with us when you aren’t so busy. Stay as long as you like and never wear your hurtin’ shoes the whole time. You’ll like the boy. He’s as weird as snake’s suspenders but sweet as a stolen kiss, too.”

“Uh… I will. As soon as I can. Thanks, Doc.”

They said good-by and Jubal returned to find that Dr. Nelson had taken Mike into one of the bedrooms and was checking him over. He joined them to offer Nelson the use of his kit since Nelson had not had with him his professional bag.

Jubal found Mike stripped down and the ship’s surgeon looking baffled. “Doctor,” Nelson said, almost angrily, “I saw this patient only ten days ago. Tell me where he got those muscles?”

“Why, he sent in a coupon from the back cover of Rut: The Magazine for He-Men. You know, the ad that tells how a ninety-pound weakling can—”

“Doctor, please!”

“Why don’t you ask him?” Jubal suggested.

Nelson did so. “I thinked them,” Mike answered.

“That’s right,” Jubal agreed. “He ‘thinked’ ‘em. When I got him, just over a week ago, he was a mess, slight, flabby, and pale. Looked as if he had been raised in a cave—which I gather he was, more or less. So I told him he had to grow strong. So he did.”

“Exercises?” Nelson said doubtfully.

“Nothing systematic. Swimming, when and as he wished.”

“A week of swimming won’t make a man look as if he had been sweating over bar bells for years!” Nelson frowned. “I am aware that Mike has voluntary control over the so-called ‘involuntary’ muscles, But that is not entirely without precedent. This, on the other hand, requires one to assume that—”

“Doctor,” Jubal said gently, “why don’t you just admit that you don’t grok it and save the wear and tear?”

Nelson sighed. “I might as well. Put your clothes on, Michael.”

Somewhat later, Jubal, under the mellowing influence of congenial company and the grape, was unburdening to the three from the Champion his misgivings about his morning’s work. “The financial end was simple enough: just tie up Mike’s money so that a struggle over it couldn’t take place. Not even if he dies, because I’ve let Douglas know privately that Mike’s death ends his stewardship whereas a rumour from a usually reliable source—me, in this case—has reached Kung and several others to the effect that Mike’s death will give Douglas permanent control. Of course, if I had had magical powers, I would have stripped the boy not only of all political significance but also of every penny of his inheritance. That—”

“Why would you have done that, Jubal?” the captain interrupted.

Harshaw looked surprised. “Are you wealthy, Skipper? I don’t mean: ‘Are your bills paid and enough in the sock to buy any follies your taste runs to?’ I mean rich … so loaded that the floor sags when you walk around to take your place at the head of a board-room table.”

“Me?” Van Tromp snorted. “I’ve got my monthly check, a pension eventually, a house with a mortgage and two girls in college. I’d like to try being wealthy for a while, I don’t mind telling you!”

“You wouldn’t like it.”

“Huh! You wouldn’t say that… if you had two daughters in school.”

“For the record, I put four daughters through college, and I went in debt to my armpits to do it. One of them justified the investment; she’s a leading light in her profession which she practices under her husband’s name because I’m a disreputable old bum who makes money writing popular trash instead of having the grace to be only a revered memory in her paragraph in Who’s Who. The other three are nice people who always remember my birthday and don’t bother me otherwise I can’t say that an education hurt them. But my offspring are not relevant save to show that I understand that a man often needs more than he’s got. But you can fix that easily; you can resign from the service and take a job with some engineering firm that will pay you several times what you’re getting just to put your name on their letterhead General Atomics. Several others. You’ve had offers, haven’t you?”