A Stranger in a Strange Land

by Robert A. Heinlein

  "I don't know what you are sorry about, son," Jubal said gruffly. "The High Minister for Peace would have declared you Top Secret ten minutes ago."

  "Beg pardon?"

  "Never mind. What you do is quite good enough in this vicinity." Jubal returned to his desk, looked around thoughtfully and picked up a ponderous metal ash tray. "Jill, don't aim at my face this time; this thing has sharp corners. Okay, Mike, you stand clear out in the hallway."

  "Jubal... my brother... please not!"

  "What's the trouble, son? You did it beautifully a few minutes ago. I want one more demonstration - and this time I won't take my eyes off it."

  "Jubal-"

  "Yes, Jill?"

  "I think I grok what is bothering Mike."

  "Well, tell me then, for I don't."

  "We set up an experiment where I was about to hurt you by hitting you with that box. But both of us are his water brothers - so it upset Mike that I even tried to hurt you. I think there is something very un-Martian about such a situation. It puts Mike in a dilemma. Divided loyalty."

  Harshaw frowned. "Maybe it should be investigated by the Committee on un-Martian Activities."

  "I'm not joking, Jubal."

  "Nor was I - for we may need such a committee all too soon. I wonder how Mrs. O'Leary's cow felt as she kicked the lantern? All right, Jill, you sit down and I'll re-rig the experiment." Harshaw handed the ash tray to Mike. "Feel how heavy it is, son, and see those sharp corners."

  Smith examined it somewhat gingerly. Harshaw went on, "I'm going to throw it straight up in the air, clear to the ceiling - and let it hit me in the head as it comes down."

  Mike stared at him. "My brother... you will now discorporate?"

  "Eh? No, no! It won't kill me and I don't want to die. But it will cut me and hurt me - unless you stop it. Here we go!" Harshaw tossed it straight up within inches of the high ceiling, tracking it with his eyes like a soccer player waiting to pass the ball with his head. He concentrated on watching it, while one part of his mind was considering jerking his head aside at the last instant rather than take the nasty scalp wound the heavy, ugly thing was otherwise sure to give him - and another small piece of his mind reckoned cynically that he would never miss this chattel; he had never liked it - but it had been a gift.

  The ash tray topped its trajectory, and stayed there.

  Harshaw looked at it, with a feeling that he was stuck in one frame of a motion picture. Presently he remembered to breathe and found that he needed to, badly. Without taking his eyes off it he croaked, "Anne. What do you see?"

  She answered in a flat voice, "That ash tray is five inches from the ceiling. I do not see anything holding it up." Then she added in tones less certain, "Jubal, I think that's what I'm seeing... but if the cameras don't show the same thing, I'm going to turn in my robe and tear up my license."

  "Um. Jill?"

  "It floats. It just floats."

  Jubal sighed, Went to his chair and sat down heavily, all without taking his eyes off the unruly ash tray. "Mike," he said, "what went wrong? Why didn't it disappear like the box?"

  "But, Jubal," Mike said apologetically, "you said to stop it; you did not say to make it go away. When I made the box go away, you wanted it to be again. Have I done wrongly?"

  "Oh. No, you have done exactly right. I keep forgetting that you always take things literally." Harshaw recalled certain colloquial insults common in his early years - and reminded himself forcefully never, never to use any of such to Michael Valentine Smith - for, if he told the boy to drop dead or to get lost, Harshaw now felt certain that the literal meaning of his words would at once ensue.

  "I am glad," Smith answered soberly. "I am sorry I could not make the box be again. I am sorry twice that I wasted so much food. But I did not know how to help it. Then a necessity was. Or so I grokked."

  "Eh? What food?"

  Jill said hastily, "He's talking about those two men, Jubal. Berquist and the cop with him - if he was a cop. Johnson."

  "Oh, yes." Harshaw reflected that he himself still retained un-Martian notions of food, subconsciously at least. "Mike, I wouldn't worry about wasting that 'food.' They probably would have been tough and poor flavor. I doubt if a meat inspector would have passed them. In fact," he added, recalling the Federation convention about "long pig," "I am certain that they would have been condemned as unfit for food. So don't worry about it. Besides, as you say, it was a necessity. You grokked the fullness and acted rightly."

  "I am much comforted," Mike answered with great relief in his voice. 'Only an Old One can always be sure of right action at a cusp... and I have much learning to learn and much growing to grow before I may join the Old Ones. Jubal? May I move it? I am tiring."

  "You want to make it go away now? Go ahead."

  "But now I cannot."

  "Eh? Why not?"

  "Your head is no longer under it. I do not grok wrongness in its being, where it is."

  "Oh. All right. Move it." Harshaw continued to watch it, expecting that it would float to the spot now over his head and thus regain a wrongness. Instead the ash tray moved downward at a slow, steady speed, moved sideways until it was close above his desk top, hovered for a moment, then slid to an empty spot and came in to an almost noiseless landing.

  "Thank you, Jubal," said Smith.

  "Eh? Thank YOU, Son!" Jubal picked up the ash tray, examined it curiously. It was neither hot nor cold nor did it make his fingers tingle - it was as ugly, over-decorated, commonplace, and dirty as it had been five minutes earlier. "Yes, thank you. For the most amazing experience I've had since the day the hired girl took me up into the attic." He looked up. "Anne, you trained at Rhine."

  "Yes."

  "Have you seen levitation before?"

  She hesitated slightly. "I've seen what was called telekinesis with dice - but I'm no mathematician and I could not testify that what I saw was telekinesis."

  "Hell's bells, you wouldn't testify that the sun had risen if the day was cloudy."

  "How could I? Somebody might be supplying artificial light from above the cloud layer. One of my classmates could apparently levitate objects about the mass of a paper clip - but he had to be just three drinks drunk and sometimes he couldn't do it at all. I was never able to examine the phenomenon closely enough to be competent to testify about it partly because I usually had three drinks in me by then, too."

  "Then you've never seen anything like this?"

  "No."

  "Mmm...I'm through with you professionally; I'm convinced. But if you want to stay and see what else happens, hang up your robe and drag up a chair."

  "Thanks, I will - both. But, in view of the lecture you gave Jill about mosques and synagogues, I'll go to my room first. I wouldn't want to cause a hiatus in the indoctrination."

  "Suit yourself. While you're out, wake up Duke and tell him I want the cameras serviced again."

  "Yes, Boss. Don't let anything startling happen until I get back." Anne headed for the door.

  "No promises. Mike, sit down here at my desk. You, too, Jill - gather 'round. Now, Mike, can you pick up that ash tray? Show me."

  "Yes, Jubal." Smith reached out and took it in his hand.

  "No, no!"

  "I did wrongly?"

  "No, it was my mistake. Mike, put it back down. I want to know if you can lift that ash tray without touching it?"

  "Yes, Jubal."

  "Well? Are you too tired?"

  "No, Jubal. I am not too tired."

  "Then what's the matter? Does it have to have a 'wrongness' about it?"

  "No, Jubal."

  "Jubal," Jill interrupted, "you haven't told him to do it - you've just asked him if he could."

  "Oh." Jubal looked as sheepish as he was capable of looking, which was not much. "I should learn. Mike, will you please, without touching it with your hands, lift that ash tray a foot above the desk?"

  "Yes, Jubal." The ash tray raised, floated steadily above the desk. "Will you measure, Jubal?" Mi
ke said anxiously. "If I did wrongly, I will move it up or down."

  "That's just fine! Can you hold it there? If you get tired, tell me."

  "I can. I will tell."

  "Can you lift something else at the same time? Say this pencil? If you can, then do it."

  "Yes, Jubal," The pencil ranged itself neatly by the ash tray.

  By request, Mike added other small articles from the desk to the layer of floating objects. Anne returned, pulled up a chair and watched the performance without speaking. Duke came in, carrying a step ladder, glanced at the group, then looked a second time, but said nothing and set the ladder in one corner. At last Mike said uncertainly, "I am not sure, Jubal. I-" He stopped and seemed to search for a word. "I am idiot in these things."

  "Don't wear yourself out."

  "I can think one more. I hope." A paper weight across the desk from Mike stirred, lifted - and all the dozen-odd floating objects fell down at once. Mike seemed about to weep although no tears formed. "Jubal, I am sorry. I am utmostly sorry."

  Harshaw patted his shoulder. "You should be proud, not sorry. Son, you don't seem to realize it, but what you just did is-" Jubal searched for a comparison, rapidly discarded the many that sprang to his mind because he realized that they touched nothing in Mike's experience. "What you did is much harder than tying shoestrings, much more wonderful to us than doing a one-and-a-half gainer perfectly. You did it, uh, 'brightly, brightly, and with beauty.' You grok?"

  Mike looked surprised. "I am not sure, Jubal. I should not feel shame?"

  "You must not feel shame. You should feel proud."

  "Yes, Jubal," he answered contentedly. "I feel proud."

  "Good. Mike, I cannot lift even one ash tray without touching it."

  Smith looked startled. "You cannot?"

  "No. Can you teach me?"

  "Yes, Jubal. You-" Smith stopped speaking, looked embarrassed. "I again have not words. I am sorry. But I will read and I will read and I will read, until I find the words. Then I will teach my brother."

  "Don't set your heart on it."

  "Beg pardon?"

  "Mike, don't be disappointed if you do not find the right words. You may not find them in the English language."

  Smith considered this quite a long time. "Then I will teach my brother the language of my nest."

  "Maybe. I would like to try - but you may have arrived about fifty years too late."

  "I have acted wrongly?"

  "Not at all. I'm proud of you. You might start by trying to teach Jill your language."

  "It hurts my throat," put in Jill.

  "Try gargling with aspirin." Jubal looked at her. "That's a silly excuse, nurse - but it occurs to me that this gives me an excuse to put you on the payroll... for I doubt if they will ever take you back at Bethesda. All right, you're my staff research assistant for Martian linguistics which includes such extra duties as may be necessary. Take that up with the girls. Anne, put her on the payroll - and be sure it gets entered in the tax records."

  "She's been doing her share in the kitchen since the day after she got here. Shall I date it back?"

  Jubal shrugged. "Don't bother me with details."

  "But, Jubal," Jill protested shrilly, "I don't think I can learn Martian!"

  "You can try, can't you? That's all Columbus did."

  "But-"

  "What was that idle chatter you were giving me about 'gratitude'? Do you take the job? Or don't you?"

  Jill bit her lip. "I'll take it. Yes... Boss."

  Smith timidly reached out and touched her hand. "Jill... I will teach."

  Jill patted his. "Thanks, Mike." She looked at Harshaw. "And I'm going to learn it just to spite you!"

  He grinned warmly at her. "That's a motive I grok perfectly - you'll learn it all right. Now back to business - Mike, what else can you do that we can't do? Besides making things go away - when they have a 'wrongness' - and lifting things without touching them."

  Smith looked puzzled. "I do not know."

  "How could he know," protested Jill, "when he doesn't really know what we can and can't do?"

  "Mmm - yes. Anne, change that job title to 'staff research assistant for Martian linguistics, culture, and techniques.' Jill, in learning their language you are bound to stumble onto Martian things that are different, really different - and when you do, tell me. Everything and anything about a culture can be inferred from the shape of its language - and you're probably young enough to learn to think like a Martian... which I misdoubt I am not. And you, Mike, if you notice anything which you can do but we don't do, tell me."

  "I will tell, Jubal. What things will be these?"

  "I don't know. Things like you just did... and being able to stay on the bottom of the pool much longer than we can. Hmm... Duke!"

  "Yes, Boss? I've got both hands full of flim. Don't bother me."

  "You can talk, can't you? I noticed the pool is pretty murky."

  "Yeah. I'm going to add precipitant tonight and vacuum it in the morning."

  "How's the count?"

  "The count is okay, the water is safe enough to serve at the table. It just looks messy."

  "Let it stay murky for the time being. Test it as usual. I'll let you know when I want it cleaned up."

  "Hell, Boss, nobody likes to swim in a pool that looks like dishwater. I would have tidied it up long before this if there hadn't been so much hooraw around here this week."

  "Anybody too fussy to swim in it can stay dry. Quit jawing about it, Duke; I'll explain later. Films ready?"

  "Five minutes."

  "Good. Mike, do you know what a gun is?"

  "A gun," Smith answered carefully, "is a piece of ordnance for throwing projectiles by the force of some explosive, as gunpowder, consisting of a tube or barrel closed at one end, where the-"

  "Okay, okay. Do you grok it?"

  "I am not sure."

  "Have you ever seen a gun?"

  "I do not know."

  "Why, certainly you have," Jill interrupted. "Mike, think back to that time we were talking about, in the room with the grass on the floor - but don't get upset now! The big man hit me, you remember."

  "Yes."

  "The other man pointed something at me. In his hand."

  "Yes. He pointed a bad thing at you."

  "That was a gun."

  "I had thinked that the word for that bad thing might be 'gun.' The Webster's New International Dictionary of the English Language, Third Edition, published in-"

  "That's fine, son," Harshaw said hastily. "That was certainly a gun. Now listen to me carefully. If someone points a gun at Jill again, what will you do?"

  Smith paused rather longer than usual. "You will not be angry if I waste food?"

  "No, I would not be angry. Under those circumstances no one would be angry at you. But I am trying to find out something else. Could you make just the gun go away, without making the man who is pointing it go away?"

  Smith considered it. "Save the food?"

  "Uh, that isn't quite what I mean. Could you cause the gun to go away without hurting the man?"

  "Jubal, he would not hurt at all. I would make the gun go away, but the man I would just stop. He would feel no pain. He would simply be discorporate. The food he leaves after him would not damage at all."

  Harshaw sighed. "Yes, I'm sure that's the way it would be. But could you cause to go away just the gun? Not do anything else? Not 'stop' the man, not kill him, just let him go on living?"

  Smith considered it. "That would be much easier than doing both at once. But, Jubal, if I left him still corporate, he might still hurt Jill. Or so I grok it."

  Harshaw stopped long enough to remind himself that this baby innocent was neither babyish nor innocent - was in fact sophisticated in a culture which he was beginning to realize, however dimly, was far in advance of human culture in some very mysterious ways... and that these naive remarks came from a superman - or what would do in place of a "superman" for the time being. Then he answere
d Smith, choosing his words most carefully as he had in mind a dangerous experiment and did not want disaster to follow from semantic mishap.

  "Mike... if you reach a - 'cusp' - where you must do something in order to protect Jill, you do it."

  "Yes, Jubal. I will."

  "Don't worry about wasting food. Don't worry about anything else. Protect Jill."

  "Always I will protect Jill."

  "Good. But suppose a man pointed a gun at someone - or simply had it in his hand. Suppose you did not want or need to kill him... but you needed to make the gun go away. Could you do it?"

  Mike paused only briefly. "I think I grok it. A gun is a wrong thing. But it might be needful for the man to remain corporate." He thought. "I can do if."

  "Good. Mike, I am going to show you a gun. A gun is a wrong thing."

  "A gun is a very wrong thing. I will make it go away."

  "Don't make it go away as soon as you see it."

  "Not?"

  "Not. I will lift the gun and start to point it at you. Like this. Before I can get it pointed at you, make it go away. But don't stop me, don't hurt me, don't kill me, don't do anything to me. Just the gun. Don't waste me as food, either."

  "Oh, I never would," Mike said earnestly. "When you discorporate, my brother Jubal, I hope to be allowed to eat of you myself, praising and cherishing you with every bite... until I grok you in fullness."

  Harshaw controlled a seasick reflex he had not felt in decades and answered gravely, "Thank you, Mike."

  "It is I who must thank you, my brother - and if it should come to be that I am selected before you, I hope that you will find me worthy of grokking. Sharing me with Jill. You would share me with Jill? Please?"

  Harshaw glanced at Jill, saw that she had kept her face serene - reflected that she probably was a rock-steady scrub nurse. "I will share you with Jill," he said solemnly. "But, Mike, no one of us will be food today, nor any time soon. Right now I am going to show you this gun - and you wait until I say... and then you be very careful, because I have, many things to do before I am ready to discorporate."

  "I will be careful, my brother."

  "All right." Harshaw leaned over, grunting slightly, and opened a lower drawer of his desk. "Look in here, Mike. See the gun? I'm going to pick it up. But don't do anything until I tell you to. Girls - get up and move away to the left; I don't want it pointed at you. Okay. Mike, not yet." Harshaw reached for the gun, a very elderly police special, took it out of the drawer. "Get ready, Mike. Now!"-and Harshaw did his very best to get the weapon aimed at the Man from Mars.