Stranger in a Strange Land

Dr. Nelson, surgeon of the Champion, and Captain van Tromp, her skipper, came in together, and were greeted with delight by Mike. Jubal was pleased, too, as it gave the boy something to do, under the cameras, instead of just sitting still like a dummy. Jubal made use of the disturbance to rearrange the seating since there was now no longer any need to surround the Man from Mars with a bodyguard. He placed Mike precisely opposite the Secretary General’s chair and himself took the chair on Mike’s left—not only to be close to him as his counsel but to be where he could actually touch Mike inconspicuously. Since Mike had only the foggiest notions of human customary manners, Jubal had arranged with him signals as imperceptible as those used by a rider in putting a high-schooled horse through dressage maneuvers—“stand up,” “sit down,” “bow,” “shake hands”—with the difference that Mike was not a horse and his training had required only five minutes to achieve utterly dependable perfection.

Mahmoud broke away from the reunion of shipmates, came around, and spoke to Jubal privately. “Doctor, I must explain that the Skipper and the Surgeon are also water brothers of our brother—and Michael Valentine wanted to confirm it at once by again using the ritual, all of us. I told him to wait. Do you approve?”

“Eh? Yes. Yes, certainly. Not in this mob.” Jubal worried it for a moment. Damn it, how many water brothers did Mike have? How long was this daisy chain? “Maybe you three can come with us when we leave? And have a bite and a talk in private.”

“I shall be honored. And I feel sure the other two will come also, if possible.”

“Good. Dr. Mahmoud, do you know of any other brothers of our young brother who are likely to show up?”

“No. Not from the company of the Champion, at least; there are no more.” Mahmoud hesitated, then decided not to ask the obvious complementary question, as it would hint at how disconcerted he had been—at first—to discover the extent of his own conjugational commitments. “I’ll tell Sven and the Old Man.” He went back to them.

Harshaw saw the Papal Nuncio come in, saw him seated at the main table, and smiled inwardly—if that long-eared debit, LaRue, had any lingering doubts about the official nature of this meeting, he would do well to forget them!

A man came up behind Harshaw, tapped him on the shoulder. “Is this where the Man from Mars hangs out?”

“Yes,” agreed Jubal.

“Which one is he? I’m Tom Boone—Senator Boone, that is—and I’ve got a message for him from Supreme Bishop Digby.”

Jubal suppressed his personal feelings and let his cortex go into emergency high speed. “I’m Jubal Harshaw, Senator—” He signalled Mike to stand up and offer to shake hands. “—and this is Mr. Smith. Mike, this is Senator Boone.”

“How do you do, Senator Boone,” Mike said in perfect dancing school form. He looked at Boone with interest. He had already had it straightened out for him that “Senator” did not mean “Old One” as the words seemed to shape; nevertheless he was interested in seeing just what a “Senator” was. He decided that he did not yet grok it.

“Pretty well, thank you, Mr. Smith. But I won’t take up your time; they seem to be about to get this shindig started. Mr. Smith, Supreme Bishop Digby sent me to give you a personal invite to attend services at the Archangel Foster Tabernacle of the New Revelation.”

“Beg pardon?”

Jubal moved in on it. “Senator, as you know, many things here—everything—is new to the Man from Mars. But it so happens that Mr. Smith has already seen one of your church services by stereovision—”

“Not the same thing.”

“I know. But he expressed great interest in it and asked many questions about it—many of which I could not answer.”

Boone looked keenly at him. “You’re not one of the faithful?”

“I must admit that I am not.”

“Come along yourself. Always hope for a sinner.”

“Thank you, I will.” (You’re right, I will, friend!—for I certainly won’t let Mike go into your trap alone!)

“Next Sunday then—I’ll tell Bishop Digby.”

“Next Sunday if possible,” Jubal corrected. “We might be in jail by then.”

Boone grinned. “There’s always that, ain’t th’r? But send word around to me or the Supreme Bishop and you won’t stay in long.” He looked around the crowded room. “Seem to be kind o’ short on chairs in here. Not much chance for a plain senator with all those muckamucks elbowing each other.”

“Perhaps you would honor us by joining us, Senator,” Jubal answered smoothly, “at this table?”

“Eh? Why, thank you, sir! Don’t mind if I do—ringside seat.”

“That is,” Harshaw added, “if you don’t mind the political implications of being seen seated with the official Mars delegation. We aren’t trying to crowd you into an embarrassing situation.”

Boone barely hesitated. “Not at all! Who cares what people think? Matter of fact, between you and I, the Bishop is very, very interested in this young man.”