Stranger in a Strange Land

“But, in fact, he is more eager to learn the history and the arts and the ways of the people of this, his second home, than he is to bury himself in debentures and stock issues and royalties—and I think in this he is wise. Although without business experience, Mr. Smith possesses a direct and simple wisdom that continues to astonish me… and to astonish all who meet him. When I explained to him the trouble I was having, he simply looked at me with a clear, calm gaze and said, ‘Why, that’s no problem, Jubal—we’ll ask Mr. Douglas.’” Jubal paused and said anxiously, “The rest of this is just personal business, Mr. Secretary. Should I see you about it privately? And let the rest of these ladies and gentlemen go home?”

“Go right ahead, Dr. Harshaw.” Douglas added, “Protocol is dispensed with as of now. Anyone who wishes to leave please feel free to do so.”

No one left. “All right,” Jubal went on. “I can wrap it up in one sentence. Mr. Smith wants to appoint you his attorney-in-fact, with full power to handle all his business affairs. Just that.”

Douglas looked convincingly astonished. “That’s a tall order, Doctor.”

“I know it is, sir. I pointed out to him that it was an imposition, that you are the busiest man on this planet and didn’t have time for his affairs.” Jubal shook his head and smiled. “I’m afraid it didn’t impress him—seems on Mars the busier a person is the more is expected of him. Mr. Smith simply said, ‘We can ask him.’ So I’m asking you. Of course we don’t expect an answer off hand—that’s another Martian trait: Martians are never in a hurry. Nor are they inclined to make things complicated. No bond, no auditing, none of that claptrap—a written power of attorney if you want it. But it does not matter to him; he would do it just as readily, orally and right now—Chinese style. That’s another Martian trait; if a Martian trusts you, he trusts you all the way. He doesn’t come prying around to see if you’re keeping your word. Oh, I should add: Mr. Smith is not making this request of the Secretary General; he’s asking a favor of Joseph Edgerton Douglas, you personally. If you should retire from public life, it would not affect this in the slightest. Your successor in office, whoever he might be, doesn’t figure in it. It’s you he trusts… not just whoever happens to occupy the Octagon Office in this Palace.”

Douglas nodded. “Regardless of my answer, I feel honored… and humble.”

“Because if you decline to serve, or can’t serve, or do take on this chore and want to drop it later, or anything, Mr. Smith has his own second choice for the job—Ben Caxton, it is. Stand up for a second, Ben; let people see you. And if both you and Caxton can’t or won’t, his next choice is—well, I’ll guess we’ll reserve that name for the moment; just let it rest that there are successive choices. Uh, let me see now—” Jubal looked fuddled—“I’m out of the habit of talking on my feet. Miriam, where is that piece of paper we listed things on?”

Jubal accepted a sheet from her, and added, “Better give me the other copies, too—” She passed over to him a thick stack of sheets. “This is a little memo we prepared for you, sir—or for Caxton, if it turns out that way. Mmm, lemme see—oh yes, steward to pay himself what he thinks the job is worth but not less than—well, a considerable sum, nobody else’s business, really. Steward to deposit monies in a drawing account for living expenses of party of the first part—uh, oh yes, I thought maybe you would want to use the Bank of Shanghai, say, as your depository, and, say, Lloyd’s as your business agent—or maybe the other way around—just to protect your own name and fame. But Mr. Smith won’t hear of any fixed instructions—just an unlimited assignment of power, revocable by either side at choice. But I won’t read all this; that’s why we wrote it out—” Jubal turned and looked vacantly around. “Uh, Miriam—trot around and give this to the Secretary General, that’s a good girl. Urn, these other copies, I’ll leave them here. You may want to pass ’em out to people… or you may need them yourself. Oh, I’d better give one to Mr. Caxton though—here, Ben—”

Jubal looked anxiously around. “Uh, I guess that’s all I have to say, Mr. Secretary. Did you have anything more to say to us?’

“Just a moment. Mr. Smith?”

“Yes, Mr. Douglas?”

“Is this what you want? Do you want me to do what it says on this paper?”

Jubal held his breath, avoided even glancing at his client—Mike had been carefully coached to expect such a question—but there had been no telling what form it would take, nor any way to tell in advance how Mike’s literal interpretations could trip them.

“Yes, Mr. Douglas.” Mike’s voice rang out clearly in the big room—and in a billion rooms around a planet.

“You want me to handle your business affairs?”

“Please, Mr. Douglas. It would be a goodness. I thank you—”

Douglas blinked. “Well, that’s clear enough. Doctor, I’ll reserve my answer—but you shall have it promptly.”

“Thank you, sir. For myself as well as for my client.”