Stranger in a Strange Land

But Jubal did concede that Mike had been cagy about the operation—some actual months of residence at a very small, very poor (in all senses) sectarian college, a bachelor’s degree awarded by examination, a “call” to their ministry followed by ordination in this recognized though flat-headed sect, a doctor’s dissertation on comparative religion which was a marvel of scholarship while ducking any real conclusions (Mike had brought it to Jubal for literary criticism, Jubal had added some weasel words himself through conditioned reflex), the award of the “earned” doctorate coinciding with an endowment (anonymous) to this very hungry school, the second doctorate (honorary) right on top of it for “contributions to interplanetary knowledge” from a distinguished university that should have known better, when Mike let it be known that such was his price for showing up as the drawing card at a conference on solar system studies. The one and only Man from Mars had turned down everybody from CalTech to the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute in the past; Harvard University could hardly be blamed for swallowing the bait.

Well, they were probably as crimson as their banner now, Jubal thought cynically. Mike had then put in a few weeks as assistant chaplain at his church-mouse alma mater—then had broken with the sect in a schism and founded his own church. Completely kosher, legally airtight, as venerable in precedent as Martin Luther… and as nauseating as last week’s garbage.

Jubal was called out of his sour daydream by Miriam. “Boss! Company!”

Jubal looked up to see a car about to land and ruminated that he had not realized what a blessing that S.S. patrol cap had been until it was withdrawn.

“Larry, fetch my shotgun—I promised myself that I would shoot the next dolt who landed on the rose bushes.”

“He’s landing on the grass, Boss.”

“Well, tell him to try again. We’ll get him on the next pass.”

“Looks like Ben Caxton.”

“So it is. We’ll let him live—this time. Hi, Ben! What’ll you drink?”

“Nothing, this early in the day, you professional bad influence. Need to talk to you, Jubal.”

“You’re doing it. Dorcas, fetch Ben a glass of warm milk; he’s sick.”

“Without too much soda,” amended Ben, “and milk the bottle with the three dimples in it. Private talk, Jubal.”

“All right, up to my study—although if you think you can keep anything from the kids around here, let me in on your method.” After Ben finished greeting properly (and somewhat unsanitarily, in three cases) the members of the family, they moseyed upstairs.

Ben said, “What the deuce? Am I lost?”

“Oh. You haven’t seen the alterations, have you? A new wing on the north, which gives us two more bedrooms and another bath downstairs—and up here, my gallery.”

“Enough statues to fill a graveyard!”

“Please, Ben. ‘Statues’ are dead politicians at boulevard intersections. What you see is ‘sculpture.’ And please speak in a low, reverent tone lest I become violent… for here we have exact replicas of some of the greatest sculpture this naughty globe has produced.”

“Well, that hideous thing I’ve seen before… but when did you acquire the rest of this ballast?”

Jubal ignored him and spoke quietly to the replica of La Belle Heaulmière. “Do not listen to him, ma petite chère—he is a barbarian and knows no better.” He put his hand to her beautiful ravaged cheek, then gently touched one empty, shrunken dug. “I know just how you feel but it can’t be very much longer. Patience, my lovely.”

He turned back to Caxton and said briskly, “Ben, I don’t know what you have on your mind but it will have to wait while I give you a lesson in how to look at sculpture—though it’s probably as useless as trying to teach a dog to appreciate the violin. But you’ve just been rude to a lady and I don’t tolerate that.”

“Huh? Don’t be silly, Jubal; you’re rude to ladies—live ones—a dozen times a day. And you know which ones I mean.”

Jubal shouted, “Anne! Upstairs! Wear your cloak!”

“You know I wouldn’t be rude to the old woman who posed for that. Never. What I can’t understand is a so-called artist having the gall to pose somebody’s great grandmother in her skin… and you having the bad taste to want it around.”

Anne came in, cloaked, said nothing. Jubal said to her, “Anne, have I ever been rude to you? Or to any of the girls?”

“That calls for an opinion.”

“That’s what I’m asking for. Your opinion. You’re not in court—”

“You have never at any time been rude to any of us, Jubal.”

“Have you ever known me to be rude to a lady?”

“I have seen you be intentionally rude to a woman. I have never seen you be rude to a lady.”

“That’s all. No, one more opinion. What do you think of this bronze?”

Anne looked carefully at Rodin’s masterpiece, then said slowly, “When I first saw it, I thought it was horrible. But I have come to the conclusion that it may be the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

“Thanks. That’s all.” She left. “Do you want to argue it, Ben?”