Stranger in a Strange Land

“Thank you. ‘Artist’ is a word I avoid for the same reasons I hate to be called ‘Doctor.’ But I am an artist, albeit a minor one. Admittedly most of my stuff is fit to read only once… and not even once for a busy person who already knows the little I have to say. But I am an honest artist, because what I write is consciously intended to reach the customer—reach him and affect him, if possible with pity and terror… or, if not, at least to divert the tedium of his hours with a chuckle or an odd idea. But I am never trying to hide it from him in a private language, nor am I seeking the praise of other writers for ‘technique’ or other balderdash. I want the praise of the cash customer, given in cash because I’ve reached him—or I don’t want anything. Support for the arts—merde! A government-supported artist is an incompetent whore! Damn it, you punched one of my buttons. Let me fill your glass, and you tell me what is on your mind.”

“Uh, Jubal, I’m unhappy.”

“This is news?”

“No. But I’ve got a fresh set of troubles.” Ben frowned. “I shouldn’t have come here, I guess. No need to burden you with them. I’m not even sure I want to talk about them.”

“Okay. But as long as you’re here, you can listen to my troubles.”

“You have troubles? Jubal, I’ve always thought of you as the one man who had managed to beat the game, six ways from zero.”

“Hmm, sometime I must tell you about my married life. But—yes, I’ve got troubles now. Some of them are evident. Duke has left me, you know—or did you?”

“Yeah. I knew.”

“Larry is a good gardener—but half the gadgets that keep this log cabin running are failing to pieces. I don’t know how I can replace Duke. Good all-around mechanics are scarce… and ones that will fit into this household, be a member of the family in all ways, are almost non-existent. I’m limping along on repairmen called in from town—every visit a disturbance, all of them with larceny in their hearts, and most of them incompetent to use a screw driver without cutting themselves. Which I am incapable of doing, too, so I have to hire help. Or move back into town, God forbid.”

“My heart aches for you, Jubal.”

“Never mind the sarcasm, that’s just the start. Mechanics and gardeners are convenient, but for me secretaries are essential. Two of mine are pregnant, one is getting married.”

Caxton looked utterly astounded. Jubal growled, “Oh, I’m not telling tales out of school; they’re smug as can be—nothing secret about any of it. They’re undoubtedly sore at me right now because I took you up here without giving them time to boast. So be a gent and be surprised when they tell you.”

“Uh, which one is getting married?”

“Isn’t that obvious? The happy man is that smooth-talking refugee from a sand storm, our esteemed water brother Stinky Mahmoud. I’ve told him flatly that they have to live here whenever they’re in this country. Bastard just laughed and said how else?—pointed out that I had invited him to live here, permanently, long ago.” Jubal sniffed. “Wouldn’t be so bad if he would just do it. I might even get some work out of her. Maybe.”

“You probably would. She likes to work. And the other two are pregnant?”

“Higher ’n a kite. I’m refreshing myself in O.B. because they both say they’re going to have ’em at home. And what a crimp that’s going to put into my working habits! Worse than kittens. But why do you assume that neither of the two turgescent tummies belongs to the bride?”

“Oh—Why, I suppose I assumed that Stinky was more conventional than that… or maybe more cautious.”

“Stinky wouldn’t be given a ballot. Ben, in the eighty or ninety years I have given to this subject, trying to trace out the meanderings of their twisty little minds, the only thing that I have learned for certain about women is that when a gal is gonna, she’s gonna. All a man can do is cooperate with the inevitable.”

Ben thought ruefully about times when he had resorted to fast footwork—and other times when he hadn’t been fast enough. “Yeah, you’re right. Well, which one isn’t getting married or anything? Miriam? Or Anne?”

“Hold it, I didn’t say the bride was pregnant… and anyhow, you seem to be assuming that Dorcas is the prospective bride. You haven’t kept your eyes open. It’s Miriam who is studying Arabic like mad, so she can do it right.”

“Huh? Well, I’ll be a cross-eyed baboon!”

“You obviously are.”

“But Miriam was always snapping at Stinky—”

“And to think that they trust you with a newspaper column. Ever watch a bunch of sixth-graders?”

“Yes, but—Dorcas did everything but a nautch dance.”