Stranger in a Strange Land

“But an outside referee is forced to allow Mike the same dispensation granted all other gods. There are rules for this game: one god alone splits into at least two parts—male and female—and breeds. Not just Jehovah—they all do it. Look it up. Contrariwise, a group of gods will breed like rabbits, every time, and with as little regard for human formalities. Once Mike entered the godding business, those orgies of his group were as logically certain as Sunday follows Saturday. So quit using the standards of Podunk and judge them only by Olympian morals—I think you will then find that they are showing unusual restraint. Furthermore, Ben, this ‘growing-closer’ by sexual union, this unity-into-pluralty and plurality-back-into-unity, cannot tolerate monogamy inside the god group. Any pairing that excluded the others would be immoral, obscene, under the postulated creed. And if such mutual, shared-by-all sexual congress is essential to their creed, as I grok it has to be, then why do you expect this holy union to be hidden behind a door? Your insistence that they should hide it would have turned a holy rite—which it was—into something obscene—which it was not. You just plain did not understand what you were looking at.”

“Maybe I didn’t,” Ben said glumly.

“I’m going to offer you one box—top premium, as an inducement. You wondered how Mike got rid of his clothes so quickly. I’ll tell you how.”

“How?”

“It was a miracle.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!”

“Could be. But one thousand dollars says that it was a miracle by the usual rules for miracles—outcome to be decided by you. Go back and ask Mike how he did it. Get him to show you. Then send me the money.”

“Hell, Jubal, I don’t want to take your money.”

“You won’t. I’ve got inside information. Bet?”

“No, damn it. Jubal, you go down there and see what the score is. I can’t go back—not now.”

“They’ll take you back with open arms and not even ask why you left so abruptly. One thousand on that prediction, too. Ben, you were there less than a day—fifteen hours, about—and you spent over half that time sleeping and playing hopscotch with Dawn. Did you give them a square shake? The sort of careful investigation you give something smelly in public life before you blast it in your column?”

“But—”

“Did you, or didn’t you?”

“No, but—”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake yourself, Ben! You claim to be in love with Jill yet you won’t give her the consideration you give a crooked politician. Not a tenth the effort she made to help you when you were kidnapped. Where would you be today if she had given it so feeble a try? Pushing up daisies! Roasting in hell! You’re bitching about those kids over some friendly fornication—but do you know what I’m worried about?”

“What?”

“Christ was crucified for preaching without a police permit. Think it over.”

Caxton stood up. “I’m on my way.”

“After lunch.”

“Now.”

* * *

Twenty-four hours later Ben wired Jubal two thousand dollars.

When, after a week, Jubal had had no other message, he sent a stat care of Ben’s office: “What the hell are you doing?” Ben’s answer came back, somewhat delayed: “Studying Martian and the rules for hopscotch—fraternally yours—Ben.”

PART FIVE: HIS HAPPY DESTINY

XXXIV

FOSTER LOOKED UP from his current Work in Progress. “Junior!”

“Sir?”

“That youngster you wanted—he’s available now. The Martians have released him.”

Digby looked puzzled. “I’m sorry. There was some young creature toward whom I have a Duty?”

Foster smiled angelically. Miracles were never necessary—in Truth the pseudo-concept “miracle” was self-contradicting. But these young fellows always had to learn it for themselves. “Never mind,” he said gently. “It’s a minor job and I’ll handle it myself—and Junior?”

“Sir?”

“Call me ‘Fog,’ please—ceremony is all right in the field but we don’t need it in the studio. And remind me not to call you ‘Junior’ after this—you made a very nice record on that temporary duty assignment. Which name do you like to be called?”

His assistant blinked. “I have another name?”

“Thousands of them. Do you have a preference?”

“Why, I really don’t recall at this eon.”

“Well… how would you like to be called ‘Digby’?”

“Uh, yes. That’s a very nice name. Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. You earned it.” Archangel Foster turned back to his work, not forgetting the minor item he had assumed. Briefly he considered how this cup might be taken from little Patricia—then chided himself for such unprofessional, almost human, thought. Mercy was not possible to an angel; angelic compassion left no room for it.

* * *

The Martian Old Ones had reached an elegant and awesome trial solution to their major esthetic problem and put it aside for a few filledthrees to let it generate new problems. At which time, unhurriedly but at once and almost absent-mindedly, the alien nestling which they had returned to his proper world was tapped of what he had learned of his people and dropped, after cherishing, since he was of no further interest to their purposes.