Stranger in a Strange Land

Ben shook his head. “Mike isn’t gentle, Jubal. Killing a man wouldn’t worry him. But he’s the ultimate anarchist—locking a man up is a wrongness. Freedom of self—and utter personal responsibility for self. Thou art God.”

“Wherein lies the conflict, sir? Killing a man might be necessary. But confining him is an offense against his integrity—and your own.”

Ben looked at him. “I grok Mike was right. You do grok in fullness—his way. I don’t quite—I’m still learning.” He added, “How are they taking it, Dawn?”

She giggled slightly. “Like a stirred-up hornets’ nest. The mayor has been on… and he’s frothing at the mouth. He’s demanded help from the state and from the Federation—and he’s getting it; we’ve seen lots of troop carriers landing. But as they pour out, Mike is stripping them—not just their weapons, even their shoes—and as soon as the troop carrier is empty, it goes, too.”

Ben said, “I grok he’ll stay withdrawn until they get tired and give up. Handling that many details he would almost have to stay in it and on eternal time.”

Dawn looked thoughtful. “No, I don’t think so, Ben. Of course I would have to, in order to handle even a tenth so much. But I grok Michael could do it riding a bicycle while standing on his head.”

“Mmm… I wouldn’t know, I’m still making mud pies.” Ben stood up. “Sometimes you miracle workers give me a slight pain, honey child. I’m going to go watch the tank for a while.” He stopped to kiss her. “You entertain old Pappy Jubal; he likes little girls.” Caxton left and a package of cigarettes he had left on a coffee table got up, followed him, and placed themselves in one of his pockets.

Jubal said, “Did you do that? Or Ben?”

“Ben did. I don’t smoke, unless the man I’m with wants to smoke. But he’s always forgetting his cigarettes; they chase him all over the Nest.”

“Hmmm… pretty fair-sized mud pies he makes these days.”

“Ben is advancing much more rapidly than he will ever admit. He’s a very holy person—but he hates to admit it. He’s shy.”

“Umph. Dawn, you are the Dawn Ardent I met at Foster Tabernacle about two and half years ago, aren’t you?”

“Oh, you remember!!” She looked as if he had handed her a lollipop.

“Of course I remember. But I was slightly puzzled. You’ve changed some. All for the better. You seem much more beautiful.”

“That’s because I am more beautiful,” she said simply. “You mistook me for Gillian. And she is more beautiful, too.”

“Where is that child? I haven’t seen her… and I expected to see her at once.”

“She’s been working.” Dawn paused. “But I told her and she says she’s coming in.” She paused again. “And I am to take her place. If you will excuse me.”

“Oh, certainly. Run along, child.”

“There’s no hurry.” But she did get up and leave almost at once as Dr. Mahmoud sat down.

Jubal looked at him sourly. “You might at least have had the common courtesy to let me know that you were in this country instead of letting me meet my goddaughter for the first time through the good offices of a snake.”

“Oh, Jubal, you’re always in such a bloody hurry.”

“Sir, when one is of—” Jubal was interrupted by two hands placed over his eyes from behind. A well-remembered voice demanded:

“Guess who?”

“Beelzebul?”

“Try again.”

“Lady Macbeth?”

“Much closer. Third guess, or a forfeit.”

“Gillian, stop that and come around here and sit beside me.”

“Yes, Father.” She obeyed.

“And knock off calling me ‘Father’ anywhere but home. Sir, I was saying that when one is of my age, one is necessarily in a hurry about some things. Each sunrise is a precious jewel… for it may never be followed by its sunset. The world may end at any moment.”

Mahmoud smiled at him. “Jubal, are you under the impression that if you stop cranking, the world stops going around?”

“Most certainly, sir—from my viewpoint.” Miriam joined them silently, sat down on Jubal’s free side; he put an arm around her. “While I might not be honing to see your ugly face again… nor even to gaze on the somewhat more acceptable one of my former secretary—”

Miriam whispered, “Boss, are you honing for a kick in the stomach? I’m exquisitely beautiful; I have it on highest authority.”

“Quiet,—new goddaughters are in another category. Through your failure to drop me so much as a postcard, I might have missed seeing Fatima Michele. In which case I would have returned to haunt you.”

“In which case,” Miriam pointed out, “you could take a took at Micky at the same time… rubbing strained carrots in her hair. A disgusting sight.”

“I was speaking metaphorically.”

“I wasn’t. She’s a sloppy trencherman.”

“Why,” asked Jill quietly, “were you speaking metaphorically, Boss?”

“Eh? The concept ‘ghost’ is one I feel no need for, other than as a figure of speech.”

“It’s more than a figure of speech,” insisted Jill.

“Uh… as may be. I prefer to meet baby girls in the flesh, including my own.”

Dr. Malmoud said, “But that is what I was saying, Jubal. You aren’t about to die; you aren’t even close to it. Mike has grokked you to be certain. He says you have a long stretch of years ahead of you.”