Stranger in a Strange Land

“Switch it on. Then before it gets dark I want you to polish every possible fingerprint off that heap. As soon as it is dark, drive it over the other side of Reading—better go almost to Lancaster—and leave it in a ditch. Then go to Philadelphia, catch the shuttle for Scranton, come home from Scranton.”

“Sure thing, Jubal. Say—is he really the Man from Mars?”

“You had better hope that he isn’t, because if he is and they catch you before you dump that wagon and they associate you with him, they’ll probably interrogate you with a blow torch. But I think he is.”

“I scan it. Should I rob a few banks on the way back?”

“Probably the safest thing you can do.”

“Okay, Boss.” Larry hesitated. “Do you mind if I stay over night in Philly?”

“What in God’s name can a man find to do at night in Philadelphia?”

“Plenty, if you know where to look.”

“Suit yourself.” Harshaw turned away. “Front!”

* * *

Jill slept until shortly before dinner, which in that household was a comfortable eight o’clock. She awoke refreshed and feeling alert, so much so that she sniffed the air incoming from the grille over her head and surmised correctly that the doctor had offset the hypnotic she had been given with a stimulant. While she was asleep someone had removed the dirty and torn street clothes she had been wearing and had left a simple, off-white dinner dress and sandals. The clothes fit her fairly well; Jill concluded that they must belong to the one the doctor had called Miriam. She bathed and painted her face and combed her hair and went down to the big living room feeling like a new woman.

Dorcas was curled in a big chair, doing needle point; she looked up, nodded in a friendly manner as if Jill were always part of the household, turned her attention back to her fancy work. Harshaw was standing and stirring gently a mixture in a tall and frosty pitcher. “Drink?” he said.

“Uh, yes, thank you.”

He poured two large cocktail glasses to their brims, handed her one. “What is it?” she asked.

“My own recipe, a comet cocktail. One third vodka, one third muriatic acid, one third battery water—two pinches of salt and add a pickled beetle.”

“Better have a highball,” Dorcas advised. Jill noticed that the other girl had a tall glass at her elbow.

“Mind your own business,” Harshaw advised without rancor. “The hydrochloric acid is good for the digestion; the beetle adds vitamins and protein.” He raised his glass to Jill and said solemnly, “Here’s to our noble selves! There are damned few of us left.” He almost emptied his glass, replenished it before he set it down.

Jill took a cautious sip, then a much bigger one. Whatever the true ingredients, the drink seemed to be exactly what she needed; a warm feeling of well-being spread gently from her center of gravity toward her extremities. She drank about half of it, let Harshaw add a dividend. “Look in on our patient?” he asked.

“No, sir. I didn’t know where he was.”

“I checked him a few minutes ago. Sleeping like a baby—I think I’ll rename him Lazarus. Do you think he would like to come down to dinner?”

Jill looked thoughtful. “Doctor, I really don’t know.”

“Well, if he wakes I’ll know it. Then he can join us, or have a tray, as he wishes. This is Freedom Hall, my dear. Everyone does absolutely as he pleases… then if he does something I don’t like, I just kick him the hell out. Which reminds me: I don’t like to be called ‘Doctor.’”

“Sir?”

“Oh, I’m not offended. But when they began handing out doctorates for comparative folk dancing and advanced fly-fishing, I became too stinkin’ proud to use the title. I won’t touch watered whiskey and I take no pride in watered-down degrees. Call me Jubal.”

“Oh. But the degree in medicine hasn’t been watered down, as you call it.”

“No. But it is time they called it something else, so as not to have it mixed up with playground supervisors. Never mind. Little girl, just what is your interest in this patient?”

“Eh? I told you, Doct—Jubal.”

“You told me what happened; you didn’t tell me why. Jill, I saw the way you looked at him and spoke to him. Do you think you are in love with him?”

Jill was startled. She glanced at Dorcas; the other girl appeared not to be hearing the conversation. “Why, that’s preposterous!”

“I don’t see anything preposterous about it. You’re a girl; he’s a boy—that’s usually a nice setup.”

“But—No, Jubal, it’s not that at all. I… well, I thought he was being held a prisoner and I thought—or Ben thought—that he might be in danger. I wanted to see him get his rights.”

“Mmmm… my dear, I’m always suspicious of a disinterested interest. You look as if you had a normal glandular balance, so it is my guess that it is either Ben, or this poor boy from Mars, or both. You had better take your motives out in private and have a look at them. Then you will be better able to judge which way you are going. In the meantime, what do you want me to do?”