Stranger in a Strange Land

«I said I was not interested in legal fictions. But a guest under my roof is another matter. He can stay, if he likes. I just wanted to make clear that I had no intention of meddling with politics to suit romantic notions you or Ben Caxton may have. My dear, I used to think I was serving humanity … and I pleasured in the thought. Then I discovered that humanity does not want to be served; on the contrary it resents any attempt to serve it. So now I do what pleases Jubal Harshaw.» He turned away. «Time for dinner, isn't it, Dorcas? Is anyone doing anything?»

«Miriam.» She put down her needle point and stood up.

«I've never figured out how these girls divide up the work.»

«Boss, how would you know? — you never do any.» Dorcas patted him on the stomach. «But you never miss any meals.»

A gong sounded, they went in to eat. If Miriam had cooked dinner, she had done so with modern shortcuts; she was seated at the foot of the table and looked cool and beautiful. In addition to the secretaries there was a man slightly older than Larry called «Duke» who treated Jill as if she always lived there. Service was by non-android machines, keyed from Miriam's end of the table. The food was excellent and, so far as Jill could tell, none was syntho.

But it did not suit Harshaw. He complained that his knife was dull, the meat was tough; he accused Miriam of serving leftovers. No one seemed to hear him but Jill was becoming embarrassed on Miriam's account when Anne put down her fork. «He mentioned his mother's cooking,» she stated.

«He is beginning to think he is boss again,» agreed Dorcas.

«How long has it been?»

«About ten days.»

«Too long.» Anne gathered Dorcas and Miriam by eye; they stood up. Duke went on eating.

Harshaw said hastily, «Girls, not at meals! Wait until — » They moved toward him; a machine scurried out of the way. Anne took his feet, each of the others an arm; French doors slid aside; they carried him out, squawking.

The squaws ended in a splash.

The women returned, not noticeably mussed. Miriam sat down and turned to Jill. «More salad, Jill?»

Harshaw returned in pajamas and robe instead of evening jacket. A machine had covered his plate as he was dragged away; it now uncovered it, he went on eating. «As I was saying,» he remarked, «a woman who can't cook is a waste of skin. If I don't start having service I'm going to swap you all for a dog and shoot the dog. What's dessert, Miriam?»

«Strawberry shortcake.»

«That's more like it. You are all reprieved till Wednesday.»

After dinner Jill went into the living room intending to view a news stereocast, being anxious to find out if she played a part in it. She could find no receiver, nor anything which could conceal a tank. Thinking about it, she could not recall having seen one. Nor any newspapers, although there were plenty of books and magazines.

No one joined her. She began to wonder what time it was. She had left her watch upstairs, so she looked around for a clock. She failed to find one, then searched her memory and could not remember seeing clock or calendar in any room she had been in. She decided that she might as well go to bed. One wall was filled with books; she found a spool of Kipling's Just So Stories and took it happily upstairs.

The bed in her room was as modern as next week, with automassage, coffee dispenser, weather control, reading machine, etc. — but the alarm circuit was missing. Jill decided that she would probably not oversleep, crawled into bed, slid the spool into the reading machine, lay back and scanned the words streaming across the ceiling. Presently the control slipped from relaxed fingers, lights went out, she slept.

Jubal Harshaw did not get to sleep as easily; he was vexed with himself. His interest had cooled and reaction set in. Half a century earlier he had sworn a mighty oath never again to pick up a stray cat — and now, so help him, by the multiple paps of Venus Genetrix he had picked up two at once … no, three, if he counted Caxton.

That he had broken his oath more times than there were years intervening did not trouble him; he was not hobbled by consistency. Nor did two more pensioners under his roof bother him; pinching pennies was not in him. In most of a century of gusty living he had been broke many times, had often been wealthier than he now was; he regarded both as shifts in the weather and never counted his change.

But the foofooraw that was bound to ensue when the busies caught up with these children disgruntled him. He considered it certain that catch up they would; that naive Gillian infant would leave a trail like a club-footed cow!

Whereupon people would barge into his sanctuary, asking questions, making demands … and he would have to make decisions and take action. He was convinced that all action was futile, the prospect irritated him.