THE CONFERENCE WAS POSTPONED to the afternoon, then quickly repostponedto the following morning, which gave Caxton an extra twenty-fourhours of badly needed recuperation, a chance to hear in detail about hismissing week, a chance to .grow closer“ with the Man from Mars-for Mikegrokked at once that Jill and Ben were .water brothers,“ consulted Jill aboutit, and solemnly offered water to Ben.
Ben had been adequately briefed by Jill. He accepted it just as solemnly andwithout mental reservations . . . after soul searching in which he decided thathis own destiny was, in truth, interwoven with that of the Man from Marsthroughhis own initiative before he ever met Mike.
Ben had had to chase down, in the crannies of his soul, one uneasy feelingbefore he was able to do this. He at last decided that it was simple jealousy,and, being such, had to be cauterized. He had discovered that he felt irked atthe closeness between Mike and Jill. His own bachelor persona, he learned,had been changed by a week of undead oblivion; he found that he wanted tobe married, and to Jill. He proposed to her again, without a trace of jokingabout it, as soon as he got her alone.
Jill had looked away. .Please, Ben.“.Why not? I’m solvent, I’ve got a fairly good job, I’m in good health-or I willbe, as soon as I get their condemned .truth’ drugs washed out of my system .
. . and since I haven’t, quite, I feel an overpowering compulsion to tell thetruth right now. I love you. I want you to marry me and let me rub your poortired feet. So why not? I don’t have any vices that you don’t share with meand we get along together better than most married couples. Am I too old foryou? I’m not that old! Or are you planning to marry somebody else?“.No, neither one! Dear Ben ... Ben, I love you. But don’t ask me to marry younow. I have . . . responsibilities.“He could not shake her firmness. Admittedly, Mike was more nearly Jill’s agealmostexactly her age, in fact, which made Ben slightly more than ten yearsolder than they were. But he believed Jill when she denied that age was afactor; the age difference wasn’t too great and it helped, all thingsconsidered, for a husband to be older than his wife.
But he finally realized that the Man from Mars couldn’t be a rival- he wassimply Jill’s patient. And at that point Ben accepted that a man who marries anurse must live with the fact that nurses feel maternal toward their chargeslivewith it and like it, he added, for if Gillian had not had the character thatmade her a nurse, he would not love her. It was not the delightful figure-eightin which her pert fanny waggled when she walked, nor even the stillpleasanter and very mammalian view from the other direction-he was not,thank God, the permanently infantile type, interested solely in the size of themammary glands! No, it was Jill herself he loved.
Since what she was would make it necessary for him to take second placefrom time to time to patients who needed her (unless she retired, of course,and he could not be sure it would stop completely even then, Jill being Jill),then he was bloody-be-damned not going to start by being jealous of thepatient she had now! Mike was a nice kid-just as innocent and guileless asJill had described him to be.
And besides, he wasn’t offering Jill any bed of roses; the wife of a workingnewspaperman had things to put up with, too. He might be-he would be-gonefor weeks at times and his hours were always irregular. He wouldn’t like it ifJill bitched about it. But Jill wouldn’t. Not Jill.
Having reached this summing up, Ben accepted the water ceremony fromMike whole-heartedly.
Jubal needed the extra day to plan tactics. .Ben, when you dumped this hotpotato in my lap I told Gililan that I would not lift a finger to get this boy his socalled.rights.’ But I’ve changed my mind. We’re not going to let thegovernment have the swag.“.Certainly not this administration!“.Nor any other administration, as the next one will probably be worse. Ben,you undervalue Joe Douglas.“.He’s a cheap, courthouse politician, with morals to match!“.Yes. And besides that, he’s ignorant to six decimal places. But he is also afairly able and usually conscientious world chief executive-better than wecould expect and probably better than we deserve. I would enjoy a session ofpoker with him . . . for he wouldn’t cheat and he wouldn’t welch and he wouldpay up with a smile. Oh, he’s an S.O.B.-but you can read that as .Swell OldBoy,’ too. He’s middlin’ decent.“.Jubal, I’m damned if I understand you. You told me yesterday that you hadbeen fairly certain that Douglas had had me killed . . . and, believe me, itwasn’t far from it! . . . and that you had juggled eggs to get me out alive if byany chance I still was alive . . . and you did get me out and God knows I’mgrateful to you! But do you expect me to forget that Douglas was behind itall? It’s none of his doing that I’m alive-he would rather see me dead.“.I suppose he would. But, yup, just that-forget it.“.I’m damned if I will!“.You’ll be silly if you don’t. In the first place, you can’t prove anything. In thesecond place, there’s no call for you to be grateful to me and I won’t let youlay this burden on me. I didn’t do it for you.“.Huh?“.I did it for a little girl who was about to go charging out and maybe getherself killed much the same way-if I didn’t do something. I did it because shewas my guest and I temporarily stood in loco parentis to her. I did it becauseshe was all guts and gallantry but too ignorant to be allowed to monkey withsuch a buzz saw; she’d get hurt. But you, my cynical and sin-stained chum,know all about those buzz saws. If your own asinine carelessness causedyou to back into one, who am I to tamper with your karma? You picked it.“.Mmm ... I see your point. Okay, Jubal, you can go to hell-for monkeying withmy karma. If I have one.“.A moot point. The predestinationers and the free-willers were still tied in thefourth quarter, last I heard. Either way, I have no wish to disturb a mansleeping in a gutter; I assume until proved otherwise that he belongs there.
Most do-gooding reminds me of treating hemophilia-the only real cure forhemophilia is to let hemophiliacs bleed to death . before they breed morehemophiliacs.“.You could sterilize them.“.You would have me play God? But we’re veering off the subject. Douglasdidn’t try to have you assassinated.“.Says who?“.Says the infallible Jubal Harshaw, speaking ex cathedra from his bellybutton. See here, son, if a deputy sheriff beats a prisoner to death, it’ssweepstakes odds that the county commissioners didn’t order it, didn’t knowit, and wouldn’t have permitted it had they known. At worst they shut theireyes to it-afterwards-rather than upset their own applecarts. Butassassination has never been an accepted policy in this country.“.I’d like to show you the backgrounds of quite a number of deaths I’velooked into.“Jubal waved it aside. .I said it wasn’t a policy. We’ve always had politicalassassination-from prominent ones like Huey Long to men beaten to deathon their own front steps with hardly a page-eight story in passing. But it’snever been a policy here and the reason you are sitting in the sunshine rightnow is that it is not Joe Douglas’ policy. Consider. They snatched you clean,no fuss, no inquiries. They squeezed you dry-then they had no more use foryou . . . and they could have disposed of you as quietly as flushing a deadmouse down a toilet. But they didn’t. Why not? Because they knew their bossdidn’t really like for them to play that rough and if he became convinced thatthey had (whether in court or out), it would cost their jobs if not their necks.“Jubal paused for a swig. .But consider. Those S.S. thugs are just a tool; theyaren’t yet a Praetorian Guard that picks the new Caesar. Such being, whomdo you really want for Caesar? Courthouse Joe whose basic indoctrinationgoes back to the days when this country was a nation and not just a satrapyin a polyglot empire of many traditions . . . Douglas, who really can’t stomachassassination? Or do you want to toss him out of office (we can, you know,tomorrow-just by double-crossing him on the deal I’ve led him to expect-tosshim out and thereby put in a Secretary General from a land where life hasalways been cheap and political assassination a venerable tradition? If youdo this, Ben-tell me what happens to the next snoopy newsman who iscareless enough to walk down a dark alley?“Caxton didn’t answer.
.As I said, the S.S. is just a tool. Men are always for hire who like dirty work.
How dirty will that work become if you nudge Douglas out of his majority?“.Jubal, are you telling me that I ought not to criticize the administration?
When they’re wrong? When I know they’re wrong?“.Nope. Gadflies such as yourself are utterly necessary. Nor am I opposed to.turning the rascals out’-it’s usually the soundest rule of politics. But it’s wellto take a look at what new rascals you are going to get before you jump atany chance to turn your present rascals out. Democracy is a poor system ofgovernment at best; the only thing that can honestly be said in its favor is thatit is about eight times as good as any other method the human race has evertried. Democracy’s worst faults is that its leaders are likely to reflect the faultsand virtues of their constituents-a depressingly low level, but what else canyou expect? So take a look at Douglas and ponder that, in his ignorance,stupidity, and self-seeking, he much resembles his fellow Americans,including you and me . . . and that in fact he is a notch or two above theaverage. Then take a look at the man who will replace him if his governmenttopples.“.There’s precious little choice.“.There’s always a choice! This one is a choice between .bad’ and .worse’-which is a difference much more poignant than that between .good’ and.better.’“.Well, Jubal? What do you expect me to do?“.Nothing,“ Harshaw answered. .Because I intend to run this show myself. Oralmost nothing. I expect you to refrain from chewing out Joe Douglas overthis coming settlement in that daily poop you write-maybe even praise him alittle for .statesmanlike restraint-.“.You’re making me vomit!“.Not in the grass, please. Use your hat. -because I’m going to tell you aheadof time what I’m going to do, and why, and why Joe Douglas is going toagree to it. The first principle in riding a tiger is to hang on tight to its ears.“.Quit being pompous. What’s the deal?“.Quit being obtuse and listen. If this boy were a penniless nobody, therewould be no problem. But he has the misfortune to be indisputably the heir tomore wealth than Croesus ever dreamed of . . . plus a highly disputable claimto political power even greater through a politico-judicial precedentunparalleled in pure jug-headedness since the time Secretary Fall wasconvicted of receiving a bribe that Doheny was acquitted of having givenhim.“.Yes, but-.
.I have the floor. As I told Jill, I have no slightest interest in .True Prince’
nonsense. Nor do I regard all that wealth as .his’; he didn’t produce a shillingof it. Even if he had earned it himself-impossible at his age -.property’ is notthe natural and obvious and inevitable concept that most people think it is.“.Come again?“.Ownership, of anything, is an extremely sophisticated abstraction, a mysticalrelationship, truly. God knows our legal theorists make this mysterycomplicated enough-but I didn’t begin to see how subtle it was until I got theMartian slant on it. Martians don’t have property. They don’t own anything . . .
not even their own bodies.“.Wait a minute, Jubal. Even animals have property. And the Martians aren’tanimals; they’re a highly developed civilization, with great cities and all sortsof things.“.Yes. .Foxes have holes and the birds of the air have nests.’ And nobodyunderstands a property line and the .meus-et-tuus’ involved better than awatch dog. But not Martians. Unless you regard an undistributed jointownership of everything by a few millions or billions of senior citizens -.ghosts’ to you, my friend-as being .property.’“.Say, Jubal, how about these .Old Ones’ Mike talks about?“.Do you want the official version? Or my private opinion?“.Huh? Your private opinion. What you really think.“.Then keep it to yourself. I think it is a lot of pious poppycock, suitable forenriching lawns. I think it is a superstition burned into the boy’s brain at soearly an age that he stands no chance of ever breaking loose from it.“.Jill talks as if she believed it.“.At all other times you will hear me talk as if I believed it, too. Ordinarypoliteness. One of my most valued friends believes in astrology; I wouldnever offend her by telling her what I think of it. The capacity of a humanmind to believe devoutly in what seems to me to be the highly improbablefromtable tapping to the superiority of their own children- has never beenplumbed. Faith strikes me as intellectual laziness, but I don’t argue with it-.—especially as I am rarely in a position to prove that it is mistaken. Negativeproof is usually impossible. Mike’s faith in his .Old Ones’ is surely no moreirrational than a conviction that the dynamics of the universe can be set asidethrough prayers for rain. Furthermore, he has the weight of evidence on hisside; he has been there. I haven’t.“.Mmm, Jubal, I’ll confess to a sneaking suspicion that immortality is a fact-butI’m glad that my grandfather’s ghost doesn’t continue to exercise any controlover me. He was a cranky old devil.“.And so was mine. And so am I. But is there any really good reason why acitizen’s franchise should be voided simply because he happens to be dead?
Come to think of it, the precinct I was raised in had a very large graveyardvote-almost Martian. Yet the town was a pleasant one to live in. As may be,our lad Mike can’t own anything because the .Old Ones’ already owneverything. So you see why I have had trouble explaining to him that he ownsover a million shares of Lunar Enterprises~ plus the Lyle Drive, plus assortedchattels and securities? It doesn’t help that the original owners are dead; thatmakes it worse, they are .Old Ones’-and Mike wouldn’t dream of sticking hisnose into the business of .Old Ones.’“.Uh ... damn it, he’s obviously legally incompetent.“.Of course he is. He can’t manage property because he doesn’t believe in itsmystique-any more than I believe in his ghosts. Ben, all that Mike owns at thepresent time is a toothbrush I gave him-and he doesn’t know he owns that. Ifyou took it away from him, he wouldn’t object, he wouldn’t even mention it tome-he would simply assume conclusively that the .Old Ones’ had authorizedthe change.“Jubal sighed. .So he is incompetent ... even though he can recite the law ofproperty verbatim. Such being the case I shan’t allow his competency to betried . . . nor even mentioned-for what guardian would be appointed?“.Huh? Douglas. Or, rather, one of his stooges.“.Are you certain, Ben? Consider the present makeup of the High Court. Mightnot the appointed guardian be named Savvonavong? Or Nadi? Or Kee?“.Uh ... you could be right.“.In which case the lad might not live very long. Or he might live to a ripe oldage in some pleasantly gardened prison-for-one a great deal more difficult toescape from than Bethesda Hospital.“.What do you plan to do?“.The power the boy nominally owns is far too dangerous and cumbersomefor him to handle. So we throw it away.“.How the hell do you go about giving away that much money?“.You don’t. You can’t. It’s impossible. The very act of giving it away would bean exercise of its latent power, it would change the balance of power-and anyattempt to do so would cause the boy to be examined on his competence tomanage in jig time. So, instead, we let the tiger run like hell while hangingonto its ears for dear life. Ben, let me outline the fait accornpli I intend tohand to Douglas . . . then you do your damnedest to pick holes in it. Not thelegality of it, as Douglas’ legal staff will write the double-talk and I’ll check itfor boobytraps-dOn’t worry about that; the idea is to give Douglas a plan bewon’t want to booby-trap because he’ll like it. I want you to sniff it for itspolitical feasibility, whether or not we can put it over. Now here’s what we aregoing to do-.