Stranger in a Strange Land

“They don’t. But you couldn’t possibly whop up what they use for high state occasions.” (And neither could I, boy, but that’s beside the point.) “So we’ll let you off easy and take an attempt for the deed. Piece of paper, Miriam—now, like this.” Harshaw drew a rectangle, sketched in it the traditional human symbol for Mars, a circle with an arrow leading out from it to the upper right “Make the field in white and the sigil of Mars in red—should be sewed in bunting of course, but with a clean sheet and a bucket of paint any Boy Scout could improvise one in ten minutes. Were you a Scout?”

“Uh, some time ago.”

“Good. Then you know the Scout’s motto. Now about honors—maybe you’re caught unprepared there, too, eh? You expect to play ‘Hail to Sovereign Peace’ as the Secretary comes in?”

“Oh, we must. It’s obligatory.”

“Then you’ll want to follow it with the anthem for Mars.”

“I don’t see how I can. Even if there were one… we don’t have it. Dr. Harshaw, be reasonable!”

“Look, son, I am being reasonable. We came here for a quiet, small, informal meeting—strictly business. We find you’ve turned it into a circus. Well, if you’re going to have a circus, you’ve got to have elephants and there’s no two ways about it. Now we realize you can’t play Martian music, any more than a boy with a tin whistle can play a symphony. But you can play a symphony—‘The Ten Planets Symphony.’ Grok it? I mean, ‘Do you catch on?’ Have the tape cut in at the beginning of the Mars movement; play that… or enough bars to let the theme be recognized.”

LaRue looked thoughtful. “Yes, I suppose we could—but, Dr. Harshaw, I promised you half the table… but I don’t see how I can promise sovereign honors—the flag and the music—even on this improvised, merely symbolic scale. I—I don’t think I have the authority.”

“Nor the guts,” Harshaw said bitterly. “Well, we didn’t want a circus—so tell Mr. Douglas that we’ll be back when he’s not so busy… and not so many visitors. Been nice chatting with you, son. Be sure to stop by the Secretary’s office and say hello when we come back—if you’re still here.” He again went through the slow, apparently painful act of being a man too old and feeble to get out of a chair easily.

LaRue said, “Dr. Harshaw, please don’t leave! Uh… the Secretary won’t come in until I send word that we are ready for him—so let me see what I can do. Yes?”

Harshaw relaxed with a grunt. “Suit yourself. But one more thing, while you’re here. I heard a ruckus at the main door a moment ago—what I could catch, one of the crew members of the Champion wanted to come in. They’re all friends of Smith, so let ’em in. We’ll accommodate ’em. Help to fill up this side of the table.” Harshaw sighed and rubbed a kidney.

“Very well, sir,” LaRue agreed stiffly and left.

Miriam said out of the corner of her mouth: “Boss—did you sprain your back doing hand stands night before last?”

“Quiet, girl, or I’ll paddle you.” With grim satisfaction Jubal surveyed the room, which was continuing to fill with high officials. He had told Douglas that he wanted a “small, informal” talk—no formality while knowing with utter certainty that the mere announcement of such talks would fetch all the powerful and power-hungry as surely as light attracts moths. And now (he felt sure) Mike was about to be treated as a sovereign by each and every one of those nabobs—with the whole world watching. Just let ’em try to roust the boy around after this!

Sanforth was still trying mightily to shoo out the remaining newsmen, and the unfortunate assistant chief of protocol, deserted by his boss, was jittering like a nervous baby-sitter in his attempt to play musical chairs with too few chairs and too many notables. They continued to come in and Jubal concluded that Douglas had never intended to convene this public meeting earlier than eleven o’clock, and that everyone else had been so informed—the earlier hour given Jubal was to permit the private preconference that Douglas had demanded and that Jubal had refused. Well, the delay suited Jubal’s plans.

The leader of the Eastern Coalition came in. Since Mr. King was not, by his own choice, the nominal Chief of Delegation for his nation, his status under strict protocol was merely that of Assemblyman—but Jubal was not even mildly surprised to see the harried assistant chief of protocol drop what he was doing and rush to seat Douglas’ chief political enemy at the main table and near the seat reserved for the Secretary General; it simply reinforced Jubal’s opinion that Douglas was no fool.