“Next Sunday then—I’ll tell Bishop Digby.”

“Next Sunday if possible,” Jubal corrected. “We might be in jail by then.”

Boone grinned. “There’s always that, ain’t th’r? But send word around to me or the Supreme Bishop and you won’t stay in long.” He looked around the crowded room. “Seem to be kind o’ short on chairs in here. Not much chance for a plain senator with all those muckamucks elbowing each other.”

“Perhaps you would honor us by joining us, Senator,” Jubal answered smoothly, “at this table?”

“Eh? Why, thank you, sir! Don’t mind if I do—ringside seat.”

“That is,” Harshaw added, “if you don’t mind the political implications of being seen seated with the official Mars delegation. We aren’t trying to crowd you into an embarrassing situation.”

Boone barely hesitated. “Not at all! Who cares what people think? Matter of fact, between you and I, the Bishop is very, very interested in this young man.”

“Fine. There’s a vacant chair there by Captain van Tromp—that man there . . . but probably you know him.”

“Van Tromp? Sure, sure, old friends, know him well—met him at the reception.” Senator Boone nodded at Smith, swaggered down and seated himself.

Most of those present were seated now and fewer were getting past the guards at the doors. Jubal watched one argument over seating and the longer he watched it the more it made him fidget. At last he felt that he simply could not stand it; he could not sit still and watch this indecency go on. So he leaned over and spoke very privately with Mike, made sure that, if Mike did not understand why, at least he understood what Jubal wanted him to do.

Mike listened. “Jubal, I will do.”

“Thanks, son.” Jubal got up and approached a group of three: the assistant chief of protocol, the Chief of the Uruguayan Delegation, and a third man who seemed angry but baffled. The Uruguayan was saying forcefully: “—seat him, then you must find seats for any and all other local chiefs of state—eighty or more. You’ve admitted that you can’t do that. This is Federation soil we stand on . . . and no chief of state has precedence over any other chief of state. If any exceptions are made—”

Jubal interrupted by addressing the third man. “Sir—” He waited just long enough to gain his attention, plunged on. “—the Man from Mars has instructed me to ask you to do him the great honor of sitting with him . . . if your presence is not required elsewhere.”

The man looked startled, then smiled broadly. “Why, yes, that would be satisfactory.”

The other two, both the palace official and the Uruguayan dignitary, started to object. Jubal turned his back on them. “Let’s hurry, sir—I think we have very little time.” He had seen two men coming in with what appeared to be a stand for a Christmas tree and a bloody sheet—but what was almost certainly the “Martian Flag.” As they hurried to where he was, Mike got up and was standing, waiting for them.

Jubal said, “Sir, permit me to present Valentine Michael Smith. Michael—the President of the United States!”

Mike bowed very low.

There was barely time to seat him on Mike’s right, as the improvised flag was even then being set up behind them. Music started to play, everyone stood, and a voice proclaimed:

“The Secretary General!”



20

Jubal had considered having Mike remain seated while Douglas came in, but had rejected the idea; he was not trying to place Mike a notch higher than Douglas but merely to establish that the meeting was between equals. So, when he stood up, he signalled Mike to do so likewise. The great double doors at the back of the conference hall had opened at the first strains of “Hail to Sovereign Peace” and Douglas came in. He went straight to his chair and started to sit down.

Instantly Jubal signalled Mike to sit down, the result being that Mike and the Secretary General sat down simultaneously—with a long, respectful pause of some seconds before anyone else resumed his seat.

Jubal held his breath. Had LaRue done it? Or not? He hadn’t quite promised—

Then the first fortissimo tocsin of the “Mars” movement filled the room—the “War God” theme that startles even an audience expecting it. With his eyes on Douglas and with Douglas looking back at him, Jubal was at once up out of his chair again, like a scared recruit snapping to attention.

Douglas stood up, too, not as quickly but promptly.

But Mike did not get up; Jubal had not signalled him to do so. He sat quietly, impassively, quite unembarrassed by the fact that everyone else without any exception got quickly back on his feet when the Secretary General stood up. Mike did not understand any of it and was quite content to do what his water brother told him to do.