Caxton shrugged. “It can be in my name. I grok I’ll hire me a real business man, name of Saul.”

“That wraps it then. Some waiting time but nobody will dare really fight this will; Mike rigged it. You’ll see. How soon can we get out of here? Is the tab settled?”

“Jubal,” Ben said gently, “we own this hotel.”

Not long thereafter they were in the air, with no trouble from police—the town had quieted down as fast as it had flared up. Jubal sat forward with Stinky Mahmoud and relaxed—discovered that he was not tired, not unhappy, not even fretting to get back to his sanctuary. He discussed with Mahmoud his plans to go to Mars to learn the language more deeply . . . after, Jubal was pleased to learn, completing the work on the dictionary, which Mahmoud estimated at about a year more for his own part in checking the phonetic spellings.

Jubal said grumpily, “I suppose I shall be forced to learn the pesky stuff myself, just to understand the chatter going on around me.”

“As you grok, brother.”

“Well, damn it, I won’t put up with assigned lessons and regular school hours! I’ll work as suits me, just as I always have.”

Mahmoud was silent a few moments. “Jubal, we used classes and schedules at the Temple because we were handling groups. But some got special attention.”

“That’s what I’m going to need.”

“Anne, for example, is much, much farther along than she ever let you know. With her total-recall memory, she learned Martian in nothing flat, hooked in rapport with Mike.”

“Well, I don’t have that sort of memory—and Mike’s not available.”

“No, but Anne is. And, stubborn as you are, nevertheless Dawn can place you in rapport with Anne—if you’ll let her. And you won’t need Dawn for the second lesson; Anne will then be able to handle it all. You’ll be thinking in Martian inside of days, by the calendar—much longer by subjective time, but who cares?” Mahmoud leered at him. “You’ll enjoy the warming-up exercises.”

Jubal bristled. “You’re a low, evil, lecherous Arab—and besides that you stole one of my best secretaries.”

“For which I am forever in your debt. But you haven’t lost her entirely; she’ll give you lessons, too. She’ll insist on it.”

“Now go ’way and find another seat. I want to think.”

Somewhat later he shouted, “Front!”

Dorcas came forward and sat down beside him, steno gear ready.

He glanced at her before he started to work. “Child, you look even happier than usual. Glowing.”

Dorcas said dreamily, “I’ve decided to name him ‘Dennis.’”

Jubal nodded. “Appropriate. Very appropriate.” Appropriate meaning even if she were mixed up about the paternity, he thought to himself. “Do you feel like working?”

“Oh, yes! I feel grand.”

“Begin. Stereoplay. Rough draft. Working title: ‘A Martian Named Smith.’ Opener: zoom in on Mars, using stock or bonestelled shots, unbroken sequence, then dissolving to miniature matched set of actual landing place of Envoy. Space ship in middle distance. Animated Martians, typical, with stock as available or rephotographed. Cut to close: Interior space ship. Female patient stretched on—”



39

The verdict to be passed on the third planet around Sol was never in doubt. The Old Ones of the fourth planet were not omniscient and in their way were as provincial as humans. Grokking by their own local values, even with the aid of vastly superior logic, they were certain in time to perceive an incurable “wrongness” in the busy, restless, quarrelsome beings of the third planet, a wrongness which would require weeding, once it had been grokked and cherished and hated.

But, by the time that they would slowly get around to it, it would be highly improbable approaching impossible that the Old Ones would be able to destroy this weirdly complex race. The hazard was so slight that those concerned with the third planet did not waste a split eon on it.

Certainly Foster did not. “Digby!”

His assistant looked up. “Yes, Foster?”

“I’ll be gone a few eons on a special assignment. Want you to meet your new supervisor.” Foster turned and said, “Mike, this is Archangel Digby, your assistant. He knows where everything is around the studio and you’ll find him a very steady straw boss for anything you conceive.”

“Oh, we’ll get along,” Archangel Michael assured him, and said to Digby, “Haven’t we met before?”

Digby answered, “Not that I remember. Of course, out of so many when-wheres—” He shrugged.