Stranger in a Strange Land

by Robert A. Heinlein

A Reuter’s correspondent, anticipating a fight over Mike’s status as an heir, tried to sneak in his own test of Mike’s competence: “Mr. Smith? What do you know about the laws of inheritance?” Mike knew that he was having trouble grokking the human concept of property and, in particular, the ideas of bequest and inheritance. So he stuck to the book—which Jubal recognized as “Ely on Inheritance and Bequest,” chapter one. Mike recited what he had read, with precision and no expression, for page after page, while the room settled into silence and his interrogator gulped. Jubal let it go on until every newsman there knew more than he wanted to know about dower and curtesy, consanguinean and uterine, per stirpes and per capita. At last Jubal said, “That’s enough, Mike.”

Mahmoud had less to tell since less had happened to him, by Martian standards—one Dionysian excess of which he was not proud, one long day spent lying face down in Washington’s Suleiman Mosque, the results of which he had not yet grokked and would not discuss. No new water brothers.

I like the off hand reference to a mega mosque in Washington.

Chap looked like a huntin’, shootin’, sportin’ Britisher, from tweedy, expensively casual clothes to clipped grey mustache . . . but his skin was swarthy and the genes for that nose came from somewhere near the Levant.

Now about honors—You expect to play ‘Hail to Sovereign Peace’ as the Secretary comes in?” “Oh, we must.” “Then you’ll want to follow it with the anthem for Mars.” “I don’t see how I can. Even if there is one . . . we don’t have it. Dr. Harshaw, be reasonable!” “Look, son. I am being reasonable. We came here for a small, informal meeting. We find you’ve turned it into a circus. Well, if you’re going to have a circus, you’ve got to have elephants. 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 Nine 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.”

Jubal felt that “Ancient Ones” was a good touch; it carried more bulge than “Old Ones” and Mike had not objected. It had been Jill’s idea to alternate a Martian version with the English one—and Jubal admitted with warm pleasure that her gimmick puffed up a formal little speech as devoid of content as a campaign promise into something as rollingly impressive as Wagnerian opera. (And as hard to figure out!)

he is more eager to learn the history and arts and ways of the people of this, his second home, than he is to bury himself in debentures and stock issues and royalties—and I think in this he is wise. Mr. Smith possesses a direct wisdom that continues to astonish me . . . and astonishes all who meet him. When I explained the trouble, he looked at me with a clear gaze and said, ‘That’s no problem, Jubal—we’ll ask Mr. Douglas.’ ” Jubal paused and said anxiously, “The rest is personal business, Mr. Secretary. Should I see you privately? And let these ladies and gentlemen go home?”

A long time ago, when I was a little boy, another boy and I formed a club. Since we had a club, we had to have rules . . . and the first rule we passed—unanimously—was that henceforth we could call our mothers ‘Crosspatch.’ Silly, of course . . . but we were very young. Mr. Kung, can you deduce the outcome?” “I won’t guess, Dr. Harshaw.” “I implemented our ‘Crosspatch’ decision just once. Once was enough and it saved my chum from the same mistake. All it got me was my bottom warmed with a peach switch. And that was the end of the ‘Crosspatch’ decision.”

Mahmoud looked wistful. “I should not be tempted by strong drink.” “Allow me.” Jubal looked him over. “Son, you’ve been under nervous strain. Having no meprobamate, I’m forced to substitute two ounces of ninety-proof ethanol, repeat as needed. Any particular flavor?” Mahmoud smiled. “Thank you, Doctor—but I’ll sin my own sins. Gin, please, with water on the side. Or vodka. Or whatever is available.” “Or medicinal alcohol,” Nelson added. “Don’t let him kid you, Jubal. Stinky drinks anything—and regrets it.” “I do regret it,” Mahmoud said earnestly. “It is sinful.”

“Meaning that money can’t tempt you into giving up commanding space ships.” “I wouldn’t mind having money, too!” “A little is no good. Daughters can spend ten percent more than a man can make in any usual occupation. That’s a law of nature, to be known henceforth as ‘Harshaw’s Law.’ But, Captain, real wealth, on the scale that calls for a battery of finaglers to hold down taxes, would ground you as certainly as resigning would.”

Jubal grinned. “When I was in high school, I won a debate by quoting an argument from the British Colonial Shipping Board. The opposition was unable to refute me—because there never was a ‘British Colonial Shipping Board.’

“Mike hated the idea,” agreed Nelson. “We couldn’t get close to him; he was afraid. Then the Martians told him to go with us . . . and he behaved like a soldier carrying out orders that scared him silly.”

The humans left on Mars struggled with environment lethal to naked humans but less difficult than that in the Free State of Antarctica. One discorporated through an illness sometimes called “homesickness.” The Old Ones cherished the wounded spirit and sent it where it belonged for further healing; aside from that Martians left Terrans alone.

It is at this point scientific consensus that Mars is far more hostile than Antarctica.

Cynthia Duchess announced that she was going to have the Perfect Baby by a scientifically selected donor and an equally perfect host-mother as soon as experts completed calculating the instant for conception to insure that the wonder child would be equally a genius in music, art, and statesmanship—and that she would (with the aid of hormonal treatments) nurse her child herself. She gave an interview on the psychological benefits of natural feeding and permitted (insisted) that the press take pictures to prove that she was endowed for this.

Mike’s mail arrived sacked as first, second, third, and fourth class, with mail for everyone else in another sack. Second and third class was used to insulate a root cellar. Once the cellar was over-insulated, Jubal told Duke to use such mail to check erosion in gullies.

It is unthinkable in the modern world to just dump your mail outside like that.

Anything nobody wanted wound up in a gully; this included gifts of food, as Jubal was not certain that Mike’s nose for “wrongness” extended to poisons—Mike had drunk a poisonous solution used for photography which Duke had left in the refrigerator; Mike said mildly that the “iced tea” had a flavor he was not sure he liked.

“He does read most of those ads. But you don’t want him to see filth! He’s innocent.” “So? How many men has he killed?” Jill looked unhappy. Jubal went on: “If you want to help him, you will concentrate on teaching him that killing is frowned on in this society. Otherwise he will be conspicuous when he goes out into the world.”

“I admire a whole-hearted thief. Tell him that Mike needs tax losses—so how much guarantee would he like?” “Are you serious, Boss?” “No, the gonif would show up, with his family. But you’ve given me an idea for a story. Front!”

where did Heinlein pick up Yiddish?

But things were not money, any more than water shared was growing-closer. Money was an idea, as abstract as an Old One’s thoughts—money was a great structured symbol for balancing and healing and growing closer. Mike was dazzled with the magnificent beauty of money.

Listen to this: ‘Living Aphrodite: A de-luxe Album of Feminine Beauty in Gorgeous Stereo-Color by the World’s Greatest Artists of the Camera. Notice: this item cannot be mailed. Orders cannot be accepted from addresses in the following states—’ Um, Pennsylvania is on the list—but we’ll find a way—for if I know Duke’s tastes, this is what he likes.” It was delivered via S.S. patrol car—and the next ad boasted: “—as supplied to the Man from Mars, by special appointment,” which pleased Mike and annoyed Jill.

Anne telephoned the Rodin Museum in Paris and only Gallic gallantry kept them from laughing. Sell one of the Master’s works? My dear lady, they are not only not for sale but may not be reproduced. Non, non, non! Quelle Idée! But for the Man from Mars unlikely things are possible. Anne called Bradley; two days later he called back. As a compliment from the French government—with a request that the present never be exhibited—Mike would receive a full-size, microscopically-exact bronze photo-pantogram of “She Who Used to Be the Beautiful Heaulmière,”

Brooklyn museum has a bronze cast made in 1969

The cat and Mike grokked each other; Mike found its carnivorous thoughts most pleasing and quite Martian. He discovered that the cat’s name (Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche) was not the cat’s name, but he had not told anyone because he could not pronounce the cat’s real name; he could only hear it in his head.

“But we don’t take his money and give him nothing. Take a look—” Boone shouldered his way to a machine, tapped the woman playing it. “Please, Daughter.” She looked up, annoyance changed to a smile. “Certainly, Bishop.” “Bless you. You’ll note,” Boone went on, as he fed a quarter into the machine, “that whether it pays off in worldly goods or not, a sinner is rewarded with a blessing and a souvenir text.” The machine stopped; lined up in the window was: GOD—WATCHES—YOU. “That pays three for one,” Boone said and fished the pay-off out of the receptacle, “and here’s your text.” He tore off a paper tab and handed it to Jill. “Keep it, little lady, and ponder it.”

“Come, come! These pilgrims are the Supreme Bishop’s personal guests. Where are their badges?” Badges were produced and with them door prize numbers.

Reverend ‘Jug’ Jackerman—used to play left tackle for the Rams. You’ve seen him.”

She had been growing angry ever since Miss Ardent joined them. The woman’s dress was long sleeved, high necked, and opaque—and covered nothing. It was a knit fabric the shade of her tanned skin and Jill was certain that skin was all there was under it—other than Miss Ardent, which was plenty. The dress was ostentatiously modest compared with the clothes of most females in the congregation, some of whom seemed about to jounce out.

That’s Dawn Ardent—she’s the highest paid peeler in all Baja California, that’s who. Works under an irised spot and by the time she’s down to her shoes, the light is just on her face and you really can’t see anything else. Very effective. Highly spiritual. Would you believe, looking at that sweet face now, that she used to be a most immoral woman?”

The man stood up. “Our first hymn,” he said briskly, “is sponsored by Manna Bakeries, makers of Angel Bread, the loaf of love with our Supreme Bishop’s smiling face on every wrapper and containing a valuable premium coupon redeemable at your nearest neighborhood Church of the New Revelation.

“If I turned down a free feed, they’d toss me out of the Authors’ Guild.” He piled Virginia ham on buttered bread, added other items in an unsteady ziggurat, munched it.

As for snake dances, have you ever seen a Shaker service? Neither have I; a church that is agin sexual intercourse doesn’t last. But dancing to the glory of God has a long history. It doesn’t have to be artistic—the Shakers could never have made the Bolshoi—it merely has to be enthusiastic. Do you find Indian Rain Dances irreverent?” “That’s different.”

We hear examples of religious dances in the Bible. There’s a scene where King David’s wife objects to him dancing and she is struck down for bad values.

Aside from these items and Saint Peter’s character reference there is only one thing in the Bible on which we can judge Lot’s virtue—virtue so great that Heavenly intercession saved his life. See Genesis nineteen, verse eight.”

he offershis daughters. nothing in the text endorses this.

Mahmoud always visited for the avowed purpose of seeing Mike and Dr. Harshaw; however, he too had shown fortitude at having only Jubal’s food, liquor, garden—and odalisques—to entertain him. Miriam was rubbing his back while Dorcas rubbed his head.

Aside from creed, this Digby strikes me as a bad influence. What do you think?” “Ole!” Ben applauded. “He’s a slimy bastard—I haven’t exposed his racket in my column simply because the Syndicate is afraid to print it. Stinky, keep talking and you’ll have me studying Arabic and buying a rug.” “I hope so. The rug is not necessary.”

Is this Paradise?” “I guarantee it ain’t,” Jubal assured him. “My taxes are due.” “Still, that doesn’t affect me.”

As they merged, grokking together, Mike said softly and triumphantly: “Thou art God.”

A colossal campaign opened to sell more sexual organs of plants and Mrs. Joseph (“Shadow of Greatness”) Douglas was quoted as saying: “I would no more sit down without flowers on my table than without serviettes.”

The Boss wants performance, not gripes. If you need a Day off to calm down, duck over to the Muslim Paradise and take it. Otherwise, straighten your halo, square your wings, and dig in. The sooner you act like an angel the quicker you’ll feel angelic. Get Happy, junior!”

Anne was the worst! Absent-minded, subject to unexplained tears . . . Jubal would have bet his life that if Anne were to witness the Second Coming, she would memorize date, time, personae, events, and barometric pressure without batting her calm blue eyes.

But she was greatly troubled by a theological problem. “Smitty? That was real magic?” “I guess you would call it that,” he agreed, using words exactly. “I’d rather call it a miracle,” she said bluntly. “Call it that if you like. It wasn’t sleight-of-hand.”

Michael lifted his new brother, wafted her in and placed her gently on the bed. Valentine Michael Smith grokked that physical human love—very human and very physical—was not simply a quickening of eggs, nor was it ritual through which one grew closer; the act itself was a growing-closer.

Foster had in common with every great religious leader of that planet two traits: he had an extremely magnetic personality, and sexually he did not fall near the human norm. On Earth great religious leaders were always either celibate or the antithesis. Foster was not celibate.

capric cult.

goatlike I think

He was most cautious—if candidates were married, it had to be both spouses. Unmarried candidates had to be sexually attractive and aggressive—and he impressed on his priests that males must equal or exceed in number the females. Nowhere was it recorded that Foster studied earlier, similar cults in America—but he knew or sensed that most such had foundered because possessive concupiscence of their priests led to jealousy. Foster never made this error; not once did he keep a woman to himself, not even those he married.

“I haven’t seen Mike around the Club lately and his name has been scratched on the Millennial Solipsist Tournament—that’s a Sign that he’s likely away on detached duty; Mike is one of the most eager Solipsism players in this sector.” “But the notion’s obscene!” “You’d be surprised how many of the Boss’s best ideas have been called ‘obscene’ in some quarters—or, rather, you should not be surprised, in view of your field work. But ‘obscene’ is a null concept; it has no theological meaning. ‘To the pure all things are pure.’ ”

Foster twanged his halo, an annoying habit he had when he was meditating.

Mike avoided shaking hands, he wanted to be touched only by water brothers. (Jill wasn’t sure how far this went; she had explained homosexuality, after Mike had read about it and failed to grok—and had given him rules for avoiding passes; she knew that Mike, pretty as he was, would attract such. He had followed her advice and had made his face more masculine, instead of the androgynous beauty he had had. But Jill was not sure that Mike would refuse a pass, say, from Duke—fortunately Mike’s male water brothers were decidedly masculine, just as his others were very female women. Jill suspected that Mike would grok a “wrongness” in the poor in-betweeners anyhow—they would never be offered water.)

“Jill, you would not want Duke?” She heard an echo of “water brother” in his mind. “Hmm . . . I’ve never thought about it. I guess I’ve been ‘being faithful’ to you. But I grok you speak rightly; I wouldn’t turn Duke down—and I would enjoy it, too! What do you think of that, darling?” “I grok a goodness,” Mike said seriously. “Hmm . . . my gallant Martian, there are times when human females appreciate a semblance of jealousy—but I don’t think there is any chance that you will ever grok ‘jealousy.’

But I was coping with wolves when you were still on Mars. Nine times out of ten, if a girl gets raped, it’s partly her fault. So don’t be hasty.”

I do not think you should identify the author with the character

They moved on to Palo Alto, where Mike tried to swallow the Hoover Library. But scanners could not spin that fast, nor could Mike turn pages fast enough to read them all. At last he admitted that he was taking in data faster than he could grok it, even spending all hours the library was closed in contemplation. With relief Jill moved them to San Francisco and he embarked on systematic research.

She came back to their flat one day to find him doing nothing, surrounded by books—many books: The Talmud, the Kama-Sutra, Bibles in several versions, the Book of the Dead, the Book of Mormon, Patty’s precious copy of the New Revelation, various Apocrypha, the Koran, the unabridged Golden Bough, The Way, Science and Health with key to the Scriptures, sacred writings of a dozen other religions major and minor—even such oddities as Crowley’s Book of the Law.

But, Jill, there are only three places to look. Science—and I was taught more about how the universe ticks while I was still in the nest than human scientists can yet handle. So much that I can’t talk to them, even about as elementary a gimmick as levitation. I’m not disparaging scientists. What they do is as it should be; I grok that fully. But what they are after is not what I am looking for—you don’t grok a desert by counting its grains of sand. Then there’s philosophy—supposed to tackle everything. Does it? All any philosopher ever comes out with is what he walked in with—except for self-deluders who prove their assumptions by their conclusions. Like Kant. Like other tail-chasers. So the answer ought to be here.” He waved at piles of books. “Only it’s not. Bits that grok true, but never a pattern—or if there is, they ask you to take the hard part on faith! Faith! What