Dr. Mahmoud's eyes widened — perhaps these people were not mere uncircumcised barbarians… his young friend did have strong intuition. Instantly he offered Jill the correct honorific in response and bowed over her hand.
Jill saw that Mike was delighted; she managed to croak the shortest of nine forms by which a water brother may return the response — although she did not grok it and would not have considered suggesting (in English) the nearest human biological equivalent… certainly not to a man she had just met!
Mahmoud, who did understand it, took its symbolic meaning rather than its (humanly impossible) literal meaning, and spoke rightly in response. Jill had passed her limit; she did not understand his answer and could not reply even in English.
But she got an inspiration. At intervals around the table were water pitchers each with its clump of glasses. She got a pitcher and tumbler, filled the latter.
She looked Mahmoud in the eye, said earnestly. «Water. Our nest is yours.» She touched it to her lips and handed it to Mahmoud.
He answered in Martian, saw that she did not understand and translated, «Who shares water shares all.» He took a sip and started to return it — checked himself and offered Harshaw the glass.
Jubal said, «I can't speak Martian, son — but thanks for water. May you never be thirsty.» He drank a third of it.«Ah!» He passed it to Ben.
Caxton looked at Mahmoud and said soberly, «Grow closer. With water of life we grow closer.» He sipped it and passed it to Dorcas.
In spite of precedents already set Dorcas hesitated. «Dr. Mahmoud? You do know how serious this is to Mike?»
«I do, miss.»
«Well … it's just as serious to us. You understand? You … grok?»
«I grok its fullness … or I would have refused to drink.»
«All right. May you always drink deep. May our eggs share a nest.» Tears started down her cheeks; she drank and passed the glass hastily to Miriam.
Miriam whispered, «Pull yourself together, kid,» then spoke to Mike, «With water we welcome our brother,» — then added to Mahmoud, «Nest, water, life.» She drank. «Our brother.» She offered him the glass.
Mahmoud drank what was left and spoke, but in Arabic:«“And if ye mingle your affairs with theirs, then they are your brothers”.»
«Amen,» Jubal agreed.
Dr. Mahmoud looked quickly at him, decided not to inquire whether Harshaw had understood; this was not the place to say anything which might lead to unbottling his own troubles, his doubts. Nevertheless he felt warmed in his soul — as always — by water ritual … even though it reeked of heresy.
His thoughts were cut short by the assistant chief of protocol bustling up. «You're Dr. Mahmoud. You belong on the far side, Doctor. Follow me.»
Mahmoud smiled. «No, I belong here. Dorcas, may I pull up a chair and sit between you and Valentine Michael?»
«Certainly, Doctor. I'll scrunch over.»
The a.c. of p. was almost tapping his foot. «Dr. Mahmoud,please! The chart places you on the other side of the room! The Secretary General will be here any moment — and the place is still simply swarming with reporters and goodness knows who else… and I don't know what I'm going to do!»
«Then do it someplace else, bub,» Jubal suggested.
«What? Who are you? Are you on the list?» He worriedly consulted a seating chart.
«Who are you?» Jubal answered. «The head waiter? I'm Jubal Harshaw. If my name is not on that list, you can tear it up. Look, buster, if the Man from Mars wants Dr. Mahmoud by him, that settles it.»
«But he can't sit here! Seats at the conference table are reserved for High Ministers, Chiefs of Delegations, High Court Justices, and equal ranks — and I don't know how I can squeeze them in if any more show up — and the Man from Mars, of course.»
«“Of course,” » Jubal agreed.
«And of course Dr. Mahmoud has to be near the Secretary General — just back of him, so that he'll be ready to interpret. I must say you're not being helpful.»
«I'll help.» Jubal plucked the paper out of the official's hand. «Mmm … lemme see now. The Man from Mars will sit opposite the Secretary General, near where he happens to be. Then — » Jubal took a pencil and attacked the chart. « — this half, from here to here, belongs to the Man from Mars.» Jubal scratched cross marks and joined them with a thick black arc, then began scratching out names assigned to that side of the table. «That takes care of half of your work … because I'll seat anybody on our side.»
The protocol officer was too shocked to talk. His mouth worked but only noises came out. Jubal looked at him mildly. «Something the matter? Oh — I forgot to make it official.» He scrawled under his amendments:«J. Harshaw for V. M. Smith.» «Trot back to your top sergeant, son, and show him that. Tell him to check his rule book on official visits from heads of friendly planets.»
The man opened his mouth — left without stopping to close it. He returned on the heels of an older man. The newcomer said in a no-nonsense manner, «Dr. Harshaw, I'm LaRue, Chief of Protocol. Do you actually need half the main table? I understood that your delegation was quite small.»
«That's beside the point.»
LaRue smiled briefly. «I'm afraid it's not beside the point. I'm at my wit's end for space. Almost every official of first rank has elected to be present. If you are expecting more people — though I do wish you had notified me — I'll have a table placed behind these two seats reserved for Mr. Smith and yourself.»
«No.»
«I'm afraid that's the way it must be. I'm sorry.»
«So am I — for you. Because if half the main table is not reserved for Mars, we are leaving. Tell the Secretary General you busted up his conference by being rude to the Man from Mars.»
«Surely you don't mean that?»
«Didn't you get my message?»
«Uh … well, I took it as a jest.»
«I can't afford to joke, son. Smith is either top man from another planet paying an official visit to the top man of this planet — in which case he is entitled to all the side boys and dancing girls you can dig up — or he is just a tourist and gets no official courtesies of any sort. You can't have it both ways. Look around you, count the “officials of first rank” as you call them, and guess whether they would be here if, in their minds, Smith is just a tourist.»
LaRue said slowly, «There's no precedent.»
Jubal snorted. «I saw the Chief of Delegation from the Lunar Republic come in — go tell him there's no precedent. Then duck! — I hear he's got a quick temper. But, son, I'm an old man and I had a short night and it's none of my business to teach you your job. Tell Mr. Douglas that we'll see him another day… when he's ready to receive us properly. Come on, Mike.» He started to pry himself painfully out of his chair.
LaRue said hastily, «No, no, Dr. Harshaw! We'll clear this side of the table. I'll — Well, I'll do something. It's yours.»
«That's better.» Harshaw remained poised to get up. «But where's the Flag of Mars? And how about honors?»
«I'm afraid I don't understand.»
«Never seen a day when I had so much trouble with plain English. Look — See that Federation Banner back of where the Secretary is going to sit? Where's the one over here, for Mars?»
LaRue blinked. «I must admit you've taken me by surprise. I didn't know the Martians used flags.»
«They don't. But you couldn't possibly whop up what they use for high state occasions.» (Nor 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 to upper right. «Make the field in white and the sigil of Mars in red — should be sewed in silk of course, but with a sheet and some paint any Boy Scout could improvise one. Were you a Scout?»