Digby heaved a deep ethereal sigh. «Okay, I'm Happy. Where do I start?»
Jubal did not hear of Digby's disappearance when it was announced, and, when he did, while he had a fleeting suspicion, he dismissed it; if Mike had had a finger in it, he had gotten away with it — and what happened to supreme bishops worried Jubal not at all as long as he wasn't bothered.
His household had gone through an upset. Jubal deduced what had happened but did not know with whom-and didn't want to inquire. Mike was of legal age and presumed able to defend himself in the clinches. Anyhow, it was high time the boy was salted.
Jubal couldn't reconstruct the crime from the way the girls behaved because patterns kept shifting — ABC vs D, then BCD vs A … or AB vs CD, or AD vs CB, through all ways that four women can gang up on each other.
This continued most of the week following that ill-starred trip to church, during which period Mike stayed in his room and usually in a trance so deep that Jubal would have pronounced him dead had he not seen it before. Jubal would not have minded it if service had not gone to pieces. The girls seemed to spend half their time tiptoeing in «to see if Mike was all right» and they were too preoccupied to cook, much less be secretaries. Even rock-steady Anne — Hell, 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.
Late Thursday Mike woke himself and suddenly it was ABCD in the service of Mike, «less than the dust beneath his chariot wheels.» The girls resumed giving Jubal service, so he counted his blessings and let it lie … except for a wry thought that, if he demanded a showdown, Mike could quintuple their salaries by a post card to Douglas — but the girls would just as readily support Mike.
With domestic tranquility restored Jubal did not mind that his kingdom was ruled by a mayor of the palace. Meals were on time and better than ever; when he shouted «Front!» the girl who appeared was bright-eyed, happy, and efficient — such being the case, Jubal did not give a hoot who rated the most side boys. Or girls.
Besides, the change in Mike was interesting. Before that week Mike had been docile in a fashion that Jubal classed as neurotic; now he was so self-confident that Jubal would have described it as cocky had it not been that Mike continued to be unfailingly polite and considerate.
He accepted homage from the girls as if a natural right, he seemed older than his age rather than younger, his voice deepened, he spoke with forcefulness rather than timidly. Jubal decided that Mike had joined the human race; he could discharge this patient.
Except (Jubal reminded himself) on one point: Mike still did not laugh. He could smile at a joke and sometimes did not ask to have them explained. Mike was cheerful, even merry — but he never laughed.
Jubal decided that it was not important. This patient was sane, healthy — and human. Short weeks earlier Jubal would have given odds against a cure. He was humble enough not to claim credit; the girls had had more to do with it. Or should he say «girl?»
From the first week of his stay Jubal had told Mike almost daily that he was welcome … but that he should stir out and see the world as soon as he felt able. Jubal should not have been surprised when Mike announced one breakfast that he was leaving. But he was surprised and, to his greater surprise, hurt.
He covered it by using his napkin unnecessarily. «So? When?»
«We're leaving today.»
«Um. Plural. Are Larry and Duke and I going to have to put up with our own cooking?»
«We've talked that over,» Mike answered. «I need somebody, Jubal; I don't know how people do things yet — I make mistakes. It ought to be Jill because she wants to go on learning Martian. But it could be Duke or Larry if you can't spare one of the girls.»
«I get a vote?»
«Jubal, you must decide. We know that.»
(Son, you've probably told your first lie. I doubt if I could hold even Duke if you set your mind.) «I guess it should be Jill. But look, kids — This is your home.»
«We know that — we'll be back. Again we will share water.»
«We will, son.»
«Yes,Father.»
«Huh?»
«Jubal, there is no Martian word for “father”. But lately I grokked that you are my father. And Jill's father.»
Jubal glanced at Jill. «Mmm, I grok. Take care of yourselves.»
«Yes. Come, Jill.» They were gone before he left the table.
XXVI
IT WAS the usual carnival — rides, cotton candy, the same flat joints separating marks from dollars. The sex lecture deferred to local opinion concerning Darwin's opinions, the posing show wore what local lawmen decreed, Fearless Fenton did his Death-Defying Dive before the last bally. The ten-in-one did not have a mentalist, it had a magician; it had no bearded lady, it had a half-man-half-woman; no sword swallower but a fire eater, no tattooed man but a tattooed lady who was also a snake charmer, and for the blow-off she appeared «absolutely nude! … clothed only in bare living flesh in exotic designs!» — any mark who found one square inch untattooed below her neckline would win twenty dollars.
The prize went unclaimed. Mrs. Paiwonski posed in «bare living flesh» — her own and a fourteen-foot boa constrictor named «Honey Bun» — with the snake looped so strategically that the ministerial alliance could not complain. As further protection (for the boa) she stood on a stool in a canvas tank containing a dozen cobras.
Besides, the lighting was poor.
But Mrs. Paiwonski's claim was honest. Until his death her husband had a tattooing studio in San Pedro; when trade was slack they decorated each other. Eventually the art work on her was so complete from neck down that there was no room for an encore. She took pride in being the most decorated woman in the world, by the world's greatest artist — such being her opinion of her husband.
Patricia Paiwonski associated with grifters and sinners unharmed; she and her husband had been converted by Foster himself, she attended the nearest Church of the New Revelation wherever she was. She would gladly have dispensed with any covering in the blow-off because she was clothed in conviction that she was canvas for religious art greater than any in museum or cathedral. When she and George saw the light, there was about three square feet of Patricia untouched; before he died she carried a pictorial life of Foster, from his crib with angels hovering around to the day of glory when he had taken his appointed place.
Regrettably much of this sacred history had to be covered. But she could show it in closed Happiness meetings of the churches she attended if the shepherd wanted her to, which he almost always did. Patricia couldn't preach, she couldn't sing, she was never inspired to speak in tongues — but she was a living witness to the light.
Her act came next to last; this left time to put away her photographs, then slip behind the rear canvas for the blow-off. Meanwhile the magician performed.
Dr. Apollo passed out steel rings and invited the audience to make sure that each was solid; then he had them hold the rings so that they overlapped — tapped each overlap with his wand. The links formed a chain. He laid his wand in the air, accepted a bowl of eggs from his assistant, juggled half a dozen. His juggling did not attract many eyes, his assistant got more stares. She wore more than the young ladies in the posing show; nevertheless there seemed slight chance that she was tattooed anywhere. The marks hardly noticed six eggs become five, then four … three, two — at last Dr. Apollo was tossing one egg in the air.