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There arrived in the mail, from Mr. Secretary General Joseph Edgerton Douglas, a checkbook and papers; his brother Jubal took pains to explain what money was and how it was used. Mike failed to understand, even though Jubal showed him how to make out a check, gave him «money» in exchange for it, taught him to count it.
Then suddenly, with grokking so blinding that he trembled, he understood money. These pretty pictures and bright medallions were not «money»; they were symbols for an idea which spread through these people, all through their world. 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.
The flow and change and countermarching of symbols was beautiful in small, reminding him of games taught nestlings to encourage them to reason and grow, but it was the totality that dazzled him, an entire world reflected in one dynamic symbol structure. Mike then grokked that the Old Ones of this race were very old indeed to have composed such beauty; he wished humbly to be allowed to meet one.
Jubal encouraged him to spend money and Mike did so, with the timid eagerness of a bride being brought to bed. Jubal suggested that he «buy presents for friends» and Jill helped, starting by placing limits: one per friend and a total cost not even a reciprocal filled-three of the sum in his account — Mike had intended to spend all.
He learned how difficult it was to spend money. There were so many things, all wonderful and incomprehensible. Surrounded by catalogs from Marshall Field's and the Ginza, Bombay and Copenhagen, he felt smothered in riches. Even the Sears & Montgomery catalog was too much.
Jill helped. «No. Duke would not want a tractor.»
«Duke likes tractors.»
«He's got one, or Jubal has, which is the same thing. He might like one of those cute little Belgian unicycles — he could take it apart and put it together all day long. But even that is too expensive. Mike dear, a present ought not to be expensive — unless you are trying to get a girl to marry you — or something. A present should show that you considered that person's tastes. Something he would enjoy but probably would not buy.»
«How?»
«That's the problem. Wait, I just remembered something in this morning's mail.» She was back quickly. «Found it! 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 ca
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 a
Picking a present for Jubal stumped Jill. What does one buy for a man who has everything he wants that money can buy? Three Wishes? The fountain that Ponce de Leon failed to find? Oil for his ancient bones, or one golden day of youth? Jubal had long forsworn pets, because he outlived them, or (worse yet) it was now possible that a pet would outlive him, be orphaned.
They consulted others. «Shucks,» Duke told them, «didn't you know? The boss likes statues.»
«Really?» Jill answered. «I don't see any sculpture around.»
«The stuff he likes mostly isn't for sale. He says the crud they make nowdays looks like disaster in a junk yard and any idiot with a blow torch and astigmatism calls himself a sculptor.»
A
A
Mike glanced at it and turned pages. «This one.»
«What?» Jill shuddered. «Mike, that's dreadful! I hope I die long before I look like that.»
«That is beauty,» Mike said firmly.
«Mike!» Jill protested. «You've got a depraved taste — you're worse than Duke.»
Ordinarily such a rebuke, especially from Jill, would shut Mike up, force him to spend the night in trying to grok his fault. But in this he was sure of himself. The portrayed figure felt like a breath of home. Although it pictured a human woman it gave him a feeling that a Martian Old One should be near, responsible for its creation. «It is beauty,» he insisted. «She has her own face. I grok.»
«Jill,» A
«Huh? A
«It frightens me. But the book falls open in three places; this page has been handled more than the other two. This other one — »The Caryatid Fallen under Her Stone' — Jubal looks at almost as often. But Mike's choice is Jubal's pet.»
«I buy it,» Mike said decisively.
A
But for the Man from Mars unlikely things are possible. A
Jill helped select presents for the girls but when Mike asked what he should buy for her, she insisted that he not buy anything.
Mike was begi
«She has to tell you that, dear, but you give her a present anyhow. Hmm…» A
When the present arrived, its size and apparent unimpor tance added to his misgivings — and when A
Jill was delighted with the perfume and insisted on kissing him at once. In kissing her he grokked that this gift was what she wanted and that it made them grow closer.
When she wore it at di
Mike could not grok why Dorcas would want it; Dorcas did not smell like Jill, so perfume would not be proper for her… nor would he want Dorcas to smell like Jill; he wanted Dorcas to smell like Dorcas.
Jubal interrupted: «Quit nuzzling the lad and let him eat! Dorcas, you reek like a Marseilles cat house; don't wheedle Mike for more stinkum.»
«Boss, mind your own business.»
It was puzzling — that Jill could smell still more like Jill… but Dorcas should wish to smell like Jill when she smelled like herself… that Jubal would say that Dorcas smelled like a cat. There was a cat on the place (not a pet, but co-owner); on occasion it came to the house and deigned to accept a handout. The cat and Mike grokked each other; Mike found its carniverous 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.
The cat did not smell like Dorcas.