Stranger in a Strange Land

sip and started to hand the glass back to Jill-checked himself, looked at Harshaw and offered him the glass.
                Jubal said, "I can't speak Martian, son-but thanks for water. May you never be thirsty." He took a sip, then drank about a third of it. "Ak!" He passed the glass to Ben.
                Caxton looked at Mahmoud and said very soberly, "Grow closer. With the water of life we grow closer." He wet his lips with it and passed it to Dorcas.
                In spite of the 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 finished what was left in it and spoke, neither in Martian nor English, but 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 enquire just then whether Harshaw had understood him, or was simply being polite; this was neither the time nor the place to say anything which might lead to unbottling his own troubles, his own doubts. Nevertheless he felt warmed in his soul-as always-by water ritual . . . even though it smelled of heresy.
                His thoughts were cut short by the assistant chief of protocol bustling up to them. "You're Dr. Mahmoud. You belong over on the far side of the table, Doctor. Follow me."
                Mahmoud looked at him, then looked at Mike and smiled. "No, I belong here, with my friends. Dorcas, may I pull a chair in here and sit between you and Valentine Michael?"
                "Certainly, Doctor. Here, I'll scrunch over."
                The a.c. of p. was almost tapping his foot in impatience. "Dr. Mahmoud, please! The chart places you over 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 who doesn't belong here . . . and I don't know what I'm going to do!"
                "Then go do it someplace else, bub," Jubal suggested.
                "What? Who are you? Are you on the list?" He worriedly consulted the seating chart he carried.
                "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 and start over. And look, buster, if the Man from Mars wants his friend Dr. Mahmoud to sit by him, that settles it."
                "But he can't sit here! Seats at the main 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 all in if any more show up-and the Man from Mars, of course."
                "'Of course,'" Jubal agreed dryly.
                "And of course Dr. Mahmoud has to be near the Secretary General- just back of him, so that he'll be ready to interpret as needed. I must say you're not being helpful."
                "I'll help." Jubal plucked the paper out of the official's hand, sat down at the table and studied it. "Mmm ... lemme see now. The Man from Mars will sit directly opposite the Secretary General, just about where he happens to be sitting. Then-" Jubal got out a heavy soft pencil and attacked the seating chart. "-this entire half of the main table, from here clear over to here, belongs to the Man from Mars." Jubal scratched two big black cross marks to show the limits and joined them with a thick black arc, then began scratching out names assigned to seats on that side of the table. "That takes care of half of your work ... because I'll seat anybody who sits on our side of the table."
                The protocol officer was too shocked to talk. His mouth worked but no meaningful noises came out. Jubal