Jubal tried to explain that all human religions claimed to be in touch with «Old Ones» one way or another; nevertheless their answers were all different.

Mike looked patiently troubled. «Jubal my brother, I try … but I do not grok how this can be right speaking. With my people, Old Ones speak always rightly. Your people — »

«Hold it, Mike.»

«Beg pardon?»

«When you said, “my people” you were talking about Martians. Mike, you are not a Martian; you are a man.»

«What is “Man”?»

Jubal groaned. Mike could, he was sure, quote the dictionary definitions. Yet the lad never asked a question to be annoying; he asked always for information — and expected Jubal to be able to tell him. «I am a man, you are a man, Larry is a man.»

«But Anne is not a man?»

«Uh … Anne is a man, a female man. A woman.»

(«Thanks, Jubal.» — «Shut up, Anne.»)

«A baby is a man? I have seen pictures — and in the goddam noi — in stereovision. A baby is not shaped like Anne … and Anne is not shaped like you … and you are not shaped like I. But a baby is a nestling man?»

«Uh … yes, a baby is a man.»

«Jubal… I think I grok that my people — “Martians” — are man. Not shape. Shape is not man. Man is grokking. I speak rightly?»

Jubal decided to resign from the Philosophical Society and take up tatting! What was «grokking»? He had been using the word for a week — and he didn't grok it. But what was «Man»? A featherless biped? God's image? Or a fortuitous result of «survival of the fittest» in a circular definition? The heir of death and taxes? The Martians seemed to have defeated death, and they seemed not to have money, property, nor government in any human sense — so how could they have taxes?

Yet the boy was right; shape was irrelevant in defining «Man,» as unimportant as the bottle containing the wine. You could even take a man out of his bottle, like that poor fellow whose life those Russians had «saved» by placing his brain in a vitreous envelope and wiring him like a telephone exchange. Gad, what a horrible joke! He wondered if the poor devil appreciated the humor.

But how, from the viewpoint of a Martian, did Man differ from other animals? Would a race that could levitate (and God knows what else) be impressed by engineering? If so, would the Aswan Dam, or a thousand miles of coral reef, win first prize? Man's self-awareness? Sheer conceit, there was no way to prove that sperm whales or sequoias were not philosophers and poets exceeding any human merit.

There was one field in which man was unsurpassed; he showed unlimited ingenuity in devising bigger and more efficient ways to kill off, enslave, harass, and in all ways make an unbearable nuisance of himself to himself. Man was his own grimmest joke on himself. The very bedrock of humor was —

«Man is the animal who laughs,» Jubal answered.

Mike considered this. «Then I am not a man.»

«Huh?»

«I do not laugh. I have heard laughing and it frighted me. Then I grokked that it did not hurt. I have tried to learn — » Mike threw his head back and gave out a raucous cackle.

Jubal covered his ears.«Stop!»

«You heard,» Mike agreed sadly. «I cannot rightly do it. So I am not man.»

«Wait a minute, son. You simply haven't learned yet … and you'll never learn by trying. But you will, I promise you. If you live among us long enough, one day you will see how funny we are — and you will laugh.»

«I will?»

«You will. Don't worry, just let it come. Why, son, even a Martian would laugh once he grokked us.»

«I will wait,» Smith agreed placidly.

«And while you are waiting, don't doubt that you are man. You are. Man born of woman and born to trouble … and some day you will grok its fullness and laugh — because man is the animal that laughs at himself. About your Martian friends, I do not know. But I grok that they may be “man”.»

«Yes, Jubal.»

Harshaw thought that the interview was over and felt relieved. He had not been so embarrassed since a day long gone when his father had explained the birds and the bees and the flowers — muchtoo late.

But the Man from Mars was not yet done. «Jubal my brother, you were ask me, “Who made the World?” and I did not have words why I did not grok it rightly to be a question. I have been thinking words.»

«So?»

«You told me, “God made the World.”»

«No, no!» Harshaw said. «I told you that, while religions said many things, most of them said, “God made the World”. I told you that I did not grok the fullness, but that “God” was the word that was used.»

«Yes, Jubal,» Mike agreed. «Word is “God”.» He added, «You grok.»

«I must admit I don't grok.»

«You grok,» Smith repeated firmly. «I am explain. I did not have the word. You grok. Anne groks. I grok. The grasses under my feet grok in happy beauty. But I needed the word. The word is God.»

«Go ahead.»

Mike pointed triumphantly at Jubal.«Thou art God!»

Jubal slapped a hand to his face. «Oh, Jesus H. — What have I done?Look, Mike, take it easy! You didn't understand me. I'm sorry. I'm very sorry! Just forget what I've said and we'll start over another day. But — »

«Thou art God,» Mike repeated serenely. «That which groks. Anne is God. I am God. The happy grasses are God. Jill groks in beauty always. Jill is God. All shaping and making and creating together — » He croaked something in Martian and smiled.

«All right, Mike. But let it wait. Anne! Have you been getting this?»

«You bet I have, Boss!»

«Make a tape. I'll have to work on it. I can't let it stand. I must — » Jubal glanced up, said, «Oh, my God! General Quarters, everybody!Anne! Set the panic button on “dead man” — and for God's sake keep your thumb on it; they may not be coming here.» He glanced up again, at two air cars approaching from the south. «I'm afraid they are. Mike! Hide in the pool! Remember what I told you — down in the deepest part, stay there, hold still — don't come up until I send Jill.»

«Yes, Jubal.»

«Right now!Move!»

«Yes, Jubal.» Mike ran the few steps, cut water and disappeared. He kept his knees straight, toes pointed, feet together.

«Jill!» Jubal called out. «Dive in and climb out. You too, Larry. If anybody saw that, I want 'em confused as to how many are using the pool. Dorcas! Climb out fast, child, and dive again. Anne — No, you've got the panic button.»

«I can take my cloak and go to the edge of the pool. Boss, do you want delay on this “dead-man” setting?»

«Uh, thirty seconds. If they land, put on your Witness cloak and get your thumb back on the button. Then wait — and if I call you to me, let the balloon go up. I don't dare shout “Wolf”! unless — » He shielded his eyes. «One of them is going to land … and it's got that Paddy-wagon look. Oh, damn, I thought they would parley.»

The first car hovered, dropped for a landing in the garden around the pool; the second started circling at low altitude. The cars were squad carriers in size, and showed a small insignia : the stylized globe of the Federation.

Anne put down the radio relay link, got quickly into professional garb, picked up the link and put her thumb on the button. The door of the first car opened as it touched and Jubal charged towards it with the belligerence of a Pekingese. As a man stepped out, Jubal roared, «Get that God damned heap off my rose bushes!»

The man said, «Jubal Harshaw?»

«Tell that oaf to raise that bucket and move it back! Off the garden and onto the grass! Anne!»

«Coming, Boss.»

«Jubal Harshaw, I have a warrant for — »

«I don't care if you've got a warrant for the King of England; move that junk off my flowers! Then, so help me, I'll sue you for — » Jubal glanced at the man, appeared to see him for the first time. «Oh, so it's you,» he said with bitter contempt. «Were you born stupid, Heinrich, or did you have to study? When did that uniformed jackass learn to fly?»