Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert A. Heinlein

didn’t know anything was wrong! She tried to look at it from his point of view. She failed, but did grasp that he had no notion that they were running away from . . . from what? The cops? The hospital authorities? She was not sure what she had done, what laws she had broken; she simply knew that she had pitted herself against the Big People, the Bosses.
    How could she tell the Man from Mars what they were up against when she herself did not know? Did they have policemen on Mars? Half the time talking to him was like shouting down a rain barrel.
    Heavens, did they even have rain barrels on Mars? Or rain?
    â€œNever mind,” she said soberly. “You just do what I tell you to.”
    â€œYes.”
    It was an unlimited acceptance, an eternal yea. Jill suddenly felt that Smith would jump out the window if she told him to—and she was correct; he would have jumped, enjoyed every second of the twenty-story drop, and accepted without surprise or resentment discorporation on impact. Nor would he have been unaware that such a fall would kill him; fear of death was an idea beyond him. If a water brother selected for him such strange discorporation, he would cherish it and try to grok.
    â€œWell, we can’t stand here. I’ve got to feed us, I’ve got to get you into different clothes, and we’ve got to leave. Take those off.” She left to check Ben’s wardrobe.
    She selected a travel suit, a beret, shirt, underclothes, shoes, then returned. Smith was snarled like a kitten in knitting; he had one arm prisoned and his face wrapped in the skirt. He had not removed the cape before trying to take off the dress.
    Jill said, “Oh, dear!” and ran to help.
    She got him loose from the clothes, then stuffed them down the oubliette . . . she would pay Etta Schere later and she did not want cops finding them—just in case. “You are going to have a bath, my good man, before I dress you in Ben’s clean clothes. They’ve been neglecting you. Come along.” Being a nurse, she was inured to bad odors, but (being a nurse) she was fanatic about soap and water . . . and it seemed that no one had bathed this patient recently. While Smith did not stink, he did remind her of a horse on a hot day.
    With delight he watched her fill the tub. There was a tub in the bathroom of suite K-12 but Smith had not known its use; bed baths were what he had had and not many of those; his trancelike withdrawals had interfered.
    Jill tested the temperature. “All right, climb in.”
    Smith looked puzzled.
    â€œHurry!” Jill said sharply. “Get in the water.”
    The words were in his human vocabulary and Smith did as ordered, emotion shaking him. This brother wanted him to place his whole body in the water of life! No such honor had ever come to him; to the best of his knowledge no one had ever been offered such a privilege. Yet he had begun to understand that these others did have greater acquaintance with the stuff of life . . . a fact not grokked but which he must accept.
    He placed one trembling foot in the water, then the other . . . slipped down until water covered him completely.
    â€œHey!” yelled Jill, and dragged his head above water—was shocked to find that she seemed to be handling a corpse. Good Lord! he couldn’t drown , not in that time. But it frightened her, she shook him. “Smith! Wake up! Snap out of it.”
    From far away Smith heard his brother call, and returned. His eyes ceased to be glazed, his heart speeded up, he resumed breathing. “Are you all right?” Jill demanded.
    â€œI am all right. I am very happy . . . my brother.”
    â€œYou scared me. Look, don’t get under the water again. Just sit up, the way you are now.”
    â€œYes, my brother.” Smith added something in a croaking meaningless to Jill, cupped a handful of water as if it were precious jewels and raised it to his lips. His mouth touched it, then he