JUBAL HAD BEEN TRYING to warn Mike all the way to church; of what, Mike was not certain. He had listened, he always listened-but the landscape below them tugged for attention, too; he had compromised by storing what Jubal said. "Now look, boy," Jubal had admonished, "these Fosterites are after your money. That's all right, most everybody is after your money; you just have to be firm. Your money and the prestige of having the Man from Mars join their church. They're going to work on you-and you have to be firm about that, too."
"Beg pardon?"
"Damn it, I don't believe you've been listening."
"I am sorry, Jubal."
"Well ... look at it this way. Religion is a solace to many people and it is even conceivable that some religion, somewhere, really is Ultimate Truth. But in many cases, being religious is merely a form of conceit. The Bible Belt faith in which I was brought up encouraged me to think that I was better than the rest of the world; I was 'saved' and they were 'damned' -we were in a state of grace and the rest of the world were 'heathens' and by 'heathen' they meant such people as our brother Mahmoud. It meant that an ignorant, stupid lout who seldom bathed and planted his corn by the phase of the Moon could claim to know the final answers of the Universe. That entitled him to look down his nose at everybody else. Our hymn book was loaded with such arrogance-mindless, conceited, self-congratulation on how cozy we were with the Almighty and what a high opinion he had of us and us alone, and what hell everybody else was going to catch come Judgment Day. We peddled the only authentic brand of Lydia Pinkham's-"
"Jubal!" Jill said sharply. "He doesn't grok it."
"Uh? Sorry. I got carried away. My folks tried to make a preacher out of me and missed by a narrow margin; I guess it still shows."
"It does."
"Don't rub it in, girl. I would have made a good one if I hadn't fallen into the fatal folly of reading anything I could lay hands on. With just a touch more self confidence and a liberal helping of ignorance I could have been a famous evangelist. Shucks, this place we're headed for today would have been known as the 'Archangel Jubal Tabernacle.'"
Jill made a face. "Jubal, please! Not so soon after breakfast."
"I mean it. A confidence man knows that he's lying; that limits his scope. But a successful shaman ropes himself first; he believes what he says- and such belief is contagious; there is no limit to his scope. But I lacked the necessary confidence in my own infallibility; I could never become a prophet . . . just a critic-which is a poor thing at best, a sort of fourthrate prophet suffering from delusions of gender." Jubal frowned. "That's what worries me about Fosterites, Jill. I think that they are utterly sincere and you and I know that Mike is a sucker for sincerity."
"What do you think they'll try to do to him?"
"Convert him, of course. Then get their hands on his fortune."
"I thought you had things fixed so that nobody could do that?"
"No, I just fixed it so that nobody could take it away from him against his will. Ordinarily he couldn't even give it away without the government stepping in. But giving it to a church, especially a politically powerful church like the Fosterites, is another matter."
"I don't see why."
Jubal sighed. "My dear, religion is practically a null area under the law. A church can do anything any other human organization can do- and has no restrictions. It pays no taxes, need not publish records, is effectively immune to search, inspection, or control-and a church is anything that calls itself a church. Attempts have been made to distinguish between 'real' religions entitled to these immunities and 'cults.' This can't be done, short of establishing a state religion . . . which is a cure worse than the disease. In any case, we haven't done it, and both under what's left of the old United States Constitution and under the Treaty of Federation, all churches are equal and equally immune-especially if they swing a big bloc of votes. If Mike is converted to Fosterism . . . and makes a will in favor of his church . . . and then 'goes to heaven' some sunrise, it will all be, to put it in the correct tautology, 'as legal as church on Sunday.'"
"Oh, dear! I thought we had him safe at last."
"There is no safety this side of the grave."
"Well ... what are you going to do about it, Jubal?"
"Nothing. Just fret, that's all."
Mike stored their conversation without any effort to grok it. He recognized the subject as one of utter simplicity in his own language but amazingly slippery in English. Since his failure to achieve mutual grokking on this subject, even with his brother Mahmoud, with his admittedly imperfect translation of the all-embracing Martian concept as: "Thou art God," be had simply waited until grokking was possible. He knew that the waiting would fructify at its time; his brother Jill was learning his language and he would be able to explaln it to her. They would grok together.
In the meantime the scenery flowing beneath him was a never-ending delight, and he was filled with eagerness for experience to come. He expected, or hoped, to meet a human Old One.
Senator Tom Boone was waiting to meet them at the landing flat. "Howdy, folks! And may the Good Lord bless you on this beautiful Sabbath. Mr. Smith, I'm happy to see you again. And you, too, Doctor." He took his cigar out of his mouth and looked at Jill. "And this little lady- didn't I see you at the Palace?"
"Yes, Senator. I'm Gillian Boardman."
"Thought so, m'dear. Are you saved?"
"Uh, I guess not, Senator."
"Well, it's never too late. We'll be very happy to have you attend the seekers' service in the Outer Tabernacle-I'll find a Guardian to guide you. Mr. Smith and the Doc will be going into the Sanctuary, of course." The Senator looked around.
"Senator-"
"Uh, what, Doc?"
"If Miss Boardman can't go into the Sanctuary, I think we had all better attend the seekers' service. She's his nurse and translator."
Boone looked slightly perturbed. "Is he ill? He doesn't look it. And why does he need a translator? He speaks English-I heard him."
Jubal shrugged. "As his physician, I prefer to have a nurse to assist me, if necessary. Mr. Smith is not entirely adjusted to the conditions of this planet. An interpreter may not be necessary. But why don't you ask him? Mike, do you want Jill to come with you?"
"Yes, Jubal."
"But- Very well, Mr. Smith." Boone again removed his cigar, put two fingers between his lips and whistled. "Cherub here!"
A youngster in his early teens came dashing up. He was dressed in a short robe, tights, and slippers, and had what appeared to be pigeon's wings (because they were) fastened, spread, on his shoulders. He was bareheaded, had a crop of tight golden curls, and a sunny smile. Jill thought that he was as cute as a ginger ale ad.
Boone ordered, "Fly up to the Sanctum office and tell the Warden on duty that I want another pilgrim's badge sent to the Sanctuary gate right away. The word is Mars."
"'Mars,'" the kid repeated, threw Boone a Boy Scout salute, turned and made a mighty sixty-foot leap over the heads of the crowd. Jill realized why the short robe had looked so bulky; it concealed a personal jump harness.
"Have to be careful of those badges," Boone remarked. "You'd be surprised how many sinners would like to sneak in and sample a little of God's Joy without having their sins washed away first. Now we'll just mosey along and sight-see a little while we wait for the third badge. I'm glad you folks got here early."
They pushed through the crowd and entered the huge building, found themselves in a long high hallway. Boone stopped. "I want you to notice something. There is economics in everything, even in the Lord's work. Any tourist coming here, whether he attends seekers' service or not-and services run twenty-four hours a day-has to come in through here. What does he see? These happy chances." Boone waved at slot machines lining both walls of the hall. "The bar and quick lunch is at the far end, he can't even get a drink of water without running this gauntlet. And let me tell you, it's a remarkable sinner who can get that far without shedding his loose change.
"But we don't take his money and give him nothing. Take a look-" Boone shouldered his way to a machine, tapped the woman playing it on the shoulder; she was wearing around her neck a Fosterite rosary. "Please, Daughter."
She looked up, her annoyance changed to a smile. "Certainly, Bishop."
"Bless you. You'll note," Boone went on, as he fed a quarter into the machine, "that no matter whether it pays off in worldly goods or not, a sinner playing this machine is always rewarded with a blessing and an appropriate souvenir text."
The machine stopped whirring and, lined up in the windows, was:
GOD-WATCHES-YOU.
"That pays three for one," Boone said briskly and fished the pay-off out of the receptacle, "and here's your souvenir text." He tore a paper tab off that had extruded from a slot, and handed it to Jill. "Keep it, little lady, and ponder it."
Jill sneaked a glance at it before putting it into her purse: "But the Sinner's belly is filled with filth- N.R. XXII 17"
"You'll note," Boone went on, "that the pay-off is in tokens, not in coin-and the bursar's cage is clear back past the bar . . . and there is plenty of opportunity there to make love offerings for charity and other good works. So the sinner probably feeds them back in . . . with a blessing each time and another text to take home. The cumulative effect is tremendous, really tremendous! Why, some of our most diligent and pious sheep got their start right here in this room."
"I don't doubt it," agreed Jubal.
"Especially if they hit a jackpot. You understand, every combination is a complete sentence, a blessing. All but the jackpot. That's the three Holy Eyes. I tell you, when they see those eyes all lined up and starin' at 'em and all that manna from Heaven coming down, it really makes 'em think. Sometimes they faint. Here, Mr. Smith-" Boone offered Mike one of the slugs the machine had just paid. "Give it a whirl."
Mike hesitated. Jubal quickly took the proffered token himself- damn it, he didn't want the boy getting hooked by a one-armed bandit! "I'll try it, Senator." He fed the machine.
Mike really hadn't intended to do anything. He had extended his time sense a little and was gently feeling around inside the machine trying to discover what it did and why they were stopping to look at it. But he had been too timid to play it himself.
But when Jubal did so, Mike watched the cylinders spin around, noted the single eye pictured on each, and wondered what this "jackpot" was when all three were lined up. The word had only three meanings, so far as he knew, and none of them seemed to apply. Without really thinking about it, certainly without intending to cause any excitement, he slowed and stopped each wheel so that the eyes looked out through the window.
A bell tolled, a choir sang hosannas, the machine lighted up and started spewing slugs into the receptacle and on into a catch basin below it, in a flood. Boone looked delighted. "Well, bless you! Doc, this is your day! Here, I'll help you-and put one back in to take the jackpot off." He did not wait for Jubal but picked up one of the flood and fed it back in.
Mike was wondering why all this was happening, so he lined up the three eyes again. The same events repeated, save that the flood was a mere trickle. Boone stared at the machine. "Well, I'll be-blessedl It's not supposed to hit twice in a row. But never mind; it did-and I'll see that you're paid on both of them." Quickly he put a slug back in.
Mike still wanted to see why this was a "jackpot." The eyes lined up again.
Boone stared at them. Jill suddenly squeezed Mike's hand and whispered, "Mike ... stop it!"
"But, Jill, I was seeing-"
"Don't talk about it. Just stop. Oh, you just wait till I get you home!" Boone said slowly, "I'd hesitate to call this a miracle. Machine probably needs a repairman." He shouted, "Cherub here!" and added, "We'd better take the last one off, anyhow," and fed in another slug.
Without Mike's intercession, the wheels slowed down on their own and announced: "FOSTER-LOVES-YOU," and the mechanism tried, but failed, to deliver ten more slugs. A Cherub, older and with sleek black hair, came up and said, "Happy day. You need help?"
"Three jackpots," Boone told him.
"'Three'?"
"Didn't you hear the music? Are you deef? We'll be at the bar; fetch the money there. And have somebody check this machine."
"Yes, Bishop."
They left the Cherub scratching his head while Boone hurried them on through the Happiness Room to the bar at the far end. "Got to get you out of here," Boone said jovially, "before you bankrupt the Church. Doc, are you always that lucky?"
"Always," Harshaw said solemnly. He had not looked at Mike and did not intend to-he told himself that he did not know that the boy had anything to do with it . . . but he wished mightily that this ordeal were over and all of them home again.
Boone took them to a stretch of the bar counter marked "Reserved" and said, "This'll do-or would the little lady like to sit down?"
"This is fine." (-and if you call me "little lady" just once more I'll turn Mike loose on you!)
A bartender hurried up. "Happy day. Your usual, Bishop?"
"Double. What'll it be, Doc? And Mr. Smith? Don't be bashful; you're the Supreme Bishop's guests."
"Brandy, thank you. Water on the side."
"Brandy, thank you," Mike repeated ... thought about it, and added, "No water for me, please." While it was true that the water of life was not the essence in the water ceremony, nevertheless he did not wish to drink water here.
"That's the spirits" Boone said heartily. "That's the proper spirit with spirits! No water. Get it? It's a joke." Re dug Jubal in the ribs. "Now what'll it be for the little lady? Cola? Milk for your rosy cheeks? Or do you want a real Happy Day drink with the big folks?"
"Senator," Jill said carefully, "Would your hospitality extend to a martini?"
"Would it! Best martinis in the whole world right here-we don't use any vermouth at all. We bless 'em instead. Double martini for the little lady. Bless you, son, and make it fast." He turned to the others. "We've just about time for a quick one, then pay our respects to Archangel Foster and on into the Sanctuary in time to hear the Supreme Bishop."
The drinks arrived and the jackpots' payoff. They drank with Boone's blessing, then he wrangled in a friendly fashion with Jubal over the three hundred dollars just delivered, insisting that all three prizes belonged to Jubal even though Boone had inserted the slugs on the second and third. Jubal settled it by scooping up all the money and depositing it in a loveoffering bowl near them on the bar.
Boone nodded approvingly. "That's a mark of grace, Doc. We'll save you yet. Another round, folks?"
Jill hoped that someone would say yes. The gin was watered, she decided, and the flavor was poor; nevertheless it was starting a small flame of tolerance in her middle. But nobody spoke up, so she trailed along as Boone led them away, up a flight of stairs, past a sign reading: POSITIVELY NO SEEKERS NOR SINNERS ALLOWED ON THIS LEVEL-THIS MEANS YOU!
Beyond the sign was a heavy grilled gate. Boone said to it: "Bishop Boone and three pilgrims, guests of the Supreme Bishop."
The gate swung open. He led them around a curved passage and into a room.
It was a moderately large room, luxuriously appointed in a style that reminded Jill of undertakers' parlors, but it was filled with cheerful music. The basic theme seemed to be "Jingle Bells" but a Congo beat had been added and the arrangement so embroidered that its ancestry was not certain. Jill found that she liked it and that it made her want to dance.
The far wall of the room was clear glass and appeared to be not even that. Boone said briskly, "Here we are, folks-in the Presence." He knelt quickly, facing the empty wall. "You don't have to kneel, you'rt pilgrims- but do so if it makes you feel better. Most pilgrims do. And there he is just as he was when he was called up to Heaven."
Boone gestured with his cigar. "Don't he look natural? Preserved by a miracle, his flesh incorruptible. That's the very chair he used to sit in when he wrote his Messages . . . and that's just the pose he was in when he went to Heaven. He never moved and he's never been moved-we just built the Tabernacle right around him . . . removing the old church, naturally, and preserving its sacred stones."
Opposite them about twenty feet away, facing them, seated in a big arm chair remarkably like a throne, was an old man. Re looked as if he were alive - . and he reminded Jill strongly of an old goat that had been on the farm where she had spent her childhood summers-Yes, even to the out-thrust lower lip, the cut of the whiskers, and the fierce, brooding eyes. Jill felt her skin prickle; the Archangel Foster made her uneasy.
Mike said to her in Martian, "My brother, this is an Old One?"
"I don't know, Mike. They say he is."
He answered in Martian, "I do not grok an Old One here."
"I don't know, I tell you."
"I grok wrongness."
"Mike! Remember!"
"Yes, Jill."
Boone said, "What was he saying, little lady? What was your question, Mr. Smith?"
Jill said quickly, "It wasn't anything. Senator, can I get out of here? I feel faint." She glanced back at the corpse. There were billowing clouds above it and one shaft of light always cut through and sought out the face. The light changed enough so that the face seemed to change and the eyes seemed bright and alive.
Boone said soothingly, "It sometimes has that effect, the first time. But you ought to look at him from the seekers' gallery below us-looking up at him and with entirely different music. Entirely. Heavy music, with subsonics in it, I believe it is-reminds 'em of their sins. Now this room is a Happy Thoughts meditation chamber for high officials of the Church-I often come here and sit and smoke a cigar for an hour if I'm feeling the least bit low."
"Please, Senator!"
"Oh, certainly. You just wait outside, m'dear. Mr. Smith, you stay as long as you like."
Jubal said, "Senator, hadn't we best get on into the services?"
They all left. Jill was shaking and squeezed Mike's hand-she had been scared silly that Mike might do something to that grisly exhibit-and get them all lynched, or worse.
Two guards, dressed in uniforms much like the Cherubim but more ornate, thrust crossed spears in their path when they reached the portal of the Sanctuary. Boone said reprovingly, "Come, come! These pilgrims are the Supreme Bishop's personal guests. Where are their badges?"
The confusion was straightened out, the badges produced~ and with them their door prize numbers. A respectful usher said, "This way, Bishop," and led them up wide stairs and to a center box directly facing the stage.
Boone stood back for them to go in. "You first, little lady." There followed a tussle of wills; Boone wanted to sit next to Mike in order to answer his questions. Harshaw won and Mike sat between Jill and Jubal, with Boone on the aisle.
The box was roomy and luxurious, with very comfortable, self-adjusting seats, ash trays for each seat and drop tables for refreshments folded against the rail in front of them. Their balcony position placed them about fifteen feet over the heads of the congregation and not more than a hundred feet from the altar. In front of it a young priest was warming up the crowd, shuffling to the music and shoving his heavily muscled arms back and forth, fists clenched, like pistons. His strong bass voice joined the choir from time to time, then he would lift it in exhortation:
"Up off your behinds! What are you waiting for? Gonna let the Devil catch you napping'?"
The aisles were very wide and a snake dance was moving down the right aisle, across in front of the altar, and weaving back up the center aisle, feet stomping in time with the priest's piston-like jabs and with the syncopated chant of the choir. Clumps clump, moan! . . . clump, clump, moan! Jill felt the beat of it and realized sheepishly that it would be fun to get into that snake dance-as more and more people were doing under the brawny young priest's taunts.
"That boy's a corner," Boone said approvinglY. "I've team.pteached with him a few times and I can testify that he turns the crowd over to you already sizzlin'. The Reverend 'Jug' Jackerman-used to play left tackle for the Rams. You've seen him play."
"I'm afraid not," Jubal admitted. "I don't follow football."
"Really? You don't know what you're missing. Why, during the season most of the faithful stay after services, eat their lunches in their pews, and watch the game. The whole back wall behind the altar slides away and you're looking right into the biggest stereo tank ever built~ Puts the plays right in your lap. Better reception than you get at home-and it's more of a thrill to watch with a crowd around you." He stopped and whistled. "Hey, Cherub! Over here!"
An usher hurried over. "Yes, Bishop?"
"Son, you ran away so fast when you seated us, I didn't have time to put in my order."
"I'm sorry, Bishop."
"Being sorry won't get you into Heaven. Get happy, son. Get that old spring into your step and stay on your toes. Same thing all around, folks? Fine!" He gave the order and added, "and bring me back a handful of my cigars- just ask the chief barkeep."
"Right away, Bishop."
"Bless you, son. Hold it-" The head of the snake dance was just about to pass under them; Boone leaned over the rail, made a megaphone of his hands and cut through the high noise level. "Dawn! Hey, Dawn!" A woman looked up; he caught her eye, motioned her to come up. She smiled. "Add a whiskey sour to that order. Fly."
The woman showed up quickly, as did the drinks. Boone swung a seat out of the box's back row and put it cornerwise in front of him so that she could visit more easily. "Folks, meet Miss Dawn Ardent. M'dear, that's Miss Boardman, the little lady down in the corner-and this is the famous Doctor Jubal Harshaw here by me-"
"Really? Doctor, I think your stories are simply divine~"
"Thank you."
"Oh, I really do. I put one of your tapes on my player and let it lull me to sleep almost every night."
"Higher praise a writer cannot expect," Jubal said with a straight face.
"That's enough, Dawn," put in Boone. "The young man sitting between them is . . . Mr. Valentine Smith the Man from Mars."
Her eyes came open wider as her mouth opened. "Oh, my goodness!"
Boone roared. "Bless you, child! I guess I really snuck up on you that time."
She said, "Are you really the Man from Mars?"
"Yes, Miss Dawn Ardent."
"Just call me 'Dawn.' Oh, goodness!"
Boone patted her hand. "Don't you know it's a sin to doubt the word of a Bishop? M'dear, how would you like to help lead the Man from Mars ta the light?"
"Oh, I'd love it!"
(You certainly would, you sleek bitch! Jill said to herself~ She had been growing increasingly angry ever since Miss Ardent had joined them. The dress the woman was wearing was long sleeved, high necked, and opaque-and covered nothing. It was a knit fabric almost exactly the shade of her tanned skin and Jill was certain that skin was all there was under it-other than Miss Ardent, which was really quite a lot, in all departments. The dress was ostentatiously modest compared with the extreme styles worn by many of the female half of the congregation, some of whom, in the snake dance, seemed about to jounce out of their clothes.
Jill thought that, despite being dressed, Miss Ardent looked as if she had just wiggled out of bed and was anxious to crawl back in. With Mike. Quit squirming your carcass at him, you cheap hussy!
Boone said, "I'll speak to the Supreme Bishop about it, m'dear. Now you'd better get back downstairs and lead that parade. Jug needs your help."
She stood up obediently. "Yes, Bishop. Pleased to meet you, Doctor, and Miss Broad. I hope I'll see you again, Mr. Smith. I'll pray for you." She undulated away.
"A fine girl, that," Boone said happily. "Ever catch her act, Doctor?"
"I think not. What does she do?"
Boone seemed unable to believe his ears. "You don't know?"
"Didn't you hear her name? That's Dawn Ardent-she's simply the highest paid peeler in all Baja California, that's who she is. Men have committed suicide over her-very sad. Works under an irised spotlight and by the time she's down to her shoes, the light is just on her face and you really can't see anything else. Very effective. Highly spiritual. Would you believe it, looking at that sweet face now, that she used to be a most immoral woman?"
"I can't believe it."
"Well, she was. Ask her. She'll tell you. Better yet, come to a cleansing for seekers-I'll let you know when she's going to be on. When she confesses, it gives other women courage to stand up and tell about their sins. She doesn't hold anything back-and, of course, it does her good, too, to know that she's helping other people. Very dedicated woman now-flies her own car up here every Saturday night right after her last show, so as to be here in time to teach Sunday School. She teaches the Young Men's Happiness Class and attendance has more than tripled since she took over."
"I can believe that," Jubal agreed. "How old are these lucky 'Young Men'?"
Boone looked at him and laughed. "You're not fooling me, you old devil-somebody told you the motto of Dawn's class: 'Never too old to be young.'"
"No, truly."
"In any case you can't attend her class until you've seen the light and gone through cleansing and been accepted. Sorry. This is the One True Church, Pilgrim, nothing at all like those traps of Satan, those foul pits of iniquity that call themselves 'churches' in order to lead the unwary into idolatry and other abominations. You can't just walk in here because you want to kill a couple hours out of the rain-you gotta be saved first. In fact- Oh, oh, camera warning." Red lights were blinking in each corner of the great hail. "And Jug's got 'em done to a turn. Now you'll see some action."
The snake dance picked up more volunteers and the few left seated were clapping the cadence and bouncing up and down. Pairs of ushers were hurrying to pick up the fallen, some of whom were quiet but others, mostly women, were writhing and foaming at the mouth. These were dumped hastily in front of the altar and left to flop like freshly caught fish. Boone pointed his cigar at a gaunt redhead, a woman apparently about forty whose dress was badly torn by her exertions. "See that woman? It has been at least a year since she has gone all through a service without being possessed by the Spirit. Sometimes Archangel Foster uses her mouth to talk to us . . . and when that happens it takes four husky acolytes to hold her down. She could go to heaven any time, she's ready. But she's needed here. Anybody need a refill? Bar service is likely to be a little slow once the cameras are switched on and things get lively."
Almost absently Mike let his glass be replenished. He shared none of Jill's disgust with the scene. He had been deeply troubled when he had discovered that the "Old One" had been no Old One at all but mere spoiled food, with no Old One anywhere near. But he had tabled that matter and was drinking deep of the events around him.
The frenzy going on below him was so Martian in its flavor that he felt both homesick and warmly at home. No detail of the scene was Martian, all was wildly different, yet he grokked correctly that this was a growing-closer as real as water ceremony, and in numbers and intensity that he had never met before outside his own nest. He wished forlornly that someone would invite him to join that jumping up and down. His feet tingled with an urge to merge himself with them.
He spotted Miss Dawn Ardent again in its van and tried to catch her eye-perhaps she would invite him. He did not have to recognize her-by size and proportions even though he had noted when he had first seen her that she was exactly as tall as his brother Jill with very nearly the same shapings and masses throughout. But Miss Dawn Ardent had her own face, with her pains and sorrows and growings graved on it under her warm smile. He wondered if Miss Dawn Ardent might some day be willing to share water with him and grow closer. Senator Bishop Boone had made him feel wary and he was glad that Jubal had not permitted them to sit side by side. But Mike was sorry when Miss Dawn Ardent had been sent away.
Miss Dawn Ardent did not feel him looking at her. The snake dance carried her away.
The man on the platform had both his arms raised; the great cave became quieter. Suddenly he brought them down. "Who's happy?"
"WE'RE HAPPY!"
"Why?"
"GOD... LOVES US!"
"How d'you know?"
"FOSTER TOLD US!"
He dropped to his knees, raised one clenched fist. "Let's hear that Lion ROAR!"
The congregation roared and shrieked and screamed while he controlled the din using his fist as a baton, raising the volume, lowering it, squeezing it down to a subvocal growl, then suddenly driving it to crescendo that shook the balcony. Mike felt it beat on him and he wallowed in it, with ecstasy so painful that he feared that he would be forced to withdraw. But Jill had told him that he must not ever do so again, except in the privacy of his own room; he controlled it and let the waves wash over him.
The man stood up. "Our first hymn," he said briskly, "is sponsored by Manna Bakeries, makers of Angel Bread, the loaf of love with our Supreme Bishop's smiling face on every wrapper and containing a valuable premium coupon redeemable at your nearest neighborhood Church of the New Revelation, Brothers and Sisters, tomorrow Manna Bakeries with branches throughout the land start a giant, price-slashing sale of pre-equinox goodies. Send your child to school tomorrow with a bulging box of Archangel Foster cookies, each one blessed and wrapped in an appropriate text-and pray that each goodie he gives away may lead a child of sinners nearer to the light.
"And now let's really live it up with the holy words of that old favorite: 'Forward, Foster's Children!' All together-"
"Forward, Foster's Chil-dren! Smash apart your foes Faith our Shield and Ar-mar! Strike them down by rows-!"
"Second verse!"
"Make no peace with sin-nen! God is on our side!"
Mike was so joyed by it all that he did not stop then to translate and weigh and try to grok the words. He grokked that the words were not of essence; it was a growing-closer. The snake dance started moving again, the marchers chanting the potent sounds along with the choir and those too feeble to march.
After the hymn they caught their breaths while there were announcements, Heavenly messages, another commercial, and the awarding of door prizes. Then a second hymn, "Happy Faces Uplifted," was sponsored by Dattelbaum's Department Stores where the Saved Shop in Safety since no merchandise is offered which competes with a sponsored brand-a children's Happy Room in each branch supervised by a Saved sister.
The young priest moved out to the very front of the platform and cupped his ear, listening- "We ... want . . . .Digby!"
"Who?"
"We-Want--DIG-BY!"
"Louder! Make him hear you!"
"WE-WANT-DIG-BY!" Clap, clap, stomp, stomp. "WE- WANT-DIG-BY!" Clap, clap, stomp, stomp- It went on and on, getting louder as the building rocked with it. Jubal leaned to Boone and said, "Much of that and you'll do what Samson did." "Never fear," Boone told him, around his cigar. "Reinforced, fireproof, and sustained by faith. Besides, it's built to shake; it was designed that way. Helps."
The lights went down, curtains behind the altar parted, and a blinding radiance from no visible source picked out the Supreme Bishop, waving his clasped hands over his head and smiling at them.
They answered with the lion's roar and he threw them kisses. On his way to the pulpit he stopped, half raised one of the possessed women still writhing slowly near the altar, kissed her on the forehead, lowered her gently, started on-stopped again and knelt by the bony redhead. The Supreme Bishop reached behind him and a portable microphone was instantly placed in his hand.
He put his other arm around the woman's shoulders, placed the pickup near her lips.
Mike could not understand her words. Whatever they were, he was reasonably sure that they were not English.
But the Supreme Bishop was translating, interjecting his words quickly at each pause in the foaming spate.
"Archangel Foster is with us today- "He is especially pleased with you. Kiss the sister on your right- "Archangel Foster loves you all. Kiss the sister on your left-
"He has a special message for one of us here today."
The woman spoke again; Digby seemed to hesitate. "What was that? Louder, I pray you." She muttered and screamed at length.
Digby looked up and smiled. "His message is for a pilgrim from another planet-Valentine Michael Smith the Man from Mars! Where are you, Valentine Michael! Stand up, stand up!"
Jill tried to stop him but Jubal growled, "Easier to do it than to fight it. Let him stand up, Jill. Wave, Mike. Now you can sit down." Mike did so, amazed to find that they were now chanting: "Man from Mars! Man from Mars!"
The sermon that followed seemed to be directed at him, too, but try as he would, he could not understand it. The words were English, or most of them were, but they seemed to be put together wrongly and there was so much noise, so much clapping, and so many shouts of "Hallelujah!" and "Happy Day!" that he grew quite confused. He was glad when it was over.
As soon as the sermon was finished, Digby turned the service back to the young priest and left; Boone stood up. "Come on, folks. We pull a sneak now-ahead of the crowd."
Mike followed along, Jill's hand in his. Presently they were going through an elaborately arched tunnel with the noise of the crowd left behind them. Jubal said, "Does this way lead to the parking lot? I told my driver to wait."
"Eh?" Boone answered. "It does if you go straight ahead. But we're going to see the Supreme Bishop first."
"What?" Jubal replied. "No, I don't think we can. It's time for us to get on home."
Boone stared. "Doctor, you don't mean that. The Supreme Bishop is waiting for us right now. You can't just walk out on him-you must pay your respects. You're his guests."
Jubal hesitated, then gave in. "Well- There won't be a lot of other people? This boy has had enough excitement for one day."
"Just the Supreme Bishop. He wants to see you privately." Boone ushered them into a small elevator concealed in the decorations of the tunnel; moments later they were waiting in a parlor of Digby's private apartments.
A door opened, Digby hurried in. He had removed his vestments and was dressed in flowing robes. He smiled at them. "Sorry to keep you waiting, folks-I just have to have a shower as soon as I come off. You've no notion how it makes you sweat to punch Satan and keep on slugging. So this is the Man from Mars? God bless you, son. Welcome to the Lord's House. Archangel Foster wants you to feel at home here. He's watching over you."
Mike did not answer. Jubal was surprised to see how short the Supreme Bishop was. Lifts in his shoes when he was on stage? Or the way the lighting was arranged? Aside from the goatee he wore in evident imitation of the departed Foster, the man reminded him of a used-car salesman-the same ready smile and warm sincere manner. But he reminded Jubal of some one else, too . . . somebody- Got it! "Professor" Simon Magus, Becky Vesey's long-dead husband. Jubal relaxed a little and felt friendlier toward the clergyman. Simon had been as likable a scoundrel as he had ever known- Digby had turned his charm on Jill, "Don't kneel, daughter; we're just friends in private here." He spoke a few words to her, startling Jill with a surprising knowledge of her background and adding earnestly, "I have deep respect for your calling, daughter. In the blessed words of Archangel Foster, God commands us first to minister to the body in order that the soul may seek the light untroubled by ills of the flesh. I know that you are not yet one of us . . . but your service is blessed by the Lord. We are fellow travelers on the road to Heaven."
He turned to Jubal. "You, too, Doctor. Archangel Foster has told us that the Lord commands us to be happy - . - and many is the time I have put down my crook, weary unto death with the cares and woes of my flock, and enjoyed an innocent, happy hour over one of your stories- and have stood up refreshed, ready to fight again."
"Uh, thank you, Bishop."
"I mean it deeply. I've had your record searched in Heaven-now, now, never mind; I know that you are an unbeliever but let me speak. Even Satan has a purpose in God's Great Plan. It is not yet time for you to believe. Out of your sorrow and heartache and pain you spin happiness for other people. This is all credited on your page of the Great Ledger. Now please! I did not bring you here to argue technology. We never argue with anyone, we wait until they see the light and then we welcome them. But today we shall just enjoy a happy hour together."
Digby then proceeded to act as if he meant it. Jubal was forced to admit that the glib fraud was a charming host, and his coffee and liquor and food were all excellent. Jubal noticed that Mike seemed decidedly jumpy, especially when Digby deftly cut him out of the herd and spoke with him alone-but, confound it, the boy was simply going to have to get used to meeting people and talking to them on his own, without Jubal or Jill or somebody to feed him his lines.
Boone was showing Jill some relics of Foster in a glass case on the other side of the room; Jubal covertly watched her evident reluctance with mild amusement while he spread pate de fois gras on toast. He heard a door click and looked around; Digby and Mike were missing. "Where did they go, Senator?"
"Eh? What was that, Doctor?"
"Bishop Digby and Mr. Smith. Where are they?"
Boone looked around, seemed to notice the closed door. "Oh, they've just stepped in there for a moment. That's a little retiring room used for private audiences. You were in it, weren't you? When the Supreme Bishop was showing you around."
"Um, yes." It was a small room with nothing in it but a chair on a dais-a "throne," Jubal corrected himself with a private grin-and a kneeler with an ann rest. Jubal wondered which one would use the throne and which one would be left with the kneeler-if this tinsel bishop tried to argue religion with Mike he was in for some shocks. "I hope they don't stay in there too long. We really do have to be getting back."
"I doubt if they'll stay long. Probably Mr. Smith wanted a word in private. People often do - . - and the Supreme Bishop is very generous that way. Look, I'll call the parking lot and have your cab waiting right at the end of that passageway where we took the elevator-that's the Supreme Bishop's private entrance. Save you a good ten minutes."
"That's very kind of you."
"So if Mr. Smith has something on his soul he wants to confess, we won't have to hurry him. I'll step outside and phone." Boone left.
Jill came over and said worriedly, "Jubal, I don't like this. I think we were deliberately maneuvered so that Digby could get Mike alone and work on him."
"I'm sure of it."
"Well? They haven't any business doing that. I'm going to bust right in on them and tell Mike it's time to leave."
"Suit yourself," Jubal answered, "but I think you're acting like a broody hen. This isn't like having the S.S. on our tails, Jill; this swindle is much smoother. There won't be any strong-arm stuff." He smiled. "It's my opinion that if Digby tries to convert Mike, they'll wind up with Mike converting him. Mike's ideas are pretty hard to shake."
"I still don't like it."
"Relax. Help yourself to the free chow."
"I'm not hungry."
"Well, I am .. and if I ever tuned down a free feed, they'd toss me out of the Authors' Guild." He piled paper-thin Virginia ham on buttered bread, added to it other items, none of them syntho, until he had an unsteady ziggurat, munched it and licked mayonnaise from his fingers.
Ten minutes later Boone had not returned. Jill said sharply, "Jubal, I'm not going to remain polite any longer. I'm going to get Mike out of there."
"Go right ahead."
She strode to the door. "Jubal, it's locked."
"Thought it might be."
"Well? What do we do? Break it down?"
"Only as a last resort." Jubal went to the inner door, looked it over carefully. "Mmm, with a battering ram and twenty stout men I might try it. But I wouldn't count on it. Jill, that door would do credit to a bank vault-it's just been prettied up to match the room. I've got one much like it for the fireproof off my study."
"What do we do?"
"Beat on it, if you want to. You'll just bruise your hands. I'm going to see what's keeping friend Boone-"
But when Jubal looked out into the hallway he saw Boone just returning. "Sorry," Boone said. "Had to have the Cherubim hunt up your driver. He was in the Happiness Room, having a bite of lunch. But your cab is waiting for you, just where I said."
"Senator," Jubal said, "we've got to leave now. Will you be so kind as to tell Bishop Digby?"
Boone looked perturbed. "I could phone him, if you insist. But I hesitate to do so-and I simply cannot walk in on a private audience."
"Then phone him. We do insist."
But Boone was saved the embarrassment as, just then, the inner door opened and Mike walked out. Jill took one look at his face and shrilled, "Mike! Are you all right?"
"Yes, Jill."
"I'll tell the Supreme Bishop you're leaving," said Boone and went past Mike into the smaller room. He reappeared at once. "He's left," he announced. "There's a back way into his study." Boone smiled. "Like cats and cooks, the Supreme Bishop goes without saying. That's a joke. He says that 'good-by's' add nothing to happiness in this world, so he never says good-by. Don't be offended."
"We aren't. But we'll say good-by now-and thank you for a most interesting experience. No, don't bother to come down; I'm sure we can find our way out."