"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 explain 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. "W
ell, I'll be - blessed! 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 deaf? 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 love-offering 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're 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. He 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 st
rong 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 comer," Boone said approvingly. "I've team-preached 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."
A Stranger in a Strange Land Page 36
