Jesus On Mars

by Philip José Farmer

  The main obstacle to conversion was becoming a Jew. Mohammed, in his struggles to found his religion, had been betrayed by some desert Jewish tribes, composed mainly of converted Arabs, and so the foundation of prejudice against Jews had been established early. Yet the Prophet had included Jews among the People of the Book, the Old Testament, which he revered. The more tolerant Moslem chiefs of the dark and medieval ages, especially in Iberia, had let the Jews worship as they pleased and even appointed them as viziers of their states. Jewish philosophers and scholars were highly regarded. But the Palestinian issue, Zionism, and the birth of the Israeli nation had hardened and sharpened the conflict. It was as much political, economic, and national as religious, but to most Moslems the conflict was religious. Shirazi was an Iranian, not an Arab, and his country had not until recently been directly involved in the war against Israel. Nevertheless, many Iranians sympathised with their fellow Moslems, and to be a Moslem was to loathe the Jew.

  Shirazi had had no difficulty in becoming Bronski's friend. He was highly educated and sceptical of the literary validity of the Koran. In Iran, he had been wise enough to keep these opinions to himself except when with like-minded friends. Eventually, though, he had to flee Iran because he couldn't any longer endure the suppression of free speech and the jailing of some of his friends for their lack of discretion. Shirazi could be a good friend of individual Jews, but the profound antipathy to their religion itself lived in him. He would admit that this attitude was emotionally based, but his conditioned reflexes were so strong they overcame his rationality. He knew that, yet had been unable to do anything about it. He was a Moslem - confronted with undeniable evidence that Judaism was the true religion. It had to be if it could produce the living Jesus, whom, despite the Koran, he had thought of as mouldering bones in a rock tomb, awaiting the resurrection of all the dead in the last days. Thus, though he admitted that Jesus was whom he claimed to be, he was still torn. The battle inside him was as fierce as that in Danton though the elements of conflict were different.

  Orme was having his own civil war. The solution to peace within himself seemed clear. All he had to do was to go to the nearest rabbi and say that he wished to convert. Rationally, emotionally, he desired to do this. But there was something in him that was fighting this, a deep strong counter-current. What it was, he did not know. Perhaps it was all that he'd heard about the Antichrist, the false Christ who would appear in the days before the Last Judgement. He'd read about him in the Bible, he'd heard many sermons preached about him, and his parents had talked much of him. The Antichrist would seem to many to be the true Christ. Was this Jesus that man?

  Orme didn't know, and he had no way of proving or disproving the truth. He would have to rely on his faith or, to put it another way, his intuition. If he were a true Christian, he should be able to see through the facade, determine whether the real or the false Jesus was behind it.

  Perhaps that was the trouble. He wasn't a genuine Christian. He may have been giving to his religion more than lip-service, but it still wasn't enough.

  The silence continued. Suddenly, he rose.

  'I'm going for a walk. It's too much like a funeral here. I want to see some live people.'

  Bronski also stood up. 'I'm going home. Sorry about this, Madeleine. Thanks for the supper, anyway.'

  'I think we're all going crazy,' she said. 'Why not? We're in an irrational environment.'

  Orme thanked her for the supper and left. Bronski followed him to the middle of the street. _ 'You want to come along?' Orme said.

  'No. I have some thinking to do. Or some feeling. I don't know which. Whatever it is, I hope it comes to a head.'

  'Well, if we're confused and upset,' Orme said, 'we have company. I imagine that there are billions like us on Earth.'

  'They can't be as disturbed as us. After all, we've lived this, and they're only seeing something on TV. It's the difference between being actually shot at and viewing an actor in a film dodging bullets.'

  They said goodnight, and Orme walked on down the street. The only light was that from the windows of houses and the 'moon'. The latter, however, was at least a fourth brighter than Earth's full moon. A sliver of darkness edged the globe, emulating the waning of Earth's satellite. When he'd first seen this, Orme had wondered why it was being done. He was told that it followed the same pattern of phases as the moon as seen from Palestine. The ancient festivals and holy days that had been scheduled according to the real moon were still followed, but with some modifications. There were three harvest seasons here, and so the necessary adjustments had been made.

  The 'sun', of course, was always at noon, and so the Terrestrial ceremonies based on the solstices could not follow it. But the Martians were on the Earthly annual calendar just as their day was Earth's. Passover and Yom Kippur were celebrated once a year; the Festival of the Booths, three times a year.

  He thought that it would be much more practical just to pretend that the moon had phases. This would give the land more illumination. Sha'ul had replied that this was true, but they didn't need the light. Most people stayed at home after dark except during festivals. If they went out, they could use electrical lanterns or searchlights.

  Now, as he went along streets in no way mean, he found himself almost alone. A few bicyclists, a couple in a horse-drawn buggy, two pedestrians, and a group in an automobile were all he came across in an hour's walk.

  He was about to turn back when he saw a municipal car park. Why not take a drive? He picked the nearest vehicle, a long one with three rows of seats. A minute later, he was barrelling along the superhighway, the bright headlights probing ahead. After fifteen minutes of this,, he turned off on to a road that led directly to a village. Since he could see well in the moonlight, and he was not going over ten miles an hour, he turned the headlights off. It was pleasant cruising along like a phantom past the rows of tall trees bordering the street, moving past houses from whose open windows came snatches of song, bursts of laughter, and animated conversation. Once he saw a huge bulk ahead and slowed, but it was only a cow crossing the street. Some farmer had been careless and left a gate open. He found this reassuring. Sometimes, he thought of these people as perfect, and so he was discouraged about his own imperfections. This was not Utopia, the Martians were just as human as he, though they'd achieved more of the human potentiality for good, and they could be forgetful or neglectful.

  A little later, he passed a house from which loud angry voices issued. He glimpsed a man and a woman standing by the window, shaking their fingers at each other.

  One more item to remind him that they were not perfect, not robots. The difference here was that, most probably, the argument wasn't going to end in a beating or murder. If it was a serious argument which they couldn't settle themselves privately, then they would go to the neighbourhood arbiter, and he or she would settle the matter. Custom demanded it, and here custom had its way.

  The good thing about the Martians was that they kept the good custom and abandoned the bad. Whatever worked was right - if it didn't conflict with good morality. Usually, anyway.

  But could this system work on Earth?

  It went well here because they had the man in the sun, and the man in the moon, too, and he closely observed them and they knew it. In practice, though not in theory, a god was their head of state and of family.

  Earth had no Jesus. No living Jesus, anyway.

  After leaving the village, he increased his speed and tore down the country roads, if you could call thirty-five mph tearing. The moonlight fell in between the trees and formed a black-and-white pattern. Darkness, light, darkness, light. A symbol of his life here. On Earth, too. Would there be a great white light surpassing all lights at the end of the road?

  There was. It wasn't a blinding but enlightening light, but it was certainly the brightest, except for the moon, he'd seen since he'd started his wandering journey. It came from a large long house set well back from the road, surrounded on three sides by massive t
rees. Large lamps hanging underneath the overhang of the roof lit up a parking space in front. This contained at least twenty cars, six bicycles, and two buggies.

  There were no windows, and the single tall door was closed. Orme stopped the car. It looked as if a party was going on. Should he drop in? He'd been assured that he'd be welcome wherever he went, except for certain government buildings. He was suddenly tired of being alone. The walk and the drive had not resulted in finding a solution to his problem. In fact, he had not even thought much about it. It had been his intention to do so, but something in him had clamped down.

  While he was hesitating, he saw the door swing out. Music and laughter blasted out, and the breeze brought him the odour of wine and something stronger. A man was silhouetted against the frame. Behind him were tables at which men and women sat, and beyond them were couples dancing.

  The man stepped out under the overhead lights.

  Orme called out, 'Philemon?'

  The man started, then walked across the lot to the road. Here the moonlight fell upon Orme's black face. Philemon stopped and ran his hand through his curly red hair. He said something under his breath. Then, 'Richard Orme! How did you find this place?'

  'By accident. I was just driving along, and when I saw all those cars and cycles, I thought maybe there might be a party here. I was feeling lonely, so...'

  Philemon stepped out past the car and looked up and down the road.

  'Are you sure that nobody's following you?'

  'No. Why should they?'

  'Never mind. Drive up and park it near the door.'

  The young athlete got into the seat beside Orme's. He leaned close and breathed alcohol into Orme's nostrils.

  'I would have brought you here before, but you're too noticeable, what with your black skin and kinky hair. Besides, I wasn't too sure of your reaction.'

  Orme turned the car into the lot. 'What are you talking about?'

  'Never mind. Just follow me.'

  Orme, wondering where Philemon had got strong spirits, which he hadn't even known were made here, went into the building. The young man closed the door after him. The music smote his ears, and the odour of wine and the liquor and sweaty bodies assailed his nostrils. He wasn't offended; it was like being in a disco on Earth, except for the lack of tobacco smoke, and he liked that.

  As people caught sight of him, they stopped talking. The band, however, except for a brief miss in the beat, seemed unperturbed. Philemon waved his hand to indicate that nothing was wrong, and the conversation started up again. Orme suspected that it was now mainly about him. He followed the athlete to a small round table with narrow chairs around it. Three were empty; the fourth was occupied by a dark lovely woman. Philemon sat down, invited Orme to take a chair, and introduced his companion.

  'Debhorah bat-El'azar. She knows who you are, of course.'

  She seemed unsurprised. Her glazed eyes and aroma of liquor indicated that at this time there was very little she would react to.

  Philemon, noticing Orme's expression, chuckled. 'She's had far too much; she always does.' ,

  Orme found it difficult to accept that such a place could exist. He was in the equivalent of a 1930s speakeasy.

  Philemon bellowed an order to the bartender, and shortly a barmaid, clad in a diaphanous robe, brought two drinks. The dark woman protested, though weakly and slurringly, that she wanted another glass. Philemon told her she'd had enough, and she subsided into a stupor. A moment later she was sleeping, her head on the table.

  Orme tasted the purplish liquor. It was like bourbon whisky in pomegranate juice with a dash of tonic water.

  'Where do you get this?' he said.

  'It's made from wheat and various other ingredients by our esteemed proprietor. Drink up; it's fabulous stuff.'

  Orme didn't like the first swallow, but after that the liquor went down easily. His stomach warmed, and presently he began to feel both numb and exhilarated.

  'Wow!'

  'That's an excellent exclamation,' Philemon said. 'Wow!'

  'I don't get this,' Orme said, waving his hand to indicate the entire place. 'Isn't it unlawful?'

  'Well, yes. But it's this way, my kinky-haired friend from far-off and iniquitous Earth. You see, we feel repressed or frustrated from time to time, some of us all the time, and so we come to this place or some other place, there are a dozen in this cavern alone, and we get drunk and we do some other things that our elders would frown upon. More than scowl at, I'm afraid.'

  Orme took another drink and pointed at a couple at a table in a distant corner. Each had a hand under the other's robe and their mouths pressed together.

  'Like that?'

  Philemon turned his head and blinked owlishly.

  'That and more.'

  He was trying to speak precisely, though his words were drawled out.

  Orme drank another mouthful, and he said, 'Those two will be married soon?'

  'Not neshe-cessarily.'

  'Then you young rebels just come here to blow off steam? But I thought you were very temperate. How do you stay in shape for your running?'

  Philemon finished his glass and shouted for another round.

  'There won't be another contest until two months from now. I jusht - just - come here to relax. Plenty of time to get in shape - sape - I mean, shape, for it.'

  Orme shook his head. 'I'm flabbergasted. I've been naive. I really believed that everybody behaved as they're expected to. But this... what happens if you get caught?'

  The barmaid put down two more glasses. Debhorah suddenly raised her head, looked blearily down, reached for a glass and had her hand pushed away by Philemon. She went back to sleep.

  He gulped down half of the glass and said, 'Public humiliashun for all of ush - us. Houshe - damn it! - house arrest. Lotsh of lecturesh. I wouldn' be able to compete for a year, and when I could appear in public, I'd have to wear ass-sh earsh for a month. But it'sh worth it. I think. Look at that drunken Debhorah. She passes out every time. How can we make love?'

  'So,' Orme said, 'there's a fly in the balm of Gilead.'

  'You know,' Philemon said solemnly, 'I've never seen a fly. Read about them, of courshe, sheen picturesh of them. But I don' really know what a fly ish - is.'

  'If you come to Earth you'll find out. I'll introduce you.'

  The exhilaration was fading away, disappointment replacing it. He told himself that he shouldn't feel this way. The Martians were not angels, they were human. They couldn't all be expected to live up to the high ethical standards they professed. Nevertheless, living as they did under the very eye of the Messiah, knowing that he was indeed what he claimed, and probably much more, having him as an example, how could they act in this manner? How could they want to do so?

  Of course, every barrel had its rotten apples. Though these patrons of the Martian speakeasy were not really rotten. What they were doing would be regarded as only normal on Earth, except for some puritanical citizens. It wasn't that they were bad or vicious. What bothered him was their attitude in comparison with that which he had been observing among the majority of the population.

  The music stopped. The wildly hopping and gyrating dancers, some of whom had fallen down, walked, staggered, or crawled off the floor. The players stepped down off the platform at the far end of the bar. For the first time he saw the flutist, who had until then been partially hidden by the other musicians.

  He rose so abruptly that the table tipped. Philemon's glass toppled and fell on to the floor. Debhorah slid off also and thumped on to the wood.

  Orme goggled for a moment, then cried, 'Gulthilo!'

  17

  'I couldn't believe my eyes when you came in,' she said.

  She signalled for a drink and sat down. The barmaid brought over a glass of the liquor for her and a refill for Orme. Philemon, looking indignant, rose unsteadily and went to the bar.

  'It was pure accident that I stopped here,' Orme said. 'Are you an habitue of this place?'

  'No,
but I come occasionally. Of course, there are other places.'

  'Why?' he said.

  'Why are there other places?'

  'No. You know what I mean.'

  She took his right hand and kissed it.

  'Because we like to come to places like this and degrade ourselves. It's fun to get roaring drunk and flirt and sometimes make love. It makes us feel better, for a while anyway. And we... ah, like to get away with an escapade now and then...'

  'That's childish.'

  'Is it? Well, as Yeshua' has said, "Blessed are the children.” ’

  She lifted her glass. 'A toast to the children and confusion to him.'

  Orme was scandalised. 'You don't mean that?'

  'Look at you, sitting there, drinking krreebrht, enjoying the company of the Sons and Daughters of the Grey. You don't look as if you planned to report us.'

  'The Grey?'

  She swallowed more, said, 'Ooh!' and fanned her open mouth.

  'Burns, doesn't it? Yes, the Sons and Daughters of the Grey. We're not the Sons of the Darkness, you know. We're really not evil. We're just having a good time, though I know plenty who would question that it's good. So, though we may not be behaving exactly like the Sons of Light, we aren't behaving like the Sons of Darkness, either. We're the Grey. The inbetweens. When we're here, anyway. The rest of the time...'

  'Butter wouldn't melt in your mouth.'

  She laughed and said, 'That must be an Earth expression. Yes, that's right.'

  Orme sighed and took another drink.