Stranger in a Strange Land

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Please, Senator!”

  “Oh, certainly. 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 left. Jill was shaking—she had been scared silly that Mike might do something to that grisly exhibit—get them all lynched.

  Two guards thrust crossed spears in their path at the portal of the Sanctuary. Boone said reprovingly, “Come, come! These pilgrims are the Supreme Bishop’s personal guests. Where are their badges?”

  Badges were produced and with them door prize numbers. A respectful usher said, “This way, Bishop,” and led them up wide stairs to a center box facing the stage.

  Boone stood back. “You first, little lady.” Boone wanted to sit next to Mike: Harshaw won and Mike sat between Jill and Jubal, with Boone on the aisle.

  The box was luxurious—self-adjusting seats, ash trays, drop tables for refreshments. They were above the congregation and less than a hundred feet from the altar. In front of it a young priest was warming up the crowd, shuffling to music and shoving heavily muscled arms back and forth, fists clenched. His strong bass voice joined the choir from time to time, then he would lift it in exhortation:

  “Up off your behinds! Gonna let the Devil catch you napping?”

  A snake dance was weaving down the right aisle, across in front, and back up the center aisle, feet stomping in time with the priest’s piston-like jabs and the syncopated chant of the choir. Clump, clump, moan! . . . Clump, clump, moan! Jill felt the beat and realized sheepishly that it would be fun to get into that 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 and I can testify he turns the crowd over to you sizzlin’. Reverend ‘Jug’ Jackerman—used to play left tackle for the Rams. You’ve seen him.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Jubal admitted. “I don’t follow football.”

  “Really? Why, during the season most of the faithful stay after services, eat lunch in their pews, and watch the game. The wall behind the altar slides away and you’re looking 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 thrill with a crowd around you.” He whistled. “Cherub! Over here!”

  Their usher hurried over. “Yes, Bishop?”

  “Son, you ran away so fast 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?” He gave the order and added, “Bring me a handful of my cigars—see the chief barkeep.”

  “Right away, Bishop.”

  “Bless you, son. Hold it—” The snake dance was about to pass under them; Boone leaned over, made a megaphone of hands and cut through the noise. “Dawn! Hey, Dawn!” A woman looked up, he beckoned to her. She smiled. “Add a whiskey sour to that. Fly.”

  The woman showed up quickly, as did the drinks. Boone swung a seat out of the back row for her. “Folks, meet Miss Dawn Ardent. M’dear, that’s Miss Boardman, the little lady down in the comer—and this is the famous Doctor Jubal Harshaw here by me—”

  “Really? Doctor, I think your stories are simply divine!”

  “Thank you.”

  “Oh, I do! I put one of your tapes on 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 between them is . . . Mr. Valentine Smith, the Man from Mars.”

  Her eyes got big. “Oh, my goodness!”

  Boone roared. “Bless you, child! I really snuck up on you.”

  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 to the light?”

  “Oh, I’d love it!”

  (You would, you sleek bitch! Jill said to herself.) She had been growing angry ever since Miss Ardent joined them. The woman’s dress was long sleeved, high necked, and opaque—and covered nothing. It was a knit fabric the shade of her tanned skin and Jill was certain that skin was all there was under it—other than Miss Ardent, which was plenty. The dress was ostentatiously modest compared with the clothes of most females in the congregation, some of whom seemed about to jounce out.

  Jill thought that 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, m’dear. Now get back and lead that parade. Jug needs you.”

  “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, Doc?”

  “I think not. What does she do?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t you hear her name? That’s Dawn Ardent—she’s the highest paid peeler in all Baja California, that’s who. Works under an irised spot 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, 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 tell their sins. She doesn’t hold back—it does her good, too, to know she’s helping people. Very dedicated—flies up every Saturday night after her last show, to teach Sunday School. She teaches the Young Men’s Happiness Class and attendance has tripled since she took over.”

  “I can believe that,” Jubal agreed. “How old are these lucky ‘Young Men’?”

  Boone 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.”

  “You can’t attend until you’ve seen the light and gone through cleansing. This is the One True Church, Pilgrim, not like those traps of Satan, those foul pits of iniquity that call themselves ‘churches’ to lure the unwary into idolatry and other abominations. You can’t walk in to kill a couple hours out of the rain—you gotta be saved first. In fact—oh, oh, camera warning.” Lights were blinking in each comer of the great hall. “And Jug’s got ’em done to a turn. Now you’ll see action!”

  The snake dance gained recruits while the few left seated clapped cadence and bounced up and down. Ushers hurried to pick up the fallen, some of whom, mostly women, were writhing and foaming. These they dumped at the altar and left to flop like fish. Boone pointed his cigar at a gaunt red-head about forty whose dress was badly torn. “See that woman? It has been fully a year since she has gone through a service without being possessed by the Spirit. Sometimes Archangel Foster uses her mouth to talk to us . . . when that happens it takes four husky acolytes to hold her. She could go to heaven any time, she’s ready. Anybody need a refill? Bar service is slow once the cameras are on and things get lively.”

  Mike let his glass be replenished. He shared none of Jill’s disgust with the scene. He had been deeply troubled when he discovered that the “Old One” was mere spoiled food, but he tabled that matter and was drinking deep of the frenzy below. It was so Martian in flavor that he felt both homesick and warmly at home. No detail was Martian, all was wildly different, yet he grokked a growing-closer as real as water ceremony, in numbers and intensity that he had never met ou
tside 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 with them.

  He spotted Miss Dawn Ardent—perhaps she would invite him. He did not have to recognize her by size and proportions even though she was exactly as tall as his brother Jill with almost the same shapings. But Miss Dawn Ardent had her own face, 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. Senator Bishop Boone made him feel wary and he was glad that Jubal had not seated them side by side. But he was sorry that Miss Dawn Ardent had been sent away.

  Miss Dawn Ardent did not look up. The procession carried her away.

  The man on the platform raised both arms; 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 fist. “Let’s hear that Lion ROAR!”

  They roared and shrieked and screamed while he used his fist as a baton, raising the volume, lowering it, squeezing it to subvocal growl, then driving it to crescendo that shook the balcony. Mike wallowed in it, with ecstasy so painful that he feared he must withdraw. But Jill had told him that he must not, except in 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 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 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—mor!

  Strike them down by rows—!”

  “Second verse!”

  “Make no peace with sin—ners!

  God is on our side!”

  Mike was so joyed that he did not try to grok words. He grokked that words were not of essence; it was a growing-closer. The dance started moving again, marchers chanting potent sounds with the choir.

  After the hymn there were announcements, Heavenly messages, another commercial and awarding of door prizes. 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 priest moved to the front of the platform and cupped his ear.

  “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, until the building rocked. Jubal leaned to Boone. “Much of that and you’ll do what Samson did.”

  “Never fear,” Boone told him, around his cigar. “Reinforced, sustained by faith. It’s built to shake, designed that way. Helps.”

  Lights went down, curtains parted; a blinding radiance picked out the Supreme Bishop, waving 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, raised one of the possessed women still writhing slowly, kissed her, lowered her gently, started on—stopped and knelt by the bony redhead. He reached behind him and a microphone was placed in his hand.

  He put an arm around her shoulders, placed the pickup near her lips.

  Mike could not understand her words. He did not think they were English.

  The Supreme Bishop translated, interjecting it at each pause in the foaming spate.

  “Archangel Foster is with us—

  “He is pleased with you. Kiss the sister on your right—

  “Archangel Foster loves you. Kiss the sister on your left—

  “He has a message for one of you.”

  The woman spoke again; Digby hesitated. “What was that? Louder, I pray you.” She muttered and screamed.

  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!”

  Jill tried to stop him but Jubal growled, “Easier not to fight it. Let him stand. Wave, Mike. Sit down.” Mike did so, amazed that they were now chanting: “Man from Mars! . . . Man from Mars!”

  The sermon seemed to be directed at him, too, but he could not understand it. The words were English, but they seemed to be put together wrongly and there was so much noise, so much clapping, so many shouts of “Hallelujah!” and “Happy Day!” that he grew quite confused.

  The sermon ended, Digby turned the service back to the young priest and left; Boone stood up. “Come, folks. We’ll sneak out ahead of the crowd.”

  Mike followed, Jill’s hand in his. Presently they were going through an elaborately arched tunnel. Jubal said, “Does this lead to the parking lot? I told my driver to wait.”

  “Eh?” Boone answered. “Yes, straight ahead. But we’re going to see the Supreme Bishop.”

  “What?” Jubal replied. “No, it’s time for us to go.”

  Boone stared. “Doctor, the Supreme Bishop is waiting. You must pay your respects. You’re his guests.”

  Jubal gave in. “Well—There won’t be a lot of people? This boy has had enough excitement.”

  “Just the Supreme Bishop.” Boone ushered them into an elevator; moments later they were in a parlor of Digby’s apartments.

  A door opened, Digby hurried in. He had removed his vestments and was dressed in flowing robes. He smiled. “Sorry to keep you waiting, folks—I have to shower as soon as I come off. You’ve no notion how it makes you sweat to punch Satan. 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. He’s watching over you.”

  Mike did not answer. Jubal was surprised to see how short Digby was. Lifts in his shoes on stage? Or the lighting? Aside from the goatee he wore in imitation of Foster the man reminded Jubal of a used car salesman—the same smile and warm manner. But he reminded Jubal of someone in particular—Got it! “Professor” Simon Magus, Becky Vesey’s long-dead husband. Jubal felt friendlier toward the clergyman. Simon had been as likeable a scoundrel as he had ever known—

  Digby turned his charm on Jill. “Don’t kneel, daughter; we’re just friends in private here.” He spoke with her, startling Jill with 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 to minister to the body in order that the soul may seek the light untroubled by 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 tells us that the Lord commands us to be happy . . . and many is the time I have put down my crook, weary unto death, and enjoyed a happy hour over one of your stories . . . 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. Even Satan has a purpose in God’s Great Plan. It is not time for you to believe. Out of your sorrow and heartache
and pain you spin happiness for others. This is credited on your page of the Great Ledger. Now please! I did not bring you here to argue theology. We never argue, we wait until you see the light and then welcome you. Today we shall just enjoy a happy hour together.”

  Jubal conceded that the glib fraud was a good host; his coffee and liquor and food were excellent. Mike seemed jumpy, especially when Digby got him aside and spoke with him alone—but, confound it, the boy had to get used to meeting people.

  Boone was showing Jill relics of Foster in a case on the other side of the room; Jubal watched with amusement while he spread pâté de foie 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 seemed to notice the closed door. “Oh, they’ve stepped in there for a moment. That’s a retiring room for private audiences. Weren’t you in it? When the Supreme Bishop was showing you around?”

  “Um, yes.” It was a room with a chair on a dais—a “Throne,” Jubal corrected himself with a grin—and a kneeler. Jubal wondered which one would use the throne and which would be stuck with the kneeler—if this tinsel bishop tried to argue religion with Mike he was in for shocks. “I hope they don’t stay long.”

  “I doubt if they will. Probably Mr. Smith wanted a word in private. Look, I’ll have your cab wait 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.”

  “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 said, “Jubal, I don’t like this. I think we were deliberately maneuvered so that Digby could get Mike alone.”

  “Obviously.”

  “They haven’t any business doing that! I’m going to bust in and tell Mike it’s time to leave.”

  “Suit yourself,” Jubal answered, “but you’re acting like a broody hen. If Digby tries to convert Mike, they’ll wind up with Mike converting him. Mike’s ideas are hard to shake.”