He pointed this out. Their spokesman said, “You’ll have plenty of backing this time. Supreme Bishop Short is determined that this antichrist shall flourish no longer.”
The prosecutor was not interested in antichrists—but there was a primary coming up. “Well, just remember I can’t do much without backing.”
“You’ll have it.”
Dr. Jubal Harshaw was not aware of this incident but knew of too many others for peace of mind. He had succumbed to that most insidious vice, the news. Thus far he had merely subscribed to a clipping service instructed for “Man from Mars,” “V. M. Smith,” “Church of All Worlds,” and “Ben Caxton.” But the monkey was on his back—twice lately he fought off an impulse to order Larry to set up the babble box.
Damn it, why couldn’t those kids tape him an occasional letter?—instead of letting him worry. “Front!”
Anne came in but he continued to stare out at snow and an empty swimming pool. “Anne,” he said, “rent us a tropical atoll and put this mausoleum up for sale.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“But get a lease before you hand this back to the Indians; I will not put up with hotels. How long has it been since I wrote pay copy?”
“Forty-three days.”
“Let that be a lesson to you. Begin ‘Death Song of a Wood’s Colt.’
“The depths of winter longing are ice within my heart
The shards of broken covenants lie sharp against my soul
The wraiths of long-lost ecstasy still keep us two apart
The sullen winds of bitterness still keen from turn to pole.
“The scars and twisted tendons, the stumps of struck-off limbs,
The aching pit of hunger and throb of unset bone,
My sanded burning eyeballs, as light within them dims,
Add nothing to the torment of lying here alone . . .
“The shimmering flames of fever trace out your blessed face
My broken eardrums echo yet your voice inside my head
I do not fear the darkness that comes to me apace
I only dread the loss of you that comes when I am dead.
“There,” he added briskly, “sign it ‘Louisa M. Alcott’ and send it to Togetherness magazine.”
“Boss, is that your idea of ‘pay copy’?”
“Huh? It will be worth something later; put it on file and my literary executor can use it to help settle death duties. That’s the catch in artistic pursuits; the best work is worth most after the workman can’t be paid. The literary life—Dreck! It consists in scratching the cat till it purrs.”
“Poor Jubal! Nobody ever feels sorry for him, so he has to feel sorry for himself.”
“Sarcasm yet. No wonder I don’t get any work done.”
“Not sarcasm, Boss. Only the wearer knows where the shoe pinches.”
“My apologies. All right, here’s pay copy. Title: ‘One for the Road.’
“There’s amnesia in a hang knot,
And comfort in the ax,
But the simple way of poison will make your nerves
relax.
“There’s surcease in a gunshot,
And sleep that comes from racks,
But a handy draft of poison avoids the harshest tax.
“You find rest upon the hot squat,
Or gas can give you pax,
But the closest corner chemist has peace in packaged
stacks.
“There’s refuge in the church lot
When you tire of facing facts,
And the smoothest route is poison prescribed by
kindly quacks.
“Chorus—”With an ugh! and a groan, and a kick of the heels,
Death comes quiet, or it comes with squeals—
But the pleasantest place to find your end
Is a cup of cheer from the hand of a friend.”
“Jubal,” Anne said worriedly, “is your stomach upset?”
“Always.”
“That’s for file, too?”
“Huh? That’s for the New Yorker.”
“They’ll bounce it.”
“They’ll buy it. It’s morbid, they’ll buy it.”
“And besides, there’s something wrong with the scansion.”
“Of course! You have to give an editor something to change, or he gets frustrated. After he pees in it, he likes the flavor better, so he buys it. My dear, I was avoiding honest work before you were born—don’t teach Grandpa how to suck eggs. Or would you rather I nursed Abby while you turn out copy? Hey! It’s Abigail’s feeding time! You weren’t ‘Front,’ Dorcas is ‘Front.’ ”
“It won’t hurt Abby to wait. Dorcas is lying down. Morning sickness.”
“Nonsense. Anne, I can spot pregnancy two weeks fore a rabbit can—and you know it.”
“Jubal, you let her be! She’s scared she didn’t catch . . . and she wants to think she did, as long as possible. Don’t you know anything about women?”
“Mmm . . . come to think about it—no. All right, I won’t heckle her. Why didn’t you bring our baby angel and nurse her here?”
“I’m glad I didn’t. She might have understood what you were saying—”
“So I corrupt babies, do I?”
“She’s too young to see the marshmallow syrup underneath, Boss. But you don’t do any work if I bring her; you just play with her.”
“Can you think of a better way of enriching empty hours?”
“Jubal, I appreciate the fact that you are dotty over my daughter; I think she’s pretty nice myself. But you’ve been spending all your time either playing with Abby . . . or moping.”
“How soon do we go on relief?”
“That’s not the point. If you don’t crank out stories, you get spiritually constipated. It’s reached the point where Dorcas and Larry and I are biting our nails—when you yell ‘Front!’ we jitter with relief. But it’s always a false alarm.”
“If there’s money to meet the bills, what are you worried about?”
“What are you worried about, Boss?”
Jubal considered it. Should he tell her? Any doubt as to the paternity of Abigail had been settled, in his mind, in her naming; Anne had wavered between “Abigail” and “Zenobia”—then had loaded the infant with both. Anne never mentioned the meanings of those names . . . presumably she did not know that he knew them—
Anne went on firmly, “You’re not fooling anyone, Jubal. Dorcas and Larry and I all know that Mike can take care of himself. But you’ve been so frenetic about it—”
“‘Frenetic!’ Me?”
“—Larry set up the tank in his room and one of us has been catching the news, every broadcast. Not because we are worried—except about you. But when Mike gets into the news—and of course he does—we know it before those silly clippings reach you. I wish you would quit reading them.”
“How do you know about any clippings? I went to a lot of trouble to see that you didn’t.”
“Boss,” she said in a tired voice, “somebody has to dispose of the trash. Do you think Larry can’t read?”
“So. That confounded oubliette hasn’t worked right since Duke left. Damn it, nothing has!”
“Just send word to Mike—Duke will show up at once.”
“You know I can’t do that.” It graveled him that what she said was almost certainly true . . . and the thought was followed by bitter suspicion. “Anne! Are you still here because Mike told you to?”
She answered promptly, “I am here because I wish to be.”
“Mmm . . . I’m not sure that’s responsive.”
“Jubal, sometimes I wish you were small enough to spank. May I finish what I was saying?”
“You have the floor.” Would any of them be here? Would Maryam have married Stinky and gone off to Beirut if Mike had not approved? The name “Fatima Michele” might be an acknowledgment of her adopted faith plus her husband’s wish to compliment his closest friend—or it might be code as explicit as baby Abby’s double name.
If so, did Stinky wear his antlers unaware? Or with serene pride as Joseph was alleged to have done? Uh . . . it must be concluded that Stinky knew the minutes of his houri; water-brothership permitted no omission so important. If it was important, which as a physician and agnostic Jubal doubted. But to them it would be—
“You aren’t listening.”
“Sorry. Woolgathering.”—and stop it, you nasty old man . . . reading meanings into names that mothers give their children! Next you’ll be taking up numerology . . . then astrology . . . then spiritualism—until senility has progressed so far that all there is left is custodial treatment for a hulk too dim-witted to discorporate in dignity. Go to locked drawer nine in the clinic, code “Lethe”—and use two grains, although one is more than enough—
“There’s no need for those clippings, because we check the news about Mike . . . and Ben has given us a water promise to let us know any private news we need at once. But, Jubal, Mike can’t be hurt. If you would visit the Nest, as we three have, you would know this.”
“I have never been invited.”
“We didn’t have invitations, either. Nobody has to have an invitation to his own home. You’re making excuses, Jubal. Ben urged you to, and both Dawn and Duke sent word.”
“Mike hasn’t invited me.”
“Boss, that Nest belongs to me and to you quite as much as it does to Mike. Mike is first among equals . . . as you are here. Is this Abby’s home?”
“Happens,” he answered, “that title vests in her . . . with lifetime tenancy for me.” Jubal had changed his will, knowing that Mike’s will made it unnecessary to provide for any water brother of Mike’s. But not being sure of the ‘water’ status of this nestling—save that she was usually wet—he had made redispositions in her favor and in favor of descendants of certain others. “I hadn’t intended to tell you, but there is no harm in your knowing.”
“Jubal . . . you’ve made me cry. And you’ve almost made me forget what I was saying. And I must say it. Mike would never hurry you, you know that. I grok he is waiting for fullness—and I grok you are, too.”
“Mmm . . . I grok you speak rightly.”
“All right. I think you are especially glum today because Mike has been arrested again. But that’s happened many—”
“‘Arrested?’ I hadn’t heard about this!” He added. “Damn it, girl—”
“Jubal, Jubal! Ben hasn’t called; that’s all we need to know. You know how many times Mike has been arrested—in the army, as a carnie, other places—half a dozen times as a preacher. He never hurts anybody; he lets them do it. They can never convict him and he gets out as soon as he wishes.”
“What is it this time?”
“Oh, the usual nonsense—public lewdness, statutory rape, conspiracy to defraud, keeping a disorderly house, contributing to the delinquency of minors, conspiracy to evade truancy laws—”
“Huh?”
“Their license to operate a parochial school was canceled; the kids didn’t go back to public school. No matter, Jubal—none of it matters. The one thing they are technically guilty of can’t be proved. Jubal, if you had seen the Nest you would know that even the F.D.S. couldn’t sneak a spy-eye into it. So relax. After a lot of publicity, charges will be dropped—and crowds will be bigger than ever.”
“Hmm! Anne, does Mike rig these persecutions himself?”
She looked startled. “Why, I never considered the possibility, Jubal. Mike can’t lie, you know.”
“Does it involve lying? Suppose he planted true rumors? But ones that can’t be proved in court?”
“Do you think Michael would do that?”
“I don’t know. I do know that the slickest way to lie is to tell the right amount of truth—then shut up. It wouldn’t be the first time that persecution has been courted for its headline value. All right, I’ll forget it unless it turns out he can’t handle it. Are you still ‘Front’?”
“If you can refrain from chucking Abby under the chin and saying cootchy-coo and similar uncommercial noises, I’ll fetch her. Otherwise I had better tell Dorcas to get up.”
“Bring in Abby. I’m going to make an honest effort to make commercial noises—a brand-new plot, known as boy-meets-girl.”
“Say, that’s a good one, Boss! I wonder why nobody thought of it before? Half a sec—” She hurried out.
Jubal did restrain himself—less than one minute of uncommercial activity, just enough to invoke Abigail’s heavenly smile, then Anne settled back and let the infant nurse. “Title:” he began. “‘Girls Are Like Boys, Only More So.’ Begin. Henry M. Haversham Fourth had been carefully reared. He believed that there were only two kinds of girls: those in his presence and those who were not. He vastly preferred the latter sort, especially when they stayed that way. Paragraph. He had not been introduced to the young lady who fell into his lap, and he did not consider a common disaster as equivalent to a formal intro—’ What the hell do you want?”
“Boss—” said Larry.
“Get out, close the door, and—”
“Boss! Mike’s church has burned down!”
They made a disorderly rout for Larry’s room, Jubal a half length behind Larry at the turn, Anne with eleven pounds up closing rapidly. Dorcas trailed through being late out the gate; the racket wakened her.
“—midnight last night. You are viewing what was the main entrance of the cult’s temple, as it appeared immediately after the explosion. This is your Neighborly Newsman for New World Networks with your midmorning roundup. Stay switched to this pitch for dirt that’s alert. And now a moment for your sponsor—” The scene shimmered out and medclose shot of a lovely housewife replaced, with dolly-in.
“Damn! Larry, unplug that contraption and wheel it into the study. Anne—no, Dorcas. Phone Ben.”
Anne protested, “You know the Temple never had a telephone. How can she?”
“Then have somebody chase over and—no, the Temple wouldn’t have anybody—uh, call the police chief there. No, the district attorney. The last you heard Mike was in jail?”
“That’s right.”
“I hope he still is—and the others, too.”
“So do I. Dorcas, take Abby. I’ll do it.”
As they returned to the study the phone was signalling, demanding hush & scramble. Jubal cursed and set the combo, intending to blast whoever it was off the frequency.
It was Ben Caxton. “Hi, Jubal.”
“Ben! What the hell is the situation?”
“I see you’ve had the news. That’s why I called. Everything is under control.”
“What about the fire? Anybody hurt?”
“No damage. Mike says to tell you—”
“No damage? I just saw a shot of it; it looked like a total—”
“Oh, that—” Ben shrugged. “Jubal, please listen. I’ve got other calls to make. You aren’t the only person who needs reassurance. But Mike said to call you first.”
“Uh . . . very well, sir.”
“Nobody hurt, nobody even scorched. Oh, a couple of million in property damage. The place was choked with experiences; Mike planned to abandon it soon. Yes, it was fireproof—but anything will burn with enough gasoline and dynamite.”
“Incendiary job, huh?”
“Please Jubal. They had arrested eight of us—all they could catch of the Ninth Circle, John Doe warrants, mostly. Mike had us bailed out in a couple of hours, except himself. He’s in the hoosegow—”
“I’ll be right there!”
“Take it easy. Mike says for you to come if you want to, but there is no need for it. I agree. The fire was set last night while the Temple was empty, everything canceled because of the arrests—empty, that is, except for the Nest. All of us in town, except Mike, were in the Innermost Temple, holding a Sharing-Water in his honor, when the explosion and fire were set off. So we adjourned to an emergency Nest.”
“From the looks of it, you were lucky to get out.”
“We were cut off, Jubal. We’re all d
ead—”
“What?”
“We’re all listed as dead or missing. You see, nobody left the building after that holocaust started . . . by any known exit.”
“Uh . . . a ‘priest’s hole’?”
“Jubal, Mike has methods for such things—and I’m not going to discuss them over the phone.”
“You said he was in jail?”
“So I did. He still is.”
“But—”
“That’s enough. If you come, don’t go to the Temple. It’s kaput. I’m not going to tell you where we are . . . and I’m not calling from there. If you come—and I see no point in it; there’s nothing you can do—just come as you ordinarily would—we’ll find you.”
“But—”
“That’s all. Good-by. Anne, Dorcas, Larry—and you, too, Jubal, and the baby. Share water. Thou art God.” The screen went blank.
Jubal swore. “I knew it! That’s what comes of mucking around with religion. Dorcas, get me a taxi. Anne—no, finish feeding your child. Larry, pack me a bag. Anne, I’ll want most of the iron money and Larry can go tomorrow and replenish the supply.”
“Boss,” protested Larry, “we’re all going.”
“Certainly we are,” Anne agreed crisply.
Stranger in a Strange Land Page 45
