A Stranger in a Strange Land

by Robert A. Heinlein

  "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."

  * * *

  XXIV

  ONCE THEY WERE IN THE AIR Jubal said, "Well, Mike, what did you think of it?"

  Mike frowned. "I do not grok."

  "You aren't alone, son. What did the Bishop have to say?"

  Mike hesitated a long time, finally said, "My brother Jubal, I need to ponder until grokking is."

  "Ponder right ahead, son. Take a nap. That's what I'm going to do."

  Jill said suddenly, "Jubal? How do they get away with it?"

  "Get away with what?"

  "Everything. That's not a church - it's a madhouse."

  It was Jubal's turn to ponder before answering. "No, Jill, you're mistaken. It is a church ... and the logical eclecticism of our times."

  "Huh?"

  "The New Revelation and all doctrines and practices under it are all old stuff, very old. All you can say about it is that neither Foster nor Digby ever had an original thought in his life. But they knew what would sell, in this day and age. So they pieced together a hundred timeworn tricks, gave them a new paint job, and they were in business. A booming business, too. The only thing that scares me is that I might live to see it sell too well - until it was compulsory for everybody."

  "Oh, no!"

  "Oh, yes. Hitler started with less and all he had to peddle was hate. Hate always sells well, but for repeat trade and the long pull happiness is sounder merchandise. Believe me, I know; I'm in the same grift myself. As Digby reminded me." Jubal grimaced. "I should have punched him, Instead, he made me like it. That's why I'm afraid of him. He's good at it, he's clever. He knows what people want. Happiness. The world has suffered a long, bleak century of guilt and fear - now Digby tells them that they have nothing to fear, in this life or hereafter, and that God commands them to love and be happy. Day in, day out, he keeps pushing it: Don't be afraid, be happy"

  "Well, that part's all right," Jill admitted, "and I concede that he works hard at it. But-"

  "Piffle! He plays hard."

  "No, he gave me the impression that he really is devoted to his work, that he had sacrificed everything else to-"

  "'Piffle!' I said. For Digby it's play. Jill, of all the nonsense that twists the world, the concept of 'altruism' is the worst. People do what they want to do, every time. If it sometimes pains them to make a choice - if the choice turns out to look like a 'noble sacrifice' - you can be sure that it is in no wise nobler than the discomfort caused by greediness... the unpleasant necessity of having to decide between two things both of which you would like to do when you can't do both. The ordinary bloke suffers that discomfort every day, every time he makes a choice between spending a buck on beer or tucking it away for his kids, between getting up when he's tired or spending the day in his warm bed and losing his job. No matter which he does he always chooses what seems to hurt least or pleasures most. The average chump spends his life harried by these small decisions. But the utter scoundrel and the perfect saint merely make the same choices on a larger scale. They still pick what pleases them. As Digby has done. Saint or scoundrel, he's not one of the harried little chumps."

  "Which do you think he is, Jubal?"

  "You mean there's a difference?"

  "Oh, Jubal, your cynicism is just a pose and you know it! Of course there's a difference."

  "Mmm, yes, you're right, there is. I hope he's just a scoundrel - because a saint can stir up ten times as much mischief as a scoundrel. Strike that from the record; you would just tag it as 'cynicism' - as if tagging it proved it wrong. Jill, what troubled you about those church services?"

  "Well... everything. You can't tell me that that is worship."

  "Meaning they didn't do things that way in the Little Brown Church in the Vale you attended as a kid? Brace yourself, Jill - they don't do it your way in St. Peter's either. Nor in Mecca."

  "Yes, but - well, none of them do it that way! Snake dances, slot machines... even a bar right in church! That's not reverence, it's not even dignified! Just disgusting."

  "I don't suppose that temple prostitution was very dignified, either."

  "Huh?"

  "I rather imagine that the two-backed beast is just as sweaty and comical when the act is performed in the service of a god as it is under any other circumstances. As for those snake dances, have you ever seen a Shaker service? No, of course not and neither have I; any church that is against sexual intercourse (as they were) doesn't last long. But dancing to the glory of God has a long and respected history. It doesn't have to be good dancing - according to eye-witness reports the Shakers could never have made the Bolshoi Ballet - it merely has to be enthusiastic. Do you consider the Rain Dances of our Southwest Indians irreverent?"

  "No. But that's different."

  "Everything always is - and the more it changes, the more it is the same. Now about those slot machines - ever see a Bingo game in church?"

  "Well... yes. Our parish used to hold them when we were trying to raise the mortgage. But we held them on Friday nights; we certainly didn't do such things during church services."

  "So? Minds me of a married woman who was very proud of her virtue. She slept with other men only when her husband was away."

  "Why, Jubal, the two cases aren't even slightly alike!"

  "Probably not. Analogy is even slipperier than logic. But, 'little lady'-"

  "Smile when you call me that!"

  "'It's a joke.' Why didn't you spit in his face? He had to stay on his good behavior no matter what we did; Digby wanted him to. But, Jill, if a thing is sinful on Sunday, it is sinful on Friday - at least it groks that way to an outsider, myself... or perhaps to a man from Mars. The only difference I can see is that the Fosterites give away, absolutely free, a scriptural text even
if you lose. Could your Bingo games make the same claim?"

  "Fake scripture, you mean. A text from the New Revelation. Boss, have you read the thing?"

  "I've read it."

  "Then you know. It's just dressed up in Biblical language. Part of it is just icky-sweet with no substance, like a saccharine tablet, more of it is sheer nonsense... and some of it is just hateful. None of it makes sense, it isn't even good morals."

  Jubal was silent so long that Jill thought he had gone to sleep. At last he said, "Jill, are you familiar with Hindu sacred writings?"

  "Mmm, I'm afraid not."

  "The Koran? Or any other major scripture? I could illustrate my point from the Bible but I would not wish to hurt your feelings."

  "Uh, I'm afraid I'm not much of a scholar, Jubal. Go ahead, you won't hurt my feelings."

  "Well, I'll stick to the Old Testament, picking it to pieces usually doesn't upset people quite so much. You know the story of Sodom and Gomorrah? And how Lot was saved from these wicked cities when Yahweh smote 'em with a couple of heavenly A-bombs?"

  "Oh, yes, of course. His wife was turned into a pillar of salt."

  "Caught by the fallout, perhaps. She tarried and looked back. Always seemed to me to be too stiff a punishment for the peccadillo of female curiosity. But we were speaking of Lot. Saint Peter describes him as a just, Godly, and righteous man, vexed by the filthy conversation of the wicked. I think we must stipulate Saint Peter to be an authority on virtue, since to him was given the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven. But if you search the only records concerning Lot, in the Old Testament, it becomes hard to determine exactly what Lot did or did not do that established him as such a paragon. He divided up a cattle range at his brother's suggestion. He got captured in a battle. When he was tipped off, he lammed out of town in time to save his skin. He fed and sheltered two strangers overnight but his conduct shows that he knew them to be V.I.P.s whether or not he knew they were angels - and by the Koran and by my own lights, his hospitality would have counted for more if he had thought they were just a couple of unworthy poor in need of a pad and a handout. Aside from these insignificant items and Saint Peter's character reference, there is just one thing that Lot did mentioned anywhere in the Bible on which we can judge his virtue - virtue so great, mind you, that heavenly intercession saved his life. See chapter nineteen of Genesis, verse eight."

  "And what does it say?"

  "Look it up when we get home. I don't expect you to believe me."

  "Jubal! You're the most infuriating man I've ever met."

  "And you're a very pretty girl and a fair cook, so I don't mind your ignorance. All right, I'll tell you - then you look it up anyhow. Some of Lot's neighbors came and beat on his door and wanted to meet these two blokes from out of town. Lot didn't fight with them; he offered 'em a deal instead. He had two young daughters, virgins - at least, such was his opinion - and he told this crowd of men that he would give them these two little girls and they could use them any way they liked - a gang shagging, a midnight revue, he pleaded with them to do any damn thing they pleased to his daughters... only please go 'way and quit beating on his door."

  "Jubal... does it really say that?"

  "Look it up yourself. I've modernized the language but the meaning is as unmistakable as a whore's wink. Lot offered to let a gang of men - 'young and old,' the Bible say& - abuse two young virgins under his protection if only they wouldn't break down his door. Say!" Jubal leaned forward and beamed. "Maybe I should have tried that when the S.S. was breaking my door down! Maybe it would have got me into heaven - and Saint Peter knows my chances aren't too good otherwise." Then he frowned and looked worried. "No, it wouldn't have worked. The recipe plainly calls for 'virgins intactae' - and I wouldn't have known which two of you gals to offer those troopers."

  "Hmmph! You won't find out from me."

  "Possibly I couldn't find out from any of you. Even Lot might have been mistaken. But that's what he promised 'em - his virgin daughters, young and tender and scared - urged this street gang to rape them as much as they wished in any way they liked ... if only they would leave him in peace?" Jubal snorted in disgust. "And the Bible cites this sort of scum as being a righteous man."

  Jill said slowly, "I don't think that's quite the way we were taught it in Sunday School."

  "Damn it, look it up! They probably gave you a Bowdlerized version. That's not the only shock in store for anybody who actually reads the Bible. Consider Elisha. It says here that Elisha was so all-fired holy that merely touching his bones restored a dead man to life. But he was a baldheaded old coot, like myself. So one day some children made fun of his baldness, just as you girls do. So God personally interceded and sent two bears to tear forty-two small children into bloody bits. That's what it says - second chapter of Second Kings."

  "Boss, I never make fun of your bald head."

  "Who was it sent my name to those hair-restorer quacks? Dorcas, maybe? Whoever it was, God knows - and she had better keep a sharp eye out for bears. I might turn pious in my dotage and start enjoying divine protection. But I shan't give you any more samples. The Bible is loaded with such stuff; read it and find out. Crimes that would turn your stomach are asserted to be either divinely ordered or divinely condoned... along with, I must add, a lot of hard common sense and some pretty workable rules for social behavior. I am not running down the Bible; it stacks up pretty well as sacred writings go. It isn't a patch on the sadistic, pornographic trash that goes by the name of sacred writings among the Hindus. Or a dozen other religions. But I'm not singling out any of them for condemnation, either; it is entirely conceivable that some one of these mutually contradictory mythologies is the literal word of God... that God is in truth the sort of bloodthirsty paranoid who would rend to bits forty-two children for the crime of sassing one of his priests. Don't ask me about the Front Office's policies; I just work here. My point is that Foster's New Revelation that you're so contemptuous of is pure sweetness-and-light as scripture goes. Bishop Digby's Patron is a pretty good Joe; He wants people to be happy-happy here on Earth plus guaranteed eternal bliss in Heaven. He doesn't expect you to chastise the flesh here and now in order to reap rewards after you're dead. Oh no! this is the modern giant economy package. If you like to drink and gamble and dance and wench - and most people do - come to church and do it under holy auspices. Do it with your conscience free of any trace of guilt. Really have fun at it. Live it up! Get happy!"

  Jubal failed to look happy himself. He went on, "Of course there's a slight charge; Digby's God expects to be acknowledged as such - but that has been a foible of gods always. Anyone who is stupid enough to refuse to get happy on His terms is a sinner... and a sinner deserves anything that happens to him. But this is one rule common to all gods and goddesses throughout history; don't blame Foster and Digby, they didn't invent it. Their brand of snake oil is utterly orthodox in all respects."

  "Boss, you sound as if you were halfway converted."

  "Not me! I don't enjoy snake dances, I despise crowds, and I do not propose to let my social and mental inferiors tell me where I have to go on Sundays - and I wouldn't enjoy Heaven if that crowd is going to be there. I simply object to your criticizing them for the wrong things. As literature, the New Revelation stacks up about average - it should; it was composed by plagiarizing other scriptures. As for logic and internal consistency, these mundane rules do not apply to sacred writings and never have - but even on these grounds the New Revelation must be rated superior; it hardly ever bites its own tail. Try reconciling the Old Testament with the New Testament sometime, or Buddhist doctrine with Buddhist apocrypha. As morals, Fosterism is merely the Freudian ethic sugar-coated for people who can't take their psychology straight, although I doubt if the old lecher who wrote it - pardon me, 'was inspired to write it' - was aware of this. He was no scholar. But he was in tune with his times, he tapped the Zeitgeist. Fear and guilt and a loss of faith - how could he miss? Now pipe down, I'm going to nap."

  "Who's
been talking?"

  "'The woman tempted me.'" Jubal closed his eyes.

  On reaching home they found that Caxton and Mahmoud had flown in together for the day. Ben had been disappointed to find Jill not at home on his arrival but he had managed to bear up without tears through the company of Anne, Miriam, and Dorcas. Mahmoud always visited for the avowed purpose of seeing his protégé, Mike, and Dr. Harshaw; however, he too had shown fortitude at having only Jubal's food, liquor, garden - and odalisques - to entertain him during his host's absence. He was lying face down with Miriam rubbing his back while Dorcas rubbed his head.

  Jubal looked at him. "Don't get up."

  "I can't, she's sitting on me. A little higher up, Miriam. Hi, Mike."

  "Hi, my brother Stinky Dr. Mahmoud." Mike then gravely greeted Ben, and asked to be excused.

  "Run along, son," Jubal told him.

  Anne said, "Wait a minute, Mike. Have you had lunch?"

  He said solemnly, "Anne, I am not hungry. Thank you," turned and went into the house.

  Mahmoud twisted, almost unseating Miriam. "Jubal? What's troubling our son?"

  "Yeah," said Ben. "He looks seasick."

  "Let him alone and he'll get well. An overdose of religion. Digby has been working on him." Jubal sketched the morning's events.

  Mahmoud frowned. "But was it necessary to leave him alone with Digby? This seems to me - pardon me, my brother! - unwise."

  "He's not hurt. Stinky, he's got to learn to take such things in his stride. You've preached your brand of theology to him - I know you have; he's told me about it. Can you name me one good reason 'why Digby shouldn't have his innings? Answer me as a scientist, not as a Muslim."

  "I am unable to answer anything other than as a Muslim," Dr. Mahmoud said quietly.

  "Sorry. I recognize the correctness of your answer, even though I don't agree with it."

  "But, Jubal, I used the word 'Muslim' in its exact, technical sense, not as a sectarian which Maryam incorrectly terms 'Mohammedan.'"

  "And which I'm going to go right on calling you until you learn to pronounce 'Miriam' correctly! Quit squirming. I'm not hurting you."