The Divine Invasion

And, he thought, I don't blame you. But I will hang on to the Fox; the Fox will outlast you. And so will I. You are not going to shoot down the luminiferous ether which animates our souls.

  I will hang onto the Fox and the Fox will hold me in her arms and hang on to me. The two of us-we can't be pried apart. I have dozens of hours of the Fox on audio and video tape, and the tapes are not just for me but for everyone. You think you can kill that? he said to himself. It's been tried before. The power of the weak, he thought, is an imperfect power; it loses in the end. Hence its name. We call it weak for a reason.

  "Sentimentality," Rybys said. "Right," he said sardonically. "Recycled at that." "And mixed metaphors." "Her lyrics?" "What I'm thinking. When I get really angry I mix-"

  "Let me tell you something," Rybys said. "One thing. If I am going to survive I can't be sentimental. I have to be very harsh. If I've made you angry I'm sorry but that is how it is. It is my life. Someday you may be in the spot I am in and then you'll know. Wait for that and then judge me. If it ever happens. Meanwhile this stuff you're playing on your in-dome audio system is crap. It has to be crap, for me. Do you see? You can forget about me; you can send me back to my dome, where I probably really belong, but if you have anything to do with me-"

  "Okay," he said. "I understand."

  "Thank you. May I have some more milk? Turn down the audio and we'll finish eating. Okay?"

  Amazed, he said, "You're going to keep on trying to-"

  "All those creatures-and species-who gave up trying to eat aren't with us anymore." She seated herself shakily, holding on to the table.

  "I admire you."

  "No," she said, "I admire you. It's harder on you. I know."

  "Death-" he began.

  "This isn't death. You know what this is? In contrast to what's coming out of your audio system? This is life. The milk, please; I really need it."

  As he got her more milk he said, "I guess you can't shoot down ether. Luminiferous or otherwise."

  "No," she agreed, "since it doesn't exist."

  "How old are you?" he said.

  "Twenty-seven."

  "You emigrated voluntarily?"

  Rybys said, "Who can say? I can't reconstruct my earlier thinking, now, at this point in my life. Basically I felt there was a spiritual component to emigrating.. It was either emigrate or go into the priesthood. I was raised Scientific Legate but-"

  "The Party," Herb Asher said. He still thought of it by its old name, the Communist Party.

  "But in college I began to get involved in church work. I made the decision. I chose God over the material universe."

  "So you're Catholic."

  "CIC.. yes. You're using a term that's under ban. As I'm sure you know."

  "It makes no difference to me," Herb Asher said. "I have no involvement with the Church."

  "Maybe you'd like to borrow some C.S. Lewis."

  "No thanks."

  "This illness that I have," Rybys said, "is something that made me wonder about-" She paused. "You have to experience everything in terms of the ultimate picture. As of itself my illness would seem to be evil, but it serves a higher purpose we can't see. Or can't see yet, anyhow."

  "That's why I don't read C.S. Lewis," Herb Asher said.

  She glanced at him dispassionately. "Is it true that the Clems used to worship a pagan deity on this little hill?"

  "Apparently so," he said. "Called Yah."

  "Hallelujah," Rybys said.

  "What?" he said, startled.

  "It means 'Praise ye Yah.' The Hebrew is Halleluyah."

  "Yahweh, then."

  "You never say that name. That's the sacred Tetragrammaton. Elohim, which is not plural but singular, means 'God,' and then later on in the Bible the Divine Name appears with Adonay, so you get 'Lord God.' You can choose between Elohim or Adonay or use both together but you can never say Yahweh."

  "You just said it."

  Rybys smiled. "So nobody's perfect. Kill me."

  "Do you believe all that?"

  "I'm just stating matters of fact." She gestured. "Historic fact."

  "But you do believe it. I mean, you believe in God."

  "Yes."

  "Did God will your M.S.?"

  Hesitating, Rybys said slowly, "He permitted it. But I believe he's healing me. There's something I have to learn and this way I'll learn it."

  "Couldn't he teach you some easier way?"

  "Apparently not."

  Herb Asher said, "Yah has been communicating with me."

  "No, no; that's a mistake. Originally the Hebrews believed that the pagan gods existed but were evil; later they realized that the pagan gods didn't exist."

  "My incoming signals and my tapes," Asher said.

  "Are you serious?"

  "Of course I am."

  "There's a life form here besides the Clems?"

  "There is where my dome is; yes. It's on the order of C.B. interference, except that it's sentient. It's selective."

  Rybys said, "Play me one of the tapes."

  "Sure." Herb Asher walked over to his computer terminal and began to punch keys. A moment later he had the correct tape playing.

  Silly wretch, let me rail

  At a voyage that is blind.

  Holy hopes do require

  Your behind.

  Rybys giggled. "I'm sorry, she said, laughing. "Is that Yah who did that? Not some wise guy on the mother ship or over on Fomalhaut? I mean, it sounds exactly like the Fox. The tone, I mean; not the words. The intonation. Somebody's playing a joke on you, Herb. That isn't a deity. Maybe it's the Clems."

  "I had one of them in here," Asher said sourly. "I think we should have used nerve gas on them when we settled here originally. I thought you only encountered God after you die."

  "God is God of history and of nations. Also of nature. Originally Yahweh was probably a volcanic deity. But he periodically enters history, the best example being when he intervened to bring the Hebrew slaves out of Egypt and to the Promised Land.

  They were shepherds and accustomed to freedom; it was terrible for them to be making bricks. And the Pharaoh had them gathering the straw as well and still being required to meet their quota of bricks per day. It is an archetypal timeless situation, God bringing men out of slavery and into freedom. Pharaoh represents all tyrants at all times." Her voice was calm and reasonable; Asher felt impressed.

  "So you can encounter God while you're alive," he said.

  "Under exceptional circumstances. Originally God and Moses talked together as a man talks with his friend."

  "What went wrong?"

  "Wrong in what way?"

  "Nobody hears God's voice anymore.

  Rybys said, "You do."

  "My audio and video systems do."

  "That's better than nothing." She eyed him. "You don't seem to enjoy it."

  "It's interfering with my life."

  She said, "So am I."

  To that he could think of no response; it was true.

  "What do you normally do all the time?" Rybys asked. "Lie in your bunk listening to the Fox? The foodman told me that; is it true? That doesn't sound to me like much of a life."

  Anger touched him, a weary anger. He was tired of defending his life-style. So he said nothing.

  "I think what I'll lend you first," Rybys said, "is C.S. Lewis's The Problem of Pain. In that book he-" "I read Out of the Silent Planet," Asher said.

  "Did you like it?"

  "It was OK."

  Rybys said, "And you should read The Screwtape Letters. I have two copies of that."

  To himself, Asher thought, Can't I just watch you slowly die, and learn about God from that? "Look," he said. "I am Scien- tific Legate. The Party. You understand? That's my decision; that's the side I found. Pain and illness are something to be eradicated, not understood. There is no afterlife and there is no God, except maybe a freak ionospheric disturbance that's fucking up my equipment here on this dipshit mountain. If when I die I find out I'm wrong I'll plead
ignorance and a bad upbringing. Meanwhile I'm more interested in shielding my cables and eliminating the interference than I am in talking back and forth with this Yah I have no goats to sacrifice and anyway I have other things to do. I resent my Fox tapes being ruined; they are precious to me and some of them I can't replace. Anyhow God doesn't insert such phrases as 'your behind' in otherwise beautiful songs. Not any god I can imagine."

  Rybys said, "He's trying to get your attention."

  "He would do better to say, 'Look, let's talk.'"

  "This apparently is a furtive life form. It's not isomorphic with us. It doesn't think the way we do."

  "It's a pest."

  Rybys said, pondering, "It may be modifying its manifestations to protect you."

  "From what?"

  "From it." Suddenly she shuddered wildly, in evident pain. "Oh goddam it! My hair is falling out!" She got to her feet. "I have to go back to my dome and put on that wig they gave me. This is awful. Will you go with me? Please?"

  He thought, I don't see how someone whose hair is falling out can believe in God. "I can't," he said. "I just can't go with you. I'm sorry. I don't have any portable air and I have to person my equipment. It's the truth."

  Gazing at him unhappily, Rybys nodded. Apparently she believed him. He felt a little guilty, but, more than that, he experienced overwhelming relief that she was leaving. The burden of dealing with her would be off him, at least for a time. And perhaps if he got lucky he could make the relief permanent. If he had any prayer at all it was, I hope I never see her enter this dome again. As long as she lives.

  A pleased sense of relaxation stole over him as he watched her suit up for the trip back to her dome. And he inquired of himself which of his trove of Fox tapes he would play when Rybys and her cruel verbal snipings had departed, and he would

  be free again: free to be what he truly was, the connoisseur of the undying lovely. The beauty and perfection toward which all things moved: Linda Fox.

  ------------------

  That night as he lay sleeping a voice said softly to him, "Herbert, Herbert."

  He opened his eyes. "I'm not on standby," he said, thinking it was the mother ship. "Dome Nine is active. Let me sleep."

  "Look," the voice said.

  He looked-and saw that his control board, which governed all his communications gear, was on fire. "Jesus Christ," he said, and reached for the wall switch that would turn on the emergency fire extinguisher. But then he realized something. Something perplexing. Although the control board was burning, it was not consumed.

  The fire dazzled him and burnned his eyes. He shut his eye and put his arm over his face. "Who is it?" he said.

  The voice said, "It is Ehyeh."

  "Well," Herb Asher said, amazed. It was the deity of the mountain, speaking to him openly, without an electronic interface. A strange sense of his own worthlessness overcame Herb Asher, and he kept his face covered. "What do you want?" he said. "I mean, it's late. This is my sleep cycle."

  "Sleep no more," Yah said.

  "I've had a hard day." He was frightened.

  Yah said, "I command you to take care of the ailing girl. She is all alone. If you do not hasten to her side I will burn down your dome and all the equipment in it, as well as all you own besides. I will scorch you with flame until you wake up. You are not awake, Herbert, not yet, but I will cause you to be awake; I will make you rise up from your bunk and go and help her. Later I will tell her and you why, but now you are not to know."

  "I don't think you have the right person," Asher said. "I think you should be talking to M.E.D. It's their responsibility."

  At that moment an acrid stench reached his nose. And, as he watched in dismay, his control board burned down to the floor, into a little pile of slag.

  Shit, he thought.

  "Were you to lie again to her about your portable air," Yah said, "I would afflict you terribly, beyond repair, just as this equipment is now beyond repair. Now I shall destroy your Linda Fox tapes." Immediately the cabinet in which Herb Asher kept his video and audio tapes began to burn.

  "Please," he said.

  The flames disappeared. The tapes were undamaged. Herb Asher got up from his bunk and went over to the cabinet; reaching out his hand he touched the cabinet-and instantly yanked his hand away; the cabinet was searingly hot.

  "Touch it again," Yah said.

  "I will not," Asher said.

  "You will trust the Lord your God."

  He reached out again and this time found the cabinet cold. So he ran his fingers over the plastic boxes containing the tapes. They, too, were cold. "Well, goodness," he said, at a loss.

  "Play one of the tapes," Yah said.

  "Which one?"

  "Any one."

  He selected a tape at random and placed it into the deck. He turned his audio system on.

  The tape was blank.

  "You erased my Fox tapes," he said.

  "That is what I have done," Yah said.

  "Forever?"

  "Until you hasten to the side of the ailing girl and care for her."

  "Now? She's probably asleep."

  Yah said, "She is sitting crying."

  The sense of worthlessness within Herb Asher burgeoned; in shame he shut his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said.

  "It is not too late. If you hurry you can reach her in time."

  "What do you mean, 'in time'?"

  Yah did not answer, but in Herb Asher's mind appeared a picture, resembling a hologram; it was in color and it was in depth. Rybys Rommey sat at her kitchen table in a blue robe; on the table was a bottle of medication and a glass of water. In dejection she sat resting her chin on her fist; in her fist she clutched a wadded-up handkerchief.

  "I'll get my suit on," Asher said; he popped the suit-compartment door open, and his suit-little used and long neglected-tumbled out onto the floor.

  Ten minutes later he stood outside his dome, in the bulky suit, his lamp sweeping out over the expanse of frozen methane before him; he trembled, feeling the cold even through the suit-which was a delusion, he realized, since the suit was absolutely insulating. What an experience, he said to himself as he started walking down the slope. Roused out of my sleep in the middle of the night, my equipment burned down, my tapes erased-bulk erased in their totality.

  The methane crystals crunched under his boots as he walked down the slope, homing in on the automatic signal emitted by Rybys Rommey's dome; the signal would guide him. Pictures inside my head, he thought. Pictures of a girl about to take her own life. It's a good thing Yah woke me. She probably would have done it.

  He was still frightened, and as he descended the slope he sang to himself an old Communist Party marching song.

  Because he fought for freedom

  He was forced to leave his home.

  Near the blood-stained Manzanares,

  Where he led the fight to hold Madrid,

  Died Hans, the Commissar,

  Died Hans, the Commissar.

  With heart and hand I pledge you,

  While I load my gun again,

  You will never be forgotten,

  Nor the enemy forgiven,

  Hans Beimler, our Commissar,

  Hans Beimler, our Commissar.

  CHAPTER 4

  As Herb Asher descended the slope the meter in his hand showed the homing signal growing in strength. She ascended this hill to get to my dome, he realized. I made her walk uphill, since I wouldn't go to her. I made a sick girl toil her way up step by step, carrying an armload of supplies. I will fry in hell.

  But, he realized, it's not too late.

  He made me take her seriously, Asher realized. I simply was not taking her seriously. It was as if I imagined that she was making up her illness. Telling a tale to get attention. What does that say about me? he asked himself. Because in point of fact I really knew she was sick, truly sick, not faking it. I have been asleep, he said to himself. And, while I slept, a girl has been dying.

  And then he th
ought about Yah, and he trembled. I can get my rig repaired, he thought. The gear that Yah burned down. That won't be hard; all I have to do is notify the mother ship and inform them that I suffered a meltdown. And Yah promised to restore to me my Fox tapes-which undoubtedly he can do. But I've got to go back to that dome and live there. How can I live there? I can't live there. It's impossible.

  Yah has plans for me, he thought. And he felt fear, realizing this. He can make me do anything.

  Rybys greeted him impassively. She did have on a blue robe and she did hold a wadded-up handkerchief, and, he saw, her eyes were red from crying. "Come in," she said, although he was already in the dome; she seemed a little dazed. "I was thinking about you," she said. "Sitting and thinking."

  On the kitchen table stood a medicine bottle. Full.

  "Oh, that," she said. "I was having trouble sleeping and I was thinking about taking a sleeping pill."

  "Put it away," he said.

  Obediently, she returned the bottle to her bathroom cabinet.

  "I owe you an apology," he said.

  "No you don't. Want something to drink? What time is it?" She turned to look at her wall clock. "I was up anyhow; you didn't wake me. Some telemetric data was coming in." She pointed to her gear; lights showed, indicating activity.

  He said, "I mean I had air. Portable air."

  "I know that. Everyone has portable air. Sit down; I'll fix you tea." She rooted in an overflowing drawer beside her stove. "Somewhere I have teabags."

  Now, for the first time, he became aware of the condition of her dome. It was shocking. Dirty dishes, pots and pans and even glasses of spoiled food, soiled clothing strewn everywhere, litter and debris . . . Troubled, he gazed around, wondering if he should offer to clean up the place. And she moved so slowly, with such evident fatigue. He had an intuition, suddenly, that she was far sicker than she had originally led him to believe.

  "It's a sty," she said.

  He said, "You are very tired."

  "Well, it wears me out to heave up my guts every day of the week. Here's a teabag. Shit; it's been used once. I use them and then dry them out. It's OK once, but sometimes I find I'm reusing the same bag again and again. I'll try to find a fresh one." She continued to rummage.

  The TV screen showed a picture. It was an animated horror: a vast hemorrhoid that swelled and pulsed angrily. "What are you watching?" Asher asked. He averted his gaze from the animation.

  "There's a new soap opera on. It just began the other day. 'The Splendor of-' I forget. Somebody or something. It's really interesting. They've been running it a lot."

  "You like the soaps?" he said.

  "They keep me company. Turn up the sound."

  He turned up the sound. The soap opera had now resumed, replacing the animated hemorrhoid. An elderly bearded man, an exceedingly hairy old man, struggled with two popeyed arachnids who sought, apparently, to decapitate him. "Get your fucking mandibles off me!" the elderly man shouted, flailing about. The flash of laser beams ignited the screen. Herb Asher remembered once again the burning down of his communications gear by Yah; he felt his heart race in anxiety.

  "If you don't want to watch it-" Rybys said.

  "It's not that." Telling her about Yah would be hard; he doubted if he could do it. "Something happened to me. Something woke me." He rubbed his eyes.