“Right.”
“He was specific, or as specific as prophets ever get. He said that some day the sun would start having big flares, and when that evil day came, women’s sexual desires would increase fourfold. But men wouldn’t be able to get it up. Right?”
“Right! He was a true prophet! Didn’t it happen?”
“Now, before the first time the sun flared so brightly, you had had many small flares?”
“True!”
“But the first time the sun really had a huge solar storm was when?”
“That was three hundred years ago, Mr. Clayter. Before then we only had the prophet’s word that there were storms on the sun. But when telescopes were invented, three centuries ago, we could see the small flares. About ten years later, we saw the first big one.”
“And that’s when your troubles started?”
“Ain’t it the truth!”
“Did the men get impotent and the women itchy when the flare reached its peak? Or when it was still small but looked as if it was going to get big?”
“When it was small but looked as if it might get big.”
“There you are,” Clayter says. “You have it all backward.”
The leaders look stunned. “What do you mean?”
“Suppose you have a piece of string each end of which is held by a person,” Clayter says. “When one tugs the string, it goes toward him. When the other pulls, it goes to him. You and the solar flare are connected with a string. But you’re all screwed up about who’s pulling it.”
“What in hell are you talking about?” the leaders say.
“It wasn’t the sun that made the flare get so much bigger,” John Clayter says.
“What did then?”
“Your ancestors saw a slight increase in the storm, so, of course, the anticipated reaction happened.”
“We still don’t get you,” the flabbergasted leaders say.
“Well, that flare would probably have been only a little bigger than normal. But you thought it was the promised big one.”
“Yeah?”
“Like I said,” Clayter says, “your ancestors had it backward. And succeeding generations have perpetuated the error. You see, it isn’t the giant solar flares that have been causing limp pricks and hot twats. It’s actually just the reverse.”
16
THE MOMENT OF TRUTH
Simon told this story to his host. Mofeislop and Odiomzwak laughed until they fell out of their chairs. When the sage had wiped his tears and blown his nose, he said, “So this Somers independently arrived at the same conclusion I did. He must have been a very wise man.”
“Everybody thought so,” Simon said. “After all, he made a lot of money.”
The next four days, Simon toured the area with Odiomzwak hobbling and bobbling along as guide. He inspected the big garden which filled up the part of the plateau not occupied by the house. He climbed down the steep slope to another plateau a thousand feet below, a meadow where goats grazed and bees buzzed in and out of their hives. Odiomzwak milked the goats and collected honey, and then the two followed a stream, which was mostly cataracts. Odiomzwak checked the traps along this and was rewarded with a half a dozen jackrabbit-sized rodents.
“These’ll make a welcome addition to our diet,” the assistant said. “We get tired of goat cheese and an occasional piece of goat meat in our stew.”
“I’ve wondered how you two got along,” Simon said. “You have to be entirely independent, since you’re so isolated. But you seem to be doing all right. Your fare is simple but adequate.”
“Oh, we vary it from time to time,” Odiomzwak said.
The sage was waiting for them on the roof of the house. Part of this had been made into a recreation area. There was a pool table and a court where master and servant played the Dokalian version of badminton. Mofeislop’s big telescope was on a tripod near the east edge of the roof, and he was looking through it when Simon climbed out from the stairway. Simon stopped. He was embarrassed. The telescope was partly swiveled around so he could see the master, bent over, his eye applied to the instrument. He was holding the end of his tail in one hand, and its tip was in his mouth.
Odiomzwak, coming up from behind Simon, stopped also. He coughed loudly. Mofeislop jumped back, spitting out the tuft of tail on which he had been sucking. He turned red, though no redder than Simon.
Then the sage laughed and said, “It’s an infantile habit, Simon. One that I’ve never been able to overcome. Why should I? I find it very comforting. And it certainly is not dangerous to health, as tobacco smoking is, for instance.”
“Think nothing of it,” Simon said. “I didn’t expect you to be perfect, no matter how wise you are.”
“That’s right,” Mofeislop said. “Wisdom consists of knowing when to avoid perfection.”
While Simon was trying to figure that out, he was asked to sit down in a big overstuffed chair near the telescope. He did so, his heart beating hard. He felt that today was the day, this moment the moment. Mofeislop was going to reveal the Truth now.
Odiomzwak disappeared while the sage paced back and forth, his hands behind him, his tail lashing, his long robe fluttering. When the assistant reappeared with a bottle of wine, Mofeislop stopped and said “Ah!” Simon knew this must be a rare occasion. Instead of the stinking and sharp onion wine, Odiomzwak had brought mead, brewed from the honey of the meadow bees.
Odiomzwak set the bottle and three glasses down on a table. Mofeislop said, “It would be better if the animals were taken downstairs. We want no interruptions.”
The hunchbacked assistant shambled over to the owl, which had been perched behind and above Simon. Instead of coming to him, however, Athena screeched and flew off. She climbed in spirals higher and higher and finally was lost in the sun.
“They both seem uneasy,” Simon said apologetically. Anubis was, in fact, crouched under the table and growling softly in his throat.
“Beasts are very sensitive,” the sage said. “What they lack in intelligence, they make up in psychic perception. They sense that you are about to become a very different person. And they’re not sure that they will like it. Such is the effect of Truth.”
“I’ll take him downstairs,” Simon said. But when he rose and walked toward Anubis, the dog ran out from under the table and dashed behind the chimney.
“Oh, never mind then,” Mofeislop said, waving his hand. “It’s just that I did not want you disturbed by the owl crapping on your shoulder or the dog barking. I wanted your train of thought on schedule.”
Odiomzwak went downstairs again. The sage looked through his telescope and chuckled. Straightening up from it, he said, “Another party of Truth-seekers is approaching. I’ve been watching them for three days. Two men and an exceptionally fat woman. I’m afraid she’s going to lose much weight before she gets here. The road to Truth is a long and hard one.”
“Do you get many visitors?”
“About seventy a year,” Mofeislop said. “That’s an average of about three every two weeks. Just right. There are not so many they become a burden, and each party is small enough so it can be easily handled.”
“I’m surprised anybody gets through,” Simon said, “what with the rough terrain and the wild beasts and the savages.”
“Be surprised then,” the sage said. “Today, I’m surprised, too. That’s the first woman I’ve seen in ten years. Women don’t come here seeking the Truth, you know. That’s because they think they already know it. Besides, even those women who have doubts aren’t likely to go through the Yetgul Forest to ask a man what it’s all about. They know that most men are pitiful creatures and not too bright, no matter how proficient they might be in science and technology and the arts.”
Simon said, “But you are the exception, heh?”
“Right,” the sage said. “But you’re in for several surprises today.”
“I hope I have strength enough to face them,” Simon said. “I know that, deep down, I’m like ever
ybody else. I talk much about wanting to know Truth, I seek it out, but I’m not sure that when I’m about to face it, I might not run away.”
“Others have tried to run away,” Mofeislop said.
He straightened up. “Perhaps you’ve wondered why I’ve isolated myself so thoroughly. Why do I make it so hard for people to get to me? Well, if it were easier, I’d be surrounded, overwhelmed, with people clamoring for the Truth night and day. I don’t particularly like people in the mass and, in fact, seldom individually. But here, I’m so alone that when I get a visitor I welcome him. Odiomzwak, as you may have noticed, is not a very interesting conversationalist. Also, those who make it here really desire to see me; they’re not just driven by idle curiosity. So, I have plenty of time to meditate and I get just enough visitors to satisfy my needs for human beings. And I’m master here, total master. The government doesn’t bother with me.”
Simon was about to reply when he smelled the powerful odor of long-unwashed Odiomzwak behind him. He turned his head to look up over the chair. Something clicked. He cried out and began struggling, while, seemingly far off, Anubis barked in a panic.
Steel bands had sprung out from the arms of the chair and bound his wrists.
“So, you son of a bitch, you saw me sucking my tail!” Mofeislop shouted.
“I wouldn’t tell anybody!” Simon cried. “I couldn’t care less! I just want to know the Truth!”
“You won’t tell anybody,” the sage said, glowering. “That’s right. Not that it would have made any difference whether or not you did see me. But don’t worry. You will hear the Truth.”
Odiomzwak came from behind the chair carrying several long sharp knives of varying widths and lengths. These were enough to make Simon wet his pants, but Odiomzwak’s drooling and lip-licking ensured it.
“This’ll be a rare feast indeed,” Odiomzwak mumbled. “We’ve never had Earthman’s flesh before.”
“Not rare,” Mofeislop said. “Unique. You should consult the dictionary more often, my dear Odiomzwak.”
“Who cares?” Odiomzwak said sullenly.
“I do,” the sage said. “Remember, unique, not rare. We’re not barbarians.”
“I wouldn’t agree with that,” Simon said.
“That’s because you’re emotionally involved,” Mofeislop said. “You haven’t attained the cool objectivity of the true philosopher.”
Mofeislop gestured to his assistant to put the knives on the table. He sat down in a chair facing Simon’s and put the tips of his fingers and his thumbs together. The shape thus formed was commonly known as a church steeple. To Simon, it looked like the gaping mouth of a shark.
“I hope you’re not a filthy atheist,” Mofeislop said.
“What?” Simon said. And then, “Of course not!”
“Good!” Mofeislop said. “I’ve eaten too many of them, and they’ve all had a rank taste that is unpleasant. Attitudes determine the chemical composition of a person’s flesh, you know. You didn’t? Well, now you know. And I’m pleased to see that, though you smoke, you don’t smoke much. You may have noticed the slight taste of tobacco in the meat of the stew you ate the day you got here. That was your predecessor. He was a nicotine addict, though, I’m glad to add, not an atheist. Otherwise, he would have been almost inedible.”
“I’m going to throw up,” Simon said.
“That seems to be the usual reaction,” Mofeislop said cheerfully. “I doubt you’ll have much success. I’ve arranged it so that your meal would be fully digested when you confronted the Truth.”
“Which is?” Simon said after his stomach had tried to empty non-existent contents.
“After much thought about and around, I came out of the same door, much as that drunken Persian Sufi poet you told me about. Out of the same door into which I had entered. Here’s how it is, and don’t bother to argue with me. My logic is clear and indisputable, based on long-life observation.
“It’s this. The Creator has created this world solely to provide Himself with a show, to entertain Himself. Otherwise, He’d find eternity boring.
“And He gets as much enjoyment from watching pain, suffering, and murder as He does from love. Perhaps more, since there is so much more hate and greed and murder than there is of love. Just as I enjoy watching through my telescope the struggles of those who are fighting to get to me, a sadistic pleasure, I admit, so He enjoys watching the comedies and tragedies of the beings He created.”
“That’s it?” Simon said.
“That’s it.”
“That’s nothing new!” Simon said. “I’ve read a hundred books which say the same thing! Where’s the logic, the wisdom, in that?”
“Once you’ve admitted the premise that there is a Creator, no intelligent person can come to any other conclusion. Now, tell me, can you state honestly, from all you’ve observed, that the Creator regards His creatures, human or otherwise, as anything but actors in a drama? Poor actors, most of them, and great drama is rare. But I do my best to provide Him with an interesting play, though, I must admit, for purely selfish reasons.”
He spoke to Odiomzwak. “Get an axe. That dog may try to attack, though he’s hiding behind the chimney now.”
The assistant disappeared. Mofeislop said, “Dog meat’s good, too. And an additional welcome change of diet.”
“You cannibal!” Simon snarled.
“Not really,” the sage said. “Cannibalism is eating one’s own kind, and I am not of the same species as you. Or even of other Dokalians. I differ from them, have evolved from them, you might say, just as they evolved from apes. My intellect is so much superior to theirs that it’s not a matter of degree but of kind.”
“Bullshit!” Simon said. “You have the same philosophy as a college sophomore’s! But he leaves it behind with maturity.”
“Aging, you mean,” Mofeislop said. “He gets old, and he fears dying. And so he laughs at what he once thought, which was indeed the Truth. But his laughter springs from fear, fear that he was right when he was young.”
“You’re not trying to talk me to death, are you?”
Mofeislop smiled and said, “You’ll wish I had before I’m done.”
“I’ll tell you why you’re doing this!” Simon shouted. “You hate all people because you were ridiculed when you were young! You couldn’t break yourself of the habit of sucking on your tail!”
Mofeislop jumped to his feet. His hands were balled; his face, red; his head, shaking.
“Who told you that?” he finally screamed. “Odiomzwak?”
Simon had only guessed it, but he had no compunctions about lying if he could put off the inevitable moment.
“Yes, he told me this morning while we were down at the meadow.”
“I’ll kill the ugly bastard!” Mofeislop said. But he sat down and, after an evident struggle with himself, smiled. “You are lying, of course. In any event, you won’t be passing that on, and I need Odiomzwak.”
Simon looked out past the parapet, across the mountains and valleys, and up into the sky. The sky was as blue as a baby’s eye, and the air was as clear as a baby’s conscience. A newly born wind cried softly in his ear. The sun shone as brightly as a fond mother’s smile.
Suddenly, the blue eye had something in it. The specks slowly became larger, and Simon saw that they were vultures. They must have been many miles away, circling around, screaming. There had been nothing for them until a few minutes ago, and here they were. The frequency of peace and content had suddenly shifted; they were homing in on the beam, tuned in to death.
Simon couldn’t help thinking in poetic terms even at this moment. He was a creature of habits, mostly bad. But then, on the other hand, it’s easy to break good habits and hell to break the bad.
The stink of Odiomzwak preceded the sound of his step. He came into view with a long heavy sharp axe on his shoulder.
“Shall I kill the dog now?”
Mofeislop nodded, and the assistant shuffled off. The sage picked up a small knife
curved inward like some surgeon’s tool. Simon lied again.
“Listen! If you kill me up here, you’ll be dead within a week!”
“Why is that?” the sage said, raising his thick eyebrows as if they were shrouds he was peeping under.
“Because I put a small observer satellite up before I came here! It’s suspended up there now, so far away you can’t see it. And it’s watching everything that takes place now. If it doesn’t see me leave here in a few days, it’s going to report to my partner in her spaceship in the capital city! And she’ll come barreling in here and investigate. Which means you’ll be done for!”
Mofeislop squinted up and then said, “I doubt you’re telling the truth. But just in case... Odiomzwak, come here!”
Simon smelled the assistant again, heard a click behind him, and the steel cuffs slid back into the arms of the chair. Odiomzwak stood near him, his axe held up, and Mofeislop had his hand on the hilt of a dagger in its sheath.
“Call your dog,” Mofeislop said, “and you take him inside. But move slowly, and no tricks.”
Odiomzwak whined, “He might jump over the side, like the last one.”
“Then you’ll go down after him, like the last time,” the sage said. “Anyway, I thought the bouncing down the mountain was just the thing. It tenderized him.”
“It won’t do any good to kill me inside,” Simon said. “The satellite can’t see you, but it’ll report that I haven’t come out of here.”
“Oh, it’ll see you leave here and enter the Yelgut Forest,” Mofeislop said cheerily. “I’ll be dressed in your clothes and my face’ll be made up to look like yours. I’ll come out of the forest looking like someone else. And I’ll tell your partner that you have perished on the way out.”
“And how will you explain the dog not being with me?” Simon said.
“It’ll be very inconvenient,” the sage said. “I’ll have to dodge by the newcomers and get Odiomzwak to hold them until I get back. But I’ll take the dog with me. I can dine on him once I’m under the cover of the trees.”