“Are you any happier because men claimed they walked on the Moon? Are your bills at the grocery store any lower? Are your children any better-behaved? Are you pleased that these crazy doctors in London can make babies in test tubes? Or that abortionists are free to run rampant in this here land? Are you safer in your homes because some knee-jerk liberal wants to take away your right to have your own gun?
[755] “Where has evolution and fossils in the rocks and Pleistocene-Meistocene got you but into deep trouble? I’ll tell you where science has got you-into the pigpen with the other animals.
“But I bring you release from all that. I tell you what you know in your hearts, that there’s only one true way. Throw out these evil humanists. Get rid of their corruptin’ textbooks. Bring God back into the schools and make this a decent country once again.”
Mott was surprised to learn that Reverend Strabismus and his wife were staying at the home of Senator Grant, up in Clay, and he followed the evangelist from town to town until the entourage of speakers, singers, trumpet players and Chimp-Champ-Chump reached the college town. The senator, hearing that Mott was in the neighborhood, invited him to dinner one night, and the occasion could have become an icy one because Mott launched right into the fatuities of the campaign.
“It’s amusing that I should be here,” he said in his precise way. “I mean, in this particular house. Because some years ago the senator gave me a commission in this very room. “Go out and see what that rascal has done to my daughter.” I went, and I saw a brilliant young man making-”
“Please!” the senator interrupted, and with a nod of his head toward a largely inert mass sitting opposite him, he indicated that nothing must be said about the little green men of the past that might agitate his wife.
“How did you make the transition, Reverend Strabismus, from science fiction to religion?”
“God called me.”
“Did God also call Jim Jones of Guyana? And Reverend Moon?”
“Individual persons turn sour in every calling. Look at the mad scientists of fiction.”
“Yes, but my mad scientists are in fiction. Dr. Jekyll, Dr. Frankenstein. Yours occur in real life.”
“You asked me how I made the transition. In response to the heart cries of the American people. They were sick with a great malady, Dr. Mott, one caused by you scientists.”
“You’re an extremely brilliant fellow, Strabismus. I’ve studied your record since those days at New Paltz and-” [756] Again Senator Grant indicated that nothing must be said which would upset his wife, so Mott changed his tone abruptly. “In public you speak like an illiterate hillbilly. Here you sound like Socrates ... or better, Savonarola.”
“I have what you don’t have, Dr. Mott. An acute sense of what the American public seeks. The vote in this state will prove it. They seek assurance from a simple man. They seek clarification, simplification, a return to historic ideals, the safety of the religion their grandfathers knew, cleansed of Darwin and Einstein and all that rubbish. They seek security, and they know instinctively that this comes from simple men like me, not atheistic scientists like you.”
“I suppose you know my father was a Methodist minister.”
“You’ve strayed a long way from his teaching.”
“I sometimes think I’m carrying it forward. Don’t you see, Strabismus, if the things we’re discovering are so extraordinary, so infinitely wonderful, isn’t it likely that the force which created them was Himself a scientist?”
“Don’t refer to God as force. He is God, exactly as the Book of Genesis states.”
“That’s what my father taught me to believe.”
“Then why, in brazen disobedience to God’s statements, do you teach children lies about dinosaurs and geology and evolution?”
“Because the record is before me ... in the rocks ... the relationships.”
“On the day of Creation, God placed those fossils in the rocks. He laid down the layers of rock to instruct us.”
“I refuse to believe that God is a trickster.”
“He is a Creator whose intention we are not allowed to penetrate.”
“You claim that He spent His energy putting together this jigsaw puzzle-the fossil fish high in the mountains, the dinosaur bones in a hundred varied locations, the geological strata. Isn’t it infinitely grander to believe that He started everything with a mighty bang, let’s say eighteen billion years ago, and then allowed His grand design to work itself out ... according to the rules inherent in what He threw into the universe?”
“Once you start down that road, you find yourself with [757] evolution and the claim that my Chimp-Champ-Chump was your grandfather.”
“You prefer to believe that God was a jokester?”
“He was the Creator. He began everything on one glorious day.”
“But if the entire record of the Earth drives us inescapably back ...”
“You’ve lost your battle, Dr. Mott. And we’ve won. Regardless of how the referendum goes next month in Fremont-I mean, even if your forces of evil do revoke our law forbidding evolution-we’ve won the battle. Why? Because our people dominate the committees that select schoolbooks for California and Texas, and what the big states do, the little ones will have to follow. Atheistic science is being driven right out of our textbooks. Soon you won’t dare show a fossil or a dinosaur, and you won’t be able to preach your atheistic evolution. So what does it matter what a state like New Mexico does? The corrupt New York publishers must print their books for sale in California and Texas, and that means they have to print them according to what we say. Your kind of science is dead in these two big states, which automatically makes it dead in New Mexico and Vermont, too.”
“So if I wrote a science book that showed fossils and spoke of dinosaurs roaming this area thirty million years ago ...”
“It would be obviously false, because the world did not exist thirty million years ago. It couldn’t have. It was created not more than six thousand years ago with the dinosaur bones and all that in place.”
“Is it true that your people have halted all geology lectures in the national parks?”
“A national park is a national schoolbook, and what we teach children in California we certainly teach their parents in Yellowstone and Grand Canyon.”
“Not long ago I put a little boy on an airplane for his summer vacation in Germany. His parents insisted that he learn honest science, not the mishmash you’re prescribing. Do you fear the day when our best young people will have to flee to Europe to get a real education?”
“Dr. Mott, we have a committee right now compiling a dossier on the evils done to this nation by Rhodes scholars [758] who came home with corrupt ideas. Fulbright of Arkansas, Sarbanes of Maryland, Carl Albert of who knows where, this man Bradley of New Jersey. If you ask me, I think they’re all Communists. So you tell your boy who went to Germany to mark his ways, because when he comes back here, we’re going to watch him.”
“Do you ever suspect that you’re becoming the Jim Jones of the mind? That your ultimate effect-”
“Gentlemen,” Senator Grant interrupted. “We’re getting nowhere with this debate. Dr. Mott is a distinguished scientist, Reverend Strabismus is a leader in this nation. I believe there’s room for both.”
“We need scientists to invent new medicines,” Strabismus conceded. “Build better airplanes. But not to dabble in ultimate things like Creation.”
“That’s where the trail ends,” Mott said.
The talk now turned to Mrs. Grant, who broke her long silence. “I’m so pleased to have Marcia with us again. Is California very hot?”
“Probably the best climate in the world,” Marcia said. She was forty-two and almost radiantly beautiful; standing with her husband on a platform, she presented the reassuring image of a supportive wife whose sole interest was the promotion of his good work. She obviously enjoyed her role, and now spoke enthusiastically about it. “You know, Dr. Mott, Leopold and I live very simply. We
do have that imposing temple that you spoke about, but things like that and the university are built with funds placed in our hands by a believing public. We spend very little on ourselves.”
“The private airplane?”
“It belongs to a generous businessman who supports our work.”
“Your Mercedes?”
“We do move about.”
“How did you handle your old building? The one you were in when I visited you?”
“We sold it to a Mexican church for one dollar.”
“Is that true, Strabismus?”
“We’re very strong in the Mexican community because of that. One dollar, when we might have sold it for one million.”
[759] “Dr. Mott,” Mrs. Grant protested, “you keep asking the Reverend difficult questions. You must stop.”
“I shall.”
“I’ve known Reverend Strabismus for many years now, even before Marcia knew him. And he has always been a bringer of light.” She reached out to touch his arm. “If you ask me, it was only his tireless statesmanship that prevented the Strangers from taking over our government, although I was assured by their messengers that Norman would be kept on in government.”
Mott looked straight ahead, but then the senator said something which jolted him: “From what the voters in Fremont tell me, I’m afraid we went too far too fast with the Moon business.”
“In your evangelism the other night, Strabismus, you said something about NASA “claiming to have reached the Moon.” What possibly could you have meant?”
Instead of trying to defend himself, Strabismus leaned forward eagerly to explain. “A lot of people in this country believe we never got to the Moon. They believe it was all a government hoax, and I was speaking to reassure them.”
“So you gather all the mind-weary dissidents-the anti-everythings-and you build a great constituency. And one day you’ll find yourself the new Jim Jones ... but in a more devastating arena.”
In a frail voice Mrs. Grant said, “I wish we could retreat from all of this unpleasantness about schoolbooks and monkey grandfathers and women’s rights and people who want to take away our guns. I wish we could erase it all and go back to the simpler life I knew in this house with my father. Reverend Strabismus, you must rescue that simpler life for us.”
In the brief silence that followed, Mott reflected that this good woman had seen space and been repelled by it. As the wonder-machines leaped into the air at Canaveral, probing ever outward, extending the dimensions of the comprehensible universe, she had intentionally contracted the perimeters of her world, making it ever smaller and easier to control. And he concluded that all persons are obligated to wrestle with the universe as they perceive it, and those who are terrified by the [760] prospect retreat to little corners from which they seek to destroy the machines doing the outward probing and the men who manage them.
Senator Grant had perceived space only as a battleground on which to humiliate the Russians, who had done their best to humiliate us, and when that struggle was resolved, with Americans on the Moon and the Russians flopping about a hundred and ten miles above the Earth, he had retired from the great adventure. Indeed, he had turned his back on space and had voted against any major new appropriations. John Pope had performed better than anyone still living, but once he attained his limited objective, the Moon, he had retired to obscurity. Ed Cater had flown his two flights with distinction, but had retreated to a real estate office in his hometown. Lovely Inger Jensen had given her husband to the program and then fled to the sanctuary of a library in Oregon. Mott’s own sons had been engulfed, but good old Debby Dee had guzzled her gin and handled space as easily as she had mastered her husband’s rusted Chevrolets.
And how had he, Mott, met the challenge? Always he had tried to extend the frontier, first in Germany, where he knew he must rescue those Peenemünde men or see America go down the tubes, then at Wallops Island, where he had explored the farthest atmosphere, then in the Apollo program, and finally at the doors of Saturn. He had made an honest effort, but listening to how Reverend Strabismus was marshaling the nation against his principles, he suspected that he might have been fighting the wrong battle.
Dieter Kolff was wrong, he said to himself as the others chatted. He believed that with a rocket big enough, man could do anything. But he failed to protect himself against the frightened people who would always want to destroy the rocket. I suppose that’s the historic failure of the Germans. They worship the machine but not the man who runs it. Maybe Strabismus is right. Keep the citizens ignorant. Burn the books that might distress or agitate them. Convince them that the truth lies elsewhere than in the questing human mind.
His reflections were broken by Mrs. Grant, who said, “I think it’s so wonderful, Reverend Strabismus, that you [761] and Marcia will he able to vacation in Sweden after the vote.”
“Uppsala has been very good to me, Mrs. Grant. In all my literature I’ve referred to the happy years I spent there. Now I’m taking my wife to see those hallowed halls.”
“The real reason for our going,” Marcia divulged, “is that Leopold is endowing a chair at Uppsala.”
“In what subject?” Mott asked, his mouth agape.
“The Strabismus Chair of Moral Philosophy,” Leopold said.
In the early spring of 1982 Penny Pope, working diligently in the Senate on the problems of NASA and refusing two superior appointments suggested by the new Reagan administration, reached two important decisions which she longed to discuss with her husband, so she arranged for herself a trip to NASA installations in the West, then telephoned John at the university, suggesting that he fly to Washington and help drive the Buick back to Clay. “I know it’s an imposition, John, but I enjoy nothing in life more than riding with you when we have a chance for long talks.” Since he felt the same way, he leaped at the invitation, arranged substitutes for his classes, and breezed into her apartment ready to go. They had dinner that night at a Chinese restaurant, went to bed early, and awakened at 0400 the next morning. Within ten minutes they were in the car, heading west over the mountains on Route 50.
They covered their customary seven hundred miles that first day, but the driving was not what commanded their attention; a long, passionate conversation did:
PENNY: I’ve been keeping an eye on Senator Grant. He’s senile.
JOHN: Wait!
PENNY: I’ll not wait any longer. He’s senile.
JOHN: Like what?
PENNY: Like he can’t follow a conversation. Like he gives the same speech on every occasion, regardless of the question.
JOHN: Those criteria would classify half the Senate as senile.
PENNY: But he could do so much good with his seniority.
[762] JOHN. He’s got a good record. He can get reelected as often as he wishes.
PENNY: He’s not got a good record. He gives Reagan no creative assistance.
JOHN: I doubt if Reagan wants any. Grant votes the straight ticket, and that’s all that’s required.
PENNY: So much more, so very much more ...
JOHN: Norman Grant will never supply that. He was never inclined that way. Your senator is a place-filler.
PENNY: He was a glorious leader in the space movement.
JOHN: Some men have only one contribution. Look at the astronauts who made only one flight. They still counted.
PENNY: But we can’t settle for mere place-fillers. The times deserve something better.
JOHN: We could do worse.
PENNY: I’ve concluded that Norman Grant has got to go.
JOHN: You concluded?
PENNY: I’m a citizen. I’m a voter in his district. Yes, I concluded.
JOHN: And whom are you backing to beat him?
PENNY: You.
JOHN (almost driving off the road): That’s fatuous.
PENNY: Not at all. Before you say another word let me get the facts on record. Barring a precious handful, John, you’re much abler right now than most of the senators. Bir
ch Bayh knew his way around, but he’s down the tube. Strom Thurmond may be the ablest manipulator on the floor. I could name half a dozen other really powerful men who do a fantastic job. But the grand average? John, men like you and Hickory Lee surpass them in every direction. Grant must go, and you must challenge him in the primaries.
JOHN: Let me lay it out clear and strong. I’m not a politician. I’m not ambitious along those lines. I doubt even if I have the capacity. But the overwhelming fact is that Norman Grant got me into Annapolis. He saved my life the way he saved the lives of those three men who come back each year-
PENNY: John! Don’t speak of those obscene men in their bulging uniforms. They’re a disgrace to American politics.
[763] JOHN: So if Grant saved my life-
PENNY: He did nothing of the sort, John. You were appointed to Annapolis because you did such a great job as an enlisted man.
JOHN: He saved my life. He sponsored me. I helped him get elected, and I owe him a debt forever. I will not run against him.
PENNY: Will you grant me one thing? That he’s become a doddering old fool?
JOHN: I will not. He’s a United States senator and worthy of the dignity.
PENNY: He’s a busted record, and the cracks are echoing like dynamite explosions.
JOHN: I could never make a move against Norman Grant.
The conversation continued along these obdurate lines through Ohio and well into Indiana, with Penny marshaling a wealth of evidence proving Grant’s deficiencies and John refusing to concede that the man should be defeated in that spring’s primary.
JOHN: You’re crazy if you think any insurgent can knock Norman Grant out of the box. The whole Republican party would rally to his defense.
PENNY: The Republican party is like any other party. It goes with the winner.
JOHN: The primary is ten weeks off. When does a challenger have to submit his nomination-a couple of weeks from now, isn’t it?