But for the Man from Mars unlikely things are possible. Anne called Bradley; two days later he called back. As a compliment from the French government—with a request that the present never be exhibited—Mike would receive a full-size, microscopically-exact bronze photo-pantogram of “She Who Used to Be the Beautiful Heaulmière,”
Jill helped select presents for the girls but when Mike asked what he should buy for her, she insisted that he not buy anything.
Mike was beginning to realize that, while water brothers spoke rightly, sometimes they spoke more rightly than others. He consulted Anne.
“She has to tell you that, dear, but you give her a present anyhow. Hmm. . .” Anne selected one which puzzled him—Jill already smelled the way Jill should smell.
When the present arrived, its size and apparent unimportance added to his misgivings—and when Anne had him whiff it before giving it to Jill, Mike was more in doubt than ever; the odor was very strong and not at all like Jill.
Jill was delighted with the perfume and insisted on kissing him at once. In kissing her he grokked that this gift was what she wanted and that it made them grow closer.
When she wore it at dinner that night, he discovered that in some unclear fashion it made Jill smell more deliciously Jill than ever. Still stranger, it caused Dorcas to kiss him and whisper, “Mike hon . . . the negligee is just lovely—but perhaps someday you’ll give me perfume?”
Mike could not grok why Dorcas would want it; Dorcas did not smell like Jill, so perfume would not be proper for her . . . nor would he want Dorcas to smell like Jill; he wanted Dorcas to smell like Dorcas.
Jubal interrupted: “Quit nuzzling the lad and let him eat! Dorcas, you reek like a Marseilles cat house; don’t wheedle Mike for more stinkum.”
“Boss, mind your own business.”
It was puzzling—that Jill could smell still more like Jill . . . but Dorcas should wish to smell like Jill when she smelled like herself . . . that Jubal would say that Dorcas smelled like a cat. There was a cat on the place (not a pet, but co-owner); on occasion it came to the house and deigned to accept a handout. The cat and Mike grokked each other; Mike found its carniverous thoughts most pleasing and quite Martian. He discovered that the cat’s name (Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche) was not the cat’s name, but he had not told anyone because he could not pronounce the cat’s real name; he could only hear it in his head.
The cat did not smell like Dorcas.
Giving presents was a great goodness and taught Mike the true value of money. But he did not forget other things he was eager to grok. Jubal put off Senator Boone twice without mentioning it and Mike did not notice; his grasp of time made “next Sunday” no particular date. But the next invitation came addressed to Mike; Boone was under pressure from Supreme Bishop Digby and sensed that Harshaw was stalling.
Mike took it to Jubal. “Well?” Jubal growled. “Do you want to go? You don’t have to. We can tell ’em to go to hell.”
A Checker Cab with a human pilot (Harshaw refused to trust a robocab) called next Sunday morning to deliver Mike, Jill, and Jubal to the Archangel Foster Tabernacle of the Church of the New Revelation.
XXIII.
ALL THE way to church Jubal was trying to warn Mike—of what, Mike was not certain. He listened—but the landscape tugged for attention; he compromised by storing what Jubal said. “Look, boy,” Jubal admonished, “these Fosterites are after your money. And the prestige of having the Man from Mars join their church. They’ll work on you—you’ll have to be firm.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Damn it, you’re not listening.”
“I am sorry, Jubal.”
“Well . . . look at it this way. Religion is a solace to many and it is conceivable that some religion, somewhere, is Ultimate Truth. But being religious is often a form of conceit. The faith in which I was brought up assured me that I was better than other people; I was ‘saved,’ they were ‘damned’—we were in a state of grace and the rest were ‘heathens.’ By ‘heathen’ they meant such as our brother Mahmoud. Ignorant louts who seldom bathed and planted corn by the Moon claimed to know the final answers of the Universe. That entitled them to look down on outsiders. Our hymns were loaded with arrogance—self-congratulation on how cozy we were with the Almighty and what a high opinion he had of us, what hell everybody else would catch some Judgment Day. We peddled the only authentic brand of Lydia Pinkham’s—”
“Jubal!” Jill protested. “He doesn’t grok it.”
“Uh? Sorry. My folks tried to make a preacher of me; I guess it shows.”
“It does.”
“Don’t scoff, girl. I would have made a good one if I hadn’t fallen into the fatal folly of reading. With a touch more confidence and a liberal helping of ignorance I would have been a famous evangelist. Shucks, this place we’re headed for would be known as ‘Archangel Jubal Tabernacle.’ ”
Jill shuddered. “Jubal, please! Not so soon after breakfast.”
“I mean it. A confidence man knows he’s lying; that limits his scope. But a successful shaman believes what he says—and belief is contagious; there is no limit to his scope. But I lacked the necessary confidence in my own infallibility; I could never become a prophet . . . just a critic—a sort of fourth-rate prophet with delusions of gender.” Jubal frowned. “That’s what worries me about Fosterites, Jill. I think they are sincere. Mike is a sucker for sincerity.”
“What do you think they’ll try to do?”
“Convert him. Then get their hands on his fortune.”
“I thought you had things fixed so that nobody could?”
“No, just so that nobody can grab it against his will. Ordinarily he couldn’t give it away without the government stepping in. But giving it to a politically powerful church is another matter.”
“I don’t see why.”
Jubal scowled. “My dear, religion is a null area in the law. A church can do anything any organization can do—and has no restrictions. It pays no taxes, need not publish records, is effectively immune to search, inspection, or control—and a church is anything that calls itself a church. Attempts have been made to distinguish between ‘real’ religions entitled to immunities, and ‘cults.’ It can’t be done, short of establishing a state religion . . . a cure worse than the disease. Both under what’s left of the United States Constitution and under the Treaty of Federation, all churches are equally immune—especially if they swing a bloc of votes. If Mike is converted to Fosterism . . . and makes a will in favor of his church . . . then ‘goes to heaven’ some sunrise, it will be, in the correct tautology, ‘as legal as church on Sunday.’ ”
“Oh, dear! I thought we had him safe at last.”
“There is no safety this side of the grave.”
“Well . . . what are you going to do, Jubal?”
“Nothing. Just fret.”
Mike stored their conversation without trying to grok it. He recognized the subject as one of utter simplicity in his own language but amazingly slippery in English. Since his failure to achieve mutual grokking even with his brother Mahmoud, through imperfect translation of the all-embracing Martian concept as: “Thou art God,” he had waited. Waiting would fructify at its time; his brother Jill was learning his language and he would explain it to her. They would grok together.
Senator Boone met them at the Tabernacle’s landing flat. “Howdy, folks! May the Good Lord bless you this beautiful Sabbath. Mr. Smith, I’m happy to see you again. And you, too, Doctor.” He took his cigar out of his mouth and looked at Jill. “And this little lady—didn’t I see you at the Palace?”
“Yes, Senator. I’m Gillian Boardman.”
“Thought so, m’dear. Are you saved?”
“Uh, I guess not, Senator.”
“It’s never too late. We’ll be happy to have you attend seekers’ service in the Outer Tabernacle—I’ll find a Guardian to guide you. Mr. Smith and the Doc will be going into the Sanctuary.”
“Senator—”
&nbs
p; “Uh, what, Doc?”
“If Miss Boardman can’t go into the Sanctuary, we had better attend seekers’ service. She’s his nurse.”
Boone looked perturbed. “Is he ill?”
Jubal shrugged. “As his physician, I prefer to have a nurse with us. Mr. Smith is not acclimated to this planet. Why don’t you ask him? Mike, do you want Jill with you?”
“Yes, Jubal.”
“But—Very well, Mr. Smith.” Boone again removed his cigar, put fingers between his lips and whistled. “Cherub here!”
A youngster in his teens came dashing up. He was dressed in short full robe, tights, slippers, and pigeon’s wings. He had golden curls and a sunny smile. Jill thought he was as cute as a ginger ale ad.
Boone ordered, “Fly up to the Sanctum office and tell the Warden on duty that I want another pilgrim’s badge at the Sanctuary gate right away. The word is Mars.”
“ ‘Mars,’ ” the kid repeated, threw Boone a Scout salute, and made a sixty-foot leap over the crowd. Jill realized why the robe looked bulky; it concealed a jump harness.
“Have to watch those badges,” Boone remarked. “Be surprised how many sinners would like to sample God’s Joy without having their sins washed away. We’ll mosey along and sightsee while we wait for the third badge.”
They pushed through the crowd and entered the Tabernacle, into a long high hall. Boone stopped. “I want you to notice. There is salesmanship in everything, even the Lord’s work. Any tourist, whether he attends seekers’ service or not—and services run twenty-four hours a day—has to come through here. What does he see? These happy chances.” Boone waved at slot machines lining both walls. “The bar and quick lunch is at the far end, he can’t even get a drink without running this gauntlet. I tell you, it’s a remarkable sinner who gets that far without shedding his change.
“But we don’t take his money and give him nothing. Take a look—” Boone shouldered his way to a machine, tapped the woman playing it. “Please, Daughter.”
She looked up, annoyance changed to a smile. “Certainly, Bishop.”
“Bless you. You’ll note,” Boone went on, as he fed a quarter into the machine, “that whether it pays off in worldly goods or not, a sinner is rewarded with a blessing and a souvenir text.”
The machine stopped; lined up in the window was: GOD—WATCHES—YOU.
“That pays three for one,” Boone said and fished the pay-off out of the receptacle, “and here’s your text.” He tore off a paper tab and handed it to Jill. “Keep it, little lady, and ponder it.”
Jill sneaked a glance before putting it into her purse: “But the Sinner’s belly is filled with filth—N.R. XXII 17”
“You’ll note,” Boone went on, “that the pay-off is tokens, not cash—and the bursar’s cage is back past the bar . . . plenty of opportunity there to make love offerings for charity and other good works. So the sinner probably feeds them back in . . . with a blessing each time and another text. The cumulative effect is tremendous! Why, some of our most faithful sheep got their start right in this room.”
“I don’t doubt it,” agreed Jubal.
“Especially if they hit a jackpot. You understand, every combination is a blessing. But the jackpot, that’s the three Holy Eyes. I tell you, when they see those eyes lined up and starin’ at ’em all that manna from Heaven coming down, it really makes ’em think. Sometimes they faint. Here, Mr. Smith—” Boone offered Mike one of the tokens. “Give it a whirl.”
Mike hesitated. Jubal took the token himself—damn it, he didn’t want the boy hooked by a one-armed bandit! “I’ll try it, Senator.” He fed the machine.
Mike had extended his time sense a little and was feeling around inside the machine, trying to discover what it did. He was too timid to play it himself.
But when Jubal did so, Mike watched the cylinders spin, noted the eye pictured on each, and wondered what this “jackpot” was. The word had three meanings, so far as he knew; none of them seemed to apply. Without intending to cause excitement, he slowed and stopped each wheel so that the eyes looked out through the window.
A bell tolled, a choir sang hosannas, the machine lighted up and started spewing slugs. Boone looked delighted. “Well, bless you! Doc, this is your day! Here—put one back to take the jackpot off.” He picked up one of the flood and fed it back in.
Mike was wondering why this was happening, so he lined up the eyes again. Events repeated, save that the flood was a trickle. Boone stared. “Well, I’ll be—blessed! It’s not supposed to hit twice in a row. But I’ll see that you’re paid on both.” Quickly he put a slug back in.
Mike still wanted to see why this was a “jackpot.” The eyes lined up again.
Boone stared. Jill squeezed Mike’s hand and whispered, “Mike . . . stop it!”
“But, Jill, I was seeing—”
“Don’t talk. Just stop. Oh, wait till I get you home!”
Boone said slowly, “I’d hesitate to call this a miracle. Probably needs a repairman.” He shouted, “Cherub here!” and added, “We’d better take the last one off, anyhow,” and fed in another slug.
Without Mike’s intercession, the wheels slowed down and announced: “FOSTER—LOVES—YOU.” A Cherub came up and said, “Happy day. You need help?”
“Three jackpots,” Boone told him.
“ ‘Three’?”
“Didn’t you hear the music? Are you deef? We’ll be at the bar; fetch the money there. And have somebody check this machine.”
“Yes, Bishop.”
Boone hurried them to the bar. “Got to get you out of here,” he said jovially, “before you bankrupt the Church. Doc, are you always that lucky?”
“Always,” Harshaw said solemnly. He told himself that he did not know that the boy had anything to do with it . . . but he wished that this ordeal were over.
Boone took them to a counter marked “Reserved” and said, “This’ll do—or would the little lady like to sit?”
“This is fine.” (—you call me “little lady” once more and I’ll turn Mike loose on you!)
A bartender hurried up. “Happy day. Your usual, Bishop?”
“Double. What’ll it be, Doc? And Mr. Smith? Don’t be bashful; you’re the Supreme Bishop’s guests.”
“Brandy, thank you. Water on the side.”
“Brandy, thank you,” Mike repeated and added. “No water for me, please.” Water was not the essence; nevertheless he did not wish to drink water here.
“That’s the spirit!” Boone said heartily. “That’s the spirit with spirits! No water. Get it? It’s a joke.” He dug Jubal in the ribs. “What’ll it be for the little lady? Cola? Milk for your rosy cheeks? Or a real Happy Day drink with the big folks?”
“Senator,” Jill said carefully, “Would your hospitality extend to a martini?”
“Would it! Best martinis in the world—we don’t use vermouth. We bless ’em instead. Double martini for the little lady. Bless you, son, and make it fast. We’ve time for a quick one, then pay our respects to Archangel Foster and on into the Sanctuary to hear the Supreme Bishop.”
The drinks arrived and the jackpots’ pay-off. They drank with Boone’s blessing, then he wrangled over the three hundred dollars, insisting that all prizes belonged to Jubal. Jubal settled it by depositing it all in a love-offering bowl.
Boone nodded approvingly. “That’s a mark of grace, Doc. We’ll save you yet. Another round, folks?”
Jill hoped that someone would say yes—The gin was watered but it was starting a flame of tolerance in her middle. Nobody spoke up, so Boone led them away, up a flight, past a sign reading: POSITIVELY NO SEEKERS NOR SINNERS—THIS MEANS YOU!
Beyond was a gate. Boone said to it: “Bishop Boone and three pilgrims, guests of the Supreme Bishop.”
The gate opened. He led them around a curved passage into a room. It was large, luxurious in a style that reminded Jill of undertakers’ parlors but was filled with cheerful music. The theme was Jingle Bells with a Congo beat added; Jill fo
und that it made her want to dance.
The far wall was glass and appeared to be not even that. Boone said briskly, “Here we are, folks—in the Presence. You don’t have to kneel—but do so if it makes you feel better. Most pilgrims do. And there he is . . . just as he was when he was called up to Heaven.”
Boone gestured with his cigar. “Don’t he look natural? Preserved by a miracle, flesh incorruptible. That’s the very chair he used when he wrote his Messages . . . and that’s the pose he was in when he went to Heaven. He’s never been moved—we built the Tabernacle right around him . . . removing the old church, naturally, and preserving its sacred stones.”
Facing them about twenty feet away, seated in a chair remarkably like a throne, was an old man. He looked as if he were alive . . . and he reminded Jill of an old goat on the farm where she had spent childhood summers—out-thrust lower lip, the whiskers, the fierce, brooding eyes. Jill felt her skin prickle; Archangel Foster made her uneasy.
Mike said in Martian, “My brother, this is an Old One?”
“I don’t know, Mike. They say he is.”
He answered, “I do not grok an Old one.”
“I don’t know, I tell you.”
“I grok wrongness.”
“Mike! Remember!”
“Yes, Jill.”
Boone said, “What’s he saying, little lady? What was your question, Mr. Smith?”
Jill said quickly, “It wasn’t anything. Senator, can I get out of here? I feel faint.” She glanced at the corpse. Billowing clouds were above it; one shaft of light cut through and sought out the face. As lighting changed the face seemed to change, the eyes seemed bright and alive.
Boone said soothingly, “It has that effect, first time. You ought to try the seekers’ gallery below us—looking up and with different music. Heavy music, with subsonics, I believe it is—reminds ’em of their sins. Now this room is a Happy Thoughts meditation chamber for high officials of the Church—I come here and sit and smoke a cigar if I’m feeling a bit low.”