“Jubal, you’ll have to hear it. He didn’t sound preachy and didn’t wear robes—just a smart, well-tailored white suit. He sounded like a damned good car salesman. He cracked jokes and told parables. The gist was a sort of pantheism . . . one parable was the oldy about the earthworm burrowing through the soil who encounters another earthworm and says, ‘Oh, you’re beautiful! Will you marry me?’ and is answered: ‘Don’t be silly! I’m your other end.’ You’ve heard it?’
“ ‘Heard it’? I wrote it!”
“Hadn’t realized it was that old. Mike made good use of it. His idea is that whenever you encounter any other grokking thing—man, woman, or stray cat . . . you are meeting your ‘other end.’ The universe is a thing we whipped up among us and agreed to forget the gag.”
Jubal looked sour. “Solipsism and pantheism. Together they explain anything. Cancel out any inconvenient fact, reconcile all theories, include any facts or delusions you like. But it’s cotton candy, all taste and no substance—as unsatisfactory as solving a story by saying: ‘—then the little boy fell out of bed and woke up.’ ”
“Don’t crab at me; take it up with Mike. Believe me, he made it convincing. Once he stopped and said, ‘You must be tired of so much talk—’ and they yelled back, ‘No!’ He really had them. He protested that his voice was tired and, anyhow it was time for miracles. Then he did amazing sleight-of-hand—did you know he had been a magician in a carnival?”
“I knew he had been with it. He never told me the nature of his shame.”
“He’s a crackerjack; he did stunts that had me fooled. But it would have been okay if he had used just kid tricks; it was his patter that had them spellbound. Finally he stopped and said, ‘The Man from Mars is expected to do wonderful things . . . so I pass some miracles each meeting. I can’t help being the Man from Mars; it’s just something that happened. Miracles can happen for you, if you want them. However, for anything more than these narrow-gauge miracles, you must enter the Circle. Those who want to learn I will see later. Cards are being passed around.’
“Patty explained it. ‘This crowd is just marks, dear—people here out of curiosity or maybe shilled in by people who have reached one of the inner circles.’ Jubal, Mike has rigged the thing in nine circles, like lodge degrees—and nobody is told that there are circles farther in until they’re ripe for it. ‘This is Michael’s bally,’ Pat told me, ‘which he does as easy as he breathes—while he’s feeling them out and deciding which ones are possible. That’s why he strings it out—Duke is up behind that grille and Michael tells him who might measure up, where he sits and everything. Michael’s about to turn this tip . . . and spill the ones he doesn’t want. Then Dawn takes over, after she gets the seating diagram from Duke. ’ ”
“How did they work that?” asked Harshaw.
“I didn’t see it, Jubal. There are a dozen ways they could cut from the herd as long as Mike knew which they were and had some way to signal Duke. Patty says Mike’s clairvoyant—I won’t deny the possibility. Then they took the collection. Mike doesn’t do even this church style—you know, soft music and dignified ushers. He said nobody would believe this was a church if he didn’t take a collection. Then, so help me, they passed collection baskets already loaded with money and Mike told them that this was what the last crowd had given, so help themselves—if they were broke or hungry and needed it. But if they felt like giving . . . give. Do one or the other—put something in, or take something out. I figured he had found one more way to get rid of too much money.”
Jubal said thoughtfully, “That pitch, properly given, should result in people giving more . . . while a few take just a little. Probably very few.”
“I don’t know, Jubal. Patty whisked me away when Mike turned the service over to Dawn. She took me to a private auditorium where services were opening for the seventh circle—people who had belonged for months and had made progress. If it is progress.
“Jubal, we went straight from one to the other and it was hard to adjust. That outer meeting was half lecture, half entertainment—this one was almost a voodoo rite. Mike was in robes now; he looked taller, ascetic, and intense—his eyes gleamed. The place was dim, there was creepy music and yet it made you want to dance. Patty and I took a couch that was darn near a bed. What the service was I couldn’t say. Mike would sing out in Martian, they would answer in Martian—except for chants of ‘Thou art God! Thou art God!’ echoed by some Martian word that would make my throat sore to pronounce.”
Jubal made a croaking noise “Was that it?”
“Huh? I believe so. Jubal . . . are you hooked? Have you been stringing me along?”
“No. Stinky taught it to me—he says it’s heresy of the blackest sort. By his lights I mean. It’s the word Mike translates as ‘Thou are God.’ Mahmoud says that isn’t even close to a translation. It’s the universe proclaiming its self-awareness . . . or it’s ‘peccavimus’ with a total absence of contrition . . . or a dozen other things. Stinky says that he doesn’t understand it even in Martian—except that it is a bad word, the worst possible in his opinion . . . and closer to Satan’s defiance than to the blessing of God. Go on. Was that all? Just a bunch of fanatics yelling Martian?”
“Uh . . . Jubal, they didn’t yell and it wasn’t fanatical. Sometimes they barely whispered. Then it might climb a little. They did it in a rhythm, a pattern, like a cantata . . . yet it didn’t feel rehearsed; it felt more as if they were all one person, humming whatever he felt. Jubal, you’ve seen Fosterites work themselves up—”
“Too much, I’m sorry to say.”
“Well, this was not that sort of frenzy; this was quiet and easy, like dropping off to sleep. It was intense all right and got steadily more so, but—Jubal, ever try a spiritualist seance?”
“I have. I’ve tried everything I could, Ben.”
“Then you know how tension can grow without anybody moving or saying a word. This was more like that than like a revival, or even the most sedate church service. But it wasn’t mild; it packed terrific wallop.”
“The word is ‘Apollonian.’ ”
“Huh?”
“As opposed to ‘Dionysian.’ People simplify ‘Apollonian’ into ‘mild,’ and ‘calm,’ and ‘cool.’ But ‘Apollonian’ and ‘Dionysian’ are two sides of one coin—a nun kneeling in her cell, holding perfectly still, can be in ecstasy more frenzied than any priestess of Pan Priapus celebrating the vernal equinox. Ecstasy is in the skull, not the setting-up exercises.” Jubal frowned. “Another error is to identify ‘Apollonian’ with ‘good’—merely because our most respectable sects are Apollonian in ritual and precept. Mere prejudice. Proceed.”
“Well . . . things weren’t as quiet as a nun’s devotions. They wandered about, swapped seats, and there was necking going on—nothing more, I believe, but the lighting was low. One gal started to join us, but Patty gave her some sign . . . so she kissed us and left.” Ben grinned. “Kissed quite well, too. I was the only person not in a robe; I felt conspicuous. But she didn’t seem to notice.
“The whole thing was casual . . . and yet as coordinated as a ballerina’s muscles. Mike kept busy, sometimes in front, sometimes wandering among the others—once he squeezed my shoulder and kissed Patty, unhurriedly but quickly. He didn’t speak. Back of where he stood when he seemed to be leading was a dingus like a big stereo tank; he used it for ‘miracles,’ only he never used the word—at least not in English. Jubal, every church promises miracles. But it’s jam yesterday and jam tomorrow.”
“Exception,” Jubal interrupted. “Many of them deliver—exempli gratia among many: Christian Scientists and Roman Catholics.”
“Catholics? You mean Lourdes?”
“I had in mind the Miracle of Transubstantiation.”
“Hmm—I can’t judge that subtle a miracle. As for Christian Scientists—if I break a leg, I want a sawbones.”
“Then watch where you put your feet,” Jubal growled. “Don’t bother me.”
“Wouldn’t thin
k of it. I don’t want a classmate of William Harvey.”
“Harvey could reduce a fracture.”
“Yeah, but how about his classmates? Jubal, those cases you cited may be miracles—but Mike offers splashy ones. He’s either an expert illusionist, or an amazing hypnotist—”
“He might be both.”
“—or he’s smoothed the bugs out of closed-circuit stereovision so that it cannot be told from reality.”
“How can you rule out real miracles, Ben?”
“It’s not a theory I like. Whatever he used, it was good theater. Once the lights came up and here was a black-maned lion, as stately as a guardian for library steps, and little lambs wobbling around him. The lion just blinked and yawned. Sure, Hollywood can tape such effects—but I smelled lion. However, that can be faked, too.”
“Why insist on fakery?”
“Damn it. I’m trying to be judicial!”
“Then don’t lean over backwards. Try to emulate Anne.”
“I’m not Anne. I wasn’t judicial at the time; I just enjoyed it, in a warm glow. Mike did a lot of gung-ho illusions. Levitation and such. Patty slipped away toward the end after whispering to me to stay. ‘Michael just told them that any who do not feel ready for the next circle should now leave,’ she told me.
“I said, ‘I had better leave.’
“She said, ‘Oh, no, dear! You’re Ninth Circle. Stay seated, I’ll be back.’ And she left.
“I don’t think anybody chickened out. This group was Seventh-Circlers supposed to be promoted. But I didn’t notice as lights came up again . . . and there was Jill!
“Jubal, it did not feel like stereovision. Jill picked me out and smiled at me. Oh, if an actor looks directly at camera, his eyes meet yours no matter where you’re seated. But if Mike has it smoothed out this well, he should patent it. Jill was in an outlandish costume. Mike started intoning something, partly in English . . . stuff about the Mother of All, the unity of many, and started calling her a series of names . . . and with each name her costume changed—”
Ben Caxton came quickly alert when he saw Jill. He was not fooled by lighting and distance—this was Jill! She looked at him and smiled. He half listened to the invocation while thinking that he had been convinced that the space behind the Man from Mars was surely a stereo tank. But he would swear that he could walk up those steps and pinch her.
He was tempted to—but it would be a crummy trick to ruin Mike’s show. Wait till Jill was free—
“Cybele!”
Jill’s costume suddenly changed.
“Isis!”
—again.
“Frigg!” . . . “Ge!” . . . “Devil!” . . . “Ishtar!” . . . “Maryam!”
“Mother Eve! Mater Deum Magna! Loving and Beloved, Life undying—”
Caxton stopped hearing. Jill was Mother Eve, clothed in glory. Light spread and he saw that she was in a Garden, beside a tree on which was twined a great serpent.
Jill smiled, reached up and smoothed the serpent’s head—turned back and opened her arms.
Candidates moved forward to enter the Garden.
Patty returned and touched Caxton on the shoulder. “Ben—Come, dear.”
Caxton wanted to stay and drink in the glorious vision of Jill . . . he wanted to join that procession. But he got up and left. He looked back and saw Mike put his arms around the first woman in line . . . turned to follow Patricia and failed to see the candidate’s robe vanish as Mike kissed her—did not see Jill kiss the first male candidate . . . and his robe vanished.
“We’ll go around,” Patty explained, “to give them time to get into the Temple. Oh, we could barge in, but it would waste Michael’s time, getting them back in the mood—and he does work so very hard.”
“Where are we going?”
“To pick up Honey Bun. Then back to the Nest. Unless you want to take part in the initiation. But you haven’t learned Martian yet; you’d find it confusing.”
“Well—I’d like to see Jill.”
“Oh. She said to tell you she’s going to duck upstairs and see you. Down this way, Ben.”
A door opened, Ben found himself in that garden. The serpent raised her head as they came in. “There, dear!” Patricia said. “You were Mama’s good girl!” She unwrapped the boa and flaked it down into a basket. “Duke brought her down but I have to arrange her on the tree and tell her not to wander off. You were lucky, Ben; a transition to Eighth happens very seldom.”
Ben carried Honey Bun and learned that a fourteen-foot snake is a load; the basket had steel braces. When they reached the top, Patricia stopped. “Put her down, Ben.” She took off her robe and handed it to him, then draped the snake around her. “This is Honey Bun’s reward for being a good girl; she expects to cuddle up to Mama. I’ve got a class almost at once, so I’ll carry her until the last moment. It’s not a goodness to disappoint a snake; they’re like babies, they can’t grok in fullness.”
They walked fifty yards to the entrance of the Nest proper. Ben took off her sandals and socks after he removed his shoes. They went inside and Patty stayed with him while Ben shucked down to shorts—stalling, trying to make up his mind to discard shorts, too. He was now fairly certain that clothing inside the Nest was as unconventional (and possibly as rude) as hobnailed boots on a dance floor. The warning on the exit door, the absence of windows, the womblike comfort of the Nest, Patricia’s lack of attire plus the fact that she had suggested that he could do likewise—all added up to domestic nudity.
Patricia’s behavior he discounted from a feeling that a tattoed lady might have odd habits about clothing, but coming into the living room they passed a man headed out toward the baths and “little nests”—and he wore less than Patricia by one snake and many pictures. He greeted them with “Thou art God” and went on. There was more evidence in the living room: a body sprawled on a couch—a woman.
Caxton knew that many families were casually naked in their homes—and this was a “family”—all water brothers. But he was unable to make up his mind between the urbanity of removing his symbolic fig leaf . . . and the certainty that if he did and strangers came in who were dressed, he would feel silly! Hell, he might blush!
“What would you have done, Jubal?”
Harshaw lifted his eyebrows. “Are you expecting me to be shocked, Ben? The human body is often pleasing, frequently depressing—and never significant per se. So Mike runs his household along nudist lines. Shall I cheer? Or must I cry?”
“Damn it, Jubal, it’s easy to be Olympian. But I’ve never seen you take off your pants in company.”
“Nor will you. But I grok you were not motivated by modesty. You were suffering from a morbid fear of appearing ridiculous—a neurosis with a long, pseudo-Greek name.”
“Nonsense! I wasn’t certain what was polite.”
“Nonsense to you, sir—you knew what was polite . . . but were afraid of looking silly . . . or feared being surprised in the gallant reflex. But I grok Mike has reasons for this custom—Mike always has reasons.”
“Oh, yes. Jill told me.”
Ben was in the foyer, his back to the living room and his hands on his shorts, having told himself to take the plunge— when arms came snugly around his waist. “Ben darling! How wonderful!”
Then Jill was in his arms, her mouth warm and greedy against his—and he was glad he had not finished stripping. She was no longer “Mother Eve”; she was wearing a priestess robe. Nevertheless he was happily aware that he held a double armful of live, warm, and gently squirming girl.
“Golly!” she said, breaking from the kiss. “I’ve missed you, you old beast. Thou are God.”
“Thou art God,” he conceded. “Jill, you’re prettier than ever.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “It does that. What a thrill it gave me to catch your eye at the blow-off !”
“ ‘Blow-off’?”
“Jill means,” Patricia put in, “the end of the service where she is All Mother, Mater Deum Magna. Kids, I must
rush.”
“Never hurry, Pattycake.”
“I gotta rush so I won’t have to hurry. Ben, I must put Honey Bun to bed and go down and take my class—so kiss me good-night. Please?”
Ben found himself kissing a woman wrapped in a giant snake. He tried to ignore Honey Bun and treat Patty as she deserved.
Pat then kissed Jill. “ ’Night, dears.” She left unhurriedly.
“Ben, isn’t she a lamb?”
“She is. Although she had me baffled at first.”
“I grok. Patty baffles everybody—because she never has doubts; she automatically does the right thing. She’s much like Mike. She’s the most advanced of any of us—she ought to be high priestess. But she won’t take it because her tattoos would make some duties difficult—be a distraction—and she doesn’t want them taken off.”
“How could you take off that much tattooing? With a flensing knife? It would kill her.”
“Not at all, dear. Mike could take them off, not leave a trace, and not hurt her. But she doesn’t think of them as belonging to her; she’s just their custodian. Come sit down. Dawn will fetch supper—I must eat while we visit or I won’t have a chance until tomorrow. Tell me what you think? Dawn tells me you saw an outsiders’ service.”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“Mike,” Caxton said slowly, “could sell shoes to snakes.”
“Ben, I grok something is bothering you.”
“No,” he answered. “Not anything I can put my finger on.”
“I’ll ask you again in a week or two. No hurry.”
“I won’t be here a week.”
“You have columns on the spike?”
“Three. But I shouldn’t stay that long.”
“I think you will . . . then you’ll phone in a few, probably about the Church. By then you will grok to stay much longer.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Waiting is, until fullness. You know it’s not a church?”