“Does he always come here?” inquired Jubal.
“He’s an extension student. Can’t spend much time here.”
“It’ll be good to see him. I haven’t laid eyes on him for a year.” Jubal picked up a conversation with the man on his right while Nelson talked with Dorcas, on his right. Jubal noticed the same tingling expectancy at the table which he had left before, but reinforced. There was nothing he could put his finger on—a quiet family dinner in relaxed intimacy. Once, a glass of water was passed all around the table. When it reached Jubal, he took a sip and passed it to the girl on his left—round-eyed and too awed to make chit-chat with him—and said, “I offer you water.”
She managed to answer, “I thank you for water, Fa—Jubal.” That was all he got out of her. When the glass completed the circuit, reaching the vacant chair at the head of the table, there was a half inch of water in it. It raised itself, poured, and water disappeared; the tumbler placed itself on the cloth. Jubal decided that he had taken part in a ‘Sharing-Water’ of the Innermost Temple . . . probably in his honor—although it was not like the Bacchanalian revels he had thought accompanied such welcome. Was it because they were in strange surroundings? Or had he read into unexplicit reports what his own id wanted to find?
Or had they toned it down out of deference to him?
That seemed a likely theory—and it vexed him. He told himself that he was glad to be spared the need to refuse an invitation that he did not want—and would not have relished at any age, his tastes being what they were.
But just the same, damn it—“Don’t anybody mention ice skating; Grandmaw is too old and frail and it wouldn’t be polite. Hilda, you suggest dominoes and we’ll all chime in—Grandmaw likes dominoes. We’ll go skating some other time. Okay, kids?”
Jubal resented the idea—he would almost prefer to go skating anyhow, even at the cost of a broken hip.
He put it out of mind with the help of the man on his right. His name, Jubal learned, was Sam.
“This setback is only apparent,” Sam assured him. “The egg was ready to hatch and now we’ll spread out. Of course we’ll go on having trouble—because no society will allow its basic concepts to be challenged with impunity. And we are challenging everything from the sanctity of property to the sanctity of marriage.”
“Property, too?”
“Property the way it is today. So far Michael has merely antagonized a few crooked gamblers. But what happens when there are thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands and more, of people who can’t be stopped by bank vaults and have only self-discipline to restrain them from taking anything they want? To be sure, that discipline is stronger than any legal restraint—but no banker can grok that until he himself travels the thorny road to discipline . . . and he’ll no longer be a banker. What happens to the market when illuminati know which way a stock will move?”
“Do you know?”
Sam shook his head. “Not interested. But Saul over there—that other big Hebe, my cousin—gives it grokking, with Allie. Michael has them be cautious, no big killings and they use a dozen dummy accounts—but any of the disciplined can make any amount of money at anything—real estate, stocks, horse races, gambling, you name it—when competing with the un-awakened. No, money and property will not disappear—Michael says that both concepts are useful—but they’re going to be turned upside down and people will have to learn new rules (the hard way, just as we have) or be hopelessly outclassed. What happens to Lunar Enterprises when the common carrier between here and Luna City is teleportation?”
“Should I buy? Or sell?”
“Ask Saul. He might use the present corporation, or bankrupt it. Or it might be left untouched a century or two. But consider any occupation. How can a teacher handle a child who knows more than she does? What becomes of physicians when people are healthy? What happens to the cloak and suit industry when clothing isn’t necessary and women aren’t so engrossed in dressing up (they’ll never lose interest entirely)—and nobody gives a damn if he’s caught with his arse bare? What shape does ‘the Farm Problem’ take when weeds can be told not to grow and crops can be harvested without benefit of International Harvester? Just name it; the discipline changes it beyond recognition. Take one change that will shake both marriage—in its present form—and property. Jubal, do you know how much is spent each year in this country on Malthusian drugs and devices?”
“I have some idea, Sam. Almost a billion on oral contraceptives alone . . . more than half on worthless patent nostrums.”
“Oh, yes, you’re a medical man.”
“Only in passing.”
“What happens to that industry—and to the shrill threats of moralists—when a female conceives only as an act of volition, when she is immune to disease, cares only for the approval of her own sort . . . and has her orientation so changed that she desires intercourse with a whole-heartedness that Cleopatra never dreamed of—but any male who tried to rape her would die so quickly, if she so grokked, that he wouldn’t know what hit him? When women are free of guilt and fear—but invulnerable? Hell, the pharmaceutical industry will be a minor casualty—what other industries, laws, institutions, attitudes, prejudices, and nonsense must give way?”
“I don’t grok its fullness,” admitted Jubal. “It concerns a subject of little personal interest to me.”
“One institution won’t be damaged. Marriage.”
“So?”
“Very much so. Instead it will be purged, strengthened, and made endurable. Endurable? Ecstatic! See that wench down there with the long black hair?”
“Yes. I was delighting in its beauty earlier.”
“She knows it’s beautiful and it’s grown a foot and a half since we joined the church. That’s my wife. Not much over a year ago we lived together like bad-tempered dogs. She was jealous . . . and I was inattentive. Bored. Hell, we were both bored and only our kids kept us together—that and her possessiveness; I knew she would never let me go without a scandal . . . and I didn’t have any stomach for trying to put together a new marriage at my age, anyhow. So I grabbed a little on the side, when I could get away with it—a professor has many temptations, few safe opportunities—and Ruth was quietly bitter. Or sometimes not quiet. And then we joined up.” Sam grinned happily. “And I fell in love with my wife. Number-one gal friend!”
Sam had spoken only to Jubal, his words walled by noise. His wife was far down the table. She looked up and said clearly, “That’s an exaggeration, Jubal. I’m about number six.”
Her husband called out, “Stay out of my mind, beautiful!—we’re talking men talk. Give Larry your undivided attention.” He threw a roll at her.
She stopped it in orbit, propelled it back. “I’m giving Larry all the attention he wants . . . until later, maybe. Jubal, that brute didn’t let me finish. Sixth place is wonderful! Because my name wasn’t on his list till we joined the church. I hadn’t rated as high as six with Sam for twenty years.”
“The point,” Sam said quietly, “is that we are now partners, more so than we ever were outside—and we got that way through the training, culminating in sharing and growing closer with others who had the same training. We all wind up in partnerships inside the group—usually with spouses-of-record. Sometimes not . . . and if not, the readjustment takes place without heartache and creates a warmer, better relationship between the ‘divorced’ couple than ever, in bed and out. No loss and all gain. Shucks, this pairing needn’t be between man and woman. Dawn and Jill for example—they work together like an acrobatic team.”
“Hmm . . . I had thought of them as being Mike’s wives.”
“No more so than they are to any of us. Or than Mike is to the rest. Mike has been too busy to do more than make sure that he shared himself all the way around.” Sam added, “If anybody is Mike’s wife, it’s Patty, although she keeps so busy that the relation is more spiritual than physical. Both Mike and Patty are short-changed when it comes to mauling the mattress.”
Patty was farther away than Ruth. She looked up and said, “Sam dear, I don’t feel short-changed.”
“Huh?” Sam announced bitterly, “The only thing wrong with this church is that a man has absolutely no privacy!”
This brought on him a barrage from distaff brothers. He tossed it all back without lifting a hand . . . until a plateful of spaghetti caught him full in the face—thrown, Jubal noticed, by Dorcas.
For a moment Sam looked like a crash victim. Then his face was clean and even sauce that spattered on Jubal’s shirt was gone. “Don’t give her any more, Tony. She wasted it; let her go hungry.”
“Plenty in the kitchen,” Tony answered. “Sam, you look good in spaghetti. Pretty good sauce, huh?” Dorcas’s plate sailed out, returned loaded.
“Very good sauce,” agreed Sam. “I salvaged some that hit me in the mouth. What is it? Or shouldn’t I ask?”
“Chopped policeman,” Tony answered.
Nobody laughed. Jubal wondered if the joke was a joke. Then he recalled that his brothers smiled a lot but rarely laughed—and besides, policeman should be good food. But the sauce couldn’t be “long pig,” or it would taste like pork. This had a beef flavor.
He changed the subject. “The thing I like best about this religion—”
“ ‘Religion’?” Sam interposed.
“Well, call it a church.”
“Yes,” agreed Sam. “It fills every function of a church, and its quasi-theology matches up with some real religions. I jumped in because I used to be a stalwart atheist—and now I’m a high priest and don’t know what I am.”
“I understood you to say you were Jewish.”
“From a long line of rabbis. So I wound up atheist. Now look at me. But Saul and my wife Ruth are Jews in the religious sense—talk to Saul; you’ll find it’s no handicap. Ruth, once she broke past the barriers, progressed faster than I did; she was a priestess long before I became a priest. But she’s the spiritual sort; she thinks with her gonads. Me, I have to do it the hard way, between my ears.”
“The discipline,” repeated Jubal. “That’s what I like. The faith I was reared in didn’t require anybody to know anything. Just confess and be saved, and there you were, safe in the arms of Jesus. A man might be too stupid to count sheep . . . yet conclusively presumed to be one of God’s elect, guaranteed an eternity of bliss, because he had been ‘converted.’ He might not even be a Bible student and certainly didn’t have to know anything else. This church doesn’t accept ‘conversion’ as I grok it—”
“You grok correctly.”
“A person must start with a willingness to learn and follow it with long, hard study. I grok that is salutary.”
“More than salutary,” agreed Sam. “Indispensable. The concepts can’t be thought about without the language, and the discipline that results in this horn-of-plenty of benefits—from how to live without fighting to how to please your wife—all derive from conceptual logic . . . understanding who you are, why you’re here, how you tick—and behaving accordingly. Happiness is functioning the way a being is organized to function . . . but the words in English are a tautology, empty. In Martian they are a complete set of working instructions. Did I mention that I had a cancer when I came here?”
“Eh? No.”
“Didn’t know it myself. Michael grokked it, sent me out for X-rays and so forth so that I would be sure. Then we got to work on it. ‘Faith’ healing. A ‘miracle.’ The clinic called it ‘spontaneous remission’ which I grok means ‘I got well.’ ”
Jubal nodded. “Professional double-talk. Some cancers go away, we don’t know why.”
“I know why this one went away. By then I was beginning to control my body. With Mike’s help I repaired the damage. Now I can do it without help. Want to feel a heart stop beating?”
“Thanks, I have observed it in Mike. My esteemed colleague, Croaker Nelson, would not be here if what you are talking about was ‘faith healing.’ It’s voluntary control. I grok.”
“Sorry. We all know that you do.”
“Mmm . . . I can’t call Mike a liar because he isn’t. But the lad is prejudiced in my case.”
Sam shook his head. “I’ve been talking with you all through dinner. I wanted to check it myself, despite what Mike said. You grok. I’m wondering what you could disclose if you troubled to learn the language?”
“Nothing. I’m an old man with little to contribute.”
“I reserve my opinion. All the other First Called have had to tackle the language to make any real progress. Even the three you’ve kept with you have had powerful coaching, kept in trance during most of the few occasions we’ve had them with us. All but you . . . and you don’t need it. Unless you want to wipe spaghetti from your face without a towel, which I grok you aren’t interested in.”
“Only to observe it.”
Most had left the table, without formality when they wished. Ruth came over and stood by them. “Are you two going to sit here all night? Or shall we move you out with the dishes?”
“I’m henpecked. Come on, Jubal.” Sam paused to kiss his wife.
They stopped in the room with the stero tank. “Anything new?” asked Sam.
“The county attorney,” someone said, “has been orating that today’s disasters are our doing . . . without admitting that he doesn’t know how it was done.”
“Poor fellow. He’s bitten a wooden leg and his teeth hurt.” They found a quieter room; Sam said, “I had been saying that these troubles can be expected—and will get worse before we will control enough public opinion to be tolerated. But Mike is in no hurry. We close down the Church of All Worlds—it is closed. So we move and open the Congregation of the One Faith—and get kicked out again. Then we reopen elsewhere as the Temple of the Great Pyramid—that will bring flocking the fat and fatuous females, and some will end up neither fat nor foolish—and when we have the Medical Association and the local bar and newspapers and politicos snapping at our heels there—why, we open the Brotherhood of Baptism somewhere else. Each one gains a hard core of disciplined who can’t be hurt. Mike started less than two years ago, uncertain himself and with only the help of three untrained priestesses. Now we’ve got a solid Nest . . . plus advanced pilgrims we can get in touch with later. Someday we’ll be too strong to persecute.”
“Well,” agreed Jubal, “Jesus made quite a splash with only twelve disciples.”
Sam grinned happily. “A Jew boy. Thanks for mentioning Him. He’s the top success story of my tribe—and we all know it, even though many of us don’t talk about Him. He was a Jew boy Who made good and I’m proud of Him. Please note that Jesus didn’t try to get it all done by Wednesday. He set up a sound organization and let it grow. Mike is patient, too. Patience is so much part of the discipline that it isn’t patience; it’s automatic. Never any sweat.”
“A sound attitude at any time.”
“Not an attitude. The functioning of discipline. Jubal? I grok you are tired. Would you become untired? Or would you rather go to bed? If you don’t our brothers will keep you up all night, talking. We don’t sleep much, you know.”
Jubal yawned. “I choose a long, hot soak and eight hours sleep. I’ll visit with our brothers tomorrow . . . and other days.”
“And many other days,” agreed Sam.
Jubal found his room, was immediately joined by Patty, who drew his tub, turned back his bed without touching it, placed his setup for drinks by his bed, mixed one and placed it on the shelf of the tub. Jubal did not hurry her out; she had arrived displaying all her pictures. He knew enough about the syndrome which can lead to full tattooing to be sure that if he did not ask to examine them, she would be hurt.
Nor did he feel the fret that Ben had felt on a similar occasion; he undressed—and discovered with wry pride that it did not matter even though it had been years since the last time he had allowed anyone to see him naked. It seemed to matter not at all to Patty; she simply made sure that the tub was just right before letting him step i
nto it.
Then she remained and told him what each picture was and in what sequence to view them.
Jubal was properly awed and appropriately complimentary, while completely the impersonal art critic. It was, he admitted to himself, the goddamndest virtuosity with a needle he had ever seen—it made his Japanese friend look like a cheap carpet as compared with the finest Princess Bokhara.
“They’ve been changing a little,” she told him. “Take the holy brith scene here—that rear wall is beginning to look curved . . . and the bed looks almost like a hospital table. I’m sure George doesn’t mind. There hasn’t been a needle touched to me since he went to Heaven . . . and if miraculous changes take place, I’m sure he has a finger in it.”
Jubal decided that Patty was dotty but nice . . . he preferred people who were a little dotty; “the salt of the earth” bored him. Not too dotty, he amended; Patty had whisked his discarded clothes into his wardrobe without coming near them. She was probably a clear proof that one didn’t have to be sane, whatever that was, to benefit by this discipline; the boy apparently could teach anyone.
He sensed when she was ready to leave and suggested it by asking her to kiss his goddaughters goodnight—he had forgotten. “I was tired, Patty.”
She nodded. “And I am called for dictionary work.” She leaned over and kissed him, warmly but quickly. “I’ll take that one to our babies.”
“And a pat for Honey Bun.”
“Yes, of course. She groks you, Jubal. She knows you like snakes.”
“Good. Share water, brother.”
“Thou art God, Jubal.” She was gone. Jubal settled back in the tub, was surprised to find that he was not tired and his bones no longer ached. Patty was a tonic . . . happiness on the hoof. He wished that he had no doubts—then admitted that he didn’t want to be anything but himself, old and cranky and self-indulgent.
Finally he soaped and showered and decided to shave so that he wouldn’t have to before breakfast. Presently he bolted the door, turned out the overhead light, and got into bed.