Stranger in a Strange Land, Page 31

  “I still don’t like it.”

  “Relax. Help yourself to chow.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “If I turned down a free feed, they’d toss me out of the Authors’ Guild.” He piled Virginia ham on buttered bread, added other items in an unsteady ziggurat, munched it.

  Ten minutes later Boone had not returned. Jill said sharply, “Jubal, I’m going to get Mike out of there.”

  “Go ahead.”

  She strode to the door. “It’s locked!”

  “Thought it might be.”

  “What do we do? Break it down?”

  Jubal looked it over. “Mmm, with a battering ram and twenty stout men I might try. Jill, that door would do credit to a vault.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Beat on it, if you want to. I’m going to see what’s keeping Boone.”

  When Jubal looked out into the hallway he saw Boone returning. “Sorry,” Boone said. “Had to have the Cherubim find your driver. He was in the Happiness Room, having lunch.”

  “Senator,” Jubal said, “we’ve got to leave. Will you be so kind as to tell Bishop Digby?”

  Boone looked perturbed. “I could phone, if you insist. But I can’t walk in on a private audience.”

  “Then phone him.”

  Boone was saved embarrassment; the door opened and Mike walked out. Jill looked at his face and shrilled, “Mike! Are you all right?”

  “Yes, Jill.”

  “I’ll tell the Supreme Bishop you’re leaving,” said Boone and went into the smaller room. He reappeared at once. “He’s left,” he announced. “There’s a back way into his study.” Boone smiled. “Like cats and cooks, the Supreme Bishop goes without saying. That’s a joke. He says that ‘good-by’s’ add nothing to happiness. Don’t be offended.”

  “We aren’t. Thank you for a most interesting experience. No, don’t bother; we can find our way out.”

  XXIV.

  ONCE IN the air Jubal said, “Mike, what did you think of it?”

  Mike frowned. “I do not grok.”

  “You aren’t alone, son. What did the Bishop have to say?”

  Mike hesitated a long time, “My brother Jubal, I need to ponder until grokking is.”

  “Ponder ahead, son.”

  Jill said, “Jubal? How do they get away with it?”

  “With what?”

  “Everything. That’s not a church—it’s a madhouse.”

  “No, Jill. It is a church . . . and the logical eclecticism of our time.”

  “Huh?”

  “The New Revelation is old stuff. Neither Foster nor Digby ever had an original thought. They pieced together time-worn tricks, gave them a new paint job, and were in business. A booming business. The thing that bothers me is that I might live to see it made compulsory for everybody.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Oh, yes. Hitler started with less and all he peddled was hate. For repeat trade happiness is sounder merchandise. I know; I’m in the same grift. As Digby reminded me.” Jubal grimaced. “I should have punched him. Instead, he made me like it. That’s why I’m afraid of him, he’s clever. He knows what people want. Happiness. The world has suffered a long century of guilt and fear—now Digby tells them that they have nothing to fear, this life or hereafter, and that God commands them to be happy. Day in, day out, he keeps pushing it: Don’t be afraid, be happy.”

  “Well, that’s all right,” Jill admitted, “and he does work hard. But—”

  “Piffle! He plays hard.”

  “No, he gave me the impression that he really is devoted, that he had sacrificed everything to—”

  “ ‘Piffle!’ I said. Jill, of all the nonsense that twists the world, the concept of ‘altruism’ is the worst. People do what they want to, every time. If it pains them to make a choice—if the choice looks like a ‘sacrifice’—you can be sure that it is no nobler than the discomfort caused by greediness . . . the necessity of deciding between two things you want when you can’t have both. The ordinary bloke suffers every time he chooses between spending a buck on beer or tucking it away for his kids, between getting up to go to work or losing his job. But he always chooses what hurts least or pleasures most. The scoundrel and the saint make the same choices on a larger scale. As Digby does. Saint or scoundrel, he’s not one of the harried chumps.”

  “Which do you think he is, Jubal?”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “Oh, Jubal, your cynicism is a pose! Of course there’s a difference.”

  “Mmm, yes, there is. I hope he’s a scoundrel ... because a saint can stir up ten times as much mischief. Strike that last; you would tag it ‘cynicism’—as if tagging it proved it wrong. Jill, what troubled you about those services?”

  “Well . . . everything. You can’t tell me that that is worship.”

  “Meaning they didn’t do things that way in the Little Brown Church you attended as a kid? Brace yourself, Jill—they don’t do it your way in St. Peter’s either. Nor in Mecca.”

  “Yes, but—Well, none of them do it that way! Snake dances . . . slot machines . . . even a bar! That’s not even dignified!”

  “I don’t suppose temple prostitution was dignified, either.”

  “Huh?”

  “I imagine the two-backed beast is as comical in the service of a god as it is under other circumstances. As for snake dances, have you ever seen a Shaker service? Neither have I; a church that is agin sexual intercourse doesn’t last. But dancing to the glory of God has a long history. It doesn’t have to be artistic—the Shakers could never have made the Bolshoi—it merely has to be enthusiastic. Do you find Indian Rain Dances irreverent?”

  “That’s different.”

  “Everything always is—and the more it changes, the more it is the same. Now slot machines—Ever see a Bingo game in church?”

  “Well . . . yes. Our parish used them to raise the mortgage. But only on Friday nights; we didn’t do such things during church services.”

  “So? Minds me of a wife who was proud of her virtue. Slept with other men only when her husband was away.”

  “Jubal, the two cases are miles apart!”

  “Probably. Analogy is even slipperier than logic. But, ‘little lady’—”

  “Smile when you say that!”

  “ ‘It’s a joke.’ Jill, if a thing is sinful on Sunday, it is sinful on Friday—at least it groks that way to me—and perhaps to a man from Mars. The only difference I see is that the Fosterites give away, absolutely free, a scriptural text even if you lose. Could your Bingo games make that claim?”

  “Fake scripture! A text from the New Revelation. Boss, have you read the thing?”

  “I’ve read it.”

  “Then you know. It’s just dressed up in Biblical language. Part is icky-sweet, more is nonsense . . . and some is just hateful.”

  Jubal was silent a long time. At last he said, “Jill, are you familiar with Hindu sacred writings?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “The Koran? Any other major scripture? I could illustrate my point from the Bible but do not wish to hurt your feelings.”

  “You won’t hurt my feelings.”

  “Well, I’ll use the Old Testament, picking it to pieces usually doesn’t upset people as much. You know about Sodom and Gomorra? How Lot was saved from these wicked cities when Yahweh smote ’em?”

  “Oh, of course. His wife was turned into a pillar of salt.”

  “Always seemed to me a stiff punishment. But we were speaking of Lot. Peter describes him as a just, Godly, and righteous man, vexed by the filthy conversation of the wicked. Saint Peter must be an authority on virtue, since to him were given the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven. But it is hard to see what made Lot such a paragon. He divided a cattle range at his brother’s suggestion. He got captured in battle. He lammed out of town to save his skin. He fed and sheltered two strangers but his conduct shows that he knew them to be V.I.P.s—and by the Koran and by my own lights, his ho
spitality would count more if he had thought they were mere beggars. Aside from these items and Saint Peter’s character reference there is only one thing in the Bible on which we can judge Lot’s virtue—virtue so great that Heavenly intercession saved his life. See Genesis nineteen, verse eight.”

  “What does it say?”

  “Look it up. I don’t expect you to believe me.”

  “Jubal! You’re the most infuriating man I’ve ever met.”

  “And you’re a very pretty girl, so I don’t mind your ignorance. All right—but look it up later. Lot’s neighbors beat on his door and wanted to meet these blokes from out of town. Lot didn’t argue; he offered a deal. He had two daughters, virgins, so he said—he told this mob that he would give them these girls and they could use them any way they liked—a gang shagging. He pleaded with them to do any damn thing they pleased . . . only quit beating on his door.”

  “Jubal ... does it really say that?”

  “I’ve modernized the language but the meaning is as unmistakable as a whore’s wink. Lot offered to let a gang of men—‘young and old,’ the Bible says—abuse two young virgins if only they wouldn’t break down his door. Say!” Jubal beamed. “I should have tried that when the S.S. was breaking down my door! Maybe it would have got me into heaven.” He frowned. “No, the recipe calls for ‘virginis intactae’—and I wouldn’t have known which of you gals to offer.”

  “Hmmph! You won’t find out from me.”

  “Well, even Lot might have been mistaken. But that’s what he promised—his virgin daughters, young and tender and scared—urged this gang to rape them . . . if only they would leave him in peace!” Jubal snorted. “The Bible cites this scum as a ‘righteous’ man.”

  Jill said slowly, “I don’t think that’s the way we were taught it in Sunday School.”

  “Damn it, look it up! That’s not the only shock in store for anybody who reads the Bible. Consider Elisha. Elisha was so all-fired holy that touching his bones restored a dead man to life. He was a bald-headed old coot, like myself. One day children made fun of his baldness, just as you girls do. So God sent bears to tear forty-two children into bloody bits. That’s what it says—second chapter of Second Kings.”

  “Boss, I never make fun of your bald head.”

  “Who sent my name to those hair-restorer quacks? Whoever it was, God knows—and she had better keep a sharp eye for bears. The Bible is loaded with such stuff. Crimes that turn your stomach are asserted to be divinely ordered or divinely condoned . . . along with, I must add, hard common sense and workable rules for social behavior. I am not running down the Bible. It isn’t a patch on the pornographic trash that passes as sacred writings among Hindus. Or a dozen other religions. But I’m not condemning them, either; it is conceivable that one of these mythologies is the word of God . . . that God is in truth the sort of paranoid Who rends to bits forty-two children for sassing His priest. Don’t ask me about the Front Office; I just work here. My point is that Foster’s New Revelation is sweetness-and-light as scripture goes. Bishop Digby’s Patron is a good Joe; He wants people to be happy—happy on Earth plus eternal bliss in Heaven. He doesn’t expect you to chastise the flesh. Oh no! this is the giant-economy package. If you like to drink and gamble and dance and wench—come to church and do it under holy auspices. Do it with your conscience free. Have fun at it. Live it up! Get happy!”

  Jubal failed to look happy. “Of course there’s a charge; Digby’s God expects to be acknowledged. Anyone stupid enough to refuse to get happy on His terms is a sinner and deserves anything that happens to him. But this rule is common to all gods; don’t blame Foster and Digby. Their snake oil is orthodox in all respects.”

  “Boss, you sound halfway converted.”

  “Not me! I don’t enjoy snake dances, I despise crowds, and I do not let slobs tell me where to go on Sundays. I simply object to your criticizing them for the wrong things. As literature, the New Revelation stacks up about average—it should; it was composed by plagiarizing other scriptures. As for internal logic, mundane rules do not apply to sacred writings—but here the New Revelation must be rated superior; it hardly ever bites its own tail. Try reconciling the Old Testament with the New, or Buddhist doctrine with Buddhist apocrypha. As morals, Fosterism is the Freudian ethic sugar-coated for people who can’t take psychology straight, although I doubt if the old lecher who wrote it—pardon me, ‘was inspired to write it’—knew this; he was no scholar. But he was in tune with his times, he tapped the Zeitgeist. Fear and guilt and loss of faith—How could he miss? Pipe down, I’m going to nap.”

  “Who’s talking?”

  “ ‘The woman tempted me.’ ” Jubal closed his eyes.

  On reaching home they found that Caxton and Mahmoud had flown in for the day. Ben had been disappointed to find Jill away but had managed to bear up through the company of Anne, Miriam, and Dorcas. Mahmoud always visited for the avowed purpose of seeing Mike and Dr. Harshaw; however, he too had shown fortitude at having only Jubal’s food, liquor, garden—and odalisques—to entertain him. Miriam was rubbing his back while Dorcas rubbed his head.

  Jubal looked at him. “Don’t get up.”

  “I can’t, she’s sitting on me. Hi, Mike.”

  “Hi, my brother Stinky Dr. Mahmoud.” Mike then gravely greeted Ben, and asked to be excused.

  “Run along, son,” Jubal told him.

  Anne said, “Mike, have you had lunch?”

  He said solemnly, “Anne, I am not hungry. Thank you,” turned, and went into the house.

  Mahmoud twisted, almost unseating Miriam. “Jubal? What’s troubling our son?”

  “Yeah,” said Ben. “He looks seasick.”

  “Let him be. An overdose of religion.” Jubal sketched the morning’s events.

  Mahmoud frowned. “Was it necessary to leave him alone with Digby? This seems to me—pardon me, my brother!—unwise.”

  “Stinky, he’s got to take such things in stride. You’ve preached theology at him—he’s told me. Can you name one reason why Digby shouldn’t have his innings? Answer as a scientist, not as a Muslim.”

  “I am unable to answer anything other than as a Muslim,” Dr. Mahmoud said quietly.

  “Sorry. I recognize your necessity, even though I disagree.”

  “Jubal, I used the word ‘Muslim’ in its exact sense, not as a sectarian which Maryam incorrectly terms ‘Mohammedan.’ ”

  “Which I’ll go on calling you until you learn to pronounce ‘Miriam’! Quit squirming.”

  “Yes, Maryam. Ouch! Women should not be muscular. Jubal, as a scientist, I find Michael the prize of my career. As a Muslim, I find in him a willingness to submit to the will of God . . . and this makes me happy for his sake although there are difficulties and as yet he does not grok what the English word ‘God’ means.” He shrugged. “Nor the Arabic word ‘Allah.’ But as a man—and always a Slave of God—I love this lad, our foster son and water brother, and would not have him under bad influences. Aside from creed, this Digby strikes me as a bad influence. What do you think?”

  “Ole!” Ben applauded. “He’s a slimy bastard—I haven’t exposed his racket in my column simply because the Syndicate is afraid to print it. Stinky, keep talking and you’ll have me studying Arabic and buying a rug.”

  “I hope so. The rug is not necessary.”

  Jubal sighed. “I agree with you. I’d rather see Mike smoking marijuana than converted by Digby. But I don’t think there is any danger of Mike’s being taken in by that syncretic hodgepodge . . . and he’s got to learn to stand up to bad influences. I consider you a good influence—but I don’t think you stand much more chance—the boy has an amazingly strong mind. Muhammad may have to make way for a new prophet.”

  “If God so wills,” Mahmoud answered.

  “That leaves no room for argument,” Jubal agreed.

  “We were discussing religion before you got home,” Dorcas said softly. “Boss, did you know that women have souls?”

  “They d
o?”

  “So Stinky says.”

  “Maryam,” Mahmoud explained, “wanted to know why we ‘Mohammedans’ thought only men had souls.”

  “Miriam, that’s as vulgar a misconception as the notion that Jews sacrifice Christian babies. The Koran states that entire families enter into Paradise, men and women together. For example, see ‘Ornaments of Gold’—verse seventy, isn’t it, Stinky?”

  “‘Enter the Garden, ye and your wives, to be made glad.’ That’s as well as it can be translated,” agreed Mahmoud.

  “Well,” said Miriam, “I had heard about the beautiful houris that Mohammedan men have for playthings in Paradise and that didn’t seem to leave room for wives.”

  “Houris,” said Jubal, “are separate creations, like djinni and angels. They don’t need souls, they are spirits to start with, eternal, unchanging, and beautiful. There are male houris, too, or equivalents. Houris don’t earn their way into Paradise; they’re on the staff. They serve delicious foods and pass around drinks that never give hangovers and entertain as requested. But the souls of wives don’t have to work. Correct, Stinky?”

  “Close enough, aside from your flippant choice of words. The houris—” He sat up so suddenly that he dumped Miriam. “Say! Perhaps you girls don’t have souls!”

  Miriam said bitterly, “Why, you ungrateful dog of an infidel! Take that back!”

  “Peace, Maryam. If you don’t have a soul, then you’re immortal anyhow. Jubal . . . is it possible for a man to die and not notice it?”

  “Can’t say. Never tried it.”

  “Could I have died on Mars and just dreamed that I came home? Look around you! A garden the Prophet himself would envy. Four beautiful houris, serving lovely food and delicious drinks at all hours. Even their male counterparts, if you want to be fussy. Is this Paradise?”

  “I guarantee it ain’t,” Jubal assured him. “My taxes are due.”

  “Still, that doesn’t affect me.”

  “And take these houris—Even if we stipulate that they are of adequate beauty—after all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder—”

  “They pass.”

  “And you’ll pay for that, Boss,” Miriam added.