Stranger in a Strange Land (41 page)

“Um, yes.” It was a room with a chair on a dais—a “Throne,” Jubal corrected himself with a grin—and a kneeler. Jubal wondered which one would use the throne and which would be stuck with the kneeler—if this tinsel bishop tried to argue religion with Mike he was in for shocks. “I hope they don't stay long.”

“I doubt if they will. Probably Mr. Smith wanted a word in private. Look, I'll have your cab wait at the end of that passageway where we took the elevator—that's the Supreme Bishop's private entrance. Save you a good ten minutes.”

“That's very kind.”

“So if Mr. Smith has something on his soul he wants to confess we won't have to hurry him. I'll step outside and phone.” Boone left.

Jill said, “Jubal, I don't like this. I think we were deliberately maneuvered so that Digby could get Mike alone.”

“Obviously.”

“They haven't any business doing that! I'm going to bust in and tell Mike it's time to leave.”

“Suit yourself,” Jubal answered, “but you're acting like a broody hen. If Digby tries to convert Mike, they'll wind up with Mike converting him. Mike's ideas are hard to shake.”

“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.”

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.”

“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 hospitality 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.”