Eye in the Sky (1957) (14 page)

* * * * *

The Prophet Horace Clamp met him in
the glorious entrance-way. Awesome marble columns rose on all
sides; the Sepulcher was an overt copy of the
traditional
tombs of antiquity. A
kind of seedy, middle-class vulgar
ity
hung about it, vast and impressive as it was. Massive,
threatening, the mosque was an esthetic atrocity.
Like a
government building in the Soviet Union, it had been designed by
men lacking artistic sensibility. Unlike the Soviet office buildings, it was
larded and smeared with
fretwork, embossed
with rococo railings and flutings, in
finite
bric-a-brac, lavishly polished brass knobs and
pipings. Recessed
indirect lights played over the terra
cotta
surfaces. Stupendous bas-reliefs stood out in pom
pous stateliness: greater-than-life
representations of Mid
dle Eastern pastoral scenes. The characters
portrayed were moral and fatuous. And elaborately clothed.

“Greetings,” the Prophet
announced, holding up one plump, pale hand in benediction. Horace Clamp might
have stepped from some vividly colored Sunday school
poster. Fat, waddling, with an absent, benign expression,
robed
and hooded, he gathered Hamilton up and prodded him into the mosque proper.
Clamp was the living
manifestation of the
Islamic spiritual leader. As the two
of
them entered a richly furnished study, Hamilton wondered dismally why he was
here. Was this what God had
in mind?

“I was expecting you,”
Clamp said, in a businesslike
manner.
“I was informed of your coming.”

“Informed?”
Hamilton was puzzled. “By whom?”

“Why,
by (Tetragrammaton), of course.”

Hamilton was baffled. “You mean
you’re the Prophet
of a god named—”

“The Name cannot be
spoken,” Clamp interrupted with sly agility. “Much too sacred. He
prefers to be referred to by the term (Tetragrammaton). I’m rather surprised
that you don’t know this. It’s common public
knowledge.”

“I’m
somewhat ignorant,” Hamilton said.

“You have, I understand,
recently experienced a vi
sion.”

“If you mean did I just see
(Tetragrammaton), the
answer is yes.”
Already, he had developed an aversion to
the pudgy Prophet.

“How
is He?”

“He seemed in good
health.” Hamilton couldn’t re
frain
from adding, “For Someone His age.”

Clamp roamed busily around the
study. Almost bald,
his head shone like a
polished stone. He was the epitome
of
theological dignity and pomp. And he was, Hamilton
reflected, virtually
a caricature. All the timeless, stuffy elements were there … Clamp was just
too majestic to be true.

Caricature—or somebody’s idea of
what the spiritual head of the One True Faith ought to be like.

“Prophet,”
Hamilton said bluntly, “I might as well lay
it on the line. I’ve been in this world approximately forty
hours,
no longer. Frankly, all this baffles me. As far as I’m concerned, this is an
absolutely crackpot universe.
A moon the
size of a pea—it’s absurd. Geocentric—the sun
revolving around the Earth. It’s primitive! And this whole
archaic, non-Western concept of God; this old man
showering down coins and snakes, loosing plagues of boils …”

Clamp eyed him acutely. “But my
dear sir, this is the
way things are. This
is His creation.”

“This
creation, maybe.
But not mine. Where I come from—”

“Perhaps,” Clamp
interrupted, “you had better tell me where you come from. (Tetragrammaton)
didn’t acquaint me with this aspect of the situation. He merely informed me
that a lost soul was on its way here.”

Without much enthusiasm, Hamilton
outlined what had happened.

“Ah,” Clamp said, when he
had finished. Distressed and skeptical, he flounced about the study, arms
behind his back. “No,” he declared, “I really can’t accept this.
But it could be so; it really could. You assert, you actually stand there and
claim, that up until Thursday you lived in a world untouched by His
presence?”

“I didn’t say that. Untouched
by a crude, bombastic presence. None of this—tribal deity stuff. This bluster
and thunder. But He could very well be there. I always took it for granted that
He was. In a subtle way. Behind the scenes, not kicking them over with His hoof
every time somebody steps out of line.”

The Prophet was clearly moved by
Hamilton’s revelation. “This is a sensational affair
…
I hadn’t realized there were whole
worlds still infidel.”

At that, Hamilton lost his temper.
“Can’t you grasp what I’m saying? This second-rate universe, this Bab or
whatever—”

“The Second Bab,” Clamp
interrupted.

“What
is a Bab? And where’s the First Bab? Where did
all this nonsense come from?”

After
a haughty moment, Clamp said, “On July 9, 1850,
the First Bab was
executed at Tabriz. Twenty thousand of his followers, the Babiis, were horribly
murdered. The First Bab was a True Prophet of the Lord; he died
transcendentally, causing even his jailers to weep. In
1909, his remains were carried to Mount Carmel.” Clamp
paused
dramatically, his eyes full of emotion. “In 1915, sixty-five years after
his death,
the Bab reappeared on Earth.
In Chicago, at eight o’clock on
the morning of August 4, he was witnessed by a group of persons eating in a
restaurant. This, despite the proven fact that the remains at Mount Carmel are
still intact!”

“I
see,” Hamilton said.

Raising his hands, Clamp said,
“What further proof could be asked? What greater miracle has the world
seen? The First Bab was a mere Prophet of the One True God.” His voice
trembling, Clamp finished, “And the Second Bab—is
He!
”

“Why
Cheyenne, Wyoming?” Hamilton inquired.

“The Second Bab ended His days
on Earth at this exact spot. On May 21, 1939, He ascended to Paradise, carried
by five angels, in plain sight of the Faithful. It was a thrilling moment. I,
myself—” Clamp was unable to speak. “I, personally, received from the
Second Bab during His last hour on Earth, His—” He pointed to a niche in
the wall of the study. “In that mihrab is the Second Bab’s watch, His
fountain pen, His wallet, and one false tooth—the rest were genuine and went
with Him bodily to Paradise. I, during the lifetime of the Second Bab, was His
recorder. I wrote down many sections of the Bayan with this typewriter you see
here.” He touched a glass case in which was an old Underwood Model Five
office machine, battered and obsolete.

“And now,” the Prophet
Clamp continued, “let us
consider this
world you describe. Obviously, you’ve been
sent here to acquaint me with
this extraordinary situa
tion. An entire
world, billions of people, living their lives
cut off from the sight of
the One True God.” In his eyes a fervent glow appeared; the glow burgeoned
as the Prophet’s mouth formed the word, “Jihad.”

“Look,” Hamilton began
apprehensively. But Clamp cut him brusquely off.

“A jihad,” Clamp said
excitedly. “We’ll get hold of Colonel T. E. Edwards at California
Maintenance … immediate conversion to long-range rockets. First, we’ll
bombard this blighted region with informational literature of a scriptural
nature. Then, when we’ve sparked
some kind
of spiritual light in the wilderness, we’ll follow
through with
instructional teams. And after that, a general concentration of peripatetic
messengers, presenting the True Faith through various mass-media. Television,
movies, books, recorded testimonials. I would
think
(Tetragrammaton) could be persuaded to do a fifteen-minute
kinescope. And some long-playing messages for the benefit of the
unbelievers.”

And was this, Hamilton wondered, why
he had been summarily dropped at Cheyenne, Wyoming? Surrounded by the certitude
of the Prophet Clamp, he was beginning to falter. Maybe he was a sign, sent to
fulfill the Realization of Submission; maybe this was the real world after all,
clutched to (Tetragrammaton)’s bosom.

“Can I look around the
sepulcher?” he hedged. “I’d like to see what the spiritual hub of
Second Babiism is
like.”

Preoccupied, Clamp glanced up.
“What? Certainly.” Already, he was punching buttons on his intercom.
“I’m getting in touch with (Tetragrammaton) immediately.” He halted
long enough to lean toward Hamilton, raise his hand, and ask, “Why do you
suppose He didn’t in
form us of this
darkened world?” On his face, on the lush,
complacent face of the
Prophet of the Second Bab, a floating measure of uncertainty appeared. “I
would have thought …” Shaking his head, he murmured, “But the
Path of God is sometimes strange.”

“Damn strange,” Hamilton
said. Leaving the study, he made his way out into the echoing marble corridor.

Even at this early hour, devout
worshipers roamed
here and there, fingering
holy exhibits and gawking. The
sight of them depressed Hamilton. In one
large chamber, a group of well-dressed men and women, most of
them middle-aged, were singing hymns. Hamilton
started
to pass by, and then thought better of it.

Over the group of the Faithful hung
a faintly lumi
nous—and faintly jealous—Presence.
Perhaps, he decided,
it would be a good idea to follow along.

Halting, he joined the group and
reluctantly sang
along with them. The hymns
were unfamiliar to him, but
he quickly picked up the general beat. The
hymns had a redundant simplicity; the same phrases and tones ap
peared and reappeared. The same monotonous ideas,
re
peated indefinitely. The appetite of (Tetragrammaton) was insatiable,
he concluded. A childish, nebulous personality that required constant praise—and
in the most obvious terms. Quick to anger, (Tetragrammaton) was equally quick
to sink into euphoria, was eager and ready to lap up these blatant flatteries.

A balance. A method of lulling the
Deity. But what a delicate mechanism. Danger for everyone … the easily-aroused
Presence that was always nearby. Always
listening.

Having discharged his religious
duty, he wandered grimly on. Both the building and the people were infested
with the stern nearness of (Tetragrammaton). He could feel Him everywhere; like
a thick, oppressive
fog, the Islamic God
lay over everything. Uneasily, Ham
ilton examined an immense illuminated
wall plaque.

Roll
Call Of The Faithful. Is Your Name Here?

The list was alphabetical; he
scanned it and discovered that his name was lacking. So, he observed
caustically, was McFeyffe’s. Poor McFeyffe. But he would manage. Marsha’s name,
too, was absent. The list, in toto, was astonishingly short; of all mankind,
was this meager portion the only group fit to be taken into Paradise?

Dull resentment boiled inside him.
At random, he sought some of the great names he had lived by: Einstein, Albert
Schweitzer, Gandhi, Lincoln, John Donne. None was there. His rage increased.
What did it signify? Were they condemned to Hell because they hadn’t been
Followers of the Second Bab of Cheyenne, Wyoming?

Naturally.
Only the Believers were saved. Everybody
else, countless billions, were
destined to sink into the corroding fires of Hell. The rows of smug names were
the rustic provincials who made up the One True
Faith. Trivial personalities, tiny blots of mediocrity nonentities…

One
name was familiar. For a long time he stood star
ing at it, wondering in a troubled fashion what it meant;
wondering,
with growing concern, why it was there
and
what its presence meant.

Silvester, Arthur

The old war veteran! The severe old
soldier lying in the hospital at Belmont. He was a charter member of the One
True Faith,

It
made sense. It made so much sense that, for a time,
he could only stand
gazing sightlessly up at the graven
name.

Feebly, in a dim manner, he was
beginning to see
how the parts and pieces
fitted together. The dynamics
were swimming up into plain view. He had
finally, at
long last, found the structure.

The
next step was getting back to Belmont. And find
ing Arthur Silvester.

* * * * *

At the Cheyenne airfield, Hamilton
pushed all his money across the counter and said, “One-way ticket to San
Francisco. The baggage compartment, if necessary.”

It lacked. But a quick telegram to
Marsha brought the balance … and closed out his savings account. With the
money came a cryptic, plaintive message:
Maybe you shouldn’t come back.
Something awful is happening to me.

He wasn’t particularly surprised
…
in fact, he had a good idea what it
was.

The plane deposited him at the San
Francisco airport just before noon. From there he took a Greyhound bus to
Belmont. The front door of the house was locked; sitting despondently in the
picture window was the yellow shape of Ninny Numbcat, watching him as he
searched his pockets for his doorkey. Marsha was not in sight—but he knew she
was there.

“I’m home,” he announced,
when he had got the door
open.

From the darkened bedroom came a
faint, sniffling sob. “Darling, I’m going to die.” In the gloom,
Marsha thrashed helplessly around. “I can’t come out. Don’t look at me.
Please
don’t look at me.”