Stranger in a Strange Land (39 page)

Boone looked perturbed. “Is he ill?”

Jubal shrugged. “As his physician, I prefer to have a nurse with us. Mr. Smith is not acclimated to this planet. Why don't you ask
him?
Mike, do you want Jill with you?”

“Yes, Jubal.”

“But—Very well, Mr. Smith.” Boone again removed his cigar, put fingers between his lips and whistled. “Cherub here!”

A youngster in his teens came dashing up. He was dressed in short full robe, tights, slippers, and pigeon's wings. He had golden curls and a sunny smile. Jill thought he was as cute as a ginger ale ad.

Boone ordered, “Fly up to the Sanctum office and tell the Warden on duty that I want another pilgrim's badge at the Sanctuary gate right away. The word is Mars.”

“ ‘Mars,' ” the kid repeated, threw Boone a Scout salute, and made a sixty-foot leap over the crowd. Jill realized why the robe looked bulky; it concealed a jump harness.

“Have to watch those badges,” Boone remarked. “Be surprised how many sinners would like to sample God's Joy without having their sins washed away. We'll mosey along and sightsee while we wait for the third badge.”

They pushed through the crowd and entered the Tabernacle, into a long high hall. Boone stopped. “I want you to notice. There is salesmanship in everything, even the Lord's work. Any tourist, whether he attends seekers' service or not—and services run twenty-four hours a day—has to come through here. What does he see? These happy chances.” Boone waved at slot machines lining both walls. “The bar and quick lunch is at the far end, he can't even get a drink without running this gauntlet. I tell you, it's a remarkable sinner who gets that far without shedding his change.

“But we don't take his money and give him nothing. Take a look—” Boone shouldered his way to a machine, tapped the woman playing it. “Please, Daughter.”

She looked up, annoyance changed to a smile. “Certainly, Bishop.”

“Bless you. You'll note,” Boone went on, as he fed a quarter into the machine, “that whether it pays off in worldly goods or not, a sinner is rewarded with a blessing and a souvenir text.”

The machine stopped; lined up in the window was: GOD—WATCHES—YOU.

“That pays three for one,” Boone said and fished the pay-off out of the receptacle, “and here's your text.” He tore off a paper tab and handed it to Jill. “Keep it, little lady, and ponder it.”

Jill sneaked a glance before putting it into her purse:
“But the Sinner's belly is filled with filth—
N.R. XXII 17”

“You'll note,” Boone went on, “that the pay-off is tokens, not cash—and the bursar's cage is back past the bar . . . plenty of opportunity there to make love offerings for charity and other good works. So the sinner probably feeds them back in . . . with a blessing each time and another text. The cumulative effect is tremendous! Why, some of our most faithful sheep got their start right in this room.”

“I don't doubt it,” agreed Jubal.

“Especially if they hit a jackpot. You understand, every combination is a blessing. But the jackpot, that's the three Holy Eyes. I tell you, when they see those eyes lined up and starin' at 'em all that manna from Heaven coming down, it really makes 'em think. Sometimes they faint. Here, Mr. Smith—” Boone offered Mike one of the tokens. “Give it a whirl.”

Mike hesitated. Jubal took the token himself—damn it, he didn't want the boy hooked by a one-armed bandit! “I'll try it, Senator.” He fed the machine.

Mike had extended his time sense a little and was feeling around inside the machine, trying to discover what it did. He was too timid to play it himself.

But when Jubal did so, Mike watched the cylinders spin, noted the eye pictured on each, and wondered what this “jackpot” was. The word had three meanings, so far as he knew; none of them seemed to apply. Without intending to cause excitement, he slowed and stopped each wheel so that the eyes looked out through the window.

A bell tolled, a choir sang hosannas, the machine lighted up and started spewing slugs. Boone looked delighted. “Well, bless you! Doc, this is your day! Here—put one back to take the jackpot off.” He picked up one of the flood and fed it back in.

Mike was wondering why this was happening, so he lined up the eyes again. Events repeated, save that the flood was a trickle. Boone stared. “Well, I'll be—blessed! It's not supposed to hit twice in a row. But I'll see that you're paid on both.” Quickly he put a slug back in.

Mike still wanted to see why this was a “jackpot.” The eyes lined up again.

Boone stared. Jill squeezed Mike's hand and whispered, “Mike . . . stop it!”

“But, Jill, I was seeing—”

“Don't talk. Just stop. Oh, wait till I get you home!”

Boone said slowly, “I'd hesitate to call this a miracle. Probably needs a repairman.” He shouted, “Cherub here!” and added, “We'd better take the last one off, anyhow,” and fed in another slug.

Without Mike's intercession, the wheels slowed down and announced: “FOSTER—LOVES—YOU.” A Cherub came up and said, “Happy day. You need help?”

“Three jackpots,” Boone told him.

“Didn't you hear the music? Are you deef? We'll be at the bar; fetch the money there. And have somebody check this machine.”

“Yes, Bishop.”

Boone hurried them to the bar. “Got to get you out of here,” he said jovially, “before you bankrupt the Church. Doc, are you always that lucky?”

“Always,” Harshaw said solemnly. He told himself that he did not
know
that the boy had anything to do with it . . . but he wished that this ordeal were over.

Boone took them to a counter marked “Reserved” and said, “This'll do—or would the little lady like to sit?”

“This is fine.” (—you call me “little lady” once more and I'll turn Mike loose on you!)

A bartender hurried up. “Happy day. Your usual, Bishop?”

“Double. What'll it be, Doc? And Mr. Smith? Don't be bashful; you're the Supreme Bishop's guests.”

“Brandy, thank you. Water on the side.”

“Brandy, thank you,” Mike repeated and added. “No water for me, please.” Water was not the essence; nevertheless he did not wish to drink water here.

“That's the spirit!” Boone said heartily. “That's the spirit with spirits! No water. Get it? It's a joke.” He dug Jubal in the ribs. “What'll it be for the little lady? Cola? Milk for your rosy cheeks? Or a real Happy Day drink with the big folks?”

“Senator,” Jill said carefully, “Would your hospitality extend to a martini?”

“Would it! Best martinis in the world—we don't use vermouth. We bless 'em instead. Double martini for the little lady. Bless you, son, and make it fast. We've time for a quick one, then pay our respects to Archangel Foster and on into the Sanctuary to hear the Supreme Bishop.”

The drinks arrived and the jackpots' pay-off. They drank with Boone's blessing, then he wrangled over the three hundred dollars, insisting that all prizes belonged to Jubal. Jubal settled it by depositing it all in a love-offering bowl.

Boone nodded approvingly. “That's a mark of grace, Doc. We'll save you yet. Another round, folks?”

Jill hoped that someone would say yes—The gin was watered but it was starting a flame of tolerance in her middle. Nobody spoke up, so Boone led them away, up a flight, past a sign reading: POSITIVELY NO SEEKERS NOR SINNERS—THIS MEANS
YOU!

Beyond was a gate. Boone said to it: “Bishop Boone and three pilgrims, guests of the Supreme Bishop.”

The gate opened. He led them around a curved passage into a room. It was large, luxurious in a style that reminded Jill of undertakers' parlors but was filled with cheerful music. The theme was
Jingle Bells
with a Congo beat added; Jill found that it made her want to dance.

The far wall was glass and appeared to be not even that. Boone said briskly, “Here we are, folks—in the Presence. You don't have to kneel—but do so if it makes you feel better. Most pilgrims do. And there
he
is . . . just as he was when he was called up to Heaven.”

Boone gestured with his cigar. “Don't he look natural? Preserved by a miracle, flesh incorruptible. That's the very chair he used when he wrote his Messages . . . and that's the pose he was in when he went to Heaven. He's never been moved—we built the Tabernacle right around him . . . removing the old church, naturally, and preserving its sacred stones.”

Facing them about twenty feet away, seated in a chair remarkably like a throne, was an old man. He looked as if he were alive . . . and he reminded Jill of an old goat on the farm where she had spent childhood summers—out-thrust lower lip, the whiskers, the fierce, brooding eyes. Jill felt her skin prickle; Archangel Foster made her uneasy.

Mike said in Martian,
“My brother, this is an Old One?”

“I don't know, Mike. They say he is.”

He answered,
“I do not grok an Old one.”

“I don't know, I tell you.”

“Mike! Remember!”

“Yes, Jill.”

Boone said, “What's he saying, little lady? What was your question, Mr. Smith?”

Jill said quickly, “It wasn't anything. Senator, can I get out of here? I feel faint.” She glanced at the corpse. Billowing clouds were above it; one shaft of light cut through and sought out the face. As lighting changed the face seemed to change, the eyes seemed bright and alive.

Boone said soothingly, “It has that effect, first time. You ought to try the seekers' gallery below us—looking up and with different music. Heavy music, with subsonics, I believe it is—reminds 'em of their sins. Now
this
room is a Happy Thoughts meditation chamber for high officials of the Church—I come here and sit and smoke a cigar if I'm feeling a bit low.”

“Please, Senator!”

“Oh, certainly. Wait outside, m'dear. Mr. Smith, you stay as long as you like.”

Jubal said, “Senator, hadn't we best get on into the services?”

They left. Jill was shaking—she had been scared silly that Mike might do something to that grisly exhibit—get them all lynched.

Two guards thrust crossed spears in their path at the portal of the Sanctuary. Boone said reprovingly, “Come, come! These pilgrims are the Supreme Bishop's personal guests. Where are their badges?”

Badges were produced and with them door prize numbers. A respectful usher said, “This way, Bishop,” and led them up wide stairs to a center box facing the stage.

Boone stood back. “You first, little lady.” Boone wanted to sit next to Mike: Harshaw won and Mike sat between Jill and Jubal, with Boone on the aisle.

The box was luxurious—self-adjusting seats, ash trays, drop tables for refreshments. They were above the congregation and less than a hundred feet from the altar. In front of it a young priest was warming up the crowd, shuffling to music and shoving heavily muscled arms back and forth, fists clenched. His strong bass voice joined the choir from time to time, then he would lift it in exhortation:

“Up off your behinds! Gonna let the Devil catch you napping?”

A snake dance was weaving down the right aisle, across in front, and back up the center aisle, feet stomping in time with the priest's piston-like jabs and the syncopated chant of the choir. Clump, clump,
moan!
. . . Clump, clump,
moan!
Jill felt the beat and realized sheepishly that it would be fun to get into that dance—as more and more people were doing under the brawny young priest's taunts.

“That boy's a comer,” Boone said approvingly. “I've team-preached with him and I can testify he turns the crowd over to you sizzlin'. Reverend ‘Jug' Jackerman—used to play left tackle for the Rams. You've seen him.”

“I'm afraid not,” Jubal admitted. “I don't follow football.”

“Really? Why, during the season most of the faithful stay after services, eat lunch in their pews, and watch the game. The wall behind the altar slides away and you're looking into the biggest stereo tank ever built. Puts the plays right in your lap. Better reception than you get at home—and it's more thrill with a crowd around you.” He whistled. “Cherub! Over here!”

Their usher hurried over. “Yes, Bishop?”

“Son, you ran away so fast I didn't have time to put in my order.”

“I'm sorry, Bishop.”

“Being sorry won't get you into Heaven. Get happy, son. Get that old spring into your step and stay on your toes. Same thing all around, folks?” He gave the order and added, “Bring me a handful of my cigars—see the chief barkeep.”

“Right away, Bishop.”

“Bless you, son. Hold it—” The snake dance was about to pass under them; Boone leaned over, made a megaphone of hands and cut through the noise. “Dawn! Hey,
Dawn!”
A woman looked up, he beckoned to her. She smiled. “Add a whiskey sour to that. Fly.”

The woman showed up quickly, as did the drinks. Boone swung a seat out of the back row for her. “Folks, meet Miss Dawn Ardent. M'dear, that's Miss Boardman, the little lady down in the comer—and this is the famous Doctor Jubal Harshaw here by me—”

“Really? Doctor, I think your stories are simply divine!”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, I do! I put one of your tapes on and let it lull me to sleep almost every night.”

“Higher praise a writer cannot expect,” Jubal said with a straight face.