Stranger in a Strange Land (47 page)

He was most cautious—if candidates were married, it had to be both spouses. Unmarried candidates had to be sexually attractive and aggressive—and he impressed on his priests that males must equal or exceed in number the females. Nowhere was it recorded that Foster studied earlier, similar cults in America—but he knew or sensed that most such had foundered because possessive concupiscence of their priests led to jealousy. Foster never made this error; not once did he keep a woman to himself, not even those he married.

Nor was he too eager in expanding his core group; the middle church offered plenty to slake the milder needs of the masses. If a revival produced two couples capable of “Heavenly Marriage” Foster was content. If it produced none, he let the seeds grow and sent in a salted priest and priestess to nurture them.

So far as possible, he tested candidate couples himself, with a priestess. Since such a couple was already “saved” insofar as the middle church was concerned, he ran little risk—none with the woman and he always sized up the man before letting his priestess go ahead.

Before she was saved, Patricia Paiwonski was young, married, and “very happy.” She had one child, she looked up to and admired her much older husband. George Paiwonski was a generous, affectionate man with only one weakness—but one which often left him too drunk to show his affection after a long day. Patty counted herself a lucky woman—true, George occasionally got affectionate with a female client . . . quite affectionate if it was early in the day—and, of course, tattooing required privacy, especially with ladies. Patty was tolerant; she sometimes made a date with a male client, after George got to hitting the bottle more and more.

But there was a lack in her life, one not filled even when a grateful client gave her a snake—shipping out, he said, and couldn't keep it. She liked pets and had no snake phobia; she made a home for it in their show window and George made a beautiful four-color picture to back it: “Don't Tread on Me!” This design turned out to be popular.

She acquired more snakes and they were a comfort. But she was the daughter of an Ulsterman and a girl from Cork; the armed truce between her parents had left her with no religion.

She was already a “seeker” when Foster preached in San Pedro; she had managed to get George to go a few Sundays but he had not seen the light.

Foster brought them the light, they made their confessions together. When Foster returned six months later, the Paiwonskis were so dedicated that he gave them personal attention.

“I never had a minute's trouble from the day George saw the light,” she told Mike and Jill. “He still drank . . . but only in church and never too much. When our holy leader returned, George had started his Great Project. Naturally we wanted to show it to Foster—” Mrs. Paiwonski hesitated. “Kids, I ought not to tell this.”

“Then don't,” Jill said emphatically. “Patty darling, we don't want you
ever
to do anything you don't feel easy about. ‘Sharing water' has to be easy.”

“Uh ...
I do
want to! But remember this is Church things, so you mustn't tell anyone . . . just as I wouldn't tell anything about
you.”

Mike nodded. “Here on Earth we call it ‘water brother' business. On Mars there's no problem . . . but here I grok there sometimes is. ‘Water brother' business you don't repeat.”

“I . . . I ‘grok.' That's a funny word, but I'm learning it. All right, darlings, this is ‘water brother' business. Did you know that
all
Fosterites are tattooed?
Real
Church members, I mean, the ones who are eternally saved forever and a day—like me? Oh, I don't mean tattooed all over but—see that? Right over my heart? That's Foster's holy kiss. George worked it in so that it looks like part of the picture . . . so that nobody could guess. But it's his kiss—and
Foster put it there hisself!”
She looked ecstatically proud.

They examined it. “It is a kiss mark,” Jill said wonderingly, “like somebody had kissed you there wearing lipstick. I thought it was part of that sunset.”

“Yes, indeedy, that's how George fixed it. Because you don't show Foster's kiss to anyone who doesn't wear Foster's kiss—and I never have, up to now. But,” she insisted, “you're going to wear one, both of you, someday—and when you do, I want to tattoo 'em on.”

Jill said, “I don't understand, Patty. How can he kiss
us?
After all, he's—up in Heaven.”

“Yes, dearie, he is. Let me explain. Any priest or priestess can give you Foster's kiss. It means God's in your heart, God is part of you . . . forever.”

Mike was suddenly intent. “Thou art God!”

“Huh, Michael? Well—I've never heard it put that way. But that does express it . . . God is in you and of you and with you, and the Devil can't get at you.”

“Yes,” agreed Mike. “You grok God.” He thought happily that this was nearer to putting the concept across than he had ever managed before ... except that Jill was learning it, in Martian. Which was inevitable.

“That's the idea, Michael. God . . . groks you—and you are married in Holy Love and Eternal Happiness to His Church. The priest or priestess kisses you and the mark is tattooed on to show it's forever. It doesn't have to be this big—mine is exactly the size and shape of Foster's blessed lips—and it can be placed anywhere to shield from sinful eyes. Any spot where it won't be noticed. Then you show it when you go into a Happiness gathering of the eternally saved.”

“I've heard of happiness meetings,” Jill commented, “but I've never known quite what they are.”

“Well,” Mrs. Paiwonski said judicially, “there are Happiness meetings and Happiness meetings. The ones for ordinary members, who are saved but might backslide, are fun—grand parties with only the amount of praying that comes happily, and plenty of whoop-it-up that makes a good party. Maybe a little real lovin'—but you'd better be mighty careful who and how, because you mustn't be a seed of dissension among the brethren. The Church is
very
strict about keeping things in their proper places.

“But a Happiness meeting for the eternally saved—well, you don't have to be careful because there won't be
anybody
there who can sin—all past and done with. If you want to drink and pass out . . . okay, it's God's will or you wouldn't want to. You want to kneel down and pray, or lift up your voice in song—or tear off your clothes and dance; it's God's will. There can't possibly be anybody there who would see anything wrong in it.”

“It sounds like quite a party,” said Jill.

“Oh, it is—always! And you're filled with heavenly bliss. If you wake up in the morning with one of the eternally saved brethren, he's there because God willed it to make you all blessedly Happy. They've all got Foster's kiss—they're
yours.”
She frowned thoughtfully. “It feels a little like ‘sharing water.' You understand?”

“I grok,” agreed Mike.

“But don't think,” Patricia said earnestly, “that a person can get into an Inner Temple Happiness meeting just with a tattoo mark. A visiting brother or sister—Well, take me. As soon as I know where the carnie is going, I write the local churches and send my fingerprints so they can check 'em against the file of eternally saved at Archangel Foster Tabernacle. I give 'em my address care of Billboard. Then when I do—and I always go Sundays and
never
miss a Happiness meeting even if Tim has to slough the blow-off—I am identified. They're glad to see me; I'm an added attraction, with my unique and unsurpassed sacred pictures—I often spend an evening just letting people examine me . . . every minute of it bliss. Sometimes the priest has me bring Honey Bun to do Eve and the Serpent—that takes body make-up, of course. Some brother plays Adam and we get scourged out of the Garden of Eden, and the priest explains the
real
meaning, not the twisted lies—and we end by regaining our blessed innocence, and that gets the party rolling. Joy!”

She added, “But everybody is interested in my Foster's kiss . . . because, since he went back to Heaven twenty years ago, not many have a Foster's kiss that wasn't laid on by proxy—I have the Tabernacle testify to
that
, too. And I tell them about it. Uh—”

Mrs. Paiwonski hesitated, then told them, in explicit detail—and Jill wondered where her limited ability to blush had gone? Then she grokked that Mike and Patty were two of a kind—God's innocents, unable to sin no matter what they did. She wished, for Patty's sake, that Foster had really been a holy prophet who had saved her for eternal bliss.

But
Foster!
God's Wounds, what a travesty!

Suddenly, through her greatly improved recall, Jill was back in a room with a glass wall, looking into Foster's dead eyes. But he seemed alive . . . and she felt a shiver in her loins and wondered what
she
would have done if Foster had offered her his holy kiss—and his holy self?

She shut it out of her mind, but not before Mike caught it. She felt him smile, with knowing innocence.

She stood up, “Pattycake darling, what time do you have to be at the lot?”

“Oh, dear! I should be back this blessed minute!”

“Why? The show doesn't roll until nine-thirty.”

“Well . . . Honey Bun misses me. She's jealous if I stay out late.”

“Can't you tell her that it's a Happiness meeting?”

“Uh...” The older woman gathered Jill in her arms. “It is! It certainly is!”

“Good. I'm going to sleep—Jill is bushed. What time do you have to be up?”

“Uh, if I'm back by eight, I can get Sam to tear down my top and have time to make sure my babies are loaded safely.”

“Breakfast?”

“I'll get it on the train. Just coffee when I wake up, usually.”

“I make that here. You dears stay up as long as you like; I won't let you oversleep—if you sleep. Mike doesn't sleep.”

“Not at all?”

“Never. He curls up and thinks a while, usually—but he doesn't sleep.”

Mrs. Paiwonski nodded solemnly. “Another sign. I know—and, Michael, some day you will know. Your call will come.”

“Maybe,” agreed Jill. “Mike, I'm falling asleep. Pop me into bed. Please?” She was lifted, wafted into the bedroom, covers rolled themselves back—she slept.

Jill woke at seven, slipped out of bed, put her head into the other room. Lights were out and shades were tight, but they were not asleep. Jill heard Mike say with soft certainty:

“Thou art God.”

“ ‘Thou art god'—” Patricia whispered in a voice as heavy as if drugged.

“Yes. Jill is God.”

“Jill . . . is God. Yes, Michael.”

“And thou art God.”

“Thou
—art God! Now, Michael,
now!”

Jill went quietly away and brushed her teeth. Presently she let Mike know that she was awake and found that he knew it. When she came back into the living room, sunlight was streaming in. “Good morning, darlings!” She kissed them.

“Thou art God,” Patty said simply.

“Yes, Patty. And thou art God. God is in all of us.” She looked at Patty in the harsh morning light and noted that she did not look tired. Well, she knew that effect—if Mike wanted her to stay up all night, Jill never found it any trouble. She suspected that her sleepiness the night before had been Mike's idea . . . and heard Mike agree in his mind.

“Now coffee, darlings. And I happen to have stashed away a redipak of orange juice, too.”

They breakfasted lightly, replete with happiness. Jill saw Patty looking thoughtful. “What is it, dear?”

“Uh, I hate to mention this—but what are you kids going to eat on? Aunt Patty has a pretty well stuffed grouch bag and I thought—”

Jill laughed. “Oh, darling, I shouldn't laugh. But the Man from Mars is
rich!
Surely you know?”

Mrs. Paiwonski looked baffled. “Well, I guess I knew. But you can't trust anything you hear over the news.”

“Patty, you're an utter darling. Believe me, now that we're water brothers, we wouldn't hesitate—‘sharing the nest' isn't just poetry. But it's the other way around. If you
ever
need money, just say so. Any amount. Any time. Write us—better yet, call me; Mike doesn't have the foggiest idea about money. Why, dear, I'm keeping a couple of hundred thousand in my name right now. Want some?”

Mrs. Paiwonski looked startled. “Bless me! I don't need money.”

Jill shrugged. “If you ever do, just holler. If you want a yacht—Mike would enjoy giving you a yacht.”

“I certainly would, Pat. I've never seen a yacht.”

Mrs. Paiwonski shook her head. “Don't take me up on a tall mountain, dearie—all I want from you two is your love—”

“You have that,” Jill told her.

“I don't grok ‘love',” Mike said. “But Jill always speaks rightly. If we've got it, it's yours.”

“—and to know that you're saved. But I'm no longer worried about that. Mike has told me about waiting, and why waiting is. You understand, Jill?”

“I grok. I'm no longer impatient about anything.”

“But I have something for you two.” The tattooed lady got her purse, took a book out. “My dear ones . . . this is the very copy of the New Revelation that Blessed Foster gave me . . . the night he placed his kiss on me. I want you to have it.”

Jill's eyes filled with tears. “But, Aunt Patty—Patty our brother! We
can't
take this one. We'll buy one.”