«Eh? What was that, Doctor?»
«Bishop Digby and Mr. Smith. Where are they?»
Boone seemed to notice the closed door. «Oh, they've stepped in there for a moment. That's a retiring room for private audiences. Weren't you in it? When the Supreme Bishop was showing you around?»
«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.»
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.»