He felt a puppyish need for company as strong as his earlier necessity for quiet. He stepped out into the hall, was delighted to encounter a water brother.«Hi!»
«Oh. Hello, Mike. My, you look chipper.»
«I feel fine! Where is everybody?»
«Asleep. Ben and Stinky went home an hour ago and people started going to bed.»
«Oh.» Mike felt disappointed that Mahmoud had left; he wanted to explain his new grokking.
«I ought to be asleep, too, but I felt like a snack. Are you hungry?»
«Sure, I'm hungry!»
«Come on, there's some cold chicken and we'll see what else.» They went downstairs, loaded a tray lavishly. «Let's take it outside. It's plenty warm.»
«A fine idea,» Mike agreed.
«Warm enough to swim — real Indian summer. I'll switch on the floods.»
«Don't bother,» Mike answered. «I'll carry the tray.» He could see in almost total darkness. Jubal said that his night-sight probably came from the conditions in which he had grown up, and Mike grokked this was true but grokked that there was more to it; his foster parents had taught him to see. As for the night being warm, he would have been comfortable naked on Mount Everest but his water brothers had little tolerance for changes in temperature and pressure; he was considerate of their weakness, once he learned of it. But he was looking forward to snow — seeing for himself that each tiny crystal of the water of life was a unique individual, as he had read — walking barefoot, rolling in it.
In the meantime he was pleased with the warm night and the still more pleasing company of his water brother.
«Okay, take the tray. I'll switch on the underwater lights. That'll be plenty to eat by.»
«Fine.» Mike liked having light up through the ripples; it was a goodness, beauty. They picnicked by the pool, then lay back on the grass and looked at stars.
«Mike, there's Mars. It is Mars, isn't it? Or Antares?»
«It is Mars.»
«Mike? What are they doing on Mars?»
He hesitated; the question was too wide for the sparse English language. «On the side toward the horizon — the southern hemisphere — it is spring; plants are being taught to grow.»
«“Taught to grow”?»
He hesitated. «Larry teaches plants to grow. I have helped him. But my people — Martians, I mean; I now grok you are my people — teach plants another way. In the other hemisphere it is growing colder and nymphs, those who stayed alive through the summer, are being brought into nests for quickening and more growing.» He thought. «Of the humans we left at the equator, one has discorporated and the others are sad.»
«Yes, I heard it in the news.»
Mike had not heard it; he had not known it until asked. «They should not be sad. Mr. Booker T. W. Jones Food Technician First Class is not sad; the Old Ones have cherished him.»
«You knew him?»
«Yes. He had his own face, dark and beautiful. But he was homesick.»
«Oh, dear! Mike … do you ever get homesick? For Mars?»
«At first I was homesick,» he answered. «I was lonely always.» He rolled toward her and took her in his arms. «But now I am not lonely. I grok I shall never be lonely again.»
«Mike darling — » They kissed, and went on kissing.
Presently his water brother said breathlessly. «Oh, my! That was almost worse than the first time.»
«You are all right, my brother?»
«Yes. Yes indeed. Kiss me again.»
A long time later, by cosmic clock, she said, «Mike? Is that — I mean, “Do you know — ”»
«I know. It is for growing closer. Now we grow closer.»
«Well… I've been ready a long time — goodness, we all have, but… never mind, dear; turn just a little. I'll help.»
As they merged, grokking together, Mike said softly and triumphantly: «Thou art God.»
Her answer was not in words. Then, as their grokking made them ever closer and Mike felt himself almost ready to discorporate her voice called him back: «Oh! …Oh! Thou art God!»
«We grok God.»
XXV
ON MARS humans were building pressure domes for the male and female party that would arrive by next ship. This went faster than scheduled as the Martians were helpful. Part of the time saved was spent on a preliminary estimate for a long-distance plan to free bound oxygen in the sands of Mars to make the planet more friendly to future human generations.
The Old Ones neither helped nor hindered this plan; time was not yet. Their meditations were approaching a violent cusp that would shape Martian art for many millennia. On Earth elections continued and a very advanced poet published a limited edition of verse consisting entirely of punctuation marks and spaces;Time magazine reviewed it and suggested that the Federation Assembly Daily Record should be translated into the medium.
A colossal campaign opened to sell more sexual organs of plants and Mrs. Joseph («Shadow of Greatness») Douglas was quoted as saying: «I would no more sit down without flowers on my table than without serviettes.» A Tibetan swami from Palermo, Sicily, announced in Beverly Hills a newly discovered, ancient yoga discipline for ripple breathing which increased both pranha and cosmic attraction between sexes. His chelas were required to assume the matsyendra posture dressed in hand-woven diapers while he read aloud from Rig-Veda and an assistant guru examined their purses in another room — nothing was stolen; the purpose was less immediate.
The President of the United States proclaimed the first Sunday in November as «National Grandmothers' Day» and urged America to say it with flowers. A funeral parlor chain was indicted for price-cutting. Fosterite bishops, after secret conclave, announced the Church's second Major Miracle: Supreme Bishop Digby had been translated bodily to Heaven and spot-promoted to Archangel, ranking with-but-after Archangel Foster. The glorious news had been held up pending Heavenly confirmation of the elevation of a new Supreme Bishop, Huey Short — a candidate accepted by the Boone faction after lots had been cast repeatedly.
L'Unita and Hoy published identical denunciations of Short's elevation,l'Osservatore Romano and the Christian Science Monitor ignored it,Times of India snickered at it, and the Manchester Guardian simply reported it — the Fosterites in England were few but extremely militant.
Digby was not pleased with his promotion. The Man from Mars had interrupted him with his work half finished — and that stupid jackass Short was certain to louse it up. Foster listened with angelic patience until Digby ran down, then said, «Listen, junior, you're an angel now — so forget it. Eternity is no time for recriminations. You too were a stupid jackass until you poisoned me. Afterwards you did well enough. Now that Short is Supreme Bishop he'll do all right, he can't help it. Same as with the Popes. Some of them were warts until they got promoted. Check with one of them, go ahead — there's no professional jealousy here.»
Digby calmed down, but made one request.
Foster shook his halo. «You can't touch him. You shouldn't have tried to. Oh, you can submit a requisition for a miracle if you want to make a fool of yourself. But, I'm telling you, it'll be turned down — you don't understand the System yet. The Martians have their own setup, different from ours, and as long as they need him, we can't touch him. They run their show their way — the Universe has variety, something for everybody — a fact you field workers often miss.»
«You mean this punk can brush me aside and I've got to hold still for it?»
«I held still for the same thing, didn't I? I'm helping you now, am I not? Now look, there's work to be done and lots of it. The Boss wants performance, not gripes. If you need a Day off to calm down, duck over to the Muslim Paradise and take it. Otherwise, straighten your halo, square your wings, and dig in. The sooner you act like an angel the quicker you'll feel angelic. Get Happy, junior!»