Stranger in a Strange Land

“Well… look at it this way. Religion is a solace to many people and it is even conceivable that some religion, somewhere, really is Ultimate Truth. But in many cases, being religious is merely a form of conceit. The Bible Belt faith in which I was brought up encouraged me to think that I was better than the rest of the world; I was ‘saved’ and they were ‘damned’—we were in a state of grace and the rest of the world were ‘heathens’ and by ‘heathen’ they meant such people as our brother Mahmoud. It meant that an ignorant, stupid lout who seldom bathed and planted his corn by the phase of the Moon could claim to know the final answers of the Universe. That entitled him to look down his nose at everybody else. Our hymn book was loaded with such arrogance—mindless, conceited, self-congratulation on how cozy we were with the Almighty and what a high opinion he had of us and us alone, and what hell everybody else was going to catch come Judgment Day. We peddled the only authentic brand of Lydia Pinkham’s—”

“Jubal!” Jill said sharply. “He doesn’t grok it.”

“Uh? Sorry. I got carried away. My folks tried to make a preacher out of me and missed by a narrow margin; I guess it still shows.”

“It does.”

“Don’t rub it in, girl. I would have made a good one if I hadn’t fallen into the fatal folly of reading anything I could lay hands on. With just a touch more self confidence and a liberal helping of ignorance I could have been a famous evangelist. Shucks, this place we’re headed for today would have been known as the ‘Archangel Jubal Tabernacle.’”

Jill made a face. “Jubal, please! Not so soon after breakfast.”

“I mean it. A confidence man knows that he’s lying; that limits his scope. But a successful shaman ropes himself first; he believes what he says—and such belief is contagious; there is no limit to his scope. But I lacked the necessary confidence in my own infallibility; I could never become a prophet… just a critic—which is a poor thing at best, a sort of fourth-rate prophet suffering from delusions of gender.” Jubal frowned. “That’s what worries me about Fosterites, Jill. I think that they are utterly sincere and you and I know that Mike is a sucker for sincerity.”

“What do you think they’ll try to do to him?”

“Convert him, of course. Then get their hands on his fortune.”

“I thought you had things fixed so that nobody could do that?”

“No, I just fixed it so that nobody could take it away from him against his will. Ordinarily he couldn’t even give it away without the government stepping in. But giving it to a church, especially a politically powerful church like the Fosterites, is another matter.”

“I don’t see why.”

Jubal sighed. “My dear, religion is practically a null area under the law. A church can do anything any other human organization can do and has no restrictions. It pays no taxes, need not publish records, is effectively immune to search, inspection, or control—and a church is anything that calls itself a church. Attempts have been made to distinguish between ‘real’ religions entitled to these immunities and ‘cults.’ This can’t be done, short of establishing a state religion… which is a cure worse than the disease. In any case, we haven’t done it, and both under what’s left of the old United States Constitution and under the Treaty of Federation, all churches are equal and equally immune—especially if they swing a big bloc of votes. If Mike is converted to Fosterism… and makes a will in favor of his church… and then ‘goes to heaven’ some sunrise, it will all be, to put it in the correct tautology, ‘as legal as church on Sunday.’”

“Oh, dear! I thought we had him safe at last.”

“There is no safety this side of the grave.”

“Well… what are you going to do about it, Jubal?”

“Nothing. Just fret, that’s all.”

Mike stored their conversation without any effort to grok it. He recognized the subject as one of utter simplicity in his own language but amazingly slippery in English. Since his failure to achieve mutual grokking on this subject, even with his brother Mahmoud, with his admittedly imperfect translation of the all-embracing Martian concept as: “Thou art God,” he had simply waited until grokking was possible. He knew that the waiting would fructify at its time; his brother Jill was learning his language and he would be able to explain it to her. They would grok together.

In the meantime the scenery flowing beneath him was a never-ending delight, and he was filled with eagerness for experience to come. He expected, or hoped, to meet a human Old One.

* * *

Senator Tom Boone was waiting to meet them at the landing flat. “Howdy, folks! And may the Good Lord bless you on this beautiful Sabbath. Mr. Smith, I’m happy to see you again. And you, too, Doctor.” He took his cigar out of his mouth and looked at Jill. “And this little lady—didn’t I see you at the Palace?”

“Yes, Senator. I’m Gillian Boardman.”

“Thought so, m’dear. Are you saved?”

“Uh, I guess not, Senator.”