Stranger in a Strange Land

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 THE LITTLE HUMAN ADVANCE GUARD were building half-buried pressure domes for the larger male & female party that would arrive by next ship. This work went much faster than originally scheduled as the Martians were uncritically helpful. Part of the time saved was spent in preparing a preliminary estimate on a very long-distance plan to free the bound oxygen in the sands of Mars to make the planet more friendly to future human generations.

The Old Ones neither helped nor hindered these long-distance human plans; time was not yet. Their own meditations were approaching a violent cusp that would control the shape of Martian art for many millennia. On Earth elections continued as usual 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 could profitably be translated into the same medium. The poet was invited to lecture at the University of Chicago, which he did, clad in full formal evening dress lacking only trousers and shoes.

A colossal advertising campaign opened to sell more sexual organs of plants for human use and Mrs. Joseph (“Shadow of Greatness”) Douglas was quoted as saying: “I would no more think of sitting down to eat 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 greatly increased both pranha and the cosmic attraction between the sexes. His chelas were required to assume the matsyendra posture dressed in hand-woven diapers while he read aloud from the Rig-Veda and an assistant guru checked through their purses in another room—nothing was ever stolen from the purses; the purpose was less immediate.

The President of the United States, by proclamation, named the first Sunday in November as “National Grandmothers’ Day” and urged the grandchildren of America to say it with flowers. A funeral parlor chain was indicted for price-cutting. The 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 compromise candidate accepted by the Boone faction after the lots had been cast repeatedly.

L’Unita and Hoy published identical doctrinaire denunciations of Short’s elevation, L’Osservatore Romano and the Christian Science Monitor ignored it, Times of India snickered at it editorially, and the Manchester Guardian reported it without comment—the Fosterite congregation in England was small 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 to him 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, too; 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 a little, but made one request.

Foster shook his halo in negation. “You can’t touch him. You shouldn’t have tried to touch him in the first place. Oh, you can submit a requisition for a miracle if you want to make a bloody fool of yourself. But, I’m telling you, it’ll be turned down—you simply 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 own show their own 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—before you can expect to be promoted again. The Boss wants performance, not gripes—if you need a Day off to get your nerve back, duck over to the Muslim Paradise and take it. Otherwise, straighten your halo, square your wings, and dig in. The sooner you start acting like an angel the quicker you’ll start feeling angelic. Get Happy, junior!”

Digby heaved a deep ethereal sigh. “Okay, I’m Happy. Where do I start?”

* * *