Stranger in a Strange Land

His clothes vanished. He stood before them, a golden youth, clothed only in his own beauty—beauty that made Jubal’s heart ache, thinking that Michelangelo in his ancient years would have climbed down from his high scaffolding to record it for generations unborn. Mike said gently, “Look at me. I am a son of man.”

The scene cut for a ten-second plug, a line of can-can dancers singing:

“Come on, ladies, do your duds!
In the smoothest, yummiest suds!
Lover Soap is kind to hands—
But be sure you save the bands!”

The tank filled completely with foamy suds amid girlish laughter and the scene cut back to the newscast: “God damn you!” A half brick caught Mike in the ribs. He turned his face slightly toward his assailant. “But you yourself are God. You can damn only yourself… and you can never escape yourself.”

“Blasphemer!” A rock caught him just over his left eye and blood welled forth.

Mike said calmly, “In fighting me, you fight yourself… for Thou art God and I am God… and all that groks is God—there is no other.”

More rocks hit him, from various directions; he began to bleed in several places. “Hear the Truth. You need not hate, you need not fight, you need not fear. I offer you the water of life—” Suddenly his hand held a tumbler of water, sparkling in the sunlight. “—and you may share it whenever you so will… and walk in peace and love and happiness together.”

A rock caught the glass and shattered it. Another struck him in the mouth.

Through bruised and bleeding lips he smiled at them, looking straight into the camera with an expression of yearning tenderness on his face. Some trick of sunlight and stereo formed a golden halo back of his head. “Oh my brothers, I love you so! Drink deep. Share and grow closer without end. Thou art God.”

Jubal whispered it back to him. The scene made a five-second cut:

“Cahuenga Cave! The night club with real Los Angeles smog, imported fresh every day. Six exotic dancers.”

“Lynch him! Give the bastard a nigger necktie!” A heavy-gauge shotgun blasted at close range and Mike’s right arm was struck off at the elbow and fell. It floated gently down, then came to rest on the cool grasses, its hand curved open in invitation.

“Give him the other barrel, Shortie—and aim closer!” The crowd laughed and applauded. A brick smashed Mike’s nose and more rocks gave him a crown of blood.

“The Truth is simple but the Way of Man is hard. First you must learn to control yourself. The rest follows. Blessed is he who knows himself and commands himself, for the world is his and love and happiness and peace walk with him wherever he goes.” Another shotgun blast was followed by two more shots. One shot, a forty-five slug, hit Mike over the heart, shattering the sixth rib near the sternum and making a large wound; the buckshot and the other slug sheered through his left tibia five inches below the patella and left the fibula sticking out at an angle, broken and white against the yellow and red of the wound.

Mike staggered slightly and laughed, went on talking, his words clear and unhurried. “Thou art God. Know that and the Way is opened.”

“God damn it—let’s stop this taking the Name of the Lord in vain!”—“Come on, men! Let’s finish him!” The mob surged forward, led by one bold with a club; they were on him with rocks and fists, and then with feet as he went down. He went on talking while they kicked his ribs in and smashed his golden body, broke his bones and tore an ear loose. At last someone called out, “Back away a little so we can get the gasoline on him!”

The mob opened up a little at that warning and the camera zoomed to pick up his face and shoulders. The Man from Mars smiled at his brothers, said once more, softly and clearly, “I love you.” An incautious grasshopper came whirring to a landing on the grass a few inches from his face; Mike turned his head, looked at it as it stared back at him. “Thou art God,” he said happily and discorporated.

XXXVIII

FLAME AND BILLOWING SMOKE came up and filled the tank. “Golly!” Patty said reverently. “That’s the best blow-off ever used.”

“Yes,” agreed Becky judicially, “the Professor himself never dreamed up a better one.”

Van Tromp said very quietly, apparently to himself: “In style. Smart and with style—the lad finished in style.”

Jubal looked around at his brothers. Was he the only one who felt anything? Jill and Dawn were seated each with an arm around the other—but they did that whenever they were together; neither one seemed disturbed. Even Dorcas was dry-eyed and calm.

The inferno in the tank cut to smiling Happy Holiday who said, “And now, folks, a few moments for our friends at Elysian Fields who so graciously gave up their—” Patty cut him off.

“Anne and Duke are on their way back up,” she said. “I’ll let them through the foyer and then we’ll have lunch.” She started to leave.