Stranger in a Strange Land

“I don’t care where he is. Get him! If you don’t know Gil Berquist personally, ask your boss. Mr. Gilbert Berquist, personal assistant to Mr. Douglas. If you’ve been around the Palace more than two weeks you’ve at least seen Mr. Berquist at a distance—thirty-five years old, about six feet and a hundred and eighty pounds, sandy hair a little thin on top, smiles a lot and has perfect teeth. You’ve seen him. If you don’t dare disturb him yourself, dump it in your boss’s lap. But quit biting your nails and do something. I’m getting annoyed.”

Without expression the young man said, “Please hold on. I will enquire.”

“I certainly will hold on. Get me Gil.” The image in the phone was replaced by a moving abstract pattern; a pleasant female voice recorded, said, “Please wait while your call is completed. This delay is not being charged to your account. Please relax while—” Soothing music came up and covered the voice; Jubal sat back and looked around. Anne was waiting, reading, and safely out of the telephone’s vision angle. On his other side the Man from Mars was also out of the telephone’s sight pickup and was watching images in stereovision and listening via ear plugs.

Jubal reflected that he must remember to have that obscene babble box placed in the basement where it belonged, once this emergency was over. “What you got, son?” he asked, leaned over and turned on the speaker to low gain.

Mike answered, “I don’t know, Jubal.”

The sound confirmed what Jubal had suspected from his glance at the image: Smith was listening to a broadcast of a Fosterite service. The imaged Shepherd was not preaching but seemed to be reading church notices: “—junior Spirit-in-Action team will give a practice demonstration before the supper, so come early and see the fur fly! Our team coach, Brother Hornsby, has asked me to tell you boys on the team to fetch only your helmets, gloves, and sticks—we aren’t going after sinners this time. However, the Little Cherubim will be on hand with their first-aid kits in case of excessive zeal.” The Shepherd paused and smiled broadly, “And now wonderful news, My Children! A message from the Angel Ramzai for Brother Arthur Renwick and his good wife Dorothy. Your prayer has been approved and you will go to heaven at dawn Thursday morning! Stand up, Art! Stand up, Dottie! Take a bow!”

The camera angle made a reverse cut, showing the congregation and centering on Brother and Sister Renwick. To wild applause and shouts of “Hallelujah!” Brother Renwick was responding with a boxer’s handshake over his head, while his wife blushed and smiled and dabbed at her eyes beside him.

The camera cut back as the Shepherd held up his hand for silence. He went on briskly, “The Bon Voyage party for the Renwicks will start promptly at midnight and the doors will be locked at that time—so get here early and let’s make this the happiest revelry our flock has ever seen, for we’re all proud of Art and Dottie. Funeral services will be held thirty minutes after dawn, with breakfast immediately following for the benefit of those who have to get to work early.” The Shepherd suddenly looked very stern and the camera panned in until his head filled the tank. “After our last Bon Voyage, the Sexton found an empty pint bottle in one of the Happiness rooms… of a brand distilled by sinners. That’s past and done, as the brother who slipped has confessed and paid penance sevenfold, even refusing the usual cash discount—I’m sure he won’t backslide. But stop and think, My Children—is it worth risking eternal happiness to save a few pennies on an article of worldly merchandise? Always look for that happy, holy seal-of-approval with Bishop Digby’s smiling face on it. Don’t let a sinner palm off on you something ‘just as good.’ Our sponsors support us; they deserve your support. Brother Art, I’m sorry to have to bring up such a subject—”

“That’s okay, Shepherd! Pour it on!”

“—at a time of such great happiness. But we must never forget that—” Jubal reached over and switched off the speaker circuit.

“Mike, that’s not anything you need to see.”

“Not?”

“Uh—” Jubal thought about it. Shucks, the boy was going to have to learn about such things sooner or later. “All right, go ahead. But come talk to me about it later.”

“Yes, Jubal.”

Harshaw was about to add some advice intended to offset Mike’s tendency to take literally anything he saw or heard. But the telephone’s soothing “hold” music suddenly went down and out, and the screen filled with an image—a man in his forties whom Jubal at once labeled in his mind as “cop.”

Jubal said aggressively, “You aren’t Gil Berquist.”

The man said, “What is your interest in Gilbert Berquist?”

Jubal answered with pained patience, “I wish to speak to him. See here, my good man, are you a public employee?”

The man barely hesitated. “Yes. You must—”