The Jehovah Contract

I let out an impatient sigh. 'Bridget,' I said, 'can't you see that the lady is asking you to help us?'

She nodded, avoiding either of our gazes. Something stiffened in her spine.

'That a man should ask...' She looked up at me. Color returned to her face. 'That a man should even

think

to reject his patriarchal God.' She straightened.

In the corner of my vision, I saw Kasmira smiling, holding back tears.

'Mighty Isis, I'll

do

it! I won't refuse a request when it comes in such a manner.' The fire of life seemed to flow back into her veins as she looked heavenward. 'I've got nothing to fear from the likes of Him! My karma's safe. I love this life, and I'm ready for the next.' She looked me in the eye.

'All right, God-killer-just tell me when and where and what restaurant we'll go to afterward.'

'Blessed be,' I muttered, lighting up a cigarette and tossing the match into a cracked incense burner. I took a long drag and let it out. 'How do you like space flight?'

On December fifteenth, we threw the ad campaign into high gear. Kathleen had produced a slick, tight ten-second TV spot-short and to the point: blank screen for a couple of silent seconds, just to get everyone's attention. Then the familiar Crosshairs Over Jehovah would swell up on the screen, accompanied by an ominous drum roll and the announcer's voice-over.

'On the first day of the year two-thousand, God will die.'

We had it translated into scores of languages for worldwide transmission over the VideoSat network. That cost a bundle.

Hallelujah House, of course, was paying for everything. I was seriously beginning to think that the bank account was bottomless. Also, due to a stroke of genius on Kathleen's part, money was also pouring back into our coffers.

She showed up at my office one day with a paper bag (from some exclusive Rodeo Drive joint) filled with goodies.

'These,' she said, 'are selling like crazy.'

Every one of them had either our symbol or slogan or both on them. There were GodKiller baseball caps, pen sets, totebags, buttons. Bookcovers, backpacks, headbands, armbands, and decoder rings. She unrolled a length of adhesive logo stickers.

'They're Scratch-and-Sniff,' she said. 'Smells like rosemary.'

'Rosemary?'

'Well, I thought about blood, but we're trying to keep this upbeat, right?'

'Right,' I agreed.

She'd paid an up-and-coming band called TransUranic Metal to compose a tune called 'Nearer My God to Death.' Our symbol was depicted on the album sleeve and on the laserdisc itself. She played the cut for me. It sounded like hogs being vivisected during a nuclear war.

'The kids love it,' she shouted over the noise. 'It hit

Billboard

at seven with a bullet.'

They should have used the bullet on the band.

In the jarring silence that followed, she exhibited the remainder of the bag. Key chains, roach clips, rubber stamps, holograms, bubblegum, coffee mugs, posters. Pendants, embroidered patches, postcards.

'They're the hottest things on the market. Especially in the twelveto-twenty-four bracket. Having your parents impound your cache of GodKiller Candy is a real status symbol.'

'So it's popular. What about backlash?'

Kathleen shrugged, her long chestnut hair flowing around the shoulders of her rust-hued tunic. 'Nothing to worry