His Happy Destiny
XXXIV
FOSTER LOOKED UP FROM WORK IN PROGRESS. «Junior!»
«Sir?»
«That youngster you wanted — he's available now. The Martians have released him.»
Digby looked puzzled. «I'm sorry. There was some young creature toward whom I have a duty?»
Foster smiled angelically. Miracles were
«Sir?»
«Call me “Fos”, please — ceremony is all right in the field but we don't need it in the studio. And remind me not to call you “Junior” — you made a very nice record on that temporary duty assignment. Which name do
His assistant blinked. «I have another name?»
«Thousands. Do you have a preference?»
«Why, I really don't recall at this eon.»
«Well… would you like to be called/“Digby”?»
«Uh, yes. That's a very nice name. Thanks.»
«Don't thank me. You earned it.» Archangel Foster turned back to his work, not forgetting the minor duty he had assumed. Briefly he considered how this cup might be taken from little Patricia — then chided himself for such unprofessional, almost human, thought. Mercy was not possible in an angel; angelic compassion left no room for it.
The Martian Old Ones had reached an elegant trial solution to their major esthetic problem and put it aside for a few filled-threes to let it generate new problems. At which time, unhurriedly and almost absentmindedly, the alien nestling which they had returned to his proper world was tapped of what he had learned of his people and dropped, after cherishing, since he was of no further interest to their purposes.
They took the data he had accumulated and, with a view to testing that trial solution, began to work toward considering an inquiry leading to an investigation of esthetic parameters involved in the possibility of the artistic necessity of destroying Earth. But much waiting would be, before fullness would grok decision.
The Daibutsu at Kamakura was again washed by a giant wave secondary to a seismic disturbance 280 kilometers off Honshu. The wave killed 13,000 people and lodged a male infant high in the Buddha image's interior, where it was found and succored by surviving monks. This infant lived ninety-seven Terran years after the disaster that wiped out his family and produced no progeny nor anything of note aside from a reputation for sustained belching. Cynthia Duchess entered a nunnery with all benefits of modern publicity and left without fanfare three days later. Ex-Secretary General Douglas suffered a stroke which impaired the use of his left hand but not his ability to conserve assets entrusted to him. Lunar Enterprises, Ltd., published a prospectus on a bond issue for the wholly-owned subsidiary Ares Chandler Corporation. The Lyle-Drive Exploratory Vessel
Bishop Oxtongue, at the New Grand Avenue Temple, preached on the text (Matt. XXIV:24): «For there shall arise false Christs, and false prophets, and shall shew great signs and wonders; insomuch that, if it were possible, they shall deceive the very elect.» He made clear that his diatribe did not refer to Mormons, Christian Scientists, Roman Catholics, nor Fosterites — especially not the last — nor to any fellow travelers whose good works counted more than inconsequential differences in creed or ritual … but solely to upstart heretics who were seducing faithful contributors away from the faiths of their fathers. In a subtropical resort city in the same nation three complainants swore on information charging public lewdness on the part of a pastor, three of his assistants, and John Doe, Mary Roe, et al., plus charges of running a disorderly house and contributing to delinquency of minors. The county attorney had no interest in prosecuting as he had on file a dozen like it — complaining witnesses always failed to appear at arraignment.
He pointed this out. Their spokesman said, «You'll have plenty of backing this time. Supreme Bishop Short is determined that this antichrist shall flourish no longer.»
The prosecutor was not interested in antichrists — but there was a primary coming up. «Well, just remember I can't do much without backing.»
«You'll have it.»
Dr. Jubal Harshaw was not aware of this incident but knew of too many others for peace of mind. He had succumbed to that most insidious vice, the news. Thus far he had merely subscribed to a clipping service instructed for «Man from Mars,» «V. M. Smith,» «Church of All Worlds,» and «Ben Caxton.» But the monkey was on his back — twice lately he fought off an impulse to order Larry to set up the babble box.
Damn it, why couldn't those kids tape him an occasional letter? — instead of letting him worry.«
Anne came in but he continued to stare out at snow and an empty swimming pool. «Anne,» he said, «rent us a tropical atoll and put this mausoleum up for sale.»
«Yes, Boss.»
«But get a lease before you hand this back to the Indians; I will not put up with hotels. How long has it been since I wrote pay copy?»
«Forty-three days.»
«Let that be a lesson to you. Begin “Death Song of a Wood's Colt”.
«There,» he added briskly, «sign it “Louisa M. Alcott” and send it to
«Boss, is that your idea of “pay copy”?»
«Huh? It will be worth something later; put it on file and my literary executor can use it to help settle death duties. That's the catch in artistic pursuits; the best work is worth most after the workman can't be paid. The literary life —
«Poor Jubal! Nobody ever feels sorry for him, so he has to feel sorry for himself.»
«Sarcasm yet. No wonder I don't get any work done.»
