Mike was beginning to realize that, while water brothers spoke rightly, sometimes they spoke more rightly than others. He consulted Anne.
«She has to tell you that, dear, but you give her a present anyhow. Hmm…» Anne selected one which puzzled him — Jill already smelled the way Jill should smell.
When the present arrived, its size and apparent unimpor tance added to his misgivings — and when Anne had him whiff it before giving it to Jill, Mike was more in doubt than ever; the odor was very strong and not at all like Jill.
Jill was delighted with the perfume and insisted on kissing him at once. In kissing her he grokked that this gift was what she wanted and that it made them grow closer.
When she wore it at dinner that night, he discovered that in some unclear fashion it made Jill smell more deliciously Jill than ever. Still stranger, it caused Dorcas to kiss him and whisper, «Mike hon … the negligee is just lovely — but perhaps someday you'll give
Mike could not grok why Dorcas would want it; Dorcas did not smell like Jill, so perfume would not be proper for her… nor would he
Jubal interrupted: «Quit nuzzling the lad and let him eat! Dorcas, you reek like a Marseilles cat house; don't wheedle Mike for more stinkum.»
«Boss, mind your own business.»
It was puzzling — that Jill could smell still more like Jill… but Dorcas should wish to smell like Jill when she smelled like herself… that Jubal would say that Dorcas smelled like a cat. There was a cat on the place (not a pet, but co-owner); on occasion it came to the house and deigned to accept a handout. The cat and Mike grokked each other; Mike found its carniverous thoughts most pleasing and quite Martian. He discovered that the cat's name (Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche) was not the cat's name, but he had not told anyone because he could not pronounce the cat's real name; he could only hear it in his head.
The cat did not smell like Dorcas.
Giving presents was a great goodness and taught Mike the true value of money. But he did not forget other things he was eager to grok. Jubal put off Senator Boone twice without mentioning it and Mike did not notice; his grasp of time made «next Sunday» no particular date. But the next invitation came addressed to Mike; Boone was under pressure from Supreme Bishop Digby and sensed that Harshaw was stalling.
Mike took it to Jubal. «Well?» Jubal growled. «Do you want to go? You don't have to. We can tell 'em to go to hell.»
A Checker Cab with a human pilot (Harshaw refused to trust a robocab) called next Sunday morning to deliver Mike, Jill, and Jubal to the Archangel Foster Tabernacle of the Church of the New Revelation.
XXIII
ALL THE way to church Jubal was trying to warn Mike — of what, Mike was not certain. He listened — but the landscape tugged for attention; he compromised by storing what Jubal said. «Look, boy,» Jubal admonished, «these Fosterites are after your money. And the prestige of having the Man from Mars join their church. They'll work on you — you'll have to be firm.»
«Beg pardon?»
«Damn it, you're not listening.»
«I am sorry, Jubal.»
«Well … look at it this way. Religion is a solace to many and it is conceivable that some religion, somewhere, is Ultimate Truth. But being religious is often a form of conceit. The faith in which I was brought up assured me that I was better than other people; I was “saved”, they were “damned” — we were in a state of grace and the rest were “heathens”. By “heathen” they meant such as our brother Mahmoud. Ignorant louts who seldom bathed and planted corn by the Moon claimed to know the final answers of the Universe. That entitled them to look down on outsiders. Our hymns were loaded with arrogance — self-congratulation on how cozy we were with the Almighty and what a high opinion he had of us, what hell everybody else would catch some Judgment Day. We peddled the only authentic brand of Lydia Pinkham's — »
«Jubal!» Jill protested. «He doesn't grok it.»
«Uh? Sorry. My folks tried to make a preacher of me; I guess it shows.»
«It does.»
«Don't scoff, girl. I would have made a good one if I hadn't fallen into the fatal folly of reading. With a touch more confidence and a liberal helping of ignorance I would have been a famous evangelist. Shucks, this place we're headed for would be known as “Archangel Jubal Tabernacle”. »
Jill shuddered. «Jubal, please! Not so soon after breakfast.»
«I mean it. A confidence man knows he's lying; that limits his scope. But a successful shaman believes what he says — and belief is contagious; there is no limit to his scope. But I lacked the necessary confidence in my own infallibility; I could never become a prophet… just a critic — a sort of fourth-rate prophet with delusions of gender.» Jubal frowned. «That's what worries me about Fosterites, Jill. I think they are sincere. Mike is a sucker for sincerity.»
«What do you think they'll try to do?»
«Convert him. Then get their hands on his fortune.»
«I thought you had things fixed so that nobody could?»
«No, just so that nobody can grab it against his will. Ordinarily he couldn't give it away without the government stepping in. But giving it to a politically powerful church is another matter.»
«I don't see why.»
Jubal scowled. «My dear, religion is a null area in the law. A church can do anything any organization can do — and has no restrictions. It pays no taxes, need not publish records, is effectively immune to search, inspection, or control — and a church is
«Oh, dear! I thought we had him safe at last.»
«There is no safety this side of the grave.»
«Well … what are you going to do, Jubal?»
«Nothing. Just fret.»
Mike stored their conversation without trying to grok it. He recognized the subject as one of utter simplicity in his own language but amazingly slippery in English. Since his failure to achieve mutual grokking even with his brother Mahmoud, through imperfect translation of the all-embracing Martian concept as: «Thou art God,» he had waited. Waiting would fructify at its time; his brother Jill was learning his language and he would explain it to her. They would grok together.
Senator Boone met them at the Tabernacle's landing flat. «Howdy, folks! May the Good Lord bless you this beautiful Sabbath. Mr. Smith, I'm happy to see you again. And you, too, Doctor.» He took his cigar out of his mouth and looked at Jill. «And this little lady — didn't I see you at the Palace?»
«Yes, Senator. I'm Gillian Boardman.»
«Thought so, m'dear. Are you saved?»
«Uh, I guess not, Senator.»
«It's never too late. We'll be happy to have you attend seekers' service in the Outer Tabernacle — I'll find a Guardian to guide you. Mr. Smith and the Doc will be going into the Sanctuary.»
«Senator — »
