Ah no. Quite.
Brother Robbins sat down again. Glasp stood there, looking sulky and out of place. Brother Robbins suddenly caught his eye, and said:
And I've heard you are too, Mr Gasp.
Glasp.
Ah… I beg your pardon. You paint, don't you?
Yes.
Miss Quincey said: Will you both have tea?
Er… no thanks, Sorme said. Not for me.
Nor me, Glasp said.
Sorme followed her into the kitchen. He said:
I think we'd better go…
All right. But stay a few minutes. You don't want poor Brother Robbins to think he has the plague.
All right.
Won't you have some tea?
We've been drinking beer.
Oh… I'm afraid I can't offer you beer. Not while Brother Robbins is here.
Would he disapprove?
Miss Quincey hesitated; she said:
Perhaps he wouldn't. I don't know. Do you want beer?
Sorme's inclination was to refuse; she had phrased the question in a way that made it difficult to accept. This irritated him, striking him as a challenge. He said:
I'd prefer it to tea.
Then perhaps you'd ask Oliver if he'd like beer.
Glasp was scowling at the carpet as he came in. Sorme said:
Gertrude says there's some beer if you'd prefer it.
Glasp shook his head.
No? I'm having beer.
He looked at Brother Robbins, and asked politely:
I hope you don't object.
Brother Robbins seemed to accept the question as natural, as if he was an old lady in a railway carriage being asked if she minds cigar smoke. He said genially:
Oh, not at all. Not in the least.
For you, Oliver?
Glasp said, with a bad grace: OK.
Sorme returned in a few moments with two lager glasses of light ale, ice-cold from the refrigerator. He was thirsty after the walk up the hill, and drank as much as he could before his throat froze. Brother Robbins asked:
Do you two drink a lot?
Sorme sensed that Glasp was about to make a rude retort. He said hastily:
No, not a lot. We don't get together very often. Do you drink?
No. But not because I disapprove of it. I just don't like the taste.
Something in his manner stung Sorme to irritation. Brother Robbins was speaking with the elaborate courtesy of a prison visitor: he managed to imply that beer drinking was a particularly squalid vice which he was too broad minded to condemn. Sorme emptied his glass defiantly and went into the kitchen for another bottle. Miss Quincey said, with a sort of horror:
You've drunk that already?
I was thirsty. May I?
He helped himself from the refrigerator. When he turned round, he met a worried and reproachful look; she seemed to suspect that he intended to start a drunken brawl. He said pointedly:
We'll go in a minute.
Oh no! Don't think that! I just don't want… Stay as long as you like.
Thanks.
He went back, taking the bottle.
Glasp was answering some question in an indistinguishable mumble. Brother Robbins looked relieved to see Sorme again. He said:
Let me see — you were a Roman Catholic, weren't you?
No.
Church of England?
No. I'm an existentialist.
Yes? But er… I meant… religion.
I know. That's what I meant.
Oh. I don't think I've come across that sect. Is it a new one?
Not really.
Who was the founder?
A Dane named Kierkegaard.
And do they believe in the redeeming power of Jesus Christ?
Kierkegaard did, certainly.
Ah, but did he also believe in Luther's justification by faith?
Oh no! He always attacked the established Church. He thought men ought to live like Christ instead of relying on the Church…
Good! Then he was on the right path! The trouble with most people today is that they don't realise the importance of obeying the laws of God. They think it's enough just to accept them. They don't seem to realise that the Bible has given us a strict code of conduct to cover every aspect of our lives.
Sorme nodded ponderously. His silence seemed to encourage Brother Robbins; he leaned forward, and switched on his Dale Carnegie smile again.
You ought to come to our Bible classes. I'm sure you'd enjoy them.
I'm sure I would, Sorme said insincerely.
Abruptly, Glasp spoke; he was sitting up and glowering belligerently at Brother Robbins.
Is it true you people expect the end of the world any day now?
Brother Robbins turned to Glasp, and smiled winningly, as if Glasp had just paid him a compliment.
It is. Not, of course, any day. The Book of the Revelation indicates that it will be within the next thirty years.
And that everyone in the world will be destroyed except the Jehovah's Witnesses?
The Bible tells us so.
Glasp gave a contemptuous grunt and relaxed into his chair. In spite of his dislike of Brother Robbins, Sorme immediately reacted in his favour. He said quickly:
Is all this in the Bible?
Certainly it is. The evidence is quite plain. The Bible says that the devil came down to earth in 1914, and that from that day forward, the world has belonged to him. And can you doubt it when you look around at the world? The threat of war everywhere, crime and evil reaching a new high level. Look at these murders in the East End. Look at what the Russians are doing in Hungary. Look at the H-bomb tests. The world has gone mad, because it belongs to the devil now. That is why the flock of Christ is persecuted. It is all just as the Bible predicted. The Apocalypse of St John makes it quite plain. It predicts that men will try to improve things, but it is too late. 'And he opened the pit of the abyss, and a smoke ascended out of the pit as the smoke of a great furnace, and the sun and the air were darkened by the smoke of the pit.'
He leaned forward to declaim the quotation. When he raised it to intone, his voice had a foghorn quality; it reminded Sorme of one of his uncles who used to recite 'The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck' at Christmas parties. Before he could comment, Brother Robbins had swept on:
