in the wooden lap of their wooden idol and stab him in the heart. If he does not talk them out of him, the next missionary will.
'It was true, on Earth, that the blood of martyrs is the seed of the church. It is even truer here. If you kill a man to shut his mouth, he pops up some place elsewhere along The River. And a man who has been martyred a hundred thousand miles away comes along to replace the previous martyr. The Church will win out in the end. They men will cease these useless, hate generating wars and begin the real business, the only worthwhile business, that of gaining salvation.'
'What you say about the martyrs is true about anyone with an idea,' Burton said. 'A wicked man who’s killed also pops up to commit his evil elsewhere.'
'Good will prevail; the truth always wins out,' Collop said.
'I don’t know how restricted your mobility was on Earth or how long your life,' Burton said, 'but both must have been very limited to make you so blind. I know better.'
Collop said, 'The Church is not founded on faith alone. It has something very factual, very substantial, on which to base its teachings. Tell me, my friend, Abdul, have you ever heard of anybody being resurrected dead?'
'A paradox!' Burton cried. 'What do you mean resurrected dead?'
'There are at least three authenticated cases and four more of which the Church has heard but has not been able to validate. These are men and women who were killed at one place on The River and translated to another. Strangely, their bodies were recreated, but they were without the spark of life. Now, why was this?'
'I can’t imagine!' Burton said. 'You tell me. I listen, for you speak as one with authority.' He could imagine, since he had heard the same story elsewhere. But he wanted to learn if Collop’s story thatched the others. It was the same, even to the names of the dead lazari. The story was that these men and women had been identified by those who had known them well on Earth. They were all saintly or near-saintly people; in fact, one of them had been canonized on Earth. The theory was that they had attained that state of sanctity, which made it no longer necessary to go through the 'purgatory' of the Riverplanet. Their souls had gone on to… someplace … and left the excess baggage of their physical bodies behind.
Soon, so the Church said, more would reach this state. And their bodies would be left behind. Eventually, given enough time, the Rivervalley would become depopulated. All would have shed themselves of their visciousnesses and hates and would have become illuminated with the love of mankind and of God. Even the most depraved, those who seemed to be utterly lost, would be able to abandon their physical beings. All that was needed to attain this grace was love.
Burton sighed, laughed loudly, and said, 'Plus ca change, plus dear la meme chose. Another fairy tale to give men hope. The old religions have been discredited — although some refuse to face even that fact — so new ones must be invented.'
'It makes sense,' Collop said. 'Do you have a better explanation of why we’re here?'
'Perhaps. I can make up fairy tales, too.' As a matter of fact, Burton did have an explanation. However, he could not tell it to Collop. Spruce had told Burton something of the identity, history, and purpose of his group, the Ethicals. Much of what he had said agreed with Collop’s theology.
Spruce had killed himself before he had explained about the 'soul.' Presumably, the 'soul' had to be part of the total organization of resurrection. Otherwise, when the body had attained 'salvation,' and no longer lived, there would be nothing to carry on the essential part of a man. Since the post-Terrestrial life could be explained in physical terms, the 'soul' must also be a physical entity, not to be dismissed with the term 'supernatural' as it had been on Earth.
There was much that Burton did not know. But he had had a glimpse into the workings of this Riverplanet that no other human being possessed.
With the little knowledge he did have, he planned to lever his way into more, to pry open the lid, and crawl inside the sanctum. To do so, he would attain the Dark Tower. The only way to get there swiftly was to take The Suicide- Express. First, he must be discovered by an Ethical. Then he must overpower the Ethical, render him unable to kill himself, and somehow extricate more information from him.
Meanwhile, he continued to play the role of Abdul ibn Harun, translated and transplanted Egyptian physician of the nineteenth century, now a citizen of Bargawhwdzys. As such, he decided to join the Church of the Second Chance. He announced to Collop his disillusionment in Mahomet and his teachings, and so became Collop’s first convert its this area.
'Then you must swear not to take arms against any man nor to defend yourself physically, my dear friend,' Collop said.
Burton, outraged, said that he would allow no man to strike at him and go unharmed.
'Tis not unnatural,' Collop said gently. 'Contrary to habit, yes. But a than may become something other than he has been, something better — if he has the strength of will and the desire.' Burton rapped out a violent no and stalked away. Collop shook his head sadly, but he continued to be as friendly as ever. Not without a sense of humor, he sometimes addressed Burton as his 'five-minute convert,' not meaning the time it took to bring him into the fold but the time it took Burton to leave the fold.
At this time, Collop got his second convert, Goring. The German had had nothing but sneers and jibes for Collop. Then he began chewing dreamgum again, and the nightmares started.
For two nights he kept Collop and Burton awake with his groanings his tossings, his screams. On the evening of the third day, he asked Collop if he would accept him into the Church. However he had to make a confession. Collop must understand what sort of person he had been, both on Earth and on this planet.
Collop heard out the mixture of self-abasement and self-aggrandizement. Then he said, 'Friend, I care not what you may have been. Only what you are and what you will be. I listened only because confession is good for the soul I can see that you are deeply troubled, that you have suffered sorrow and grief for what you have done, yet take some pleasure in what you once were, a mighty figure among men. Much of what you told me I do not comprehend, because I know not much about your era. Nor does it matter. Only today and tomorrow need to be our concern, each day will take care of itself.'
It seemed to Burton not that Collop did not care what Goring had been but that he did not believe his story of Earthly glory and infamy. There were so many phonies that genuine heroes, or villains, had been depreciated.
Thus, Burton had met three Jesus Christs, two Abrahams, four King Richard the LionHearts, six Attilas, a dozen Judases (only one of whom could speak Aramaic), a George Washington, two Lord Byrons, three Jesse James’s, any number of Napoleons, a General Custer (who spoke with a heavy Yorkshire accent), a Finn MacCool (who did not know ancient Irish), a Tchaka (who spoke the wrong Zulu dialect), and a number of others who might or might not have been what they claimed to be.
Whatever a man had been on Earth, he had to reestablish himself here. This was not easy, because conditions were radically altered. The greats and the importants of Terra were constantly being humiliated in their claims and denied a chance to prove their identities.
To Collop, the humiliation was a blessing. First, humiliation, then humility, he would have said. And then comes humanity as a matter of course.
Goring had been trapped in the Great Design — as Burton termed it — because it was his nature to overindulge, especially with drugs. Knowing that the dreamgum was uprooting the dark things in his personal abyss, was spewing them up into the light, -that he was being tom apart, fragmented, he still continued to chew as much as he could get. For a while, temporarily made healthful again with a new resurrection, he had been able to deny the call of the drug. But a few weeks after his arrival is this area, he had succumbed, and now the night was ripped apart with his shrieks of 'Hermann Goring I hate you!'
'If this continues,' Burton said to Collop, 'he will go mad or he will kill himself again, or force someone to kill him, so that he can get away from himself. But the suicide will be useless, and it’s all to do over again. Tell me truly now, is this hell?'
'Purgatory, rather,' Collop said. 'Purgatory is hell with hope.’
24
Two months passed. Burton marked the days off on a pine stick notched with a flint knife. This was the fourteenth day of the seven month of 5 A.R., the fifth year After the Resurrection. Burton tried to keep a calendar, for he was, among many other things; a chronicler. But it was difficult. Time did not mean much, on The River. The planet had a polar axis that was always at ninety degrees to the ecliptic. There was no change of seasons, and the stars seemed to jostle each other and made identification of individual luminaries or of constellations impossible. So many and so bright were they that even the noonday sun at its zenith could not entirely dim the greatest of them. Like ghosts reluctant to retreat before daylight, they hovered in the burning air.
Nevertheless, man needs time as a fish needs water. If he does not have it, he will invent it; so to Burton, it was July 14, 5 A.R.
But Collop, like many, reckoned time as having continued from the year of his Terrestrial death. To him, it was A.D. 1667. He did not believe that his sweet Jesus had become sour. Rather, this River was the River Jordan; this valley, the vale beyond the shadow of death. He admitted that the afterlife was not that which he had expected. Yet it was evidence of the all-encompassing love of God for His creation. He had given all men, altogether undeserving of such a gift, another chance. If this world was not the New Jerusalem, it was a place prepared for its building. Here the bricks, which were the love of God, and the mortar, love for man, must be fashioned in this kiln and this mill: the planet of The River of The Valley.
Burton pooh-poohed the concept, but he could not help loving the little man. Collop was genuine; he was not stoking the furnace of his sweetness with leaves from a book or pages from a theology. He did not operate under forced draft. He burned with a flame that fed on his own being, and this being was love. Love even for the unlovable, the rarest and most difficult species of love.
He told Burton something of his Terrestrial life. He had been a doctor, a farmer, a liberal with unshakable faith in his religion, yet full of questions about his faith and the society of his time. He had written a plea for religious tolerance which had aroused both praise and damnation is his time. And he had been a poet, well-known for a short time, then forgotten.
Lord, let the faithless see
Miracles ceased, revive in me.
The leper cleansed, blind healed,
dead raised by Thee
'My lines may have died, but their truth has not,' he said to Burton. He waved his hand to indicate the hilts, The River, the mountains, the people. 'As you may see if you open your eyes and do not persist in this stubborn myth of yours that this is the handiwork of men like us.'
He continued, 'Or grant your premise. It still remains that these Ethicals are but doing the work of Their Creator!
'I like better those other lines of yours,' Burton said.
Dull soul aspire;
Thou art not the Earth.
