Kate Wilhelm - Let the Fire Fall

Obie turned very red. Where his hair was thinning on top, his scalp showed through, cherry bright. “You think I don’t have the same kind of stuff on you?”

“I know what you got. So we’d all go together. Forget it, Obie. We’ve got things to decide.” Obie glared at him, but he sat back again and the chair shook him gently. “First, you go ahead with the Son of God routine that you started. I’m putting everyone I have on this. We’ll find him, and by the end of next year we’ll be ready for the resurrection, just like we planned. Tell your writers to bear down on that.”

“No,” Obie said firmly. “Not unless we have him in our hands. Too risky.”

“Listen, you fool,” Merton said. “We need him now. I got a ringer for him. With the gas, and the buildup, they’ll accept it. For the climax, we’ll have him. Leave it to me.”

“Let me see the ringer first.”

Merton had the boy brought in. He did look like Blake. Fair, with intense eyes, good build. But he was incredibly stupid. Which probably was a good thing. He would follow any orders that he could remember. Obie grunted and the boy was led away.

“He’s an idiot!”

“So what? You want him to sit on the stage and look at them. That’s all. You do the rest anyway.”

The buildup started. Blake would appear henceforth along with Obie; the God-given healing powers had been restored in full. Bring forth the halt and the lame, bring the blind and the dumb, bring you small ones whose bodies are twisted, your old One whose legs stumble and falter. Bring them all. Let Obie and His Son heal. them, with the power and the strength and the might of God that abides in them.

The next show was scheduled for Miami, a tough city, filled with money men and bought women and hedonists of all ages and bents. If Obie and the ringer got through to them, anything was possible.

The billboards read: They give you water where there was none. Power where there was no power. Wine where there was no wine. Health where health has failed. Come feel the power of God that shines forth through Obie Cox and his son Blake.

The auditorium seated two hundred thousand, and it was filled. The MM’s were out in full force, most of them in plainclothes, all of them armed and alert for the Barbers, and for Blake Daniels.

Obie glowed and was beautiful, his beard gleamed, with peroxide and a luminous dye, and his eyes shone with the power of God. He paced in his dressing room smoking furiously, waiting for Merton’s report that all was clear. Billy chewed on a fingernail and looked fat. Dee Dee in her white robe was lovely, but she, like Obie, was smoking hard.

“I wish you hadn’t let him talk you into this,” Billy said, spitting out a bit of his thumbnail. “It isn’t going to take many of those scenes like Chicago to make a fool out of you. If those kids show up with their voice distorter and their scissors…”

“If Merton bitches this one,” Obie muttered, “I have just the guys for him. They have orders….”

Dee Dee gasped. “You’re kidding!”

“You too, if you think it’s time to take sides,” Obie said.

Dee Dee shrugged. If she had to take sides, she would stand pat. Obie knew that. Merton without Obie was just another ex-F.B.I. man.

Merton came in then, looking satisfied and very matter of fact. “Time,” he said. “I gave the word to get started.”

“You’re sure about the audience?”

“Absolutely. We used the scanners on everyone who came in, no electronic devices, no scissors, nothing. We had to take a hundred seventy-four aside and escort them back out, but they weren’t Barbers. Blackjacks and knives and a few stun guns. That’s all.” The sound of the choir drifted in. They were very good, three hundred voices, each girl good enough to solo.

“The kid? Is he set?”

“He knows what he’s supposed to do. As long as he doesn’t have to speak, he’ll be fine. Calm down Obie. This one is fixed down the line.”

Billy. turned on the 3D and they saw the choir, miniaturized, but there in the room with them. A camera did a slow sweep of the audience, and again they were there, seeing the individuals in person. Dee Dee stubbed out her cigarette, and left for her solo. Billy waddled out, still unhappy, to watch from behind stage and to take charge of the money when it came in. Presently it was rime for Obie to go on. Obie straightened his shoulders and left Merton alone in the dressing room. Only then did Merton allow some of the worry he was feeling to show on his face. He drank a quick scotch and water, then concentrated on the 3D. It was going out all over the world; everywhere people were watching to see if the Barbers would break up yet another of the rallies held by Obie. Riots, fires, National Guards had repaid their diligence the last three times Brother Cox had held open revivals, and they were hopeful that this would be as exciting. Obie had been forced to go to closed meetings with only the broadcasts to take the message to the people, and it had cost him; at the rate of half a million dollars a meeting, it had cost him. Now they would regain lost ground. But Merton worried.

The lights went out slowly, the flickering tapers relieving the dark very little, and when the spot came on, Obie was there, looking handsome and very sure of himself. He could feel the excitement from the crowds, and their fear of being caught up in something that could get dangerous. Obie prayed, getting the full feeling of his audience, and when the prayer was over the collection was taken. Billy managed that part of it. He would be jubilant; there were many bills of credit, many dollars, the jingle of coins. Obie had the feel now: he knew what he would preach. He never really knew until he felt with the audience. Actually what he said didn’t vary all that much, but his delivery did, and tonight he would be happy, hopeful, excited. This was the beginning of the end. The power of God had been contested and had not been found wanting. The forces of evil had been driven out once more. God was triumphant. Obie Cox was triumphant. The hallelujah chorus started and Blake’s stand-in came forward. For a second Obie’s stomach churned; the kid looked legitimate as hell. Blake had always come out reluctantly, closed in on himself somehow. The boy took his seat and Obie started:

“God gave us this boy so that His power could be shown here on Earth. And God said, ‘I shall reveal many things through this boy, and when the time comes, I shall take him to My bosom that man might know that I have put My Mark on him.’ And to this boy God revealed many things: how to restore sight to eyes grown dim; how to put strength in limbs twisted and weak; how to bring well-being to bodies suffering and pained; how to bring peace of mind to man. And when this house, Earth, is in order, then will God return this boy to his home in heaven and man will be ready to meet the strangers and to overcome them….”

The trouble with charisma, one of the problems of making it understandable, is that on paper it is so flat, while in the flesh it sings and dances and draws and compels. Obie Cox had that charisma. He was insincere, he was crafty, he was a cheat, a liar, a clown according to some of those who had seen through him, but he had charisma. He could say A-B-C and make his audience love it. He could recite nursery rhymes and they would go away thinking they had heard great poetry. He had the gift. He held the audience of two hundred thousand.

Obie fed them, nourished them, structured their fears and their anxieties for them; he buoyed them to the heavens and then took away the props and replaced them with conditions, First they had to eradicate the menace to mankind: the forces of evil among them, the short hairs who threatened mankind by not believing in the message of the Voice of God. There would then be room enough, food enough, hope enough. But only after Armageddon.