Robert Heinlein - Stranger in a Strange Land

Presently she had more snakes and they were quite a comfort to her. But she was the daughter of an Ulster Protestant and a girl from Cork; the armed truce between her parents had left her with no religion.

She was already a “seeker” when Foster preached in San Pedro; she had managed to get George to go a few Sundays but he had not yet seen the light.

Foster brought them the light, they made their confessions the same day. When Foster returned six months later for a quick check on how his branch was doing, the Paiwonskis were so dedicated that he gave them personal attention.

“I never had a minute’s trouble with George from the day he saw the holy light,” she told Mike and Jill—“Of course, he still drank… but he drank in church and never too much. When our holy leader returned, George had already started his Great Project. Naturally we wanted to show it to Foster, if he could find time—” Mrs. Paiwonski hesitated. “Kids, I really ought not to be telling you any of this.”

“Then don’t,” Jill said emphatically “Patty darling, neither of us want you ever to do or say anything you don’t feel easy about. ‘Sharing water’ has to be easy and natural… and waiting until it comes easy for you is easy for us.”

“Uh… but I do want to share it. Look, darlings, I trust you both utterly. But I just want you to remember that this is Church things I’m telling you, so you mustn’t ever tell anyone… just as I wouldn’t tell anything about you.”

Mike nodded. “Here on Earth we sometimes call it ‘water brother’ business. On Mars there’s no problem… but here I grok that there sometimes is. ‘Water brother’ business you don’t repeat.”

“I… I ‘grok.’ That’s a funny word, but I’m learning it. All right, darlings, this is ‘water brother’ business. Did you know that all Fosterites are tattooed? Real Church members I mean, the ones who are eternally saved forever and ever and a day—like me? Oh, I don’t mean tattooed all over, the way I am, but—look, see that? Right over my heart… see? That’s Foster’s holy kiss. George worked it into the design so that it looks like part of the picture it’s in… so that nobody could guess unless I told ’em. But it’s his kiss—and Foster put it there hisself!” She looked ecstatically proud.

They both examined it. “It is a kiss mark,” Jill said wonderingly. “Just like somebody had kissed you there wearing lipstick. But, until you showed us, I thought it was part of that sunset.”

“Yes, indeedy, that’s why George did it. Because you don’t go showing Foster’s kiss to anyone who doesn’t wear Foster’s kiss—and I never have, up to now. But,” she insisted, “I’m sure you’re going to wear one, both of you, someday—and when you do, I want to be the one to tattoo ’em on.”

Jill said, “I don’t quite understand, Patty. I can see that it’s wonderful for you to have been kissed by Foster—but how can he ever kiss us? After all, he’s up in Heaven.”

“Yes, dearie, he is. But let me explain. Any ordained priest or priestess can give you Foster’s kiss. It means God’s in your heart. God is part of you… forever.”

Mike was suddenly intent. “Thou art God!”

“Huh, Michael? Well, that is a strange way to say it—I’ve never heard a priest put it quite that way. But that does sort of express it… God is in you and of you and with you, and the Devil can’t ever get at you.”

“Yes,” agreed Mike. “You grok God.” He thought happily that this was nearer to putting the concept across than he had ever managed before except that Jill was learning it, in Martian. Which was inevitable.

“That’s the idea, Michael. God… groks you—and you are married in Holy Love and eternal Happiness to His Church. The priest, or maybe priestess—it can be either—kisses you and then the kiss mark is tattooed on to show that it’s forever. Of course it doesn’t have to be this big—mine is just exactly the size and shape of Foster’s blessed lips—and the kiss can be placed anywhere to shield from sinful eyes. Lots of men have a patch of skull shaved and then wear a hat or a bandage until the hair grows out. Or any spot where it’s blessed certain it won’t be seen unless you want it to be. You mustn’t sit or stand on it—but anywhere else is okay. Then you show it when you go into a closed Happiness gathering of the eternally saved.”

“I’ve heard of Happiness meetings,” Jill commented, “but I’ve never known quite what they are.”

“Well,” Mrs. Paiwonski said judicially, “there are Happiness meetings and Happiness meetings. The ones for ordinary members, who are saved but might backslide, are an awful lot of fun—grand parties with only the amount of praying that comes natural and happily, and plenty of whoopit-up that makes a good party. Maybe, even, a little real lovin’—but that’s frowned on there and you’d better be mighty careful who and how, because you mustn’t be a seed of dissension among the brethren. The Church is way strict about keeping things in their proper place.

“But a Happiness meeting for the eternally saved—well, you don’t have to be careful because there won’t be anybody there who can sin—all past and done with. If you want to drink and pass out… okay, it’s God’s will or you wouldn’t want to. You want to kneel down and pray, or lift up your voice in song—or tear off your clothes and dance; it’s God’s will. Although,” she added, “you might not have any clothes on at all, because there can’t possibly be anybody there who would see anything wrong in it.”

“It sounds like quite a party,” said Jill.

“Oh, it is, it is—always! And you’re filled with heavenly bliss the whole time. And if you wake up in the morning on a couch with one of the eternally saved brethren, you know he’s there because God willed it to make you all blessedly Happy. And you are. They’ve all got Foster’s kiss on—they’re yours.” She frowned slightly. “It feels a little like ‘sharing water.’ You understand me?”

“I grok,” agreed Mike.

(“Mike?!!?”)

(“Wait, Jill. Wait for fullness.”)

“But don’t think,” Patricia said earnestly, “that a person can get into an Inner Temple Happiness meeting just with a little tattoo mark—after all, it’s too easy to fake. A visiting brother or sister—well, take me. As soon as I know where the carnie is going, I write to the local churches and send ’em my finger prints so they can check ’em against the master file of the eternally saved at Archangel Foster Tabernacle—unless they already know me. I give ’em my address care of Billboard. Then when I go to church—and I always go to church Sundays and I would never miss a Happiness meeting even if it means Tim has to slough the blow-off some nights—I go first time and get positively identified. Most places they’re mighty glad to see me; I’m an added attraction, with my unique and unsurpassed sacred pictures—I often spend most of the evening just letting people examine me… and every minute of it bliss. Sometimes the priest wants me to bring Honey Bun and I do Eve and the serpent—that takes body make-up, of course, or skin-colored tights if there isn’t time. Some local brother plays Adam and we get scourged out of the Garden of Eden, and the local priest explains the real meaning, not all the twisted lies you hear—and we end by regaining our blessed innocence and happiness, and that’s certain to get the party really rolling. Joy!”

She added, “But everybody is always interested in my Foster’s kiss, because, since he went back to Heaven almost twenty years ago now and the Church has increased and flourished, not too many of us have a Foster’s kiss that wasn’t laid on by proxy—I always have the Tabernacle testify to that, too. And I tell them about it. Uh—”