Robert Heinlein - Stranger in a Strange Land

Ben looked morose. “I wish you could.”

“I don’t. But that was just the starter. It wouldn’t help if we could. Mike hasn’t taken a dollar out of his drawing account for almost a year. I know, because Douglas called me to ask if I thought the major portion of the backlog should be reinvested? Mike hadn’t bothered to answer his letters. I told him that was his headache… but that if I were steward, I would follow my principal’s last instructions.”

“No withdrawals? Jubal, he’s spending a lot.”

“Maybe the church racket pays well.”

“That’s the odd part about it. The Church of All Worlds is not really church.”

“Then what is it?”

“Uh, primarily it’s a language school.”

“Repeat?”

“To teach the Martian language.”

“Well, no harm in that. But I wish, then, that he wouldn’t call it a church.”

“Well, I guess it is a church, within the legal definition.”

“Look, Ben, a roller skating rink is a church—as long as some sect claims that roller skating is essential to their faith and a part of their worship. You wouldn’t even have to go that far—simply claim that roller skating served a desirable though not essential function parallel to that which religious music serves in most churches. If you can sing to the glory of God, you can skate to the same end. Believe me, this has all been threshed out. There are temples in Malaya which are nothing to an outsider but boarding houses for snakes… but the same High Court rules them to be ‘churches’ as protects our own sects.”

“Well, Mike raises snakes, too, as well as teaching Martian. But, Jubal, isn’t anything ruled out?”

“Mmm… that’s a moot point. There are minor restrictions, adjudicated. A church usually can’t charge a fee for fortune telling or calling up spirits of the dead but it can accept offerings… and then let custom make the ‘offerings’ become fees in fact. Human sacrifice is illegal everywhere—but I’m by no means sure that it is not still done in several spots around the globe—and probably right here in this former land of the free and home of the brave. The way to do anything under the guise of religion that would otherwise be suppressed is to do it in the inner sanctum and keep the gentiles out. Why, Ben? Is Mike doing something that might get him jailed or hanged?”

“Uh, I don’t know. Probably not.”

“Well, if he’s careful—the Fosterites have demonstrated how to get by with almost anything. Certainly much more than Joseph Smith was lynched for.”

“Matter of fact, Mike has lifted quite a lot from the Fosterites. That’s part of what worries me.”

“But what does worry you? Specifically.”

“Uh, Jubal, this has got to be a ‘water brother’ matter.”

“Okay, I had assumed that. I’m prepared to face redhot pincers and the rack, if necessary. Shall I start carrying poison in a hollow tooth? Against the possibility of cracking?”

“Uh, the members of the inner circle are supposed to be able to discorporate voluntarily any second—no poison needed.”

“I’m sorry, Ben. I never got that far. Never mind, I know other adequate ways to put up the only final defense against the third degree. Let’s have it.”

“You can discorporate at will, they tell me—if you learn Martian first. Never mind. Jubal, I said Mike raises snakes. I meant that both figuratively and literally—the whole setup is a snake pit. Unhealthy.

“But let me describe it. Mike’s Temple is a big place, almost a labyrinth. A big auditorium for public meetings, some smaller ones for invitational meetings—many smaller rooms—and living quarters—quite a lot of living quarters. Jill sent me a radiogram telling me where to go, so I was dropped at the living quarters entrance on the street the Temple backs onto. The living quarters are above the main auditorium, about as private as you can be and still live in a city.”

Jubal nodded. “Makes sense. Be your acts legal or illegal, nosy neighbors are noxious.”

“In this case a very good idea. A pair of outer doors let me in; I suppose I was scanned first, although I didn’t spot the scanner. Through two more sets of automatic doors any one of which would slow down a raiding squad—then up a bounce tube. Jubal, it wasn’t an ordinary bounce tube. It wasn’t controlled by the passenger, but by someone out of sight. More evidence that they wanted privacy and meant to have it—a raiding squad would need special climbing gear to get up that way. No stairs anywhere. Didn’t feel like the ordinary bounce tube, either—frankly, I avoid them when I can; they make me queasy.”

“I have never used them and never shall,” Jubal said firmly.

“You wouldn’t have minded this. I floated up gently as a feather.”

“Not me, Ben. I don’t trust machinery. It bites.” Jubal added, “However, I must concede that Mike’s mother was one of the great engineers of all times and his father—his real father—was a number one pilot and a competent engineer, or better… and both of genius level. If Mike has improved bounce tubes until they are fit for humans, I ought not to be surprised.”

“As may be. I got to the top and was landed without having to grab for it, or depend on safety nets—I didn’t see any, to tell the truth. Through more doors that unlocked for me and into an enormous living room. Enormous! Very oddly furnished and rather austere. Jubal, there are people who think you run an odd household here.”

“I can’t imagine why. Just plain and comfortable.”

“Well, your ménage is Aunt Jane’s Finishing School for Refined Young Ladies compared with the weirdie Mike runs. I’m just barely inside the joint when the first thing I see I don’t believe. A babe, tattooed from her chin to her toes—and not a goddam stitch otherwise. Hell, not even the home-grown fig leaf—she was tattooed everywhere. Fantastic!”

Jubal said quietly, “You’re a big-city bumpkin, Ben. I knew a tattooed lady once. Very nice girl. Intense in some ways. But sweet.”

“Well,” Ben conceded. “I was giving you a first impression. This gal is very nice, too, once you get adjusted to her pictorial supplement—and the fact that she usually has a snake with her. She’s the one who raises them, rather than Mike.”

Jubal shook his head. “I was wondering if by any chance it was the same woman. Fully tattooed women are rather scarce these days. But the lady I knew, some thirty years back—too old now to be this one, I suppose—had the usual vulgar fear of snakes, to excess. However, I’m fond of snakes myself… I look forward to meeting your friend. I hope.”

“You will when you visit Mike. She’s sort of a majordomo for him—and a priestess, if you’ll pardon the word. Patricia—but called ‘Pat,’ or ‘Patty.’”

“Oh, yes! Jill has spoken of her… and thinks very highly of her. Never mentioned her tattoos, however. Probably didn’t think it was relevant. Or perhaps none of my business.”

“But she’s nearly the right age to be your friend. She says. When I said ‘babe’ I was again giving a first impression. She looks to be in her twenties; she claims her oldest child is that old. Anyhow, she trotted up to meet me, all big smile, put her arms around me and kissed me. ‘You’re Ben, I know. Welcome, brother! I give you water!’

“You know me, Jubal. I’ve been in the newspaper racket for years—I’ve been around. But I had never been kissed by a totally strange babe dressed only in tattoos… who was determined to be as friendly and affectionate as a collie pup. I was embarrassed.”

“Poor Ben. My heart bleeds.”

“Damn it, you would have felt the same way.”

“No. Remember, I’ve met one tattooed lady. They feel completely dressed in those tattoos—and rather resent having to put on clothes. Or at least this was true of my friend Sadako. Japanese, she was. But of course the Japanese are not body conscious the way we are.”