Robert Heinlein - Stranger in a Strange Land

“I can’t believe it.”

“Well, she was. Ask her. She’ll tell you. Better yet, come to a cleansing for seekers—I’ll let you know when she’s going to be on. When she confesses, it gives other women courage to stand up and tell about their sins. She doesn’t hold anything back—and, of course, it does her good, too, to know that she’s helping other people. Very dedicated woman now—flies her own car up here every Saturday night right after her last show, so as to be here in time to teach Sunday School. She teaches the Young Men’s Happiness Class and attendance has more than tripled since she took over.”

“I can believe that,” Jubal agreed. “How old are these lucky ‘Young Men’?”

Boone looked at him and laughed. “You’re not fooling me, you old devil—somebody told you the motto of Dawn’s class: ‘Never too old to be young.’”

“No, truly.”

“In any case you can’t attend her class until you’ve seen the light and gone through cleansing and been accepted. Sorry. This is the One True Church, Pilgrim, nothing at all like those traps of Satan, those foul pits of iniquity that call themselves ‘churches’ in order to lead the unwary into idolatry and other abominations. You can’t just walk in here because you want to kill a couple hours out of the rain—you gotta be saved first. In fact—Oh, oh, camera warning.” Red lights were blinking in each corner of the great hail. “And Jug’s got ’em done to a turn. Now you’ll see some action.”

The snake dance picked up more volunteers and the few left seated were clapping the cadence and bouncing up and down. Pairs of ushers were hurrying to pick up the fallen, some of whom were quiet but others, mostly women, were writhing and foaming at the mouth. These were dumped hastily in front of the altar and left to flop like freshly caught fish. Boone pointed his cigar at a gaunt redhead, a woman apparently about forty whose dress was badly torn by her exertions. “See that woman? It has been at least a year since she has gone all through a service without being possessed by the Spirit. Sometimes Archangel Foster uses her mouth to talk to us… and when that happens it takes four husky acolytes to hold her down. She could go to heaven any time, she’s ready. But she’s needed here. Anybody need a refill? Bar service is likely to be a little slow once the cameras are switched on and things get lively.”

Almost absently Mike let his glass be replenished. He shared none of Jill’s disgust with the scene. He had been deeply troubled when he had discovered that the “Old One” had been no Old One at all but mere spoiled food, with no Old One anywhere near. But he had tabled that matter and was drinking deep of the events around him.

The frenzy going on below him was so Martian in its flavor that he felt both homesick and warmly at home. No detail of the scene was Martian, all was wildly different, yet he grokked correctly that this was a growing-closer as real as water ceremony, and in numbers and intensity that he had never met before outside his own nest. He wished forlornly that someone would invite him to join that jumping up and down. His feet tingled with an urge to merge himself with them.

He spotted Miss Dawn Ardent again in its van and tried to catch her eye—perhaps she would invite him. He did not have to recognize her—by size and proportions even though he had noted when he had first seen her that she was exactly as tall as his brother Jill with very nearly the same shapings and masses throughout. But Miss Dawn Ardent had her own face, with her pains and sorrows and growings graved on it under her warm smile. He wondered if Miss Dawn Ardent might some day be willing to share water with him and grow closer. Senator Bishop Boone had made him feel wary and he was glad that Jubal had not permitted them to sit side by side. But Mike was sorry when Miss Dawn Ardent had been sent away.

Miss Dawn Ardent did not feel him looking at her. The snake dance carried her away.

The man on the platform had both his arms raised; the great cave became quieter. Suddenly he brought them down. “Who’s happy?”

“WE’RE HAPPY!”

“Why?”

“GOD… LOVES US!”

“How d’you know?”

“FOSTER TOLD US!”

He dropped to his knees, raised one clenched fist. “Let’s hear that lion ROAR!”

The congregation roared and shrieked and screamed while he controlled the din using his fist as a baton, raising the volume, lowering it, squeezing it down to a subvocal growl, then suddenly driving it to crescendo that shook the balcony. Mike felt it beat on him and he wallowed in it, with ecstasy so painful that he feared that he would be forced to withdraw. But Jill had told him that he must not ever do so again, except in the privacy of his own room; he controlled it and let the waves wash over him.

The man stood up. “Our first hymn,” he said briskly, “is sponsored by Manna Bakeries, makers of Angel Bread, the loaf of love with our Supreme Bishop’s smiling face on every wrapper and containing a valuable premium coupon redeemable at your nearest neighborhood Church of the New Revelation, Brothers and Sisters, tomorrow Manna Bakeries with branches throughout the land start a giant, price-slashing sale of pre-equinox goodies. Send your child to school tomorrow with a bulging box of Archangel Foster cookies, each one blessed and wrapped in an appropriate text—and pray that each goodie he gives away may lead a child of sinners nearer to the light.

“And now let’s really live it up with the holy words of that old favorite: ‘Forward, Foster’s Children!’ All together—”

“Second verse!”

Mike was so joyed by it all that he did not stop then to translate and weigh and try to grok the words. He grokked that the words were not of essence; it was a growing-closer. The snake dance started moving again, the marchers chanting the potent sounds along with the choir and those too feeble to march.

After the hymn they caught their breaths while there were announcements. Heavenly messages, another commercial, and the awarding of door prizes. Then a second hymn, “Happy Faces Uplifted,” was sponsored by Dattelbaum’s Department Stores where the Saved Shop in Safety since no merchandise is offered which competes with a sponsored brand—a children’s Happy Room in each branch supervised by a Saved sister. The young priest moved out to the very front of the platform and cupped his ear, listening—“We… want… Digby!”

“Who?”

“We—Want—DIG-BY!”

“Louder! Make him hear you!”

“WE—WANT—DIG-BY!” Clap, clap, stomp, stomp.

“WE—WANT—DIG-BY!” Clap, clap, stomp, stomp—It went on and on, getting louder as the building rocked with it. Jubal leaned to Boone and said, “Much of that and you’ll do what Samson did.” “Never fear,” Boone told him, around his cigar. “Reinforced, fireproof, and sustained by faith. Besides, it’s built to shake; it was designed that way. Helps.”

The lights went down, curtains behind the altar parted, and a blinding radiance from no visible source picked out the Supreme Bishop, waving his clasped hands over his head and smiling at them.

They answered with the lion’s roar and he threw them kisses. On his way to the pulpit he stopped, half raised one of the possessed women still writhing slowly near the altar, kissed her on the forehead, lowered her gently, started on—stopped again and knelt by the bony redhead. The Supreme Bishop reached behind him and a portable microphone was instantly placed in his hand.