Robert Heinlein - Sixth Column

"There is one more hazard. It's a slow one, a time bomb."

"Eh?"

"Money. We've got too much money. That's a suspicious circumstance."

"But you had to have money to operate."

"How well I know it. It has been the only thing that enabled us to get away with it so far. These people are even more corruptible than Americans, Chief; with us it is a frowned-upon dereliction; with them it's an essential part of their culture. A good thing, too -- we now have the respected position of the goose that lays the golden eggs."

"But why do you call it a time bomb? Why is it a hazard at all?"

"Remember what happened to the goose in the story? Some day some smart laddie is going to wonder where the goose gets all that gold and take him apart to find out. In the meantime all the recipients of our cumshaw are closing their eyes to the suspicious circumstances and getting as much as they can while the getting is good. I'm betting that each one will keep his mouth shut about his take, as long as he can get away with it. I doubt if the Hand knows that we seem to have an unlimited supply of American gold coins. But some day he will find out; that's the time bomb element. Unless he can be bribed, too -- in a polite way, of course -- he will start some very embarrassing investigations. Somewhere up the line we'll run into an official more interested in knowing the facts than in sticking out his palm. Before that day rolls around we had better be set to move!"

"Hmm ... I suppose so. Well, Jeff, do the best you can and get us some 'priest' recruits up here as fast as you can. If we had one hundred dependable men, as talented in handling people as you are, we could set 'D' Day a month from now. But it may take years and, as you say, events may trip us up before we can move."

"You can see why I have trouble finding 'priest' recruits? Loyalty isn't enough; a special aptitude for kidding the public is necessary. I learned it as a hobo. Alec really hasn't got it; he's too honest. However I may have one recruit now -- a chap named Johnson."

"Yes? What about him?"

"He used to be a real estate salesman and he has a very convincing manner. The PanAsians put him out of business, of course, and he's anxious to avoid the labor camps. I've been feeling him out."

"Well, if you think he'll do, send him up. Perhaps I can look him over there."

"Huh?

"I've been thinking while I listened. Jeff, I don't know enough about the field situation; I've got to come see for myself. If I am going to direct this show, I've got to understand it. I can't do it from a hole in the ground; I'm falling out of touch."

"I thought that was settled a long time ago, boss."

"What do you mean?"

"Are you going to leave Calhoun as acting C. O. ?"

Ardmore remained silent for several moments, then said, "Damn you, jet"

"Well, are you?"

"Oh, very well! Let's drop the matter!"

"Don't get sore, boss. I've been trying to give you the whole picture; that's why I've talked so long. "

"I'm glad you did. I want you to repeat it, in much more detail. I'll put Estelle on and have her make a recording of everything you've got to say. We'll work up an instruction manual for student 'priests' from your lecture."

"O. K., but let me call you back. I've got a service in ten minutes."

"Can't Alec even run a service?" '

"He does and he's O. K. He preaches a better sermon than I do. But it's my best recruiting time, Major; I study the crowd and talk to them individually afterwards."

"OK, OK -- I'm switching off." 'Bye."

Services were crowded by now. Thomas did not fool himself that the creed of the great god Mota was the drawing card; even while the service proceeded, at the sides of the hall tables were being piled high with food, purchased with Scheer's fine gold. But Alec put on a good show. It seemed to Jeff, as. he listened to him preach, that the old mountain man had somehow reconciled his strange new job with his conscience so thoroughly that he actually believed that he was preaching his own religion, in symbols of course and with odd ritual -- but his voice carried conviction.

"If he keeps that up," Jeff told himself, "we'll have women fainting in the aisles. Maybe I should tell him to soft-pedal it."

But without untoward incident Alec reached the final hymn. The congregation sang with verve, then trooped toward the tables. Sacred music had at first been a problem until Jeff had hit on the dodge of putting new words to the commonest American patriotic music. It served a double purpose; anyone who listened closely could hear the old words, the true words, being sung by the bolder spirits present.

Jeff circulated around among his flock while they ate, patting the heads of children, pronouncing blessings -- and listening. As he passed a man got up from his place and stopped him. It was Johnson, the former real estate salesman. "A word with you, Holy One?"

"What is it, my son?"

Johnson indicated that he wanted to speak privately; they drew away from the crowd over into the shadow of the altar. "Holy One, I don't dare go back to my room tonight."

"Why not, my son?"

"I still haven't been able to get my work card validated. Today was my last day of grace. If I go home it's the camps for me."

Jeff looked grave. "You know that the servers of Mota do not preach resistance to mundane authority."

"You wouldn't turn me out to be arrested("

"We do not refuse sanctuary. Perhaps it is not as bad as you think it is, my son; perhaps if you stay here tonight, tomorrow you may find someone to hire you and validate your card."

"I can stay, then?"

"You may stay." Thomas decided that Johnson might as well stay from then on; if he measured up, he would be sent to the Citadel for final test. If not, Johnson could stay as an unenlightened helper around the temple -- the temple needed more help every day, especially in the kitchen.

When the crowd had gone Jeff locked the door, then checked through the building personally to make sure that none but the resident help and those who had been granted overnight sanctuary were still inside. There were more than a dozen of these refugees; Jeff was studying some of them as prospective recruits.

Inspection completed and the place tidied up, Jeff shooed everyone but Alec upstairs to the second-floor dormitory rooms; he locked the door to the staircase after them. This was a nightly routine; the altar with its many marvelous gadgets was safe from snoopers, as it had a shield of its own, controlled by a switch in the basement nonetheless Jeff did not want anyone attempting to get at it. The avowed reason for the nightly lock up was, of course, a piece of holy mumbo jumbo having to do with the "sacredness" of the lower floor.

Alec and Jeff went down into the basement, locking after them a heavy, steel-sheathed door. Their apartment was a large room, housing the power unit for the altar, the communicator back to the base, and the same two cots Peewee Jenkins had gotten for them on their first day in Denver. Alec undressed, went into the adjoining bath, and got ready for bed. Jeff peeled off his robes and turban, but not his beard; it was now homegrown. He put on overalls, stuck a cigar in his mouth, and called the base.

For the next three hours he dictated, over Alec's snores. Then he, too, went to bed.

Jeff woke up with a feeling of unease. The lights had not switched on; therefore it was not the morning alarm that had wakened him. He lay very still for a moment, then reached down beside him on the floor and recovered his staff.

Someone was in the room, other than Alec, still snoring on the other cot. He knew it, although at the moment he could hear no sound. Working by touch alone he carefully set his shield to cover both cots. He switched on the lights.

Johnson was standing in front of the communicator. Some sort of complicated goggles covered his eyes; in his hand was a black-light projector.