'Be bright, be cute, be witty — and make Bob look good,' said the producer, changing his grip and thrusting Dr Christian out into the glare of the stage.
He remembered to pause and smile at the audience after his initial step forward, then he walked across the long empty space between the edge of the curtain and the podium. Now ensconced behind his desk, Bob Smith rose to his feet, leaned over to shake Dr Christian's hand, and with a broad smile welcomed him to the show. Dr Christian sat down and twisted to gaze at the eager chirpy face to his left, wondering why they couldn't be permitted to face each other properly. It was damned awkward having to sit twisted into an artificial pose.
Bob Smith held up a copy of God in Cursing. The Atticus art department had produced a wonderful jacket, white with scarlet lettering and a jagged raised bolt of silver lightning running through title and author's name from the top right of the cover to the bottom left. The monitor screens filled with it, dramatic, telling.
The star of the show was not a happy man, though this did not reveal itself even to his guest, the source of all trouble. A serious subject, a serious doctoral guest, and a serious implication, all rolled up into the number-one spot on his show. Never before had every one of his perfectly valid objections been swept aside by the network chiefs; in vain he had protested that Dr Christian ran counter to the whole philosophy of the show, that the entire country would switch channels five minutes into the number-one guest spot, that they were going to lay the biggest egg in the history of Bob Smith's 'Tonight'. His producer and his producer's bosses merely nodded all the way through his protests, then told him Dr Christian went on no matter what, and he would just have to deal with Dr Christian as best he could.
So at the end of his monologue he had announced that he was going to introduce a book and its writer first off and that both were a bit away from the usual slant of the show, but he felt both were so important he must draw the attention of the country to them. He ended by looking into the camera very seriously, adjuring his audience to keep watching while giving an unspoken impression of intense excitement and anticipation.
Minus his usual infectious grin, Bob Smith waited until Dr Christian had disposed of his plethora of bones within the inadequate recesses of the guest chair. After which he held the book up to the camera, turned to Dr Christian, and said, 'Dr Christian, what is millennial neurosis?', feeling an utter fool.
Nor did Dr Christian behave like the normal guest He didn't smile, he didn't make it easy for his host, he didn't focus all his attention on his host Instead, he seemed to fix his gaze on some point high in the rigging which hung above the stage; his chin was raised, his hands loosely linked on his crossed knees.
'I was born literally at the dawn of the third millennium,' he said, staccato, 'only days from the end of the year 2000. My father and mother had four children. I am the eldest We children are each not more than a year apart in age. While my youngest sibling Andrew was still newborn, our father froze to death in his car somewhere on the Thruway in upstate New York. He was going to see a patient on consultation. My father was a psychiatrist Somewhat unorthodox, but beginning to be very respected all the same. He died in January of 2004, but he wasn't dug out until April. He was one of several thousand who died in that same storm on the same stretch of road. It was the worst winter in the history of the country to that time. And we ran out of petroleum. The seas were ice, we didn't have enough icebreakers to keep the harbours and the sealanes clear, we couldn't keep the roads and the railbeds clear, the blizzards were so continuous between January and April that we couldn't get enough planes into the air, and all across North America above the fortieth parallel, people died. That winter of 2004 was the first of the great shocks which were the devastation of us.'
He lowered his head and looked into the lens of the camera with the red light glowing, so naturally that the action was remarkably professional; and in the control cubicle hung sponsonlike on the wall one storey up, a frisson of shock and excitement passed down every spine. Something was leaping out of the screens concentrated upon him, a most extraordinary projection of power and compulsion.
'The third millennium was not Armageddon,' said Dr Christian. 'None of the things the doomsday merchants had been predicting for a century actually came true. We didn't have the war to end all wars. We didn't perish in flames. Instead, the glaciers were on the move, and so were the people. All over the world's northern hemisphere the people began to move south. Where there was sun. Where it was still warm. Where the winters were endurable. A mass migration bigger than any other human migration this planet has seen.
'Some hard decisions were taken. That nowhere could men and women be permitted to procreate indiscriminately. That fossil fuels must be stringently preserved. That further expansion of any kind must not merely come to a stop, but must actually be reversed to the point of contraction. The alternative was to reduce global population by nuclear holocaust, slaughter ourselves back into equilibrium with the shrinking chilling environment. If after nuclear holocaust what was left might still be called an environment.
'We were wise enough to see this millennial message from God, yes, but the people were driven out of the Promised Land into the wilderness in ignorance and fear. There was just too much to be done, and not enough intelligence to go round. All too often the laws had to come first and the explanations afterwards. All too often the explanations were tendered in language beyond the comprehension of the many. All too often the news was imparted to the many with the irresponsible and exaggerated drama the yellow media have made their trademark. And — this is the tragedy of third millennial humankind — all too often our emotions and our drives pushed us where common sense and farsightedness screamed we shouldn't go.'
The studio audience was very still. No one even coughed. Nothing Dr Christian had said so far was news to them, but he spoke so sincerely and so strongly that they listened to him like Celtic tribesmen to a master bard. He had the bardic witchery that was part wording, part rhythm, part cadence, part voice, and wholly the intangible ability to bind his listeners with the spell of himself.
'It is the children who bite deepest, it is the children we suffer most. Though we are not alone in this. The people of every land endure the same fate, the people of every land feel the same sorrow. A man wants a son, but has a daughter instead. Behind him there stretches a son tradition all the way back to the dawn of history. Or a couple have a son and want a daughter. A woman overflows with maternal longings and simply wants to have lots and lots of babies. Even those whose mating preference lies with their own sex experience a strong urge to reproduce. Only in a relative yesterday there still existed one of the most basic human tenets — populate or perish. Only in a relative yesterday some religious institutions held that any attempt at curtailing progeny was against the teachings of God and a sure precursor of eternal damnation.'
He couldn't sit still on that ridiculous chair facing the wrong way a moment longer; he got up from it and strode into the middle of the stage, the bulk of the lighting behind him and the audience visible to him at last Off-camera, Bob Smith was gesturing frantically to his gaping floor manager to produce a chair. This, when found, Bob carried himself to the middle aisle, and there sat down on it. Since the show was taped between six and eight in the evening, eastern time, a full three hours would have to elapse before watchers across the country could see the unimpressionable Bob Smith carrying his chair, could see him sit like a freshman college student experiencing his first truly brilliant lecturer. Manning Croft decided to be less formal, thereby providing a nice contrast to Bob, and just sat down cross-legged on the floor among the feet of the front row.
'Inside most of us there is a strong love of hearth and home as well as of children,' said Dr Christian, voice soft, 'and the three go together. The hearth is the source of warmth and family focus, the home is the shelter and family protector, and the children are the natural reason for the existence of the family. Man is an essentially conservativ
e creature who dislikes being uprooted unless the place where he lives becomes utterly untenable, or some new place becomes equally alluring. This country was founded on emigrants who came looking for religious freedom, the space to pursue new kinds of living, greater earthly comfort and riches, and emancipation from the shibboleths of ancient custom. But having settled in this country, back came that love of hearth and home. Take me. My ancestors came from the Isle of Man and Cumberland in Britain, the fiords of Norway, the mountains of Armenia and the southwestern plains of Russia. In the United States of America the succeeding generations of my family prospered. The United States of America became the homeland, for where else could the seed of such disparate racial strains have become intermingled, and what could they have in common save this new homeland?'
He stopped, looked around the audience as if to discover how many different kinds of faces comprised it, nodded to himself, and suddenly — for the first time — smiled. Not any smile; the special smile that loved and embraced and comforted and distinguished.
'I still live in Holloman, Connecticut, in the house where I grew up, near the schools I went to and the great university I chose to attend. After the cold came down, I weighed the alternatives and I deliberately elected to be cold in winter. For outside of a lack of heat and rationed amounts of electricity and gas, my home still offered me a degree of comfort and heart-warming familiarity no southern relocation apartment ever could. But as a result of my ancestors' industry, I have a certain amount of money, and my personal needs are minimal. I can for instance well afford to pay my federal and state and city and goods taxes even though they are at an all-time high and my choosing to remain in Holloman gives me no relief. I decided not to exercise my right to have one child by being vasectomized. Now, a full fifteen years after my family made the decision to remain in Holloman, we face the fact that we will after all have to leave Holloman. Yet — yet it might truly be said of me that I am happy.'
In the green room there was silence too. Dr Carriol covertly watched the other guests to see who was restless, who thought it was high time Dr Christian got the hook, but no one moved. No one even commented upon the fact that the tapes were running without thought of commercial breaks. All attention was focused on the monitors.
'Most people in this age of our world are not happy,' said Dr Christian, 'and the deep and wretched misery in which they dwell today is what I call millennial neurosis. Do you know exactly what a neurosis is? Well, I define it as a reversible negative mental state or attitude. Its cause may be tenuous or even entirely imaginary, in which case it is said to be grounded in a person's own inadequacies or insecurities. Then again, the cause of a neurosis may be real. Valid. Inescapable. As with some physical peculiarity or illness, as with other concrete factors severe enough to warp or maim the psyche. Millennial neurosis is caused by reality. Millennial neurosis is not imaginary! In itself it is real. And God knows it is valid! We keep telling ourselves that we are adult, grown up — mature and responsible people. But inside every last one of us there lives somewhere at the core a little child. That child cries when it doesn't understand why it cannot have what it wants. That child has the power to create psychic havoc within its adult host. And it often does. It can also end up in ruling its unknowing adult host'
His voice changed, lost its crisp clear definitive delivery and became louder yet more tender, stronger yet more loving, a most extraordinary and compelling transmutation, akin to the difference between a diamond and rich red gold. And as did his voice, so did he change in himself.
'Why do you cry so?' he asked. 'I who have never needed to cry for myself can tell you, you the cause of the only tears I shed. You cry for the children you cannot have. You cry for the impermanence of your homes. You cry for the freedom to do as you want and live as you want. You cry for a kinder, warmer earth. You cry because the concepts of God fostered in you are concepts you can accept no longer, that you do not understand and therefore cannot draw comfort from.'
Across the country no one watched as yet except in the White House, where via a special land line permanently installed between Atlanta and Washington (more secure and interference-free than satellite), President Tibor Reece and Secretary of the Environment Harold Magnus sat in comfortable chairs in the Oval Office watching the actual recording of Bob Smith's 'Tonight'. And they watched very closely indeed, hypersensitive to every nuance in Dr Christian's words and voice, waiting for any indication that the winner of Operation Search was going to turn out to be disappointing, or plain unsatisfactory, or even subversive. So far, so very good, however.
'Natural griefs,' said Dr Christian, 'are just that. They result from the loss of someone or something that can never come again. Death. Innocence. Health. Youth. Fertility. Spontaneity. When living conditions are normal, the mind has mechanisms which deal with natural grief. And never forget that grief is natural. Time is the greatest friend, and to keep busy accelerates the passing of sufficient time. But we in the millennial neurosis situation are surrounded by perpetual, remorseless reinforcement of our grief. Time is never given the chance to do its healing work. Many of us my age and older have multiple brothers and sisters, so we know the joys of large families. We have cousins galore, we have aunts and uncles. Our children have no brothers and sisters, and their children will have neither aunts, uncles, nor cousins. Many of us are still journeying between old homes and new, or have left old homes permanently for new homes less well built, smaller, less private — or perhaps we have gone from a slum dwelling of the north to a shanty in the south. Many of us have been made redundant, so we do not even have the solace of useful work. But none of us actually starves, or even endures a particularly monotonous diet. None of us is as badly off as the northern Europeans or the central Asians. Nor do we suffer an indifferent government. The law of the land is mercilessly just, cruelly impartial, and no citizen can escape the fate of all citizens. Yet nothing do we suffer that fires our emotions. Everything we suffer only serves to quench them. And thus — millennial neurosis.'
He stopped, not because he was drained, or uncertain where he was going. He stopped because he was a natural orator, and his instinct said it was the right moment to stop. No one stirred.
He went on. 'I am an optimist,' he said. 'I believe in the future of Man. And I believe that everything happened, happening, will happen, is both a necessary part of the ongoing evolution of Man, and an inescapable part of the pattern God weaves. I believe that to despair of the future of Man is an insult unendurable to God.'
He drew a deep breath, and his next words rolled out in a thunder that set the sound-volume indicators in the control room climbing frenziedly. 'God is! Accept that first, and only then question what and who He is! It is said that as a human being grows older and therefore closer to his grave, he comes to believe in God because he fears to die. I do not agree! Belief replaces scepticism as a man or woman grows older because that man — or woman — in simply living out life has begun to see a pattern. Not a pattern affecting the race, but a pattern inside the limitations of his own little single humble life. The chances, the coincidences, the truly astonishing relevancies. Youth cannot see the pattern because youth is too young. Not enough years, not enough data.
'God is! That much I know. I cannot find it in me to condemn any form of religious belief or observance, but for myself, I can believe in none. I must tell you that about myself, for you must not be under any misapprehension about me. The only reason I stand here now comes out of my conviction that I can actively help all those who suffer from millennial neurosis. I have already helped many who live in my town of Holloman, but I am only a man, one man. So to reach all of you I have had to write a book, a book which speaks in the same way I do in person. Therefore you are entitled to know what kind of man I am. And what kind of believer. I am not a religious man, if by that you envision a man who observes an established religious regimen. Yet I believe in God! My God. Not anybody else's God. And God is the crux of my life, my therapy, my b
ook. So—' he drew a huge breath '— here I stand speaking of God, here I stand in this bizarre—' his shaking hand swept round him — setting speaking of God! To faces I cannot see, to people I will never know.'
His head went forward, his chin dropped, that chameleon voice performed yet another change, from a lion roaring to the quiet sadness of long grief.
'Every one of us needs a bulwark against the loneliness of life. For life is lonely! Sometimes intolerably so. Sometimes indescribably so. Inside each one of us a human spirit lives alone, intensely individual, perfectly formed no matter how imperfect the mind and body housing it might be. To me that spirit is the only part of a man or a woman God created in His image, for God is not a man or a woman. He is not a human being, He probably doesn't even live in our infinitely small segment of the sky. I do not think He wants or needs us to love Him, or propitiate Him, or personify Him in any way. Times have changed. Human nature may or may not have changed, though I think it has, and for the better. We are not quite so quick to hurt each other, we are not quite so ignorant of each other. But many people have abandoned God, thinking God has not changed, God has not moved with the times, God has not given us the credit we are due. That is a completely false set of assumptions. What has not changed is the formal and institutionalized human concept of God. God has no need to change, because God is not a being Who can be defined in our human meaning of the abstraction we call "change". The third millennium has shown us Americans especially the dangers of naivety, the wholesomeness of scepticism. But never, never be sceptical about God! Be sceptical about the men and women who have presumed to define and describe God. They are just men and women, and they can offer little if any proof that they are any better qualified to define and describe God than the rest of us. The main reason such vast numbers of people have abandoned God in the last hundred and fifty years is not actually to do with God at all. It is to do with human beings. People have given me all kinds of reasons why they have abandoned God, and in every case those reasons are actually based not in God but in human rules, regulations, dogmas and the like. 'Do not abandon God! Turn to God! There is your bulwark against loneliness! To understand and feel the pattern. To know individual personal existence is a vital part of the pattern. To go forward not into chaos or random chance, but into a further phase in the history of our race, its ceaseless groping after the truth and the goodness which is God. Not our truth! Not our goodness!'