Abruptly, the cosmic lake disappeared, a curtain had swept down over it. But then the curtain, after an interval, swept back up. There was the lake again, the unlimited expanse of moist substance.
It was the biggest lake he had ever seen. It was big enough to contain the whole world. As long as he lived, he didn’t expect to see a bigger lake. He wondered, idly, what the cubic capacity of it was. In the center was a denser, more opaque substance. A land of lake within a lake. Was all Heaven just this titanic lake? As far as he could see, there was nothing but lake.
It wasn’t a lake. It was an eye. And the eye was looking at him and McFeyffe!
He didn’t have to be told Whose eye it was.
McFeyffe screeched. His face turned black; his wind rattled in his throat. A breath of utter fright swept over him; for an instant he danced helplessly at the end of the umbrella, trying to force his own fingers apart, trying futilely to pry himself loose from the field of vision. Trying, frantically and unsuccessfully, to scramble away from the eye.
The eye focused on the umbrella. With an acrid pop the umbrella burst into flame. Instantly, the burning fragments, the handle, and the two shrieking men dropped like stones.
They did not descend as they had come up. They descended at meteoric velocity. Neither of them was conscious. Once, Hamilton was dimly aware that the world was not far below. Then came a stunning impact; he was tossed high in the air again, almost all the way back up. Almost, on this vast first bounce, back to Heaven.
But not quite. Again he was descending. Again he struck. After a time of indescribable bouncing, his physical self lay inert and gasping, clutching at the surface of the Earth. Holding on desperately to a bunch of withered grass growing in a soil of dry, red clay. Cautiously, painfully, he opened his eyes and looked around.
He was spread out on a long plain of dusty, parched country. It was very early morning of another day, and it was quite cold. Meager buildings rose in the distance. Not far off lay the unmoving body of Charley McFeyffe. Cheyenne, Wyoming.
* * * * *
“I guess,” Hamilton managed, after a long interval, “this is where I should have come first”
There was no answer from McFeyffe. He was totally unconscious. The only sound was the shrill twittering of birds perched in a scraggly tree a few hundred yards off.
Painfully pulling himself to his feet, Hamilton tottered over and examined his companion. McFeyffe was alive and with no apparent injuries, but his breathing was shallow and harsh. A thin ooze of saliva had made a path down his chin from his half-open mouth. His face still wore an expression of terror and wonder, and overpowering dismay.
Why dismay? Wasn’t McFeyffe glad of the sight of his God?
More peculiar facts to file away. More odd-ball data in this odd-ball world. Here he was at the spiritual center of the Babiist universe, Cheyenne, Wyoming. God had corrected the errant bent in his direction. McFeyffe had put him on the wrong track, but he was surely and absolutely back. Tillingford had spoken the truth: it was to the Prophet Horace Clamp that Providence intended him to come.
With curiosity, he surveyed the chill, gray outline of the nearby town. In the center, among the otherwise nondescript structures, rose one single colossal spire. The spire glowed furiously in the early-morning sunlight. A skyscraper? A monument?
Not at all. This was the temple of the One True Faith. From this distance, several miles away, he was seeing the Sepulcher of the Second Bab. The Babiist power, as experienced up to now, would seem a mere trifle compared with what lay ahead.
“Get up,” he said to McFeyffe, noticing him stir.
“Not me,” McFeyffe answered. “You go on. I’m staying here.” He rested his head on his arm and closed his eyes.
“I’ll wait.” While he waited, Hamilton considered his situation. Here he was, set down in the middle of Wyoming, in the chill morning of an autumn day, with only thirty cents in his pockets. But what had Tillingford said? He shuddered. It was worth a try, though. And he didn’t have much choice.
“Lord,” he began, getting down in the customary posture; one knee to the ground, hands pressed together, eyes turned piously toward Heaven. “Reward Thy humble servant according to the usual pay scale for Class Four-A electronic workers. Tillingford mentioned four hundred dollars.”
For a time nothing happened. A cold, barren wind whipped over the plain of red clay, rustling the dry weeds and rusty beer cans. Then, presently, the air above him stirred.
“Cover your head,” Hamilton yelled at McFeyffe.
A shower of coins rained down, a glittering swirl of dimes, nickels, quarters, and half dollars. With a sound like coal pouring through a tin chute, the coins rattled down, deafening and blinding him. When the torrent had tapered off, he began collecting. Sullen disappointment was his next reaction, once the excitement had worn off. There was no four hundred dollars here; he was getting pocket change tossed to a beggar.
It was what he deserved, though.
The amount, when he tallied it, came to forty dollars and seventy-five cents. It would help; at least he’d be able to keep himself eating. And when that was gone—
“Don’t forget,” McFeyffe muttered sickly, as he struggled to his feet. “You owe me ten bucks.”
McFeyffe was not a well man. His large face was mottled and unwholesome; his thick flesh hung in ugly, doughlike folds around his collar. Nervously, his fingers plucked at a twitch in his cheek. The transformation was amazing; McFeyffe had been shattered by the sight of his God. The face to face encounter had completely demoralized him.
“Wasn’t He what you expected?” Hamilton asked, as the two of them plodded dully toward the highway.
Grunting, McFeyffe spat red clay dust into a clump of weeds. Hands thrust deep in his pockets, he dragged himself along, eyes blank, slouched over like a broken man.
“Of course,” Hamilton conceded, “it’s none of my business.”
“I can use a drink,” was all McFeyffe had to contribute. As they stepped up onto the shoulder of the highway, he consulted his wallet. “I’ll see you in Belmont. Hand over the ten bucks; I’ll need it for plane fare.”
Hamilton reluctantly counted out ten dollars in small change, which McFeyffe accepted without comment. They were entering the suburbs of Cheyenne when Hamilton noticed something foreboding and ominous. On the back of McFeyffe’s neck, a series of ugly, swollen red sores were forming. Fiery welts that grew and expanded even as he watched.
“Boils,” Hamilton observed, astonished. McFeyffe glanced at him in mute suffering. Presently he touched his left jaw. “And an abscessed wisdom tooth,” he added, in a totally defeated tone. “Boils and an abscess. My punishment”
“For what?”
Again, there was no answer. McFeyffe was sunk into private gloom, battling with invisible comprehensions. He would be lucky, Hamilton realized, if he survived his encounter with his God. Of course, there was an elaborate mechanism of sin-expiation available; McFeyffe could shed his abscessed tooth and plague of boils with the proper absolutions. And McFeyffe, the innate opportunist, would find the way.
At the first bus stop they halted and threw themselves wearily down on the damp bench. Passers-by, on their journey into town for Saturday shopping, glanced at them curiously.
“Pilgrims,” Hamilton said icily, in answer to an interested stare. “Crawled on our knees from Battle Creek, Michigan.”
This time, there was no punishment from above. Sighing, Hamilton almost wished there had been; the capricious personality element infuriated him. There was just too little relationship between deed and punishment; the lightning was probably cutting down some totally innocent Cheyennite, on the far side of town.
“Here’s the bus,” McFeyffe said gratefully, struggling to his feet. “Get out your dimes.”
When the bus reached the airfield, McFeyffe tottered off and wretchedly made his way toward the office building. Hamilton rode on, toward the towering, radiant, imposing structure that was the Only
True Sepulcher.
* * * * *
The Prophet Horace Clamp met him in the glorious entrance-way. Awesome marble columns rose on all sides; the Sepulcher was an overt copy of the traditional tombs of antiquity. A kind of seedy, middle-class vulgarity hung about it, vast and impressive as it was. Massive, threatening, the mosque was an esthetic atrocity. Like a government building in the Soviet Union, it had been designed by men lacking artistic sensibility. Unlike the Soviet office buildings, it was larded and smeared with fretwork, embossed with rococo railings and flutings, infinite bric-a-brac, lavishly polished brass knobs and pipings. Recessed indirect lights played over the terra cotta surfaces. Stupendous bas-reliefs stood out in pompous stateliness: greater-than-life representations of Middle Eastern pastoral scenes. The characters portrayed were moral and fatuous. And elaborately clothed.
“Greetings,” the Prophet announced, holding up one plump, pale hand in benediction. Horace Clamp might have stepped from some vividly colored Sunday school poster. Fat, waddling, with an absent, benign expression, robed and hooded, he gathered Hamilton up and prodded him into the mosque proper. Clamp was the living manifestation of the Islamic spiritual leader. As the two of them entered a richly furnished study, Hamilton wondered dismally why he was here. Was this what God had in mind?
“I was expecting you,” Clamp said, in a businesslike manner. “I was informed of your coming.”
“Informed?” Hamilton was puzzled. “By whom?”
“Why, by (Tetragrammaton), of course.”
Hamilton was baffled. “You mean you’re the Prophet of a god named—”
“The Name cannot be spoken,” Clamp interrupted with sly agility. “Much too sacred. He prefers to be referred to by the term (Tetragrammaton). I’m rather surprised that you don’t know this. It’s common public knowledge.”
“I’m somewhat ignorant,” Hamilton said.
“You have, I understand, recently experienced a vision.”
“If you mean did I just see (Tetragrammaton), the answer is yes.” Already, he had developed an aversion to the pudgy Prophet.
“How is He?”
“He seemed in good health.” Hamilton couldn’t refrain from adding, “For Someone His age.”
Clamp roamed busily around the study. Almost bald, his head shone like a polished stone. He was the epitome of theological dignity and pomp. And he was, Hamilton reflected, virtually a caricature. All the timeless, stuffy elements were there … Clamp was just too majestic to be true.
Caricature—or somebody’s idea of what the spiritual head of the One True Faith ought to be like.
“Prophet,” Hamilton said bluntly, “I might as well lay it on the line. I’ve been in this world approximately forty hours, no longer. Frankly, all this baffles me. As far as I’m concerned, this is an absolutely crackpot universe. A moon the size of a pea—it’s absurd. Geocentric—the sun revolving around the Earth. It’s primitive! And this whole archaic, non-Western concept of God; this old man showering down coins and snakes, loosing plagues of boils …”
Clamp eyed him acutely. “But my dear sir, this is the way things are. This is His creation.”
“This creation, maybe. But not mine. Where I come from—”
“Perhaps,” Clamp interrupted, “you had better tell me where you come from. (Tetragrammaton) didn’t acquaint me with this aspect of the situation. He merely informed me that a lost soul was on its way here.”
Without much enthusiasm, Hamilton outlined what had happened.
“Ah,” Clamp said, when he had finished. Distressed and skeptical, he flounced about the study, arms behind his back. “No,” he declared, “I really can’t accept this. But it could be so; it really could. You assert, you actually stand there and claim, that up until Thursday you lived in a world untouched by His presence?”
“I didn’t say that. Untouched by a crude, bombastic presence. None of this—tribal deity stuff. This bluster and thunder. But He could very well be there. I always took it for granted that He was. In a subtle way. Behind the scenes, not kicking them over with His hoof every time somebody steps out of line.”
The Prophet was clearly moved by Hamilton’s revelation. “This is a sensational affair … I hadn’t realized there were whole worlds still infidel.”
At that, Hamilton lost his temper. “Can’t you grasp what I’m saying? This second-rate universe, this Bab or whatever—”
“The Second Bab,” Clamp interrupted.
“What is a Bab? And where’s the First Bab? Where did all this nonsense come from?”
After a haughty moment, Clamp said, “On July 9, 1850, the First Bab was executed at Tabriz. Twenty thousand of his followers, the Babiis, were horribly murdered. The First Bab was a True Prophet of the Lord; he died transcendentally, causing even his jailers to weep. In 1909, his remains were carried to Mount Carmel.” Clamp paused dramatically, his eyes full of emotion. “In 1915, sixty-five years after his death, the Bab reappeared on Earth. In Chicago, at eight o’clock on the morning of August 4, he was witnessed by a group of persons eating in a restaurant. This, despite the proven fact that the remains at Mount Carmel are still intact!”
“I see,” Hamilton said.
Raising his hands, Clamp said, “What further proof could be asked? What greater miracle has the world seen? The First Bab was a mere Prophet of the One True God.” His voice trembling, Clamp finished, “And the Second Bab—is He!”
“Why Cheyenne, Wyoming?” Hamilton inquired.
“The Second Bab ended His days on Earth at this exact spot. On May 21, 1939, He ascended to Paradise, carried by five angels, in plain sight of the Faithful. It was a thrilling moment. I, myself—” Clamp was unable to speak. “I, personally, received from the Second Bab during His last hour on Earth, His—” He pointed to a niche in the wall of the study. “In that mihrab is the Second Bab’s watch, His fountain pen, His wallet, and one false tooth—the rest were genuine and went with Him bodily to Paradise. I, during the lifetime of the Second Bab, was His recorder. I wrote down many sections of the Bayan with this typewriter you see here.” He touched a glass case in which was an old Underwood Model Five office machine, battered and obsolete.
“And now,” the Prophet Clamp continued, “let us consider this world you describe. Obviously, you’ve been sent here to acquaint me with this extraordinary situation. An entire world, billions of people, living their lives cut off from the sight of the One True God.” In his eyes a fervent glow appeared; the glow burgeoned as the Prophet’s mouth formed the word, “Jihad.”
“Look,” Hamilton began apprehensively. But Clamp cut him brusquely off.
“A jihad,” Clamp said excitedly. “We’ll get hold of Colonel T. E. Edwards at California Maintenance … immediate conversion to long-range rockets. First, we’ll bombard this blighted region with informational literature of a scriptural nature. Then, when we’ve sparked some kind of spiritual light in the wilderness, we’ll follow through with instructional teams. And after that, a general concentration of peripatetic messengers, presenting the True Faith through various mass-media. Television, movies, books, recorded testimonials. I would think (Tetragrammaton) could be persuaded to do a fifteen-minute kinescope. And some long-playing messages for the benefit of the unbelievers.”
And was this, Hamilton wondered, why he had been summarily dropped at Cheyenne, Wyoming? Surrounded by the certitude of the Prophet Clamp, he was beginning to falter. Maybe he was a sign, sent to fulfill the Realization of Submission; maybe this was the real world after all, clutched to (Tetragrammaton)’s bosom.
“Can I look around the sepulcher?” he hedged. “I’d like to see what the spiritual hub of Second Babiism is like.”
Preoccupied, Clamp glanced up. “What? Certainly.” Already, he was punching buttons on his intercom. “I’m getting in touch with (Tetragrammaton) immediately.” He halted long enough to lean toward Hamilton, raise his hand, and ask, “Why do you suppose He didn’t inform us of this darkened world?” On his fa
ce, on the lush, complacent face of the Prophet of the Second Bab, a floating measure of uncertainty appeared. “I would have thought …” Shaking his head, he murmured, “But the Path of God is sometimes strange.”
“Damn strange,” Hamilton said. Leaving the study, he made his way out into the echoing marble corridor.
Even at this early hour, devout worshipers roamed here and there, fingering holy exhibits and gawking. The sight of them depressed Hamilton. In one large chamber, a group of well-dressed men and women, most of them middle-aged, were singing hymns. Hamilton started to pass by, and then thought better of it.
Over the group of the Faithful hung a faintly luminous—and faintly jealous—Presence. Perhaps, he decided, it would be a good idea to follow along.
Halting, he joined the group and reluctantly sang along with them. The hymns were unfamiliar to him, but he quickly picked up the general beat. The hymns had a redundant simplicity; the same phrases and tones appeared and reappeared. The same monotonous ideas, repeated indefinitely. The appetite of (Tetragrammaton) was insatiable, he concluded. A childish, nebulous personality that required constant praise—and in the most obvious terms. Quick to anger, (Tetragrammaton) was equally quick to sink into euphoria, was eager and ready to lap up these blatant flatteries.
A balance. A method of lulling the Deity. But what a delicate mechanism. Danger for everyone … the easily-aroused Presence that was always nearby. Always listening.
Having discharged his religious duty, he wandered grimly on. Both the building and the people were infested with the stern nearness of (Tetragrammaton). He could feel Him everywhere; like a thick, oppressive fog, the Islamic God lay over everything. Uneasily, Hamilton examined an immense illuminated wall plaque.
Roll Call Of The Faithful. Is Your Name Here?
The list was alphabetical; he scanned it and discovered that his name was lacking. So, he observed caustically, was McFeyffe’s. Poor McFeyffe. But he would manage. Marsha’s name, too, was absent. The list, in toto, was astonishingly short; of all mankind, was this meager portion the only group fit to be taken into Paradise?