"So you came to see me," he said. "I'm Albert Gregg. But you know that. Church members generally just call me Gregg outside the church. In the church I'm 'Teacher.' If there're any adults around"—his eyes almost twinkled—"you should probably call me Teacher. But since there're just the two of us, Gregg will do. Don't be startled at the way I look. It's arthritis. Yes, I know it's curable—but the cost is more than we can afford here. Now, you're—Bleys Ahrens, aren't you?"
"That's right, Teacher—I mean, Gregg," said Bleys.
He found himself even more at sea than he had expected. He had assumed he would be meeting someone cast in the mold of Henry. Someone direct, decisive, and more than a little intolerant. This man seemed none of these; and yet he was head of their local church. Bleys was puzzled.
"Would you like some coffee?" asked Gregg. "The kettle's hot in the kitchen, and the makings are there. I'll ask you to make it for both of us, if you do want some, because it's a little hard for me to get around."
"No thank you, Gregg." Bleys found the name awkward in his mouth. "I just finished lunch."
"Not only that," said Gregg with something very close to a chuckle, "but you haven't adjusted to the taste of what we call coffee here yet, I'd guess. What brings you to see me?"
"I need"—this time Bleys had the word ready prepared— "instruction in the religion of your church, since I'm going to be a member."
"Instruction? You're sure you don't just mean information?" Gregg eyed him shrewdly. "In the first place, there is no formal instruction in our church; and, in the second place, you don't strike me as someone particularly in need of instruction—particularly if you're here at your own wishes. Or did Henry send you?"
"No," answered Bleys, "it was my idea to come and see you. You're right, I wanted to ask some questions."
"Good," said Gregg, wriggling himself a little more deeply and more comfortably into his chair, "that's much more to the point, and much more to be desired. I'd rather have somebody asking me questions of their own, and for their own reasons, than a hundred people sent to me to be taught."
"I lived with my mother all of my life until just now," said Bleys. "She was born and raised an Exotic; so I suppose I grew up an Exotic, too. I never knew any people from Harmony or Association until now—except one, and he—"
Bleys found himself hesitating.
"—He wasn't like what people said about people from your two worlds."
"In other words," said Gregg, "he was probably somebody like Henry's brother Ezekiel, if he wasn't Ezekiel himself. And Ezekiel was someone who simply ran away from the whole question of faith—left these two worlds where faith flourishes and changed his way of life completely. Was it Ezekiel?"
"Yes—Gregg," answered Bleys, "we all liked him."
"Yes. Oh, yes." Gregg's voice was thoughtful. "Ezekiel was one of the most likable human beings I ever knew. He still would be now, no doubt. But go on," he said, "you were telling me that your mother was an Exotic and you were raised an Exotic. I take it from the fact that you're here now, that for some reason you couldn't stay with your mother anymore. She's all right, isn't she?"
"Oh, she's fine," said Bleys; "it just wasn't—well, practical, for me to stay with her and travel around with her the way I was doing. She thought I'd be better off with Henry."
"Yes," said Gregg, "I can imagine. Just like your older brother."
"You know Dahno?" asked Bleys. For some reason it had not occurred to him that this man might.
"Oh, yes. I was Teacher here when your brother first came, too," said Gregg. "I think what you're leading up to is the fact that you don't know how you should act as a member of our church, because you've never had any experience with anything like it. Is that it?"
"That's it," said Bleys, relieved.
"Any more than that?" asked Gregg.
Bleys hesitated.
"It wouldn't be," said Gregg, "part of what you mentioned, about your having trouble fitting reality to what you've always heard about the people that call themselves Friendlies? Would it be that, too?"
Bleys nodded.
"I—" A rush of honesty suddenly brought words from him that he had not intended to say. "I'd always heard of Friendlies assorts of fanatics. Oh, I also heard about them as being called true faith-holders or true believers. Is either name true, or are both? If both names are true, what's the difference?"
Gregg smiled. He had a small, round face, now marked with the wrinkles of fairly advanced age, but which still showed elements of extreme youthfulness buried under the wrinkles.
"Of course," he answered, "we all like to think of ourselves as true believers. True Faith-holders is what we usually call ourselves. We have to think that way; otherwise we couldn't live with ourself and God. But yes, some of us are what's called Fanatics. And yes, there is a difference between Fanatics and True Faith-holders."
"That's what I want to understand, then," said Bleys. "Which are which, and how do I tell who is what?"
"Actually," said Gregg, "the distinction is very simple. 'By their fruits ye shall know them'—which is a quotation from the New Testament of the Bible—"
"I know," said Bleys, eagerly. He was feeling quite comfortable with this bent little man. "Matthew; Chapter Seven, verse twenty, I think."
"You know the Bible?" said Gregg looking at him penetratingly.
Bleys felt suddenly embarrassed.
"I learned to read very early," he said. "I've done a lot of reading and usually anything I read sticks in my mind. But you mean, that the Fanatic distinguishes himself from the True Faith-holder by what he does?"
"Exactly," murmured Gregg, "you are very like Dahno, you know? At the same time, you're very different. But you're right in what you just said. The distinction is simple. The True Faith-holder lives to serve God. The Fanatic, whether he's conscious of it himself, or not, makes God and God's worship a tool to serve his own ends."
"I see," said Bleys, thoughtfully.
There was a small silence.
"Something in particular recently has you concerned about this?" asked Gregg.
Bleys started to shake his head, then stopped the impulse.
"Yes," he said, and the words came out almost painfully. He felt a tremendous need to trust the bent, small Teacher. "As I said, my mother was an Exotic. I think I grew up like an Exotic. The whole idea of violence is something we simply don't entertain if we think like Exotics."
"And you've witnessed an act of violence recently, then?" asked Gregg.
"Yes," said Bleys slowly, "I—"
Suddenly it all came out with a rush, about Henry's beating of Joshua for the dead goat, and how Will had reacted and how Bleys himself had felt, both at the time and afterward.
"I see," said Gregg at last when he was finished. For another moment again there was nothing said between them; then Gregg went on.
"I can see how it would be hard for you," he said at last, slowly. "What you witnessed is tied to the very structure of Henry's belief, and the beliefs of most of us. Did you realize, at the time or afterwards, that Henry wasn't taking any pleasure in punishing his son?"
Bleys nodded.
"I found that out," he said. "Henry stopped me when I tried to go to Joshua afterwards; and he was almost—kind about it. And from what Joshua said when I talked to him about it, the next day. He said that when he was grown up he would beat his own son for the same reason."
"And so he will," said Gregg, "when the time comes; and yet, he'll be a good and loving father."
He broke off, almost abruptly.
"I'm going to have to leave you fairly shortly," he said. He shifted slightly in his specially built chair. "One of my church-members is going to drop by in his motorized car to take me out to his place. His grandmother's very old and close to dying. She'd said she'd appreciate a visit from me; and right at the moment she needs me more than you do."
"I see," said Bleys. He felt dismissed, pushed off to one side as unimportant.
"Don'
t look like that," said Gregg. "I don't think you do see. It's just that, I'm sorry to say, the truth of the matter is that I can't be very much help to you. I think I know what you want; and what that is, is an understanding of why we are as we are, here in this church, on this planet of Association. I don't think I can help you, because for you really to understand, you'd have to be capable of a belief in God. And I'm certain that, just like your older brother, you simply don't have that in you."
He smiled.
"Thirty years ago when I was a younger Teacher," he said, "I would have felt it my duty to try to hammer the concept of God into you. I now know that such things never work. God in any true sense will never come to you unless you find him on your own; and from what I've seen of Exotics, of your brother and even of you, I think that's going to be very hard, if not impossible."
He paused and looked at Bleys sympathetically.
"It can enrich your life, however, if you merely embrace the path a Friendly must tread," he went on. "In fact, I would advise you to try for that, rather than a belief that is beyond your reach."
"I see," said Bleys again. "But what if what I want's the belief?"
"You still have to find Him yourself," said Gregg. He looked sympathetically at Bleys. "You're disappointed, and I don't blame you. I am, in a way, too. Because it would mean a great deal to me if you were able to discover God or understand what makes Henry what he is and the rest of us what we are. Possibly, if you stayed here a very long time ... but that's as God wills it. As 1 say, in any case, unless you find him on your own, you never will."
"But how can I at least try to do it?" asked Bleys.
"Take for granted there's a fabric of reason behind everything we do here," said Gregg. "You seem to be almost unbelievably intelligent for your age; and maybe you can come to have the comfort of seeing at least the framework of that fabric, even without belief. I don't know. I hope so."
He paused and sighed. . "For what it's worth," he went on, "I can tell you that Henry's not a Fanatic. He's a man of true faith. Perhaps, if you start out from that point, you can begin to understand."
He stopped speaking and smiled sadly at Bleys.
"Now," he said, "if you'll give me a hand up out of this chair—I could get out by myself with some struggling, but it's much easier if somebody helps me—I'll appreciate it. I want to get a coat before I go out to visit. Once I wouldn't have needed a coat. But now, as I get older, I find the cold gets to me, even mild cold gets to me; and since many of us believe that it is wrong to pamper ourselves with undue heat, among other comforts, I find myself in some cold places."
Bleys got up from his chair and stepped over to give the old man his hand. As he lifted Gregg out of the chair, the musty odor of the old man tilled his nostrils.
Gregg smiled at him.
"I should apologize for that, too," he said. "You find I smell, don't you? I'm afraid it's the result of a foolish vow I took many years ago when I was young and strong. I vowed I'd never bathe in artificially warmed water. But the years have made it not only uncomfortable, but dangerous, for me to bathe in water that's at the temperature of the outdoors."
He smiled at Bleys again.
"That means that, while I can bathe in the summer, the winter months make it difficult—and we're just now finishing our winter as you know. When summer comes, my water tank outside will be warmed enough by the sun to deliver water safe for me to wash in. Until then, I try to stand at least at arm's length from people."
"I don't mind," said Bleys, "particularly, I don't mind most things once they're explained:"
Gregg smiled again.
"You know," he said, "I think I may have hopes for you after all."
He began to shuffle out of the room. Then he paused and turned back.
"Oh, by the way, I'd suggest you wait here until Walser Doyle has picked me up and taken me off. It'll be easier for you if the rest of the congregation doesn't know for a while you felt the need to have a talk with me. Oh, and by the way, when you tell Henry about our talk, it'll do no harm if you refer to what I told you as instruction. It's a word that'll make Henry more comfortable."
"I'll remember," said Bleys, "and I'll wait here until you're gone—oh, excuse me. There's one more thing. Do I go to church with the others?"
"If you wish to, of course. Now just let yourself out after I'm gone," said Gregg, disappearing slowly through the doorway. "This house is never locked night or day. It hasn't been for more than forty years."
Bleys sat back down in his chair and waited.- It was not more than two minutes later by his watch that he heard a motorized vehicle pull up to the front of the parking lot, close to the small brown house. The front door opened and a voice called.
"Gregg!"
"Coming, Walser!" Bleys heard Gregg's voice answer.
There was the sound of Gregg's shuffling footsteps heard faintly in the distance, a word or two spoken too low for Bleys to understand. Then the front door opened and closed, shutting off the voices entirely. A moment later Bleys heard the vehicle start up again and leave the area.
He waited a few moments more until it should be out of sight, then went out himself by the front door.
He did not go immediately back toward Henry's farm, however. Instead he made a tour of the house from the outside and located the black-painted tank fastened high on one outer wall by a rear comer. It was in shade at this time of day, for the house was so placed that that wall was more east-facing than anything else.
Bleys went back into the house. It took him some searching, but eventually he uncovered a hammer, a screwdriver and some other tools. A little more searching down in the basement discovered a stepladder, which he brought up and carried outside.
Mounted on the stepladder, he found that the tank, pretty much as he had guessed, was fastened to the house by a couple of straps, each one secured at each end by a screw, and the pipe running to it up and along the outside of the wall was the usual flexible plastic used for plumbing connections.
He was starting to unscrew the first of the eight screws that held the straps, when he realized that with the tank full of water, he could probably not lift it. He searched and found both an intake valve and a drain valve on the bottom of the tank. He closed the intake and let the water out, before finishing the unscrewing of the screws.
With the empty tank in his arms, he loosened the flexible pipe and bent it around the corner of the building just to see if it would reach. It would.
He fastened the water tank in place temporarily with one screw. Then he climbed down, moved the stepladder around the comer of the building and climbed it again. Reaching around the comer of the building, he took out the single screw and shifted the tank to the south-facing side of the building.
The sun would not only hit it more strongly now, but would hit it most of the day, both winter and summer. He fixed it firmly in place, closed the drain valve and turned the intake valve to refill the tank. Once he heard the water reach the top and stop automatically—it must have, he thought, some kind of float inside to warn it when it was nearly full—he went back down the ladder.
He folded up the ladder and, carrying it and the tools, went back to look at the side from which he had taken the tank, originally. The holes made by the screws that had held both tank and pipe there were visible—but only if you looked closely for them from the ground and knew where to look. Satisfied, he took tools and ladder back into the house, replaced them where he had found them, and turned back down the road to Henry's.
CHAPTER 9
Bleys walked back toward Henry's farm from Gregg's small house by the church. The late winter day had turned out cloudless, with a touch of the first fierce heat of the short summer to come.
Bleys seemed to find it kindling a matching fierceness in him. Gregg had as good as told him that he could never be a Friendly because he could not believe in a God; and it would follow, therefore, that there was no use in his trying to become one of them.
Ther
e was more to his need to be a Friendly than a wish to prove Gregg wrong. He had already felt strongly that there was something he wanted to make out of his life—and would make, even though everybody on all the inhabited worlds told him it wasn't possible.
His future simply had to be something far greater than someone like Gregg, or even Henry or Dahno, could imagine. If it was necessary for him to be a Friendly to reach it, then he would be a Friendly. But he would also find a way to God, or find a God, if necessary to do that.
That much was settled. He deliberately set it aside as a thing fixed and done with. He made himself think back instead to his talk with Gregg, and what he might be able to use from it that would help him to his goal.
Now that he thought about it, the bent and crippled man had told him almost more by his personality and attitude than he had in what he had said. An important point was the difference between him and Henry, considering they belonged to the same church—which had led Bleys to believe earlier that they would think exactly alike.
This one discovery had opened up for Bleys a whole new picture of the people here. It had triggered off an understanding that they all were prisoners of what they believed in. It was not a case, as he had first thought, from Henry's actions, of those same beliefs letting them do things that otherwise would be unacceptable. That was evidently what Fanatics did that was wrong.
This changed everything. It made people like Henry and Gregg simply a different kind of the same sort of grown-up Bleys had dealt with all his life.
In each case, each person was a prisoner of what he had chosen to be. Once you understood what that was, it was simply a matter of finding out what let each one do what he did and kept him from doing other things. Then, once you knew, you could use your knowledge of this to understand them on a much deeper level.