The Müller-Fokker Effect (13 page)

That’s me all right, the old inchworm. And my winding sheet is

ROBINS ON COURSE

Luckily I managed to rescue from the shipwreck an inflatable house, miniature bulldozer, seeds, farming implements, swimming pool kit, prefab bomb shelter, guns, ammo, libraries and lab equipment for geology, botany, zoology, horticulture, medicine and chemistry, instructions for building and operating generators, miniature manufacturing systems of several kinds, ‘Hints for the Amateur Fanner’, supplies of fuel and food for at least five years, a wilderness survival kit and guide, carpenters’, plumbers’ and machinists’ tool kits, a selection of light novels (neither depressing nor the kind that make civilization look too good), several hundred pounds each of wood, plastic, metal stock, glue, epoxy, nails, small standard machine parts, an abundance of copper wire and electronic parts in all sizes, several radios, televisions, home appliances of all descriptions (all portable and with extra batteries), a one man oil-drilling rig, a small tape recorder suitable for memoranda and recording bird cries, a barbecue hat, briquets, etc., etc.

The thought of escape is not so tasty as the thought of keeping what I’ve got. The crash-priority projects must be:

(1) a first-line defense system (alarms, mortars, shelter and perhaps short-range rocket defense).

(2) hygienic water supply and sewage disposal.

(3) oil refinery.

(4) swimming pool and barbecue pit.

(5) drugs from local flora (the supply of Noctec, Miltown, Somnos, Librium, Equanil, Trancopal, etc., is alarmingly low already).

These should keep me pretty busy for a few months, after which I’ll be able to get up trie
NO TRESPASSING
signs, ser up the printing press, maybe run off my own currency.

The island is snug and comfy already. The only thing (besides lack of sex and the old nagging headache) that really bothers me is the stationary cloud hanging overhead. It’s been there the whole first month, neither moving nor changing.

And there’s this pair of feet sticking down out of it.

SILLY, DIS IDYLL IS

Meanwhile back in my lounge chair, I decide the whole thing—this room, the experimenters, maybe my perceptions—is plastic. By my calendar watch I’ve been here three days, surely long enough to prove whatever they want to prove. Enough entombment! Abra cadavera! I rise from the dead.

I rise, walk through the steel air, past the vapid faces of Donagon & Co., right on into the crisco wall…surfacing in the paradise of my childhood back yard.

Every detail in depth, enveloped with a strange importance. The Sinclair station on the corner, every whitewashed brick in place, every delicate color within the whiteness. Under one of its murky windows the remains of a circus poster make a Rorschach pattern, a map of Odd Islands. The earth is steeped in oil, the dinosaur sign creaks overhead, and the poster remains spell a message: HE UNSTOPS BEST ALLIES, TOO. EFFORTLESS? HE UNSTOPS BEST ALLIES, TOO, RETHATCHED KING THISTLE BOTHERS EVIL ENDS. REQUESTED RICE.

I turn away from the station, feeling an ordinary death about this place: By my back porch hollyhocks are shrivelling to hairy stalks; the back porch itself is dying, and there is the gray catenary of clothesline from the house to the little birch I scalped last summer to make a toy canoe. Some dog has turned over the crumpled garbage can and nosed open all its packages of coffee grounds. Maybe the same dog who dug up the yard in four or five places, looking for a spot for his relic bones. I could sit here in the cool grass and die with the dying hollyhocks, watch them give up their ‘money’ seeds…but there’s work to do, O sinclairosaur.

Unfurling the flag of the United States of America, I plant the staff firmly in a relic hole and repeat the memorized speech. Claim this planet. People of the United States. Peace loving.

When it’s over I sit down for a moment, my head buzzing with Valium, Striatran, Noludar, Listica, Somnos, Lenetran and Trepidone. Two small white butterflies settle to picnic together on a glistening dog turd. The sun is warm.

There was no altar, only a platform with a microphone and a banner,
BELIEVE ON ME.
There was no vaulted cathedral, only an ordinary baseball stadium. There were no fine vestments, only a simple, well-tailored business suit. And, though few knew it, there was no Billy Koch, only a sophisticated android.

It lacked nothing in programming; all of Billy’s habits were intact. His powerful hands kneaded the air (‘Give Jesus your love! Give it to Him
now)
!, his brows contracted (‘Suspended over a pit of flaming fahr! Forget about your puny h-bomb!’) and his mighty chest heaved with simulated emotion (‘He’s a-comin’ in a fiery jet! His face is like a blast furnace! He’s callin’ out—who, me, Lord? You want me?
YES
, Lord, I’m ready!
I’M READY FOR ETERNITY!’).

The service too was unchanged. Before the great man actually appeared, there came preliminary events, ‘warmups’:

A large choir began with a medley of popular hymns, then a warmup preacher delivered a short, hard-hitting sermon that reassured the audience they had come to the right place. He mentioned high taxes, temptations of the young, national unrest caused by Communism and darker races. He praised the basic honesty and faith of rural white Americans and their kin, the four freedoms, motherhood, and the principle of driving moneychangers out of temples.

Then, following an organ selection that leaned towards sustained low notes and tremolo effects, the lights dimmed out. Each member of the audience was given thirty seconds in which to feel alone and apprehensive. When it was quiet enough, a voice broke the tension, crying over the p.a. system:
‘JESUS LIVES!
JESUS LIVES!’

A spot picked him out: The heavy ridge of brow and high forehead, the crisp, pale suit with massive shoulders (called in the trade ‘an FBI’), the glittering smile of ecstasy as he closed his eyes and opened his arms to embrace them, his flock of thirty-five thousand. He held this pose for ten long beats. Then…

The eyes came open: Virgin blue. The audience screamed its blessing upon him, and the deep organ bass cut in under their scream. Billy led them in ‘Rock of Ages’, his theme song.

‘Brothers and sisters, I don’t know why you came out here tonight. Some of you may just be curious—you want to see the man who talks so much about Gawd—but that’s all right. That’s all right, Gawd welcomes you.

‘Some of you, well, maybe you found the religion of your childhood just doesn’t seem to work any more. Maybe you’ve lost faith. Or maybe you really tried to believe, but things just got too much for you? And you felt like quitting.

‘Why didn’t you quit, then? I’ll tell you why: It wasn’t Gawd’s will! I’m telling
ALL
of you here tonight, that it was the
LORD JESUS CHRIST
that led you here!
Jesus
wants you all to get another chance! Yes, Jesus
knows all
your suffering and
all
your trials!

‘Yes, neighbors, I don’t know why
you
came down here tonight—but
I
came here to
BEAR WITNESS TO THE LORD JESUS CHRIST!’

A low cheer, mixed with amens, came from the claquers.

‘YES, TO BEAR WITNESS! JESUS IS ALIVE TONIGHT, RIGHT
HERE
IN THIS AUDITORIUM! HE’S IN ME—AND NEIGHBORS, HE CAN BE IN YOU!!’

The cheers were general this time.

Billy went on to make a joke about a frog in a rut, who couldn’t possibly get out—but then a track came along and he had to; the laughter was extravagant.

‘Now there’s a lot of talk about the “miracles” of modern science, about “miracle” drugs, yes, and even toothpaste has its “miracle” ingredient.

‘But I want to talk to you about another kind of “miracle” ingredient. You can’t find it at the drugstore. It won’t make you smell sweeter or smile brighter. But it is the most powerful force on earth or anywhere else. And I’m talking about the miracle ingredient
FAITH!

‘There’s all kinds of faith. We read a lot of claptrap in the papers about scientists smashing atoms, putting men inside of computers, I don’t know what all. Well, you can believe that or not. I never saw a smashed atom, neither did you. Nobody did. We just have faith somebody can do it.

‘Now there is something plain ridiculous about a man who will believe there is a bomb a
million times
more powerful than dynamite, a bomb that gives more light than a
thousand suns
—and who still won’t believe
THAT GAWD LOVES HIM!’

When the laughs, cheers and hallelujahs subsided:

‘I won’t tell you faith moves mountains. I think the Lord put His mountains where He wanted them, anyway. But I do know of a woman who had a bad car accident. Her little four-year-old boy was pinned underneath the car, and it was crushing the life out of him! That woman—who stood just five-foot two and never lifted anything heavier than a grocery bag before in her life…’

And so it went, until the finale:

‘Have
faith
in the Lord Jesus Christ! Have
faith
in Almighty Gawd! Have
faith
in the Lamb! Have
faith
in the Blood of the Lamb! Have
faith
in the Almighty Pahwr of the Lord! Have
faith
that He can save you! Have
faith
that He can heal you! Have
faith
and forget about your quack doctors and fake medicines! Have
faith
and forget about the “miracles” of modern medicine! Have
faith
, and forget about braces and crutches and pills and potions and knives! Have
faith
and forget about hospitals and x-rays and specialists and surgeons and iron lungs and artificial hearts! Have
faith
! Have
faith
! Have
FAITH IN THE HEALING HAND OF THE LORD!’

Pom-papa-pom pom pom
the organ began a sprightly march. Billy’s replica held out its arms, and the afflicted (directed by Crusade police to their places in line) came forward for their cures.

‘Billikins?’

He awoke from a dream (God, a high-powered executive surrounded by anxious angel subordinates, was just about to place an order for a thousand gross souls) and found her watching him, this fat, red-faced person called Nurse.

‘You want some breakfast?’

‘They’re hiding something from me, Nurse.’

‘Who is?’ She began helping him out of his wet pajamas.

‘I don’t know…the doctor, maybe. And that one-legged man that comes around all the time.’

‘Jerry?’ Her dark red curls shook. ‘Don’t be silly, Billikins. Jerry’s your friend. He brings us presents.’ She often wore one of the presents, a huge black negligee.

‘Well, I don’t care! I caught him in my room yesterday, looking at
my wall
. And he was laughing!’

Nurse’s face grew redder from wrestling him into a business suit. Though her uniform was always rumpled and sweaty looking, she smelled only of starch. Billikins didn’t like Nurse much, and he decided he’d better not let her look at his wall, either.

His wall was a picture of the world as it
really
was, and it was also a message, the word of the
LORD
to His elect, spoken through the prophet Billikins. He’d tried many times to explain it to Nurse, because he’d been so sure she was one of the elect, but she wouldn’t listen.