{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_73527/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_73527","id":"gutenberg_73527","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/73527","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Cults -- Fiction","Satire","Science fiction","Suicide -- Religious aspects -- Fiction"],"text":"TRANSCRIBER\u2019S NOTES:\n\nIn the plain text version text in italics is enclosed by underscores\n(_italics_).\n\nA number of words in this book have both hyphenated and non-hyphenated\nvariants. For the words with both variants present the one more used\nhas been kept.\n\nObvious punctuation and other printing errors have been corrected.\n\nThe modified book cover by the transcriber for this eBook is granted to\nthe public domain.\n\n                   *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n                                MESSIAH\n\n\n                       THE NOVELS OF GORE VIDAL\n\n\n        WILLIWAW 1946 \u00b7 IN A YELLOW WOOD 1947 \u00b7 THE CITY AND THE\n        PILLAR 1948 \u00b7 THE SEASON OF COMFORT 1949 \u00b7 A SEARCH FOR THE\n        KING 1950 \u00b7 DARK GREEN, BRIGHT RED 1950 \u00b7 THE JUDGMENT OF\n        PARIS 1952 \u00b7 MESSIAH 1954.\n\n\n\n\n                                MESSIAH\n\n                                  BY\n                              GORE VIDAL\n\n\n                       E. P. DUTTON & CO., INC.\n                       NEW YORK           1954\n\n\n             _Copyright, 1954, by E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc.\n              All rights reserved. Printed in the U.S.A._\n\n\n                             FIRST EDITION\n\n            _No part of this book may be reproduced\n            in any form without permission in writing\n            from the publisher, except by a reviewer\n            who wishes to quote brief passages in connection\n            with a review written for inclusion in\n            magazine or newspaper or radio broadcast._\n\n\n           Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 54-5053\n\n\n                                 _For_\n                          TENNESSEE WILLIAMS\n\n\n\n\n    I sometimes think the day will come when all the modern nations\n    will adore a sort of American god, a god who will have been a man\n    that lived on earth and about whom much will have been written in\n    the popular press; and images of this god will be set up in the\n    churches, not as the imagination of each painter may fancy him,\n    not floating on a Veronica kerchief, but established, fixed once\n    and for all by photography. Yes, I foresee a photographed god,\n    wearing spectacles.\n\n    On that day civilization will have reached its peak and there\n    will be steam-propelled gondolas in Venice.\n\n                                November, 1861: _The Goncourt Journals_\n\n\n                                MESSIAH\n\n                                   1\n\n_I envy those chroniclers who assert with reckless but sincere\nabandon: \u201cI was there. I saw it happen. It happened thus.\u201d\nNow I too, in every sense, was there, yet I cannot trust myself\nto identify with any accuracy the various events of my own life,\nno matter how vividly they may seem to survive in recollection\n... if only because we are all, I think, betrayed by those eyes\nof memory which are as mutable and particular as the ones with\nwhich we regard the material world, the vision altering, as it so\noften does, from near in youth to far in age. And that I am by\na devious and unexpected route arrived at a great old age is to\nme a source of some complacency, even on those bleak occasions\nwhen I find myself attending inadvertently the body\u2019s dissolution,\na process as imperceptible yet sure as one of those\nfaint, persistent winds which shift the dunes of sand in that\ndesert of dry Libya which burns, white and desolate, beyond\nthe mountains I see from the window of my room, a window\nfacing, aptly enough, the west where all the kings lie buried in\ntheir pride._\n\n_I am also conscious that I lack the passion for the business of\nfamiliar life which is the central preoccupation of our race while,\nworse still, I have never acquired the habit of judging the usual deeds\nof men ... two inconvenient characteristics which render me uncertain\nwhenever I attempt to recall the past, confounding me sadly with the\nknowledge that my recollections are, after all, tentative and private\nand only true in part._\n\n_Then, finally, I have never found it easy to tell the truth, a\ntemperamental infirmity due not so much to any wish or compulsion to\ndistort reality that I might be reckoned virtuous but, rather, to a\nconception of the inconsequence of human activity which is ever in\nconflict with a profound love of those essential powers which result\nin human action, a paradox certainly, a dual vision which restrains me\nfrom easy judgments._\n\n_I am tempted to affirm that historic truth is quite impossible,\nalthough I am willing to accept the philosophic notion that it may\nexist abstractly, perfect and remote in the imagination. A windy attic\nfilled with lovely objects has always been my personal image of those\nabsolutes Aristotle conceived with such mellifluous optimism ... and I\nhave always liked the conceits of philosophy, the more extravagant the\nbetter. I am especially devoted to Parmenides who was so strenuously\nobsessed with the idea of totality that he was capable, finally, of\ndeclaring that nothing ever changed, that what has been must still\nexist if it is yet remembered and named, a metaphysical conception\nwhich will, I suspect, be of some use to me as I journey in memory back\nto that original crisis from which I have for so long traveled and to\nwhich, despite the peril, I must return._\n\n_I do not say, then, that what I remember is all true but I can\ndeclare that what I shall recall is a relative truth as opposed to\nthat monstrous testament the one-half world believes, entrenching deep\nthereby a mission at whose birth I officiated and one whose polished\nlegend has since become the substantial illusion of a desperate\nrace. That both mission and illusion were false, I alone can say\nwith certainty, with sorrow, such being the unsuspected and terrible\nresolution of brave days. Only the crisis, which I shall record, was\nreal._\n\n_I have said I am not given to making judgments. That is not precise.\nIt is true that in most \u201cwicked\u201d acts I have been able, with a little\neffort, to perceive the possibilities for good either in actual\nintention or (and to me more important) in uncalculated result; yet,\nultimately, problems in ethics have never much concerned me: possibly\nbecause they have been the vital interest of so many others who,\nthrough custom, rule society, more agreeably than not. On that useful\nmoral level I have been seldom, if ever, seriously engaged but once on\nanother, more arduous plane I was forced to make a choice, to judge,\nto act: and act I did in such a way that I am still startled by the\nimplications of my choice, of my life\u2019s one judgment._\n\n_I chose the light in preference to the dreamless dark, destroying\nmy own place in the world, and then, more painful still, I chose\nthe light in preference to that twilight region of indeterminate\nvisions and ambiguities which most suited my nature, a realm where\ndecision was impossible and where the potentialities of choice were\nendless and exquisite to contemplate. To desert these beloved ghosts\nand incalculable powers was the greater pain, but I have lived on,\nobserving with ever-increasing intensity that blazing disk of fire\nwhich is the symbol as well as material source of the reality I have\naccepted entirely, despite the sure dominion in eternity of the dark\nother._\n\n_But now, as my private day begins to fade, as the wind in the desert\ngathers in intensity, smoothing out the patterns in the sand, I shall\nattempt to evoke the true image of one who assumed with plausibility in\nan age of science the long-discarded robes of prophecy, prevailing at\nlast through ritual death and becoming, to those who see the universe\nin man, that solemn idea which is yet called by its resonant and\nantique name, god._\n\n\n                                   2\n\n_Stars fell to earth in a blaze of light and, where they fell, monsters\nwere born, hideous and blind._\n\n_The first dozen years after the second of the modern wars were\nindeed \u201ca time of divination,\u201d as one religious writer unctuously\ndescribed them. Not a day passed but that some omen or portent was\nremarked by an anxious race, suspecting war. At first, the newspapers\ndelightedly reported these marvels, getting the details all wrong but\ncommunicating that sense of awfulness which was to increase as the\nyears of peace uneasily lengthened until a frightened people demanded\ngovernment action, the ultimate recourse in those innocent times._\n\n_Yet these omens, obsessive and ubiquitous as they were, would not\nyield their secret order to any known system. For instance, much of\nthe luminous crockery which was seen in the sky was never entirely\nexplained. And explanation, in the end, was all that the people\nrequired. It made no difference how extraordinary the explanation was,\nif only they could know what was happening: that the shining globes\nwhich raced in formation over Sioux Falls, South Dakota, were mere\nresidents of the Andromeda Galaxy, at home in space, omnipotent and\neternal in design, on a cultural visit to our planet ... if only this\nmuch could definitely be stated, the readers of newspapers would have\nfelt secure, able in a few weeks\u2019 time to turn their attention to other\nproblems, the visitors from farther space forgotten. It made little\ndifference whether these mysterious blobs of light were hallucinations,\ninter-galactic visitors or military weapons, the important thing was to\nexplain them._\n\n_To behold the inexplicable was perhaps the most unpleasant experience\na human being of that age could know, and during that gaudy decade many\nwild phenomena were sighted and recorded._\n\n_In daylight, glittering objects of bright silver maneuvered at\nunearthly speed over Washington, D. C., observed by hundreds, some\nfew reliable. The government, with an air of spurious calm, mentioned\nweather balloons, atmospheric reflections, tricks-of-eye, hinting,\nto, as broadly as it dared, that a sizable minority of its citizens\nwere probably subject to delusions and mass hysteria. This cynical\nview was prevalent inside the administration though it could not of\ncourse propound such a theory publicly since its own tenure was based,\nmore or less solidly, on the franchise of those same hysterics and\nirresponsibles._\n\n_Shortly after the mid-point of the century, the wonders increased,\nbecoming daily more bizarre. The recent advance in atomic research\nand in jet-propulsion had made the Western world disagreeably aware\nof other planets and galaxies and the thought that we would soon be\nmaking expeditions into space was disquieting, if splendid, giving rise\nto the not illogical thought that life might be developing on other\nworlds somewhat more brilliantly than here at home and, further, that\nit was quite conceivable that we ourselves might receive visitors long\nbefore our own adventuring had begun in the starry blackness which\ncontains our life, like a speck of phosphorus in a quiet sea. And since\nour people were (and no doubt still are) barbarous and drenched in\nsuperstition, like the dripping \u201cSaved\u201d at an old-time Texas baptism,\nit was generally felt that these odd creatures whose shining cars\nflashed through our poor heavens at such speed must, of necessity, be\nhostile and cruel and bent on world dominion, just like ourselves or at\nleast our geographic neighbors._\n\n_The evidence was horrific and plentiful:_\n\n_In Berlin a flying object of unfamiliar design was seen to land by\nan old farmer who was so close to it that he could make out several\nlittle men twinkling behind an arc of windows. He fled, however, before\nthey could eat him. Shortly after his breathless announcement to the\nnewspapers, he was absorbed by an Asiatic government whose destiny it\nwas at that time to regularize the part of humanity fortunate enough\nto live within its curiously elastic boundaries, both temporal and\nspiritual._\n\n_In West Virginia, a creature ten feet tall, green with a red face and\nexuding a ghastly odor, was seen to stagger out of a luminous globe,\ntemporarily grounded. He was observed by a woman and four boys, all\nof unquestionable probity; they fled before he could eat them. Later,\nin the company of sheriff and well-armed posse, they returned to the\nscene of horror only to find both monster and conveyance gone: but\neven the skeptical sheriff and his men could detect, quite plainly, an\nunfamiliar odor, sharp and sickening among the clean pines._\n\n_This particular story was unique because it was the first to describe\na visitor as being larger instead of smaller than a man, a significant\nproof of the growing anxiety: we could handle even the cleverest\nlittle creature but something huge, and green, with an awful odor ...\nit was too much._\n\n_I myself, late one night in July of the mid-century, saw quite plainly\nfrom the eastern bank of the Hudson River where I lived, two red globes\nflickering in a cloudless sky. As I watched, one moved to a higher\npoint at a forty-five-degree angle above the original plane which had\ncontained them both. For several nights I watched these eccentric twins\nbut then, carried away by enthusiasm, I began to confuse Mars and\nSaturn with my magic lights until at last I thought it wise to remain\nindoors, except for those brief days at summer\u2019s end when I watched,\nas I always used to do, the lovely sudden silver arcs meteors plunging\nmake._\n\n_In later years, I learned that, concurrently with the celestial\nmarvels, farm communities were reporting an unusual number of calves\nborn two-headed, chickens hatched three-legged, and lambs born with\nhuman faces; but since the somewhat vague laws of mutation were more\nor less well understood by the farmers these curiosities did not alarm\nthem: an earlier generation, however, would have known, instinctively,\nthat so many irregularities forecast an ill future, full of spite._\n\n_Eventually, all was satisfactorily explained or, quite as good,\nforgotten. Yet the real significance of these portents was not so much\nin the fact of their mysterious reality as in the profound effect they\nhad upon a people who, despite their emphatic materialism, were as\neasily shattered by the unexpected as their ancestors who had, on other\noccasions, beheld eagles circling Capitoline Hill, observed the sky\ngrow leaden on Golgotha, shivered in loud storms when the rain was red\nas blood and the wind full of toads, while in our own century, attended\nby a statesman-Pope, the sun did a dance over Portugal._\n\n_Considering the unmistakable nature of these signs, it is curious\nhow few suspected the truth: that a new mission had been conceived\nout of the race\u2019s need, the hour of its birth already determined by a\nconjunction of terrible new stars._\n\n_It is true of course that the established churches duly noted these\nspectacular happenings and, rather slyly, used them to enhance that\nabstract power from which their own mystical but vigorous authority\nwas descended. The more secular, if no less mystical, dogmas ...\ndescended variously from an ill-tempered social philosopher of the\nnineteenth century and an energetic, unreasonably confident mental\ntherapist, also a product of that century\u2019s decline ... maintained, in\nthe one case, that fireworks had been set off by vindictive employers\nto bedazzle the poor workers for undefined but patently wicked ends,\nand, in the other case, that the fiery objects represented a kind of\natavistic recessional to the childish world of marvels; a theory which\nwas developed even further in a widely quoted paper by an ingenious\ndisciple of the dead therapist. According to this worthy, the universe\nwas the womb in symbol and the blazing lights which many people thought\nthey saw were only a form of hallucination, hearking back to some\nprenatal memory of ovaries bursting with a hostile potential life which\nwould, in time, become sibling rivals. The writer demanded that the\ngovernment place all who had seen flying objects under three years\u2019\nclose observation to determine to what extent sibling rivalry, or the\nabsence of it (the proposition worked equally well either way) had\naffected them in life. Although this bold synthesis was universally\nadmired and subsequently read into the Congressional Record by a lady\nRepresentative who had herself undergone nine years\u2019 analysis with\nstriking results, the government refused to act._\n\n\n                                   3\n\n_But although nearly every human institution took cognizance of these\nsigns and auguries, none guessed the truth, and those few individuals\nwho had begun to suspect what might be happening preferred not\nto speak out; if only because, despite much private analysis and\nself-questioning, it was not a time in which to circulate ideas which\nmight prove disagreeable to any minority, no matter how lunatic. The\nbody politic was more than usually upset by signs of non-conformity.\nThe atmosphere was not unlike that of Britain during the mad hour of\nTitus Oates._\n\n_Precisely why my countrymen behaved so frantically is a problem for\nthose historians used to the grand, eternal view of human events. I\nhave often thought, though, that much of our national irritability was\nclosely related to the unexpected and reluctant custody of the world\nthe second war had pressed upon the confused grandchildren of a proud,\nagrarian, isolated people, both indifferent and strange to the ways of\nother cultures._\n\n_More to the point, however, was the attitude of our intellectuals who\nconstituted at this time a small, militantly undistinguished minority,\ndirectly descended in spirit if not in fact from that rhetorical\neighteenth-century Swiss whose romantic and mystical love for humanity\nwas magically achieved through a somewhat obsessive preoccupation with\nhimself. His passion for self-analysis flourished in our mid-century,\nat least among the articulate few who were capable of analysis and who,\nin time, like their great ancestor, chose the ear of the world for\ntheir confessional._\n\n_Men of letters lugubriously described their own deviations (usually\napolitical or sexual, seldom aesthetic), while painters worked\ndevotedly at depicting unique inner worlds which were not accessible\nto others except in a state of purest empathy hardly to be achieved\nwithout a little fakery in a selfish world. It was, finally, the\naccepted criterion that art\u2019s single function was the fullest\nexpression of a private vision ... which was true enough though the\nvisions of men lacking genius are not without a certain gloom. Genius,\nin this time, was quite as rare as in any other and, to its credit, it\nwas not a self-admiring age ... critics found merit only in criticism,\na singular approach which was to amuse the serious for several decades._\n\n_Led by artists, the intellectuals voiced their guilt at innumerable\ncocktail parties where it was accepted as an article of faith that\neach had a burden of guilt which could, once recognized, be exorcised;\nthe means of recognition were expensive but rewarding: a trained\nand sympathetic listener would give the malaise a name and reveal\nits genesis; then, through confession (and occasionally \u201creliving\u201d)\nthe guilt would vanish along with asthma, impotence and eczema. The\nprocess, of course, was not easy. To facilitate therapy, it became\nthe custom among the cleverer people to set aside all the traditional\nartifices of society so that both friends and strangers could confess\nto one another their worst deeds, their most squalid fantasies in a\nseries of competitive monologues conducted with arduous sincerity and\nsurprisingly successful on every level but that of communication._\n\n_I am sure that this sort of catharsis was not entirely valueless: many\nof the self-obsessed undoubtedly experienced relief when dispensing\nsecrets ... it was certainly an instructive shock for them to find that\neven their most repellent aberrations were accepted quite perfunctorily\nby strangers too intent on their own problems to be outraged, or even\nvery interested. This discovery was not always cheering. There is a\ncertain dignity and excitement in possessing a dangerous secret life.\nTo lose it in maturity is hard ... and once promiscuously shared, it\ndoes become ordinary, no more troublesome than obvious dentures._\n\n_Many cherished private hells were forever lost in those garrulous\nyears and the vacuum each left was invariably filled with a boredom\nwhich, in its turn, could only be dispelled by faith. As a result,\nthe pursuit of the absolute, in one guise or another, became the\nmain preoccupation of these romanticists who professed with some\npride a mistrust of the reason, derived quite legitimately from their\nown stunning incapacity to assimilate the social changes created by\nmachinery, their particular Lucifer. They rejected the idea of the\nreflective mind, arguing that since both logic and science had failed\nto establish the first cause of the universe or (more important)\nhumanity\u2019s significance, only the emotions could reveal to us the\nnature of reality, the key to meaning. That it was actually no real\nconcern of this race why or when or how the universe came into being\nwas an attitude never, so far as I can recall, expressed by the\nserious-minded of the day. Their searching, however, was not simply\nthe result of curiosity; it was more than that: it was an emotional,\nsenseless plunging into the void, into the unknowable and the\nirrelevant. It became, finally, the burden of life, the blight among\nthe flowers: the mystery which must be revealed, even at the expense of\nlife. It was a terrible crisis, made doubly hard since the eschewal of\nlogic left only one path clear to the heart of the dilemma: the way of\nthe mystic, and even to the least sensible it was sadly apparent that,\nlacking a superior and dedicated organization, one man\u2019s revelation is\nnot apt to be of much use to another._\n\n_Quantities of venerable attitudes were abandoned and much of the\npreceding century\u2019s \u201ceternal truths and verities\u201d which had cast,\nrock-like, so formidable and dense a shadow, were found, upon\nexamination, to be so much sand, suitable for the construction of\nfantastic edifices but not durable, nor safe from the sea\u2019s tide._\n\n_But the issue was joined: dubious art was fashioned, authorities\nwere invoked, dreams given countenance and systems constructed on the\nevidence of private illumination._\n\n_For a time, political and social action seemed to offer a way out,\nor in. Foreign civil wars, foreign social experiments were served\nwith a ferocity difficult to comprehend; but later, when the wars\nand experiments went wrong, revealing, after such high hopes, the\nperennial human inability to order society, a disillusion resulted,\nbitterly resolved in numerous cases by the assumption of some mystical\ndogma, preferably one so quaintly rich with history, so sweeping and\nunreasonable in its claims as to be thoroughly acceptable to the\nsaddened romanticist who wanted, above all else, to feel, to know\nwithout reasoning._\n\n_So in these portentous times, only the scientists were content as\nthey constructed ever more fabulous machines with which to split the\ninvisible kernels of life while the anti-scientifics leaped nervously\nfrom one absolute to another ... now rushing to the old for grace, now\nto the new for salvation, no two of them really agreeing on anything\nexcept the need for agreement, for the last knowledge ... and that,\nfinally, was the prevailing note of the age; since reason had been\ndeclared insufficient, only a mystic could provide the answer, only he\ncould mark the boundaries of life with a final authority, inscrutably\nrevealed. It was so perfectly clear. All that was lacking was the man._\n\n\n\n\n                                  ONE\n\n\n                                   1\n\nThe garden was at its best that first week in the month of June. The\npeonies were more opulent than usual and I walked slowly through the\ngreen light on the terrace above the white river, enjoying the heavy\nodor of peonies and of new roses rambling in hedges.\n\nThe Hudson was calm, no ripple revealed that slow tide which even\nhere, miles to the north of the sea, rises brackishly at the moon\u2019s\ndisposition. Across the river the Catskills, water-blue, emerged\nsharply from the summer\u2019s green as though the earth in one vivid thrust\nhad attempted sky, fusing the two elements into yet another, richer\nblue ... but the sky was only framed, not really touched, and the blue\nof hills was darker than the pale sky with its protean clouds all\nshaped by wind, like the stuff of auguries and human dreaming.\n\nThe sky that day was like an idiot\u2019s mind, wild with odd clouds, but\nlovely too, guileless, natural, allusive.\n\nI did not want to go in to lunch, although there was no choice in the\nmatter. I had arrived at one o\u2019clock; I was expected at one-thirty.\nMeanwhile, avoiding the house until the last possible moment, I had\ntaken a neighbor\u2019s privilege of strolling alone about the garden;\nthe house behind me was gray and austere, granitic, more English than\nHudson Valley. The grounds swept softly down toward the river nearly\na mile away. A vista had been cleared from the central terrace, a\nlittle like the one at Versailles but more rustic, less royal. Dark\ngreen trees covered the hills to left and right of the sweep of lawn\nand meadow. No other house could be seen. Even the railroad between\nthe terrace and the water was invisible, hidden by a bluff ... only\nits sound and an occasional blur of smoke upon the blue marked that\nmachine\u2019s essential passage.\n\nI breathed the air of early summer gladly, voluptuously. I lived my\nlife in seasonal concert with this river and, after grim March and\nconfusing sharp April, the knowledge that at last the leaves were\nfoliaged and the days warm was quite enough to create in me a mood\nof euphoria, of marvelous serenity. I contemplated love affairs. I\nprepared to meet strangers. The summer and I would celebrate our\ntriumph soon; but, until the proper moment, I was a spectator: the\nsummer love as yet unknown to me, the last dark blooming of peonies\namid the wreckage of white lilacs still some weeks away, held in\nthe future with my love. I could only anticipate; I savored my\ndisengagement in this garden.\n\nBut then it was time to go in and I turned my back resolutely on the\nriver and ascended the wide stone steps to the brick terrace which\nfronted the house on the river side, pausing only to break the stem\nof a white and pink peony, regretting immediately what I had done:\nbrutally, I had wished to possess the summer, to fix the instant, to\nbear with me into the house a fragment of the day. It was wrong; and\nI stood for a moment at the French door holding the great peony in my\nhand, its odor like a dozen roses, like all the summers I had ever\nknown. But it was impractical. I could not stuff it into my buttonhole\nfor it was as large as a baby\u2019s head while I was fairly certain that\nmy hostess would be less than pleased to receive at my hands one of\nher best peonies, cut too short even to place in water. Obscurely\ndispleased with myself and the day, I plunged the flower deep into a\nhedge of boxwood until not even a glimmer of white showed through the\ndense dark green to betray me: then, like a murderer, the assaulted day\npart-spoiling, I went inside.\n\n\n                                   2\n\n\u201cYou have been malingering in the garden,\u201d she said, offering me her\nface like a painted plate to kiss. \u201cI saw you from the window.\u201d\n\n\u201cSaw me ravage the flowers?\u201d\n\n\u201cThey all do,\u201d she said obscurely, and led me after her into the\ndrawing room, an oblong full of light from French windows opening upon\nthe terrace. I was surprised to see that she was alone.\n\n\u201cShe\u2019ll be along presently. She\u2019s upstairs changing.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho?\u201d\n\n\u201cIris Mortimer ... didn\u2019t I tell you? It\u2019s the whole reason.\u201d\n\nClarissa nodded slyly from the chair opposite me. A warm wind crossed\nthe room and the white curtains billowed like spinnakers in a regatta.\nI breathed the warm odor of flowers, of burned ash remnants from the\nfireplace: the room shone with silver and porcelain. Clarissa was rich\ndespite the wars and crises that had marked our days, leaving the\nusual scars upon us, like trees whose cross-sections bear a familial\nresemblance of concentric rings, recalling in detail the weather\nof past years ... at least those few rings we shared in common, or\nClarissa, by her own admission, was twenty-two hundred years old with\nan uncommonly good memory. None of us had ever questioned her too\nclosely about her past. There is no reason to suspect, however, that\nshe was insincere. Since she felt she had lived that great length\nof time and since her recollections were remarkably interesting and\nplausible she was much in demand as a conversationalist and adviser,\nespecially useful in those plots which require great shrewdness and\ndaring. It was perfectly apparent that she was involved in some such\nplot at the moment.\n\nI looked at her thoughtfully before I casually rose to take the bait\nof mystery she had trailed so perfunctorily before me. She knew her\nman. She knew I would not be difficult in the early stages of any\nadventure.\n\n\u201cWhole reason?\u201d I repeated.\n\n\u201cI can say no more!\u201d said Clarissa with a melodramatic emphasis which\nmy deliberately casual tone did not entirely justify. \u201cYou\u2019ll love\nIris, though.\u201d\n\nI wondered whether loving Iris, or pretending to love Iris, was to be\nthe summer\u2019s game. But before I could inquire further, Clarissa, secure\nin her mystery, asked me idly about my work and, as idly, I answered\nher, the exchange perfunctory yet easy, for we were used to one another.\n\n\u201cI am tracking him down,\u201d I said. \u201cThere is so little to go on, but\nwhat there is is quite fascinating, especially Ammianus.\u201d\n\n\u201cFairly reliable, as military men go,\u201d said Clarissa, suddenly emerging\nfrom her polite indifference: any reference to the past she had known\nalways interested her, only the present seemed to bore her, at least\nthat ordinary unusable present which did not contain promising material\nfor one of her elaborate human games.\n\n\u201cDid you know him?\u201d I never accepted, literally, Clarissa\u2019s unique\nage: two thousand years is an unlikely span of life even for a woman\nof her sturdy unimaginativeness; yet there was no ignoring the fact\nthat she _seemed_ to have lived that long, and that her references to\nobscure episodes, where ascertainable, were nearly always right and,\nmore convincing still, where they differed from history\u2019s records,\ndiffered on the side of plausibility ... the work of a memory or a mind\ncompletely unsuperstitious and unenthusiastic: (she _was_ literal; she\nwas, excepting always her central fantasy, matter-of-fact. To her the\ndeath or Caesar was the logical outcome of a system of taxation which\nhas not been preserved for us except in quaintly obscure references;\nwhile the virtue of the Roman republic and the ambitions of celebrated\npoliticians, she set aside as being of only minor importance: currency\nand taxation were her forte and she managed to reduce all the martial\nsplendor of ancient days to an economic level).\n\nShe had one other obsession, however, and my reference to Ammianus\nreminded her of it.\n\n\u201cThe Christians!\u201d she exclaimed significantly; then she paused; I\nwaited. Her conversation at times resembled chapter-headings chosen\nhaphazardly from an assortment of Victorial novels. \u201c_They_ hated him.\u201d\n\n\u201cAmmianus?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, your man Julian. It _is_ the Emperor Julian you are writing about.\u201d\n\n\u201cReading about.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, you _will_ write about him,\u201d she said with an abstracted pythoness\nstare which suggested that I was indefatigable in my eccentric purpose\nwhich, for some years, had been the study of history in a minor key.\n\n\u201cOf course they hated him. As well they should have ... that\u2019s the\nwhole point to my work.\u201d\n\n\u201cUnreliable, the lot of them. There is no decent history from the time\nthey came to Rome up until that fat little Englishman ... you know, the\none who lived in Switzerland ... with rather _staring_ eyes.\u201d\n\n\u201cGibbon.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, that one. Of course he got all the facts wrong, poor man, but at\nleast he tried. The facts of course were all gone by then. They saw to\nthat ... burning things, rewriting things ... not that I really ever\n_read_ them ... you know how I am about reading: I prefer a mystery\nnovel any day. But at least Gibbon got the tone right.\u201d\n\n\u201cYet....\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course Julian was something of a prig, you know. He _posed_\ncontinually and he wasn\u2019t ... what do they call him now? an apostate.\nHe _never_ renounced Christianity.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe what ...\u201d\n\nClarissa in her queer way took pleasure in rearranging all accepted\ninformation. I shall never know whether she did it deliberately to\nmystify or whether her versions were, in fact, the forgotten reality.\n\n\u201cHe was a perfectly good Christian _au fond_ despite his peculiar\ndiet. He was a vegetarian for some years but wouldn\u2019t eat beans, as I\nrecall, because he thought they contained the souls of the dead, an old\norphic notion.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhich is hardly Christian.\u201d\n\n\u201cIsn\u2019t that part of it? No? Well in any case the first proclamation of\nParis was intended ...\u201d but I was never to hear Julian\u2019s intent for\nIris was in the doorway, slender, dressed in white, her hair dark and\ndrawn back in a classical line from her calm face: she was handsome\nand not at all what I had expected, but then Clarissa had, as usual,\nnot given me much lead. Iris Mortimer was my own age, I guessed, about\nthirty, and although hardly a beauty she moved with such ease, spoke\nwith such softness, created such an air of serenity that one gave her\nperhaps more credit for the possession of beauty than an American\ndevoted to regular features ought, in all accuracy, to have done: the\nimpression was one of lightness, of this month of June in fact ...\nI linger over her description a little worriedly, conscious that I\nam not really getting her right (at least as she appeared to me that\nafternoon) for the simple reason that our lives were to become so\ndesperately involved in the next few years and my memories of her are\nnow encrusted with so much emotion that any attempt to evoke her as she\nactually was when I first saw her in that drawing room some fifty years\nago is not unlike the work of a restorer of paintings removing layers\nof glaze and grime in an attempt to reveal an original pattern in all\nits freshness somewhere beneath ... except that a restorer of course is\na workman who has presumably no prejudice and, too, he did not create\nthe original image only to attend its subsequent distortion, as the\npassionate do in life; for the Iris of that day was, I suppose, no less\nand no more than what she was to become; it was merely that I could not\nsuspect the bizarre course our future was to take. I had no premonition\nof our mythic roles, though the temptation is almost overpowering to\nassert, darkly, that even on the occasion of our first meeting _I\nknew_. The truth is that we met; we became friends; we lunched amiably\nand the future cast not one shadow across the mahogany table around\nwhich we sat, listening to Clarissa and eating fresh shad caught in the\nriver that morning.\n\n\u201cEugene here is interested in Julian,\u201d said our hostess, lifting a\nspring asparagus to her mouth with her fingers.\n\n\u201cJulian who?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Emperor of Rome. I forget his family name but he was a nephew, I\nthink, of Constantius, who was dreary too though not such a bore as\nJulian. Iris, try the asparagus. We get them from the garden.\u201d\n\nIris tried an asparagus and Clarissa recalled that the Emperor\nAugustus\u2019s favorite saying was: \u201cQuick as boiled asparagus.\u201d It\ndeveloped that _he_ had been something of a bore, too. \u201cHopelessly\ninvolved in office work. Of course it\u2019s all terribly important, no\ndoubt of that ... after all the entire Empire was based on a first-rate\nfiling system; yet, all in all, it\u2019s hardly _glamorous_.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhom _did_ you prefer?\u201d asked Iris, smiling at me: she too was aware\nof our hostess\u2019s obsession; whether or not she believed is a different\nmatter. I assumed not; yet the assumption of truth is perhaps, for\nhuman purposes, the same as truth itself, at least to the obsessed.\n\n\u201cNone of the obvious ones,\u201d said Clarissa, squinting near-sightedly\nat the window through which a pair of yellow-spangled birds were\nmating on the wing like eccentric comets against the green of box.\n\u201cBut of course, I didn\u2019t know everyone, darling. Only a few. Not all\nof them were accessible. Some never dined out. Some that did go out\nwere impossible and then of course I traveled a good deal. I loved\nAlexandria and wintered there for over two hundred years, missing a\ngreat deal of the unpleasantness at Rome, the _unstability_ of those\ntiresome generals ... although Vitellius was great fun, at least as\na young man. I never saw him when he was Emperor that time, for five\nminutes wasn\u2019t it? Died of greed. Such an appetite! On one occasion as\na young man he ate an entire side of beef at my place in Baiae. Ah,\nBaiae, I do miss it. Much nicer than Bath or Biarritz and certainly\nmore interesting than Newport was. I had several houses there over\nthe years. Once when Senator Tullius Cicero was traveling with that\npoisonous daughter of his, they stopped....\u201d\n\nWe listened attentively as one always did to Clarissa ... does? I\nwonder if she is still alive: if she is, then perhaps the miracle has\nindeed taken place and one human being has finally avoided the usual\nfate. It is an amiable miracle to contemplate.\n\nLunch ended without any signs of that revelation which Clarissa had led\nme to expect. Nothing was said which seemed to possess even a secret\nsignificance. Wondering idly whether or not Clarissa might, after\nall, be entirely mad, I followed the two women back into the drawing\nroom where we had our coffee in a warm mood of satiety made only\nfaintly disagreeable for me by that mild nausea which I always used to\nexperience when I drank too much wine at lunch: now of course I never\nsee wine, only the Arabs\u2019 mint tea and their sandy bitter coffee which\nI have come to like.\n\nA warm breeze fluttered the curtains: the noise of insects responding\nto the sun\u2019s increasing heat droned all upon the same note, dry and\ninsistent, a bass to the coloratura of birds, while the scent of\nflowers filled the airy room and I detected lilies as well as peonies,\ntheir odor almost too sweet, quite drowning the more delicate rose, the\npale Hudson lilac.\n\nClarissa reminisced idly. She possessed a passion for minor detail\nwhich was often a good deal more interesting than her usual talks on\ncurrency devaluation.\n\nNeither Iris nor I spoke much; it was as if we were both awaiting\nsome word from Clarissa which would throw into immediate relief this\nluncheon, this day, this meeting of strangers. But Clarissa only\ngossiped on; at last, when I was beginning to go over in my mind the\nvarious formulae which make departure easy, our hostess, as though\naware that she had drawn out too long the overture, said abruptly,\n\u201cEugene, show Iris the garden. She has never seen it before.\u201d And then,\nheartily firing fragments of sentences at us as though in explanation\nof this move of hers, she left the room, indicating that the rest was\nup to us.\n\nPuzzled, we both went onto the terrace and into the yellow afternoon.\nWe walked slowly down the steps towards the rose arbors, a long series\nof trellis arches forming a tunnel of green, bright with new flowers\nand ending in a cement fountain of ugly tile with a bench beside it,\nshaded by elms.\n\nWe got to facts. By the time we had burrowed through the roses to the\nbench, we had exchanged those basic bits of information which usually\nmake the rest fall (often incorrectly) into some pattern, a foundation\nfor those various architectures people together are pleased to build to\ncelebrate friendship or enmity or love or, on very special occasions,\nin the case of a grand affair, one of those fine palaces with rooms for\nall three, and much else besides.\n\nIris was from the Middle West, from a rich suburb of Detroit. This\ninterested me in many ways, for there still existed in those days\na real disaffection between East and Midwest and Far West which is\nhard to conceive nowadays in that gray homogeneity which currently\npasses for a civilized nation. I was an Easterner, a New Yorker from\nthe valley with Southern roots, and I felt instinctively that the\noutlanders were perhaps not entirely civilized. Needless to say, at\nthe time, I would indignantly have denied this prejudice had someone\nattributed it to me, for those were the days of tolerance in which all\nprejudice had been banished, from conversation at least ... though\nof course to banish prejudice is a contradiction in terms since, by\ndefinition, prejudice means prejudgment, and though time and experience\nusually explode for us all the prejudgments of our first years, they\nexist, nevertheless, as part of our subconscious, a sabotaging,\nirrational force, causing us to commit strange crimes indeed, made so\nmuch worse because they are often secret even to ourselves. I was,\nthen, prejudiced against the Midwesterner ... against the Californians\ntoo. I felt that the former especially was curiously hostile to\nfreedom, to the interplay of that rational Western culture which I\nhad so lovingly embraced in my boyhood and grown up with, always\nconscious of my citizenship in the world, of my role as a humble but\nappreciative voice in the long conversation. I resented the automobile\nmanufacturers who thought only of manufacturing objects, who distrusted\nideas, who feared the fine with the primitive intensity of implacable\nignorance. Could this cool girl be from Detroit? From that same rich\nsuburb which had provided me with a number of handsome vital classmates\nat school? Boys who had combined physical vigor with a resistance to\nall ideas but those of their suburb which could only be described as\nheroic considering the power of New England schools to crack even the\ntoughest prejudices, at least on the rational level. That these boys\ndid not possess a rational level had often occurred to me, though I\ndid, grudgingly, admire, even in my scorn, their grace and strength\nas well as their confidence in that assembly line which had provided\ntheir parents with large suburban homes and themselves with a classical\nNew England education which, unlike the rest of us, they\u2019d managed\nto resist ... the whole main current of Western civilization eddying\nhelplessly about these youths who stood, pleasantly firm, like so many\nrocks in a desperate channel.\n\nIris Mortimer was one of them. Having learned this there was nothing to\ndo but find sufficient names between us to establish the beginnings of\nthe rapport of class which, even in that late year of the mid-century,\nstill existed: the dowdy aristocracy to which we belonged by virtue of\nfinancial security, at least in childhood, of education, of self-esteem\nand of houses where servants had been in some quantity before the\nsecond of the wars; all this we shared and of course those names in\ncommon of schoolmates, some from her region, others from mine, names\nwhich established us as being of an age. We avoided for some time any\ncomment upon the names, withholding our true selves during the period\nof identification. I discovered too that she, like me, had remained\nunmarried, an exceptional state of affairs, for all the names we had\nmentioned represented two people now instead of one. Ours had been a\nreactionary generation which had attempted to combat the time of wars\nand disasters by a scrupulous observance of its grandparents\u2019 customs,\na direct reaction to the linking generation whose lives had been\nso entertainingly ornamented with self-conscious, untidy alliances,\nwell-fortified by suspect gin. The result was no doubt classic but, at\nthe same time; it was a little shocking: their children were decorous,\nsubdued; they married early, conceived glumly, surrendered to the will\nof their own children in the interests of enlightened psychology; their\nlives enriched by the best gin in the better suburbs, safe among their\nown kind. Yet, miraculously, I had escaped and so apparently had Iris.\nBoth, simultaneously, were aware of this: that sort of swift, unstated\ncommunication which briefly makes human relationships seem more\npotential, more meaningful than actually they are: it is the promise\nperhaps of a perfect harmony never to be achieved in life\u2019s estate.\n\n\u201cYou live here alone?\u201d She indicated the wrong direction though taking\nin, correctly, the river on whose east bank I did live, a few miles to\nthe north of Clarissa.\n\nI nodded. \u201cEntirely alone ... in an old house.\u201d\n\nShe sighed. \u201cNo family?\u201d\n\n\u201cNone here. Not much anywhere else. A few in New Orleans, my family\u2019s\noriginal base.\u201d I waited for her to ask if I never got lonely living\nin a house on the river, remote from others; but she saw nothing\nextraordinary in this.\n\n\u201cIt must be fine,\u201d she said slowly. She broke a leaf off a flowering\nbush whose branch, heavy with blooming, quivered above our heads as we\nsat on the garden bench and watched the dim flash of goldfish in the\nmuddy waters of the pond.\n\n\u201cI like it,\u201d I said, a little disappointed that there was now no\nopportunity for me to construct one of my familiar defenses of a life\nalone: I had, in the five years since my days of travel had temporarily\nended, many occasions on which to defend and glorify the solitary life\nI had chosen for myself beside this river. I had an ever-changing\nrepertoire of feints and thrusts: for instance, with the hearty, I\ninvariably questioned, gently of course, the virtue of a life in\nthe city, confined to a small apartment with uninhibited babies and\nbreathing daily large quantities of soot; or then I sometimes enjoyed\nassuming the prince of darkness pose, alone with his crimes in an\nancient house, a figure which could, if necessary, be quickly altered\nto the more engaging one of remote observer of the ways of men, a stoic\namong his books, sustained by the recorded fragments of forgotten\nbloody days, evoking solemnly the pure essences of nobler times a\nchaste intelligence beyond the combat, a priest celebrating the cool\nmemory of his race. My theater was extensive and I almost regretted\nthat with Iris there was no need for even a brief curtain raiser, much\nless one of my exuberant galas.\n\nNot accustomed to the neutral response, I stammered something about\nthe pleasures of gardens; Iris\u2019s calm indifference saved me from\nwhat might have been a truly mawkish outburst calculated to interest\nher at any cost (mawkish because, I am confident, that none of our\ndeepest wishes or deeds is, finally, when honestly declared, very\nwonderful or mysterious: simplicity not complexity is at the center\nof our being; fortunately the trembling \u201cI\u201d is seldom revealed, even\nto paid listeners, for, conscious of the appalling directness of our\nneeds, we wisely disguise their nature with a legerdemain of peculiar\ncunning). Much of Iris\u2019s attraction for me ... and at the beginning\nthat attraction did exist ... was that one did not need to discuss so\nmany things: of course the better charades were not called into being\nwhich, creatively speaking, was a pity; but then it was a relief _not_\nto pretend and, better still, a relief not to begin the business of\nplumbing shallows under the illusion that a treasure chest of truth\nmight be found on the mind\u2019s sea floor ... a grim ritual which was\npopular in those years, especially in the suburbs and housing projects\nwhere the mental therapists were ubiquitous and busy.\n\nWith Iris, one did not suspend, even at a cocktail party, the usual\nartifices of society. All was understood, or seemed to be, which is\nexactly the same thing. We talked about ourselves as though of absent\nstrangers. Then: \u201cHave you known Clarissa long?\u201d I asked.\n\nShe shook her head. \u201cI met her only last winter.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen this is your first visit here? to the valley?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe first,\u201d she smiled, \u201cbut it\u2019s a little like home, you know. I\ndon\u2019t mean Detroit, but a memory of home, got from books.\u201d\n\nI thought so too. Then she added that she did not read any longer and I\nwas a little relieved; somehow with Iris one wanted not to talk about\nbooks or the past. So much of her charm was that she was entirely in\nthe present. It was her gift, perhaps her finest quality, to invest\nthe moment with a significance which in recollection did not exist\nexcept as a blurred impression of excitement. She created this merely\nby existing. I was never to learn the trick, for her conversation was\nnot, in itself, interesting and her actions were usually calculable in\nadvance, making all the more unusual her peculiar effect. She asked\nme politely about my work, giving me then the useful knowledge that,\nthough she was interested in what _I_ was doing, she was not much\ninterested in the life of the Emperor Julian.\n\nI made it short. \u201cI want to do a biography of him. I\u2019ve always liked\nhistory and so, when I settled down in the house, I chose Julian as my\nwork.\u201d\n\n\u201cA life\u2019s work?\u201d\n\n\u201cHardly. But another few years. It\u2019s the reading which I most enjoy,\nand that\u2019s treacherous. There is so much of interest to read that it\nseems a waste of time and energy to write anything ... especially if\nit\u2019s to be only a reflection of reflections.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen why do it?\u201d\n\n\u201cSomething to say, I suppose; or at least the desire to define and\nilluminate ... from one\u2019s own point of view, of course.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen why ... Julian?\u201d\n\nSomething in the way she said the name convinced me she had forgotten\nwho he was if she had ever known.\n\n\u201cThe apostasy; the last stand of paganism against Christianity.\u201d\n\nShe looked truly interested, for the first time. \u201cThey killed him,\ndidn\u2019t they?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, he died in battle. Had he lived longer he might at least have\nkept the Empire divided between the old gods and the new messiah.\nUnfortunately his early death was their death, the end of the gods.\u201d\n\n\u201cExcept they returned as saints.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, a few found a place in Christianity, assuming new names.\u201d\n\n\u201cMother of God,\u201d she murmured thoughtfully.\n\n\u201cAn unchristian concept, one would have thought,\u201d I added, though\nthe beautiful illogic had been explained to me again and again by\nCatholics: how God could and could not at the same time possess a\nmother, that gleaming queen of heaven, entirely regnant in those days.\n\n\u201cI have often thought about these things,\u201d she said, diffidently.\n\u201cI\u2019m afraid I\u2019m not much of a student but it fascinates me. I\u2019ve\nbeen out in California for the past few years, working. I was on a\nfashion magazine.\u201d The note was exactly right: she knew precisely\nwhat that world meant and she was neither apologetic nor pleased. We\nboth resisted the impulse to begin the names again, threading our\nway through the maze of fashion, through that frantic world of the\nperipheral arts.\n\n\u201cYou kept away from Vedanta?\u201d A group of transplanted English writers\nat this time had taken to oriental mysticism with great eagerness,\nan atonement no doubt for their careers as movie writers. Swamis and\ntemples abounded among the billboards and orange trees; but since it\nwas _the_ way for some it was, for those few at least, honorable.\n\n\u201cI came close.\u201d She laughed. \u201cBut there was too much to read and even\nthen I always felt that it didn\u2019t work for us, for Americans, I mean.\nIt\u2019s probably quite logical and familiar to Asiatics, but we come from\na different line, with a different history; their responses aren\u2019t\nours. But I did feel it was possible for others, which is a great deal.\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause so much is really _not_ possible?\u201d\n\n\u201cExactly. But then I know very little about these things.\u201d She was\ndirect: no implication that what she did not know either did not\nexist or was not worth the knowing, the traditional response in the\nfashionable world.\n\n\u201cAre you working now?\u201d\n\nShe shook her head. \u201cNo, I gave it up. The magazine sent somebody to\ntake my place out there (I didn\u2019t have the 'personality\u2019 they wanted)\nand so I came on to New York where I\u2019ve never really been, except for\nweek ends from school. The magazine had some idea that I might work\ninto the New York office, but I was through. I have worked.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd had enough?\u201d\n\n\u201cFor that sort of thing, yes. So I\u2019ve gone out a lot in New York, met\nmany people; thought a little....\u201d She twisted the leaf that she still\nheld in her fingers, her eyes vague as though focused on the leaf\u2019s\nfaint shadow which fell in depth upon her dress, part upon her dress\nand more on a tree\u2019s branch ending finally in a tiny fragment of shadow\non the ground, like the bottom step of a frail staircase of air.\n\n\u201cAnd here you are, at Clarissa\u2019s.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat an extraordinary woman she is!\u201d The eyes were turned upon me,\nhazel eyes, very clear, the whites luminous with youth.\n\n\u201cShe collects people, but not according to any of the usual criteria.\nShe makes them all fit, somehow, but what it is they fit, what design,\nno one knows. I don\u2019t know, that is.\u201d\n\n\u201cI suppose I was collected. Though it might have been the other way\naround, since I am sure she interests me more than I do her.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is no way of telling.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnyway, I\u2019m pleased she asked me here.\u201d\n\nWe talked of Clarissa with some interest, getting nowhere. Clarissa was\ntruly enigmatic. She had lived for twenty years on the Hudson. She was\nnot married but it was thought she had been. She entertained with great\nskill. She was in demand in New York and also in Europe where she often\ntraveled. But no one knew anything of her origin or of the source of\nher wealth and, oddly enough, although everyone observed her remarkable\n_id\u00e9e fixe_, no one ever discussed it, as though in tactful obedience\nto some obscure sense of form. In the half-dozen years that I had known\nher not once had I discussed with anyone her eccentricity. We accepted\nin her presence the reality of her mania, and there it ended. Some\nwere more interested by it than others. I was fascinated, and having\nsuspended both belief and doubt found her richly knowing in matters\nwhich interested me. Her accounts of various meetings with Labianus in\nAntioch were quite brilliant, all told most literally, as though she\nhad no faculty for invention which perhaps, terrifying thought, she\ntruly lacked, in which case ... but we chose not to speculate. Iris\nspoke of plans.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m going back to California.\u201d\n\n\u201cTired of New York?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, hardly. But I met someone quite extraordinary out there, someone I\nthink I should like to see again.\u201d Her candor made it perfectly clear\nthat her interest was not romantic. \u201cIt\u2019s rather in line too with what\nwe were talking about. I mean your Julian and all that. He\u2019s a kind of\npreacher.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat doesn\u2019t sound promising.\u201d A goldfish made a popping sound as it\ncaptured a dragonfly on the pond\u2019s surface.\n\n\u201cBut he isn\u2019t the usual sort of thing at all. He\u2019s completely different\nbut I\u2019m not sure just how.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn evangelist?\u201d In those days loud men and women were still able to\ncollect enormous crowds by ranging up and down the country roaring\nabout that salvation which might be found in the bosom of the Lamb.\n\n\u201cNo, his own sort of thing entirely. A little like the Vedanta\nteachers, only he\u2019s American, and young.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat does he teach?\u201d\n\n\u201cI ... I\u2019m not sure. No, don\u2019t laugh. I only met him once. At a\nfriend\u2019s house in Santa Monica. He talked very little but one had the\nfeeling that, well, that it was something unusual.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt must have been if you can\u2019t recall what he said.\u201d I revised my\nfirst estimate: it was romantic after all; a man who was young,\nfascinating ... I was almost jealous as a matter of principle.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m afraid I don\u2019t make much sense.\u201d She gestured and the leaf fell\ninto its own shadow on the grass. \u201cPerhaps it was the effect he had on\nthe others that impressed me. They were clever people, worldly people\nyet they listened to him like children.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat does he do? does he preach? work?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know that either. I met him the night before I left California\nand I haven\u2019t seen anyone who was there that evening since.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut now you think you want to go back to find out?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes. I\u2019ve thought about him a great deal these last few weeks. You\u2019d\nthink one would forget such a thing, but I haven\u2019t.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat was his name?\u201d\n\n\u201cCave, I think. John Cave.\u201d\n\n\u201cA pair of initials calculated to amaze the innocent.\u201d Yet even while I\ninvoked irony, I felt with a certain chill in the heat that _this_ was\nto be Clarissa\u2019s plot, and for many days afterwards that name echoed\nin my memory, long after I had temporarily forgotten Iris\u2019s own name,\nhad forgotten, as one does, the whole day, the peony in the boxwood,\nthe leaf\u2019s fall and the catch of the goldfish; instants which now\nlive again in the act of recreation, details which were to fade into\na yellow-green blur of June and of the girl beside me in a garden and\nof that name spoken in my hearing for the first time, becoming in my\nimagination like some bare monolith awaiting the sculptor\u2019s chisel.\n\n\n\n\n                                  TWO\n\n\n                                   1\n\nI did not see Iris again for some months. Nor, for that matter, did I\nsee Clarissa who, the day after our lunch, disappeared on one of her\nmysterious trips ... this time to London, I think, since she usually\ngot there for the season. Clarissa\u2019s comings and goings doubtless\nfollowed some pattern though I could never make much sense of them.\nI was very disappointed not to see her before she left because I had\nwanted to ask her about Iris and also ...\n\n                   *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt has been a difficult day. Shortly after I wrote the lines above,\nthis morning, I heard the sound of an American voice on the street-side\nof the hotel; the first American voice I\u2019ve heard in some years for,\nexcepting me, none has been allowed in Upper Egypt for twenty years.\nThe division of the world has been quite thorough, religiously and\npolitically, and had not some official long ago guessed my identity it\nis doubtful that I should have been granted asylum even in this remote\nregion.\n\nI tried to continue with my writing but it was impossible: I could\nrecall nothing. My attention would not focus on the past, on those\nwraiths which have lately begun to assume again such startling reality\nas I go about the work of memory ... but the past was lost to me this\nmorning. The doors shut and I was marooned in the meager present.\n\nWho was this American who had come to Luxor? and why?\n\nFor a moment the serenity which I have so long practiced failed me and\nI feared for my life. The long-awaited assassins had finally come. But\nthen that animal within who undoes us all with his fierce will to live,\ngrew quiet, accepting again the discipline I have so long maintained\nover him, his obedience due less perhaps to my strong will than to\nhis fatigue, for he is no longer given to those rages and terrors and\nexultations which once dominated me as the moon does the tide: his\ndefeat being my old age\u2019s single victory, and a bitter one.\n\nI took the pages that I had written and hid them in a wide crack in\nthe marble-topped Victorian washstand. I then put on a tie and linen\njacket and, cane in hand, my most bemused and guileless expression upon\nmy face, I left the room and walked down the tall dim corridor to the\nlobby, limping perhaps a little more than was necessary, exaggerating\nmy quiet genuine debility to suggest, if possible, an even greater\nhelplessness. If they had come at last to kill me, I thought it best\nto go to them while I still held in check the creature terror. As I\napproached the lobby, I recalled Cicero\u2019s death and took courage from\nhis example. He too had been old and tired, too exasperated at the last\neven to flee.\n\nMy assassin (if such he is and I still do not know) looks perfectly\nharmless: a red-faced American in a white suit crumpled from heat\nand travel. In atrocious Arabic he was addressing the manager who,\nthough he speaks no English, is competent in French, is accustomed to\nspeaking French to Occidentals. My compatriot, however, was obstinate\nand smothered with a loud voice the polite European cadences of the\nmanager.\n\nI moved slowly to the desk, tapping emphatically with my cane on\nthe tile floor. Both turned; it was the moment which I have so long\ndreaded: the eyes of an American were turned upon me once again. Would\nhe know? _Does_ he know? I felt all the blood leave my head. With a\ngreat effort, I remained on my feet; steadying my voice which has\nnowadays a tendency to quaver even when I am at ease, I said to the\nAmerican, in our own language, the language I had not once spoken in\nnearly twenty years, \u201cCan I be of assistance, sir?\u201d The words sounded\nstrange on my lips and I was aware that I had given them an ornateness\nwhich was quite unlike my usual speech. His look of surprise was, I\nthink, perfectly genuine. I felt a cowardly relief: not yet, not yet.\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d the American stared at me stupidly for a moment (his face is\nable to suggest a marvelous range of incomprehension, as I have since\ndiscovered).\n\n\u201cMy name is Richard Hudson,\u201d I said, pronouncing carefully the name by\nwhich I am known in Egypt, the name with which I have lived so long\nthat it sometimes seems as if all my life before was only a dream,\na fantasy of a time which never was except in reveries, in those\ncurious waking-dreams which I often have these days when I am tired,\nat sundown usually, when my mind often loses all control over itself\nand the memory grows confused with imaginings, and I behold worlds and\nsplendors which I have never known yet which are vivid enough to haunt\nme even in the lucid mornings: I am dying, of course, and my brain is\nonly letting up, releasing its images with a royal abandon, confusing\neverything like those surrealist works of art which had some vogue in\nmy youth.\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d said the American again and then, having accepted my reality, he\npushed a fat red hand toward me. \u201cThe name is Butler, Bill Butler. Glad\nto meet you. Didn\u2019t expect to find another white ... didn\u2019t expect to\nmeet up with an American in these parts.\u201d I shook the hand.\n\n\u201cLet me help you,\u201d I said, letting go the hand quickly. \u201cThe manager\nspeaks no English.\u201d\n\n\u201cI been studying Arabic,\u201d said Butler with a certain sullenness. \u201cJust\nfinished a year\u2019s course at Ottawa Center for this job. They don\u2019t\nspeak it here like _we_ studied it.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt takes time,\u201d I said soothingly. \u201cYou\u2019ll catch the tone.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, I\u2019m sure of that. Tell them I got a reservation.\u201d Butler mopped\nhis full glistening cheeks with a handkerchief.\n\n\u201cYou have a reservation for William Butler?\u201d I asked the manager in\nFrench.\n\nHe shook his head, looking at the register in front of him. \u201cIs he an\nAmerican?\u201d He looked surprised when I said that he was. \u201cBut it didn\u2019t\nsound like English.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe was trying to speak Arabic.\u201d\n\nThe manager sighed. \u201cWould you ask him to show me his passport and\nauthorizations?\u201d\n\nI communicated this to Butler who pulled a bulky envelope from his\npocket and handed it to the manager. As well as I could, without\nappearing inquisitive, I looked at the papers. I could tell nothing.\nThe passport was evidently in order. The numerous authorizations from\nthe Egyptian Government in the Pan-Arabic League, however, seemed to\ninterest the manager intensely.\n\n\u201cPerhaps ...\u201d I began, but he was already telephoning the police.\nThough I speak Arabic with difficulty, I can understand it easily.\nThe manager was inquiring at length about Mr. Butler and about his\nstatus in Egypt. The police chief evidently knew all about him and the\nconversation was short.\n\n\u201cWould you ask him to sign the register?\u201d The manager\u2019s expression was\npuzzled. I wondered what on earth it was all about.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t know why,\u201d said Butler, carving his name into the register with\nthe ancient pen, \u201cthere\u2019s all this confusion. I wired for a room last\nweek from Cairo.\u201d\n\n\u201cCommunications have not been perfected in the Arab countries,\u201d I said\n(fortunately for me, I thought to myself).\n\nWhen he had done registering, a boy came and took his bags and the key\nto his room.\n\n\u201cMuch obliged to you, Mr. Hudson.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot at all.\u201d\n\n\u201cLike to see something of you, if you don\u2019t mind. Wonder if you could\ngive me an idea of the lay of the land.\u201d\n\nI said I should be delighted and we made a date to meet for tea in the\ncool of the late afternoon, on the terrace.\n\nWhen he had gone, I asked the manager about him but he, old friend\nthat he was (he has been manager for twelve years and looks up to me\nas an elder statesman, in the hotel at least, since I have lived there\nlonger), merely shrugged and said, \u201cIt\u2019s too much for me, sir.\u201d And I\ncould get no more out of him.\n\n\n                                   2\n\nThe terrace was nearly cool when we met at six o\u2019clock, at the hour\nwhen the Egyptian sun has just lost its unbearable gold, falling, a\nscarlet disc, into the white stone hills across the dull river which,\nat this season, winds narrowly among the mud-flats, a third of its\nusual size, diminished by heat.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t suppose we could order a drink ... not that I\u2019m much of a\ndrinking man, you know. Get quite a thirst, though, on a day like this.\u201d\n\nI told him that since foreigners had ceased to come here, the bar had\nbeen closed down: Moslems for religious reasons did not use alcohol.\n\n\u201cI know, I know,\u201d he said. \u201cStudied all about them, even read the\nKoran. Frightful stuff, too.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo worse than most documents revealed by heaven,\u201d I said gently, not\nwanting to get on to that subject. \u201cBut tell me what brings you to\nthese parts?\u201d\n\n\u201cI was going to ask _you_ the same thing,\u201d said Butler genially, taking\nthe cup of mint tea which the servant had brought him. On the river\na boat with a red sail tacked slowly in the hot breeze. \u201cThe manager\ntells me you\u2019ve been up here for twenty years.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou must have found a language in common.\u201d\n\nButler chuckled. \u201cThese devils understand you well enough if they want\nto. But you....\u201d\n\n\u201cI was an archaeologist at one time,\u201d I said and I told him the\nfamiliar story which I have repeated so many times now that I have\nalmost come to believe it. \u201cI was from Boston originally. Do you know\nBoston? I often think of those cold winters with a certain longing.\nToo much light can be as trying as too little. Some twenty years ago,\nI decided to retire, to write a book of memoirs.\u201d This was a new,\nplausible touch, \u201cEgypt was always my single passion and so I came\nto Luxor, to this hotel where I\u2019ve been quite content, though hardly\nindustrious.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow come they let you in? I mean there was all that trouble along\naround when the Pan-Arabic League shut itself off from civilization.\u201d\n\n\u201cI was very lucky, I suppose. I had many friends in the academic world\nof Cairo and they were able to grant me a special dispensation.\u201d\n\n\u201cOld hand, then, with the natives?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut a little out of practice. All my Egyptian friends have seen fit to\ndie and I live now as though I were already dead myself.\u201d\n\nThis had the desired effect of chilling him. Though he was still young,\nhardly fifty, the immediacy of death, even when manifested in the\nperson of a chance acquaintance, did inspire a certain gravity.\n\nHe mumbled something which I did not catch. I think my hearing has\nbegun to go: not that I am deaf but I have, at times, a monotonous\nbuzzing in my ears which makes conversation difficult, though not\nimpossible. According to the local doctor my arteries have hardened\nand at any moment one is apt to burst among the convolutions of the\nbrain, drowning my life. But I do not dwell on this, at least not in\nconversation.\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s been a big shake-up in the Atlantic community. Don\u2019t suppose\nyou\u2019d hear much about it around here since from the newspapers I\u2019ve\nseen in Egypt they have a pretty tight censorship.\u201d\n\nI said I knew nothing about recent activities in the Atlantic community\nor anywhere else, other than Egypt.\n\n\u201cWell they\u2019ve worked out an alliance with Pan-Arabia which will open\nthe whole area to us. Of course no oil exploitation is allowed but\nthere\u2019ll still be a lot of legitimate business between our sphere and\nthese people.\u201d\n\nI listened to him patiently while he explained the state of the world\nto me; it seemed unchanged: the only difference was that there were now\nnew and unfamiliar names in high places. He finished with a patriotic\nharangue about the necessity of the civilized to work in harmony\ntogether for the good of mankind: \u201cAnd this opening up of Egypt has\ngiven us the chance we\u2019ve been waiting for for years, and we mean to\ntake it.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou mean to extend trade?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, I mean the Word.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Word?\u201d I repeated numbly, the old fear returning.\n\n\u201cWhy sure; I\u2019m a Cavite Communicator.\u201d He rapped perfunctorily on\nthe table twice. I tapped feebly with my cane on the tile: in the\ndays of the Spanish persecution such signals were a means of secret\ncommunication (not that the persecution had really been so great but\nit had been our decision to dramatize it in order that our people\nmight become more conscious of their splendid if temporary isolation\nand high destiny); it had not occurred to me that, triumphant, the\nCavites should still cling to those bits of fraternal ritual which\nI\u2019d conceived with a certain levity in the early days. But of course\nthe love of ritual, of symbol is peculiar to our race and I reflected\nbleakly on this as I returned the solemn signal which identified us as\nbrother Cavites.\n\n\u201cThe world must have changed indeed,\u201d I said at last. \u201cIt was a Moslem\nlaw that no foreign missionaries be allowed in the Arab League.\u201d\n\n\u201cPressure!\u201d Butler looked very pleased. \u201cNothing obvious of course; had\nto be done though.\u201d\n\n\u201cFor economic reasons?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, for Cavesword. That\u2019s what we\u2019re selling because that\u2019s the one\nthing we\u2019ve got.\u201d And he blinked seriously at the remnant of scarlet\nsun; his voice had grown husky, like a man selling some commodity\non television in the old days. Yet the note of sincerity, whether\nsimulated or genuine, was unmistakably resolute.\n\n\u201cYou may have a difficult time,\u201d I said, not wanting to go on with\nthis conversation but unable to direct it short of walking away. \u201cThe\nMoslems are very stubborn in their faith.\u201d\n\nButler laughed confidently. \u201cWe\u2019ll change all that. It may not be easy\nat first because we\u2019ve got to go slow, feel our way, but once we know\nthe lay of the land, you might say, we\u2019ll be able to produce some big\nbacking, some real backing.\u201d\n\nHis meaning was unmistakable. Already I could imagine those Squads of\nthe Word in action throughout this last terrestrial refuge. Long ago\nthey had begun as eager instruction teams; after the first victories,\nhowever, they had become adept at demoralization, at brain-washing and\nauto-hypnosis, using all the psychological weapons which our race in\nits ingenuity had fashioned in the mid-century, becoming so perfect\nwith the passage of time that imprisonment or execution for unorthodoxy\nwas no longer necessary: even the most recalcitrant, the most virtuous\nman, could be reduced to a sincere and useful orthodoxy, no different\nin quality from his former antagonists, his moment of rebellion\nforgotten, his reason anchored securely at last in the general truth. I\nwas also quite confident that their methods had improved even since my\nenlightened time.\n\n\u201cI hope you\u2019ll be able to save these poor people,\u201d I said, detesting\nmyself for this hypocrisy.\n\n\u201cNot a doubt in the world,\u201d he clapped his hands. \u201cThey don\u2019t know\nwhat happiness we\u2019ll bring them.\u201d Difficult as it was to accept such\nhyperbole, I believed in his sincerity: he is one of those zealots\nwithout whose offices no large work in the world can be successfully\npropagated. I did not feel more than a passing pity for the Moslems:\nthey were doomed but their fate would not unduly distress them for my\ncompanion was perfectly right when he spoke of the happiness which\nwould be theirs: a blithe mindlessness which would in no way affect\ntheir usefulness as citizens. We had long since determined that for the\nmass this was the only humane way of ridding them of superstition in\nthe interest of Cavesword and the better life.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s strange, though, that they should let you in,\u201d I said, quite\naware that he might be my assassin after all, permitted by the Egyptian\ngovernment to destroy me and, with me, the last true memory of the\nmission. I had not completely got over my first impression that Butler\nwas an accomplished actor, sounding me out before the final victory of\nthe Cavites, the necessary death and total obliteration of the person\nand the memory of Eugene Luther, now grown old with a false name in a\nburning land.\n\nIf he was an actor, he was a master. He thumped on interminably about\nAmerica, John Cave and the necessity of spreading his word throughout\nthe world. I listened patiently as the sun went abruptly behind the\nhills and all the stars appeared in the moonless waste of sky. Fires\nappeared in the hovels on the far shore of the Nile, yellow points of\nlight like fireflies hovering by that other river which I shall never\nsee again.\n\n\u201cMust be nearly suppertime.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot quite,\u201d I said, relieved that Butler\u2019s face was now invisible. I\nwas not used to great red faces after my years in Luxor among the lean,\nthe delicate and the dark. Now only his voice was a dissonance in the\nevening.\n\n\u201cHope the food\u2019s edible.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt isn\u2019t bad, though it may take some getting used to.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I\u2019ve a strong stomach. Guess that\u2019s why they chose me for this\njob.\u201d\n\nThis job? could it mean...? but I refused to let myself be panicked.\nI have lived too long with terror to be much moved now; especially\nsince my life of its own generation has brought me to dissolution\u2019s\nedge. \u201cAre there many of you?\u201d I asked politely. The day was ending\nand I was growing weary, all senses blunted and some confused. \u201cMany\nCommunicators?\u201d\n\n\u201cQuite a few,\u201d said Butler. \u201cThey\u2019ve been training us for the last year\nin Canada for the big job of opening up Pan-Arabia. Of course we\u2019ve\nknown for years that it was just a matter of time before the government\ngot us in here.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen you\u2019ve been thoroughly grounded in the Arab culture? and\ndisposition?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, sure. May have to come to you every now and then, though, if you\ndon\u2019t mind.\u201d He chuckled to show that his patronage would be genial.\n\n\u201cI should be honored to assist.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe anticipate trouble at first. We have to go slow. Pretend we\u2019re just\navailable for instruction while we get to know the local big shots.\nThen, when the time comes....\u201d He left the ominous sentence unfinished.\nI could imagine the rest, however. Fortunately, nature by then, with or\nwithout Mr. Butler\u2019s assistance, would have removed me as a witness.\n\nInside the hotel the noise of plates being moved provided a familiar\nreference. I was conscious of being hungry: as the body\u2019s mechanism\njolts to a halt, it wants more fuel than it ever did at its optimum. I\nwanted to go in but before I could gracefully extricate myself Butler\nasked me a question. \u201cYou the only American in these parts?\u201d\n\nI said that I was.\n\n\u201cFunny nothing was said about there being _any_ American up here. I\nguess they didn\u2019t know you were here.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps they were counting me among the American colony at Cairo,\u201d I\nsaid smoothly. \u201cI suppose, officially, I am a resident of that city. I\nwas on the Advisory Board of the Museum.\u201d This was not remotely true\nbut since, to my knowledge, there is no Advisory Board it would be\ndifficult for anyone to establish my absence from it.\n\n\u201cThat must be it.\u201d Butler seemed easily satisfied, perhaps too easily.\n\u201cCertainly makes things a lot easier for us, having somebody like you\nup here, another Cavite, who knows the lingo.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll help in any way I can; though I\u2019m afraid I have passed the age of\nusefulness. Like the British king, I can only advise.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, that\u2019s enough. I\u2019m the active one anyway. My partner takes care\nof the other things.\u201d\n\n\u201cPartner? I thought you were alone.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo. I\u2019m to get my heels in first; then my colleague comes on in a few\nweeks. That\u2019s standard procedure. He\u2019s a psychologist and an authority\non Cavesword. We all are, of course--authorities, that is--but he\u2019s\ngone into the early history and so on a little more thoroughly than us\nfield men usually do.\u201d\n\nSo there was to be another one, a cleverer one. I found myself both\ndreading and looking forward to the arrival of this dangerous person:\nit would be interesting to communicate with a good mind again, or at\nleast an instructed one: though Butler has not given me much confidence\nin the new Cavite Communicators. Nevertheless, I am intensely\ncurious about the Western world since my flight from it. I have been\neffectively cut off from any real communion with the West for two\ndecades. Rumors, stray bits of information sometimes penetrate as far\nas Luxor but I can make little sense of them, for the Cavites are, as\nI well know, not given to candor while the Egyptian newspapers exist\nin a fantasy world of Pan-Arabic dominion. There was so much I wished\nto know that I hesitated to ask Butler, not for fear of giving myself\naway but because I felt that any serious conversation with him would be\npointless: I rather doubted if he knew what he was supposed to know,\nmuch less all the details which I wished to know and which even a\nmoderately intelligent man, if not hopelessly zealous, might be able to\nsupply me with.\n\nI had a sudden idea. \u201cYou don\u2019t happen to have a recent edition of the\nTestament, do you? Mine\u2019s quite old and out of date.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat date?\u201d This was unexpected.\n\n\u201cThe year? I don\u2019t recall. About thirty years old, I should say.\u201d\n\nThere was a silence. \u201cOf course yours is a special case, being marooned\nlike this. There\u2019s a ruling about it which I think will protect you\nfully since you\u2019ve had no contact with the outside; anyway, as a\nCommunicator, I must ask you for your old copy.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy certainly but ...\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll give you a new one, of course. You see it is against the law to\nhave any Testament which predates the second Cavite Council.\u201d\n\nI was beginning to understand: after the schism a second Council had\nbeen inevitable even though no reference to it has ever appeared in the\nEgyptian press. \u201cThe censorship here is thorough,\u201d I said. \u201cI had no\nidea there had been a new Council.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat a bunch of savages!\u201d Butler groaned with disgust. \u201cThat\u2019s going\nto be one of our main jobs, you know, education, freeing the press.\nThere has been almost no communication between the two spheres of\ninfluence....\u201d\n\n\u201cSpheres of influence.\u201d How easily the phrase came to his lips! All\nthe jargon of the journalists of fifty years ago has, I gather, gone\ninto the language, providing the inarticulate with a number of made-up\nphrases calculated to blur even their none too clear meanings. I assume\nof course that Butler is as inarticulate as he seems, that he is\ntypical of the first post-Cavite generation.\n\n\u201cYou must give me a clear picture of what has been happening in America\nsince my retirement.\u201d But I rose to prevent him from giving me, at that\nmoment at least, any further observations on \u201cspheres of influence.\u201d\n\nI stood for a moment, resting on my cane: I had stood up too quickly\nand as usual suffered a spell of dizziness; I was also ravenously\nhungry. Butler stamped out a cigarette on the tile.\n\n\u201cBe glad to tell you anything you want to know. That\u2019s my business.\u201d\nHe laughed shortly. \u201cWell, time for chow. I\u2019ve got some anti-bacteria\ntablets they gave us before we came out, supposed to keep the food from\npoisoning us.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m sure you won\u2019t need them here.\u201d\n\nHe kept pace with my slow shuffle. \u201cWell, it increases eating pleasure,\ntoo.\u201d Inadvertently, I shuddered as I recognized yet another glib\nphrase from the past; it had seemed such a good idea to exploit the\nvulgar language of the advertisers. I suffered a brief spasm of guilt.\n\n\n                                   3\n\nWe dined together in the airy salon which was nearly empty at this\nseason except for a handful of government officials and businessmen\nwho eyed us without much interest even though Americans are not a\ncommon sight in Egypt. They were of course used to me although, as\na rule, I keep out of sight, taking my meals in my own room and\nfrequenting those walks along the river bank which avoid altogether the\ntown of Luxor.\n\nI found, after I had dined, that physically I was somewhat restored,\nbetter able to cope with Butler. In fact, inadvertently, I actually\nfound myself, in the madness of my great age, enjoying his company, a\nsure proof of loneliness if not of senility. He too, after taking pills\ncalculated to fill him \u201cchock full of vim and vigor\u201d (that is indeed\nthe phrase he used), relaxed considerably and spoke of his life in the\nUnited States. He had no talent for evoking what he would doubtlessly\ncall \u201cthe large picture\u201d but in a casual, disordered way he was able\nto give me a number of details about his own life and work which did\nsuggest the proportions of the world from which he had so recently come\nand which I had, in my folly, helped create.\n\nOn religious matters he was unimaginative and doctrinaire, concerned\nwith the letter of the commands and revelations rather than with the\nspirit such as it was, or is. I could not resist the dangerous maneuver\nof asking him, at the correct moment of course (we were speaking of the\ntime of the schisms), what had become of Eugene Luther.\n\n\u201cWho?\u201d\n\nThe coffee cup trembled in my hand. I set it carefully on the table. I\nwondered if _his_ hearing was sound. I repeated my own name, long lost\nto me, but mine still in the secret dimness of memory.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t place the name. Was he a friend of the Liberator?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, yes. I even used to know him slightly but that was many years\nago, before your time. I\u2019m curious to know what might have become of\nhim. I suppose he\u2019s dead.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m sorry but I don\u2019t place the name.\u201d He looked at me with some\ninterest. \u201cI guess you must be almost old enough to have seen _him_.\u201d\n\nI nodded, lowering my lids with a studied reverence, as though dazzled\nat the recollection of great light. \u201cI saw him several times.\u201d\n\n\u201cBoy, I envy you! There aren\u2019t many left who have seen _him_ with their\nown eyes. What was he like?\u201d\n\n\u201cJust like his photographs,\u201d I said, shifting the line of inquiry:\nthere is always the danger that a trap is being prepared for me. I was\nnoncommittal, preferring to hear Butler talk of himself. Fortunately,\nhe preferred this too and for nearly an hour I learned as much as I\nshall ever need to know about the life of at least one Communicator\nof Cavesword. While he talked, I watched him furtively for some sign\nof intention but there was none that I could detect; yet I _was_\nsuspicious. He had not known my name and I could not understand what\nobscure motive might cause him to pretend ignorance unless of course he\n_does_ know who I am and wishes to confuse me, preparatory to some trap.\n\nI excused myself soon afterwards and went to my room, after first\naccepting a copy of the newest Testament handsomely bound in Plasticon\n(it looks like leather) and promising to give him my old proscribed\ncopy the next day.\n\nThe first thing that I did, after locking the door to my room, was to\ntake the book over to my desk and open it to the index. My eye traveled\ndown that column of familiar names until it came to the L\u2019s.\n\nAt first I thought that my eyes were playing a trick upon me. I held\nthe page close to the light, wondering if I might not have begun to\nsuffer delusions, the not unfamiliar concomitant of solitude and old\nage. But my eyes were adequate and the hallucination, if real, was\nvastly convincing: my name was no longer there. Eugene Luther no longer\nexisted in that Testament which was largely his own composition.\n\nI let the book shut of itself, as new books will. I sat down at the\ndesk, understanding at last the extraordinary ignorance of Butler: I\nhad been obliterated from history; my place in time erased. It was as\nif I had never lived.\n\n\n\n\n                                 THREE\n\n\n                                   1\n\nI have had in the last few days some difficulty in avoiding the company\nof Mr. Butler. Fortunately, he is now very much involved with the local\nfunctionaries and I am again able to return to my narrative. I don\u2019t\nthink Butler has been sent here to assassinate me but, on the other\nhand, from certain things he has said and not said, I am by no means\nsecure in his ignorance; however, one must go on. At best, it will be\na race between him and those hardened arteries which span the lobes\nof my brain. My only curiosity concerns the arrival next week of his\ncolleague who is, I gather, of the second generation and of a somewhat\nbookish turn according to Butler who would not, I fear, be much of a\njudge. Certain things, though, which I have learned during the last\nfew days about Iris Mortimer make me more than ever wish to recall our\ncommon years as precisely as possible for what I feared might happen\nhas indeed, if Butler is to be believed, come to pass, and it is now\nwith a full burden of hindsight that I revisit the scenes of a half\ncentury ago.\n\n\n                                   2\n\nI had got almost nowhere with my life of Julian. I had become\ndiscouraged with his personality though his actual writings continued\nto delight me. As it so often happens in history I had found it\ndifficult really to get at him: the human attractive part of Julian\nwas undone for me by those bleak errors in deed and in judgment which\ndepressed me even though they derived most logically from the man and\nhis time: that fatal wedding which finally walls off figures of earlier\nages from the present, keeping them strange despite the most intense\nand imaginative recreation. They are not we. We are not they. And I\nrefused to resort to the low trick of fashioning Julian in my own image\nof him. I respected his integrity in time and deplored the division\nof centuries. My work at last came to a halt and, somewhat relieved,\nI closed my house in the autumn of the year and traveled west to\nCalifornia.\n\nI had a small income which made modest living and careful travel easy\nfor me ... a fortunate state of affairs since, in my youth, I was of an\nintense disposition, capable of the passions and violence of a Rimbaud\nwithout, fortunately, the will to translate them into reality; had I\nhad more money, or none, I might have died young, leaving behind the\nbrief memory of a minor romanticist. As it was, I had a different role\nto play in the comedy; one for which I was, after some years of reading\nbeside my natal river, peculiarly fitted to play.\n\nI journeyed to southern California where I had not been since my\nservice in one of the wars. I had never really explored that exotic\nland and I was curious about it, more curious than I have ever been\nbefore or since about any single part of the world. Egypt one knows\nwithout visiting it, and China the same; but that one area of sandy\nbeaches and orange groves which circles the city of Los Angeles, an\nartificial place created from desert and sure to lapse back again into\ndust the moment some national disaster breaks its line of life and the\nwaters no longer flow, has always fascinated me.\n\nI was of course interested in the movies, though they no longer had\nthe same hold over the public imagination that they had had in earlier\ndecades when a process of film before light could project, larger\nthan life, not only on vast screens but also upon the impressionable\nminds of an enormous audience made homogeneous by a common passion,\nshadowy figures which, like the filmy envelopes of the stoic deities,\nfloated to earth in public dreams, suggesting a braver more perfect\nworld where love reigned and only the wicked died. But then time\npassed and the new deities lost their worshipers: there were too many\ngods and the devotees got too used to them, realizing finally that\nthey were only mortals, involved not in magical rites but in a sordid\nbusiness. Television (the home altar) succeeded the movies and their\nonce populous and ornate temples, modeled tastefully on baroque and\nByzantine themes, fell empty, the old gods moving to join the new\nhierarchies, becoming the domesticated godlings of television which,\nalthough it held the attention of the majority of the population,\ndid not enrapture, did not possess dreams or shape days with longing\nand with secret imaginings the way the classic figures of an earlier\ntime had. Though I was of an age to recall the gallant days of the\nmovies, the nearly mythical power which they had held for millions of\npeople, not all simple, I was not really interested in that aspect of\nCalifornia. I was more intrigued by the manners, by the cults, by the\nworks of this coastal people so unlike the older world of the East and\nso antipathetic to our race\u2019s first home in Europe. Needless to say, I\nfound them much like everyone else, except for minor differences of no\nreal consequence.\n\nI stayed at a large hotel not too happily balanced in design between\nthe marble-and-potted-palm d\u00e9cor of the Continental Hotel in Paris and\nthe chrome and glass of an observation car on a newer train.\n\nI unpacked, telephoned friends most of whom were not home. The one whom\nat last I found in was the one I knew the least, a minor film writer\nwho had married money with great success and had, most altruistically,\ngiven up the composition of films for which the remaining movie-goers\nwere no doubt thankful. He devoted his time to assisting his wife in\nbecoming the first hostess of Beverly Hills. She had, I recalled from\none earlier meeting, the mind of a child of twelve, but an extremely\nactive child and a good one.\n\nHastings, such was the writer\u2019s name (her name was either Ethel or\nValerie, two names which I always confuse due to a particularly\nrevolutionary course I once took in mnemonics), invited me immediately\nto a party. I went.\n\nIt seemed like spring though it was autumn, and it seemed like an\nassortment of guests brought together in a ship\u2019s dining room to\ncelebrate New Year\u2019s Eve though, in fact, the gathering was largely\nmade up of close acquaintances. Since I knew almost no one, I had a\nsplendid time.\n\nMy hostess, beyond a brilliant greeting, a gold figure all in\ngreen with gold dust in her hair, left me alone. Hastings was more\nsolicitous, a nervous gray man with a speech impediment which took the\nform of a rather charming sign before any word which began with an\naspirate.\n\n\u201cWe, ah, have a better place coming up. Farther up the mountains with\na marvelous view of the, ah, whole city. You will love it, Gene. Ah,\nhaven\u2019t signed a lease yet, but soon.\u201d While we talked he steered me\nthrough the crowds of handsome and bizarre people (none of them was\nfrom California I discovered: most were Central Europeans or British;\nthose who were not pretended to be one or the other; some sounded\nlike both). I was introduced to magnificent girls exactly like their\nmovie selves but since they all tended to look a great deal alike, the\neffect was somehow spoiled. But I was a tourist and not critical. I\ntold a striking blonde that she would indeed be excellent in a musical\nextravaganza based upon _The Sea Gull_. She thought so too and my host\nand I moved on to the patio.\n\nBeside a jade-green pool illuminated from beneath (and a little dirty,\nI noticed, with leaves floating upon the water: the d\u00e9cor was becoming\ntarnished, the sets had been used too long and needed striking.\nHollywood was becoming old without distinction), a few of the quieter\nguests sat in white iron chairs while paper lanterns glowed prettily on\nthe palms and everywhere, untidily, grew roses, jasmine and lilac: it\nwas a fantastic garden, all out of season and out of place. The guests\nbeside the pool were much the same; except for one: Clarissa.\n\n\u201cYou know each other?\u201d Hastings\u2019 voice, faintly pleased, was drowned by\nour greetings and I was pulled into a chair by Clarissa who had elected\nto dress herself like an odalisque which made her look, consequently,\nmore indigenous than any of the other guests; this was perhaps her\ngenius: her marvelous adaptiveness.\n\n\u201cWe\u2019ll be quite happy here,\u201d said Clarissa, waving our host away. \u201cGo\nand abuse your other guests.\u201d\n\nHastings trotted off; those who had been talking to Clarissa talked to\nthemselves and beneath a flickering lantern the lights of Los Angeles,\nrevealed in a wedge between two hills, added the proper note of lunacy,\nfor at the angle from which I viewed those lights they seemed to form a\nmonster Christmas tree, poised crazily in the darkness.\n\nClarissa and I exchanged notes on the months that had intervened since\nour luncheon.\n\n\u201cAnd you gave up Julian, too?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes ... but why 'too\u2019?\u201d I was irritated by the implication that I gave\nup all things before they were properly done.\n\n\u201cI feel you don\u2019t finish things, Eugene. Not that you should; but I\n_do_ worry about you.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s good of you,\u201d I said, discovering that at a certain angle the\nChristmas tree could be made to resemble a rocket\u2019s flare arrested in\nspace.\n\n\u201cNow don\u2019t take that tone with me. I have your interest at heart.\u201d She\nexpressed herself with every sign of sincerity in that curious flat\nlanguage which she spoke so fluently yet which struck upon the ear\nuntruly, as though it were, in its homeliness, the highest artifice.\n\n\u201cBut I\u2019ve taken care of everything, you know. Wait and see. If you\nhadn\u2019t come out here on your own I should have sent for you....\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd I would have come?\u201d\n\n\u201cNaturally.\u201d She smiled.\n\n\u201cBut for what?\u201d\n\n\u201cFor ... _she\u2019s_ here. In Los Angeles.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou mean that girl who came to lunch?\u201d I disguised my interest,\nbut Clarissa, ignoring me, went on talking as energetically and as\nobliquely as ever.\n\n\u201cShe\u2019s asked for you several times, which is a good sign. I told her I\nsuspected you\u2019d be along but that one never could tell, especially if\nyou were still tied up with Julian, unlikely as that prospect was.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I do finish some things.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m sure you do. In any case, the girl has been here over a month and\nyou must see her as soon as possible.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019d like to.\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course you would. I still have my plot, you know. Oh, you may think\nI forget things but I don\u2019t: my mind is a perfect filing system.\u201d\n\n\u201cCould you tell me just _what_ you are talking about?\u201d\n\nShe chuckled and wagged a finger at me. \u201cSoon you\u2019ll know. I know I\nmeddle a good deal, more than I should, but after all this time it\nwould be simply impossible for me _not_ to interfere. I see it coming,\none of those really exciting moments and I want just to give it a\ntickle here, a push there to set it rolling. Oh, what fun it will be!\u201d\n\nHastings crept back among us, diffidently pushing a star and a\nproducer in our direction. \u201cI think you all ought to know each other,\nClarissa ... and, ah, Gene too. This is Miss ... and Mr ... and here\nin Hollywood ... when you get to New York ... house on the river,\nwonderful, old ... new film to cost five million ... runner-up for the\nAcademy Award.\u201d He did it all very well, I thought. Smiles gleamed in\nthe patio\u2019s half-light. The star\u2019s paste jewels, borrowed from her\nstudio, glimmered like an airliner\u2019s lighted windows. I moved toward\nthe house, but Clarissa\u2019s high voice restrained me at the door: \u201cYou\u2019ll\ncall Iris tomorrow, won\u2019t you?\u201d and she shouted an exchange and a\nnumber. I waved to show that I\u2019d heard her then, vowing I would never\ntelephone Iris, I rejoined the party and watched with fascination\nas the various performers performed in the living room to the\naccompaniment of a grand piano just barely out of tune.\n\n\n                                   3\n\nI waited several days before I telephoned Iris. Days of considerable\nactivity, of visiting friends and acquaintances, of attending parties\nwhere the guests were precisely the same as the ones I had met at\nHastings\u2019 house: every one of them bent upon combating boredom with\nboredom, creating a desert in a dry land. But I was capable of evoking\nmirages which decorated for me _their_ desert, made unusual (for myself\nat least) what, with familiarity, might become impossible.\n\nI met Iris at the house where she was staying near the main beach of\nSanta Monica: a fairly decorous Spanish house, quiet among palms and\nclose to the sea. The day was vivid; the sea made noise; the wind was\ngentle, smelling of salt and far countries.\n\nI parked my rented car and walked around to the sea side of the house.\nIris came forward to meet me, smiling, hand outstretched, her face\nwhich I had remembered as being remarkably pale was flushed with\nsunlight.\n\n\u201cI hoped you\u2019d come,\u201d she said, and she slipped her arm in mine as\nthough we\u2019d been old friends and led me to a deck chair adjoining the\none where she\u2019d been seated, reading. We sat down. \u201cFriends let me have\nthis place. They went to Mexico for two months and lent me the house.\u201d\n\n\u201cUseful friends.\u201d\n\n\u201cAren\u2019t they? I\u2019ve already put down roots here in the sand and I\u2019ll\nhate to give it back.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, wouldn\u2019t it be wonderful.\u201d She smiled vaguely and looked beyond me\nat the flash of sea in the flat distance. An automobile horn sounded\nthrough the palms; a mother called her child: we were a part of the\nworld, even here.\n\n\u201cClarissa told me you\u2019ve been out several months.\u201d\n\nIris nodded. \u201cI came back. I think I told you I was going to.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo see the man?\u201d\n\n\u201cWould you like something to drink?\u201d She changed the subject with a\ndisconcerting shift of her gaze from the ocean to me, her eyes still\ndazzled with the brilliance of light on water. I looked away and shook\nmy head.\n\n\u201cToo early in the day. But I want to take you to dinner tonight, if I\nmay. Somewhere along the coast.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019d like it very much.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you know of a place?\u201d\n\nShe suggested several. Then we went inside and she showed me a room\nwhere I might change into my bathing suit; we were to swim.\n\nWe walked through the trees to the main road on the other side of\nwhich the beach glowed white in the sun. It was deserted at this point\nalthough, in the distance, other bathers could be seen, tiny figures\nblack against the startling white, moving about like insects on a white\ncloth.\n\nFor a time we swam contentedly, not speaking, not thinking, our various\nurgencies (or their lack) no longer imposed upon the moment. At such\ntimes, in those days, I was able through the body\u2019s strenuous use to\nreduce the miserable demands of the yearning self to a complacent\nharmony, with all things in proper proportion: a part of the whole and\nnot the whole itself, though, metaphorically speaking, perhaps that\nwhich conceives reality is reality itself. But such nice divisions\nand distinctions were of no concern to me that afternoon in the sun,\nswimming with Iris, the mechanism which spoils time with questioning\nswitched off by the body\u2019s euphoria.\n\nAnd yet, for all this, no closer to one another, no wiser about one\nanother in any precise sense, we drove that evening in silence to a\nrestaurant of her choosing on the beach to the north: a ramshackle\nplace filled with candlelight, the smell of tar, old nets: \u201catmosphere\u201d\nwhich was nearly authentic. After wine and fish and coffee, we talked.\n\n\u201cClarissa is bringing us together.\u201d\n\nI nodded, accepting the plain statement as a fact. \u201cThe matchmaking\ninstinct is, I suppose....\u201d\n\n\u201cNot that at all.\u201d Her face was in a half-light and looked as it had\nwhen we first met: pale, withdrawn, all the day\u2019s color drained out of\nit. Above the sea, Orion\u2019s belt dipped in the deep sky. The evening\nstar all silver set. We were early and had this place to ourselves.\n\n\u201cThen what? Clarissa\u2019s motives are always clear, at least to herself.\nShe never does anything that doesn\u2019t contribute to some private design\n... though what she\u2019s up to half the time I don\u2019t dare guess.\u201d\n\nIris smiled. \u201cNor I. But she is at least up to something which concerns\nus both and I\u2019m not sure that she may not be right, about the two of\nus, I mean ... though of course it\u2019s too soon to say.\u201d\n\nI was conventional enough at first to assume that Iris was speaking of\nourselves, most boldly, in terms of some emotional attachment and I\nwondered nervously how I might indicate without embarrassment to her\nthat I was effectively withdrawn from all sexuality and that, while\nmy emotions were in no way impaired, I had been forced to accept a\nphysical limitation to any act of affection which I might direct at\nanother; consequently, I avoided as well as I could those situations\nwhich might betray me, and distress another. Though I have never been\nunduly grieved by this incompletion, I had come to realize only too\nwell from several disquieting episodes in my youth that this flaw in me\npossessed the unanticipated power of shattering others who, unwarily,\nhad moved to join with me in the traditional duet only to find an\nimplacable surface where they had anticipated a creature of flesh like\nthemselves, as eager as they, as governed by the blood\u2019s solemn tide: I\nhad caused pain against my will and I did not want Iris hurt.\n\nFortunately, Iris had begun to move into a different, an unexpected\nconjunction with me, one which had in it nothing of the familiar or\neven of the human: it was in that hour beneath Orion\u2019s glitter that\nwe were, without warning, together volatilized onto that archetypal\nplane where we were to play with such ferocity at being gods, a flawed\nMercury and a dark queen of heaven, met at the sea\u2019s edge, disguised\nas human beings but conscious of one another\u2019s true identity for\nthough our speeches, our arias were all prose, beneath the usual talk\nrecognition had occurred, sounding with the deep resonance of a major\nchord struck among dissonances.\n\nWe crossed the first division easily. She was, in her way, as removed\nas I from the flesh\u2019s wild need to repeat itself in pleasure. There\nwas no need for us ever to discuss my first apprehension. We were able\nto forget ourselves, to ignore the mortal carriage. The ritual began\nsimply enough.\n\n\u201cClarissa knows what is happening here. That\u2019s why she has come West,\nthough she can\u2019t bear California. She wants to be in on it the way\nshe\u2019s in on everything else, or thinks she is.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou mean John Cave, your _magus_?\u201d It was the first time I had ever\nsaid that name: the sword was between us now, both edges sharp.\n\n\u201cYou guessed? or did she tell you that was why I came back?\u201d\n\n\u201cI assumed it. I remembered what you said to me last spring.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe is more than ... _magus_, Eugene.\u201d And this was the first time\nshe had said _my_ name: closer, closer. I waited. \u201cYou will see him.\u201d\nI could not tell if this was intended as a question or a prophecy. I\nnodded. She continued to talk, her eyes on mine, intense and shining.\nOver her shoulder the night was black and all the stars flared twice,\nonce in the sky and again upon the whispering smooth ocean at our feet,\none real and one illusion: both light.\n\n\u201cIt is really happening,\u201d she said and then, deliberately, she\nlightened her voice. \u201cYou\u2019ll see when you meet him. I know of course\nthat there have been thousands of these prophets, these saviors in\nevery country and in every time. I also know that this part of America\nis particularly known for religious maniacs. I started with every\nprejudice, just like you.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot prejudice ... skepticism: perhaps indifference. Even if he should\nbe an effective one, one of the chosen gods and wonder-workers, should\nI care? I must warn you, Iris, that I\u2019m not a believer. And though I\u2019m\nsure that the revelations of other men must be a source of infinite\nsatisfaction to them, individually, I shouldn\u2019t for one second be so\npresumptuous as to make a choice among the many thousands of recorded\nrevelations of truth, accepting one at the expense of all the others: I\nmight so easily choose wrong and get into eternal trouble. And you must\nadmit that the selection is wide, and dangerous to the amateur.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re making fun of me,\u201d said Iris, but she seemed to realize that I\nwas approaching the object in my own way. \u201cHe\u2019s not like that at all.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut obviously if he is to be useful he must be accepted and he can\u2019t\nbe accepted without extending his revelation or whatever he calls it\nand I fail to see how he can communicate, short of hypnotism or drugs,\nthe sense of his vision to someone like myself who, in a sloppy but\ndevoted way, has wandered through history and religion, acquiring with\na collector\u2019s delight the more colorful and obscure manifestations\nof divine guidance, revealed to us through the inspired systems of\nphilosophers and divines, not to mention such certified prophets as the\ncustodians of the Sibylline books. '_Illo die hostem Romanorum esse\nperiturum_\u2019 was the instruction given poor Maxentius when he marched\nagainst Constantine: needless to say he perished and consequently\nfulfilled the prophecy by _himself_ becoming the enemy of Rome, to his\nsurprise I suspect. My point, though, in honoring you with the only\ncomplete Latin sentence which I can ever recall is that at no time\ncan we escape the relativity of our judgments. Truth for us, whether\ninspired by messianic frenzy or merely illuminated by reason, is, after\nall, inconstant and subject to change with the hour. You believe now\nwhatever it is this man says. Splendid. But will the belief be true to\nyou at another hour of your life? I wonder. For even if you wish to\nremain consistent and choose to ignore inconvenient evidence in the\nstyle of the truly devoted, the truly pious, will not your prophet\n_himself_ have changed with time\u2019s passage? for no human being can\nremain the same, despite the repetition of....\u201d\n\n\u201cEnough, enough!\u201d she laughed aloud and put her hand between us as\nthough to stop the words in air. \u201cYou\u2019re talking such nonsense.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps. It\u2019s not at all easy to say what one thinks when it\ncomes to these problems or, for that matter, to any problem which\ndemands articulation. Sometimes one is undone by the flow of words\nassuming its own direction, carrying one, protesting, away from the\nanticipated shore to _terra incognita_. Other times, at the climax of\na particularly telling analogy, one is aware that in the success of\nwords the meaning has got lost. Put it this way, finally, _accurately_:\nI accept no man\u2019s authority in that realm where we are all equally\nignorant. The beginning and the end of creation are not our concern.\nThe eventual disposition of the human personality which we treasure in\nour conceit as being among the more poignant ornaments of an envious\nuniverse is unknown to us and shall so remain until we learn the\ntrick of raising the dead. God, or what have you, will not be found\nat the far end of a syllogism, no matter how brilliantly phrased and\nconceived. We are prisoners in our flesh, dullards in divinity as the\nGreeks would say. No man can alter this though of course human beings\ncan be made to _believe_ anything. You can teach that fire is cold\nand ice is hot but nothing changes except the words. So what can your\n_magus_ do? What can he celebrate except that which is visible and\napparent to all eyes? What can he offer me that I should accept his\nauthority, and its source?\u201d\n\nShe sighed, \u201cI\u2019m not sure he wants anything for himself; acceptance,\nauthority ... one doesn\u2019t think of such things, at least not now. As\nfor his speaking with the voice of some new or old deity, he denies the\nreality of any power other than the human....\u201d\n\n\u201cA strange sort of messiah.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve been trying to tell you this.\u201d She smiled. \u201cHe sounds at times\nnot unlike you just now ... not so glib perhaps.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow you mock _me_.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo more than you deserve for assuming facts without evidence.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf he throws over all the mystical baggage what is left? an ethical\nsystem?\u201d\n\n\u201cIn time, I suppose, that will come. So far there is no system. You\u2019ll\nsee for yourself soon enough.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ve yet to answer any direct question I have put to you.\u201d\n\nShe laughed. \u201cPerhaps there is a significance in that; perhaps you ask\nthe wrong questions....\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd perhaps you have no answers.\u201d\n\n\u201cWait.\u201d\n\n\u201cFor how long?\u201d\n\nShe looked at her watch by the candles\u2019 uncertain light. \u201cFor an hour.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou mean we\u2019re to see him tonight?\u201d\n\n\u201cUnless you\u2019d rather not.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, I want to see him, very much.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe\u2019ll want to see you too, I think.\u201d She looked at me thoughtfully\nbut I could not guess her intention; it was enough that two lines had\ncrossed, both moving inexorably toward a third, toward a temporary\nterminus at the progression\u2019s heart.\n\n\n                                   4\n\nIt is difficult now to recall just what I expected. Iris deliberately\nchose not to give me any clear idea of either the man or of his\nteachings or even of the meeting which we were to attend; we talked of\nother things as we drove in the starlight north along the ocean road,\nthe sound of waves striking sand loud in our ears.\n\nIt was nearly an hour\u2019s drive from the restaurant to the place where\nthe meeting was to be held. Iris directed me accurately and we soon\nturned from the main highway into a neon-lighted street; then off\ninto a suburban area of comfortable-looking middle-class houses with\ngardens. Trees lined the streets; dogs barked; yellow light gleamed\nat downstairs windows. Silent families were gathered in after-dinner\nsolemnity before television sets, absorbed by the spectacle of figures\nsinging, dancing and telling jokes.\n\nAs we drove down the empty streets, I saw ruins and dust where houses\nwere and, among the powdery debris of stucco all in mounds, the rusted\nantennae of television sets like the bones of awful beasts whose\nvague but terrible proportions will alone survive to attract the\nunborn stranger\u2019s eye. But the loathing of one\u2019s own time is a sign of\ninnocence, of faith. I have come since to realize the wholeness of man\nin time. That year, perhaps that ride down a deserted evening street\nof a California suburb, was my last conscious moment of particular\ndisgust: television, the Blues and the Greens, the perfidy of Carthage,\nthe efficacy of rites to the moon ... all were at last the same.\n\n\u201cThat house over there, with the light in front, with the clock.\u201d\n\nThe house, to my surprise, was a large neo-Georgian funeral parlor\nwith a lighted clock in front crowned by a legend discreetly fashioned\nin Gothic gold on black: _Whittaker and Dormer, Funeral Directors_. A\ndozen cars had been parked closely together in the street and I was\nforced to park nearly a block away.\n\nWe walked along the sidewalk, street lamps behind trees cast shadows\nthick and intricate upon the pavement. \u201cIs there any particular\nsignificance?\u201d I asked. \u201cI mean in the choice of meeting place?\u201d\n\nShe shook her head. \u201cNot really, no. We meet wherever it\u2019s convenient.\nMr Dormer is one of us and has kindly offered his chapel for the\nmeetings.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs there any sort of ritual I should observe?\u201d\n\nShe laughed. \u201cOf course not. This isn\u2019t at all what you think.\u201d\n\n\u201cI think nothing.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen you are prepared. I should tell you, though, that until this year\nwhen a number of patrons made it possible for him\u201d (already I could\nidentify the \u201chim\u201d whenever it fell from her lips, round with reverence\nand implication) \u201cto devote all his time to teaching, he was for ten\nyears an undertaker\u2019s assistant in Oregon and Washington.\u201d\n\nI said nothing. It was just as well to get past this first obstacle\nall at once. There was no reason of course to scorn that necessary if\noverwrought profession; yet somehow the thought of a savior emerging\nfrom those unctuous formaldehyde-smelling ranks seemed ludicrous. I\nreminded myself that one of the more successful messiahs had been a\ncarpenter and that another had been a politician ... but an embalmer!\nMy anticipation of great news was chilled; I prepared myself for grim\ncomedy.\n\nIris would tell me nothing more about the meeting or about _him_ as we\ncrossed the lawn. She opened the door to the house and we stepped into\na softly lighted anteroom. A policeman and a civilian, the one gloomy\nand the other cheerful, greeted us.\n\n\u201cAh, Miss Mortimer!\u201d said the civilian, a gray, plump pigeon of a man.\n\u201cAnd a friend, how good to see you both.\u201d No this was not _he_. I was\nintroduced to Mr. Dormer who chirped on until he was interrupted by the\npoliceman.\n\n\u201cCome on, you two, in here. Got to get the prints and the oath.\u201d\n\nIris motioned me to follow the policeman into a sideroom, an office.\nI\u2019d heard of this national precaution but until now I had had no\ndirect experience of it. Since the attempt of the communists to\ncontrol our society had, with the collapse of Russian foreign policy,\nquite failed, our government in its collective wisdom had decided\nthat never again would any sect or party, other than the traditional\nones, be allowed to interrupt the rich flow of the nation\u2019s life. As\na result, all deviationist societies were carefully watched by the\npolice who fingerprinted and photographed those who attended meetings,\nsimultaneously exacting an oath of allegiance to the Constitution and\nthe Flag which ended with that powerful invocation which a recent\npresident\u2019s speech writer had, in a moment of inspiration, struck\noff to the delight of his employer and nation: \u201cIn a true democracy\nthere is no place for any disagreement on truly great issues.\u201d It is\na comment on those years, now happily become history, that only a few\never considered the meaning of this resolution, proving of course that\nwords are never a familiar province to the great mass which prefers\nrecognizable pictures to even the most apposite prose.\n\nIris and I repeated dutifully in the presence of the policeman and an\nAmerican flag, the various national sentiments. We were then allowed to\ngo back to the anteroom and to Mr. Dormer who himself led us into the\nchapel.\n\nSeveral dozen people were already there, perfectly ordinary-looking\nmen and women, better dressed perhaps than the average. The chapel was\na nonsectarian one which managed to combine a number of decorative\ninfluences with a blandness quite remarkable in its success at not\nreally representing anything while suggesting, at the same time,\neverything. The presence of a dead body, a man carefully painted and\nwearing a blue serge suit, gently smiling in an ebony casket behind a\nbank of flowers at the chapel\u2019s end, did not detract as much as one\nmight have supposed from the occasion\u2019s importance. After the first\nuneasiness, it was quite possible to accept the anonymous dead man as a\npart of the d\u00e9cor. There was even, in later years, an attempt made by a\ngroup of Cavite enthusiasts to insist upon the presence of an embalmed\ncorpse at every service but fortunately the more practical elements\namong the Cavites prevailed, though not without an ugly quarrel and\nharsh words.\n\nJohn Cave\u2019s entrance followed our own by a few minutes and it is with\ndifficulty that I recall what it was that I felt on seeing him for the\nfirst time. Though my recollections are well-known to all (at least\nthey _were_ well-known, although now I am less certain, having seen\nButler\u2019s Testament so strangely altered), I must record here that I\ncannot, after so many years, so much history, recall in any emotional\ndetail my first reaction to this man who was to be the world\u2019s, as well\nas my own, peculiar nemesis.\n\nBut, concentrating fiercely, emptying my mind of later knowledge, I can\nstill see him as he walked down the aisle of the chapel, a small man\nwho moved with some grace. He was younger than I\u2019d expected or, rather,\nyounger-looking, with short straight hair, light brown in color, a\nlean regular face which would not have been noticed in a crowd unless\none had got close enough to see the expression of the eyes: the large\ndiver eyes with black lashes like a thick line drawn on the pale skin,\nfocusing attention to them, to the congenitally small pupils which\nglittered like the points of black needles, betraying the will and the\nambition which the impassive, gentle face belied ... but I am speaking\nwith future knowledge now: I did not that evening think of ambition\nor will in terms of John Cave. I was merely curious, intrigued by the\nsituation, by the intensity of Iris, by the serene corpse behind the\nbanks of hothouse flowers, by the thirty or forty men and women who\nsat close to the front of the chapel, listening intently to Cave as he\ntalked.\n\nAt first I paid little attention to what was being said, more\ninterested in observing the audience, the room and the appearance of\nthe speaker. Immediately after his undramatic entrance he had moved to\nthe front of the chapel and sat down on a gilt chair to the right of\nthe coffin; there was a faint whisper of interest at his appearance:\nnewcomers like myself were being given last-minute instruction by the\nhabitu\u00e9s who had brought them there. Cave sat easily on the gilt chair,\nhis eyes upon the floor, his small hands, bony and white, folded in\nhis lap, a smile on his narrow lips: he could not have looked more\nineffectual, more ordinary. His opening words by no means altered this\nfirst impression.\n\nThe voice, as he spoke, was good, though he tended to mumble at\nthe beginning, his eyes still on the floor, his hands in his lap,\nmotionless. So quietly did he begin that he had spoken for several\nseconds before many of the audience were aware that he had begun. His\naccent was the national one, learned doubtless from the radio and the\nmovies: a neutral pronunciation without any strong regional overtone.\nThe popular if short-lived legend of the next decade that he had begun\nhis mission as a backwoods revivalist was certainly untrue.\n\nNot until he had talked for several minutes, did I begin to listen\nto the sense rather than to the tone of his voice. I cannot\nrender precisely what he said but the message that night was not\nmuch different from the subsequent ones which are known to all. It\nwas, finally, the manner which created the response, not the words\nthemselves, though the words were interesting enough, especially\nwhen heard for the first time. His voice, as I have said, faltered\nunsurely at the beginning and he left sentences unfinished, a trick\nwhich I later discovered was deliberate for he had been born a\nremarkable actor, an instinctive rhetorician. What most struck me\nthat first evening was the purest artifice of his performance. The\nvoice, especially when he came to his climax, was sharp and clear\nwhile his hands stirred like separate living creatures and the eyes,\nthose splendid unique eyes, were abruptly revealed to us in the faint\nlight, displayed at that crucial moment which had been as carefully\nconstructed as any work of architecture or of music: the instant of\ncommunication.\n\nAgainst my will and judgment and inclination, I found myself absorbed\nby the man, not able to move or to react. The same magic which was\nalways to affect me, even when later I knew him only too well, held me\nfixed to my chair as the words, supported by the clear voice, came in a\nresonant line from him to me alone, to each of us alone, separate from\nthe others ... and both restless mass and fast-breathing particular\nwere together his.\n\nThe moment itself lasted only a second in actual time; it came\nsuddenly, without warning: one was riven; then it was over and he left\nthe chapel, left us chilled and weak, staring foolishly at the gilt\nchair where he had been.\n\nIt was some minutes before we were able to take up our usual selves\nagain.\n\nIris looked at me. I smiled weakly and cleared my throat: I was\nconscious that I ached all over. I glanced at my watch and saw that\nhe had spoken to us for an hour and a half during which time I had\nnot moved. I stretched painfully and stood up. Others did the same:\nwe had shared an experience and it was the first time in my life that\nI knew what it was like to be the same as others, my heart\u2019s beat no\nlonger individual, erratic, but held for at least this one interval\nof time in concert with those of strangers. It was a new, disquieting\nexperience: to be no longer an observer, a remote intelligence ... for\nninety minutes to have been a part of the whole.\n\nIris walked with me to the anteroom where we stood for a moment\nwatching the others who had also gathered here to talk in low voices,\ntheir expressions bewildered.\n\nShe did not have to ask me what I thought. I told her immediately, in\nmy own way, impressed but less than reverent. \u201cI see what you mean. I\nsee what it is that holds you, fascinates you but I still wonder what\nit is really all about.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou saw. You heard.\u201d\n\n\u201cI saw an ordinary man. I heard a sermon which was interesting,\nalthough I might be less impressed if I read it to myself....\u201d\nDeliberately I tried to throw it all away, that instant of belief, that\nparalysis of will, that sense of mysteries revealed in a dazzle of\nlight. But as I talked, I realized that I was not really dismissing it,\nthat I could not alter the experience even though I might dismiss the\nman and mock the text: something _had_ happened and I told her what I\nthought it was.\n\n\u201cIt is not truth, Iris, but hypnosis.\u201d\n\nShe nodded. \u201cI\u2019ve often thought that. Especially at first when I was\nconscious of his mannerisms, when I could see, as only a woman can\nperhaps, that this was just a man; yet something _does_ happen when you\nlisten to him, when you get to know him. You must find that out for\nyourself; and you will. It may not prove to be anything which has to do\nwith him. There\u2019s something in oneself which stirs and comes alive at\nhis touch, through his agency.\u201d She spoke quickly, excitedly.\n\nI felt the passion with which she was charged. But suddenly it was too\nmuch for me. I was bewildered and annoyed; I wanted to get away.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you want to meet him?\u201d\n\nI shook my head. \u201cAnother time maybe, but not now. Shall I take you\nback?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo. I\u2019ll get a ride in to Santa Monica. I may even stay over for the\nnight. He\u2019ll be here a week.\u201d\n\nI wondered again if she might have a personal interest in Cave: though\nI doubted it, anything was possible.\n\nShe walked me back to the car, past the lighted chapel, over the\nsummery lawn, down the dark street whose solid prosaicness helped to\ndispel somewhat the madness of the hour before.\n\nWe made a date to meet later on in the week. She would tell Cave about\nme and I would meet him. I interrupted her then. \u201cWhat _did_ he say,\nIris? What did he say tonight?\u201d\n\nHer answer was as direct and as plain as my question. \u201cThat it is good\nto die.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                                 FOUR\n\n\n                                   1\n\nThis morning I reread the last section, trying to see it objectively,\nto match what I have put down with the memory I still bear of that\nfirst encounter with John Cave. I have not, I fear, got it. But this is\nas close as I can come to recalling long-vanished emotions and events.\n\nI was impressed by the man and I was shaken by his purpose. My first\nimpression was, I think, correct: he was a born hypnotist and the text\nof that extraordinary message was, in the early days at least, thin,\nillogical and depressing if one had not heard it spoken. Later of\ncourse I, among others, composed the words which bear his name and we\ngave them, I fancy, a polish and an authority which, with his limited\neducation and disregard for the works of the past, he could not have\naccomplished on his own, even had he wanted to.\n\nI spent the intervening days between my first and second encounters\nwith this strange man in a state of extreme tension and irritability.\nClarissa called me several times but I refused to see her, excusing\nmyself from proposed entertainments and hinted t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eates, with an\nabruptness which anyone but the iron-cast Clarissa would have found\nappallingly rude. She said she understood, however, and she let me off\nwithout explaining what it was she understood, or thought she did. I\navoided a number of parties and all acquaintances, keeping to my hotel\nroom where I contemplated a quick return to the Hudson and to the\ndarkening autumn.\n\nIris telephoned me twice and, when she fixed a day at last for me to\nmeet John Cave, I accepted her invitation, a little to my own surprise.\n\nWe met in the late afternoon at her house. Only the three of us were\npresent on that occasion. In the set of dialogues which I composed and\npublished in later years I took considerable liberties with our actual\nconversations, especially this first one: in fact, as hostile critics\nwere quick to suggest, the dialogues were created by me with very\nlittle of Cave in them and a good deal of Plato, rearranged to fit the\noccasion. In time, though, my version was accepted implicitly, if only\nbecause there were no longer any hostile critics.\n\nIris served us tea in the patio. She spoke seldom and, when she did,\nher voice was low and curiously diffident as she asked Cave some\nquestion or instructed me.\n\nCave himself was relaxed, quite different from my first view of him.\nIn fact, I might not even have recognized his face had I seen him in a\ngroup.\n\nHe rose promptly when I came out onto the patio; he shook my hand\nvigorously but briefly and sat down again, indicating that I sit next\nto him while Iris went for tea. He was smaller and more compact than\nI\u2019d thought measuring him against myself as one does, unconsciously,\nwith an interesting stranger. He wore a plain brown suit and a white\nshirt open at the collar, a modified Lord Byron collar which became\nhim. The eyes, which at first I did not dare look at, were, I soon\nnoticed, sheathed ... an odd word which was always to occur to me\nwhen I saw him at his ease, his eyes half-shut, ordinary, not in the\nleast unusual. Except for a restless folding and unfolding of his\nhands (suggesting a recently reformed cigarette smoker) he was without\nphysical idiosyncrasy.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s a pleasure to meet you\u201d were the first words, I fear, John\nCave ever spoke to me; so unlike the dialogue on the spirit which I\nlater composed to celebrate this initial encounter between master and\ndisciple-to-be. \u201cIris has told me a lot about you.\u201d His voice was\nlight, without resonance now. He sat far back in his deck chair. Inside\nthe house I could hear Iris moving plates. The late afternoon sun had\njust that moment gone behind trees and the remaining light was warmly\ngold.\n\n\u201cAnd I have followed your ... career with interest too,\u201d I said,\nknowing that \u201ccareer\u201d was precisely the word he would not care to hear\nused but, at that moment, neither of us had got the range of the other.\nWe fired at random.\n\n\u201cIris told me you write history.\u201d\n\nI shook my head. \u201cNo, I only read it. I think it\u2019s all been written\nanyway.\u201d I was allowed to develop this novel conceit for some moments,\nattended by a respectful silence from my companion who finally\ndispatched my faintly hysterical proposition with a vague \u201cMaybe so\u201d;\nand then we got to him.\n\n\u201cI haven\u2019t been East you know,\u201d he frowned at the palm trees. \u201cI\nwas born up in Washington state and I\u2019ve spent all my life in the\nNorthwest, until last year.\u201d He paused as though he expected me to ask\nhim about _that_ year. I did not. I waited for him to do it in his\nown way. He suddenly turned about in his chair and faced me; those\ndisconcerting eyes suddenly trained upon my own. \u201cYou were there the\nother night, weren\u2019t you?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, yes.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid you feel it too? Am I right?\u201d\n\nThe quick passion with which he said this, exploding all at once the\nafternoon\u2019s serenity, took me off guard. I stammered, \u201cI don\u2019t think I\nknow what you mean. I ...\u201d\n\n\u201cYou know exactly what I mean, what I meant.\u201d He leaned closer to me\nand I wondered insanely if his deck chair might not collapse under him.\nIt teetered dangerously. My mind went blank, absorbed by the image\nof deck chair and prophet together collapsing at my feet. Then, as\nsuddenly, satisfied perhaps with my confusion, he settled back, resumed\nhis earlier ease, exactly as if I had answered him, as though we had\ncome to a crisis and together fashioned an agreement: it was most\nalarming.\n\n\u201cI want to see New York especially. I\u2019ve always thought it must\nlook like a cemetery with all those tall gray buildings you see in\nphotographs.\u201d He sighed conventionally: \u201cSo many interesting places in\nthe world. Do you like the West?\u201d\n\nNervously, I said that I did. I still feared a possible repetition of\nthat brief outburst.\n\n\u201cI like the openness,\u201d said Cave, as though he had thought long about\nthis problem. \u201cI don\u2019t think I\u2019d like confinement I couldn\u2019t live in\nSeattle because of those fogs they used to have; San Francisco\u2019s the\nsame. I don\u2019t like too many walls, too much fog.\u201d If he\u2019d intended to\nspeak allegorically he could not have found a better audience for I\nwas, even at this early stage, completely receptive to the most obscure\nhistrionics but, in conversation, Cave was perfectly literal. Except\nwhen he spoke before a large group, he was quite simple and prosaic\nand, though conscious always of his dignity and singular destiny, not\nin the least portentous.\n\nI probably did not put him at his ease for I stammered a good deal and\nmade no sense, but he was gracious, supporting me with his own poise\nand equanimity.\n\nHe talked mostly of places until Iris came back with tea. Then, as the\nsky became florid with evening and the teacups gradually grew cold, he\ntalked of his work and I listened intently.\n\n\u201cI can talk to you straight,\u201d he said. \u201cThis just happened to me. I\ndidn\u2019t start out to do this. No sir, I never would have believed ten\nyears ago that I\u2019d be traveling about, talking to people like one of\nthose crackpot fanatics you\u2019ve got so many in California.\u201d I took a\nsip of the black, fast-cooling tea, hoping he was not sufficiently\nintuitive to guess that I had originally put him down, provisionally of\ncourse, as precisely that.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know how much Iris may have told you or how much you might\nhave heard but it\u2019s pretty easy to pass the whole thing off as another\njoke: a guy coming out of the backwoods with a message.\u201d He cracked\nhis knuckles hard and I winced at the sound. \u201cWell, I didn\u2019t quite\ncome out of the woods. I had a year back at State University and I had\na pretty good job in my field with the best firm of funeral directors\nin Washington state. Then I started on this. I just _knew_ one day and\nso I began to talk to people and they knew too and I quit my job and\nstarted talking to bigger and bigger crowds all along the coast. There\nwasn\u2019t any of this revelation stuff. I just knew one day, that was\nall; and when I told other people _what_ I knew they seemed to get it.\nAnd that\u2019s the strange part. Everybody gets ideas about things which\nhe thinks are wonderful but usually nothing happens to the people he\ntries to tell them to. With me, it\u2019s been different from the beginning.\nPeople have all listened, and agreed: what I know _they_ know. Isn\u2019t\nthat a funny thing? Though most of them probably would never have\nthought it out until they heard me and it was all clear.\u201d His eyes\ndropped to his hands; he added softly: \u201cSo since it\u2019s been like this,\nI\u2019ve gone on. I\u2019ve made this my life. This is it. I shall come to the\npeople.\u201d\n\nThere was silence. The sentence had been spoken which I was later to\nconstruct the first dialogue upon: \u201cI shall come to the people,\u201d the\nsix words which were to change our lives were spoken softly over tea.\n\nIris looked at me challengingly over Cave\u2019s bowed head.\n\nI remember little else about that evening. We dined, I think, in the\nhouse and Cave was most agreeable, most undemanding. There was no more\ntalk of the mission. He asked me many questions about New York, about\nHarvard where I had gone to school, about Roman history. He appeared\nto be interested in paganism and my own somewhat ambiguous approach\nto Julian. I was to learn later that though he seldom read he had a\nstartling memory for any fact which seemed relevant. I am neither\nimmodest nor inaccurate when I say that he listened to me attentively\nfor some years and many of his later views were a result of our\nconversations.\n\nI should mention, though, one significant omission in his conversation\nduring those first crucial years: he never discussed ethical questions;\nthat was to come much later. At the beginning he had but one vision\nand it was, in its terrible truth, quite inhuman and anarchic: man\ndies, consciousness dies with him: it is good to die, good not to be.\nOn this the Cavite system was constructed and what came after in the\nmoral and ethical spheres was largely the work of others in his name.\nMuch of this I anticipated in that first conversation with him, so\nunlike, actually, the dialogue which I composed ending, I still think\ncomplacently despite the irony with which time has tarnished all those\nbright toys for me, with the essential line: \u201cDeath is neither hard nor\nbad; only the dying hurts.\u201d With that firmly postulated the rest was\ninevitable.\n\nCave talked that evening about California and Oregon and Washington\n(geography, places were always to fascinate and engage him while\npeople, especially after the early years, ceased to be remarkable to\nhim; he tended to get confused those myriad faces which passed before\nhim like successive ripples in a huge sea). He talked of the cities\nhe had visited on the seaboard, new cities to him, all of them. He\ncompared their climates and various attractions like a truly devoted\ntourist, eager to get the best of each place, to encounter the _genius\nloci_ and possess it.\n\n\u201cBut I don\u2019t like staying in any place long.\u201d He looked at me then and\nagain I felt that sense of a power being focused on me ... it was not\nunlike what one experiences during an X-ray treatment when the humming\nnoise indicates that potent rays are penetrating one\u2019s tissue and,\nthough there is actually no sensation, _something_ is experienced,\npower is felt. And so it invariably was that, right until the end,\nCave, whenever he chose, could turn those wide bleak eyes upon me and I\nwould experience his force anew.\n\n\u201cI want to keep moving, new places, that\u2019s what I like. You get a kind\nor charge traveling. At least I do. I always thought I\u2019d travel but\nI never figured it would be like this; but then of course I never\nthought of all this until just awhile ago.\n\n\u201cCan you remember when it was? how it was exactly you got ... started?\u201d\nI wanted a sign obviously: Constantine\u2019s _labarum_ occurred to me: _in\nhoc signo vinces_. Already ambition was stirring, and the little beast\nfed ravenously on every scrap that came its way for I was, in that\npatio, experiencing my own revelation, the compass needle no longer\nspinning wildly but coming to settle at last, with many hesitancies and\ndemurs, upon a direction, drawn to a far pole\u2019s attraction.\n\nHe smiled for the first time. I suppose, if I wanted, I could recall\neach occasion over the years when, in my presence at least, John\nCave smiled. His usual expression was one of calm resolve, of that\nauthority which feels secure in itself, a fortunate expression which\nlent dignity even to his casual conversation: the fact that this serene\nmask hid a nearly total intellectual vacuity, I suspected as early in\nmy dealings with him as this first meeting; yet I did not mind for I\nhad experienced his unique magic and already I saw the possibilities\nof channeling that power, of using that force, or turning it like a\nflame here, there, creating and destroying, shaping and shattering\n... so much for the spontaneous nature of my ambition at its least\nresponsible, and at its most exquisite! I could have set the one-half\nworld aflame for the sheer splendor and glory of the deed. For this\nmy expiation has been long and my once exuberant pride is now only an\nashen phoenix consumed by flames but not yet tumbled to dust, not yet\nrecreated in the millennial egg ... only a gray shadow in the heart\nwhich the touch of a finger of windy fear will turn to air and dust.\n\nYet the creature was aborning that day: one seed had touched another\nand a monster began to live.\n\n\u201cThe first day? The first time?\u201d The smile faded. \u201cSure, I remember it.\nI\u2019d just finished painting the face of a big dead fellow killed in an\nautomobile accident. I didn\u2019t usually do make-up but I like to help out\nand I used to do odd jobs when somebody had too much to do and asked me\nto help; the painting isn\u2019t hard either and I always like it, though\nthe faces are cold like ... like....\u201d He thought of no simile; he went\non: \u201cAnyway I looked at this guy\u2019s face and I remembered I\u2019d seen him\nplay basketball in high school. He was in a class or two behind me.\nBig athlete. Ringer, we called them ... full of life ... and here he\nwas, with me powdering his face and combing his eyebrows. Usually you\ndon\u2019t think much about the stiff (that\u2019s our professional word) one way\nor the other: it\u2019s just a job. But I thought about this one suddenly.\nI started to feel sorry for him, dead like that, so sudden, so young,\nso good-looking with all sorts of prospects; then I felt it.\u201d The\nvoice grew low and precise. Iris and I listened intently, even the sun\nfroze in the wild sky above the sea; the young night stumbled in the\ndarkening east.\n\nHis eyes on the sun, he described his sudden knowledge that it was the\ndead man who was right, who was a part of the whole, that the living\nwere the sufferers from whom, temporarily, the beautiful darkness and\nnonbeing had been withdrawn and, in his crude way, Cave struck chord\nafter chord of meaning and, though the notes were not in themselves\nnew, the effect was all its own ... and not entirely because of the\nvoice, the cogency of this magician. No, the effect was achieved only\nin part through his ability to make one experience with him an occasion\nof light, of absolute knowing.\n\n\u201cAnd I knew it was the dying which was the better part,\u201d he finished.\nThe sun, released, drowned in the Pacific.\n\nIn the darkness I asked, \u201cBut you, you still live?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot because I want to,\u201d came the voice, soft as the night \u201cI must tell\nthe others first. There\u2019ll be time for myself.\u201d\n\nI shuddered in the warmth of the patio. My companions were only dim\npresences in the failing light. \u201cWho told you to tell this to everyone?\u201d\n\nThe answer came back, strong and unexpected: \u201cI told myself. The\nresponsibility is mine.\u201d\n\nThat was the sign for me. He had broken with his predecessors. He was\non his own. He knew ... and so did we.\n\n\n                                   2\n\nI have lingered over that first meeting for, in it, was finally all\nthat there was to come. Later details were the work of others, the\nexotic periphery to a simple but powerful center. Not until late that\nnight did I leave the house near the beach. When I left, Cave stayed on\nand I wondered again, idly, if perhaps he was living there with Iris,\nif perhaps her interest in him might not be more complex than I had\nsuspected.\n\nWe parted casually and Iris walked me to the door while Cave remained\ninside, gazing in his intent way at nothing at all: daydreaming,\ndoubtless, of what was to come.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll help?\u201d Iris stood by the car\u2019s open door, her features\nindistinct in the moonless night.\n\n\u201cI think so. I\u2019m not sure, though, about the scale.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d\n\n\u201cMust _everyone_ know? Can\u2019t it just be kept to ourselves? for the few\nwho do know him?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo. We must let them all hear him. Everyone.\u201d And her voice assumed\nthat zealous tone which I was to hear so often again and again upon her\nlips and on those of others.\n\nI made my first and last objection: \u201cI don\u2019t see that quantity has much\nto do with it. If this thing spreads it will become organized. If it\nbecomes organized, secondary considerations will obscure the point. The\ntruth is no truer because only a few have experienced it.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re wrong. Even for purely selfish reasons, ruling out all\naltruistic considerations, there\u2019s an excellent reason for allowing\nthis to spread: a society which knows what we know, which believes in\nCave and what he says, will be a pleasanter place in which to live,\nless anxious, more tolerant.\u201d And she spoke of the new Jerusalem in our\nsallow land and I was nearly convinced.\n\nThe next day I went to Hastings\u2019 house for lunch. He was there alone;\nhis wife apparently had a life of her own which required his company\nonly occasionally. Clarissa, sensible in tweed and dark glasses,\nwas the only other guest. We lunched on an iron-wrought table beside\nthe gloomy pool in which, among the occasional leaves, I saw, quite\nclearly, a cigarette butt delicately unfolding like an ocean flower.\n\n\u201cGood to, ah, have you, Eugene. Just a bit of potluck. Clarissa\u2019s going\nback to civilization today and wanted to see you ... I did too, of\ncourse. The bride\u2019s gone out. Told me to convey her....\u201d\n\nClarissa turned her bright eyes on me and, without acknowledging the\npresence of our host, said right off: \u201cYou\u2019ve met him at last.\u201d\n\nI nodded. The plot was finally clear to me: the main design at least.\n\u201cWe had dinner together last night.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know. Iris told me. You\u2019re going to help out of course.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019d like to but I don\u2019t know what there is I might do. I don\u2019t think\nI\u2019d be much use with a tambourine on street corners, preaching the\nword.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t be silly!\u201d Clarissa chuckled. \u201cWe\u2019re going to handle this quite,\n_quite_ differently.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, I\u2019ve been involved for over a year now. It\u2019s going to be the\ngreatest fun ... you wait and see.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut....\u201d\n\n\u201c_I_ was the one who got Iris herself involved. I thought she looked\na little peaked, a little bored. I had no idea of course she\u2019d get in\nso deep, but it will probably turn out all right I think she\u2019s in love\nwith him.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t be such a gossip,\u201d said Hastings sharply. \u201cYou always reduce\neverything to ... to biology. Cave isn\u2019t that sort of man.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou know him too?\u201d How fast it was growing, I thought.\n\n\u201cCertainly. Biggest thing I\u2019ve done since....\u201d\n\n\u201cSince you married that brassy blonde,\u201d said Clarissa with her\nirrepressible rudeness. \u201cAnyway, my dear, Iris took to the whole thing\nlike a born proselyte, if that\u2019s the word I mean ... the other\u2019s a\nlittle boy, isn\u2019t it? and it seems, from what she\u2019s told me, that you\nhave too.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wouldn\u2019t say that.\u201d I was a little put out at both Iris and Clarissa\ntaking me so much for granted.\n\n\u201cSay anything you like. It\u2019s still the best thing that\u2019s ever happened\nto you. Oh God, _not_ avocado again!\u201d The offending salad was waved\naway while Hastings muttered apologies. \u201cNasty, pointless things, all\ntexture and no taste.\u201d She made a face. \u201cBut I suppose that we must\nlive off the fruits of the country and this is the only thing which\nwill grow in California.\u201d She moved without pause from Western flora\nto the problem of John Cave. \u201cAs for your own contribution, Eugene,\nit will depend largely upon what you choose to do. As I said, I never\nsuspected that Iris would get in so deep and you may prove to be\nquite as surprising. This is the ground floor of course ... wonderful\nexpression, isn\u2019t it? the spirit of America: the slogan which broke\nthe plains ... in any case, the way is clear. Cave liked you. You can\nwrite things for them, rather solid articles based on your inimitable\nmisreadings of history. You can educate Cave, though this might be\nunwise since so much of his force derives from his eloquent ignorance;\nor you might become a part of the organization which is getting\nunder way. I suppose Iris will explain that to you: it\u2019s rather her\ndepartment at the moment. All those years in the Junior League gave\nher a touching faith in the power of committees, which is just as well\nwhen handling Americans. As for the tambourines and cries of 'Come and\nBe Saved\u2019 you are some twenty years behind the times. We ... or to be\nexact I ought to say 'they\u2019 ... have more up-to-date plans.\u201d\n\n\u201cCommittees? What committees?\u201d\n\nClarissa unfolded her mushroom omelet with a secret smile. \u201cYou\u2019ll\nmeet our number-one committee member after lunch. He\u2019s coming, isn\u2019t\nhe?\u201d She looked at Hastings as though suspecting him of a treacherous\nineptitude.\n\n\u201cCertainly, certainly, at least he _said_ he was.\u201d Hastings motioned\nfor the serving-woman to clean away the luncheon dishes and we moved to\nother chairs beside the pool for coffee.\n\nClarissa was in fine form, aggressive, positive, serenely indifferent\nto the effect she was having on Hastings and me. \u201cOf course I\u2019m just\nmeddling,\u201d she said in answer to an inquiry of mine. \u201cI don\u2019t really\ngive two cents for Mr Cave and his message.\u201d\n\n\u201cClarissa!\u201d Hastings was genuinely shocked.\n\n\u201cI mean it. Not that I don\u2019t find him fascinating and of course the\nwhole situation is delicious ... what we shall do! or _you_ shall do!\u201d\nshe looked at me maliciously. \u201cI can foresee no limits to this.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt no doubt reminds you of the period shortly after Mohammed married\nKhadija.\u201d My own malice, however, could not pierce Clarissa\u2019s mad\nequanimity.\n\n\u201cVile man, sweet woman. But no, this is all going to be different\nalthough the intellectual climate (I think _intellectual_ is perhaps\noptimistic but you know what I mean) is quite similar. I can\u2019t wait for\nthe first public response.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s already been some,\u201d said Hastings, crossing his legs which\nwere encased in pale multicolor slacks with rawhide sandals on his\nfeet. \u201cThere was a piece yesterday in the _News_ about the meetings\nthey\u2019ve been having up near Laguna or wherever it is he\u2019s been speaking\nthis time.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat did they say?\u201d Clarissa scattered tiny saccharine tablets into\nher coffee like a grain goddess preparing harvest.\n\n\u201cOh, just one of those short suburban notes about how a Mr Joseph Cave,\nthey got the name wrong, was giving a series of lectures at a funeral\nparlor which have been surprisingly well attended.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey didn\u2019t mention what the lectures were about?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, just a comment: the first one so far in Los Angeles.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019ll be others soon but I shouldn\u2019t think it\u2019s such a good idea to\nhave too many items like that before things are really under way.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd the gentleman who is coming here will be responsible for getting\nthem under way?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cPretty much, yes. It\u2019s been decided that the practical details are to\nbe left to him. Cave will continue to speak in and around Los Angeles\nuntil the way has been prepared. Then, when the publicity begins, he\nwill be booked all over the country, all over the world!\u201d Clarissa\nrocked silently for a moment in her chair, creating a disagreeable\neffect of noiseless laughter which disconcerted both Hastings and me.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t like your attitude,\u201d said Hastings, looking at her gloomily.\n\u201cYou aren\u2019t _serious_.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh I am, my darling, I am. You\u2019ll never know how serious.\u201d And on\nthat high note of Clarissa\u2019s, Paul Himmell stepped out onto the patio,\nblinking in the light of noon.\n\nHe was a slender man in his fortieth and most successful year, with\nhair only just begun to gray and a lined but firmly modeled face,\nbright with ambition. The initial impression was one of neatly\ncontained energy, of a passionate temperament beautifully, usefully\nchanneled. The twist to his bow tie was the work of a master craftsman.\n\nThe handshake was agreeable; the smile was quick and engaging; the\neffect on me was alarming: I had detested this sort of man all my life\nand here at last, wearing a repellently distinguished sports coat was\nthe archetype of all such creatures, loading with a steady hand that\ncigarette holder without which he might at least have seemed to me\nstill human. He was identified by Hastings who, with a few excited\nsnorts and gasps, told me beneath the conversation that this was the\nmost successful young publicist in Hollywood, which meant the world.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m happy to meet you, Gene,\u201d he said as soon as Hastings had\nintroduced us. He was perfectly aware that he had been identified while\nthe first greetings with Clarissa had been exchanged: he had the common\ngift of the busy worldling of being able to attend two conversations\nsimultaneously, profiting from both. I hate of course being called\nby my first name by strangers but in his world there were of course\nno strangers: the freemasonry of self-interest made all men equal in\ntheir desperation. He treated me like a buddy. He knew (he was, after\nall, clever) that I detested him on sight and on principle and that\npresented him with a challenge to which he rose with confidence ...\nand continued to rise through the years, despite the enduring nature\nof my disaffection. But then to be liked was his business and I\nsuspect that his attentions had less to do with me, with a sense of\nfailure in himself for not having won me, than with a kind of automatic\ncharm, a response to a situation which was produced quite inhumanly,\nmechanically: the smile, the warm voice, the delicate flattery ... or\nnot so delicate, depending on the case.\n\n\u201cIris and Cave both told me about you and I\u2019m particularly glad to\nget a chance to meet you ... to see you too, Clarissa ... will you be\nlong in the East?\u201d Conscious perhaps that I would need more work than\na perfunctory prelude, he shifted his attention to Clarissa, saving me\nfor later.\n\n\u201cI never have plans, Paul, but I\u2019ve got one or two chores I\u2019ve got\nto do. Anyway I\u2019ve decided that Eugene is just the one to give the\nenterprise its tone ... a quality concerning which you, dear Paul, so\noften have so much to say.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy yes,\u201d said the publicist genially, obviously not understanding.\n\u201cAlways use more tone. You\u2019re quite right.\u201d\n\nClarissa\u2019s eyes met mine for a brief amused instant. She was on to\neverything ... doubtless on to me too in that way one can never be\nabout oneself; I always felt at a disadvantage with her.\n\n\u201cWhat we\u2019re going to need for the big New York opening is a firm\nhistorical and intellectual base. Cave hasn\u2019t got it and of course\ndoesn\u2019t need it. We are going to need commentary and explanation and\nthough you happen to be a genius in publicity you must admit that that\ngroup which has been characterized as intellectual, the literate few\nwho, in their weakness, often exert enormous influence, are not apt to\nbe much moved by your publicity: in fact, they will be put off by it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, now I\u2019m not so sure my methods are _that_ crude. Of course I\nnever....\u201d\n\n\u201cThey are superbly, triumphantly, providentially crude and you know\nit. Eugene must lend dignity to the enterprise. He has a solemn and\nhighly respectable misunderstanding of philosophy which will appeal\nto his fellow intellectuals. He and they are quite alike: liberal,\nineffectual, scrupulous, unsuperstitious, irresolute and lonely.\nWhen he addresses them they will get immediately his range, you might\nsay, pick up his frequency, realizing he is one of them, a man to be\ntrusted. Once they are reached the game is over, or begun.\u201d Clarissa\npaused and looked at me expectantly, the exuberant malice veiled by\nexcitement.\n\nI didn\u2019t answer immediately. Hastings, as a former writer, felt that he\ntoo had been addressed and he worried the subject of \u201ctone\u201d while Paul\ngravely added a comment or two. Clarissa watched me, however, conscious\nperhaps of the wound she had dealt.\n\nWas it all really so simple? was _I_ so simple? so typical? Vanity said\nnot, but self-doubt, the shadow which darkens even those triumphs held\nat noon, prevailed for a sick moment or two: I was no different from\nthe others, from the little pedagogues and analysts, the self-obsessed\nand spiritless company who endured shame and a sense of alienation\nwithout even that conviction of virtue which can dispel guilt and\napathy for the simple, for all those who have accepted without question\none of the systems of absolutes which it has amused both mystics and\ntyrants to construct for man\u2019s guidance.\n\nI had less baggage to rid myself of than the others: I was confident of\nthat. Neither Christianity nor Marxism nor the ugly certainties of the\nmental therapists had ever engaged my loyalty or suspended my judgment.\nI had looked at them all, deploring their admirers and servants,\ninterested though by their separate views of society and of the\npotentialities of a heaven on earth (the medieval conception of a world\nbeyond life was always interesting to contemplate even if the evidence\nin its favor was whimsical at best ... conceived either as a system of\nrewards and punishments to control living man or else as lovely visions\nof what might be were man indeed consubstantial with a creation which\nso often resembled the personal aspirations of gifted divines rather\nmore closely than that universe the rest of us can only observe with\nmortal eyes). No, I had had to dispose of relatively little baggage\nand, I like to think, less than my more thoughtful contemporaries who\nwere forever analyzing themselves, offering their psyches to doctors\nfor analysis or, worse, giving their immortal souls into the hands of\npriests who would then assume much of their _weltschmerz_, providing\nthem with a set of grown-up games every bit as appealing as the ones of\nchildhood which had involved make-believe or, finally, worst of all,\nthe soft acceptance of the idea of man the mass, of man the citizen, of\nsociety the organic whole for whose greater good all individuality must\nbe surrendered.\n\nMy sense then of all that I had _not_ been, negative as it was, saved\nmy self-esteem: I was, in this, unlike my contemporaries. I had, in\nyouth, lost all respect for the authority of men and since there is\nno other discernible (the \u201claws\u201d of nature are only relative and one\ncannot say for certain that there is a beautiful logic to everything in\nthe universe as long as first principles remain unrevealed ... except\nof course to the religious who know everything, having faith), I was\nunencumbered by belief, by reverence for any man or groups of men,\nliving or dead, though their wit and genius often made my days bearable\nsince my capacity for admiration, for aesthetic response was, I think,\nhighly developed even though with Terence I did not know, did not\n_need_ to know through what wild centuries roves the rose.\n\nYet Clarissa\u2019s including me among the little Hamlets was irritating,\nand when I joined in the discussion again I was careful to give her no\nsatisfaction; it would have been a partial victory for her if I had\ndenied my generic similarity to my own contemporaries.\n\nPaul spoke of practical matters, explaining to us the way he intended\nto operate in the coming months; and I was given a glimpse of the\norganization which had spontaneously come into being only a few weeks\nbefore.\n\n\u201cHope we can have lunch tomorrow, Gene. I\u2019ll give you a better picture\nthen, the overall picture: and your part in it. Briefly, for now, the\norganization has been set up as a company under California law with\nCave as president and myself, Iris and Clarissa as directors. I\u2019m also\nsecretary-treasurer but only for now. We\u2019re going to need a first-rate\nfinancial man to head our campaign fund and I\u2019m working on several\npossibilities right now.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s the ... company called?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cCavites, Inc. We didn\u2019t want to call it anything but that\u2019s the law\nhere and since we intended to raise money we had to have a legal setup.\u201d\n\n\u201cGot a nice sound, ah, Cavite,\u201d said Hastings, nodding.\n\n\u201cWhat on earth should we have done if he\u2019d had _your_ name, Paul?\u201d\nexclaimed Clarissa, to the indignation of both Hastings and Paul. They\nshut her up quickly.\n\nPaul went on in his smooth deep voice, \u201cI\u2019ve had a lot of experience,\nof course, but this is something completely new for me, a real\nchallenge and one which I\u2019m glad to meet head-on.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow did you get into it?\u201d I asked.\n\nPaul pointed dramatically to Hastings. \u201cHim! He took me to a meeting in\nLaguna last year. I was sold the first time. _I got the message._\u201d\n\nThere was a hush as we were allowed to contemplate this awesome\ninformation. Then, smiling in a fashion which he doubtless would have\ncalled \u201cwry,\u201d the publicist continued: \u201cI knew this was it. I contacted\nCave immediately and found we talked the same language. He was all for\nthe idea and so we incorporated. He said he wasn\u2019t interested in the\norganizational end and left that to us with Iris sort of representing\nhim, though of course we all do since we\u2019re all Cavites. This thing\nis big and we\u2019re part of it.\u201d He almost smacked his lips. I listened,\nfascinated. \u201cAnyway he\u2019s going to do the preaching part and we\u2019re\ngoing to handle the sales end, if you get what I mean. We\u2019re selling\nsomething which nobody else ever sold before and you know what that\nis?\u201d He paused dramatically and we stared at him, a little stupidly.\n\u201cTruth!\u201d His voice was triumphant. \u201cWe\u2019re selling the truth about life\nand that\u2019s something that nobody, but nobody, has got.\u201d\n\nClarissa broke the silence which had absorbed his last words. \u201cYou\u2019re\nsimply out of this world, Paul! If I hadn\u2019t heard you, I\u2019d never have\nbelieved it. But you don\u2019t have to sell _us_, dear; we\u2019re in on it too.\nBesides, I have to catch a plane.\u201d She looked at her watch. She stood\nup and we did too. She thanked Hastings for lunch and then, before she\nleft the patio on his arm, she said: \u201cNow you boys get on together and\nremember what I\u2019ve told you. Gene must be used, and right away. Get\nhim to write something dignified, for a magazine.\u201d We murmured assent.\nClarissa said good-by and left the patio with Hastings. Her voice,\nshrill and hard, could be heard even after she left. \u201cThe truth about\nlife! Oh, it\u2019s going to be priceless!\u201d\n\nI looked quickly at Paul to see if he had heard but, if he had, he\ndidn\u2019t betray the fact. He was looking at me intently, speculatively.\n\u201cI think we\u2019re going to get along fine, Gene, just fine.\u201d Leaving\nme only a fumbled word or two of polite corroboration with which to\nexpress my sincere antipathy; then we went our separate ways.\n\n\n                                   3\n\nI met Paul the next day at his office for a drink and not for lunch\nsince, at the last minute, his secretary called me to say he was tied\nup and could I possibly come at five. I said that I could. I did.\n\nHis offices occupied an entire floor of a small sky-scraper on the edge\nof Beverly Hills. I was shown through a series of rooms done in natural\nwood and beige with indirect lighting and the soft sound of Strauss\nwaltzes piped in from all directions: the employees responded best to\nthree-four time according to the current efficiency reports.\n\nBeneath an expensive but standard mobile, Paul stood, waiting for me\nin his office. His desk, a tiny affair of white marble on slender iron\nlegs had been rolled off to one side and the office gave, as had been\nintended, the impression of being a small drawing room rather than a\nplace of intense business. I was greeted warmly. My hand was shaken\nfirmly. My eyes were met squarely for the regulation-length of time.\nThen we sat down on a couch which was like the open furry mouth of\nsome great soft beast and his secretary rolled a portable bar toward us.\n\n\u201cName your poison,\u201d said the publicist genially. We agreed on a\ncocktail which he mixed with the usual comments one expects from a\nregular fellow.\n\nLulled by the alcohol, by the room, disarmed by the familiar patter\nin which one made all the correct responses, our conversation as\nritualistic as that of a French dinner party, I was not prepared for\nthe abrupt: \u201cYou don\u2019t like me, do you, Gene?\u201d\n\nOnly once or twice before had anyone ever said this to me and each time\nthat it happened I had vowed grimly that the _next_ time, no matter\nwhere or with whom, I should answer with perfect candor, with merciless\naccuracy: \u201cNo, I don\u2019t.\u201d But since I am neither quick nor courageous, I\nmurmured a pale denial.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s all right, Gene. I know how you probably feel.\u201d And the monster\nwas magnanimous; he treated me with pity. \u201cWe\u2019ve got two different\npoints of view. That\u2019s all. I have to make my way in this rat-race\nand you don\u2019t. You don\u2019t have to do anything, so you can afford to\npatronize us poor hustlers.\u201d\n\n\u201cPatronize isn\u2019t quite the word.\u201d I was beginning to recover from the\nfirst shock. A crushing phrase or two occurred to me but the publicist\nknew his business and he changed course before I could begin my work of\ndemolition.\n\n\u201cWell, I just wanted you to know that there are no hard feelings. In my\nbusiness you get used to this sort of thing: occupational hazard, you\nmight say. I\u2019ve had to fight my way every inch and I know that a lot of\npeople are going to be jostled in the process, which is just too bad\nfor them.\u201d He smiled suddenly, drawing the sting. \u201cBut I have a hunch\nwe\u2019re going to be seeing a lot of each other so we ought to start on a\nperfectly plain basis of understanding. You\u2019re on to me and I\u2019m on to\nyou.\u201d The man was diabolic in the way he could enrage yet not allow his\nadversary sufficient grounds for even a perfunctory defense. He moved\nrapidly, with a show of spurious reason which quite dazzled me. His\nwas what, presently, he called \u201cthe common-sense view.\u201d\n\nI told him I had no objection to working with him; that everything I\nhad heard about him impressed me; that he was wrong to suspect me of\ndisdaining methods whose efficacy was so well-known. I perjured myself\nfor several impassioned minutes and, on a rising note of coziness, we\npassed on to the problem in hand, congenial enemies for all time: the\nfirst round clearly his.\n\n\u201cClarissa got you into this?\u201d He looked at me over his glass.\n\n\u201cMore or less. Clarissa to Iris to Cave was the precise play.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe got me to Cave last summer, or rather to Hastings first. I was\nsold right off. I think I told you that yesterday. This guy\u2019s got\neverything. Even aside from the message, he\u2019s the most remarkable\nsalesman I\u2019ve ever seen and believe me when I tell you there isn\u2019t\n_anything_ I don\u2019t know about salesmen.\u201d\n\nI agreed that he was doubtless expert in these matters.\n\n\u201cI went to about a dozen of those early meetings and I could see he\nwas having the same effect on everyone, even on Catholics, people like\nthat. Of course I don\u2019t know what happens when they get home but while\nthey\u2019re there they\u2019re sold and that\u2019s all that matters because, in the\nnext year, we\u2019re going to have him _there_, everywhere, and all the\ntime.\u201d\n\nI told him I didn\u2019t exactly follow this metaphysic flight.\n\n\u201cI mean we\u2019re going to have him on television, on movie screens, in the\npapers, so that everybody can feel the effect of his personality, just\nlike he was there in person. This prayer-meeting stuff he\u2019s been doing\nis just a warming up. That\u2019s all. That kind of thing is outmoded: can\u2019t\nreach enough people even if you spoke at Madison Square every night\nfor a year, but it\u2019s good practice, and it\u2019s got him started. Now the\nnext move is a TV half-hour show once a week and when that gets started\nwe\u2019re in.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho\u2019s going to pay for all this?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe\u2019ve got more money than you can shake a stick at.\u201d He smiled briefly\nand refilled our glasses with a flourish. \u201cI haven\u2019t been resting on\nmy laurels and neither has Clarissa. We\u2019ve got three of the richest men\nin L.A. drooling at the mouth for an opportunity to come in with us.\nThey\u2019re sold; they\u2019ve talked to him; they\u2019ve heard him. That\u2019s been\nenough.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill you sell soap on television at the same time?\u201d\n\n\u201cCome off it, Gene. _Cave_ is the product.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen in what way will you, or his sponsors, profit from selling him?\u201d\n\n\u201cIn the first place what he says is the truth and it\u2019s meant a lot to\nme and also to them, to the tycoons: they\u2019re willing to do anything to\nput him across.\u201d\n\n\u201cI should think that the possession of the truth and its attendant\nsense of virtue is in itself enough, easily spoiled by popularization,\u201d\nI said with chilling pomp.\n\n\u201cNow that\u2019s a mighty selfish attitude to take. Sure it makes me happy\nto know at last nothing matters a hell of a lot since I\u2019m apt to die\nany time and that\u2019s the end of yours truly; a nice quiet nothing, like\nsleeping pills after a busy day: all that\u2019s swell but it means a lot\nmore to me to see the truth belong to everybody and also, let\u2019s face\nit, I\u2019m ambitious. I like my work. I want to see this thing get big,\nand with me part of it. Life doesn\u2019t mean a thing and death is the only\nreality, like he says, but while we\u2019re living we\u2019ve got to keep busy\nand get ahead and the best thing for me, I figured about six months\nago, was to put Cave over on the public, which is just what I\u2019m going\nto do. Anything wrong with that?\u201d\n\nSince right and wrong had not yet been reformulated and codified, I\ngave him the comfort he hardly needed. \u201cI see what you mean. I suppose\nyou\u2019re right. Perhaps the motive is the same in every case, mine as\nwell as yours: yet we\u2019ve all experienced Cave and that should be\nenough.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, we should all get behind it and push, bring it to the world.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat, of course, is where we\u2019re different: not that I don\u2019t intend\nto 'propagate the truth,\u2019 rather I shall do it for something to do,\nknowing that nothing matters, not even _this_ knowledge matters.\u201d In my\nunction, I had stumbled upon the first of a series of paradoxes which\nwere to amuse and obsess our philosophers for a generation. Paul gave\nme no opportunity to elaborate, however; his was the practical way and\nI followed. We spoke of means and ends.\n\n\u201cCave likes the idea of the half-hour show and as soon as we get all\nthe wrinkles ironed out, buying good time, not just dead air, we\u2019ll\nmake the first big announcement, along around January, I think. Until\nthen we\u2019re trying to keep this out of the papers. Slow but sure; then\nfast and hard.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat sort of man is Cave?\u201d I wanted very much to hear Paul\u2019s reaction\nto him: this was the practical man, the unobsessed.\n\nHe was candid; he did not know. \u201cHow can you figure a guy like that\nout? At times he seems a little feeble-minded, this is between us by\nthe way, and other times when he\u2019s talking to people, giving with the\nmessage, there\u2019s nothing like him.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat about his early life?\u201d\n\n\u201cNobody knows very much. I\u2019ve had a detective agency prepare a dossier\non him. Does that surprise you? Well, I\u2019m going far out on a limb for\nhim and so are our rich friends. We had to be sure we weren\u2019t buying an\nax-murderer or a bigamist or something.\u201d\n\n\u201cWould that have made any difference to the message?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, _I_ don\u2019t think so but it sure would have made it impossible for\nus to sell him on a big scale.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what did they find?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot much. I\u2019ll let you read it. Take it home with you. Confidential of\ncourse and, as an officer of the company, I must ask you not to use any\nof it without clearing first with me.\u201d\n\nI agreed and his secretary was sent for. The dossier was a thin bound\nmanuscript.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s a carbon but I want it back. You won\u2019t find anything very\nstriking but you ought to read it for the background. Never been\nmarried, no girl friends that anybody remembers ... no boy friends\neither (what a headache _that_ problem is in Hollywood, for a firm\nlike ours). No police record. No tickets for double parking, even. A\nbeautiful, beautiful record on which to build.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps a little negative.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s what we like. As for the guy\u2019s character, his I.Q., your guess\nis as good as mine, probably better. When I\u2019m with him alone, we talk\nabout the campaign and he\u2019s very relaxed, very sensible, businesslike:\ndoesn\u2019t preach or carry on. He seems to understand all the problems of\nour end. He\u2019s cooperative.\u201d\n\n\u201cCan you look him straight in the eye?\u201d\n\nPaul laughed. \u201cGives you the creeps, doesn\u2019t it? No, I guess I don\u2019t\nlook at him very much. I\u2019m glad you mentioned that because I\u2019ve a hunch\nhe\u2019s a hypnotist of some kind though there\u2019s no record of his ever\nhaving studied it. I think I\u2019ll get a psychologist to take a look at\nhim.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you think he\u2019ll like that?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, he\u2019ll never know unless he\u2019s a mind reader. Somebody to sort of\nobserve him at work. I\u2019ve already had him checked out physically.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re very thorough.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave to be. He\u2019s got a duodenal ulcer and there\u2019s a danger of high\nblood pressure when he\u2019s older; otherwise he\u2019s in fine shape.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you want me to do first?\u201d\n\nHe became serious. \u201cA pamphlet. You might make a highbrow magazine\narticle out of it for the _Readers\u2019 Digest_ or something first. We\u2019ll\nwant a clear, simple statement of the Cavite philosophy.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy don\u2019t you get him to write it?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve tried. He says he can\u2019t write anything. In fact he even hates to\nhave his sermons taken down by a recorder. God knows why. But, in a\nway, it\u2019s all to the good because it means we can get all the talent\nwe like to do the writing for us and that way, sooner or later, we can\nappeal to just about everybody.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhom am I supposed to appeal to in this first pamphlet?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe ordinary person, but make it as foolproof as you can; leave plenty\nof doors open so you can get out fast in case we switch the party line\nalong the way.\u201d\n\nI laughed. \u201cYou\u2019re extraordinarily cynical.\u201d\n\n\u201cJust practical. I had to learn everything the hard way. I was kicked\naround by some mighty expert kickers in my day.\u201d\n\nI checked his flow of reminiscence. \u201cTell me about Cave and Iris.\u201d\nThis was the secondary mystery which had occupied my mind for several\ndays. But Paul did not know or, if he did, would not say. \u201cI think\nthey\u2019re just good friends, like we say in these parts. Except that I\ndoubt if anything is going on ... they don\u2019t seem the type and she\u2019s so\ncompletely gone on what he has to say....\u201d\n\nA long-legged girl secretary in discreet black entered the room\nunbidden and whispered something to the publicist Paul started as\nthough she had given him an electric shock from the thick carpeting. He\nspoke quickly: \u201cGet Furlow. Tell him to stand bail. Also get a writ.\nI\u2019ll be right down there.\u201d\n\nShe ran from the room. He pushed the bar away from him and it rolled\naimlessly across the floor, its bottles and glasses chattering. Paul\nlooked at me distractedly. \u201cHe\u2019s in jail. Cave\u2019s in jail.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                                 FIVE\n\n\n                                   1\n\nLast night the noise of my heart\u2019s beating kept me awake until nearly\ndawn. Then, as the gray warm light of the morning patterned the floor,\nI fell asleep and dreamed uneasily of disaster, my dreams disturbed by\nthe noise of jackals, by that jackal-headed god who hovers over me as\nthese last days unfold confusedly before my eyes: it will end in heat\nand terror, alone beside a muddy river, all time as one and that soon\ngone. I awakened, breathless and cold, with a terror of the dying still\nahead.\n\nAfter coffee and pills, those assorted pellets which seem to restore me\nfor moments at a time to a false serenity, I put aside the nightmare\nworld of the previous restless hours and idly examined the pages which\nI had written with an eye to rereading them straight through, to\nrelive again for a time the old drama which is already, as I write,\nseparating itself from my memory and becoming real only in the prose:\nI think now of these events as I have told them and not as they occur\nto me in memory. For the memory now is of pages and not of scenes or of\nactual human beings still existing in that baleful, tenebrous region\nof the imagination where fancy and fact together confuse even the most\nconfident of narrators. I have, thus far at least, exorcised demons,\nand to have lost certain memories to my narrative relieves my system,\nlike a cancer cut whole from a failing organism.\n\nThe boy brought me my morning coffee and the local newspaper whose\nArabic text pleases my eye though the sense, when I do translate it, is\nless than strange. I asked the boy if Mr. Butler was awake and he said\nhe had gone out already: these last few days I have kept to my room\neven for the evening meal, delaying the inevitable revelation as long\nas possible.\n\nAfter the boy left and while I drank coffee and looked out upon the\nriver and the western hills, I was conscious of a sense of well-being\nwhich I have not often experienced in recent years. Perhaps the work\nof evoking the past has, in a sense, enhanced the present for me. I\nthought of the work done as life preserved, as part of me which will\nremain.\n\nThen, idly, I riffled the pages of John Cave\u2019s Testament for the first\ntime since I had discovered my name had been expunged.\n\nThe opening was the familiar one which I had composed so many years\nbefore in Cave\u2019s name. The time of divination: a straightforward\naccount of the apparent wonders which had preceded the mission. No\ncredence was given the supernatural but a good case was made (borrowed\na little from the mental therapists) for the race\u2019s need of phenomena\nas a symptom of unease and boredom and anticipation. I flicked through\nthe pages. An entire new part had been added which I did not recognize:\nstill written as though by Cave but, obviously, it could not have been\ncomposed until at least a decade after his death.\n\nI read the new section carefully. Whoever had written it had been\nstrongly under the influence of the pragmatic philosophers, though\nthe style was somewhat inspirational: a combination of a guide to\npopularity crossed with the Koran. A whole system of ideal behavior was\nsketched broadly for the devout, so broadly as to be fairly useless\nthough the commentary and the interpretive analysis of such lines as:\n\u201cProperty really belongs to the world though individuals may have\ntemporary liens on certain sections,\u201d must be already prodigious.\n\nI was well into the metaphysics of the Cavites when there was a knock\non my door. It was Butler, looking red and uncomfortable from the heat,\na spotted red bandana tied, for some inscrutable reason, about his head\nin place of a hat.\n\n\u201cHope you don\u2019t mind my barging in like this but I finished a visit\nwith the mayor earlier than I thought.\u201d He crumpled, on invitation,\ninto a chair opposite me. He sighed gloomily. \u201cThis is going to be\ntough, tougher than I ever imagined back home.\u201d\n\n\u201cI told you it would be. The Moslems are very obstinate.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll say! and the old devil of a mayor practically told me point-blank\nthat if he caught me proselyting he\u2019d send me back to Cairo. Imagine\nthe nerve!\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, it _is_ their country,\u201d I said, reasonably, experiencing\nmy first real hope: might the Cavites not get themselves expelled\nfrom Islam? I knew the mayor of Luxor, a genial merchant who still\nenjoyed the obsolete title of Pasha. The possibilities of a daring\nplot occurred to me. All I needed was another year or two by which\ntime nature would have done its work in any case and the conquest of\nhumanity by the Cavites could then continue its progress without my\nbitter presence.\n\nI looked at Butler speculatively. He was such a fool. I could, I was\nsure, undo him, for a time at least; unless of course he was, as I\nfirst expected, an agent come to finish me in fact as absolutely as\nI have been finished in effect by those revisionists who have taken\nmy place among the Cavites, arranging history.... I\u2019d experienced,\nbriefly, while studying Butler\u2019s copy of the Testament, the unnerving\nsense of having never lived, of having dreamed the past entire.\n\n\u201cMaybe it is their country but we got the truth, and like Paul Himmell\nsaid: 'A truth known to only half the world is but half a truth.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cDid he say that?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course he did. Don\u2019t you....\u201d he paused. His eye taking in at last\nthe book in my hand. His expression softened somewhat, like a parent\nin anger noticing suddenly an endearing resemblance to himself in the\noffending child. \u201cBut I forget how isolated you\u2019ve been up here. If\nI\u2019ve interrupted your studies, I\u2019ll go away.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh no. I was finished when you came. I\u2019ve been studying for several\nhours which is too long for an old man.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf a contemplation of Cavesword can ever be too long,\u201d said Butler\nreverently. \u201cYes, Himmell wrote that even before Cavesword, in the\nmonth of March, I believe, though we\u2019ll have to ask my colleague when\nhe comes. He knows all the dates, all the facts. Remarkable guy. He has\nthe brains of the team.\u201d And Butler laughed to show that he was not\nentirely serious.\n\n\u201cI think they might respond to pressure,\u201d I said, treacherously. \u201cOne\nthing the Arabs respect is force.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou may be right. But our instructions are to go slow. Still, I didn\u2019t\nthink it would be as slow as this. Why we haven\u2019t been able to get a\nbuilding yet. They\u2019ve all been told by the Pasha fellow not to rent to\nus.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps I could talk to him.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you know him well?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe used to play cards quite regularly. I haven\u2019t seen much of him in\nthe past few years but, if you\u2019d like, I\u2019ll go and pay him a call.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s known all along you\u2019re a Cavite, hasn\u2019t he?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe have kept off the subject of religion entirely. As you probably\ndiscovered, since the division of the world, there\u2019s been little\ncommunication between East and West. I don\u2019t think he knows much about\nthe Cavites except that they\u2019re undesirable.\u201d\n\n\u201cPoor creature,\u201d said Butler, compassionately.\n\n\u201cOuter darkness,\u201d I agreed.\n\n\u201cBut mark my words before ten years have passed they will have the\ntruth.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have no doubt of that, Communicator, none at all. If the others who\ncome out have even a tenth of your devotion the work will go fast.\u201d\nThe easy words of praise came back to me mechanically from those\ndecades when a large part of my work was organizational, spurring the\nmediocre on to great deeds ... and the truth of the matter has been,\ntraditionally, that the unimaginative are the stuff from which heroes\nand martyrs are invariably made.\n\n\u201cThanks for those kind words,\u201d said Butler, flushed now with pleasure\nas well as heat. \u201cWhich reminds me, I was going to ask you if you\u2019d\nlike to help us with our work once we get going?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019d like nothing better but I\u2019m afraid my years of useful service are\nover. Any advice, however, or perhaps influence that I may have in\nLuxor....\u201d There was a warm moment of mutual esteem and amiability,\nbroken only by a reference to the Squad of Belief.\n\n\u201cOf course we\u2019ll have one here in time; though we can say, thankfully,\nthat the need for them in the Atlantic states is nearly over.\nNaturally, there are always a few malcontents but we have worked\nout a statistical ratio of nonconformists in the population which\nis surprisingly accurate. Knowing their incidence, we are able to\ncheck them early. In general, however, the truth is happily ascendant\neverywhere in the really civilized world.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat are their methods now?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Squad of Belief\u2019s? Psychological indoctrination. We now have\nmethods of converting even the most obstinate lutherist. Of course\nwhere usual methods fail (and once in every fifteen hundred they do),\nthe Squad is authorized to remove a section of brain which effectively\ndoes the trick of making the lutherist conform, though his usefulness\nin a number of other spheres is somewhat impaired: I\u2019m told he has to\nlearn all over again how to talk and to move around.\u201d\n\n\u201cLutherist? I don\u2019t recognize the word.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou certainly have been cut off from the world.\u201d Butler looked at me\ncuriously, almost suspiciously. \u201cI thought even in your day that was a\ncommon expression. It means anybody who refuses willfully to know the\ntruth.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat does it come from?\u201d\n\n\u201cCome from?\u201d Semantics were either no longer taught or else Butler had\nnever been interested in them. \u201cWhy it just means, well, a lutherist.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wonder, though, what the derivation of it was.\u201d I was excited: this\nwas the only sign that I had ever existed, a word of obscure origin\nconnoting nonconformist.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m afraid we\u2019ll have to ask my side-kick when he comes. I don\u2019t\nsuppose it came from one of those Christian sects ... you know the\nGerman one which broke with Rome.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat must be it,\u201d I said. \u201cI don\u2019t suppose in recent years there have\nbeen as many lutherists as there once were.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery, very few. As I say, we\u2019ve got it down to a calculable minority\nand our psychologists are trying to work out some method whereby we can\nspot potential lutherists in childhood and indoctrinate them before\nit\u2019s too late ... but of course the problem is a negligible one in the\nAtlantic states. We\u2019ve had no serious trouble for forty years.\u201d\n\n\u201cForty years ... that was the time of all the trouble,\u201d I said.\n\n\u201cNot so _much_ trouble,\u201d said Butler, undoing the bandana and mopping\nhis face with it. \u201cThe last flare-up, I gather, of the old Christians\n... history makes very little of it though I suppose at the time it\nmust have seemed important. Now that we have more perspective we can\nview things in their proper light. I was only a kid in those days and,\nfrankly, I don\u2019t think I paid any attention to the papers. Of course\n_you_ remember it.\u201d He looked at me suddenly, his great vacuous eyes\nfocused. My heart missed one of its precarious beats: was this the\nbeginning? had the inquisition begun?\n\n\u201cNot well,\u201d I said. \u201cI was seldom in the United States. I\u2019d been\ndigging in Central America, in and around the Peten. I missed most of\nthe trouble.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou seem to have missed a good deal.\u201d His voice was equable, without a\ntrace of secondary meaning.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve had a quiet life. I\u2019m grateful though for your coming here;\notherwise. I should have died without any contact with America, without\never knowing what was happening outside the Arab League.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, we\u2019ll shake things up around here.\u201d\n\n\u201cShake well before using,\u201d I quoted absently.\n\n\u201cWhat did you say?\u201d\n\n\u201cI said I hoped all would be well.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m sure it will. By the way, I brought you the new edition of Cave\u2019s\nprison dialogues.\u201d He pulled a small booklet from his back pocket and\nhanded it to me.\n\n\u201cThank you.\u201d I took the booklet: dialogues between Cave and Iris\nMortimer. I had never before heard of this particular work. \u201cIs this a\nrecent discovery?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cRecent? Why no. It\u2019s the newest edition but of course the text goes\nright back to the early days when Cave was in prison.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, yes, in California.\u201d\n\n\u201cSure; it was the beginning of the persecutions. Well, I\u2019ve got to be\non my way.\u201d He got heavily to his feet and arranged the bandana about\nhis head. \u201cSomebody stole my hat. Persecuting _me_, I\u2019ll bet my bottom\ndollar ... little ways. Well, I\u2019m prepared for them. They can\u2019t stop\nus. Sooner or later the whole world will be Cavite.\u201d\n\n\u201cAmen,\u201d I said.\n\n\u201cWhat?\u201d He looked at me with shock.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m an old man,\u201d I said hastily. \u201cYou must recall I was brought up in\nthe old Christianity. Such expressions still linger on, you know.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s a good thing there\u2019s no Squad of Belief in Luxor,\u201d said Butler\ncheerily. \u201cThey\u2019d have you up for indoctrination in a second.\u201d\n\n\u201cI doubt if it\u2019d be worth their trouble. Soon I shall be withdrawing\nfrom the world altogether.\u201d\n\n\u201cI suppose so. You haven\u2019t thought of taking Cavesway have you?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course, many times, but since my health has been good I\u2019ve been\nin no great hurry to leave my contemplation of those hills.\u201d I pointed\nto the western window. \u201cNow I should hesitate to die until the very\nlast moment, out of curiosity. I\u2019m eager to learn, to help as much as\npossible in your work here.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, that of course is good news but should you ever want to take\nhis way let me know. We have some marvellous methods now, extremely\npleasant to take and, as he said, 'It\u2019s not death which is hard but\ndying.\u2019 We\u2019ve finally made dying simply swell.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill wonders never cease?\u201d\n\n\u201cIn that department, never! It is the firm basis of our truth. Now I\nmust be off.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs your colleague due here soon?\u201d\n\n\u201cHaven\u2019t heard recently. I don\u2019t suppose the plans have been changed,\nthough. You\u2019ll like him.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m sure I shall.\u201d\n\n\n                                   2\n\nAnd so John Cave\u2019s period in jail was now known as the time of\npersecution, with a pious prison dialogue attributed to Iris. Before I\nreturned to my work of recollection, I glanced at the dialogue whose\nstyle was enough like Iris\u2019s to have been her work. But of course her\nstyle was not one which could ever have been called inimitable since\nit was based on the most insistent of twentieth-century advertising\ntechniques. I assumed the book was the work of others, of those\nanonymous counterfeiters who had created, according to a list of\npublications on the back of the booklet, a wealth of Cavite doctrine.\n\nThe conversation with Cave in prison was lofty in tone and seemed\nto deal with moral problems. It was apparent that since the task\nof governing is largely one of keeping order, it had become, with\nthe passage of time, necessary for the Cavite rulers to compose in\nCave\u2019s name different works of ethical instruction to be used for the\nguidance and control of the population. I assume that since they now\ncontrol all records, all original sources, it is an easy matter for\nthem to \u201cdiscover\u201d some relevant text which gives clear answer to any\nmoral or political problem which has not been anticipated in previous\ncommentaries. The work of falsifying records, expunging names is, I\nshould think, somewhat more tricky but they seem to have accomplished\nit in Cave\u2019s Testament, brazenly assuming that those who recall the\nearlier versions will die off in time, leaving a generation which knows\nonly what they wish it to know, excepting of course the \u201ccalculable\nminority\u201d of nonconformists, of base Lutherists.\n\nCave\u2019s term in prison was far less dramatic than official legend,\nthough more serious. He was jailed for hit-and-run driving on the\nhighway from Santa Monica into Los Angeles.\n\nI went to see him that evening with Paul. When we arrived at the jail,\nwe were not allowed near him though Paul\u2019s lawyers had been permitted\nto go inside a few minutes before our arrival.\n\nIris was sitting in the outer office, pale and shaken. A bored\npoliceman in uniform sat fatly at a desk at the other end of the\noffice, ignoring us.\n\n\u201cThey\u2019re the best lawyers in L.A.,\u201d said Paul quickly. \u201cThey\u2019ll get him\nout in no time.\u201d\n\nIris looked at him bleakly.\n\n\u201cWhat happened?\u201d I asked, sitting down beside her on the bench. \u201cHow\ndid it happen?\u201d\n\n\u201cI wasn\u2019t with him.\u201d She shook her head several times as though to\ndispel a profound daydream. \u201cHe called me and I called you. They _are_\nthe best, Paul?\u201d\n\n\u201cI can vouch that....\u201d\n\n\u201cDid he kill anybody?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe ... we don\u2019t know yet. He hit an old man and went on driving. I\ndon\u2019t know why; I mean why he didn\u2019t stop. He just went on and the\npolice car caught him. The man\u2019s in the hospital now. They say it\u2019s\nbad; he\u2019s unconscious, an old man ...\u201d\n\n\u201cAny reporters here?\u201d asked Paul. \u201cAnybody else know besides us?\u201d\n\n\u201cNobody. You\u2019re the only person I called.\u201d\n\n\u201cThis could wreck everything.\u201d Paul was frightened.\n\nBut Cave was rescued, at considerable expense to the company. The\nold man chose not to die immediately while the police and the courts\nof Los Angeles, at that time well known for their accessibility to\nfree-spending reason, proved more than obliging. After a day and a\nnight in prison. Cave was released on bail and when the case came to\ncourt, it was handled discreetly by the magistrate.\n\nThe newspapers, however, had discovered John Cave at last and there\nwere photographs of \u201cPresent-Day Messiah in Court.\u201d As ill luck would\nhave it, the undertakers of Laguna had come to the aid of their prophet\nwith banners which proclaimed his message. This picketing of the court\nwas photographed and exhibited in the tabloids. Paul was in a frenzy.\nPublicist though he was, in his first rage he expressed to me the novel\nsentiment that not all publicity was good.\n\n\u201cBut we\u2019ll get back at those bastards,\u201d he said grimly, not identifying\nwhich ones he meant but waving toward the city hidden by the Venetian\nblinds of his office window.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI asked for instructions. Cave had, the day before, gone back to\nWashington to lie low until the time was right for a triumphant\nreappearance. Iris had gone with him; on a separate plane, however,\nto avoid scandal. Clarissa had sent various heartening if confused\nmessages from New York while Paul and I were left alone to gather\nup the pieces and begin again. Our close association during those\ndifficult days impressed me with his talents and though, fundamentally,\nI still found him appalling, I couldn\u2019t help but admire his superb\noperativeness.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m going ahead with the original plan ... just like none of this\nhappened. The stockholders are willing and we\u2019ve got enough money,\nthough not as much as I\u2019d like, for the publicity build-up. I expect\nCave\u2019ll pick up some more cash in Seattle. He always does, wherever he\ngoes.\u201d\n\n\u201cMillionaires just flock to him?\u201d\n\n\u201cStrange to tell, yes. But then nearly everybody does.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s funny since the truth he offers is all there is to it.\nOnce experienced, there\u2019s no longer much need for Cave or for an\norganization.\u201d This of course was the paradox which time and the\nunscrupulous were bloodily to resolve.\n\nPaul\u2019s answer was reasonable. \u201cThat\u2019s true but there\u2019s the problem of\nsharing it. If millions felt the same way about death the whole world\nwould be happier and, if it\u2019s happier, why, it\u2019ll be a better place to\nlive in.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you really believe this?\u201d\n\n\u201cStill think of me as a hundred percent phony?\u201d Paul chuckled\ngood-naturedly. \u201cWell, it so happens, I _do_ believe that. It also so\nhappens that if this thing clicks we\u2019ll have a world organization and\nif we have that there\u2019ll be a big place for number one in it. It\u2019s all\nmixed up, Gene. I\u2019d like to hear _your_ motives, straight from the\nshoulder.\u201d\n\nI was not prepared to answer him, or myself. In fact, to this day,\nmy own motives are a puzzle to which there is no single key, no easy\ndefinition. One is not, after all, like those classic or neo-classic\nfigures who wore with such splendid mono-maniacal consistency the\nscarlet of lust or the purple of dominion, or the bright yellow of\nmadness, existing not at all beneath their identifying robes. Power\nappealed to me in my youth but only as a minor pleasure and not as\nan end in itself or even as a means to any private or public end.\nI enjoyed the idea of guiding and dominating others, preferably in\nthe mass; yet, at the same time, I did not like the boredom of power\nachieved, or the silly publicness of a great life. But there was\nsomething which, often against my will and judgment, precipitated me\ninto deeds and attitudes where the logic of the moment controlled me to\nsuch an extent that I could not lessen, if I chose, the momentum of my\nown wild passage, or chart its course.\n\nI would not have confided this to Paul even had I in those days\nthought any of it out, which I had not. Though I was conscious of some\nfundamental ambivalence in myself, I always felt that should I pause\nfor a few moments and question myself, I could easily find answers\nto these problems. But I did not pause. I never asked myself a single\nquestion concerning motive. I acted like a man sleeping who was only\nbarely made conscious by certain odd incongruities that he dreams. The\nsecret which later I was to discover was still unrevealed to me as I\nfaced the efficient vulgarity of Paul Himmell across the portable bar\nwhich reflected so brightly in its crystal his competence.\n\n\u201cMy motives are perfectly simple,\u201d I said, half-believing what I said.\nIn those days the more sweeping the statement the more apt I was to\ngive it my fickle allegiance: motives are simple, splendid! simple they\nare. \u201cI want something to do. I\u2019m fascinated by Cave and I believe\nwhat he says ... not that it is so supremely earthshaking. It\u2019s been\nadvanced as a theory off and on for two thousand years. Kant wrote that\nhe anticipated with delight the luxurious sleep of the grave and the\nGnostics came close to saying the same thing when they promised a glad\nliberation from life. The Eastern religions, about which I know very\nlittle, maintain ...\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s it!\u201d Paul interrupted me eagerly. \u201cThat\u2019s what we want. You\njust keep on like that. We\u2019ll call it 'An Introduction to John Cave.\u2019\nMake a small book out of it. Get it published in New York; then the\ncompany will buy up copies and we\u2019ll pass it out free.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m not so sure that I know enough formal philosophy to ...\u201d\n\n\u201cTo hell with that stuff. You just root around and show how the old\nwriters were really Cavites at heart and then you come to him and put\ndown what he says. Why we\u2019ll be half-there even before he\u2019s on TV!\u201d\nPaul lapsed for a moment into a reverie of promotion. I had another\ndrink and felt quite good myself although I had serious doubts about my\ncompetence to compose philosophy in the popular key. But Paul\u2019s faith\nwas infectious and I felt that, all in all, with a bit of judicious\nhedging and recourse to various explicit summaries and definitions,\nI might put together a respectable ancestry for Cave whose message,\nessentially, ignored _all_ philosophy, empiric and orphic, moving\nwith hypnotic effectiveness to the main proposition: death and man\u2019s\nacceptance of it. The problems of life were always quite secondary to\nCave, if not to the rest of us.\n\n\u201cWhen will you want this piece done?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe sooner the better. Here,\u201d he scribbled an address on a pad of\npaper. \u201cThis is Cave\u2019s address. He\u2019s on a farm outside Spokane. It\nbelongs to one of his undertaker friends.\u201d\n\n\u201cIris is with him?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes. Now you ...\u201d\n\n\u201cI wonder if that\u2019s wise, Iris seeing so much of him. You know he\u2019s\ngoing to have a good many enemies before very long and they\u2019ll dig\naround for any scandal they can find.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, it\u2019s perfectly innocent, I\u2019m sure. Even if it isn\u2019t, I can\u2019t see\nhow it can do much harm.\u201d\n\n\u201cFor a public relations man you don\u2019t seem to grasp the possibilities\nfor bad publicity in this situation.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll pub ...\u201d\n\n\u201cIs good. But Cave, it appears is a genuine ascetic.\u201d And the word\n\u201cgenuine\u201d as I spoke it was like a knife-blade in my heart. \u201cAnd, since\nhe is, you have a tremendous advantage in building him up. There\u2019s no\nuse in allowing him, quite innocently, to appear to philander.\u201d\n\nPaul looked at me curiously. \u201cYou wouldn\u2019t by chance be interested in\nIris yourself?\u201d\n\nAnd of course that was it. I had become attached to Iris in precisely\nthe same sort of way a complete man might have been but of course for\nme there was no hope, nothing. The enormity of that nothing shook me,\ndespite the alcohol we had drunk. I was sufficiently collected, though,\nnot to make the mistake of vehemence. \u201cI like her very much but I\u2019m\nmore attached to the idea of Cave than I am to her. I don\u2019t want to see\nthe business get out of hand. That\u2019s all. I\u2019m surprised you, of all\npeople involved, aren\u2019t more concerned.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou may have a point. I suppose I\u2019ve got to adjust my views to this\nthing ... it\u2019s different from my usual work building up crooners and\nmovie stars. In that line the romance angle is swell, just as long as\nthere\u2019re no bigamies or abortions involved. I see your point, though.\nWith Cave we have to think in sort of Legion of Decency terms. No rough\nstuff. No nightclub pictures or posing with blondes. You\u2019re absolutely\nright. Put that in your piece: doesn\u2019t drink, doesn\u2019t go out with\ndames....\u201d\n\nI laughed at this seriousness. \u201cMaybe we won\u2019t have to go that far. The\nnegative virtues usually shine through all on their own. The minute\nyou draw attention to them you create suspicion: people are generally\npleased to suspect the opposite of every avowal.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou talk just like my analyst.\u201d And I felt that I had won, briefly,\nPaul\u2019s admiration. \u201cAnyway, you go to Spokane; talk to Iris; tell her\nto lay off ... in a tactful way of course. I wouldn\u2019t mention it to\nhim: you never can tell how he\u2019ll react. She\u2019ll be reasonable even\nthough I suspect she\u2019s stuck on the man. Try and get your piece done by\nthe first of December. I\u2019d like to have it in print for the first of\nthe New Year, Cave\u2019s year.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll try.\u201d\n\n\u201cBy the way, we\u2019re getting an office ... same building as this. The\ndirectors okayed it and we\u2019ll take over as soon as there\u2019s some\nfurniture in it.\u201d\n\n\u201cCavites, Inc.?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe could hardly call it the Church of the Golden Rule,\u201d said Paul\nwith one of the few shows of irritability I was ever to observe in his\nequable disposition. \u201cNow, on behalf of the directors, I\u2019m authorized\nto advance you whatever money you might feel you need for this project;\nthat is, within ...\u201d\n\n\u201cI won\u2019t need anything except, perhaps, a directorship in the company.\u201d\nMy own boldness startled me. Paul laughed.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s a good boy. Eye on the main chance. Well, we\u2019ll see what we can\ndo about that. There aren\u2019t any more shares available right now but\nthat doesn\u2019t mean.... I\u2019ll let you know when you get back from Spokane.\u201d\n\nOur meeting was ended by the appearance of his secretary who called\nhim away to other business. As we parted in the outer office, he said,\nquite seriously, \u201cI don\u2019t think Iris likes him the way you think but\nif she does be careful. We can\u2019t upset Cave now. This is a tricky time\nfor everyone. Don\u2019t show that you suspect anything when you\u2019re with\nhim. Later, when we\u2019re under way, and there\u2019s less pressure, I\u2019ll\nhandle it. Agreed?\u201d\n\nI agreed, secretly pleased at being thought in love ... \u201cin love,\u201d to\nthis moment the phrase has a strangely foreign sound to me, like a\nclassical allusion not entirely understood in some decorous, scholarly\ntext. \u201cIn love,\u201d I whispered to myself in the elevator as I left Paul\nthat evening: in love with Iris.\n\n\n                                   3\n\nWe met at the Spokane railroad station and Iris drove me through the\nwide, clear, characterless streets to a country road which wound east\ninto the hills, in the direction of a town with the lovely name of\nCoeur d\u2019Alene.\n\nShe was relaxed. Her ordinarily pale face was faintly burned from the\nsun while her hair, which I recalled as darkly waving, was now streaked\nwith light and worn loosely bound at the nape of her neck. She wore no\ncosmetics and her dress was simple cotton beneath the sweater she wore\nagainst the autumn\u2019s chill. She looked young, younger than either of us\nactually was.\n\nAt first we talked of Spokane. She identified mountains and indicated\nhidden villages with an emphasis on places which sharply recalled Cave.\nNot until we had turned off the main highway into a country road, dark\nwith fir and spruce, did she ask me about Paul.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s very busy getting the New Year\u2019s debut ready. He\u2019s also got a set\nof offices for the company in Los Angeles and he\u2019s engaged me to write\nan introduction to Cave ... but I suppose you knew that when he wired\nyou I was coming.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was my idea.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy coming? or the introduction?\u201d\n\n\u201cBoth. I talked to him about it just before we came up here.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd I thought he picked it out of the air while listening to me\nmajestically place Cave among the philosophers.\u201d\n\nIris smiled. \u201cPaul\u2019s not obvious. He enjoys laying traps and, as long\nas they\u2019re for one\u2019s own good, he\u2019s very useful.\u201d\n\n\u201cImplying he could be destructive?\u201d\n\n\u201cImmensely. So be on your guard even though I don\u2019t think he\u2019ll harm\nany of us.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow is Cave?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m worried, Gene. He hasn\u2019t got over that accident. He talks about it\ncontinually.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut the man didn\u2019t die.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt would be better if he did ... as it is there\u2019s a chance of a\nlawsuit against Cave for damages.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut he has no money.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat doesn\u2019t prevent them from suing. Worst of all, though, would be\nthe publicity. The whole thing has depressed John terribly. It was all\nI could do to keep him from announcing to the press that he had almost\ndone the old man a favor.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou mean by killing him?\u201d\n\nIris nodded, quite seriously. \u201cThat\u2019s actually what he believes and the\nreason why he drove on.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m glad he said nothing like that to the papers.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut it\u2019s true; his point of view _is_ exactly right.\u201d\n\n\u201cExcept that the old man might regard the situation in a different\nlight and, in any case, he was badly hurt and did not receive Cave\u2019s\ngift of death.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow you\u2019re making fun of John.\u201d She frowned and drove fast on the\nempty road.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m doing no such thing. I\u2019m absolutely serious. There\u2019s a moral\nproblem involved which is extremely important and if a precedent is set\ntoo early, a bad one like this, there\u2019s no predicting how things will\nturn out.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou mean the ... the gift as you call it should only be given\nvoluntarily?\u201d\n\n\u201cExactly ... _if_ then, and only in extreme cases. Think what might\nhappen if those who listened to Cave decided to make all their friends\nand enemies content by killing them.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I wish you\u2019d talk to him.\u201d She smiled sadly. \u201cI\u2019m afraid I don\u2019t\nalways see things clearly when I\u2019m with him. You know how he is ... how\nhe convinces.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll talk to him tactfully. I\u2019ve also got to get a statement of belief\nfrom him.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you have it already. We all have it.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen I\u2019ll want some moral application of it. We have so much ground to\ncover yet.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s the farm, up there on the hill.\u201d A white frame building stood\nshining among elms on a low hill at the foot of blue sharp mountains.\nShe turned up a dirt road and, in silence, we arrived at the house.\n\nAn old woman, the cook, greeted us familiarly and told Iris that _he_\ncould be found in the study.\n\nIn a small warm room, sitting beside a stone fireplace empty of fire,\nCave sat, a scrapbook on his knees, his expression vague, unfocused.\nOur arrival recalled him from some dense reverie. He got to his feet\nquickly and shook hands; \u201cI\u2019m glad you came,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cI wanted to see you,\u201d I said awkwardly: it was Cave\u2019s particular gift\nto strike a note of penetrating sincerity at all times, even in his\ngreetings which became, as a result, disconcertingly like benedictions.\nIris excused herself and I sat beside him in front of the fireplace.\n\n\u201cHave you seen these?\u201d he asked, pushing the scrapbook toward me.\n\nI took it and nodded when I saw, neatly pasted and labeled, the various\nnewspaper stories concerning the accident. It had got a surprisingly\nlarge amount of space as though, instinctively, the editors had\nanticipated a coming celebrity for \u201cHit-and-Run Prophet.\u201d\n\n\u201cLook what they say about me.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve read them all,\u201d I said, handing the scrapbook back to him, a\nlittle surprised that, considering his unworldliness, he had bothered\nto keep such careful track of his appearance in the press. It showed\na new, rather touching side to him: he was like an actor hoarding his\nnotices, good and bad. \u201cI don\u2019t think it\u2019s serious: after all you were\nlet off by the court, and the man didn\u2019t die.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was an accident of course yet that old man nearly received the\ngreatest gift a man can have, a quick death. I wanted to tell the court\nthat. I could\u2019ve convinced them, I\u2019m sure, but Paul said no. It was the\nfirst time I\u2019ve ever gone against my own instinct and I don\u2019t like it.\u201d\nEmphatically, he shut the book.\n\nWe watched the cook who came into the room and lit the fire. When the\nfirst crackling filled the room and the pine had caught, she left,\nobserving that we were to eat in an hour.\n\n\u201cYou want to wash up?\u201d asked Cave mechanically, his eyes on the fire,\nhis hands clasped in his lap like those dingy marble replicas of hands\nwhich decorate medieval tombs: that night there was an unhuman look to\nCave: pale, withdrawn, inert ... his lips barely moving when he spoke,\nas though another\u2019s voice spoke through senseless flesh.\n\n\u201cNo thanks,\u201d I said, a little chilled by his tone, by his remoteness.\nI got him off the subject of the accident as quickly as possible and\nwe talked until dinner of the introduction I was to write. It was most\nenlightening. As I suspected, Cave had read only the Bible and that\nsuperficially, just enough to be able, at crucial moments, to affect\nthe seventeenth-century prose of the translators and to confound\nthereby simple listeners with the familiar authority of his manner.\nHis knowledge of philosophy did not even encompass the names of the\nprincipals. Plato and Aristotle rang faint, unrelated bells and with\nthem the meager carillon ended.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know why you want to drag in those people,\u201d he said, after I\nhad suggested Zoroaster as a possible point of beginning. \u201cMost people\nhave never heard of them either. And what I have to say is all my own.\nIt doesn\u2019t tie in with any of them or, if it does, it\u2019s a coincidence\nbecause I never picked it up anywhere.\u201d\n\n\u201cI think, though, that it would help matters if we did provide a sort\nof family tree for you, to show....\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t.\u201d He gestured with his effigy-hands. \u201cLet them argue about\nit later. For now, act like this is a new beginning, which it is. I\nhave only one thing to give people and that is the way to die without\nfear, gladly ... to accept nothing for what it is, a long and dreamless\nsleep.\u201d\n\nI had to fight against that voice, those eyes which as always, when he\nchose, could dominate any listener. Despite my close association with\nhim, despite the thousands of times I heard him speak, I was never,\neven in moments of lucid disenchantment, quite able to resist his\npower. He was a magician in the great line of Simon Magus and the Faust\nof legend. That much, even now, I will acknowledge ... his divinity,\nhowever, was and is the work of others, shaped and directed by the\nrace\u2019s recurrent need.\n\nI surrendered in the name of philosophy with a certain relief, and he\nspoke in specific terms of what he believed and what I should write in\nhis name.\n\nIt was not until after dinner that we got around, all three of us, to a\nproblem which was soon to absorb us all, with near-disastrous results.\n\nWe had been talking amiably of neutral things and Cave had emerged\nsomewhat from his earlier despondency. He got on to the subject of the\nfarm where we were, of its attractiveness and remoteness, of its owner\nwho lived in Spokane.\n\n\u201cI always liked old Smathers. You\u2019d like him too. He\u2019s got one of the\nbiggest funeral parlors in the state. I used to work for him and then,\nwhen I started on all this, he backed me up to the hilt. Lent me money\nto get as far as San Francisco. After that of course it was easy. I\npaid him back every cent.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoes he get here often?\u201d\n\nCave shook his head. \u201cNo, he lets me use the farm but he keeps away. He\nsays he doesn\u2019t approve of what I\u2019m doing. You see he\u2019s Catholic.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut he still likes John,\u201d said Iris who had been stroking a\nparticularly ugly yellow cat beside the fire. So it was John now, I\nthought. Iris was the only person ever to call him by his first name.\n\n\u201cYes. He\u2019s a good friend.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019ll be a lot of trouble, you know,\u201d I said.\n\n\u201cFrom Smathers?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, from the Catholics, from the Christians.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou really think so?\u201d Cave looked at me curiously. I believe that\nuntil that moment he had never realized the inevitable collision of his\npoint of view with that of the established religions.\n\n\u201cOf course I do. They\u2019ve constructed an entire ethical system upon\na supernatural foundation whose main strength is the promise of a\ncontinuation of human personality after death. You are rejecting grace,\nheaven, hell, the Trinity ...\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve never said anything about the Trinity or about Christianity.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you\u2019ll _have_ to say something about it sooner or later. If--or\nrather when--the people begin to accept you, the churches will fight\nback and the greater the impression you make the more fierce their\nattack.\u201d\n\n\u201cI suspect John _is_ the anti-Christ,\u201d said Iris and I saw from her\nexpression that she was perfectly serious. \u201cHe\u2019s come to undo all the\nwickedness of the Christians.\u201d\n\n\u201cThough not, I hope, of Christ,\u201d I said. \u201cThere\u2019s some virtue in his\nlegend, even as corrupted at Nicea three centuries after the fact.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll have to think about it,\u201d said Cave. \u201cI don\u2019t know that I\u2019ve ever\ngiven it much thought before. I\u2019ve spoken always what I knew was true\nand there\u2019s never been any opposition, at least that I\u2019ve been aware\nof, to my face. It never occurred to me that people who like to think\nof themselves as Christians couldn\u2019t accept both me and Christ at the\nsame time. I know I don\u2019t promise the kingdom of heaven but I _do_\npromise oblivion and the loss of self, of pain....\u201d\n\n\u201cGene is right,\u201d said Iris. \u201cThey\u2019ll fight you hard. You must get ready\nnow while you still have time to think it out, before Paul puts you to\nwork and you\u2019ll never have a moment\u2019s peace again.\u201d\n\n\u201cAs bad as that, you think?\u201d Cave sighed wistfully. \u201cBut how to get\nready? What shall I do? I never think things out, you know. Everything\noccurs to me on the spot. I can never tell what may occur to me next.\nIt happens only when I speak to people. When I\u2019m alone, I seldom think\nof the ... the main things; yet, when I\u2019m in a group talking to them I\nhear ... no, not hear, I _feel_ voices telling me what I should say.\nThat\u2019s why I never prepare a talk, why I don\u2019t really like to have them\ntaken down: they\u2019re something which are meant only for the instant they\nare conceived ... a child, if you like, made for just a moment\u2019s life\nby the people listening and myself speaking. I don\u2019t mean to sound\ntouched,\u201d he added, with a sudden smile. \u201cI\u2019m not really hearing things\nbut I do get something from those people, something besides the thing I\ntell them. I seem to become a part of them, as though what goes on in\ntheir minds also goes on in me, at the same time, two lobes to a single\nbrain.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe know that, John,\u201d said Iris softly. \u201cWe\u2019ve felt it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI suppose, then, that\u2019s the key,\u201d said Cave. \u201cThough it isn\u2019t much to\nwrite about; you can\u2019t put it across without me to say it.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou may be wrong there,\u201d I said. \u201cOf course in the beginning you will\nsay the word but I think in time, properly managed, everyone will\naccept it on the strength of evidence and statement, responding to\nthe chain of forces you have set in motion.\u201d Yet for all the glibness\nwith which I spoke, I did not really believe that Cave would prove to\nbe more than an interesting momentary phenomenon whose \u201ctruth\u201d about\ndeath might, at best, contribute in a small way to the final abolition\nof those old warring superstitions which had mystified and troubled\nmen for twenty dark centuries. A doubt which displayed my basic\nmisunderstanding of our race\u2019s will to death and, worse, to a death in\nlife made radiant by false dreams, by desperate adjurations.\n\nBut that evening we spoke only of a bright future: \u201cTo begin again\nis the important thing,\u201d I said. \u201cChristianity, though strong as an\norganization in this country, is weak as a force because, finally, the\nessential doctrine is not accepted by most of the people: the idea of a\nman-like God dispensing merits and demerits at time\u2019s exotic end.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe are small,\u201d said Cave. \u201cIn space, on this tiny planet, we are\nnothing. Death brings us back to the whole. We lose this instant of\nawareness, of suffering, like spray in the ocean: there it forms ...\nthere it goes, back to the sea.\u201d\n\n\u201cI think people will listen to you because they realize now that order,\nif there is any, has never been revealed, that death is the end of\npersonality even for those passionate, self-important 'I\u2019s\u2019 who insist\nupon a universal deity like themselves, carefully presented backwards\nin order not to give the game away.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow dark, how fine the grave must be! only sleep and an end of days,\nan end of fear: the end of fear in the grave as the 'I\u2019 goes back to\nnothing....\u201d\n\n\u201cHow wonderful life will be when men no longer fear dying! When the\nlast superstitions are thrown out and we meet death with the same\nequanimity that we have met life. No longer will children\u2019s minds be\ntwisted by evil, demanding, moralizing gods whose fantastic origin is\nin those barbaric tribes who feared death and lightning, who feared\nlife. That\u2019s it: life is the villain to those maniacs who preach reward\nin death: grace and eternal bliss ... or dark revenge....\u201d\n\n\u201cNeither revenge nor reward, only the not-knowing in the grave which is\nthe same for all....\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd without those inhuman laws, what societies we might build! Take\nthe morality of Christ. Begin there, or even earlier with Plato or\nearlier yet with Zoroaster ... take the best ideas of the best men and\nshould there be any disagreement as to what is best, use life as the\ndefinition, life as the measure: what contributes most to the living is\nthe best.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut the living is soon done and the sooner done the better. I envy\nthose who have already gone....\u201d\n\n\u201cIf they listen to you, Cave, it will be like the unlocking of a\nprison. At first they may go wild but then, on their own, they will\nfind ways to life. Fear and punishment in death has seldom stopped\nthe murderer\u2019s hand. The only two things which hold him from his\npurpose are, at the worst, fear of reprisal from society and, at the\nbest, a feeling for life, a love for all that lives ... and not the\nwide-smiling idiot\u2019s love but a sense of the community of the living,\nof life\u2019s marvelous regency ... even the most ignorant has felt this.\nLife is all while death is only the irrelevant shadow at the end, the\ncounterpart to that instant before the seed lives.\u201d\n\nYes, I believed all that, all that and more too, and I felt Cave was\nthe same as I; by removing fear with that magic of his, he would\nfulfill certain hopes of my own and (I flatter myself perhaps) of the\nlong line of others, nobler than I, who had been equally engaged in\nattempting to use life more fully. And so that evening it welled up\nsuddenly: the hidden conviction behind a desultory life broke through\nthat chill hard surface of disappointment and disgust which had formed\na brittle carapace about my heart. I had, after all, my truth too, and\nCave had got to it, broken the shell ... and for that I shall remain\ngrateful ... until we are at last the same, both taken by dust.\n\nExcitedly, we talked ... I talked mostly, I think. Cave was the theme\nand I the counterpoint or so I thought. He had stated it and I built\non it, built outward from what I conceived to be the luminosity of\nhis vision. Our dialogue was one of communion, I believed and he\nbelieved too. Only Iris guessed, even then, that it was not. She saw\nthe difference; she was conscious of the division which that moment\nhad, unknown to either of us, separated me from Cave. _Each time I said\n\u201clife,\u201d he said \u201cdeath.\u201d_ In true amity but false concord war began.\n\nIris, more practical than we, deflated our visions by pulling the\ndialogue gently back to reality, to ways and dull means.\n\nIt was agreed that we had agreed on fundamentals, that the end of\nfear was desirable; that superstition should be exorcised from human\naffairs; that the ethical systems expressed by the major religious\nfigures from Zoroaster to Mohammed all contained useful and applicable\nideas of societal behavior which need not be entirely discarded.\n\nAt Iris\u2019s suggestion, we left the problem of Christianity itself\ncompletely alone. Cave\u2019s truth was sufficient cause for battle. There\nwas no reason, she felt, for antagonizing the ultimate enemy at the\nvery beginning.\n\n\u201cLet them attack _you_, John. You must be above quarreling; you must\nact as if they are too much in error even to notice.\u201d\n\n\u201cI reckon I _am_ above it,\u201d said Cave and he sounded almost cheerful\nfor the first time since my arrival. \u201cI want no trouble, but if trouble\ncomes I don\u2019t intend to back down. I\u2019ll just go on saying what I know.\u201d\n\nAt midnight, Cave excused himself and went to bed.\n\nIris and I sat silently before the last red embers on the hearth. I\nsensed that something had gone wrong but I could not tell then what it\nwas.\n\nWhen she spoke, her manner was abrupt: \u201cDo you really want to go on\nwith this?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat an odd time to ask me that. Of course I do. Tonight\u2019s the first\ntime I really saw what it was Cave meant, what it was I\u2019d always felt\nbut never before known, consciously, that is. I couldn\u2019t be more\nenthusiastic.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hope you don\u2019t change.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy so glum? What are you trying to say? After all you got me into\nthis.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know I did and I think I was right. It\u2019s only that this evening\nI felt ... well, I don\u2019t know. Perhaps I\u2019m getting a bit on edge.\u201d\nShe smiled and, through all the youth and health, I saw that she was\nanxious and ill-at-ease.\n\n\u201cThat business about the accident?\u201d\n\n\u201cMainly, yes. The lawyers say that now that the old man\u2019s all right\nhe\u2019ll try to collect damages. He\u2019ll sue Cave.\u201d\n\n\u201cNasty publicity.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe worst. It\u2019s upset John terribly ... he almost feels it\u2019s an omen.\u201d\n\n\u201cI thought we were dispensing with all that, with miracles and omens.\u201d\nI smiled but she did not.\n\n\u201cSpeak for yourself.\u201d She got up and pushed at the coals with the fire\nshovel. \u201cPaul says he\u2019ll handle everything but I don\u2019t see how. There\u2019s\nno way he can stop a lawsuit.\u201d\n\nBut I was tired of this one problem which was, all things considered,\nout of our hands in any case. I asked her about herself and Cave.\n\n\u201cIs it wise my being up here with John, alone? No, I\u2019m afraid not but\nthat\u2019s the way it is.\u201d Her voice was hard and her back which was turned\nto me grew stiff, her movements with the fire shovel angry and abrupt.\n\n\u201cPeople will use it against both of you. It may hurt him, and all of\nus.\u201d\n\nShe turned suddenly, her face flushed. \u201cI can\u2019t help it, Gene. I swear\nI can\u2019t. I\u2019ve tried to keep away. I almost flew East with Clarissa but\nwhen he asked me to join him here, I did. I couldn\u2019t leave him.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill marriage be a part of the new order?\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t joke.\u201d She sat down angrily in a noise of skirts crumpling.\n\u201cCave must never marry. Besides it\u2019s ... it isn\u2019t like that.\u201d\n\n\u201cReally? I must confess I ...\u201d\n\n\u201cThought we were having an affair? Well, it\u2019s not true.\u201d The rigidity\nleft her as suddenly as it had possessed her. She grew visibly passive,\neven helpless, in the worn upholstered chair, her eyes on me, the\nanger gone and only weakness left. \u201cWhat can I do?\u201d It was a cry from\nthe heart ... all the more touching because, obviously, she had not\nintended to tell me this. She\u2019d turned to me because there was no one\nelse to whom she could talk.\n\n\u201cYou ... love him?\u201d That word which whenever I spoke it in those days\nalways stuck in my throat like a diminutive sob.\n\n\u201cMore, more,\u201d she said distractedly. \u201cBut I can\u2019t _do_ anything or\n_be_ anything. He\u2019s complete. He doesn\u2019t need anyone. He doesn\u2019t want\nme except as ... a companion, and advisor like you or Paul ... it\u2019s all\nthe same to him.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t see that it\u2019s hopeless.\u201d\n\n\u201cHopeless!\u201d The word snot from her like a desperate deed. She\nburied her face in her hands but she did not weep. I sat awkwardly,\ninadequately watching her. The noise of a clock alone separated us: its\ndry ticking kept the silence from falling in about our heads.\n\nFinally, she dropped her hands and turned toward me with her usual\ngrace, \u201cYou mustn\u2019t take me too seriously,\u201d she said. \u201cOr I mustn\u2019t\ntake myself too seriously which is more to the point. Cave doesn\u2019t\nreally need me or anyone and we ... I, perhaps you, certainly others,\nneed him. It\u2019s best no one try to claim him all as a woman would do, as\nI might, given the chance.\u201d She rose. \u201cIt\u2019s late and you must be tired.\nDon\u2019t ever mention to anyone what I\u2019ve told you tonight ... especially\nto John. If he knew the way I felt....\u201d She left it at that. I gave my\npromise and we went to our rooms.\n\nI stayed two days at the farm, listening to Cave who continually\nreferred to the accident: he was almost petulant, as though the whole\nbusiness were an irrelevant, gratuitous trick played on him by a\nmalicious old man.\n\nHis days were spent reading his mail (there was quite a bit of it even\nthen), composing answers which Iris typed out for him, and walking in\nthe wooded hills which surrounded the farm on two sides.\n\nThe weather was sharp and bright and the wind, when it blew, tasted of\nice from the glaciers in the vivid mountains: winter was nearly with us\nand red leaves decorated the wind, so many ribbons for so much summer\ncolor. Only the firs remained unchanged, warm and dark in the bright\nchill days.\n\nCave and I would walk together while Iris remained indoors, working. He\nwas a good walker, calm, unhurried, sure-footed, and he knew all the\ntrails beneath the yellow and red leaves fallen.\n\nCave agreed with me on most of my ideas concerning the introduction;\nand I promised to send him my first draft as soon as I\u2019d got it done.\nHe was genuinely indifferent to the philosophic aspect of what he\npreached. He acted almost as if he did not want to hear of those others\nwho had approached the great matter in a similar way. When I talked to\nhim of the fourth-century Donatists who detested life and loved heaven\nso much that they would request strangers to kill them, magistrates to\nexecute them for no crime, he stopped me: \u201cI don\u2019t want to hear all\nthat. That\u2019s finished. All that\u2019s over. We want new things now.\u201d\n\nIris, too, seemed uninterested in any formalizing of Cave\u2019s thought\nthough she saw its necessity and wished me well, suggesting that I not\never intimate derivation since, in fact, there had been none: what he\nwas, he had become on his own, uninstructed.\n\nDuring our walks, I got to know Cave as well as I was ever to know\nhim. He was indifferent, I think, to everyone. He gave one his private\ntime in precise ratio to one\u2019s belief in him and importance to his\nwork. With groups, with the masses, he was another creature: warm,\nintoxicating, human, yet transcendent ... a part of each human being\nwho beheld him at such times, the longed-for complement to the common\nsoul.\n\nYet though I found him, as a human being, without much warmth or\nintellectual interest I nevertheless identified him with the release\nI\u2019d known in his presence and, for this new certainty of life\u2019s value\nand of death\u2019s irrelevance, I loved him.\n\nOn the third day I made up my mind to go back East and do the necessary\nwriting in New York, away from Paul\u2019s hectic influence and Cave\u2019s\nadvice. Cave asked me to stay with him for the rest of the week but I\ncould see that Iris regarded me now as a potential danger, a keeper of\nsecrets who might, despite promises, prove to be disloyal; and so, to\nset her mind at ease as well as to suit my own new plans, I told her\nafter lunch on the third day, when we were for a moment alone in the\nstudy, that I had said nothing to Cave, that I was ready to go back\nthat evening if she would drive me to Spokane.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re a good friend,\u201d she said. \u201cI made a fool of myself the other\nnight. I wish you\u2019d forget it ... forget everything I said.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll never mention it. Now, the problem is how I can leave here\ngracefully. Cave just asked me this morning to stay on and ...\u201d\n\nBut I was given a perfect means of escape. Cave came running into the\nroom, his eyes shining. \u201cPaul! I\u2019ve just talked to Paul in L.A. It\u2019s\nall over! No heirs, nothing, no lawsuit. No damages to pay.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s happened?\u201d Iris stopped him in his excitement.\n\n\u201cThe old man\u2019s dead!\u201d\n\n\u201cOh Lord!\u201d Iris went gray. \u201cThat means a manslaughter charge!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no ... not because of the accident. He was in _another_ accident.\nA truck hit him the day after he left the hospital. Yesterday. He was\nkilled instantly ... lucky devil: and of course we\u2019re in luck too.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid they find who hit him?\u201d I asked, suddenly suspicious. Iris looked\nat me fiercely. She had got it too.\n\n\u201cNo. Paul said it was a hit-and-run. He said this time the police\ndidn\u2019t find who did it. Paul said his analyst calls it 'a will to\ndisaster\u2019 ... he _wanted_ to be run over. Of course that\u2019s hardly a\ndisaster but the analyst thinks the old way.\u201d\n\nI left that afternoon for New York, leaving Cave jubilantly making\nplans for the New Year: everything was again possible. Neither Iris nor\nI mentioned what we both knew ... each of us, in our different way,\naccommodating the first of many crimes, as we drove across the smoky\nhills to Spokane.\n\n\n\n\n                                  SIX\n\n\n                                   1\n\n\u201cThe tone, dear Gene, has all the unction, all the earnest turgidity\nof a theologian. You are perfect.\u201d Clarissa beamed at me wickedly over\nlunch in the Plaza Hotel. We sat at a table beside a great plate-glass\nwindow through which we could see the frosted bleak expanse of Central\nPark, dingy in city snow, ringed by buildings like so many mountain\npeaks, monotonous in their sharp symmetry. The sky was sullen, gray\nwith more snow to fall. The year was nearly over.\n\n\u201cI thought it really quite to the point,\u201d I said loftily but with an\nanxious look at the thin black volume between us which was that day to\nbe published. The hasty work of one hectic month released in record\ntime by a connection of Paul Himmell\u2019s.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s pure nonsense, your historical part. _I_ know, though I confess\nI was never one for the philosophers in those days ... dreary\n_egotistical_ men, worse than the actors and not half so lovely.\nWaiter, I will have a melon: out of season I hope. I suggest you have\nit too. It\u2019s light.\u201d\n\nI ordered _pot-de-cr\u00eame_, the heaviest dessert on the menu.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve made you angry,\u201d Clarissa pretended contrition. \u201cI was only\ntrying to compliment you. What I meant was that the sort of thing\nyou\u2019re doing I think is nonsense only because action is what counts,\naction on any level ... not theorizing.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s a certain action to _thinking_, you know, even to writing\nabout the thoughts of others.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, darling, don\u2019t sound so stuffy. Your dessert, by the way, poisons\nthe liver. Oh, isn\u2019t that Bishop Winston over there by the door, in\ntweed? In mufti, eh, Bishop?\u201d\n\nThe Bishop, who was passing our table in the company of a handsomely\npale youth whose contemplation of orders shone in his face like some\ncherished sin, stopped and, with a smile, shook Clarissa\u2019s hand.\n\n\u201cAh, how are you? I missed you the other night at Agnes\u2019s. She told me\nyou\u2019ve been engaged in social work.\u201d\n\n\u201cA euphemism, Bishop.\u201d Clarissa introduced me and the prelate moved on\nto his table, a robust gray-haired man with good coloring and a look of\nease.\n\n\u201cCatholic?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, Episcopal. I like them the best, I think. They adore society\nand good works ... spiritual Whigs you might call them, a civilizing\ninfluence. Best of all, so few of them believe in God, unlike the\nCatholics or those terrible Calvinist peasants who are forever saving\nthemselves and damning others.\u201d\n\n\u201cI think, Clarissa, you\u2019re much too hard on the Episcopalians. I\u2019m sure\nthey must believe what they preach. At least the clergy do.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, we shall probably never know. Social work! I knew Agnes would\ncome up with something altogether wrong. Still, I\u2019m just as glad it\u2019s\nnot out yet. Not until the big debut tomorrow afternoon. I hope you\u2019ve\nmade arrangements to be near a television set. No? Then come to my\nplace and we\u2019ll see it together. Cave\u2019s asked us both to the station,\nby the way, but I think it better if we not distract him.\u201d\n\n\u201cIris came East with him?\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed she did. They both arrived last night. I thought you\u2019d talked\nto her.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo. I haven\u2019t been in touch with either of them since I got back to\nNew York. Paul\u2019s the only one I ever see.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe keeps the whole thing going, I must say. One of those born\norganizers. Now! what about you and Iris?\u201d\n\nThis came so suddenly, without preparation, that it took me a\nsuspiciously long time to answer, weakly: \u201cI don\u2019t know what you mean.\nWhat about Iris and me?\u201d\n\n\u201cDarling, I know _everything_.\u201d She looked at me in her eager,\npredatory way: I was secretly pleased that, in this particular case at\nleast, she knew nothing.\n\n\u201cThen tell _me_.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re in love with her and she\u2019s classically involved with Cave.\u201d\n\n\u201cClassical seems to be the wrong word. Nothing has happened and nothing\n_will_ happen.\u201d\n\n\u201cI suppose she told you this herself.\u201d\n\nI was trapped for a moment. Clarissa, even in error, was shrewd and if\none was not on guard she would quickly cease to be in error, at one\u2019s\nexpense.\n\n\u201cNo, not exactly; but Paul who does, I think, know everything about\nour affairs assures me that nothing has happened, that Cave is not\ninterested in women.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn men?\u201d\n\n\u201cI thought you were all-knowing. No, not in men nor in wild animals\nnor, does it seem, from the evidence Paul\u2019s collected, in anything\nexcept John Cave. Sex does not happen for him.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d said Clarissa, exhaling slowly, significantly, inscrutably. She\nabandoned her first line of attack to ask: \u201cBut _you_ are crazy about\nIris, aren\u2019t you? That\u2019s what I\u2019d intended, you know, when I brought\nyou two together.\u201d\n\n\u201cI thought it was to bring me into Cave\u2019s orbit.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat, too, but somehow I saw you and Iris ... well, you\u2019re obviously\ngoing to give me no satisfaction so I shall be forced to investigate on\nmy own.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot to sound too auctorial, too worried, do you think it will get Cave\nacross? the introduction here?\u201d\n\n\u201cI see no reason why not. Look at the enormous success of those\nbooks with tides like 'Eternal Bliss Can Be Yours for the Asking\u2019 or\n'Happiness at Your Beck-and-Call.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m a little more ambitious.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot in the least. But the end served is the same. You got down the\nmain line of Cave\u2019s thinking, if it can be called thinking. And your\nbook, along with his presence, should have an extraordinary effect.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you really think so? I\u2019ve begun to doubt.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed I do. They are waiting ... all those sad millions who want\nto believe will find him exactly right for their purposes. He exists\nonly to be believed in. He\u2019s a natural idol ... did you know that when\nConstantine moved his court to the East, his heirs were trained by\nEastern courtiers to behave like idols and when his son came in triumph\nback to Rome (what a day that was! hot, but exciting) he rode for hours\nthrough the crowded streets without once moving a finger or changing\nexpression, a perfectly trained god. We were all so impressed ...\u201d\n\nI cut this short. \u201cHas it occurred to you that they might not want to\nbelieve anything, just like you and me.\u201d\n\n\u201cNonsense ... and it\u2019s rude to interrupt, dear, even a garrulous relic\nlike myself ... yet after all, in a way, we _do_ believe what Cave\nsays. Death is there and he makes it seem perfectly all right, oblivion\nand the rest of it. And dying does rather upset a lot of people.\nHave you noticed one thing that the devoutly superstitious can never\nunderstand is the fact that though we do not accept the fairy tale of\nreward or punishment beyond the grave we still are reluctant to 'pass\non,\u2019 as the nuts say? As though the prospect of nothing isn\u2019t really,\nin a way, without friend Cave to push one into acceptance, perfectly\nghastly, _much_ worse than toasting on a grid like that poor saint up\nnorth. But now I must fly. Come to the apartment at seven and I\u2019ll give\nyou dinner. He\u2019s on at eight. Afterwards they\u2019ll all join us.\u201d Clarissa\nflew.\n\nI spent the afternoon gloomily walking up and down Fifth Avenue filled\nwith doubt and foreboding, wishing now that I had never lent myself to\nthe conspiracy, confident of its failure and of the rude laughter or,\nworse, the tactful silence of friends who would be astonished to find\nthat after so many years of promise and reflection my first book should\nprove to be an apologia for an obscure evangelist whose only eminence\nwas that of having mesmerized myself and an energetic publicist, among\na number of others more likely perhaps than we, to take to a crank.\n\nThe day did nothing to improve my mood and it was in a most depressed\nstate that I went finally to Clarissa\u2019s baroque apartment on one of the\nbetter streets and dined with her quietly, infecting her, I was darkly\npleased to note, with my own grim mood. By the time Cave was announced\non the vast television screen, I had reduced Clarissa, for one of the\nfew times in our acquaintance, to silence.\n\nYet as the lights in the room mechanically dimmed, as the screen grew\nbright with color and an announcer came into focus, I was conscious of\na quickening of my pulse, of a certain excitement. Here it was at last,\nthe result of nearly a year\u2019s careful planning. Soon, in a matter of\nminutes, we would know.\n\nTo my surprise Paul Himmell was introduced by the announcer who\nidentified him perfunctorily, saying that the following half hour had\nbeen bought by Cavite, Inc.\n\nPaul spoke briefly, earnestly. He was nervous, I could see, and\nhis eyes moved from left to right disconcertingly as he read his\nintroduction from cards out of view of the camera. He described Cave\nbriefly as a teacher, as a highly regarded figure in the West. He\nimplied it was as a public service, the rarest of philanthrophies, that\na group of industrialists and businessmen were sponsoring Cave this\nevening.\n\nThen Paul walked out of range of the camera leaving, briefly, a view of\na chair and a table behind which a handsome blue velvet curtain fell in\nrich graceful folds from the invisible ceiling to an imitation marble\nfloor. An instant later, Cave walked into view.\n\nBoth Clarissa and I leaned forward in our chairs tensely, eagerly,\nanxiously: we were there as well as he. This was our moment too. My\nhands grew cold and my throat dry.\n\nCave was equal to the moment. He looked tall: the scale of the table,\nthe chair was exactly right. He wore a dark suit and a dark unfigured\ntie with a white shirt that gave him an austereness which, in person,\nhe lacked. I saw Paul\u2019s stage-managing in this.\n\nHe moved easily into range, his eyes cast down. Not until he had placed\nhimself in front of the table and the camera had squarely centered him,\ndid he look up, look directly into the lens. Clarissa gasped and I felt\nsuddenly pierced: the camera, the lights had magnified rather than\ndiminished his power. It made no difference now what he said. The magic\nwas working.\n\nClarissa and I sat in the twilight of her drawing room, entirely\nconcentrated on that vivid screen, on the dark figure upon rich blue,\non the pale eyes and the hands which seldom moved. It was like some\nfascinating scene in a skillful play which, quite against one\u2019s wish\nand aesthetic judgment, pulled one to it, became, at least for that\nshort time beyond real time, a part of one\u2019s own private drama of\nexistence, all sharpened by artifice, by calculated magic.\n\nNot until Cave was nearly finished did those first words of his, spoken\nso easily, so quietly, begin to come back to me as he repeated them\nin his coda. His voice increasing a little in volume, yet still not\nhurrying, not forcing, not breaking the mood which his first glance\nhad created and which voice and eyes together maintained without once\nletting go. The burden of his words was, as always, the same. Yet this\ntime it seemed more awesome, more final, undeniable ... in short, the\ntruth. Though I\u2019d always accepted his first premise, I had never been\nmuch impressed by the ways he found of stating it, even though I always\nresponded to his particular power. This night, before the camera and in\nthe sight of millions, he perfected his singular art of communication\nand the world was his.\n\nWhen he finished, Clarissa and I sat for a moment in complete silence,\nthe chirping of a commercial the only sound in the room. At last she\nsaid: \u201cThe brandy is over there on the console. Get me some.\u201d Then\nshe switched off the screen from her chair and the lights of the room\nbrightened again.\n\n\u201cI feel dragged through a wringer,\u201d she said after her first mouthful\nof brandy.\n\n\u201cI had no idea it would work so well, like this, on television.\u201d I felt\nstrangely empty, let down. There was hardly any doubt now of Cave\u2019s\neffectiveness yet I felt joyless and depleted, as though part of my\nlife had gone, leaving an ache.\n\n\u201cWhat a time we\u2019re going to have.\u201d Clarissa was beginning to recover.\n\u201cI\u2019ll bet there are a million letters by morning and Paul will be doing\na jig.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hope this is the right thing, Clarissa. It would be terrible if it\nweren\u2019t.\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course it\u2019s right ... whatever _that_ means: if it works it\u2019s right\n... perfectly simple. Such conceptions are all a matter of fashion\nanyway. One year women expose only their ankle; the next year their\n_derri\u00e8re_. What\u2019s right one year is wrong the next. If Cave captures\nthe popular imagination, he\u2019ll be right until someone better comes\nalong.\u201d\n\n\u201cA little cynical.\u201d But Clarissa was only repeating my own usual line.\nI was, or had been until that night on the Washington farm, a contented\nrelativist. Cave, however, had jolted me into new ways and I was\nbewildered by the change, by the prospect ahead.\n\n\n                                   2\n\nThat evening was a time of triumph, at least for Cave\u2019s companions.\nThey arrived noisily. Paul seemed drunk, manically exhilarated,\nwhile Iris glowed in a formal gown of green shot with gold. Two men\naccompanied them, one a doctor whose name I didn\u2019t catch at first and\nthe other a man from the television network who looked wonderfully\nsleek and pleased and kept patting Cave on the arm every now and then,\nas if to assure himself he\u2019d not vanished in smoke and fire.\n\nCave, still dressed in his dark suit, was mute. He sat answering\nquestions and replying to compliments with grave nods of his head.\nHe sat in a high brocaded chair beside the fire and drank tea which\nClarissa, knowing his habits, had ordered in advance for him.\n\nAfter our first burst of greetings at the door I did not speak to Cave\nagain and soon the others left him alone and talked around him, about\nhim yet through him, as though he had become invisible ... which seemed\nthe case when he was not speaking, when those extraordinary eyes were\nveiled or cast down, as they were now, moodily studying the teacup, the\npattern in the Aubusson rug at his feet.\n\nI crossed the room to where Iris sat on the wide couch. The doctor, in\nthe chair close to her, snuffled brandy and said, as I joined them:\n\u201cYour little book, sir, is written in a complete ignorance of Jung and\nall those who have come after him.\u201d\n\nThis was sudden but I answered, as graciously as possible, that I had\nnot intended a treatise on psychoanalysis.\n\n\u201cNot the point, sir, if you\u2019ll excuse me.... I am a psychiatrist,\na friend of Mr Himmell\u2019s\u201d (so this was the analyst to whom Paul so\noften referred) \u201cand I think it impossible for anyone today to write\nabout the big things without a complete understanding of post-Jungian\ndevelopment....\u201d\n\nIris interrupted as politely as possible. \u201cDoctor Stokharin is a\nzealot, Gene. You must listen to him but, first, did you see John\ntonight?\u201d\n\n\u201cI did, here with Clarissa: he was remarkable, even more so than in\nperson.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is the isolation,\u201d said Stokharin, nodding. Dandruff fell lightly\nlike dry snow from his thick brows to his dark blue lapels. \u201cThe camera\nseparates him from everyone else. He is projected like a dream into....\u201d\n\n\u201cHe was so afraid at first,\u201d said Iris, glancing across the room at\nthe silent Cave who sat, very small and still in the brocaded chair,\nthe teacup still balanced on one knee. \u201cI\u2019ve never seen him disturbed\nby anything before. They tried to get him to do a rehearsal but he\nrefused. He can\u2019t do rehearsals ... only the actual thing.\u201d\n\n\u201cFear is natural when ...\u201d but Stokharin was in the presence of a\nmaster drawing-room tactician: Iris was, I saw at that moment, a born\nhostess. For all her ease and simplicity she was ruthlessly concerned\nwith keeping order, establishing a rightness of tone which Doctor\nStokharin, in his professional madness, would have completely undone,\nreducing the drawing room to a seminar in mental therapy, receiving\npublic confessions judiciously, and generalizing to a captive audience.\nI admired Iris\u2019s firmness, her devotion to the civilized.\n\n\u201cAt first we hardly knew what to do.\u201d Iris\u2019s voice rose serenely over\nthe East European rumblings of the doctor. \u201cHe\u2019d always made such a\npoint of the audience. He needed actual people to excite him. Paul\nwanted to fill the studio with a friendly audience but John said no.\nHe\u2019d try it without. When the talk began there were only a half dozen\nof us there: Paul, myself, and the technicians. No one else.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow did he manage?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was the camera. He said when he walked out there he had no idea if\nanything would happen or not, if he could speak. Paul was nearly out\nof his mind with terror; we all were. Then John saw the lens of the\ncamera. He said looking into it gave him a sudden shock, like a current\nof electricity passing through him, for there, in front of him, was the\neye of the world and the microphone above his head was the ear into\nwhich at last he could speak. When he finished, he was transfigured.\nI\u2019ve never seen him so excited. He couldn\u2019t recall what he had said but\nthe elation remained until....\u201d\n\n\u201cUntil he got here.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, nearly.\u201d Iris smiled. \u201cHe\u2019s been under a terrible strain these\nlast two weeks.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019ll be nothing like the traumatizing shocks in store for him during\nthe next few days,\u201d said Stokharin, rubbing the bole of a rich dark\npipe against his nose to bring out its luster (the pipe\u2019s luster, for\nthe nose, straight, thick, proud, already shone like a gross baroque\npearl). \u201cMark my words, everyone will be eager to see this phenomenon.\nWhen Paul first told me about him, I said, ah, my friend, you have\nfound that father image for which you\u2019ve searched since your own father\nwas run over by a bus in your ninth (the crucial) year. Poor Paul, I\nsaid, you will be doomed to disappointment. The wish for the father\nis the sign of your immaturity. For a time you find him here, there\n... in analysis you transfer to me. Now you meet a spellbinder and\nyou turn to him, but it will not last. Exactly like that I talked to\nhim. Believe me, I hold back nothing. Then I met this Cave. I watched\nhim. Ah, what an analyst he would have made! What a manner, what power\nof communication: a natural healer. If only we could train him. Miss\nMortimer, to you I appeal. Get him to study. The best people, the\npost-Jungians are all here in New York. They will train him. He would\nbecome only a lay analyst but, even so, what miracles he could perform,\nwhat therapy! We must not waste this native genius.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m afraid, Doctor, that he\u2019s going to be too busy wasting himself to\nstudy your ... procedures,\u201d Iris smiled, engagingly, dislike apparent\nin her radiant eyes. Stokharin, however, was not sensitive to hostility\n... no doubt attributing such emotions to some sad deficiency in the\nother\u2019s adjustment.\n\nIris turned to me. \u201cWill you be in the city the whole time?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe whole time Cave\u2019s here? Yes. I wouldn\u2019t miss it for anything.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m glad. I\u2019ve so much I want to talk to you about. So many things are\nbeginning to happen. Call me tomorrow. I\u2019ll be staying at my old place.\nIt\u2019s in the book.\u201d\n\n\u201cCave?\u201d\n\n\u201cIs staying with Paul, out on Long Island at someone\u2019s house. We want\nto keep him away from pests as much as possible.\u201d\n\n\u201cManic depression, I should say,\u201d said Stokharin thoughtfully, his\npipe now clenched between his teeth and his attention on Cave\u2019s still\nfigure. \u201cWith latent schizoid tendencies which ... Miss Mortimer, you\nmust have an affair with him. You must marry him if necessary. Have\nchildren. Let him see what it is to give life to others, to live in a\nbalanced....\u201d\n\n\u201cDoctor, you are quite mad,\u201d said Iris and she crossed the room, cool\nin her anger. I too got away from the doctor as quickly as I could:\n\u201cFalse modesty, inhibited behavior, too early bowel training,\u201d and\nsimilar phrases ringing in my ears.\n\nPaul caught me at the door. I\u2019d intended to slip away without saying\ngood night, confident that Clarissa would understand, that the others\nwould not notice. \u201cNot going so soon, are you?\u201d He was a little\ndrunk, his face scarlet with excitement. \u201cBut you ought to stay and\ncelebrate.\u201d I murmured something about having an early appointment the\nnext day.\n\n\u201cWell, see me tomorrow. We\u2019ve taken temporary offices in the Empire\nState Building. The money has begun to roll in. If this thing tonight\nturns out the way I think it has, I\u2019m going to be able to quit my other\nracket for good and devote all my time to Cave.\u201d Already the name Cave\nhad begun to sound more like that of an institution than of a man.\n\n\u201cBy the way, I want to tell you what I think of the Introduction:\nsuperior piece of work. Tried it out on several highbrow friends of\nmine and they liked it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m afraid....\u201d\n\n\u201cThat, together with the talks on television, should put this thing\nover with the biggest bang in years. We\u2019ll probably need some more\nstuff from you, historical background, rules and regulations, that kind\nof thing, but Cave will tell you what he wants. We\u2019ve hired a dozen\npeople already to take care of the mail and inquiries. There\u2019s also a\nlecture tour being prepared, all the main cities, while....\u201d\n\n\u201cPaul, you\u2019re not trying to make a religion of this, are you?\u201d I could\nhold it back no longer even though both time and occasion were all\nwrong for such an outburst.\n\n\u201cReligion? Hell, no ... but we\u2019ve got to organize. We\u2019ve got to get\nthis to as many people as we can. People have started looking to us (to\nhim, that is) for guidance. We can\u2019t let them down.\u201d\n\nClarissa\u2019s maid ushered in a Western Union messenger, laden with\ntelegrams. \u201cOver three hundred,\u201d said the boy. \u201cThe station said to\nsend them here.\u201d\n\nPaul paid him jubilantly and, in the excitement, I slipped away.\n\n\n                                   3\n\nThe results of the broadcast were formidable. My small book which\nuntil then had enjoyed the obscurity of being briefly noted among the\nrecent books was taken up by excited editors who used it as a basis for\nhurried but exuberant accounts of the new marvel.\n\nOne night a week for the rest of that winter Cave appeared before the\nshining glass eye of the world and on each occasion new millions in\nall parts of the country listened and saw and pondered this unexpected\nphenomenon, the creation of their own secret anxieties and doubts, a\ncentral man.\n\nThe reactions were too numerous for me to recollect in any order or\nwith any precise detail; but I do recall the first few months vividly:\nafter that of course the work moved swiftly of its own and one lost\ntrack of events which tended to blur, the way casualties late in a\nlarge war do, not wringing the wearied heart as the death of one or a\nparticular few might earlier have done.\n\nA few days after the first broadcast, I went to see Paul at the offices\nwhich he had taken in the Empire State Building ... as high up as\npossible, I noted with amusement: always the maximum, the optimum.\n\nHalfway down a corridor, between lawyers and exporters, Cavite, Inc.\nwas discreetly identified in black upon a frosted-glass door. I went\ninside.\n\nIt appeared to me the way I\u2019d always thought a newspaper office during\na crisis might look. Four rooms opening in a row off one another,\nall with doors open, all crowded with harassed secretaries and\nclean-looking young men in blue serge suits carrying papers, talking in\nloud voices which together made the room sound like a hive at swarming\ntime.\n\nThough none of them knew me, no one made any attempt to ask my\nbusiness or to stop me as I moved from room to room in search of Paul.\nEverywhere there were placards with Cave\u2019s picture on them, calm\nand gloomy-looking, dressed in what was to be his official costume:\na dark suit, an unfigured tie, a white shirt. I tried to overhear\nconversations as I passed the busy desks and groups of excited\ndebaters, but their noise was too loud. Only one word was identifiable,\nsounding regularly, richly emphatic like a cello note: Cave, Cave, Cave.\n\nIn each room I saw piles of my Introduction which pleased me even\nthough I had come already to dislike it.\n\nThe last room contained Paul, seated behind a desk with a dictaphone\nin one hand, three telephones on his desk (none fortunately ringing at\nthis moment) and four male and female attendants with notebooks and\npencils eagerly poised. Paul sprang from his chair when he saw me. The\nattendants fell back. \u201cHere he is!\u201d He grabbed my hand and clung to it\nvise-like: I could almost feel the energy pulsing in his fingertips,\nvibrating through his body ... his heartbeat was obviously two to my\nevery one.\n\n\u201cTeam, this is Eugene Luther.\u201d\n\nThe team was properly impressed and one of the girls, slovenly but\nintelligent-looking, said: \u201cIt was you who brought me here. First you I\nmean ... and then of course Cave.\u201d\n\nI murmured vaguely and the others told me how clear I had made all\nphilosophy in the light of Cavesword. (I believe it was that day,\ncertainly that week, Cavesword was coined by Paul to denote the entire\nmessage of John Cave to the world).\n\nPaul then shooed the team out with instructions he was not to be\nbothered. The door, however, was left open.\n\n\u201cWell, what do you think of them?\u201d He leaned back, beaming at me from\nhis chair.\n\n\u201cThey seem very ... earnest,\u201d I said, wondering not only what I was\nsupposed to think but, more to the point, what I _did_ think of the\nwhole business.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll say they are! I tell you, Gene, I\u2019ve never seen anything like it.\nThe thing\u2019s bigger even than that damned crooner I handled ... you may\nremember the one. Everyone has been calling up and, look!\u201d He pointed\nto several bushel baskets containing telegrams and letters. \u201cThis is\nonly a fraction of the response since the telecast. From all over the\nworld. I tell you, Gene, we\u2019re in.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat about Cave? Where is he?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s out on Long Island. The press is on my tail trying to interview\nhim but I say no, no go, fellows, not yet; and does that excite them!\nWe\u2019ve had to hire guards at the place on Long Island just to keep them\naway.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow is Cave taking it all?\u201d\n\n\u201cIn his stride, absolute model of coolness which is more than I am. He\nagrees that it\u2019s better to keep him under wraps while the telecasts are\ngoing on. It means that curiosity about him will increase like nobody\u2019s\nbusiness. Look at this.\u201d He showed me a proof sheet of a tabloid story:\n\u201cMystery Prophet Wows TV Audience,\u201d with a photograph of Cave taken\nfrom the telecast and another one showing Cave ducking into a taxi, his\nface turned away from the camera. The story seemed most provocative\nand, for that complacent tabloid, a little bewildered.\n\n\u201cComing out Sunday,\u201d said Paul with satisfaction. \u201cThere\u2019s also going\nto be coverage from the big circulation media. They\u2019re going to cover\nthe next broadcast even though we said nobody\u2019d be allowed on the set\nwhile Cave was speaking.\u201d He handed me a bundle of manuscript pages\nbearing the title \u201cWho Is Cave?\u201d \u201cThat\u2019s the story I planted in one of\nthe slick magazines. Hired a name-writer, as you can see, to do it.\u201d\nThe name-writer\u2019s name was not known to me but, presumably, it would be\nfamiliar to the mass audience.\n\n\u201cAnd, biggest of all, we got a sponsor. We had eleven offers already\nand we\u2019ve taken Dumaine Chemicals. They\u2019re paying us enough money to\nunderwrite this whole setup here, and pay for Cave and me as well. It\u2019s\nterrific but dignified. Just a simple 'through the courtesy of\u2019 at the\nbeginning and another at the end of each telecast. What do you think of\nthat?\u201d\n\n\u201cUnprecedented!\u201d I had chosen my word some minutes before ... one which\nwould have a cooling effect.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll say. By the way, we\u2019re getting a lot of stuff on that book of\nyours.\u201d He reached in a drawer and pulled out a manila folder which he\npushed toward me. \u201cTake them home if you like. Go over them carefully\n... might give you some ideas for the next one; you know: ground which\nneeds covering.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs there to be a next one?\u201d\n\n\u201cMan, a flock of next ones! We\u2019ve got a lot to do, to explain. People\nwant to know all kinds of things. I\u2019m having the kids out in the front\noffice do a breakdown on all the letters we\u2019ve got: to get the general\nreaction ... what it is people most want to hear, and, believe me,\nwe\u2019ve been getting more damned questions, and not just the main thing\nbut family problems too, things like that: 'Please, Mr. Cave, I\u2019m\nmarried to two men and feel maybe it\u2019s a mistake since I have to work\nnights anyway.\u2019 Lord, some of them are crazier than that.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you answering all of them?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, yes, but in my name. All except a few of the most interesting\nwhich go to Cave for personal attention. I\u2019ve been toying with the idea\nof setting up a counselor-service for people with problems.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut what can _you_ tell them?\u201d I was more and more appalled.\n\n\u201cEverything in the light of Cavesword. You have no idea how many\nquestions that does answer. Think about it and you\u2019ll see what I mean.\nBut of course we follow standard psychiatric procedure only it\u2019s\nspeeded up so that after a couple of visits there can be a practical\nand inspirational answer to their problems. Stokharin said he\u2019d be\nhappy to give it a try, but we haven\u2019t yet worked out all the details.\u201d\n\nI didn\u2019t want to hear anything more about this; I changed the subject.\n\u201cWhat did you have in mind for me to do?\u201d\n\n\u201cCavesword applied to everyday life.\u201d He spoke without hesitation; he\nhad thought of everything. \u201cWe\u2019ll know more what people want to hear\nafter a few more telecasts, after more letters and so on. Then supply\nCavesword where you can and, where you can\u2019t, just use common sense and\nstandard psychiatric procedure.\u201d\n\n\u201cEven when they don\u2019t always coincide?\u201d\n\nPaul roared with laughter. \u201cAlways the big knocker, Gene. That\u2019s what\nI like about you ... the disapproving air ... it\u2019s wonderful and I\u2019m\nquite serious. People like myself ... visionaries, you might say,\ncontinually get their feet off the ground and it\u2019s people like you who\npull us back ... make us think. Anyway, I hope you\u2019ll be able to get to\nit soon. We\u2019ll have our end taken care of by the time the telecasts are\nover.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill you show Cave to the world then? I mean in person?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know. By the way, we\u2019re having a directors\u2019 meeting Friday\nmorning. You\u2019ll get a notice in the mail. One of the things we\u2019re\ngoing to take up is just that problem, so you be thinking about it in\nthe meantime. I have a hunch it may be smart to keep him away from\ninterviewers for good.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s impossible.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m not so sure. He\u2019s pretty retiring except when he speaks. I don\u2019t\nthink he\u2019d mind the isolation one bit. You see how dull he gets in\ncompany when he\u2019s not performing.\u201d\n\n\u201cWould he consent, do you think?\u201d\n\n\u201cI think so. We could persuade him, I\u2019m sure. Anyway, for now he\u2019s a\nmystery man. Millions see him once a week but no one knows him except\nourselves. A perfect state of affairs, if you ask me.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou mean there\u2019s always a chance he might make a fool of himself if a\ntough interviewer got hold of him?\u201d\n\n\u201cExactly, and believe me there\u2019s going to be a lot of them after his\nscalp.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave they begun already?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot yet. We have you to thank for that, too, making it so clear that\nthough what we said certainly conflicts with all the churches we\u2019re\nreally not competing with them, that people listening to Cavesword can\ngo right on being Baptists and so on.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t see how, if they accept Cave.\u201d\n\n\u201cNeither do I, but for the time being that\u2019s our line.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen there\u2019s to be a fight with the churches?\u201d\n\nPaul nodded grimly. \u201cAnd it\u2019s going to be a honey. People don\u2019t take\nall the supernatural junk seriously these days but they do go for the\nsocial idea of the church, the uplift kind of thing: that\u2019s where we\u2019ll\nhave to meet them, where we\u2019ll have to lick them at their own game.\u201d\n\nI looked at him for one long moment: I had of course anticipated\nsomething like this from the moment that Cave had become an\norganization and not merely one man talking. I had realized that\nexpansion was inevitable: the rule of life is more life and of\norganization more organization, increased dominion. Yet I had not\nsuspected Paul of having grasped this so clearly, using it so promptly\nto his, to our advantage. The thought that not only was he cleverer\nthan I had suspected but that he might, indeed, despite his unfortunate\napproach, be even cleverer than myself, disagreeably occurred to me.\nI had until then regarded myself as the unique intellectual of the\nCavites, the one sane man among maniacs and opportunists: it seemed\nnow that there were two of us with open eyes and, of the two, he alone\npossessed ambition and energy, qualities neither of which I possessed\nto any useful degree.\n\n\u201cYou mean this to be a religion, Paul?\u201d\n\nHe smiled, \u201cMaybe, yes ... something on that order perhaps. Something\nworkable, though, for now: I\u2019ve thought about what you said the other\nnight.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoes Cave want this?\u201d\n\nPaul shrugged. \u201cWho can tell. I should think so but this is not really\na problem for him to decide. He has happened. Now _we_ respond.\nStokharin feels that a practical faith, a belief in ways of behavior\nwhich the best modern analysts are agreed on as being closest to\nideal, might perform absolute miracles. No more guilt-feeling about sex\nif Cave were to teach that all is proper when it does no harm to others\n... and the desire to do harm to others might even be partly removed\nif there were no false mysteries, no terrible warnings in childhood\nand so on. Just in that one area of behavior we could work wonders! Of\ncourse there would still be problems but the main ones could be solved\nif people take to Cave and to us. Cavesword is already known and it\u2019s\na revelation to millions ... we know that. Now they are looking to him\nfor guidance in other fields. They know about death at last. Now we\nmust tell them about living and we are lucky to have available so much\nfirst-rate scientific research in the human psyche. I suspect we can\neven strike on an ideal behavior pattern by which people can measure\nthemselves.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd to which they will be made to conform?\u201d Direction was becoming\nclear already.\n\n\u201cHow can we force anyone to do anything? Our whole power is that people\ncome to us, to Cave voluntarily because they feel here, at last, is the\nanswer.\u201d Paul might very well have been sincere: there is no way of\ndetermining, even now.\n\n\u201cWell, remember, Paul, that you will do more good than harm by\nattempting to supplant old dogmas and customs with new dogmas. It will\nbe the same in the end except that the old is less militant, less\ndangerous than a new law imposed by enthusiasts.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t say 'you.\u2019 Say 'we.\u2019 You\u2019re as much a part of this as I am.\nAfter all you\u2019re a director. You\u2019ve got a say-so in these matters. Just\nspeak up Friday.\u201d Paul was suddenly genial and placating. \u201cI don\u2019t\npretend I\u2019ve got all the answers. I\u2019m just talking off the top of my\nhead, like they say.\u201d\n\nA member of the team burst into the office with the news that Bishop\nWinston was outside.\n\n\u201cNow it starts,\u201d said Paul with a grimace.\n\nThe Bishop did not recognize me as we passed one another in the office.\nHe looked grim and he was wearing clerical garb.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s too late,\u201d said a lean youth, nodding at the churchman\u2019s back.\n\n\u201cProfessional con-men,\u201d said his companion with disgust. \u201cThey\u2019ve had\ntheir day.\u201d\n\nAnd with that in my ears, I walked out into the snow-swirling street,\ninto the bleak opening of the new year, of Cave\u2019s year.\n\nI was more alarmed than ever by what Paul had told me and by what I\nheard on every side. In drugstores and bars and restaurants, people\ntalked of Cave. I could even tell when I did not hear the name that\nit was of him they spoke: a certain intentness, a great curiosity, a\nwonder. In the bookstores, copies of my introduction were displayed\nwith large blown-up photographs of Cave to accompany them.\n\nAlone in a bar on Madison Avenue where I\u2019d taken refuge from the cold,\nI glanced at the clippings Paul had given me. There were two sets.\nThe first were the original perfunctory ones which had appeared,\nshort, puzzled ... the reviewers, knowing even less philosophy than\nI, tended to question my proposition that Caveswood was anything more\nthan a single speculation in rather a large field. I\u2019d obviously not\ncommunicated his magic, only its record which, like the testament of\nmiracles, depends entirely on faith and to inspire faith one needed\nCave himself.\n\n\u201cWhat do you think about the guy?\u201d the waiter, a fragile sensitive\nLatin with parchment-lidded eyes mopped the spilled gin off my table\n(he\u2019d seen a picture of Cave among my clippings).\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s hard to say,\u201d I said. \u201cHow did he strike you?\u201d\n\n\u201cBoy, like lightning!\u201d The waiter beamed; a smile which showed broken\nteeth spoiled the delicate line of his face. \u201cOf course I\u2019m Catholic\nbut this is something new. Some people been telling me you can\u2019t be a\ngood Catholic and go for this guy. But why not? I say. You still got\nVirginmerry and now you got him, too, for right now. You ought to see\nthe crowd we get here to see the TV when he\u2019s on. It\u2019s wild.\u201d\n\nIt was wild, I thought, putting the clippings back into the\nfolder. Yet it might be kept within bounds. Paul had emphasized my\ndirectorship, my place in the structure ... well, I would show them\nwhat should be done or, rather, _not_ done.\n\nThen I went out into the snow-dimmed street and hailed a cab. All the\nway to Iris\u2019s apartment I was rehearsing what I would say to Paul when\nnext we met. \u201cLeave them alone,\u201d I said aloud. \u201cIt is enough to open\nthe windows.\u201d\n\n\u201cOpen the windows!\u201d The driver snorted. \u201cIt\u2019s damn near forty in the\nstreet.\u201d\n\n\n                                   4\n\nIris occupied several rooms on the second floor of a brownstone in\na street with, pleasantest of New York anachronisms, trees. When I\nentered, she was doing yogi exercises on the floor, sitting crosslegged\non a mat, her slender legs in leotards and her face flushed with\nstrain. \u201cIt just doesn\u2019t work for me!\u201d she said and stood up without\nembarrassment for, since I\u2019d found the main door unlocked, I\u2019d opened\nthis one too, without knocking.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m sorry, Iris, the downstairs door was....\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t be silly.\u201d She rolled up the mat efficiently. \u201cI was expecting\nyou but I lost track of time ... which means it must be working a\nlittle. I\u2019ll be right back.\u201d She went into the bedroom and I sat down,\namused by this unexpected side to Iris: I wondered if perhaps she was a\ndevotee of wheat germ and mint tea as well. She claimed not. \u201cIt\u2019s the\nonly real exercise I get,\u201d she said, changed now to a heavy robe which\ncompletely swathed her figure as she sat curled up in a great armchair,\ndrinking Scotch, as did I, the winter outside hid by drawn curtains, by\nwarmth and light.\n\n\u201cHave you done it long?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, off and on for years. I never get anywhere but it\u2019s very restful\nand I\u2019ve felt so jittery lately that anything which relaxes me ...\u201d her\nvoice trailed off idly. She seemed relaxed now.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve been to see Paul,\u201d I began importantly.\n\n\u201cAh.\u201d\n\nBut I could not, suddenly, generate sufficient anger to speak out with\neloquence. I went around my anger stealthily, a murderer stalking his\nvictim. \u201cWe disagreed.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn what?\u201d\n\n\u201cIn everything, I should say.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s so easy with Paul.\u201d Iris stretched lazily; ice chattered in her\nglass; a car\u2019s horn melodious and foreign sounded in the street below.\n\u201cWe need him. If it wasn\u2019t Paul, it might be someone a great deal\nworse. At least he\u2019s intelligent and devoted. That makes up for a lot.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t think so; Iris, he\u2019s establishing a sort of supermarket,\nshort-order church for the masses.\u201d\n\nShe laughed delightedly. \u201cI like that ... and, in a way, you\u2019re right:\nthat\u2019s what he _would_ do left to himself.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe seems in complete control.\u201d\n\n\u201cOnly of the office. John makes all the decisions.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wish I could be sure of that.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll see on Friday. You\u2019ll be at the meeting, won\u2019t you?\u201d\n\nI nodded. \u201cI have a feeling that between Paul and Stokharin this thing\nis going to turn into a world-wide clinic for mental health.\u201d\n\n\u201cI expect worse things _could_ happen, but Paul must still contend with\nme and you and of course the final word is with John.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow is Cave, by the way? I haven\u2019t seen him since the night of the\nfirst telecast.\u201d\n\n\u201cQuite relaxed, unlike the rest of us. You should come out with me one\nday to Long Island and see him. I go nearly every day for a few hours.\nHe\u2019s kept completely removed from everyone except the servants and Paul\nand me.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoes he like that?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe doesn\u2019t seem to mind. He walks a good deal ... it\u2019s a big place\nand he\u2019s used to the cold. He reads a little, mostly detective stories\n... and then of course there\u2019s the mail that Paul sends on. He works\nat that off and on all day. I help him and when we\u2019re stuck (you\nshould see the questions!) we consult Stokharin who\u2019s very good on some\nthings, on problems....\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd a bore the rest of the time.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s right,\u201d Iris giggled. \u201cI couldn\u2019t have been more furious the\nother night, but, since then, I\u2019ve seen a good deal of him and he\u2019s not\nhalf bad. We\u2019ve got him over the idea that John should become a lay\nanalyst: the response to the telecast finally convinced Stokharin that\nhere was a racial 'folk-father-figure\u2019 ... his very own words. Now he\u2019s\nout to educate the father so that he will fulfill his children\u2019s needs\non the best post-Jungian lines.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoes Cave take him seriously?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s bored to death with him. Stokharin\u2019s the only man who\u2019s ever had\nthe bad sense to lecture John ... who absolutely hates it; but he does\nfeel that Stokharin\u2019s answers to some of the problems we\u2019re confronted\nwith are ingenious. All that ... hints to the lovelorn is too much for\nJohn, so we need the Stokharins to take care of details.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hope he\u2019s careful not to get too involved.\u201d\n\n\u201cJohn\u2019s incorruptible. Not because he is so noble or constant but\nbecause he can only think a certain way and other opinions, other\nevidence, can\u2019t touch him.\u201d\n\nI paused, wondering if this was true; then: \u201cI\u2019m going to make a scene\non Friday. I\u2019m going to suggest that Paul is moving in a dangerous\ndirection, toward organization and dogma and that if something is not\ndone soon we\u2019ll all be ruined by that which we most detest: a militant\nabsolutist doctrine.\u201d\n\nIris looked at me curiously. \u201cTell me, Gene, what _do_ you want? Why\nare you still with Cave, with all of us when you so apparently suspect\nthe general direction? You\u2019ve always been perfectly clear about what\nyou did _not_ want (I can recall, I think, every word you said at the\nfarm that night) but, to be specific, what would you like all this to\nbecome? How would you direct things if you could?\u201d\n\nI\u2019d been preparing myself for such a question for several months yet I\nstill had no single answer to make which would sharply express my own\ndoubts and wishes. But I made an attempt. \u201cI would not organize, for\none thing. I\u2019d have Cave speak regularly, all he likes, but there would\nbe no Cavite, Inc., no Paul planting articles and propagandizing. I\u2019d\nkeep just Cave, nothing more. Let him do his work. Then, gradually,\nthere will be effects, a gradual end to superstition....\u201d\n\nIris looked at me intently. \u201c_If_ it were possible, I would say we\nshould do what you suggest, even though it would be ruinous not only\nfor us but for everyone....\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy ruinous? A freedom to come to a decision on one\u2019s own without....\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s it. No one can be allowed that freedom. One doesn\u2019t need much\nscholarship or even experience to see that. Everywhere people are held\nin check by stifling but familiar powers. People are used to tyranny:\nthey expect governments to demand their souls, and they have given up\ndecisions on many levels for love of security. What you suggest is\nimpossible with this race at this time.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re talking nonsense. After all, obeisance to established religions\nis the order of the day, yet look at the response to Cave who is\nundermining the whole Christian structure.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd wait until you see the fight they\u2019re going to put up!\u201d said Iris\ngrimly. \u201cFortunately, Cave\u2019s word is the mortal blow though Cave\nhimself would be their certain victim if he was protected, if there was\nno organization to guard him, and the Word.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo Paul and his--his team, his proselytes are to become merely an\nequivalent power, combating the old superstitions with their own\nweapons.\u201d\n\n\u201cMore or less, yes. That\u2019s what it has come to.\u201d\n\n\u201cEven though his talking to the people would be enough? Let them use\nhim, not he them.\u201d\n\n\u201cA good slogan,\u201d Iris smiled. \u201cBut I think I\u2019m right. No one would\nhave a chance to see or hear him if it weren\u2019t for Paul; you should\nread the threatening letters we\u2019ve been getting.\u201d\n\n\u201cI thought all the mail was most admiring?\u201d\n\n\u201cAll that came from people who\u2019ve actually _heard_ him but there\u2019s a\nlot coming in now from religious fanatics. They are very extreme. And\nof course the churches, one by one, are starting to take notice.\u201d\n\n\u201cI saw Bishop Winston in Paul\u2019s office today.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s been trying to see John all week. He finally settled for Paul,\nI gather. In any case, after the next telecast there will really be a\nstorm.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe next? What\u2019s going to happen then?\u201d\n\n\u201cJohn will tell them that there\u2019s no need for the churches, that their\npower derives from superstition and bloody deeds.\u201d\n\nI was startled. \u201cWhen did this hit him? I thought he intended to go on\nas he was, without ever coming out openly against them.\u201d\n\n\u201cI was surprised too. He told me yesterday; he\u2019d been brooding all day\nand, suddenly, he started to attack them. It\u2019s going to be murderous.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hope not for him.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, he\u2019ll convince, I\u2019m sure of that: but their revenge....\u201d She gave\na troubled sigh. \u201cAnyway, Gene, you do see why we can\u2019t, for our own\nsafety, dispense with Paul and his financiers and press agents and all\nthe squalid but necessary crew.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt may be too late,\u201d I agreed. \u201cBut I fear the end.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo one can tell; besides, as long as you and I are there with John it\nwill be all right.\u201d\n\nI felt her confidence was not entirely justified but I determined, for\nthe moment, to defer my attack on Paul\u2019s methods until a safer time.\n\nWe argued about the wisdom of the coming telecast: was it really\nnecessary to confront the enemy explicitly? and in his own country, so\nto speak? Iris was not sure, but she felt Cave\u2019s instinct was right\neven though he had, perhaps, been goaded into action sooner than we\u2019d\nanticipated by the harsh letters of Christian zealots.\n\nAnd then by slow degrees, by careful circling, the conversation grew\npersonal.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve never told anyone else,\u201d said Iris, looking at me speculatively.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t worry; I haven\u2019t repeated any of it.\u201d And, as always at such\ntimes, I felt a warm flood of guilt: any direct statement of personal\ninnocence has always made me feel completely criminal.\n\n\u201cBut since I\u2019ve told you, I ... it\u2019s a relief to have someone I can\ntalk to about John. I don\u2019t dare mention his name to my family, to my\nold friends ... I don\u2019t think they even know yet that I\u2019ve met him.\u201d\n\n\u201cI thought it has all been in the papers.\u201d\n\n\u201cI haven\u2019t been mentioned but, after Friday, everyone will know. Paul\nsays there\u2019s no way for us to duck inquiries. After the directors\u2019\nmeeting he\u2019ll issue a statement naming directors, stockholders and so\non.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut even then, why should anyone suspect you were interested in Cave\nor he in you? It\u2019s possible merely to be a director, isn\u2019t it?\u201d\n\nIris shrugged. \u201cYou know how people are. Clarissa keeps wanting to have\nwhat she calls a comfy chat about _everything_ and I keep putting her\noff. Stokharin now takes it for granted that John and I sleep together,\nthat he is the father-image to me and I the mother to him.\u201d\n\nIt had an odd ring to it and I laughed. \u201cDo you think that\u2019s a sound\npost-Jungian analysis?\u201d\n\nIris smiled faintly. \u201cWhatever it is, the feeling, such as it is, is\nall on my side.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd he shows no sign of returning your affection?\u201d\n\n\u201cNone at all. He\u2019s devoted to me, I think. He relies on my judgment. He\ntrusts me, which is more than he does anyone else I know of....\u201d\n\n\u201cEven me?\u201d Always the \u201cI\u201d coming between me and what I wished to know:\nthat insatiable, distressing \u201cI.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, even you, dear, and Paul too. He\u2019s on guard against everyone, but\nnot in a nasty or suspicious way. He ... what is the phrase? he keeps\nhis own counsel.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you are the counsel?\u201d\n\n\u201cIn a sense, and nothing more.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps you should give up. It would seem that ... love was not\npossible for him. If so, it\u2019s unwise for you to put yourself in such a\nposition ... harmful, too.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut there\u2019s still the other Cave. I love him as well and the two are,\nfinally, the same.\u201d\n\n\u201cA _metaphysique_?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, or at least I don\u2019t see a paradox. It\u2019s something else; it\u2019s like\ncoming out of an illness with no past at all, only a memory of pain and\ndullness which soon goes in the wonderful present.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy love is _it_.\u201d Her voice grew strong. \u201cI\u2019ve learned that in loving\nhim I love life, which I never did before. Why, I can even value others\nnow, value all those faceless creatures whom I knew without ever\nbothering to _see_, to bring in focus the dim blurs of all _that_ world\nalive. I lived asleep. Now I am awake.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe does not love you.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy should he? It\u2019s gone beyond that. I\u2019m no longer the scales most\nlovers are, weighing the deeds and gifts and treasures proffered\nagainst those received or stolen from the other, trying always to bring\ninto fatal balance two separate imponderables. I give myself and what I\ntake is life, the knowledge that there is another creature in the world\nwhose wonder, to me at least, is all-satisfying by merely being.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs it so terrible to be alive?\u201d\n\n\u201cBeyond all expectation, my poor friend.\u201d And then I left her to return\nto winter, to the snow-filled streets and my old pain.\n\n\n                                   5\n\nThe second telecast had the anticipated effect. The day after, Friday,\nnearly a hundred thousand letters and telegrams had been received, and\nCave\u2019s life had been threatened four times over the telephone.\n\nI was awakened at five o\u2019clock on Friday morning by a newspaper man\nbegging an interview. Half-asleep, irritably, I told him to go to hell\nand hung up though not before I\u2019d heard the jeer: \u201cThought you fellows\ndid away with hell.\u201d This woke me up and I made coffee, still keeping\nmy eyes half-shut in the dim winter light, hoping sleep might return to\nits accustomed perch; but more telephone calls demoralized my fragile\nally and I was left wide awake, unshaven, with fast-beating heart\nbeside the telephone, drinking coffee.\n\nEvery few minutes there was a call from some newspaper man or editor\nrequesting information: they had all been shocked by the telecast.\nWhen I told them they should get in touch with Cave himself, or at\nleast with Paul\u2019s office, they only laughed: thousands were trying to\nget to speak to Paul, tens of thousands to Cave; the result was chaos.\nShakily, I took the phone off its hook and got dressed. When I opened\nmy door to get the morning paper, a thin young man leaped past me into\nmy living room and anchored himself to a heavy chair.\n\n\u201cWhat....\u201d I began; he was only too eager to explain the what and the\nwhy.\n\n\u201cAnd so,\u201d he ended, breathlessly, \u201cthe _Star_ has authorized me to\nadvance you not only _that_ money but expenses, too, for an exclusive\nfeature on Cave and the Cavites.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wish,\u201d I said, very gentle in the presence of such enthusiasm, \u201cthat\nyou would go away. It\u2019s five in the morning....\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re our only hope,\u201d the boy wailed. \u201cEvery paper and news service\nhas been trying to get past the gate out on Long Island for three weeks\nand failed. They couldn\u2019t even shoot him at long range.\u201d\n\n\u201cShoot him.\u201d\n\n\u201cGet a picture. Now please....\u201d\n\n\u201cPaul Himmell is your man. He\u2019s authorized to speak for Cave. He has an\noffice in the Empire State Building and he keeps respectable hours; so\nwhy don\u2019t you....\u201d\n\n\u201cWe haven\u2019t been able to get even a release out of him for three days\nnow. It\u2019s censorship, that\u2019s what it is.\u201d\n\nI had to smile. \u201cWe\u2019re not the government. Cave is a private citizen\nand this is a private organization. If we choose not to give interviews\nyou have no right to pester us.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, come off it.\u201d The young man was at an age where the needs of\nambition were often less strong than the desire for true expression;\nfor a moment he forgot that he needed my forbearance and I liked him\nbetter. \u201cThis is the biggest news that\u2019s hit town since the war. You\nguys have got the whole country asking questions and the big one is:\nwho is Cave?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019ll be an announcement today, I think, about the company. As for\nCave, I suggest you read a little book called 'An Introduction to....\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course I\u2019ve read it. That\u2019s why I\u2019m here. Now, please, Mr. Luther,\ngive me an exclusive even if you won\u2019t take the _Star\u2019s_ generous\noffer. At least tell me something I can use.\u201d\n\nI sat down heavily; a bit of coffee splattered from cup to saucer to\nthe back of my hand: it dried stickily. I felt worn-out already, the\nday only just begun. \u201cWhat do you want me to tell you? What would you\nmost like to hear? What do you expect me to say since, being a good\njournalist, that is what you\u2019ll write no matter what I tell you?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, that\u2019s not true. I want to know what Cave\u2019s all about as a person,\nas a teacher.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, what do _you_ think he\u2019s up to?\u201d\n\n\u201cMe? Why ... I don\u2019t know. I never heard him on the air until last\nnight. It was strong stuff.\u201d\n\n\u201cWere you convinced?\u201d\n\n\u201cIn a way, yes. He said a lot of things I agreed with but I was a\nlittle surprised at his going after the churches. Not that I like\nanything about _them_, but still it\u2019s some stunt to get up and talk\nlike that in front of millions of people. I mean you just don\u2019t say\nthose things any more, even if you do think them ... can\u2019t offend\nminorities; that\u2019s what we learn first in journalism school.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s part of your answer then: Cave is a man who, unlike others,\nsays what he thinks is true even if it makes him unpopular. There\u2019s\nsome virtue in that.\u201d\n\n\u201cI guess he can afford to in his position,\u201d said the boy vaguely. \u201cYou\nknow we got Bishop Winston to answer him for the _Star_. Signed him\nlast night after Cave went off the air. I\u2019m sure he\u2019ll do a good job.\nNow....\u201d\n\nWe wrestled across the room; since I was the stronger, I won my privacy\nthough muffled threats of exposure were hurled at me from behind the\nnow-bolted door.\n\nActing on an impulse, I left the apartment as soon as I was sure my\nrecent visitor had gone. I was afraid that others would try to find me\nif I stayed home; fears which were justified: according to the elevator\nman, he had turned away several men already. The one who did get\nthrough had come up the fire escape.\n\nI walked quickly out into the quiet street, the snow now gone to slush\nas dingy as the morning sky. Fortunately, the day was neither windy nor\ncold and I walked to a Times Square automat for an early breakfast.\n\nI was reassured by anonymity. All around me sleepy men and women\nclutching newspapers, briefcases and lunch pails sat sullenly chewing\ntheir breakfast, sleep not yet departed.\n\nI bought a roll, more coffee, hominy grits which I detested in the\nNorth but occasionally tried in the hope that, by accident, I might\nstumble upon the real thing. These were not the real thing and I left\nthem untouched while I read my paper.\n\nCave was on the front page. Not prominent, but still he was there.\nThe now-standard photograph looked darkly from the page. The headline\nannounced that: \u201cProphet Flays Churches as Millions Listen.\u201d There\nfollowed a paraphrase of the telecast which began with those fateful\nand soon to be famous words: \u201cOur quarrel is not with Christ but with\nhis keepers.\u201d I wondered, as I read, if anyone had ever taken one\nof the telecasts down in shorthand and made a transcript of it. I,\nfor one, should have been curious to see in cold print one of those\nsermons. Cave himself knew that without his presence they would not\nstand up and, consequently, he allowed none of then to be transcribed;\nthe result was that whenever there was a report of one of his talks\nit was, necessarily, paraphrased which gave a curious protean flavor\nto his doctrine, since the recorded style was never consistent,\nchanging always with each paraphraser just as the original meaning\nwas invariably altered by each separate listener as he adapted the\nincantation to his private needs.\n\nA fat yellow-faced woman sat down with a groan beside me and began to\nravish a plate of assorted cakes. Her jaws grinding, the only visible\nsign of life, for her eyes were glazed from sleep and her body,\nincorrectly buttoned into a cigarette-ash-dusted dress, was as still as\na mountain, even the work of lungs was obscured by the torpid flesh.\n\nI watched her above the newspaper, fascinated by the regularity with\nwhich her jaws ground the bits of cake. Her eyes looked past me into\nsome invisible world of pastry.\n\nThen, having finished the report on Cave\u2019s telecast, I put the\nnewspaper down and ate with deliberate finesse my own biscuit. The\nrustling of the newspaper as it was folded and placed on the table\ndisturbed my companion and, beneath the fat, her will slowly sent out\ninstructions to the extremities. She cleared her throat. Her head\nlowered. Her chewing stopped; a bit of cake was temporarily lodged in\none cheek, held firmly in place by a gaudy plate. Her eyes squinted at\nthe newspaper. She spoke: \u201cSomething about that preacher fellow last\nnight?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes. Would you like to see it?\u201d I pushed the paper toward her.\n\nShe looked at the picture, carefully spelling out the words of the\nheadlines with heavy lips and deep irregular breaths. \u201cDid you see him\nlast night?\u201d she asked when her eye finally got to the small print\nwhere it stopped, as though halted by a dense jungle.\n\n\u201cYes. As a matter of fact, I did.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe sure gave it to them bastards, didn\u2019t he?\u201d Her face lit up\njoyously; I thought of _\u00e7a ira_.\n\n\u201cYou mean the clergy?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s just what I mean. They had it too good, too long. People afraid\nto say anything. Takes somebody like him to tell us what we know and\ntell _them_ where to head-in.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you like what he said about dying?\u201d\n\n\u201cAbout there being nothing? Why, hell, mister, I knew it all along.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut it\u2019s good to hear someone else say it?\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t do no harm.\u201d She belched softly. \u201cI expect they\u2019re going to be\non his tail,\u201d she added with gloomy pleasure, spearing a fragment of\neclair which she had missed on her first circuit of her crowded dish.\n\nI spent that morning in the street buying newspapers, eavesdropping.\nI heard several arguments about Cave: the religiously orthodox were\noutraged but clearly interested; the others were triumphant though all\nseemed to feel that _they_, as the automat woman had said, would soon\nbe on his tail. Ours was no longer a country where the nonconformist\ncould escape disaster if he unwisely showed a strange face to the\nmultitude.\n\nI tried to telephone Iris and then Clarissa but both telephones were\nreported busy; I called the office but was told by a mechanical voice\nthat if I left my name and address and business Mr. Himmell would call\nme as soon as possible. The siege had begun.\n\nI arrived at the Empire State Building half an hour before the meeting\nwas to begin, hoping to find out in advance from Paul what was\nhappening and what we were supposed to do about it.\n\nA picket line marched up and down before the entrance, waving banners,\ndenouncing Cave and all his works in the names of various religious\ngroups. A crowd was beginning to gather and the police, at least a\nscore, moved frantically about, not knowing how to keep the mob out of\nthe building. When I stepped off the elevator at Cave\u2019s floor, I found\nmyself a part of a loud and confused mass of men and women all shoving\ntoward the door which was marked Cavite, Inc. Policemen barred their\nway.\n\nLong before I\u2019d got to the door, a woman\u2019s shoe went hurtling through\nthe air, smashing a hole in the frosted glass. One policeman cocked his\nrevolver menacingly. Another shouted, \u201cGet the riot squad!\u201d But still\nthe crowd raved and shouted and quarreled. Some wanted to lynch Cave in\nthe name of the Lamb, while others begged to be allowed to touch him,\njust once. I got to the door at last, thanks to a sudden shove which\nlanded me with a crash into a policeman. He gasped and then, snarling,\nraised his club. \u201cBusiness!\u201d I shouted with what breath was left me.\n\u201cGot business here. Director.\u201d\n\nI was not believed but, after some talk with a pale secretary through\nthe shattered glass door, I was admitted. The crowd roared when they\nsaw this and moved in closer. The door slammed shut behind me.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s been like this since nine o\u2019clock,\u201d said the secretary, looking\nat me with frightened eyes.\n\n\u201cYou mean after two hours the police still can\u2019t do anything?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe didn\u2019t call them right away. When we did it was too late. We\u2019re\nbarricaded in here.\u201d\n\nThe team sat about at their desks pretending to work, pretending not to\nnotice the noise from the corridor.\n\nPaul, however, was not in the least disturbed. He was standing by\nthe window in his office looking out. Clarissa, her hat and her hair\ntogether awry: a confusion of straw and veil and bolts of reddish hair\napparently not all her own, was making-up in a pocket mirror.\n\n\u201cRavenous, wild beasts!\u201d she hailed me. \u201cI\u2019ve seen _their_ likes\nbefore.\u201d\n\n\u201cGene, good fellow! Got through the mob all right? Here, have a bit of\nbrandy. No? Perhaps some Scotch?\u201d\n\nI said it was too early for me to drink. Shakily, I sat down. Paul\nlaughed at the sight of us. \u201cYou both look like the end of the world\nhas come.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019d always pictured the end as being quite orderly....\u201d I began\nstuffily but Doctor Stokharin\u2019s loud entrance interrupted me. His\nspectacles were dangling from one ear and his tie had been pulled\naround from front to back quite neatly. \u201cNo authority!\u201d he bellowed,\nignoring all of us. \u201cThe absence of a traditional patriarch, the center\nof the tribe, has made them insecure. Only together do they feel warmth\nin great _swarming_ hives!\u201d His voice rose sharply and broke on the\nword \u201chives\u201d into a squeak. He took the proffered brandy and sat down,\nhis clothes still disarranged.\n\n\u201cMy hair,\u201d said Clarissa grimly, \u201cmay never come out right again\ntoday.\u201d She put the mirror back into her purse which she closed with\na loud snap. \u201cI don\u2019t see, Paul, why you didn\u2019t have the foresight to\ncall the police in advance and demand protection.\u201d\n\n\u201cI had no idea it would be like this. Believe me, Clarissa, it\u2019s not\ndeliberate.\u201d But from his excited chuckling, I could see that he was\ndelighted with the confusion. The triumph of the publicist\u2019s dark art.\nI wondered if he might not have had a hand in it: it was a little\nreminiscent of the crowds of screaming women which in earlier decades,\ngoaded by publicists, had howled and, as Stokharin would say, _swarmed_\nabout singers and other theatrical idols.\n\nPaul anticipated my suspicions. \u201cDidn\u2019t have a thing to do with it, I\nswear. Doctor, your tie is hanging down your back.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t mind,\u201d said Stokharin disagreeably, but he did adjust his\nglasses.\n\n\u201cI\u2019d a feeling we\u2019d have a few people in to see us but no idea it would\nbe like this.\u201d He turned to me as the quietest, the least dangerous of\nthe three. \u201cYou wouldn\u2019t believe the response to last night\u2019s telecast\nif I told you.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy don\u2019t you tell me?\u201d The comic aspects were becoming apparent:\nStokharin\u2019s assaulted dignity and the ruin of Clarissa\u2019s ingenious hair\nboth seemed to me suddenly funny; I cleared my throat to obscure the\ntickling of a smile. Paul named some stupendous figures with an air of\ntriumph. \u201cAnd there are more coming all the time. Think of that!\u201d\n\n\u201cAre they favorable?\u201d\n\n\u201cFavorable? Who cares?\u201d Paul was pacing the floor quickly, keyed to the\nbreaking-point had he possessed the metabolism of a normal man. \u201cWe\u2019ll\nhave a breakdown over the weekend. Hired more people already. Whole lot\nworking all the time. By the way, we\u2019re moving.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot a moment too soon,\u201d said Clarissa balefully. \u201cI suggest, in fact,\nwe move now while there are even these few police to protect us. When\nthey go home for lunch (they all eat enormous lunches, one can tell),\nthat crowd is going to come in here and throw us out the window.\u201d\n\n\u201cOr suffocate us with love,\u201d said Paul.\n\nStokharin looked at Clarissa thoughtfully; with his turned-around\nnecktie he had a sacerdotal look. \u201cDo you often think of falling from\nhigh places? of being pushed from windows or perhaps high trees?\u201d\n\n\u201cOnly when I\u2019m on the top floor of the world\u2019s highest building\nsurrounded by raving maniacs do such forebodings occur to me, doctor.\nHad you a greater sense of reality you might be experiencing the same\napprehension.\u201d\n\nStokharin clapped his hands happily. \u201cClassic, classic. To believe she\nalone knows reality. Madam, I suggest that you....\u201d\n\nThere was a roar of sound from the hallway; a noise of glass\nshattering; a revolver went off with a sharp report and, frozen with\nalarm, I waited for its echo: there was none; only shouts of: Cave!\nCave! Cave!\n\nSurrounded by police, Cave and Iris were escorted into the office. More\npolice held the door, aided by the office crew who, suddenly inspired,\nwere throwing paper cups full of water into the crowd. Flash bulbs\nlike an electric storm flared in all directions as the newspaper men\ninvaded the office, let in by the police who could not hold them back.\n\nIris looked frightened and even Cave seemed alarmed by the rioting.\n\nOnce the police lieutenant had got Cave and Iris into the office,\nhe sent his men back to hold the corridor. Before he joined them he\nsaid sternly, breathing hard from the struggle, \u201cWe\u2019re going to clear\nthe hall in the next hour. When we do we\u2019ll come and get you people\nout of here. You got to leave whether you want to or not. This is an\nemergency.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn hour is all we need, officer.\u201d Paul was smooth. \u201cAnd may I tell you\nthat my old friend, the Commissioner, is going to hear some extremely\nnice things about the efficiency and good sense of his men.\u201d Before the\nlieutenant had got around to framing a suitably warm answer, Paul had\nmaneuvered him out of the inner office; he locked the door behind him.\n\n\u201cThere,\u201d he said, turning to us, very businesslike. \u201cIt was a mistake\nmeeting here after last night. I\u2019m sorry, John.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s not your fault.\u201d Cave, having found himself an uncomfortable\nstraight chair in a corner of the room, sat very erect, like a child\nin serious attendance upon adults. \u201cI had a hunch we should hold the\nmeeting out on Long Island.\u201d\n\nPaul scowled. \u201cI hate the idea of the press getting a look at you.\nSpoils the mystery effect; guess it was bound to happen, though. You\nwon\u2019t have to talk to them.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, but I will,\u201d said Cave easily, showing who was master here, this\nday.\n\n\u201cBut ... well, after what we decided, the initial strategy being....\u201d\n\n\u201cNo. It\u2019s all changed now, Paul. I\u2019ll have to face them, at least this\nonce. I\u2019ll talk to them the way I always talk. They\u2019ll listen.\u201d His\nvoice grew dreamy. He was indifferent to Paul\u2019s discomfiture.\n\n\u201cDid you get a new place?\u201d asked Iris, suddenly, to divert the\nconversation.\n\n\u201cWhat? Oh yes. A whole house, five stories on East Sixty-first Street.\nShould be big enough. At least for now.\u201d The inter-office communicator\nsounded. Paul spoke quickly into it: \u201cTell the newspaper people to wait\nout there. We\u2019ll have a statement in exactly an hour and they\u2019ll be\nable ...,\u201d he paused and looked at Cave for some reprieve; then, seeing\nnone, he finished: \u201cThey\u2019ll be able to interview Cave.\u201d He flipped the\nmachine off. Through the locked door, we heard a noise of triumph from\nthe gathered journalists and photographers.\n\n\u201cWell, come along,\u201d said Clarissa, \u201cI thought this was to be a board of\ndirectors meeting. Cave, dear, you\u2019ve got to preside.\u201d\n\nBut, though he said he\u2019d rather not, Clarissa, in a sudden storm of\nlegality, insisted that he must: she also maliciously demanded a\ncomplete reading of the last meeting\u2019s minutes by Paul, the secretary.\nWe were able to save him by a move to waive the reading which was\nproposed, recorded and passed by a show of hands, only Clarissa\ndissenting. Cave conducted the meeting solemnly. Then Clarissa demanded\na report from the treasurer and this time Paul was not let off.\n\nFor the first time I had a clear picture of the company of which I was\na director. Shares had been sold. Control was in the hands of Clarissa,\nwhile Paul and several West Coast industrialists whose names were not\nfamiliar to me, also had shares. The main revenue of the company now\ncame from the sponsor of Cave\u2019s television show. There was also a\ntrickle of contributions which, in the last few weeks, had increased\nconsiderably.\n\nThen Paul read from a list of expenses, his voice hurrying a little\nover his own salary which was, I thought, a bit large. Cave\u2019s expenses\nwere recorded and, with Clarissa goading from time to time, Paul gave\nan accounting of all that had been spent since the arrival in New York.\nJohn Cave was a big business.\n\n\u201cThe books are audited at standard intervals,\u201d said Paul, looking at\nClarissa as he finished, some of his good humor returning. \u201cWe will\nnot declare dividends unless Mrs. Lessing insists the company become a\nprofit-making enterprise.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt might not be a bad idea,\u201d said Clarissa evenly. \u201cWhy not get a\nlittle return....\u201d\n\nBut Paul had launched into policy. We listened attentively. From time\nto time, Cave made a suggestion. Iris and I made no comment. Stokharin\noccasionally chose to illuminate certain human problems as they arose\nand Paul, at least, heard him out respectfully. Clarissa wanted to know\nall about costs and her interruptions were always brief and shrewd.\n\nSeveral decisions were made at that meeting. It was decided that a\nCenter be established and headed by Dr. Stokharin to take care of those\nCavites whose problems might be helped by therapy. \u201cWe just apply\nclassical concepts to their little troubles,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cBut it shouldn\u2019t _seem_ like a clinic,\u201d said Iris suddenly. \u201cIt\u2019s all\npart of John, of what John says.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe\u2019ll make that perfectly clear,\u201d said Paul quickly.\n\nStokharin nodded agreeably. \u201cAfter all it is in his name they come to\nus. We take it from there. No more problems ... all is contentment.\u201d He\nsmacked his lips.\n\nIt was then decided that Cave would spend the summer quietly and,\nin the autumn, begin a tour of the country to be followed by more\ntelecasts in the following winter. \u201cThe summer is to think a little\nin,\u201d were Cave\u2019s words.\n\nNext, I was assigned the task of writing a defense of Cave for certain\nvast syndicates; I was also requested to compose a set of dialogues\nwhich would record Cave\u2019s views on such problems as marriage, the\nfamily, world government and various other problems all in urgent need\nof answering. I suggested, diffidently, that it would be very useful if\nCave were to tell me what he thought about such things before I wrote\nmy dialogues. Cave said, quite seriously, that we would have the summer\nin which to handle all these subjects.\n\nPaul then told us the bad news; there was a good deal of it. \u201cThe\nCardinal, in the name of all the Diocesan Bishops, has declared that\nany Catholic who observes the telecasts of John Cave or attends in\nperson his blasphemous lectures commits a grave and mortal sin. Bishop\nWinston came to tell me that not only is he attacking Cave in the\npress but that he is quite sure, if we continue, the government will\nintervene. It was a hint, and not too subtle.\u201d\n\n\u201cOn what grounds intervene?\u201d asked Cave. \u201cWhat have I done that breaks\none of their laws?\u201d\n\n\u201cThey\u2019ll trump up something,\u201d said Clarissa.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m afraid you\u2019re right. They can always find something to get us on.\nSo far, that is about the worst that can happen.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut do you think it will?\u201d I asked. \u201cFree speech is still on the\nbooks.\u201d\n\nPaul chuckled grimly. \u201cThat\u2019s just where it stays, too.\u201d And he quoted\nthe national credo: In a true democracy there is no place for a serious\ndifference of opinion on truly great issues. \u201cSooner or later they\u2019ll\ntry to stop Cave.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut they can\u2019t!\u201d said Iris. \u201cThe people won\u2019t stand for it.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s the father of too many now,\u201d said Stokharin sagely. \u201cNo son will\nrise to dispute him, yet.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo use to get excited in advance.\u201d Paul was reasonable. \u201cNow let\u2019s get\na statement ready for the press.\u201d\n\nWhile Paul and Cave worked over the statement, the rest of us chatted\nquietly about other problems. Stokharin was just about to explain\nthe origin of alcoholism in terms of the new Cavite pragmatism, when\nIris said: \u201cLook!\u201d and pointed to the window where, bobbing against\nthe glass, was a bright red child\u2019s balloon on which had been crudely\npainted: \u201cJesus Saves.\u201d\n\nStokharin chuckled when he saw it. \u201cVery ingenious. Someone gets on the\nfloor beneath and tries to shake us with his miracle. Now we produce\nthe counter-miracle.\u201d He slid the window open. The cold air chilled\nus all. He took his glowing pipe and jabbed it into the balloon which\nexploded loudly; then he shut the window beaming. \u201cIt will be that\neasy,\u201d he said. \u201cI promise you. A little fire and: pop! they disappear\nlike bad dreams.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                                 SEVEN\n\n\n                                   1\n\nThe next six months after the directors\u2019 meeting were full of activity,\nand danger. Paul was forced to hire bodyguards to protect Cave from\ndisciples as well as from enemies while the rest of us who were now\nknown publicly as Cave\u2019s associates were obliged to protect our privacy\nwith unlisted telephone numbers and numerous other precautions none of\nwhich did much good for we were continually harassed by maniacs and\ninterviewers.\n\nThe effect Cave had made on the world was larger than even Paul, our\none optimist, had anticipated. I believe even Cave himself was startled\nby the vastness and the variety of the response.\n\nAs I recall, seldom did a day pass without some new expos\u00e9 or\ninterpretation of this phenomenon. Bishop Winston attacked after nearly\nevery telecast. The Catholic Church invoked its entire repertory of\nanathemas and soon it was whispered in devout Christian circles that\nthe anti-Christ had come at last, sent to test the faith. Yet, despite\nthe barrage of attacks, the majority of those who heard Cave became\nhis partisans and Paul, to my regret but to the delight of everyone\nelse, established a number of Cavite Centers in the major cities of\nthe United States, each provided with a trained staff of analysts who\nhad also undergone an intensive indoctrination in Cavesword. Stokharin\nheaded these clinics with great energy. At Cave\u2019s suggestion, one\nevening a week, the same evening, Cavites would gather to discuss\nCavesword, to meditate on the beauty of death, led in their discussions\nand meditations by a disciple of Cave who was, in the opinion of the\ndirectors, equal to the task of representing Cave himself and his word\nbefore vast congregations.\n\nIris was placed in charge of recruiting and training the proselytizers,\nwhile Paul handled the business end; obtaining property in different\ncities and managing the large sums of money which poured in from all\nover the world. Except for Cave\u2019s one encounter with the press that\nday in the Empire State Building (an occasion which, despite its\nominous beginning, became a rare triumph: Cave\u2019s magic had worked even\nwith the hostile), he was seen by no one except his intimates and the\ntechnicians of the television studio. Ways were found to disguise him\nso that he would not be noticed in the lobbies or elevators of the\ntelevision network building. Later he spoke only from his Long Island\nretreat, his speeches being recorded on film in advance.\n\nBy the time summer had arrived, there were over three million\nregistered Cavites in the United States as well as numerous,\nunorganized believers abroad. Paul was everywhere at once, flying\nfrom city to city (accompanied by two guards and a secretary); he\npersonally broke ground in Dallas for what was to be the largest Cavite\nCenter in the United States and although the inaugural ceremonies\nwere nearly stopped by a group of Baptist ladies carrying banners and\nshouting \u201cOnward Christian Soldiers,\u201d no one was hurt and the two oil\nmillionaires who had financed the Center gave a great barbecue on the\nfoundation site which was attended by many distinguished guests.\n\nIris was entirely changed by her responsibilities. She had become,\nin the space of a few months, brisk, energetic, as deeply involved in\ndetails as a housewife with a new home. I saw very little of her that\nspring. Her days were mostly spent in a rented loft in the Chelsea\ndistrict where she lectured the candidates for field work and organized\na makeshift system of indoctrination for these potential Residents, as\nthe heads of the various centers were known.\n\nShe was extraordinarily well fitted for this work, to my surprise, and\nbefore the year ended she had what was in fact a kind of university\nwhere as many as three hundred men and women at a time were regularly\ntransformed into Residents and Deputy Residents and so on down through\nan ever proliferating hierarchy. For the most part, the first men and\nwomen we sent out to the country were highly educated, thoughtful\npeople, entirely devoted to Cavesword. They were, I think, the best of\nall, for later, when it became lucrative to be a Resident, the work\nwas largely taken over by energetic careerists whose very activity and\ncompetence diminished their moral effectiveness.\n\nIris used me unmercifully those first months. I lectured her students;\nI taught philosophy until, in exasperation at the absurdity of _that_,\nI told her to hire a professional teacher of philosophy which she did.\n\nYet I enjoyed these men and women. Their sincerity, their excitement\ncommunicated itself to me and I became aware of something I had only\nknown before from reading, from hearsay: the religious sense which I\nso clearly lacked, as did both Paul and Stokharin. I don\u2019t think Cave\nreally possessed it either because, although he believed entirely in\nhimself and in the miraculous truth of his word, he did not possess\nthat curious power to identify himself with creation, to transcend the\nself in contemplation of an abstraction, to sacrifice the personality\nto a mystical authority; none of us, save Iris in love, possessed this\npower which, as nearly as I can get at it, is the religious sense in\nman. I learned about it only from those who came to learn from us in\nthat Chelsea loft. In a sense, I pitied them for I knew that much of\nwhat they evidently believed with such passion was wrong but, at the\nsame time, I was invigorated by their enthusiasm, by the hunger with\nwhich they devoured Cavesword, by the dignity which their passion lent\nan enterprise that in Paul\u2019s busy hands resembled more often than not,\na cynical commercial venture. And I recognized in them (oh, very early,\nperhaps in the first weeks of talking to them) that, in their goodness\nand their love they would, with Cavesword, smudge as it turned each\nbright new page of life; yet, suspecting this, I did not object nor did\nI withdraw. Instead, fascinated, I was borne by the tide to the shore\nahead whose every rock I could imagine, sharp with disaster.\n\nOnce a week the directors met on Long Island in the walled estate\nwhere Cave now lived with his guards (his host had thoughtfully moved\nelsewhere until Cave chose for him to return).\n\nThe meetings soon demonstrated a division in our ranks between Paul\nand Stokharin on the one side and Iris, Clarissa and Cave on the other\nwith myself as partisan, more often than not, to Cave. The division was\namiable but significant. Paul and Stokharin wanted to place the Centers\ndirectly under the supervision of the analysts while the rest of us,\nled by Iris (Cave seldom intervened, but we had accepted already the\nfact that Iris spoke for him), preferred that the Centers be governed\nby the Residents. \u201cIt is certainly true that the therapists are an\nimportant part of each Center,\u201d said Iris briskly, at the end of a\nlong wrangle with Stokharin. \u201cBut these are _Cavite_ Centers and not\nclinics for the advancement of post-Jungian analysis. It is Cavesword\nwhich draws people to the Centers, not mental illness. Those who have\nproblems are of course helped by Stokharin\u2019s people but, finally, it\nis Cave who has made it possible for them to face death. Something no\none has done before.\u201d And thus the point was won in our council though\nStokharin and Paul were still able at times, slyly, to insinuate their\nown creatures into important Residencies.\n\nMy own work went on fitfully. I composed an answer to Bishop Winston\nwhich brought down on my head a series of ecclesiastical thunderbolts,\neach louder than the one before. I wrote a short life of Cave in\nsimple declarative sentences which enjoyed a considerable success\nfor many years and, finally, seriously, my first attempt at a real\ncounterattack, I began the several dialogues in which Cave and I\npurportedly traversed the entire field of moral action.\n\nI felt that in these dialogues I could quietly combat those absolutist\ntendencies which I detected in the disciples. Cave himself made\nno pretense of being final on any subject other than death where,\neven without his particular persuasiveness, he stood on firm, even\ntraditional ground. The attacks he received he no longer noticed. It\nwas as simple as that. He\u2019d never enjoyed reading and to watch others\nmake telecasts bored him, even when they spoke of him. After the\nfateful Empire State Building conference he ceased to attend the world;\nexcept for a few letters which Paul forwarded to him and his relations\nwith us, he was completely cut off from ordinary life, and perfectly\nhappy. For though human contacts had been reduced to a minimum, he\nstill possessed the polished glass eye of the world before whose level\ngaze he appeared once a week and experienced what he called: \u201cEveryone:\nall of them, listening and watching everywhere.\u201d\n\nIn one year he had come a long way from the ex-embalmer who had studied\na book of newspaper clippings on a Washington farm and brooded about\nan old man in a hospital. Though Paul was never to refer again to the\nvictim of Cave\u2019s driving, I was quite sure that he expected, sooner or\nlater, it would return to haunt us all.\n\nBy midsummer, however, Cave had grown restless and bored and since the\ntelecasts had been discontinued until the following November, he was\neager to travel. He was never to lose his passion for places. It was\nfinally decided that he spend the summer on one of the Florida keys, a\ntiny island owned by a Cavite who offered to place everything at Cave\u2019s\ndisposal. And, though warned that the heat might be uncomfortable, Cave\nand his retinue left secretly one night by chartered seaplane from\nLong Island Sound and for at least a month the press did not know what\nhad happened to him.\n\nI declined to accompany Cave and Iris. Paul remained in New York while\nIris\u2019s work was temporarily turned over to various young enthusiasts,\ntrained by her. I went back to the Hudson Valley, to my house and....\n\n\n                                   2\n\nI\u2019ve not been able to write for several days. According to the doctor,\nit is a touch of heat but I suspect that this is only his kind\neuphemism.\n\nI had broken off in my narrative to take a walk in the garden last\nFriday afternoon when I was joined by Butler whose attentions lately\nhave been more numerous than I should like.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019ll be here Sunday, Hudson. Why don\u2019t we all three have dinner\ntogether that night and celebrate.\u201d\n\nI said nothing could give me more pleasure, as I inched along the\ngarden path, moving toward the hot shaded center where, beneath fruit\ntrees, a fine statue of Osiris stood, looted in earlier days by the\nhotel management from one of the temples. I thought, however, with more\nlonging of the bench beside the statue than of the figure itself whose\nevery serene detail I\u2019d long since memorized. Butler adjusted his loose\nlong stride to my own uneven pace. I walked as I always do now with my\neyes upon the ground, nervously avoiding anything which might make me\nstumble for I have fallen down a number of times in the last few years\nand I have a terror of broken bones, the particular scourge of old\nbodies.\n\nI was as glad as not that I didn\u2019t have to watch my companion while we\nchatted, for his red honest face, forever dripping sweat, annoyed me\nmore than was reasonable.\n\n\u201cAnd he\u2019ll be pleased to know I\u2019ve got us a Center. Not much of one but\ngood enough for a start.\u201d\n\nI paused before a formidable rock which lay directly in my path. It\nwould take some doing to step over it, I thought, as I remarked, \u201cI\u2019m\nsure the Pasha doesn\u2019t know about this.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot really.\u201d Butler laughed happily. \u201cHe thinks we\u2019re just taking a\nhouse for ourselves to study the local culture. Later, after we get\ngoing, he can find out.\u201d\n\n\u201cI should be very careful,\u201d I said and, very careful myself, I stepped\nover the rock: my legs detested the extra exertion; one nearly buckled\nas it touched the ground. I threw my weight on my cane and was saved a\nfall. Butler had not noticed.\n\n\u201cJessup is going to bring in the literature. We\u2019ll say it\u2019s our\nlibrary. All printed in Arabic, too. The Dallas Center thinks of\neverything.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre they ... equipped for such things?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh yes. That\u2019s where the main university is now. Biggest one in the\nworld. I didn\u2019t go there myself. Marks weren\u2019t good enough, but Jessup\ndid. He\u2019ll tell you all about it. Quite a crew they turn out: best in\nthe business but then they get the cream of the crop to begin with.\u201d\n\n\u201cTell me, are the Residents still in charge of the Centers or do they\nshare the administration with the therapists?\u201d\n\n\u201cTherapists?\u201d Butler seemed bewildered.\n\n\u201cIn the old days there used to be the Resident and his staff and then a\nclinic attached where....\u201d\n\n\u201cYou really are behind the times.\u201d Butler looked at me as though I\u2019d\nbetrayed a firsthand knowledge of earth\u2019s creation. \u201cAll Residents and\ntheir staffs, including the Communicators like myself, get the same\ntraining; part of it is in mental therapy. Others who show particular\naptitude for it are assigned clinical work just as I do communication\nwork in foreign countries. People who get to be Residents are usually\nteachers and administrators. Sometimes a Communicator gets a Residency\nin his old age as a reward for the highest services.\u201d He then explained\nto me the official, somewhat Byzantine structure of the Cavites. There\nwere many new tides, indicating a swollen organization under the\ndirection of a Counsel of Residents which, in turn, was responsible for\nthe election from among their number of a unique Chief Resident whose\nreign lasted for the remainder of his lifetime.\n\nWith relief, I sat down on the bench beside Osiris. Butler joined me.\n\u201cDallas of course is the main Residency,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cIt used to be in New York, years ago,\u201d I said, thinking of the\nbrownstone house, of the loft on Twenty-third Street.\n\n\u201cAround twenty years ago it was moved to Dallas by the Chief Resident.\nNot only did they have the best-equipped Center there but the Texans\nmake just about the best Cavites in the country. What they won\u2019t do for\nCavesword isn\u2019t worth mentioning. They burned the old churches, you\nknow ... every one in the state.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd one or two Baptist Ministers as well?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou can\u2019t break eggs without making an omelet,\u201d said Butler\nsententiously.\n\n\u201cI see what you mean. Still, Cave was against persecution. He always\nfelt it was enough for people to hear Cavesword....\u201d\n\n\u201cYou got a lot of reading to do,\u201d said Butler sharply. \u201cLooks like\nyou\u2019ve forgotten your text: 'And, if they persist in superstition,\nstrike them, for one idolator is like a spoiled apple in the barrel,\ncontaminating the others.\u2019\u201d Butler\u2019s voice, as he quoted, was round\nand booming, rich in vowel-sounds while his protruding eyes gazed\nwithout blinking into the invisible radiance of truth which hovered,\napparently, above a diseased hibiscus bush.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve forgotten that particular quotation,\u201d I said.\n\n\u201cSeems funny you should since it\u2019s just about the most famous of the\ntexts.\u201d But, though my ignorance continued to startle Butler, I could\nsee that he was beginning to attribute it to senility rather than to\nlaxity or potential idolatry.\n\n\u201cI was a close follower in the first few years,\u201d I said, currying\nfavor. \u201cBut I\u2019ve been out of touch since and I suppose that, after\nCave\u2019s death, there was a whole mass of new doctrine with which I am\nunfamiliar, to my regret.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoctrine!\u201d Butler was shocked. \u201cWe have no doctrine. We are not one of\nthose heathen churches with claims to 'divine\u2019 guidance. We\u2019re simply\nlisteners to Cavesword. That\u2019s all. He was the first to tell the plain\ntruth and, naturally, we honor him but there is no doctrine even\nthough he guides us the way a good father does his children.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am very old,\u201d I said in my best dying-fall voice. \u201cYou must remember\nthat when you are with me you are in the company of a man who was\nbrought up in the old ways, who uses Christian terms from time to time.\nI was thirty when Cave began his mission. I am, as a matter of fact,\nnearly the same age as Cave himself if he were still alive.\u201d\n\nThis had its calculated effect. Butler looked at me with some awe.\n\u201cGolly!\u201d he said. \u201cIt doesn\u2019t really seem possible, does it? Of course\nthere\u2019re still a few people around who were alive in those days but I\ndon\u2019t know of anybody who actually _saw_ Cave. You did tell me you saw\nhim?\u201d\n\n\u201cOnce only.\u201d\n\n\u201cWas he like the telecasts?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh yes. Even more effective, I think.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe was big of course, six feet one inch tall.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, he was only about five feet eight inches, a little shorter than\nI....\u201d\n\n\u201cYou must be mistaken because, according to all the texts, he was six\nfeet one.\u201d\n\n\u201cI saw him at a distance of course. I was only guessing.\u201d I was amused\nthat they should have seen fit to change even Cave\u2019s stature.\n\n\u201cYou can tell he was a tall man from the telecasts.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo they still show them?\u201d\n\n\u201cStill show them! They\u2019re the main part of our weekly Get-togethers.\nEach Residency has a complete library of Cave\u2019s telecasts, one hundred\neight including the last. Each week, a different one is shown by the\nResident\u2019s staff and the Resident himself, or someone assigned by him,\ndiscusses the message.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd they still hold up after fifty years?\u201d\n\n\u201cHold up? We learn more from them each year. You should see all the\nbooks and lectures on Cavesword ... several hundred important ones\nwhich we have to read as part of our communication duties, though\nthey\u2019re not for the laymen. We discourage nonprofessionals from going\ninto such problems, much too complicated for the untrained mind.\u201d\n\n\u201cI should think so. Tell me, is there any more trouble with the\nidolators?\u201d\n\nButler shook his head. \u201cJust about none. They were licked when the\nparochial schools were shut down. That took care of Catholicism. Of\ncourse there were some bad times. I guess you know all about them.\u201d\n\nI nodded. Even in Egypt I had heard of massacres and persecutions. I\ncould still recall the morning when I opened the Cairo paper and saw\na large photograph of St Peter\u2019s Cathedral smoldering in its ruins,\na fitting tomb for the last Pope and martyr who had perished there\nwhen a mob of Cavites had fired the Vatican. The Cairo paper took an\nobvious delight in these barbarities and I had not the heart to read\nof the wanton destruction of Michelangelo\u2019s and Bernini\u2019s works, the\nlooting of the art galleries, the bonfire which was made in the Papal\ngardens of the entire Vatican library. Later, word came of a certain\nassistant-Resident of Topeka who, with a group of demolition experts\nand Cavite enthusiasts, ranged across France and Italy destroying\nthe cathedrals with the approval of the local governments, and to\nthe cheers of Cavite crowds who gathered in great numbers to watch,\ndelightedly, the crumbling of these last monuments to superstition.\nFortunately, the tourist bureaus were able to save a few of the lesser\nchurches.\n\n\u201cThe edict of Washington which outlawed idolatrous schools did the\ntrick. The Atlantic government has always believed in toleration: even\nto this day it is possible for a man to be a Christian, though unlikely\nsince the truth is so well known.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut he has no churches left and no clergy.\u201d\n\n\u201cTrue, and if that discourages him he\u2019s not likely to remain too long\nin error. As I\u2019ve told you, though, we have our ways of making people\nsee the truth.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe calculable percentage.\u201d\n\n\u201cExactly.\u201d\n\nI looked at Osiris in the green shade. His diorite face smiled secretly\nback at me. \u201cDid you have much trouble in the Latin countries?\u201d\n\n\u201cLess than you might think. The ignorant were the big problem because,\nsince they didn\u2019t know English, we weren\u2019t able to use the telecasts.\nFortunately, we had some able Residents and after a little showmanship,\na few miracles (or what they took to be miracles) they came around,\nespecially when many of their ex-priests told them about Cavesword.\nNearly all of the older Residents in the Mediterranean countries were\nonce Catholic priests.\u201d\n\n\u201cRenegades?\u201d\n\n\u201cThey saw the truth; not without some indoctrination, I suspect.\nWe\u2019ve had to adapt a good many of our procedural methods to fit local\ncustoms. The old Christmas has become Cavesday and what was Easter is\nnow Irisday.\u201d\n\n\u201cIris Mortimer?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course; who else? And then certain festivals which....\u201d\n\n\u201cI suppose she\u2019s dead now.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, yes. She died six years ago. She was the last of the original\nfive.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, yes, the five: Paul Himmell, Iris Mortimer, Ivan Stokharin,\nClarissa Lessing and....\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd Edward Hastings. We still use his introduction even though it\u2019s\nbeen largely obsoleted by later tests. His dialogues will of course be\nthe basis for that final book of Cave which our best scholars have been\nat work on for over twenty years.\u201d\n\nHastings, of all people! I nearly laughed aloud. Poor feckless Hastings\nwas now the author of _my_ dialogues with Cave: I marveled at the ease\nwith which the innumerable references to myself had been deleted. I\nbegan to doubt of my own existence. I asked if Hastings were still\nalive and was told that he too was long dead.\n\nI then asked again about Iris.\n\n\u201cSome very exciting things have come to light,\u201d said Butler. \u201cCertain\nhistorians at the Dallas Center feel that there is some proof that she\nwas Cave\u2019s sister.\u201d\n\nI was startled by this. \u201cHow could that be? Wasn\u2019t she from Detroit?\nand wasn\u2019t he from Seattle? and didn\u2019t they meet for the first time in\nsouthern California at the beginning of his mission?\u201d\n\n\u201cI see you know more Cavite history than you pretend,\u201d said Butler\namiably. \u201cThat of course has been the traditional point of view. Yet as\nher influence increased in the world (in Italy, you know, one sees her\npicture nearly as often as Cave\u2019s) our historians became suspicious. It\nwas all perfectly simple, really: if she could exert nearly the same\npower as Cave himself then she must, in some way, be related to him. I\nsuppose you know about the Miami business. No? Well, their Resident,\nsome years ago, openly promulgated the theory that Cave and Iris\nMortimer were man and wife. A great many people believed him and though\nthe Chief Resident at Dallas issued a statement denying the truth of\nall this, Miami continued in error and it took our indoctrination\nteam several years to get the situation back to normal. But the whole\nbusiness _did_ get everyone to thinking and, with the concurrence of\nDallas himself, investigations have been made. I don\u2019t know many of the\ndetails but my colleague probably will. He keeps track of that kind of\nthing.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf she is proven to be Cave\u2019s sister will she have equal rank with\nhim?\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly not. Cavesword is everything; but she will be equal to him\non the human level though his inferior in truth: at least that appears\nto be the Dallas interpretation.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe was very active, I suppose?\u201d\n\n\u201cRight until the end. She traveled all over the world with Cavesword\nand, when she grew too old to travel, she took over the Residency of\nNew York City which she held until she died. As a matter of fact, I\nhave a picture of her which I always carry. It was taken in the last\nyears.\u201d He pulled out a steel-mesh wallet in which, protected by\ncellophane, was a photograph of Iris: the first I had seen in many many\nyears. My hand shook as I held the picture up to the light.\n\nFor a split second I felt her presence, saw in the saddened face,\nframed by white hair, my summer love which had never been except in my\nown dreaming where I was whole and loved this creature whose luminous\neyes had not altered with age, their expression the same as that night\nbeside the western sea ... but then my fingers froze; the wallet fell\nto the ground; I fainted into what I supposed with my last vestiges of\nconsciousness to be death, to be nothing.\n\n\n                                   3\n\nI awakened in my own bed with my old friend Doctor Hussein beside me.\nHe looked much concerned while, at the foot of the bed, stood Butler,\nvery solemn and still. I resolved not to die with him in the room.\n\n\u201cMy apologies, Mr Butler,\u201d I said, surprised that I could speak at all.\n\u201cI\u2019m afraid I dropped your picture.\u201d I had no difficulty in remembering\nwhat had happened. It was as if I had suddenly shut my eyes and opened\nthem again, several hours having passed instead of as many seconds.\nTime, I decided, was all nonsense.\n\n\u201cThink nothing of it; I\u2019m only....\u201d\n\n\u201cYou must not strain yourself, Mr. Hudson,\u201d said the doctor: a touch\nof sun, a few days in bed, plenty of liquids, a pill or two, and I was\nleft alone with a buzzer beside my bed which would summon the houseboy\nif I should have a coherent moment before taking a last turn for the\nworse. The next time, I think, _will_ be the final one and though I\ndetest the thought, these little rehearsals over the last few years,\nthe brief strokes, the sudden flooding of parts of the brain with the\nblood of capillaries in preparation for that last arterial deluge,\nhave got me used to the idea. My only complaint is that odd things are\ndone to my memory by these strokes which, light as they have been,\ntend to alter parts of the brain, those parts which hold the secrets\nof the past. I have found this week, while convalescing from Tuesday\u2019s\ncollapse, that most of my childhood has been washed clean out of my\nmemory. I knew of course that I was born on the banks of the Hudson\nbut I cannot for the life of me recall what schools I attended; yet\nmy memories from my college days on seem unimpaired though I have had\nto reread this memoir attentively to resume my train of thought, to\nrefresh a dying memory. It is strange indeed to have lost some twenty\nyears as though they\u2019d never been and, worse still, to be unable to\nfind out about oneself in any case, since the will of others has\neffectively abolished one. I do not exist to the world and very soon\n(how soon I wonder?), I shall not exist even to myself, only this\nrecord a fragile proof that I once lived.\n\nNow I am able to work again. Butler pays me a daily visit, as does the\ndoctor. Both are very kind but both tend to treat me as a thing which\nno longer matters. I have been written-off in their minds: I\u2019m no\nlonger really human since soon, perhaps in a few days, I shall not be\none of them but one of the dead whose dust motes the air they breathe.\nWell, let it come. The fraternity of the dead, though nothing, is the\nlarger kingdom.\n\nI\u2019m able to sit up in bed (actually I can get around as well or as\nbadly as before but it tires me too much to walk so I remain abed).\nSunday is here at last and from the excited bustle in the air which I\nfeel rather than hear, Butler\u2019s colleague must have arrived. I am not\nready for him yet and I have hung a \u201cDo Not Disturb\u201d sign on the door,\ncomposed emphatically in four languages. It should keep them out for a\nfew days.\n\nI have a premonition of disaster which, though it is no doubt perfectly\nnatural at my age with the last catastrophe almost upon me, seems to be\nof a penultimate nature, a final _human_ crisis. All that I have heard\nfrom Butler about this young man, this colleague of his, disposes me\nto fear him. For although my existence has been kept a secret from the\nnewer generations, the others, the older ones, the chief counselors\nare well aware of me and though I have so far evaded their agents and\nthough they undoubtedly assume that I am long since dead it is still\npossible that a shrewd young man with a career in the making might grow\nsuspicious and one word to the older members of the hierarchy would\nbe enough to start an inquisition which could end in assassination\n(ironic that I should fear _that_ at this point!) or, more terrible, in\na course of indoctrination where my apostasy would be reduced by drugs\nto conformity. It would be the most splendid triumph for Cave if, in my\nlast days, I should recant: the best victory of all, the surrender of\nthe original lutherist upon his deathbed.\n\nYet I have a trick or two up my sleeve and the game\u2019s not yet over.\nShould the new arrival prove to be the one I have so long awaited, I\nshall know how to act: I have planned for this day. My adversary will\nfind me armed.\n\nBut now old days draw me back; the crisis approaches in my narrative.\n\n\n                                   4\n\nThe first summer was my last on the Hudson, at peace. Iris wrote me\nregularly from the Florida keys: short, brisk letters completely\nimpersonal and devoted largely to what \u201che\u201d was doing and saying. It\nseems that \u201che\u201d was enchanted by the strangeness of the keys, yet was\nanxious to begin traveling again. With some difficulty, I gathered\nbetween the lines, Iris had restrained him from starting out on a world\ntour: \u201cHe says he wants to see Saigon and Samarkand and so forth soon\nbecause he likes the names. I don\u2019t see how he can get away yet, though\nmaybe in the fall after his tour. They say now he can make his talks on\nfilm all at once which will mean of course he won\u2019t have to go through\nanything like last winter again.\u201d There followed more news, an inquiry\ninto my health (in those days I was confident I should die early of\na liver ailment: my liver of course now seems the one firm organ in\nmy body; in any case, I enjoyed my hypochondria) and a reference to\nthe various things I was writing for the instruction of converts and\ndetractors both. I pushed the letter away and looked out across the\nriver.\n\nI was alone, awaiting Clarissa for tea. I had actually prepared tea\nsince she never drank alcohol and I myself was a light drinker at best\n... a non-drinker that summer when my liver rested (so powerful is\nimagination) like a brazen cannonball against the cage of bones.\n\nI sat on my porch which overlooked the lawn and the water; unlike the\nother houses on that river, mine had the railroad behind it instead of\nin front of it, an agreeable state of affairs; I don\u2019t mind the sound\nof trains though the sight of them on their squalid tracks depresses me.\n\nBeside me, among the careful tray of tea things, the manuscript of my\ndialogue lay neglected. I had not yet made up my mind whether to read\nit to Clarissa or not. Such things tended to bore her; yet, if she\ncould be enticed into attention, her opinion would be useful: such a\nlong memory of old customs would be invaluable to me as I composed,\nwith diligence rather than inspiration, an ethical system whose single\nvirtue was that it tended to satisfy the needs of human beings as\nmuch as was possible without inviting chaos. I had, that morning over\ncoffee, abolished marriage. During lunch, served me by my genteel but\nimpoverished housekeeper (although servants still existed in those days\nin a few great houses, people like myself were obliged to engage the\ncasual services of the haughty poor), I decided to leave marriage the\nway it was but make divorce much simpler. After lunch, suffering from\na digestive-inspired headache, I not only abolished marriage again but\nresolutely handed the children over to the impersonal mercies of the\nstate.\n\nNow, bemused, relaxed, my eyes upon the pale blue Catskills and the\nsummer green, the noise of motorboats like great waterbugs in my ears,\nI brooded upon the implications of what I was doing and, though I was\nsecretly amused at my own confidence, I realized, too, that what I felt\nand did and wrote, though doubtless unorthodox to many, was, finally,\nnot really the work of my own inspiration but a logical result of\nall that was in the world: a statement of the dreams of others which\nI could formulate only because I shared them. Cave regarded his own\nwords as revelation when, actually, they only echoed the collective\nmind, a plausible articulation of what most men felt even though\ntheir conscious minds were antipathetic, corseted and constricted by\nstereotyped ways of thinking, the opposite of what they truly believed.\n\nYet at this step I, for one, hesitated. There was no doubt but that the\nchildren and the society would be the better for such an arrangement\n... and there was little doubt that our civilization _was_ moving\ntoward such a resolution. But there were parents who would want to\nretain their children and children who might be better cared for by\ntheir progenitors than by even the best-intentioned functionaries of\nthe state. Would the state allow parents to keep their children if they\nwanted them? If not, it was tyrannous; if so, difficult in the extreme,\nfor how could even the most enlightened board of analysts determine who\nshould be allowed their children and who not? The answer, of course,\nwas in the retraining of future generations. Let them grow up accepting\nas inevitable and right the surrender of babies to the state. Other\ncultures had done it and ours could too. But I was able, vividly, to\nimagine the numerous cruelties which would be perpetrated in the name\nof the whole, while the opportunity for tyranny in a civilization where\nall children were at the disposal of a government brought sharply to\nmind the image of the anthill society which has haunted the imagination\nof the thoughtful for at least a century.\n\nI had got myself into a most gloomy state by the time Clarissa arrived,\ntrailing across the lawn in an exotic ankle-length gown of gray\nwhich floated in yards behind her, like the diaphanous flags of some\nforgotten army.\n\n\u201cYour lawn is full of moles!\u201d she shouted to me, pausing in her\nprogress and scowling at a patch of turf. \u201cAnd it needs cutting and\nmore clover. _Always_ more clover, remember that.\u201d She turned her back\non me to stare at the river which was as gray as her gown, but, in its\nsoft tidal motion, spangled with light, like sequins on a vast train.\n\nShe had no criticism of the river when she at last turned and climbed\nthe steps to the porch; she sat down with a gasp. \u201cI\u2019m boiling! Tea?\nHot tea to combat the heat.\u201d\n\nI poured her a cup. \u201cNot a hot day at all.\u201d Actually it was very warm.\n\u201cIf you didn\u2019t get yourself up as a Marie Corelli heroine, you\u2019d be\nmuch cooler.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot very gallant, are we today?\u201d Clarissa looked at me over her cup.\n\u201cI\u2019ve had this gown for five hundred years. There used to be a wimple\nwhich went with it but I lost it somewhere.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe material seems to be holding up quite well,\u201d and now that she had\nmentioned it, there _was_ an archaic look to the texture of the gown,\nlike those bits of cloth preserved under glass in museums.\n\n\u201cSilk lasts indefinitely, if one is tidy. I also don\u2019t wear this much,\nas you can see, but with the devalued state of the dollar (an ominous\nsign, my dear, the beginning of the end!) I\u2019ve been forced to redo a\nlot of old odds-and-ends I\u2019ve kept for sentimental reasons. This is\none of them and I\u2019m very fond of it.\u201d She spoke this last slowly, to\nforestall any further ungallantry.\n\n\u201cI just wondered if it was cool.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is cool. Ah, a letter from Iris.\u201d Like a magpie she had seen the\nletter beside my chair and, without asking permission, had seized it\nand read it through quickly. \u201cI admire a girl who types,\u201d she said,\nletting fall the letter. \u201cI suppose they all do now though it seems\nlike only yesterday that, next to opening a tearoom, one typed, working\nfor men, all of whom made advances. That was when we had to wear\ncorsets and hatpins. One discouraged while the other quite protected.\u201d\nClarissa chuckled at some obscene memory.\n\n\u201cI wonder if Paul can keep Cave from wandering off to some impossible\nplace.\u201d\n\n\u201cI shouldn\u2019t be surprised.\u201d She picked at the tea sandwiches\nsuspiciously, curling back the top slices of bread to see what was\nunderneath: tentatively, she bit into deviled ham; she chewed; she\nswallowed; she was not disappointed; she wolfed another sandwich,\ntalking all the while. \u201cPoor Cave is a captive now. His disciples are\nin full command. Even Mohammed, as strong-headed as he was, finally\nended up a perfect pawn in the hands of Abu Bekr and the women,\nespecially the women.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m not so sure about Cave. He....\u201d\n\n\u201cDoes what they tell him, especially Iris.\u201d\n\n\u201cIris? But I should have said she was the only one who _never_ tried to\ninfluence him.\u201d\n\nClarissa laughed unpleasantly. A moth flew into her artificial auburn\nhair; unerringly, she found it with one capable hand and quickly\nsnuffed out its life in a puff of gray dust from broken wings. She\nwiped her fingers on a paper napkin. The day was full of moths but,\nfortunately, none came near us again, preferring lawn and trees to us.\n\u201cYou are naive, Eugene,\u201d she said, her little murder done. \u201cIt\u2019s your\nnicest quality. In theory you are remarkably aware of human character;\nyet, when you\u2019re confronted with the most implausible appearance, you\npromptly take it for the reality.\u201d\n\nI was irritated by this and also by the business of the sandwich, not\nto mention the murder of the moth; I looked at Clarissa with momentary\ndislike. \u201cI was not aware....\u201d I began in a chilled voice but she\ninterrupted me with an airy wave of her hand.\n\n\u201cI forget no one likes to be called naive ... calculating, dishonest,\ntreacherous, people rather revel in those designations, but to be\nthought trusting....\u201d She clapped her hands as though to punctuate her\nmeaning; then, after a full stop, she went on more soberly. \u201cIris is\nthe one to look out for. Our own sweet, self-effacing, dedicated Iris.\nI adore her; I always have, but she\u2019s up to no good.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know what you\u2019re talking about.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou will. You would if you weren\u2019t entirely blind to what they used to\ncall human nature. Iris is _acquiring_ Cave.\u201d\n\n\u201cAcquiring?\u201d\n\n\u201cExactly the word. She loves him for all sorts of reasons but she\ncannot have him in the usual sense (I found out all about that, by\nthe way). Therefore, the only thing left her to do is acquire him, to\ntake his life in hers. You may think _she_ may think that her slavish\nadoration is only humble love but actually it\u2019s something far more\nsignificant, and dangerous.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t see the danger, even accepting your hypothesis.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s no hypothesis and the danger is real. Iris will have him and,\nthrough him, she\u2019ll have you all.\u201d\n\nI did not begin to understand that day and Clarissa, in her pythoness\nway, was no help, muttering vague threats and imprecations with her\nmouth full of bread.\n\nAfter my first jealousy at Iris\u2019s preference of Cave to me, a jealousy\nwhich I knew, even at the time, was unjustified and a little ludicrous,\nI had come to accept her devotion to Cave as a perfectly natural state\nof affairs; he was an extraordinary man and though he did not fulfill\nher in the usual sense, he gave her more than mere lover might: he gave\nher a whole life and I envied her for having been able to seize so\nshrewdly upon this unique way _out_ of ordinary life and into something\nmore grand, more strange, more engaging. Though I could not follow her,\nI was able to appreciate her choice and admire the completeness of her\ndays. That she was obscurely using Cave for her own ends, subverting\nhim, did not seem to me possible and I was annoyed by Clarissa\u2019s dark\nwarnings. I directed the conversation into the other waters.\n\n\u201cThe children. I haven\u2019t decided what to do with them.\u201d\n\nClarissa came to a full halt. For a moment she forgot to chew. Then,\nwith a look of pain, she swallowed. \u201c_Your_ children?\u201d\n\n\u201cAny children, all children,\u201d I pointed to the manuscript on the table.\n\nShe began to understand. \u201cI\u2019m quite sure you have abolished marriage.\u201d\n\n\u201cAs a matter of fact, yes, this morning.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd now you don\u2019t know what to do about the children.\u201d\n\n\u201cPrecisely. I....\u201d\n\n\u201cPerfectly simple.\u201d Clarissa was brisk: this, apparently, was a problem\nshe had already solved. \u201cThe next step is controlled breeding. Only\nthose whose blood lines seem promising should be allowed to procreate.\nNow that oral contraceptives are so popular no one will make babies by\naccident ... in fact, it should be a serious crime if someone does.\u201d\n\n\u201cQuite neat, but I wonder whether, psychologically, it\u2019s simple.\nThere\u2019s the whole business of instinct, of the natural desire of a\nwoman to want her own child after bearing it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll habit ... not innate. Children have been subordinate woman\u2019s ace\nin the hole for generations. They have had to develop certain traits\nwhich, in other circumstances, they would not have entertained. Rats,\nwhom we closely resemble, though they suckle their young will, in\nmoments of mild hunger or even exasperation, think nothing of eating an\nentire litter. You can condition human beings to accept _any_ state of\naffairs as being perfectly natural.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t doubt that. But how to break the habits of several thousand\nyears.\u201d\n\n\u201cI suppose there _are_ ways. Look what Cave is doing. Of course making\ndeath popular is not so difficult since, finally, people _want_ it to\nbe nice: they do the real work or, rather, their terror does. In place\nof superstition, which they\u2019ve nearly outgrown, he offers them madness.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow really, Clarissa....\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t disapprove. I\u2019m all for him, as you know. To make death\npreferable to life is of course utter folly though a perfectly logical\nreaction for these poor bewildered savages who, having lost their old\nsuperstitions, are absolutely terrified at the prospect of nothing.\nThey want to perpetuate their little personalities forever into space\nand time and now they\u2019ve begun to realize the folly of that (who, after\nall, are they? are _we_? in creation?) they will follow desperately the\nfirst man who pulls the sting of death and Cave is that man, as I knew\nhe would be.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd after Cave?\u201d\n\n\u201cI will not say what I see. I\u2019m on the side of change, however, which\nmakes me in perfect harmony with life.\u201d Clarissa chuckled. A fish\nleaped gayly in the still river; out in the channel a barge glided by,\nthe muffled noise of its engines like slow heartbeats.\n\n\u201cBut you think it good for people to follow Cave? you think what he\nsays is right?\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing is good. Nothing is right. But though Cave is wrong, it is\na _new_ wrong and so it is better than the old; in any case, he will\nkeep the people amused and boredom, finally, is the one monster the\nrace will never conquer ... the monster which will devour us in time.\nBut now we\u2019re off the track. Mother love exists because we believe it\nexists. Believe it does not exist and it won\u2019t. That, I fear, is the\ngeneral condition of 'the unchanging human heart.\u2019 Make these young\ngirls feel that having babies is a patriotic duty as well as healthful\ntherapy and they\u2019ll go through it blithely enough, without ever giving\na second thought to the child they leave behind in the government\nnursery.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut to get them to that state of acceptance....\u201d\n\n\u201cIs the problem. I\u2019m sure it will be solved in a few generations.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou think I\u2019m right to propose it?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course. It will happen anyway.\u201d\n\n\u201cYet I\u2019m disturbed at the thought of all that power in the hands of the\nstate: they can make the children believe anything; they can impose the\nmost terrible tyranny; they can blind at birth so that none might ever\nsee anything again but what a few rulers, as ignorant as they, finally,\nwill want them to see. There\u2019ll be a time when all people are nearly\nalike.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhich is precisely the ideal society. No mysteries, no romantics, no\ndiscussions, no persecutions because there\u2019s no one to persecute. When\nall have received the same conditioning, it will be like....\u201d\n\n\u201cInsects.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho have existed longer than ourselves and will outlast our race by\nmany comfortable millennia.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs existence everything?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is nothing else.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen likeness is the aim of human society?\u201d\n\n\u201cCall it harmony. You think of yourself only as you are now dropped\ninto the midst of a society of dull conformists. That\u2019s where you make\nyour mistake. You\u2019ll not live to see it for, if you did, you would be\nsomeone else, a part of it. No one of your disposition could possibly\nhappen in such a society. There would be no rebellion against sameness\nbecause difference would not, in any important sense, exist, even as\na proposition. You think: how terrible! but think again how wonderful\nit would be to belong to the pack, to the tribe, to the race, without\nguilt or anxiety or division.\u201d\n\n\u201cI cannot imagine it.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo more can they imagine you.\u201d\n\n\u201cThis will happen?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, and you will have been a part of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cThrough Cave?\u201d\n\n\u201cPartly, yes. There will be others after him. His work in the future\nwill be distorted by others, but that\u2019s to be expected.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t like your future, Clarissa.\u201d\n\n\u201cNor does it like you, my dear. The idea of someone who is gloomy\nand at odds with society, bitter and angry, separate from others ...\nI shouldn\u2019t wonder but that you yourself might really be used as a\nperfect example of the old evil days.\u201d\n\n\u201cVirtue dies?\u201d\n\n\u201cVirtue becomes the property of the race.\u201d\n\n\u201cImagination is forbidden?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, only channeled for the good of all.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd this is a desirable world? the future you describe?\u201d\n\n\u201cDesirable for whom? For you, no. For me, not really. For the people\nin it? Well, yes and no. They will not question their estate but they\nwill suffer from a collective boredom which ... but my lips are sealed.\nYour tea was delicious though the bread was not quite fresh; but then\nbachelors never keep house properly. I\u2019ve gone on much too long; do\nforget everything I\u2019ve said. I\u2019m indiscreet. I can\u2019t help it.\u201d She\nrose, a cloud of gray suspended above the porch. I walked her across\nthe lawn to the driveway where her car was parked. The breeze had,\nfor the moment, died and the heat prickled me unpleasantly; my temples\nitched as the sweat started.\n\n\u201cGo on with it,\u201d she said as she got into her car. \u201cYou may as well\nbe on the side of the future as against it. Not that it much matters\nanyway. When your adorable President Jefferson was in Paris he\nsaid....\u201d But the noise of the car starting drowned the body of her\nanecdote. I caught only the end: \u201cThat harmony was preferable. We were\nall amused; I was the only one who realized that he was serious.\u201d Dust\nswirled and Clarissa was gone down the drive at a great speed, keeping,\nI noticed, to the wrong side of the road. I hoped this was an omen.\n\n\n                                   5\n\nI got through an unusually sultry July without much interference\nfrom either Cave or the world. Paul paid me a quick visit to get the\nmanuscript of the dialogues and I was reminded of those accounts of\nthe progresses made by monarchs in other days, or rather of great\nministers, for his party occupied four large cars which gleamed side\nby side in my driveway like glossy beasts while their contents, Paul\nand fourteen assistants, all strange to me save Stokharin, wandered\ndisconsolately about the lawn until their departure.\n\nPaul, though brisk, was cordial. \u201cTrouble all over the map but b-i-g\nt-r-o-u-b-l-e,\u201d he spelled it out with relish, size was important, I\nknew, to a publicist, even to one turned evangelist.\n\n\u201cIs Cave disturbed by it?\u201d\n\n\u201cDoesn\u2019t pay any attention. Haven\u2019t seen him but Iris keeps me posted.\nBy the way, we\u2019re hiring a plane the first week in August to go see\nhim, Stokharin and me. Want to come along?\u201d\n\nI didn\u2019t but I said I would. I had no intention of being left out of\nanything: there was _my_ work still to do.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll let you know details. This is hot stuff?\u201d He waved the sheaf of\npapers I\u2019d given him.\n\n\u201cReal hot,\u201d I said but my irony was too pale, only primary colors\ncaught Paul\u2019s eye.\n\n\u201cI hope so. Got any new stunts?\u201d\n\nI told him, briefly, about my thoughts on marriage or rather Cave\u2019s\nthoughts. The literary device was for me to ask him certain questions\nand for him to answer them or, at least, to ask pointed questions in\nhis turn. Cheerfully, I had committed Cave to my own point of view and\nI was somewhat nervous about his reaction, not to mention the others.\nSo far, only Clarissa knew and her approval was pleasant but perhaps\nfrivolous: it carried little weight, I knew, with the rest.\n\nPaul whistled. \u201cYou got us a tall order. I\u2019m not sure we\u2019ll be able to\nhandle that problem yet, if ever.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve done it carefully,\u201d I began.\n\nStokharin, who had been listening with interest, came to my aid. \u201cIn\nthe Centers we, how you say, Paul? soft-pedal the family. We advise\nyoung boys to make love to the young girls without marrying or having\nbabies. We speak of the family as a social unit, and society changes. I\nam most eager to study Mr Luther\u2019s approach. Perhaps a little aid from\nthose of us in clinical work....\u201d\n\nBut then the dark sedans began to purr; nervous attendants whispered\nto Paul and I was soon left alone with the fragments of our brief\nconversation to examine and interpret at my leisure. I was surprised\nand pleased at Stokharin\u2019s unexpected alliance. I had thought of him\nas my chief antagonist. But then, my work finished, I tended roses and\nread Cassius Dio until the summons in August came.\n\n\n                                   6\n\nThe plane landed on a glare of blue water, more blinding even than the\nvivid sky about the sun itself which made _both_ elements seem to be\na quivering blue fire in which was destroyed all of earth save a tiny\nsmear of dusty faded green, the island of our destination.\n\nThe pilot maneuvered the plane against a bone-gray dock where, all\nalone, Iris stood, her hair tangled from the propellers\u2019 wind and her\neyes hidden by dark glasses. Like explorers in a new country, Paul,\nStokharin and I scrambled onto the dock, the heat closing in about us\nlike blue canvas, stifling, palpable. I gasped and dropped my suitcase.\nIris laughed and ran forward to greet us; she came first to me which,\neven in my dazzled, shocked state, I realized and valued.\n\n\u201cGene, you must get out of that suit this minute! and get some dark\nglasses or you\u2019ll go blind. Paul, how are you? It\u2019s good to see you,\nDoctor.\u201d And, in the chatter of greetings, she escorted us off the dock\nand across a narrow white beach to a grove of palm trees where the\ncottage stood.\n\nTo our delight, the interior was cooled by machinery. I sank into a\nwicker chair even while Cave was pumping my hand. Iris laughed, \u201cLeave\nhim alone, John. He\u2019s smothered by the heat.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo hat,\u201d said Cave solemnly after the first greeting which, in my\nrelief, I\u2019d not heard. \u201cYou\u2019ll get sunstroke.\u201d\n\nPaul was now in charge. The heat which had enervated both Stokharin\nand me filled him with manic energy, like one of those reptiles which\nabsorb vitality from the sun.\n\n\u201cWhat a great little place, John! Had no idea there were all the\ncomforts of home down here, none at all. Don\u2019t suppose you go out much?\u201d\n\nCave, unlike Iris, was not tanned though he had, for him, a good color,\na ruddiness of tone unlike his usual sallowness. \u201cI don\u2019t get too much\nsun,\u201d he admitted. \u201cWe go fishing sometimes, early in the morning. Most\nof the time I just hang around the house and look at the letters, and\nread some.\u201d\n\nI noticed on the table beside me an enormous pile of travel magazines,\ntourist folders and atlases: this had obviously been Cave\u2019s reading. I\nanticipated trouble.\n\nPaul prowled restlessly about the modern living room with its shuttered\nsealed windows. Stokharin and I, like fish back in their own element\nafter a brief excursion on land, gasped softly in our chairs while\nIris told us of the keys, of their fishing trips. She was at her best\nhere as she had been that other time in Spokane ... being out of doors,\nin Cave\u2019s exclusive company, brought her to life in a way the exciting\nbusyness of New York did not. In New York she seemed like an object\nthrough which an electric current passed; here on this island, in the\nsun\u2019s glare, she had unfolded, petal after petal until the secret\ninterior seemed almost exposed. I was conscious of her as a lovely\nwoman and, without warning, I experienced desire: that sharp rare\nlonging which, in me, can reach no climax. Always before she had been a\nfriend, a companion whose company I had jealously valued: her attention\nalone had been enough to satisfy me, but on this day I saw her as a man\nentire might and I plummeted into despair while talking of Plato.\n\n\u201cThe Symposium was the model, yes. There are other ways of casting\ndialogues such as introducing the celebrated dead brought together for\na chat in Limbo. I thought, though, that I should keep the talk to\nonly two. Cave and myself ... Socrates and Alcibiades.\u201d Alcibiades was\nprecisely the wrong parallel but I left it uncorrected, noticing how\ndelicately the hollow at the base of her throat quivered with life\u2019s\nblood and although I attempted, as I often had before with bitter\nsuccess, to think of her as so much mortal flesh, the body and its\nbeauty only pulp and bone, only beautiful to a human eye ... hideous,\nno doubt, to the eye of a geometric progression ... that afternoon\nI was lost and I could not become, even for a moment, an abstract\nintelligence again: I saw the bone; I saw the dust, yet I saw her\nexisting, despite her nature and her fate, triumphant in the present. I\ncursed the flaw in my own flesh and hated life.\n\n\u201cWe liked it very much,\u201d she said, not divining my mood, unaware of my\nsudden passion and its attendant despair.\n\n\u201cYou don\u2019t think it\u2019s too strong, do you? All morality, not to mention\nthe churches, will be aligned against us.\u201d\n\n\u201cJohn was worried at first ... not that opposition frightens him and\nit is _his_ idea; I mean you wrote the dialogue but it reflects\nexactly what he\u2019s always thought.\u201d Though in love\u2019s agony, I looked at\nher sharply to make certain she was perfectly serious: she was; this\nhelped soothe the pain. She had been hypnotized by Cave. I wondered how\nClarissa could ever have thought it was the other way around.\n\n\u201cIn a way we\u2019re already on record,\u201d Iris looked thoughtfully across the\nroom at Cave who was showing Paul and Stokharin a large map of some\nstrange country. \u201cThe Centers have helped a good many couples to adjust\nto one another without marriage and without guilt.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut then there\u2019s the problem of what to do with the children when the\nfamily breaks up.\u201d\n\nIris sighed. \u201cI\u2019m afraid that\u2019s already a problem. Our Centers are\ntaking care of a good many children already. A number, of course, go\nout for adoption to bored couples who need something to amuse them.\nI suppose we\u2019ll have to establish nurseries as a part of each Center\nuntil, finally, the government assumes the responsibility.\u201d\n\n\u201c_If_ it becomes Cavite.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen it becomes Cavite.\u201d She was powerful in her casualness.\n\n\u201cMeanwhile there are laws of adoption which vary from state to state\nand, if we\u2019re not careful, we\u2019re apt to come up against the law.\u201d\n\n\u201cPaul looks after us,\u201d she smiled. \u201cDid you know that he has nearly a\nhundred lawyers on our pay roll? All protecting us.\u201d\n\n\u201cFrom what?\u201d I had not kept track of this.\n\n\u201cLawsuits ... mostly attempts by state legislatures to outlaw the\nCenters on the grounds of immorality and so on. The lawyers are kept\nbusy all the time.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy haven\u2019t I read about any of this in the papers?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe\u2019ve been able to keep things fairly quiet. Paul is marvelous with\nthe editors ... several have even joined us, by the way ... secretly,\nof course.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s the membership now?\u201d\n\nIris gestured. \u201cNo one knows. We have thirty Centers in the United\nStates and each day they receive hundreds of new Cavites. I suspect\nthere are at least four million by now.\u201d\n\nI gasped, beginning to recover at last from the heat, from my\nunexpected crisis of love. \u201cI had no idea things were going so fast.\u201d\n\n\u201cToo fast. We haven\u2019t enough trained people to look after the Centers\nand on top of that we\u2019ve got to set up new Centers. Paul has broken the\ncountry up into districts, all very methodical: so many Centers per\ndistrict each with a Resident in charge. Stokharin is taking care of\nthe clinical work.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere\u2019s the money coming from?\u201d\n\n\u201cIn bushels from heaven,\u201d Iris smiled. \u201cWe leave all that up to Paul. I\nshouldn\u2019t be surprised if he counterfeits it. One thing I know, though,\nI _must_ get back to New York soon, to the school. I shouldn\u2019t really\nhave gone off in the middle of everything but I was tired and John\nwanted company so I came.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow is he?\u201d\n\n\u201cAs you see: calm. I don\u2019t believe he ever thinks of any of our\nproblems. He never talks about them; never reads the reports Paul sends\nhim. He seldom reads the attacks from the churches and we get several a\nday, not to mention threatening mail. It\u2019s got so bad that we now have\nfull-time bodyguards.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou think people are _seriously_ threatening him?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know how serious they are but we can\u2019t take chances.\nFortunately, almost no one knows we\u2019re here and, so far, no cranks have\ngot through from the mainland. We get our groceries and mail brought in\nby boat every other day from Key Largo. Otherwise, we\u2019re marooned here.\u201d\n\nI looked about me for some sign of the guards but they were elsewhere:\na Cuban woman glumly vacuuming in the next room was the only visible\nstranger.\n\nCave abandoned his maps and atlases long enough to tell me how much the\ndialogues pleased him.\n\n\u201cI wish I could put it down like you do. I can only say it when people\nlisten.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou feel I\u2019ve been accurate?\u201d\n\nHe nodded solemnly. \u201cOh, yes ... it\u2019s just as I\u2019ve always said it, only\nwritten down.\u201d I realized that he\u2019d already assumed full responsibility\n(and credit, should there be any) for my composition; I accepted his\npresumption with amusement. Only Stokharin seemed aware of the humor of\nthe situation. I caught him staring at me with a shrewd expression; he\nlooked quickly away and his mouth was rigid as he tried not to smile. I\nliked him at that moment: we were the only two, evidently, who had not\nbeen possessed by Cave. I felt like a conspirator.\n\nFor several days we talked, or rather Paul talked. He had brought\nwith him charts and statements and statistics and, though Cave did\nnot bother to disguise his boredom, he listened most of the time and\nhis questions, when they did occur, were apposite. The rest of us\nwere fascinated by the extent of what Paul referred to as the \u201cfirst\noperational phase.\u201d\n\nVarious projects had already been undertaken; others were put up to\nthe directors for discussion. The mood was, due to Paul\u2019s emphatic\npersonality, more like that of a meeting of account-executives in an\nadvertising firm than the pious foregathering of a messiah\u2019s apostles\n... and already that word had been used in the press by the curious\nas well as by the devout. Cave was the messiah to several million\nAmericans, one not come with fire to judge the world, nor one armed\nwith the instruction of a supernatural being whose presence was\nelsewhere but whose secret word had been given this favorite son ...\nno, Cave was of another line: that of the prophets, of the instructors\nlike Jesus before he became Christ, like Mohammed before he became\nIslam. Cave was the one in our age whose single task it was to speak\nout, to say the words all men waited for yet dared not speak nor\neven attend without the overpowering authority of another who had,\nplausibly, assumed the guise of master. I could not help but wonder as\nI watched Cave in those hectic conferences if the past had been like\nthis.\n\nCave certainly had one advantage over his predecessors: modern\ncommunications. It took three centuries for Christianity to infest the\nworld. It was to take Cave only three years to conquer Europe and the\nAmericas.\n\nBut I did not have this foreknowledge in Florida. I only knew that Paul\nwas handling an extraordinary business in a remarkable way. There was\nno plan so vast that he could not contemplate its execution with ease.\nHe was exhausting in his energy and, though he did not possess much\nimagination, he was a splendid improviser, using whatever themes were\nat hand to create his own dazzling contrapuntal effects with.\n\nWe decided upon a weekly magazine to be distributed gratis to the\nCavites (I was appointed editor though the real work, of which I was\nentirely ignorant, was to be done by a crew already at work on the\nfirst issue); we determined to send abroad certain films to be shown\nby Cavite lecturers; we approved the itinerary of Cave\u2019s national tour\nin the fall (Cave was most alive during this discussion; suggesting\ncities he wanted particularly to see, reveling in the euphony of such\nnames as Tallahassee); we planned several dinners to be held in New\nYork with newspaper editors and political figures and we discussed\nthe advisability of Cave\u2019s accepting an invitation to be questioned\nby the Committee on National Morals and Americanism of the House of\nRepresentatives, a remarkably powerful Committee which had begun to\nshow an interest in the progress of our Centers. It was decided that\nCave delay meeting them until the time was propitious, or until he\nhad received a subpoena. Paul, with his instinctive sense of the\ntheatrical, did not want to have this crucial meeting take place\nwithout a most careful build-up.\n\nWe discussed the various steps taken or about to be taken by certain\nstate legislatures against the Centers. The states involved were\nthose with either a predominantly Catholic or predominantly Baptist\npopulation. Since the Centers had been organized to conform with\nexisting state and federal laws (the lawyers were earning their fees),\nPaul thought they would have a difficult time in closing any of them.\nThe several laws which had been passed were all being appealed and\nhe was confident of our vindication by the higher courts. Though the\nestablished churches were now fighting us with every possible weapon of\nlaw and propaganda, we were fully protected, Paul felt, by the Bill of\nRights even in its currently abrogated state.\n\nLate in the afternoon after one of the day\u2019s conferences had ended,\nIris and I swam in the Gulf, the water as warm as blood and the sky\nsoft with evening. We stayed in the water for an hour, not talking, not\nreally swimming, merely a part of the sea and the sky, two lives on a\ncurved horizon, quite alone (for the others never ventured out), only\nthe bored bodyguard on the dock reminded us that the usual world had\nnot slipped away in a sunny dream, leaving us isolated and content in\nthat sea from which our life had come so long ago ... water to water,\nI thought comfortably as we crawled up on the beach like new-lunged\ncreatures.\n\nIris undid her bathing cap and her hair, streaked blonde by the sun\n(and a little gray as well), fell about her shoulders. She sighed\nvoluptuously. \u201cIf it would always be like this.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf what?\u201d\n\n\u201cEverything.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh,\u201d I ran my hand along my legs and crystals of salt glittered and\nfell; we were both dusted with light. \u201cYou have your work,\u201d I added ...\nwith some malice though I was now under control ... my crisis resolved\nafter one sleepless night. I could now look at her without longing,\nwithout pain; regret was another matter but regret was only a distant\nrelative to anguish.\n\n\u201cI have that, too,\u201d she said. \u201cThe work uses everything while this ...\nis a narcotic. I float without a thought or a desire like ... like an\nanemone.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou don\u2019t know what an anemone is, do you?\u201d\n\nShe laughed like a child. \u201cHow do you know I don\u2019t?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou said it like somebody reading a Latin inscription.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is it?\u201d\n\nI laughed, too. \u201cI don\u2019t know. Perhaps something like a jellyfish. It\nhas a lovely sound: sea anemone.\u201d\n\nWe were interrupted by a motorboat pulling into the dock. \u201cIt\u2019s the\nmail,\u201d said Iris. \u201cWe\u2019d better go back to the house now.\u201d\n\nWhile we collected towels, the guard on the dock helped the boatman\ncarry two large boxes of groceries and mail to the house.\n\nBetween a pair of palm trees, a yard from the door of the house, the\nbomb went off in a flash of light and gray smoke. A stinging spray of\nsand blinded Iris and me. The blast knocked me off balance and I fell\nbackward onto the beach. For several minutes, my eyes filled with tears\nand burning from the coral sand, I was quite blind. When I was finally\nable to see again, Iris was already at the house trying to force open\nthe door.\n\nOne of the palm trees looked as if it had been struck by lightning,\nall its fronds gone and its base smoldering. The windows of the house\nwere broken and I recall wondering, foolishly, how the air-conditioning\ncould possibly work if the house was not sealed. The door was\nsplintered and most of its paint had been burned off: it was also\njammed for Iris could not open it. Meanwhile, from a side door, the\noccupants of the house had begun to appear, pale and shaken.\n\nI limped toward the house, rubbing my eyes, aware that my left knee\nhad been hurt. I was careful not to look at either the boatman or the\nguard. Their remains inextricably strewn among tin cans and letters in\nthe bushes.\n\nPaul was the first to speak: a torrent of rage which jolted us all out\nof fear and shock. Iris, after one look at the dead men, fled into the\nhouse. I stood stupidly beside the door, rolling my eyes to dislodge\nthe sand and listening to Paul.\n\nThen the other guards came with blankets and gathered up the pieces\nof the two men. I turned away, aware for the first time that Cave was\nstanding slightly apart, nearest the house. He was very pale. He spoke\nonly once, half to himself for Paul was still ranting: \u201cLet it begin,\u201d\nsaid Cave softly. \u201cNow, now.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                                 EIGHT\n\n\n                                   1\n\nIt began indeed, like the first recorded shot of a war. The day after\nthe explosion, we left the island and Cave was flown to another\nretreat, this time in the center of New York City where, unique in all\nthe world, there can exist true privacy, even invisibility.\n\nThe Cavite history of the next two years is publicly known and the\nprivate aspects of it do not particularly reveal. It was a time of\nexpansion and of battle.\n\nThe opposition closed its ranks. Several attempts were made on all\nour lives and, six months after our return from Florida, we were all,\nexcept the indomitable Clarissa, forced to move into the brand-new\nCavite Center, a quickly built but handsome building of yellow glass on\nPark Avenue. Here on the top floor, in the penthouse which was itself\na mansion surrounded by Babylonian gardens and a wall of glass through\nwhich the encompassing city rose like stalagmites, Cave and Paul,\nStokharin and Iris and I all lived with our bodyguards, never venturing\nout of the building which resembled, during that time, a military\nheadquarters with guards and adjutants and a maze of officials through\nwhom both strangers and familiars were forced to pass before they could\nmeet even myself, much less Cave.\n\nIn spite of the unnaturalness of the life, it was, I think, the\nhappiest time of my life. Except for brief excursions to the Hudson,\nI spent the entire two years in that one building, knowing at last\nthe sort of security and serenity which monks must have known in\ntheir monasteries, in their retreats. I think the others were also\ncontent, except for Cave who eventually grew so morose and bored by his\nconfinement that Paul not only had to promise him a world tour but,\nfor his vicarious pleasure, played, night after night in the Center\u2019s\nauditorium, travel films which Cave devoured with eager eyes, asking\nfor certain films to be halted at various interesting parts so that\nhe might examine some landscape or building (never a human being, no\nmatter how quaint); favorite movies were played over and over again,\nlong after the rest of us had gone off to bed, leaving Cave and the\nprojectionist alone with the bright shadows of distant places ... alone\nsave for the ubiquitous guards.\n\nThere were a number of attacks upon the building itself but since all\nincoming mail and visitors were checked by machinery for hidden weapons\nthere was never a repetition of that island disaster which had had\nsuch a chilling effect on all of us. Pickets of course marched daily\nfor two years in front of the Center\u2019s door and, on four separate\noccasions, mobs attempted to storm the building: they were repulsed\neasily by our guards (the police, for the most Catholic, did not unduly\nexert themselves in our defense; fortunately, the building had been\nconstructed with the idea of defense in mind).\n\nThe life in the Center was busy. In the penthouse each of us had an\noffice and Cave had a large suite where he spent his days watching\ntelevision and pondering journeys. He did not follow with much interest\nthe doings of the organization though he had begun to enjoy reading the\nattacks which regularly appeared against him and us in the newspapers.\nBishop Winston was the leader of the non-Catholic opposition and his\napologias and anathemas inspired us with admiration. He was, I think,\nconscious of being the last great spokesman of the Protestant churches\nand he fulfilled his historic function with wit and dignity and we\nadmired him tremendously. By this time, of course, our victory was in\nsight and we could show magnanimity to those who remained loyal to\nancient systems.\n\nI was the one most concerned with answering the attacks since I was\nnow an editor with an entire floor devoted to the _Cavite Journal_ (we\nwere not able to think up a better name). At first it was published\nweekly and given away free but after the first year it became a daily\nnewspaper, fat with advertising, and sold on newsstands.\n\nBesides my duties as editor, I was also the official apologist and I\nwas kept busy composing dialogues on various ethical matters, ranging\nfrom the virtues of cremation to fair business practices. Needless to\nsay, I had a good deal of help and some of my most resounding effects\nwere contrived by others, by anonymous specialists. Each installment,\nhowever, of Cavite doctrine (or rationalization as I preferred to think\nof my work) was received as eagerly by the expanding ranks of the\nfaithful as it was denounced by the Catholic Church and the new league\nof Protestant Churches under Bishop Winston\u2019s guidance.\n\nWe received our first serious setback when, in the autumn of our first\nyear in the new building, we were banned from the television networks\nthrough a series of technicalities created by Congress for our benefit\nand invoked without warning. It took Paul\u2019s lawyers a year to get the\ncase through the courts which finally reversed the government\u2019s ruling.\nMeanwhile, we counterattacked by creating hundreds of new Centers\nwhere films of Cave were shown regularly. Once a week he was televised\nfor the Centers where huge crowds gathered to see and hear him and it\nwas always Paul\u2019s claim that the government\u2019s spiteful action had,\nparadoxically, been responsible for the sudden victory of Cavesword:\nnot being able to listen to their idol in their own homes the Cavites,\nand even the merely curious, were forced to visit the Centers where,\nin the general mood of camaraderie and delight in the same word, they\nwere organized quite ruthlessly. Stokharin\u2019s clinics handled their\npersonal problems. Other departments assumed the guidance and even\nthe support, if necessary, of their children while free medical and\neducational facilities were made available to all who applied.\n\nAt the end of the second year, there were more enrolled Cavites than\nany other single religious denomination including the Roman Catholic.\nI published this fact and the accompanying statistics with a certain\nguilt which, needless to say, my fellow directors did not share. The\nresult of this revelation was a special Congressional hearing.\n\nIn spite of the usual confusion attendant upon any of the vigorous\nold Congress\u2019s hearteningly incompetent investigations, this event\nwas well-staged, preparing the way politically, to draw the obvious\nparallel, for a new Constantine.\n\nIt took place in March and it was the only official journey any of\nus, excepting Paul, had made from our yellow citadel for two years.\nThe entire proceedings were televised, a bit of unwisdom on the part\nof the hostile Congressmen who, in their understandable eagerness for\npublicity, overlooked their intended victim\u2019s complete mastery of that\nmedium. I did not go to Washington but I saw Cave and Paul and Iris off\nfrom the roof of the Center. Because of the crowds which had formed in\nthe streets, hoping for a glimpse of Cave, the original plan to fly to\nWashington aboard a chartered airplane was discarded at the last minute\nand two helicopters were ordered instead to pick up Cave and his party\non the terrace in front of the penthouse, a mode of travel not then\npopular.\n\nPaul saw to it that the departure was filmed. A dozen of us who were\nnot going stood about among the trees and bushes while the helicopters\nhovered a few feet above the roof, their ladders dangling. Then Cave\nappeared with Paul and Iris while a camera crew recorded their farewell\nand departure. Cave looked as serene as ever, quite pale in his dark\nblue suit and white shirt ... a small austere figure with downcast\neyes. Iris was bright-faced from the excitement and cold; there was a\nsharp wind on the roof which tangled her hair.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m terrified,\u201d she whispered fiercely in my ear as we shook hands\nformally for the camera.\n\n\u201cPaul seems in full command,\u201d I said, comfortingly. And Paul, not Cave,\nwas making a short speech to the camera while Cave stood alone and\nstill; then, in a gust of wind, they were gone and I went to my office\nto watch the hearings.\n\nThe official reason for the investigation was based upon certain\ncharges made by the various churches that the Cavites were subverting\nChristian morality by championing free love and publicly descrying the\neternal institution of marriage. This was the burden of that complaint\nagainst Cave which the Committee most wished to contemplate since it\nwas the strongest of the numerous allegations and, in their eyes, the\nmost dangerous to the state, the one most likely to get the largest\namount of publicity. For some years the realm of public morals had been\na favorite excursion grounds for the Congress and their tournaments at\npublic expense were attended delightedly by everyone. This particular\none, affecting as it did the head of the largest single religious\nestablishment in the country would, the Congressmen were quite sure,\nprove an irresistible spectacle. It was.\n\nAt first there was a good deal of confusion. Newspaper men stumbled\nover one another; flash bulbs were dropped; Congressmen could not\nget through the crowd to take their seats. To fill in, while these\npreliminaries were got over, the camera was trained upon the crowd\nwhich was beginning to gather in front of the Capitol; a crowd which\ngrew, as one watched, to Inaugural size. Though it was orderly, a troop\nof soldiers in trucks soon arrived, as though by previous design, and\nthey got out, forming a cordon of fixed bayonets before the various\nentrances to the Capitol.\n\nHere and there, against the gusty blue sky, banners with the single\nword \u201cCave,\u201d gold on blue, snapped: _In hoc signo_ indeed!\n\nThen the commentators who had been exclaiming at some length on the\nsize of the crowd, excitedly announced the arrival of Cave. A roar of\nsound filled the plaza. The banners were waved back and forth against\nthe sky and I saw everywhere the theatrical hand of Paul Himmell.\n\nThe scene shifted to the House of Representatives entrance to the\nCapitol. Cave wearing an overcoat but bareheaded, stepped out of the\nlimousine. He was alone. Neither Paul nor Iris was in sight. It was\nmost effective that he should come like this, without equerries or\ncounselors. He stood for a moment in the pillared entrance, aware of\nthe crowd outside; even through the commentator\u2019s narrative one could\nhear, like the surf falling: Cave! Cave! Cave! For a moment it seemed\nthat he might turn and go, not into the Capitol, but out onto the steps\nto the crowd; but then the chief of the Capitol guard, sensing perhaps\nthat this might happen, gently steered him up the stairs.\n\nThe next shot was of the Committee Room where the hearings had at last\nbegun. A somewhat phlegmatic Jesuit was testifying. His words were\ndifficult to hear because of the noise in the committee room, and the\nimpotent shouts of the chairman. The commentator gave a brief analysis\nof the Jesuit\u2019s attack on Cave and then, in the midst of a particularly\nloud exchange between the chairman and the crowd, the clerk of the\ncourt proclaimed: John Cave.\n\nThere was silence. The crowd parted to make way for him. Even the\nmembers of the committee craned to get a good look at him as he moved\nquietly, almost demurely, to the witness chair. The only movement in\nthe room was that of the Papal Nuncio who, in his robes, sat in the\nfront rank of the audience. He crossed himself as Cave passed and shut\nhis eyes.\n\nCave was respectful, almost inaudible. Several times he was asked\nto repeat his answers even though the room was remarkably still.\nAt first Cave would answer only in monosyllables, not looking up,\nnot meeting the gaze of his interrogators who took heart at this,\nprofessionals themselves: their voices which had almost matched his\nfor inaudibility, began to boom with confidence.\n\nI waited for the lightning. The first intimation came when Cave looked\nup. For nearly five minutes he had not raised his eyes once during the\nquestioning. Suddenly he looked up and I saw that he was trying to\nlocate the camera; he did, and it was like a revelation: a sudden shock\nwent through me and as well as I knew him, as few illusions as I had\nabout him, I was arrested by his gaze ... it was as though only he and\nI existed, as though he _were_ I; all of those who watched responded in\nthe same fashion to that unique gaze.\n\nThe Committee, however, was not aware of what had happened, that\ntheir intended victim had with one glance appropriated the eye of the\nworld. The subsequent catechism is too well known to record here; we\nused it as the main exposition of Cavesword, the one testament which\ncontained the entire thing. It was almost as if the Congressmen had\nbeen given the necessary questions to ask, like those supporting\nactors whose minor roles are designed to illuminate the genius of the\nstar. Two of the seven members of the Committee were Cavites. This was\nsoon apparent. The other five were violently in opposition. One as a\nCatholic, another as a Protestant, and two as materialistic lovers of\nthe old order. Only one of the attackers, a quiet scholarly-looking\nJew, made any real point. He argued the perniciousness of an\norganization which, if allowed to prosper, would replace the state and\nforce all dissenters to conform; it was his contention that the state\nprospered most when no one system was sufficiently strong to dominate.\nI wanted to hear more of him but his Catholic colleague, a bull-voiced\nIrishman, drowned him out, winning the day for the Cavites.\n\nCave, to my astonishment, had memorized most of the dialogues I\u2019d\nwritten and he said my words with the same power that he said his own.\nI was startled by this. There had been no hint that such a thing might\nhappen and I couldn\u2019t, for some time, determine the motive until I\nrecalled Cave\u2019s reluctance to being quoted in print; he had apparently\nrealized that now there would be a complete record of his testimony and\nso, for the sake of both literacy and consistency, he had committed to\nmemory those words of mine which were thought to be his. At the great\nmoment, however, the peroration (by which time there were no more\nquestions and Cave\u2019s voice alone was heard) he became himself, and\nspoke Cavesword.\n\nThen, without the Committee\u2019s leave, in the dazzled silence which\nfollowed upon his last words, he got up abruptly and left the room. I\nswitched off the television set. That week established Cavesword in the\ncountry and, except for various priests and ministers of the deserted\ngods, the United States was Cavite.\n\n\n                                   2\n\nThe desertion of the old establishments for the new resembled, at\nuneasy moments, revolution.\n\nThe Congressional Committee, though anti-Cavite, did not dare even\nto censure him ... partly from the fear of the vast crowd which\nwaited in the Capitol plaza and partly from the larger, more cogent\nawareness that it was politically suicidal for any popularly elected\nRepresentative to outrage a minority of such strength.\n\nThe hearing fizzled out after Cave\u2019s appearance and though there were a\nfew denunciatory speeches on the floor of Congress, no official action\nwas taken; shortly afterwards the ban on Cave\u2019s television appearances\nwas lifted but by then it was too late and millions of people had got\npermanently into the habit of attending weekly meetings at the various\nCenters to listen to Cave, to discuss with the Residents and their\nstaffs the points of doctrine ... and doctrine it had become.\n\nThe second year in our yellow citadel was more active than the first.\nIt was decided that Cave make no personal appearances anywhere.\nAccording to Paul, the mystery would be kept intact and the legend\nwould grow under the most auspicious circumstances. He did not reveal\nhis actual motive in Cave\u2019s presence but I was aware, from private\nconversations we had, just the two of us, of the wisdom of his plan.\n\nHe explained himself to me late one afternoon in my office.\n\n\u201cGet him in front of a really hostile crowd and there\u2019d be no telling\nwhat might happen.\u201d Paul was restlessly marching about the room in his\nshirtsleeves ... a blunt cigar in his mouth gave him the appearance of\na lower-echelon politician.\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s never been a hostile audience yet,\u201d I reminded him. \u201cExcept\nfor the Congressional hearings and I thought he handled himself quite\nwell with them.\u201d\n\n\u201cWith your script in his head,\u201d Paul chuckled and stopped his march\nto the filing cabinet by way of that huge television screen which\ndominated every office and home. \u201cWhat I mean is, he\u2019s never been in\na debate. He\u2019s never had a tough opponent, a heckler. The Congressmen\nwere pretty mild and even though they weren\u2019t friendly they stuck to\neasy issues. But what would happen if Bishop Winston got him up before\nan audience? Winston\u2019s a lot smarter and he\u2019s nearly as good in public.\u201d\n\n\u201cI suppose Cave would hypnotize him, too.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot on your life.\u201d Paul threw himself into a chair of flimsy chrome\nand plastic. \u201cWinston\u2019s been trying to arrange a debate for over two\nyears. He issues challenges every Sunday on his program (got a big\naudience, too ... though not close to ours; I keep checking it).\u201d\n\n\u201cDoes Cave want to give it a try?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s oblivious to such things. I suppose he would if he thought about\nit. Anyway it\u2019s to our advantage to keep him out of sight. Let them see\nonly a television image, hear only his recorded voice. It\u2019s wonderful\ncopy! Big time.\u201d He was out of the chair and playing with the knob of\nthe television set: the screen was suddenly filled with a romantic\nscene, a pulsating green grotto with water falling in a thin white\nline ... so perfected had the machine become that it was actually like\nlooking through a window, the illusion of depth quite perfect and the\ncolors true. A warm deep voice off-screen suggested the virtues of a\nwell-known carbonated drink. Paul turned the switch off. I was relieved\nsince I, alone in America, was unable to think or work or even relax\nwhile the screen was bright with some other place.\n\n\u201cHe won\u2019t like it. He expects next year, at the latest, to start his\nworld tour.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps then,\u201d said Paul thinly. \u201cAnyway, the longer we put it off the\nbetter. Did you know we turn away a thousand people a day who come here\njust to get a glimpse of him?\u201d\n\n\u201cThey see him at the Center meetings.\u201d\n\n\u201cOnly our own people ... the ones in training to be Residents. I keep\nthose sessions carefully screened. Every now and then some outsider\ngets in but it\u2019s rare.\u201d\n\nI glanced at the tear-sheet of my next day\u2019s editorial; it contained,\namong other useful statistics, the quite incredible figures of Cavite\nmembership in the world. Dubiously, I read off the figure which Paul\nhad given me at a directors\u2019 meeting.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s about right,\u201d he said complacently, coming to a full stop at the\nfiles. \u201cWe don\u2019t actually know the figures of places without proper\nCenters like the Latin countries where we are undergoing a bit of\npersecution. But the statistics for this country are exact.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s hard to believe.\u201d I looked at the figure which represented so\nmany human beings, so much diversity, all touched by one man. \u201cLess\nthan three years....\u201d\n\n\u201cThree more years and we\u2019ll have most of Europe too.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, I wonder?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy?\u201d He slammed shut the cabinet drawer which he\u2019d been examining. He\nlooked at me sharply. \u201cYou of all people ask why? Cavesword ... and all\nyour words too, did the trick. That\u2019s what. We\u2019ve said what they wanted\nto hear ... just the opposite of my old game of publicity where we said\nwhat _we_ wanted them to hear. This time it\u2019s just the other way around\nand it\u2019s big, ah, it\u2019s big.\u201d\n\nI could agree with that but I pressed him further. \u201cI know what\u2019s\nhappened, of course, and your theory is certainly correct if only\nbecause had we said the opposite of what they wanted to hear nothing\nwould have happened. But the question in my mind, the real 'why,\u2019 is\nCave and us. Why we of all the people in the world? Cavesword, between\nus and any school of philosophy, is not new. Others have said it more\neloquently. In the past it was a reasonably popular heresy which the\nearly popes stamped out....\u201d\n\n\u201cTiming! The right man at the right time saying the right thing.\nRemember the piece you did on Mohammed....\u201d\n\n\u201cI stole most of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo what? Most effective. You figured how only at that one moment in\nArabian political history could such a man have appeared.\u201d\n\nI smiled. \u201cThat is always the folly of the 'one unique moment.\u2019 For all\nI know such a man could have appeared in any of a hundred other Arab\ngenerations.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut he never did except that one time ... which proves the point.\u201d\n\nI let it go. Paul was at best not the ideal partner in the perennial\nconversation. \u201cThere is no doubt but that Cave\u2019s the man,\u201d I said,\nneutrally. \u201cNot the last of the line but at least the most effective,\nconsidering the shortness of the mission so far.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe have the means. The old people didn\u2019t. Every man, woman, and child\nin this country can see Cave for themselves, and at the same moment. I\ndon\u2019t suppose ten thousand people saw Christ in action ... it took a\ngeneration for news of him to travel from one country to the next.\u201d\n\n\u201cParallels break down,\u201d I agreed. \u201cIt\u2019s the reason I wonder so\ncontinually about Cave and ourselves and what we are doing in the\nworld.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe\u2019re doing good. The people are losing their fear of death. Last\nmonth there were twelve hundred suicides in this country directly\nattributable to Cavesword. And these people didn\u2019t kill themselves just\nbecause they were unhappy, they killed themselves because he had made\nit easy, even desirable. Now you know there\u2019s never been anybody like\nthat before in history, anywhere.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll say not.\u201d I was startled by the figure he had quoted. In our\n_Journal_ we were always reporting various prominent suicides and,\nthough I had given orders to minimize these voluntary deaths, I had\nbeen forced every now and then to record the details of one or another\nof them. But I\u2019d had no idea there had been so many. I asked Paul if he\nwas quite sure of the number.\n\n\u201cOh yes.\u201d He was blithe. \u201cAt least that many we know of.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wonder if it\u2019s wise.\u201d\n\n\u201cWise? What\u2019s that got to do with it? It\u2019s logical. It\u2019s the proof of\nCavesword. Death is fine so why not die?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy not live?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s the same thing.\u201d\n\n\u201cI would say not.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, you ought to play it up a little more anyway. I meant to talk\nabout it at the last directors\u2019 meeting but there wasn\u2019t time.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoes Cave know about this? About the extent....\u201d\n\n\u201cSure does.\u201d Paul headed for the door. \u201cHe thinks it\u2019s fine. Proves\nwhat he says and it gives other people nerve. This thing is working.\u201d\n\nThere was no doubt about that of course. It is hard, precisely, to give\nthe sense of those two years when the main work got done in a series of\ntoppling waves which swept into history the remaining edifices of other\nfaiths and institutions. I had no real firsthand impressions of the\ncountry for I seldom stirred from our headquarters.\n\nI\u2019d sold the house on the river. I had cut off all contacts with old\nfriends and my life, simply, was Cave. I edited the _Journal_, or\nrather presided over the editors. I discussed points of doctrine with\nthe various Residents who came to see me in the yellow tower. They\nwere devoted men and their enthusiasm was heartening, if not always\ncommunicable to me. Each week was published further commentaries on\nCavesword and I found my time grew short if I tried to read them all.\nI contented myself, finally, with synopses prepared for me by the\n_Journal\u2019s_ staff and I felt like a television emperor keeping abreast\nof contemporary letters, but there was not enough time, as it was, in\nwhich to contemplate the great things.\n\nOnce a week we all dined with Cave. Except for that informal occasion\nwe seldom saw him; though he complained continually about his captivity\n(and it was exactly that; we were all captives to some degree), he\nwas cheerful enough. Paul saw to it that he was kept busy all day\naddressing Residents and Communicators, answering their questions,\nfiring them by the mere fact of his presence. It was quite common\nfor strangers to faint upon seeing him for the first time, as a man\nand not as a figure on a bit of film. He was good-natured, though\noccasionally embarrassed by the chosen groups which were admitted to\nhim. He seldom talked privately to any of them, however, and he showed\nnot the faintest interest in their problems, not even bothering to\nlearn their names. He was only interested in where they were from and\nPaul, aware of this, as an added inducement to keep Cave amenable, took\nto including each group at least one Cavite from some far place like\nMalaya or Ceylon.\n\nIris was busiest of all. She had become, without design or preparation,\nthe head of all the Cavite schools throughout the country where\nthe various Communicators of Cavesword were trained, thousands of\nthem each year, in a course which included not only Cavesword but\nhistory and psychology as well. There were also special classes in\ntelevision-producing and acting. Television, finally, was the key. It\nwas the primary instrument of communication. Later, with a subservient\ngovernment and the aid of mental therapists and new drugs, television\nbecame less necessary but, in the beginning, it was everything.\n\nClarissa\u2019s role was, as always, enigmatic. She appeared when she\npleased and she disappeared when she pleased. I discovered that her\nposition among the directors was due to her possession of the largest\nsingle block of stock, dating back to the first days. During the\ncrucial two or three years, however, she was often with us merely for\nprotection since all our lives had been proscribed by the last remnants\nof the old churches who, as their dominion shrank, fought more and more\nrecklessly to destroy us.\n\nStokharin spent his days much like Iris, instructing the Communicators\nand Center-therapists in psychology. His power over Paul had\nfortunately waned and he was far more likeable: Paul was \u201cfreed,\u201d\nStokharin would say with some satisfaction, due to therapy ... and a\nnew father-image.\n\nLess than two years after the Congressional hearings, Paul, in his\ndevious way, entered politics and in the following Congressional\nelections, without much overt campaigning on our part, the majority\nof those elected to both Houses of the Congress were either Cavite or\nsympathetic.\n\n\n                                   3\n\nAt last I have met him. Early this evening I went downstairs to see\nthe manager about an item on my bill which was incorrect. I had\nthought that I should be safe for this was the time when most of the\nhotel guests are bathing and preparing for dinner. Unfortunately, I\nencountered Butler and his newly arrived colleague in the center of the\nlobby. I suddenly found myself attempting, by an effort of will, very\nsimply to vanish into smoke like one of those magicians in a child\u2019s\nbook. But I remained all too visible. I stopped halfway across the\nlobby and waited for them.\n\nThey came toward me. Butler murmuring greetings and introductions\nto Communicator Jessup (soon to be Resident of Luxor \u201cwhen we get\nunderway\u201d): \u201cAnd this, Jack, is the Mr Hudson I told you about.\u201d\n\nThe Resident-to-be shook my hand firmly. He was not more than thirty,\na lean, dark-eyed mulatto whose features and coloring appealed to me,\nused as I now am to the Arabs; beside him, Butler looked more red and\ngross than ever.\n\n\u201cButler has told me how useful you\u2019ve been to us,\u201d said Jessup.\nHis voice was a little high but he did not have the trick of\nover-articulation which used to be so common among educated Negroes in\nearlier times, a peculiarity they shared with Baptist clergymen and\nprofessional poets.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve done what I could, little as it is,\u201d I said ceremoniously. Then,\nwithout protest, I allowed them to lead me out onto the terrace which\noverlooked the setting sun and the muddy river.\n\n\u201cWe planned to see you when Jack, here, arrived,\u201d said Butler\nexpansively when we were seated, a tray of gin and ice and tonic water\nset before us by a waiter who was used now to American ways. \u201cBut you\nhad the sign on your door so I told Jack we\u2019d better wait, till Mr\nHudson is feeling better. You _are_ okay now, aren\u2019t you?\u201d\n\n\u201cSomewhat better,\u201d I said, enjoying the British gin: I\u2019d had none since\nI left Cairo. \u201cAt my age one is either dead or all right. I seem not to\nbe dead.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow I envy you!\u201d said Jessup solemnly. His voice though high was\nstrong.\n\n\u201cEnvy me?\u201d For a moment I did not quite understand.\n\n\u201cTo be so near the blessed state! Not to see the sun again and feel the\nbody quivering with corrupt life ... oh, what I should give to be as\nold as you!\u201d\n\n\u201cYou could always commit suicide,\u201d I said irritably, forgetting my role\nas an amiable soft-headed old cretin.\n\nThis stopped him for only the space of a single surprised breath.\n\u201cCavesway is not possible for his servants,\u201d he said at last,\npatiently. \u201cYou have not perhaps followed his logic as carefully as you\nmight had you been living in the civilized world.\u201d He looked at me with\nhis bright dark eyes inscrutably focused.\n\nWhy are you here? I wanted to ask furiously, _finally_, but I only\nnodded my head meekly and said, \u201cSo much has changed since I came out\nhere. I do recall, though, that Cavesway was considered desirable for\nall.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is ... but not for his servants who must, through living, sacrifice\ntheir comfort ... it is our humiliation, our martyrdom in his behalf.\nEven the humblest man or woman can avail themselves of Cavesway\nunlike us, his servants, who must live, disgusting as the prospect\nis, made bearable only by the knowledge that we are doing his work,\ncommunicating his word.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat courage it must take to give up Cavesway!\u201d I intoned with\nreverent awe.\n\n\u201cIt is the least we can do for him.\u201d\n\nThe bright sun resembled that red-gold disk which sits on the brow of\nHorus. A hot wind of Numidia stirred the dry foliage about us. I could\nsmell the metallic odor of the Nile\u2019s water. A muezzin called, high and\ntoneless in the evening.\n\n\u201cBefore I slip off into the better state,\u201d I said at last, emboldened\nby gin, \u201cI should like to know as much as possible about the new world\nthe Cavites have made. I left the United States shortly after Cave took\nhis way. I have never been back.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow soon after?\u201d The question came too fast. I gripped the arms of my\nchair tightly.\n\n\u201cTwo years after, I think,\u201d I said. \u201cI came to Cairo for the digging\nout in El Abul.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow could you have missed those exciting years?\u201d Jessup\u2019s voice became\nzealous. I remained on guard. \u201cI was not even born then ... and I\u2019ve\nalways cursed my bad luck. I used to go about talking to complete\nstrangers who had been alive in those great years. Of course most were\nlaymen and knew little about the things I had studied but they could\ntell me how the sky looked the day he took his way. And, every now and\nthen, it was possible to meet someone who had seen him.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot many laymen ever saw him,\u201d I said. \u201cI remember with what secrecy\nall his movements were enveloped. I was in New York much of the time\nwhen he was there.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn New York!\u201d Jessup sighed voluptuously.\n\n\u201cYou saw him too, didn\u2019t you, Mr Hudson?\u201d Butler was obviously eager\nthat I make a good impression.\n\n\u201cOh yes, I saw him the day he was in Washington. One of his few public\nappearances! I was very devout in those days. I am now too, of course,\u201d\nI added hastily. \u201cBut in those days when it was all new one was, well,\nexalted by Cavesword. I made a special trip to Washington just to\nget a glimpse of him.\u201d I played as resolutely as possible upon their\npassionate faith.\n\n\u201cDid you really see him?\u201d\n\nI shook my head sadly. \u201cOnly a quick blur as he drove away. The crowd\nwas too big and the police were all around him.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have of course relived that moment in the library, watching the\nfilms, but actually to have been there that day....\u201d Jessup\u2019s voice\ntrailed off as he contemplated the extent of my good fortune.\n\n\u201cThen afterwards, after his death, I left for Egypt and I\u2019ve never been\nback.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou missed great days.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m sure of that. Yet I feel the best days were before, when I was in\nNew York and each week there would be a new revelation of his wisdom.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are quite right,\u201d said Jessup, pouring himself more gin. \u201cYours\nwas the finer time even though those of us who feel drawn to the mother\nmust declare that later days possessed some virtue too, on her account.\u201d\n\n\u201cMother?\u201d I knew of course before he answered what had happened.\n\n\u201cAs Cave was the father of our knowledge, so Iris is its mother,\u201d said\nJessup. He looked at Butler with a half-smile. \u201cOf course there are\nsome, the majority in fact, of the Communicators who deprecate our\nallegiance to the mother, not realizing that it enhances rather than\ndetracts from Cave. After all, the Word and the Way are entirely his.\u201d\n\nButler chuckled. \u201cThere\u2019s been a little family dispute,\u201d he said.\n\u201cWe keep it out of the press because it really isn\u2019t the concern of\nanybody but us, Cave\u2019s servants. Don\u2019t mind talking to you about it\nsince you\u2019ll be dead soon anyway and up here we\u2019re all in the same\nboat, all Cavites. Anyway, some of the younger fellows, the bright ones\nlike Jessup, have got attached to Iris ... not that we don\u2019t all love\nher equally. It\u2019s just that they\u2019ve got in the habit of talking about\ndeath being the womb again, all that kind of stuff without any real\nbasis in Cave.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt runs all through his work, Bill. It\u2019s implicit in all that he\nsaid.\u201d Jessup was amiable but I sensed a hardness in his tone. It had\ncome to this, I thought.\n\n\u201cWell, we won\u2019t argue about it,\u201d said Butler, turning to me with a\nsmile. \u201cYou should see what these Irisians can do with a Cavite text.\nBy the time they finish you don\u2019t know whether you\u2019re coming or going.\u201d\n\n\u201cWere you at all active in the Mission?\u201d asked Jessup, abruptly\nchanging the subject.\n\nI shook my head. \u201cI was one of the early admirers of Cave but I\u2019m\nafraid I had very little contact with any of his people. I tried once\nor twice to get in to see him ... when they were in the yellow tower,\nbut it was impossible. Only the Residents and people like that ever got\nto see him personally.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe was busy those days,\u201d said Jessup, nodding. \u201cHe must have dictated\nnearly two million words in the last three years of his life.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou think he wrote all those books and dialogues himself?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course he did.\u201d Jessup sounded surprised. \u201cHaven\u2019t you read Iris\u2019s\naccounts of the way he worked? The way he would dictate for hours at a\ntime, oblivious of everything but Cavesword.\u201d\n\n\u201cI suppose I missed all that,\u201d I mumbled. \u201cIn those days it was always\nassumed that he had a staff who did the work for him.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe lutherists,\u201d said Jessup, nodding. \u201cThey were extremely subtle in\ntheir methods but of course they couldn\u2019t distort the truth for very\nlong....\u201d\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d said Butler. \u201cMr Hudson asked me the other day if I knew what\nthe word lutherist came from and I said I didn\u2019t know. I must have\nforgotten for I have a feeling it _was_ taught us, back in the old days\nwhen we primitives were turned out, before you bright young fellows\ncame along to show us how to do Caveswork.\u201d\n\nJessup smiled. \u201cWe\u2019re not that bumptious,\u201d he said. \u201cAs for lutherist,\nit\u2019s a word based on the name of one of the first followers of Cave.\nI don\u2019t know his other name or even much about him. All that I know\nI\u2019ve been told ... as far as I remember, the episode was never even\nrecorded. Much too disagreeable ... and of course we don\u2019t like to\ndwell on our failures.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wonder what it was that he did,\u201d I asked, my voice trembling despite\nall efforts to control it.\n\n\u201cHe was a nonconformist of some kind. He quarreled with Iris, they say.\u201d\n\n\u201cWonder what happened to him?\u201d asked Butler. \u201cDid they send him through\nindoctrination?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, as far as I know.\u201d Jessup paused. When he spoke again his voice\nwas thoughtful. \u201cAccording to the story I heard ... legend really ...\nhe disappeared. They never found him and though we\u2019ve wisely removed\nall record of him, his name is still used to describe our failures:\nthose among us, that is, who refuse Cavesword without indoctrination.\nSomewhere, they say, he is living, in hiding, waiting to undo\nCaveswork. As Cave was the anti-Christ so he, or rather another like\nhim, will attempt to destroy us.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot much chance of that.\u201d Butler\u2019s voice was confident. \u201cAnyway, if he\nwas a contemporary of Cave he must be dead by now.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot necessarily. After all Mr Hudson was a contemporary and _he_\nis still alive.\u201d Jessup looked at me then; his eyes, in a burst of\nobsidian light, caught the sun\u2019s last rays. I think he knows.\n\n\n                                   4\n\nThere\u2019s not much time left and I must proceed as swiftly as possible to\nthe death of Cave and my own exile.\n\nThe year of Cave\u2019s death was not only a year of triumph but one of\nterror as well. The counteroffensive reached its peak in those busy\nmonths, and we were all in danger of our lives.\n\nIn the South, groups of Baptists stormed the new Centers, demolishing\nthem and killing, in several instances, the Residents. Despite our\nprotests and threats of reprisal, many state governments refused to\nprotect the Cavite Centers and Paul was forced to enlist a small army\nto defend our establishments in those areas which were still dominated\nby the old religions. Several attempts were made to destroy our New\nYork headquarters; fortunately, they were all apprehended before any\ndamage could be done though one fanatic, a Catholic, got as far as\nPaul\u2019s office where he threw a grenade into a waste-basket, killing\nhimself and slightly scratching Paul who had, in his usual fashion,\nbeen traveling nervously about the room, getting out of range at the\nproper moment.\n\nThe election of a Cavite-dominated Congress eased things for us\nconsiderably, though it made our enemies all the more desperate.\n\nPaul fought back. Bishop Winston, the most eloquent of the Christian\nprelates and the most dangerous to us, had died, giving rise to the\nrumor, soon afterwards confirmed by Cavite authority to be a fact, that\nhe had killed himself and that, therefore, he had finally renounced\nChrist and taken to himself Cavesword.\n\nMany of the clergy of the Protestant sects, aware that their\nparishioners and authority were falling away, became, quietly, without\ngloating on our part, Cavite Residents and Communicators.\n\nThe bloodiest persecutions, however, did not occur in North America.\nThe Latin countries, the seat of the old Catholic power which was\nitself the shadow of the Roman Empire, provided the world with a series\nof massacres remarkable even in that murderous century. Yet it was a\nfact that in the year of Cave\u2019s death, Italy was half-Cavite while\nFrance, England and Germany were nearly all Cavite while only Spain\nand parts of Latin America held out, imprisoning, executing, deporting\nCavites against the inevitable day when our Communicators, undismayed,\nproud in their martyrdom, would succeed in their assaults upon these\nlast citadels of paganism.\n\nOn a hot day in August, our third and last autumn in the yellow tower,\nwe dined on the terrace of Cave\u2019s penthouse overlooking the city. The\nbright sky shuddered with heat.\n\nClarissa, who had just come from abroad where she had been enjoying\nseveral seasons under the guise of an official tour of reconnaissance,\nwas entirely the guest of honor. She sat wearing a large picture hat\nbeneath the striped awning which sheltered our glass-topped table\nfrom the sun\u2019s rays. Cave insisted on eating out-of-doors as often as\npossible even though the rest of us preferred the cool interior where\nwe were not disturbed by either heat or by the clouds of soot which\nfloated above the imperial city, impartially lighting upon all who\nventured out into the open.\n\nIt was our first \u201cfamily dinner\u201d in some months (Paul insisted on\nregarding us as a family and the metaphors which he derived from this\none conceit used even to irritate the imperturbable Cave). At one end\nof the table sat Clarissa, with Paul and me on either side of her; at\nthe other end sat Cave, with Iris and Stokharin on either side of him;\nIris was on his left and on my right and, early in the dinner, when the\nconversation was particular, we talked.\n\n\u201cI suppose we\u2019ll be leaving soon,\u201d she said. A sea gull missed the\nawning by inches.\n\n\u201cI haven\u2019t heard anything about it. Who\u2019s leaving ... and why?\u201d\n\n\u201cJohn thinks we\u2019ve all been here too long; he thinks we\u2019re too remote.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s quite right about that.\u201d I blew soot off my plate. \u201cBut where are\nwe to go? After all, there\u2019s a good chance that if any of us shows his\nhead to the grateful populace someone is apt to blow it off.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s a risk we have to take. But John is right. We must get out\nand see the people ... talk to them direct.\u201d Her voice was urgent.\nI looked at her thoughtfully, seeing the change that three years of\nextraordinary activity had wrought: she was overweight and her face,\nas sometimes happens in the first access of weight, was smooth, without\nlines, younger-looking but also without much character or expression\n... I kept thinking irrelevantly of a marshmallow for, in the light of\nday, her casually made-up face did resemble a pale smoothly powdered\nconfection. Her wonderful sharpness, her old fineness was entirely gone\nand the new Iris, the busy, efficient Iris had become like ... like ...\nI groped for the comparison, the memory of someone similar I had known\nin the past, but the ghost did not materialize; and so haunted, faintly\ndistrait, I talked to the new Iris I did not really know, to the\nvisible half of a like-pair whose twin was lost somewhere in my memory.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll be only too happy to leave,\u201d I said, helping myself to the salad\nwhich was being served us by one or the Eurasian servants Paul, in an\nexotic mood, had engaged to look after the penthouse and the person of\nCave. \u201cI don\u2019t think I\u2019ve been away from here half a dozen times in two\nyears.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s been awfully hard,\u201d Iris agreed. Her eyes shifted regularly to\nCave, like an anxious parent. \u201cOf course I\u2019ve had more chance than\nanyone to get out but I haven\u2019t seen nearly as much as I ought. It\u2019s my\njob, really, to look at all the Centers, to supervise in person all the\nschools but of course I can\u2019t if Paul insists on turning every trip I\ntake into a kind of pageant.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s for your own protection.\u201d\n\n\u201cI think we\u2019re much safer than Paul thinks. The country\u2019s almost\nentirely Cavite.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll the more reason to be careful. The die-hards are on their last\nlegs; they\u2019re maniacal, some of them.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, we must take our chances. John says he won\u2019t stay here another\nautumn. September is his best month, you know. I think he\u2019s a little\nsuperstitious about it: it was September when he first spoke Cavesword.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat does Paul say?\u201d I looked down the table at our ringmaster who was\ntelling Clarissa what she had seen in Europe.\n\nIris frowned. \u201cHe\u2019s doing everything he can to keep us here ... I\ncan\u2019t think why. John\u2019s greatest work has been done face to face with\npeople yet Paul acts as if he didn\u2019t dare let him out in public. We\nhave quarreled about this for over a year. Paul and I.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s quite right. I know. I\u2019d be nervous to go about in public without\nsome sort of protection. You should see the murderous letters I get at\nthe _Journal_.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe\u2019ve nothing to fear,\u201d said Iris flatly. \u201cAnd we have everything to\ngain by mixing with people. We could easily grow out of touch, marooned\nin this tower.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, it\u2019s not that bad.\u201d To my surprise, I found myself defending\nour monastic life. \u201cEveryone comes here. Cave speaks to groups of\nthe faithful every day. I sit like some disheveled hen over a large\nnewspaper and I couldn\u2019t be more instructed, more engaged in life,\nwhile you dash around the country almost as much as Paul does.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut only seeing the Centers, only meeting the Cavites. I have no other\nlife any more.\u201d I looked at her curiously. There was no bitterness in\nher voice yet there was a certain wistfulness which I\u2019d never noticed\nbefore.\n\n\u201cDo you regret all this, Iris?\u201d I asked. It had been some time, three\nyears, since I had spoken to her of ourselves, of personal matters: we\nhad become, in a sense, the offices which we held; our symbolic selves\nparalyzing all else within, true precedent achieved at a great cost.\nNow a fissure had suddenly appeared in that monument which Iris had\nbecome and, through the flaw, I heard again, briefly, the voice of the\ngirl I had met on the bank of the Hudson in the spring of a lost year.\n\n\u201cI never knew it would be like this,\u201d she said, almost whispering, her\neyes on Cave while she spoke to me. \u201cI never thought my life would be\nas alone as this, all work.\u201d\n\n\u201cYet you wanted it: you _do_ want it. Direction, meaning, you wanted\nall that and now you have it. The magic worked, Iris. Your magician was\nreal.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I sometimes wonder if _I_ am real anymore.\u201d The words, though\nsoftly spoken, fell upon my ear like rounded stones, smooth and hard.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s too late,\u201d I said, mercilessly. \u201cYou are what you wanted to be.\nLive it out, Iris. There is nothing else.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re dead too,\u201d she said at last, her voice regaining its usual\nauthority.\n\n\u201cSpeaking of dead,\u201d said Cave suddenly turning toward us (I hoped he\nhad not heard all our conversation), \u201cStokharin here has come up with a\nwonderful scheme.\u201d\n\nEven Clarissa fell silent. We all did whenever Cave spoke which was\nseldom on social occasions. Cave looked cheerfully about the table for\na moment. Stokharin beamed with pleasure at the accolade.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ve probably all heard about the suicides as a result of\nCavesword.\u201d Cave had very early got into the habit of speaking of\nhimself in the third person whenever a point or doctrine was involved.\n\u201cPaul\u2019s been collecting the monthly figures and each month they double.\nOf course they\u2019re not accurate since there are a good many deaths due\nto Cavesword which we don\u2019t hear about. Anyway, Stokharin has perfected\na painless death by poison, a new compound which kills within an hour\nand is delightful to take.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have combined certain narcotics which together insure a highly\nexhilarated state before the end, as well as most pleasant fantasies.\u201d\nStokharin smiled complacently.\n\nCave nodded and continued. \u201cI\u2019ve already worked out some of the\npractical details for putting this into action. There are still a\nlot of wrinkles, but we can iron them out in time. One of the big\nproblems of present-day _unorganized_ suicide is the mess it causes\nfor the people unfortunate enough to be left behind. There are legal\ncomplications; there is occasionally grief in old-fashioned family\ngroups; there is also a general disturbance which, though only social,\nstill tends to leave a bad taste, giving suicide, at least among the\nreactionaries, a bad name.\n\n\u201cOur plan is simple. We will provide at each Center full faculties\nfor those who have listened to Cavesword and have responded to it by\ntaking the better way. There will be a number of comfortable rooms\nwhere the suicidalist may receive his friends for a last visit. We\u2019ll\nprovide legal assistance to put his affairs in order. Not everyone of\ncourse will be worthy of us. Those who choose death merely to evade\nresponsibility will be censured and restrained. But the deserving,\nthose whose lives have been devoted and orderly, may come to us and\nreceive the gift.\u201d\n\nI was appalled; before I could control myself I had said: \u201cBut the law!\nYou just can\u2019t let people kill themselves....\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy not?\u201d Cave looked at me coldly and I saw, in the eyes of the\nothers, concern and hostility. I had anticipated something like this\never since my talk with Paul but I had not thought it would come so\nswiftly or so boldly.\n\nPaul spoke for Cave. \u201cWe\u2019ve got the Congress and the Congress will make\na law for us. For the time being, though, it _is_ against the present\nstatutes; however, we\u2019ve been assured by our lawyers that there isn\u2019t\nmuch chance of their being invoked except perhaps in the remaining\npockets of Christianity where we\u2019ll go slow until we do have the\nnecessary laws to protect us.\u201d\n\nAt that moment the line which had, from the very beginning, been\nvisibly drawn between me and them, became a wall apparent to everyone.\nEven Clarissa, my usual ally, fearless and sharp, did not speak out.\nThey looked at me, all of them awaiting a sign; even Cave regarded me\nwith curiosity.\n\nMy hand shook and I was forced to seize the edge of the table to steady\nmyself. The sensation of cold glass and iron gave me a sudden courage.\nI brought Cave\u2019s life to its end.\n\nI turned to him and said, quietly, with all the firmness I could\nsummon: \u201cThen you\u2019ll have to die as well as they, and soon.\u201d\n\nThere was a shocked silence. Iris shut her eyes. Paul gasped and sat\nback abruptly in his chair. Cave turned white but he did not flinch.\nHis eyes did not waver. They seized on mine, terrible and remote, full\nof power; with an effort, I looked past him. I still feared his gaze.\n\n\u201cWhat did you say?\u201d The voice was curiously mild yet it increased\nrather than diminished the tension. We had reached the crisis, without\na plan.\n\n\u201cYou have removed the fear of death for which future generations will\nthank you, as I do. But you have gone too far ... all of you.\u201d I looked\nabout me at the pale faces; a faint wisp of new moon curled in the pale\nsky above. \u201cLife is to be lived until the flesh no longer supports the\nlife within. The meaning of life, Cave, is more life, not death. The\nenemy of life is death, an enemy not to be feared but no less hostile\nfor all that, no less dangerous, no less wrong when the living choose\nit instead of life, either for themselves or for others. You\u2019ve been\nable to dispel our fear of the common adversary; that was your great\nwork in the world ... now you want to go further, to make love to this\nenemy we no longer fear, to mate with death ... and it is here that\nyou, all of you, become the enemies of life.\u201d\n\n\u201cStop it!\u201d Iris\u2019s voice was high and clear. I did not look at her. All\nthat I could do now was to force the climax.\n\n\u201cBut sooner or later every act of human folly creates its own\nopposition. This will too, more soon than late, for if one can make any\ngenerality about human beings it is that they want _not_ to die. You\ncannot stampede them into death for long. They are enthusiastic now.\nThey may not be soon ... unless of course there is some supreme example\nbefore them, one which you, Cave, can alone supply. _You_ will have to\ndie by your own hand to show the virtue and the truth of all that you\nhave said.\u201d\n\nI had gone as far as I could. I glanced at Iris while I spoke; she had\ngrown white and old-looking and, while I watched her, I realized whom\nit was she resembled, the obscure nagging memory which had disturbed\nme all through dinner: she was like my mother, a woman long dead, one\nwhose gentle blurred features had been strikingly similar to that\nfrightened face which now stared at me as though I were a murderer.\n\nPaul was the one who answered me. \u201cYou\u2019re out of your mind, Gene,\u201d he\nsaid, when my meaning had at least penetrated to them all. \u201cIt doesn\u2019t\nfollow in the least that Cave must die because others want to. The main\nwork is still ahead of him. This country is only a corner of the world.\nThere\u2019s some of Europe and most of Asia and Africa still ahead of us.\nHow can you even suggest he quit now and die?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe work will be done whether he lives or not, as you certainly know.\nHe\u2019s given it the first impetus. The rest is up to the others, to the\nambitious, the inspired ... we\u2019ve met enough of _them_ these last few\nyears: they\u2019re quite capable of finishing the work without us.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut it\u2019s nothing without Cave.\u201d\n\nI shrugged. I was suddenly relieved as the restraint of three furious\nyears went in a rush. \u201cI am as devoted to Cave as anyone,\u201d I said (and\nI was, I think, honest). \u201cI don\u2019t want him to die but all of you in\nyour madness have made it impossible for him to live. He\u2019s gone now to\nthe limit, to the last boundary: he is the son of death and each of you\nsupports him. I don\u2019t, for it was only my wish to make life better, not\ndeath desirable. I never really believed it would come to this: that\nyou, Cave, would speak out for death, against life.\u201d I raised my eyes\nto his. To my astonishment he had lowered his lids as though to hide\nfrom me, to shut me out. His head was shaking oddly from left to right\nand his lips were pressed tight together.\n\nI struck again, without mercy. \u201cBut don\u2019t stop now. You\u2019ve got your\nwish. By all means, build palaces if you like for those who choose to\ndie in your name. But remember that you will be their victim, too. The\nvictim of their passionate trust. They will force you to lead the way\nand _you_ must be death\u2019s lover, Cave.\u201d\n\nHe opened his eyes and I was shocked to see them full of tears. \u201cI\u2019m\nnot afraid,\u201d he said.\n\n\n\n\n                                 NINE\n\n\n                                   1\n\nA few days after our disastrous dinner, Clarissa came to me in my\noffice. It was our first real meeting since her return from Europe. It\nwas also my first meeting with any one of the directors for, since the\nscene on the penthouse terrace, none had come near me, not even Paul\nwhom I usually saw at least once a day.\n\nClarissa seemed tired but fashionable in summer lace. She sat\ndown heavily in the chair beside my desk and looked at me oddly.\n\u201cRecriminations?\u201d I asked cheerfully: the recent outburst had restored\nme to perfect health and equanimity. I was prepared for anything,\nespecially battle.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re an absolute fool and you know it,\u201d she said at last. \u201cI suppose\nthere are wires in here, recording everything we say.\u201d\n\n\u201cI shouldn\u2019t be surprised. Fortunately, I have no secrets.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s no doubt of that,\u201d she glared at me. \u201cThere was no need to\nrush things.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou mean you anticipated this?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat else? Where else could it lead? The same thing happened to\nChrist, you know. They kept pushing him to claim the kingdom. Finally,\nthey pushed too hard and he was killed. It was the killing which\nperpetuated the legend.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd a number of other things.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn any case, it\u2019s all gone too far. Also, I don\u2019t think you even begin\nto see what you\u2019ve done.\u201d\n\n\u201cDone? I\u2019ve merely brought the whole thing into the open ... as well\nas put myself on record as being opposed to this ... this passion for\ndeath.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat of course is nonsense. Just because a few nitwits....\u201d\n\n\u201cA few? Have you seen the statistics? Every month there are a few\nhundred more and as soon as Stokharin gets his damned roadhouses for\nwould-be suicides going we may find that....\u201d\n\n\u201cI always assumed Paul made up the statistics. But even if they _are_\ntrue, even if a few hundred thousand people decide to slip away every\nyear, I am in favor of it. There are too many people as it is and most\nof them aren\u2019t worth the room they take up. I suspect all this is\njust one of nature\u2019s little devices to reduce the population ... like\npederasty on those Greek islands.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re outrageous.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m perfectly rational which is more than I can say for you. Anyway,\nthe reason I\u2019ve come to see you today is, first, to warn you and,\nsecond, to say good-by.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood-by? You\u2019re not....\u201d\n\n\u201cGoing to kill myself?\u201d she laughed. \u201cNot in a hundred years ... though\nI must say lately I\u2019ve begun to feel old. No, I\u2019m going away. I\u2019ve told\nPaul that I\u2019ve had my fun, that you\u2019re all on your own and that I want\nno part of what\u2019s to come.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere will you go?\u201d\n\n\u201cWho knows? Now for the warning: Paul of course is furious at you and\nso is Iris.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerfectly understandable. What did he say?\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing good. I talked to him this morning. I won\u2019t enrage you by\nrepeating all the expletives; it\u2019s enough to say he\u2019s eager to get you\nout of the way. He feels you\u2019ve been a malcontent all along.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe\u2019ll have trouble getting me to take Stokharin\u2019s magic pill.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe may not leave it up to you,\u201d said Clarissa significantly, and,\ninadvertently, I shuddered. I had of course wondered if they would dare\ngo so far. I had doubted it but the matter-of-fact Clarissa enlightened\nme. \u201cWatch out for him, especially if he becomes friendly. You must\nremember that with the country Cavite and with Paul in charge of the\norganization you haven\u2019t much chance.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll take what I have.\u201d\n\nClarissa looked at me without, I could see, much hope; it was\ndisagreeable. \u201cWhat you don\u2019t know, and this is my last good deed for\nin a sense I\u2019m responsible for getting you into this, is that you\naccidentally gave the game away.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d\n\n\u201cI mean that Paul has been planning for over a year to do away with\nCave. He feels that Cave\u2019s usefulness is over; he\u2019s also uneasy\nabout letting him loose in the world. Paul wants full control of the\nestablishment and he can\u2019t have it while Cave lives. Paul also realizes\n... he\u2019s much cleverer than you\u2019ve ever thought, by the way ... that\nthe Cavites need a symbol, some great sacrifice and obviously Cave\u2019s\nsuicide is the answer. It is Paul\u2019s intention either to get Cave to\nkill himself or else to do it for him and then announce that Cave, of\nhis own free will, chose to die.\u201d\n\nI had the brief sensation of a man drowning. \u201cHow do you know all this?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have two eyes; also, Iris told me.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe knows too?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course she knows! Why else do you think she\u2019s so anxious to get\nCave away from this place? She knows Paul can have him killed at any\ntime and no one would be the wiser.\u201d\n\nI grunted with amazement: I understood now what it was that had\nhappened on the terrace. I felt a perfect fool. Of them all I alone had\nbeen unaware of what was going on beneath the surface and, in my folly,\nI had detonated the situation without knowing it. \u201c_He_ knows too?\u201d I\nasked weakly.\n\n\u201cOf course he does; he\u2019s on his guard every minute against Paul.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy has no one ever told me this?\u201d\n\nClarissa shrugged. \u201cThey had no idea which side you\u2019d take. They still\ndon\u2019t know. Paul believes that you are with him and though he curses\nyou for an impetuous fool, he\u2019s decided that perhaps it\u2019s a good idea\nnow to bring all this into the open, at least among ourselves. He hopes\nfor a majority vote in the directors\u2019 meeting to force Cave to kill\nhimself.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd Cave?\u201d\n\n\u201cHas no wish to die ... sensible man.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am a fool.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat I\u2019ve always told you, dear.\u201d Clarissa smiled at me. \u201cI will say,\nthough, that you are the only one of the lot who has acted for an\nimpersonal reason, and certainly none of them understands you except\nme. I am on your side, in a way. Voluntary deaths don\u2019t alarm me the\nway they do you but this obsession which Cave has of death being\npreferable to life may have ghastly consequences.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat can I do?\u201d\n\n\u201cI haven\u2019t the faintest idea. It\u2019s enough that you were warned in\nadvance.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat would _you_ do?\u201d\n\n\u201cExactly what I\u2019m going to do: pull out for good and take a long trip.\u201d\n\n\u201cI mean if you were I.\u201d\n\nShe sighed. \u201cSave your life, if possible; that\u2019s all you can do.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have a few weapons, you know. I have the _Journal_ and I\u2019m a\ndirector. I have friends in every Center.\u201d This was almost true. I had\nmade a point of knowing as many Residents as possible. \u201cI also have\nIris and Cave on my side since I\u2019m willing to do all I can to keep him\nalive, that he _not_ become a supreme symbol.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wish you luck,\u201d Clarissa was most cynical. She rose. \u201cNow that I\u2019ve\ndone my bit of informing, I\u2019m off.\u201d\n\n\u201cEurope?\u201d\n\n\u201cNone of your business. But I _will_ tell you I won\u2019t go back there:\nthey\u2019ve gone quite mad too. In Madrid I pretended to be a Catholic\nand I watched them put Cavites up before firing squads. Of course our\npeople, despite persecution, are having a wonderfully _exciting_ time\nwith passwords and peculiar college fraternity handclasps and so on.\u201d\nShe collected her gloves and handbag from the floor where, as usual,\nshe had strewn them. \u201cWell, now good-by.\u201d She gave me a kiss; then she\nwas gone. I never saw her again.\n\n\n                                   2\n\nEvents moved rapidly. I took to bolting my bedroom door at night and,\nduring the day, I was careful always to have one or another of my\nassistants near me. It was a strange sensation to be living in a modern\ncity with all its police and courts and yet to fear that, in a crisis,\nthere would be no succor, no one to turn to for aid and protection. We\nwere a separate government within the nation and the laws did not reach\nus.\n\nThe day after Clarissa had said good-by, Paul appeared in my office.\nI was surrounded by editors but at a look from him and a gesture from\nme they withdrew. We had each kept our secret, evidently, for none of\nthose close to us in that building suspected that there had been a\nfatal division.\n\n\u201cI seem to be in disgrace,\u201d I said, my forefinger delicately caressing\nthe buzzer which I had built into the arm of my chair so that I might\nsummon aid in the event that a visitor proved to be either a bore or a\nmaniac, two types curiously drawn to enterprises such as ours.\n\n\u201cI wouldn\u2019t say that.\u201d Paul sat in a chair close to my own; I recall\nthinking, a little madly, that elephants are supposed to be at their\nmost dangerous when they are quite still. Paul was noticeably\ncontrolled. Usually he managed to cross the room at least once for\nevery full sentence; now he sat looking at me, his face without\nexpression.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve seen no one since our dinner except Clarissa,\u201d I explained; then\nI added, earnestly: \u201cI wonder where she plans to go. She didn\u2019t....\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ve almost wrecked everything,\u201d he said, his voice tight,\nunfamiliar in its tension.\n\n\u201cI didn\u2019t want to,\u201d I said, inaccurately. I was at the moment more\nterrified than I\u2019d ever been, either before or since. I could get no\nreal grip on him: the surface he presented me was as formidable, as\ngranitic as a prison wall.\n\n\u201cWho told you? Iris? Cave? or were you spying?\u201d Each question was fired\nat me like a bullet.\n\n\u201cSpying on whom?\u201d\n\n\u201cOn me, damn you!\u201d Then it broke. The taut line of control which had\nheld in check his anger and his fear broke all at once and the torrent\nflowed, reckless and overpowering: \u201cYou meddling idiot! You spied\non me; you found out; you thought you\u2019d be able to stall things by\nspringing it like that. Well, you failed.\u201d I recall thinking, quite\ncalmly, how much I preferred his face in the congested ugliness of rage\nto its ordinary banality of expression. I was relieved, too, by the\nstorm. I could handle him when he was out of control. I considered my\ncounteroffensive while he shouted at me, accused me of hostility to\nhim, of deviationism from Cavesword and of numerous other crimes. He\nstopped, finally, for lack of breath.\n\n\u201cI gather,\u201d I said, my voice shaking a little from excitement, \u201cthat\nat some point recently you decided that Cave should apply Cavesword to\nhimself and die, providing us with a splendid example, an undying (I\nmean no pun) symbol.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou know you found out and decided to get in on the act, to force my\nhand. Now he\u2019ll never do it.\u201d\n\nThat was it then. I was relieved to be no longer in the dark. \u201cCave has\nrefused to kill himself?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou bet your sweet life he has.\u201d Paul was beginning to recover his\nusual poise. \u201cYour little scene gave him the excuse he needed: 'Gene\u2019s\nright.\u2019\u201d Paul imitated Cave\u2019s voice with startling accuracy and malice.\n\u201c'Gene\u2019s right. I never did mean for everybody to kill themselves off\n... where\u2019d the world be if _that_ happened? Just a few people. That\u2019s\nall.\u2019 And he\u2019s damned if he\u2019s going to be one of them. 'Hate to set\nthat sort of example.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, you\u2019ll have to try something else then.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy did you do it?\u201d Paul\u2019s voice became petulant. \u201cDid Iris put you up\nto it?\u201d\n\n\u201cNobody put me up to it.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou mean to sit there and try to make me believe that it just occurred\nto you, like that, to suggest Cave would have to kill himself if he\nencouraged suicide?\u201d\n\n\u201cI mean that it occurred to me exactly like that.\u201d I looked at\nPaul with vivid loathing. \u201cCan\u2019t you understand even the obvious\nrelationship between cause and effect? With this plan of Stokharin\u2019s\nyou\u2019ll make it impossible for Cave _not_ to commit suicide and, when\nhe does, you will have an international death cult which I shall do my\nbest to combat.\u201d\n\nPaul\u2019s hands began nervously to play with his tie, his lapels: I\nwondered if he\u2019d come armed. I placed my finger lightly upon the\nbuzzer. Implacably, we faced one another.\n\n\u201cYou are not truly Cavesword\u201d was all that he said.\n\n\u201cWe won\u2019t argue about that. I\u2019m merely explaining to you why I said\nwhat I did and why I intend to keep Cave alive as long as possible.\nAlive and hostile to you, to your peculiar interpretation of his word.\u201d\n\nPaul looked suddenly disconsolate. \u201cI\u2019ve done what I thought best. I\nfeel Cave should show us all the way. I feel it\u2019s both logical and\nnecessary to the Establishment that he give back his life publicly.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut he doesn\u2019t want to.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is the part I can\u2019t understand. Cavesword is that death is not\nto be feared but embraced yet he, the man who has really changed the\nworld, refuses to die.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps he feels he has more work to do. More places to see. Perhaps,\nPaul, he doesn\u2019t trust you ... doesn\u2019t want to leave you in control of\nthe Establishment.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m willing to get out if that\u2019s all that\u2019s stopping him.\u201d But the\ninsincerity of this protestation was too apparent for either of us to\ncontemplate for long.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t care what his motives are. I don\u2019t care if he himself is\nterrified of dying (and I have a hunch that that is the real reason for\nhis hesitancy) but I _do_ know that I don\u2019t want him dead by his own\nhand.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re quite sure of that?\u201d\n\n\u201cAbsolutely sure. I\u2019m a director of the Establishment and don\u2019t forget\nit, Paul: it\u2019s Iris, Cave and I against you and Stokharin. You may\ncontrol the organization but we have Cave himself.\u201d I gathered courage\nin my desperation. I purposely sounded as though I were in warm concert\nwith the others.\n\n\u201cI realize all that.\u201d Paul was suddenly meek, conciliatory, sublimely\ntreacherous. \u201cBut you must allow me as much sincerity as you withhold\nfor yourself. I want to do what\u2019s best. I think he should die and I\u2019ve\ndone everything to persuade him. He was near agreement when you upset\neverything.\u201d\n\n\u201cFor which I\u2019m happy ... though it was something of an accident. Are\nyou sure that it is only for the sake of Cavesword you want him dead?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat other possible reason?\u201d He looked at me indignantly. I could not\nbe sure whether he was telling the truth or not. I doubted it.\n\n\u201cMany other reasons. For one thing you would be his heir, in complete\ncontrol of the Establishment; and that of course is something worth\ninheriting.\u201d\n\nPaul shrugged convincingly. \u201cI\u2019m as much in charge now as I would\nbe with him dead,\u201d he said with a certain truth. \u201cI\u2019m interested in\nCavesword, not in Cave. If his death enhances and establishes the Word\nmore securely then I must do all I can to convince him to take that\ncourse.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is another way,\u201d I said, smiling at the pleasant thought.\n\n\u201cAnother way?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo convince us of your dedication and sincerity to Cavesword.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou kill _yourself_, Paul.\u201d\n\nThere was a long silence. I pressed the buzzer and my secretary came\nin. Without a word, Paul left.\n\nImmediately afterwards, I took the private elevator to Cave\u2019s\npenthouse. Two guards stopped me while I was announced by a third.\nAfter a short delay, I was admitted to Cave\u2019s study, but not to Cave;\ninstead, Iris received me.\n\n\u201cI know what\u2019s happening,\u201d I said. \u201cWhere is he?\u201d\n\n\u201cObviously you do.\u201d Her voice was cold. She did not ask me to sit down.\nAwkwardly, I faced her at the room\u2019s center.\n\n\u201cWe must stop him.\u201d\n\n\u201cJohn? Stop him from what?\u201d\n\n\u201cDoing what Paul wants him to do.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what you want as well.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re mistaken. I thought I made myself clear the other night. But\nthough my timing was apparently bad, under _no_ circumstances do I want\nhim to die.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou made your speech to force him.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd Paul thinks I made it to stop him.\u201d I couldn\u2019t help smiling. \u201cI\nam, it seems, everyone\u2019s enemy.\u201d\n\n\u201cPaul has told me everything. How you and he and Stokharin all decided,\nwithout consulting us, that John should die.\u201d\n\nI was astonished at Paul\u2019s boldness. Could he really be moving so\nswiftly? How else explain such a prodigious lie? I told her quickly,\nurgently what I felt, what I had said to Paul and he to me. She heard\nme to the end without expressing either belief or disbelief. When I\u2019d\nfinished she turned away from me and went to the window where, through\nyellow glass, the city rose upon the band of horizon.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s too late,\u201d she said, evenly. \u201cI hadn\u2019t expected this. Perhaps\nyou\u2019re telling me the truth ... if you are, you\u2019ve made a terrible\nmistake.\u201d She turned about suddenly, with a precision which was almost\nmilitary. \u201cHe\u2019s going to do it.\u201d\n\nThe awful words fell like a weight upon a scale. I felt blindly for a\nchair and sat down, all strength gone. \u201cStop him,\u201d I said, all that I\ncould say. \u201cStop him.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s too late for that.\u201d She took pity on me. \u201cI think you\u2019re telling\nme the truth. Gene.\u201d She came over to where I was sitting and looked\ndown at me gently. \u201cI\u2019m sorry I accused you. I should have realized\nPaul was lying.\u201d\n\n\u201c_You_ can stop him.\u201d\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t. I\u2019ve tried but I can\u2019t.\u201d Her control was extraordinary. I did\nnot then guess the reason for her calm, her strength.\n\n\u201cThen I must try.\u201d I stood up. She backed away at the expression on my\nface.\n\n\u201cYou can\u2019t do anything. He won\u2019t see you. He won\u2019t see anyone but me.\u201d\n\n\u201cI thought he told Paul he agreed with me, that he didn\u2019t want to ...\nto countenance all this, that he....\u201d\n\n\u201cAt first he took your side, if it is really what you yourself feel:\nthen he thought about it and ... this morning he decided to go ahead\nwith Paul\u2019s plan.\u201d\n\nI was confused. \u201cDoes Paul know?\u201d\n\nIris smiled wanly. \u201cJohn is reserving for himself the pleasure of doing\nwhat he must do without Paul\u2019s assistance.\u201d\n\n\u201cOr knowledge?\u201d\n\nIris shrugged. \u201cPaul will find out about it this evening, I suppose.\nThere will be an announcement. John\u2019s secretary is getting it ready now\n... one for the public and another for the Establishment.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen will it happen?\u201d\n\n\u201cTomorrow. I go with him, Gene.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou? You\u2019re not going to die too?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t see that it makes much difference what I do when John dies.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou can\u2019t leave us now. You can\u2019t leave Paul in charge of everything.\nHe\u2019s a dangerous man. Why, if....\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll be able to handle him.\u201d It was perfectly apparent to me that\nshe was no longer interested in me or in the others; not even in the\nfate of the work we had begun.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s finished, if you go too,\u201d I said bleakly. \u201cTogether we could\ncontrol Paul; alone, I\u2019d not last ten days. Iris, let me talk to him.\u201d\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t. I won\u2019t.\u201d\n\nI contemplated pushing by her and searching the penthouse but there\nwere guards everywhere and I had no wish to be shot myself on such an\nerrand.\n\nShe guessed my thought and said, quickly \u201cThere\u2019s no possible way for\nyou or anyone to get through to him. Sometime tonight or tomorrow he\nwill leave and that\u2019s the end.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe won\u2019t do it here?\u201d This surprised me.\n\nShe shook her head. \u201cHe wants to go off alone, away from everyone. I\u2019m\nto be with him until the end; then I\u2019ll send the body back here for\nburial ... but he\u2019ll leave full instructions.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou mean I\u2019m never to see either of you again? Just like that, you\nboth go?\u201d\n\n\u201cJust like this.\u201d For the first time she displayed some warmth. \u201cI\u2019ve\ncared for you, Gene,\u201d she said gently. \u201cI even think that of us all you\nwere the one most nearly right in your approach to John. I think you\nunderstood him better than he did himself. Try to hold on after we go.\nTry to keep it away from Paul.\u201d\n\n\u201cAs if I could!\u201d I turned from her bitterly, filled with unexpected\ngrief: I did not want to lose her presence even though I had lost her\nor, rather, never possessed more of her than that one bright instant\nyears before on the California coast when we had both realized with the\nunexpected clarity of the lovers we were not that our lives had come to\nthe same point at the same moment and the knowledge of this confluence\nwas the one splendor I had known, the single hope, the unique passion\nof my life.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t miss me, Gene. I couldn\u2019t bear that.\u201d She put her hand on my\narm. I walked away, not able to bear her touch. Then they came.\n\nPaul and Stokharin were in the study. Iris gasped and stepped back when\nshe saw them. I spun about just as Paul shouted: \u201cIt won\u2019t work, Iris!\nGive it up.\u201d\n\n\u201cGet out of here, Paul.\u201d Her voice was strong. \u201cYou have no right here.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have as much right as you. Now tell me whose idea was it? yours? or\nwas it John\u2019s? or Gene\u2019s? since he seems to enjoy playing both sides.\u201d\n\n\u201cGet out. All of you.\u201d She moved to the old-fashioned bell cord which\nhung beside Cave\u2019s massive desk.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t bother,\u201d said Paul. \u201cNo one will come.\u201d\n\nIris, her eyes wide now with fear, tugged the cord twice: the second\ntime it broke off in her hand. There was no response.\n\nPaul looked grim. \u201cI\u2019m sorry to have to do it this way but you\u2019ve left\nme no choice. You can\u2019t leave, either of you.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou read....\u201d\n\n\u201cI saw the release. It won\u2019t work.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy not? It\u2019s what you\u2019ve wanted all along. Everything will be yours.\nThere\u2019ll be nobody to stop you. John will be dead and I\u2019ll be gone for\ngood. You\u2019ll never see me again ... why must you interfere?\u201d She spoke\nquickly, plausibly but the false proportion was evident now, even to\nme: the plan was tumbling down at Paul\u2019s assault.\n\n\u201cIris, I\u2019m not a complete fool. I know perfectly well that Cave has no\nintention of killing himself and that....\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy do you think I\u2019m going with him? to send you the body back for the\nceremony which you\u2019ll perform right here, publicly....\u201d\n\n\u201cIris.\u201d He looked at her for a long moment. Then: \u201cIf you two leave as\nplanned tonight (I\u2019ve canceled the helicopter by the way) there will be\nno body, no embalming, no ceremony, no point ... only a mystery which\nmight very well undo all our work. I can\u2019t allow that. Cave must die\nhere, before morning. We might have put it off but your announcement\nhas already leaked out. There\u2019ll be a million people out there in the\nstreet tomorrow. We\u2019ll have to show them Cave\u2019s body.\u201d\n\nIris swayed; I moved quickly to her side and held her arm. \u201cIt\u2019s three\nto two, Paul,\u201d I said. \u201cI assume we\u2019re still directors. Three of us\nhave agreed that Cave and Iris leave. That\u2019s final.\u201d But my bluff was\nhumiliatingly weak; it was ignored.\n\n\u201cThe penthouse,\u201d said Paul softly, \u201cis empty ... just the five of us\nhere. The Doctor and I are armed. Take us in to him.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d Iris moved instinctively, fatally, to the door which led to Cave,\nas if to guard it with her body.\n\nThere was a brief scuffle which ended with Iris and myself,\nconsiderably disheveled, facing two guns. With an apology, Stokharin\npushed us through the door.\n\nIn a small sunroom we found Cave sitting before a television screen,\nwatching the installation of a new Resident in Boston. He looked up\nwith surprise at our entrance. \u201cI thought I said....\u201d he began but Iris\ninterrupted him.\n\n\u201cThey want to kill you, John.\u201d\n\nHe got to his feet quickly, his face pale and his eyes glaring. Even\nPaul was shaken by that glance. \u201cYou read my last statement?\u201d Cave\nspoke sharply, without apparent fear.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s why we\u2019ve come,\u201d said Paul; he and Stokharin moved, as though\nby previous accord, to opposite ends of the little room, leaving the\nthree of us together, vulnerable at its center. \u201cYou must do it here.\u201d\nPaul signaled Stokharin who, after some fumbling, produced a small\nmetal box which he tossed to Cave.\n\n\u201cSome of the new pills,\u201d he said nervously. \u201cVery nice. We use\npeppermint in the outer layer and....\u201d\n\n\u201cTake it, John.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll get some water,\u201d said Stokharin; but Paul waved to him to keep\nhis place.\n\nCave smiled whitely. \u201cI will not take it. Now both of you get out of\nhere before I call the guards.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo more guards,\u201d said Paul. \u201cWe\u2019ve seen to that. Now, please, don\u2019t\nmake it any more difficult than it is. Take the pill.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you read my statement you know that....\u201d\n\n\u201cYou intend to take a pleasant trip around the world incognito with\nIris. Yes, I know. As your friend, I wish you could do it. But, for one\nthing, sooner or later you\u2019d be recognized and, for another, we must\nhave proof ... we must have a body.\u201d\n\n\u201cIris will bring the body back,\u201d said Cave. He was still quite calm.\n\u201cI choose to do it this way and there\u2019s nothing more to be said.\nYou\u2019ll have the Establishment all to yourself and I will be a most\nsatisfactory figure upon which to build a world religion.\u201d It was the\nonly time in my experience with Cave that I ever heard him strike the\nironic note.\n\n\u201cLeave us alone, Paul. You have what you want. Now let us go.\u201d Iris\nbegged but Paul had no eyes for anyone but Cave.\n\n\u201cTake it, John,\u201d he repeated softly. \u201cTake Cavesway.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot for you.\u201d Cave hurled the metal box at Paul\u2019s head and Stokharin\nfired. There was one almost bland moment when we all stood, politely,\nin a circle and watched Cave, a look of wonder on his face, touch his\nshoulder where the blood had begun to flow through a hole in the jacket.\n\nThen Iris turned fiercely on Paul, knocking him off balance, while\nCave ran to the door. Stokharin, his hand shaking and his face silver\nwith fear, fired three times, each time hitting Cave who quivered but\ndid not fall; instead, he got through the door and into the study. As\nStokharin hurried after him, I threw myself upon him, expecting death\nat any moment; but it did not come for Stokharin had collapsed. He\ndropped his gun and hid his face in his hands, rocking back and forth\non the floor, sobbing. Paul, free of Iris\u2019s fierce grip, got to Cave\nbefore I did. By then it was finished.\n\nCave lay in the corridor only a few feet from the elevator. He\u2019d fallen\non his face and lay now in his own blood, his hands working at the\nfloor as though trying to dig himself a grave in the hard stone. I\nturned him on his back and he opened his eyes. \u201cIris?\u201d he asked. His\nvoice was ordinary though his breathing was harsh, uneven.\n\n\u201cHere I am.\u201d She knelt down beside him, ignoring Paul who stood\nlooking down at them, his pistol held at an absurd angle in his\ninexperienced hand.\n\nCave whispered something to Iris; then a flow of blood, like the full\nmoon\u2019s tide, poured from his mouth and he was dead.\n\n\u201cCavesway,\u201d said Paul at last when the silence had been used up: the\nphrase he had prepared for this moment, inadequate to the reality at\nour feet.\n\n\u201c_Your_ way,\u201d said Iris as she got to her feet. She looked at Paul\ncalmly, as though they\u2019d met only at that moment. \u201c_Your_ way,\u201d she\nrepeated.\n\nIn the other room Stokharin moaned.\n\n\n\n\n                                  TEN\n\n\n                                   1\n\nNow the work was complete. Cavesword and Cavesway formed a perfect\ndesign and all the rest would greatly follow ... or so Paul assumed. I\nbelieve if I had been he I should have killed both Iris and myself the\nsame day, removing at one stroke witnesses and opposition. But he did\nnot have the courage and, too, I think he underestimated us, to his own\nfuture sorrow.\n\nIris and I were left alone in the penthouse. Paul, after shaking\nStokharin into a semblance of calm, bundled Cave\u2019s body into a blanket\nand then, with the doctor\u2019s help, put it upon the private elevator.\n\nThe next twenty-four hours were a grim carnival. The body of Cave,\nbeautifully arranged and painted, lay in the central auditorium of the\ncenter as thousands filed by to see him. Paul\u2019s speech over the corpse\nwas telecast around the world.\n\nIris and I kept to our separate rooms, both by choice and from\nnecessity since gentle guards stood before our doors and refused,\napologetically, to let us out.\n\nI watched the services over television while my chief editors visited\nme one by one unaware of what had happened, ignoring the presence of\nthe guards. It was assumed that I was too shocked by grief to go to\nthe office. Needless to say, I did not mention to any of them what had\nhappened. At first I had thought it best to expose Paul as a murderer\nand a fraud but, on second thought (the second thought which followed\nall too swiftly upon the first, as Paul had no doubt assumed it would),\nI did not want to risk the ruin of our work. Instead, I decided to\nwait, to study Paul\u2019s destruction, an event which I had grimly vowed\nwould take place as soon as possible. He could not now get rid of\neither Iris or me in the near future and all we needed, I was sure, was\nbut a week or two. I was convinced of this though I had no specific\nplan. Iris had more influence, more prestige in the Establishment than\nPaul, and I figured, correctly as later events corroborated, that\nCave\u2019s death would enhance her position. As for myself, I was not\nwithout influence.\n\nI kept my lines of communication clear the next few days during what\nwas, virtually, a house-arrest. The editors came to me regularly and I\ncontinued to compose editorials. The explanation for my confinement to\nmy room was, according to a bulletin signed by Stokharin, a mild heart\ncondition. Everyone was most kind. I was amused when I first heard of\nthe diagnosis: one of Stokharin\u2019s pellets in my food and death would be\nascribed to coronary occlusion, the result of the strain attendant upon\nCave\u2019s death. I had less time than I thought. I made plans.\n\nPaul\u2019s funeral oration was competent though less than inspiring.\nThe Chief Resident of Dallas, one of the great new figures of the\nEstablishment, made an even finer speech over the corpse. I listened\nattentively, judging from what was said and what was not said the\nwind\u2019s direction: it was quite obvious that Cavesway was to be the\nheart of the doctrine. Death was to be embraced with passion; life\nwas the criminal; death the better reality; consciousness was an evil\nwhich, in death\u2019s oblivion, met its true fate ... man\u2019s one perfect\nvirtuous act was the sacrifice of his own consciousness to the pure\nnothing from which, by grim accident, it had come, a malignancy in\ncreation. The Chief Resident of Dallas was most eloquent, and chilling.\n\nEven sequestered in my room, I caught some of the excitement which\ncircled the globe like a lightning storm. Thirty-five hundred\nsuicides were reported within forty-eight hours of Cave\u2019s death. The\nstatisticians lost count of the number of people who fought to get\ninside the building to see Cave in death. From my window, however,\nI could see that Park Avenue had been roped off for a dozen blocks.\nPeople, like ants, swarmed toward the gates of the tower.\n\nI sent messages to Iris but received none, nor, for that matter, did I\nhave any assurance that she had got mine. Paul\u2019s adventures I followed\non television and from the reports of my editors who visited me\nregularly, despite Stokharin\u2019s orders.\n\nOn the third day, I was allowed to go to my office: Paul having decided\nthat it would be thought odd if I were to die so soon after Cave and,\ntoo, he was no doubt relieved to discover that I had not revealed to my\nfriends what actually had happened. Having established the fact of my\nweak heart, my death could be engineered most plausibly at any time.\n\nI did not see him face to face until the fourth day, when John Cave\u2019s\nashes were to be distributed over the United States. Stokharin, Paul\nand I sat in the back seat of a limousine at the head of a motorcade\nwhich, beginning at the tower, terminated at the airport where the\njet-plane which would sprinkle the ashes over New York, Seattle,\nChicago and Los Angeles was waiting, along with a vast crowd and the\nPresident of the United States, an official Christian but known to\nincline, as Presidents do, toward the majority.... Cavites were the\nmajority and had been for almost two years.\n\nI was startled to find Paul and Stokharin in the same automobile. It\nhad been my understanding that we were to travel separately in the\nmotorcade. They were most cordial.\n\n\u201cSorry to hear you\u2019ve been sick, Gene,\u201d Paul grinned ingenuously.\n\u201c\u2057Mustn\u2019t strain the old ticker.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m sure the good doctor will be able to cure me,\u201d I said cheerfully.\n\nThey both laughed loudly; then the car pulled away from the tower and\ndrove down Park Avenue at the head of a long procession. Crowds lined\nthe street as we drove slowly by. They were curiously still, as though\nthey hardly knew how to react: this was a funeral yet Cavesway was\nglorious. Some cheered; most simply stared and pointed at our car,\nrecognizing Paul. I suddenly realized why they were so interested in\nthis particular car: on the floor, at Paul\u2019s feet, was what looked like\na large flower pot covered with gold foil.\n\n\u201cAre those the ashes?\u201d\n\nPaul nodded. \u201cDid an extra quick job, too, I\u2019m glad to say. We didn\u2019t\nwant any slip up.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere\u2019s Iris?\u201d\n\n\u201cI was going to ask _you_ that.\u201d Paul looked at me sharply. \u201cShe\ndisappeared yesterday and it\u2019s very embarrassing for all of us, very\ninconsiderate too: she knew I especially wanted her at the ceremony.\nShe knows that everyone will expect to see her.\u201d\n\n\u201cI think she took the idea of Cavesway most illogically,\u201d said\nStokharin, his usual sang-froid had returned, his breakdown forgotten.\n\u201cShe should be grateful to us for making all this possible, despite\nCave\u2019s weakness.\u201d\n\nI ignored Stokharin. I looked at Paul who was beaming at the crowd,\nacknowledging their waves with nods of his head. \u201cWhat will you do now?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou heard the ceremony?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, just that. Cavesway has become universal. Even the economists\nin Washington have privately thanked us for what we\u2019re doing to reduce\nthe population. There\u2019s a theory that by numerous voluntary deaths\nwars might decrease since ... or so the proposition goes ... they are\nnature\u2019s way of checking population.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps you\u2019re right.\u201d I assumed a troubled expression as I made the\nfirst move of my counteroffensive.\n\nPaul looked away from the crowd to regard me briefly, shrewdly. \u201cYou\ndon\u2019t think I trust you, do you?\u201d\n\nI shrugged, \u201cWhy not? I can\u2019t change Cavesway now.\u201d\n\nPaul grunted. I could see that he did not believe this spurious\n_volte-face_; nevertheless, an end to my active opposition would\nforce him to revise his plans; this would, I hoped, give me the time\nI needed. I pressed on: \u201cI think we can compromise. Short of rigging\nmy death which would cause suspicion, you must continue to put up with\nme for a while. You\u2019ve nothing to fear from me since you control the\nEstablishment and since the one weapon I have against you I will not\nuse.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou mean....\u201d\n\n\u201cMy having witnessed the murder of Cave. If I had wanted to I could\nhave revealed this before the cremation. An autopsy would certainly\nhave ruined everything for you.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy didn\u2019t you?\u201d I could see that Paul was genuinely interested in my\nmotives.\n\n\u201cBecause it would have meant the end of the work. I saw no reason to\navenge Cave at such a cost: you must remember he was not a god to me,\nany more than you are.\u201d\n\nThis twist of a blunt knife had the calculated effect: \u201cWhat a cold\ndevil you are!\u201d said Paul, almost admiringly. \u201cI wish I could believe\nyou.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s no reason not to. I was opposed to the principle of suicide.\nIt is now firmly established. We must go on from there.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen tell me where Iris is.\u201d\n\n\u201cI haven\u2019t any idea. As you know, I\u2019ve been trying to get in touch with\nher for days; your people intercepted everything. How _did_ she manage\nto get away?\u201d\n\n\u201cOne of the guards let her out. I thought he was one of our boys but\nit seems she worked on him and he left with her. I\u2019ve alerted all the\nCenters; so far no one\u2019s seen her.\u201d\n\nJust before Grand Central Station, the crowd began to roar with\nexcitement and Paul held up the jar of ashes which glittered in his\nhands; the crowd went wild and tried to break through the police lines.\nThe cortege drove a bit faster and Paul set the ashes down; he looked\ntriumphant but tired, as though he\u2019d not slept in a month: one eyelid,\nI saw, was twitching with fatigue.\n\n\u201cWhen are we to have a directors\u2019 meeting?\u201d I asked as we crossed the\nbridge which spanned the Hudson. \u201cWe\u2019re still legally a company. We\nmust elect a new board chairman.\u201d\n\n\u201cAs soon as we find Iris,\u201d said Paul. \u201cI think we should all be there,\ndon\u2019t you? Two to two.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps three to one on the main things,\u201d I said, allowing this to\npenetrate, aware that his quick mind would study all the possibilities\nand arrive at a position so subtle and unexpected as to be of use to me\nif I, in turn, were quick enough to seize my opportunity.\n\nAt the airport, a detachment of airborne troops were drawn up before a\nfestooned reviewing stand. Near by the Marine Band played incongruous\nmarches while in the center of the stand, surrounded by cameras and\ndignitaries, stood the smiling President of the United States.\n\n\n                                   2\n\nThe next day while I was examining the various accounts of the last\nceremony, the chief editor came into my office, his face blazing with\nexcitement: \u201cIris Mortimer!\u201d was all he could say.\n\n\u201cIris? Where?\u201d\n\n\u201cDallas.\u201d He exploded the name in exhalation; then he told me: word had\ncome from our office there that Iris had, a few hours before, denounced\nPaul for having ignored Cave\u2019s last wishes to be embalmed and that, as\na result of this and other infidelities to Cavesword, she, as ranking\ndirector and with the full concurrence of the Chief Resident of Dallas,\nwas calling a Council of Residents to be held the following week at\nDallas to determine the future course of the Establishment.\n\nI almost laughed aloud with pleasure. I had not believed she would\nshow such vigor and daring. I had feared that she might choose to\nvanish into obscurity, her life ended with Cave ... even at my most\noptimistic, I had not dreamed she would act with such realism,\nexploiting a rivalry between Paul and the Chief Resident of Dallas, the\npremier member of the Council of Residents, a group that, until now,\nhad existed for purely ceremonial reasons, exerting no influence upon\nthe administration of the Establishment which, while Cave lived, was by\nPaul directed. Now with one stroke Iris had undermined Paul by going\ndirectly to the Establishment.\n\nI moved swiftly. The _Journal_ was at that moment going to\npress. I scribbled a brief announcement of the coming Council of\nResidents, naming Iris as Cave\u2019s spiritual heir and custodian of the\nEstablishment. By telephone, I ordered a box to be cut out of the first\npage. I had not acted a moment too soon for a few minutes after my\ntelephone call to the compositor, Paul came to my office, furious. He\nslammed the door behind him. We were alone for the first time in weeks.\n\n\u201cYou knew this was going to happen.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wish I had.\u201d\n\nHe paced the floor quickly, eyes shining. \u201cI\u2019ve sent out an order\ncountermanding Iris. I\u2019ve also removed the Resident at Dallas. I\u2019m\nstill in charge of the Establishment. I control the funds and I\u2019ve told\nevery damned Resident in this country that if he goes to Dallas I\u2019ll\ncut off his Center without a penny.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt won\u2019t work.\u201d I smiled amiably at Paul. \u201cYour only hold over the\nEstablishment is legal. You are the vice president of the corporation\nand now, at least for the interim, you\u2019re in charge. Fine. But since\nyou\u2019ve become so devoted to the letter of the law you can\u2019t act\nwithout consulting your directors and two of them will be in Dallas,\nreorganizing.\u201d\n\nHe cursed me for some minutes: then abruptly he stopped. \u201cYou won\u2019t go\nto Dallas. You\u2019re going to be here for the directors\u2019 meeting which\ncuts off every Resident who attends that circus without a penny. We own\nthe damned Centers; we can appoint whom we like. You\u2019re going to help\nratify my new appointments.\u201d\n\nI pressed the buzzer in my chair: a secretary came in. I told her to\nget me a reservation on the next plane to Dallas; then, before she had\nclosed the door behind her, I was halfway through it. I turned to look\nback at Paul who stood now quite alone in the office. \u201cYou had better\ncome too,\u201d I said. \u201cIt\u2019s all over.\u201d\n\n\n                                   3\n\nThe new Establishment was many months in the making. The Council of\nseven hundred Residents from all parts of the world sat in general\nsession once a week and in various committees the rest of the time.\nIris was everywhere at once, advising, encouraging, proposing. We had\nadjoining suites in the huge white marble Center which had now become\n(and was to remain) the capitol of the Cavite Establishment.\n\nThe Residents were an extraordinary crew, ranging from zealous maniacs\nto urbane, thoughtful men. None had been in the least disturbed by\nPaul\u2019s threats and with Iris and myself as chief stockholders (Clarissa\nhad turned her voting shares over to Iris, I discovered), we dissolved\nthe old company and a new organization was fashioned, one governed by\nthe Council of Residents who, in turn, chose an heir to Cave and an\nadministrative assistant to direct the affairs of the Establishment.\nIris was unanimously appointed Guardian of Cavesword while the Chief\nResident of Dallas undertook Paul\u2019s old administrative duties. From\na constitutional point of view the Council was in perfect agreement,\naccepting Iris\u2019s guidance without demur.\n\nI, myself, was something of a hero for having committed the _Journal_\nat a crucial moment to the Dallas synod. I was made an honorary\nResident (Dubuque, Iowa, was given me as a titular Center) and\nappointed to the Executive Committee which was composed of Iris,\nDallas, two elected Residents and myself.\n\nWe worked harmoniously for some weeks. Each day we would issue\nbulletins to the news-services which had congregated in the city,\nreporting our progress zealously, devotedly.\n\nPaul arrived in the second week. He came secretly and unannounced. I\nhave no idea what it was that he said to Iris or what she said to him;\nall I know is that a few hours after their meeting in the Center, he\ntook Cavesway of his own free will and to my astonishment.\n\nI hadn\u2019t believed it possible, I said, when Iris told me, shortly\nafter the Center announced the presence of Paul Himmell among the dead\nfor that week (regular lists were published of those who had used the\nCenter\u2019s facilities to take Cavesway); in fact, so quietly was it\nhandled that very little was made of it in the press which did not even\nreport the event until ten days after it had taken place.\n\n\u201cWe may have misunderstood Paul,\u201d Iris was serene. Her figure had\nbecome in the last year thick and maternal while her hair was streaked\nwith premature white. We were alone in the Committee Room, waiting for\nour fellow committeemen who were not due for another half hour. The\nAugust sun shone gold upon the mahogany table, illuminating warmly,\nlike a Byzantine mosaic, the painting of Cave which hung behind her\nchair.\n\n\u201cHe really did do it himself?\u201d I looked at her suspiciously. She smiled\nsoftly, with amusement.\n\n\u201cHe was persuaded,\u201d she said. \u201cBut he did it himself, of his own free\nwill.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot forced?\u201d\n\n\u201cI swear not. He was more sincere than I\u2019d ever thought. He believed\nin Cavesway.\u201d How naturally she said that word which she had so\ndesperately tried to keep from ever existing. We had not once alone\nreferred to the murder of Cave, both acting, for different reasons, as\nthough his death had been, as the world now thought, his own doing.\n\n\u201cYou had really planned to go away?\u201d I asked.\n\nShe looked at me, suddenly alert, impersonal: \u201cThat\u2019s all finished,\nGene. We must keep on in the present. I never think now of anything but\nCavesword and Cavesway. It does no good to think of what might have\nbeen.\u201d\n\nAnd that was the most we were ever to say to one another about the\ncrisis in our lives. We talked of the present; we made plans. Stokharin\nhad disappeared at the same time Paul flew to Dallas and we both\ndecided it was wisest to forget him: certainly he would not trouble us\nagain. There was no talk of vengeance.\n\nThe committee members, important and proud, joined us and we took up\nthe day\u2019s problem which was, by some irony, the standardization of\nfacilities for Cavesway in the different Centers. Quietly, without\nraising our voices, in a most good-humored way, we broke neatly in\nhalf on Cavesway. I and one other Resident objected to the emphasis\non death. Dallas and the fourth member were in favor of expanding\nthe facilities, both physically and psychologically, until every\nCavite at the moment when he felt his social usefulness ebbing could\ntake Cavesway. We argued reasonably with one another until it became\napparent that there was no possible ground for compromise.\n\nIt was put to a vote and Iris broke the tie by endorsing Cavesway.\n\n\n                                   4\n\nThis morning as I finished the above lines I suffered a mild stroke ...\na particularly unusual one since I did not become, as far as I know,\nunconscious. I was rereading my somewhat telescoped account of the\nCouncil of Dallas when, without warning, the blow fell; a capillary\nburst in my brain and I felt as though I were losing my mind in one\nlast fantastic burst of images. The pain was negligible, no worse than\na headache, but the sensation of letting go one\u2019s conscious mind, one\u2019s\ncontrol was terrifying. I tried to move from my work-table, to call for\nhelp, but I was too weak. For one long giddy moment I thought: I am\ndying; this is the way it is and, even in my anguish, I was curious,\nwaiting for that approach of winged darkness which years ago I once\nexperienced when I fainted and which I have always since imagined to be\nlike death\u2019s swift entrance.\n\nBut then my body recovered from the assault: the wall was breached, the\nenemy is in the city but the citadel is still intact and yet I live.\n\nWeakly I got up, poured myself a jigger of brandy and then, having\ndrunk it all at once, fell across my bed and slept and did not dream,\nwhich is a rare blessing in these feverish last days.\n\nI was awakened by the sensation of being watched. I opened my eyes and\nsaw above me, looking like a bronze figure of Anubis, Jessup who said,\n\u201cI\u2019m sorry ... didn\u2019t mean to disturb you. Your door was open and I....\u201d\n\n\u201cPerfectly all right,\u201d I said, as smoothly as I could, drugged with\nsleep. I pulled myself up against the pillows. \u201cExcuse me for not\ngetting up but I\u2019m still a little weak from my illness.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wanted to see you,\u201d said Jessup, sitting down in the chair which I\nindicated beside the bed. \u201cI hope you don\u2019t mind my barging in like\nthis.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot at all. How do you find Luxor?\u201d I wanted to delay as long as\npossible the questions which I was quite sure he would want to ask me,\nquestions concerning my identity.\n\n\u201cThe people are not so fixed in error as we\u2019d been warned. There\u2019s\na great curiosity about Cavesword.\u201d His eyes had been taking in the\ndetails of the room with some interest; to my horror I recalled that I\nhad left the manuscript of my work on the table instead of hiding it as\nusual in the washstand. He saw it. \u201cYour ... memoirs?\u201d He looked at me\nwith a polite interest which I was sure disguised foreknowledge.\n\n\u201cA record of my excavations,\u201d I said, in a voice which descended the\nscale to a whisper. \u201cI do it for my own amusement, to pass the time.\u201d\n\n\u201cI should enjoy reading it.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou exaggerate, in your kindness,\u201d I said, pushing myself higher on\nthe bed, preparing if necessary for a sudden spring.\n\n\u201cNot at all. If it is about Egypt, I should read it. There are no\ncontemporary accounts of this country ... by one of us.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m afraid the details of findings in the valley yonder,\u201d I gestured\ntoward Libya and the last acres of the kings, \u201cwon\u2019t be of much use to\nyou. I avoid all mention of people less than two millennia dead.\u201d\n\n\u201cEven so.\u201d But Jessup did not pursue the subject. I relaxed a little.\n\n\u201cI must tell you,\u201d he said suddenly, \u201cthat I was suspicious of you.\u201d\n\nNow I thought, now it comes; then I was amused: right at the end they\narrive, when it was too late for them, or for me. \u201cWhat form did your\nsuspicions take?\u201d My fear left me in one last flurry, like a bird\ndeparting in a cold wind for another latitude, leaving the branch which\nheld it all summer through to wither in the snow.\n\n\u201cI thought you might be the one we have so often heard of ... in\nlegend, that is: the enemy of Cave.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhich enemy?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe nameless one or at least we know a part of his name if lutherist\nis derived from it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat made you suspect me?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause were I an enemy of Cave and were I forced to disappear, I\nshould come to just such a town in just such a country as this.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerfectly logical,\u201d I agreed. \u201cBut there are many towns in the Arab\nLeague, in Asia too. Why suppose one old man to be this mythical\nvillain?\u201d\n\nJessup smiled. \u201cIntuition, I\u2019m afraid. A terrible admission from one\nwho has been trained in the logic of Cavesword. It _seemed_ exactly\nright. You\u2019re the right age, the right nationality ... in any case, I\ntelephoned Dallas about you.\u201d\n\nI took this calmly. \u201cYou talked to the Chief Resident himself?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course not.\u201d Jessup was surprised at my suggestion. \u201cOne just\ndoesn\u2019t call the Chief Resident like that. Only the senior Residents\n_ever_ talk to him personally. No, I talked to an old friend of mine\nwho is one or the five principal assistants to the Historian General.\nWe were in school together and his specialty is the deviationists of\nthe early days.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what did you learn from this scholar?\u201d\n\nJessup gave me a most charming smile. \u201cNothing at all. There was no\nsuch person as I thought existed, as a number of people thought\nexisted. It was all a legend ... a perfectly natural one for gossip to\ninvent. There was a good deal of trouble at the beginning, especially\nover Cavesway. There was even a minority at Dallas which refused to\naccept the principle of Cavesway without which of course there could\nbe no Establishment. According to the stories one heard as recently\nas my university days, ten years ago, the original lutherist had led\nthe opposition to Iris, in the Council and out. For a time it looked\nas though the Establishment might be broken in two (this, you must\nremember since you were contemporary to it; fortunately, our Historical\nOffice has tended more and more to view it in the long perspective and\npopular works on Cave now make no reference to it); in any case, there\nwas an open break and the minority was soon absorbed by the majority.\u201d\n\n\u201cPainlessly?\u201d I mocked him. Could he be telling the truth? or was this\na trap?\n\nJessup shrugged. \u201cThese things are never without pain. It is said that\nan attempt was made on our mother Iris\u2019s life during the ceremony of\nCave\u2019s ashes. We still continue it, you know.\u201d\n\n\u201cContinue what?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe symbolic gathering of the ashes. But of course you know the origin\nof all that. There was a grave misinterpretation of Cave\u2019s last wishes.\nHis ashes were scattered over the United States when it was his wish\nto be embalmed and preserved. Iris, each year, traveled to the four\ncities over which the ashes had been distributed and she collected a\nbit of dust in each city to symbolize her obedience to Cavesword in all\nthings. At Seattle, during this annual ceremony, a group of lutherists\ntried to assassinate her.\u201d\n\n\u201cI remember,\u201d I said. I had had no hand in that dark episode but it\nprovided the Establishment with the excuse they needed. My partisans\nwere thrown in prison all over the country. The government, which by\nthen was entirely Cavite, handed several thousand over to the Centers\nwhere they were indoctrinated, ending the heresy for good. Iris\nherself had secretly arranged for my escape ... but Jessup could know\nnothing of this.\n\n\u201cOf course you know these things, perhaps even better than I since\nyou were alive then. Forgive me. I have got into the bad Residential\nhabit of explaining the obvious. An occupational disease.\u201d He was\ndisarming. \u201cThe point I\u2019m trying to make is that my suspicions of you\nwere unworthy and unfounded since there was no leader of the lutherists\nto escape; all involved responded nicely to indoctrination and that\nwas the end of it. The story I heard in school was a popular one. The\nsort that often evolves ... like Lucifer and the old Christian God, for\ninstance ... for white there must be black, that kind of thing. Except\nthat Cave never had a major antagonist, other than in legend.\u201d\n\n\u201cI see. Tell me, then, if there was no real leader to the lutherists,\nhow did they come by their name?\u201d\n\nHis answer was prompt. \u201cMartin Luther. My friend in the H.O. told me\nthis morning over the telephone. Someone tried to make an analogy,\nthat\u2019s all, and the name stuck though, as a rule, the use of any words\nor concepts derived from the dead religions is frowned upon. You know\nthe story of Martin Luther? It seems that he....\u201d\n\n\u201cI know the story of Martin Luther,\u201d I answered, more sharply than I\nintended.\n\n\u201cNow I\u2019ve tired you.\u201d Jessup was sympathetic. He got to his feet. \u201cI\njust wanted to tell you about my suspicions, that\u2019s all; I thought it\nmight amuse you and perhaps bring us closer together for I\u2019d very much\nlike to be your friend, not only for the help you can give me up here\nbut also because of your memories of the old days when Cave and Iris,\nhis mother, still lived.\u201d\n\n\u201cIris was at least five years younger than Cave.\u201d\n\n\u201cEveryone knows that, my friend. She was his _spiritual_ mother, as she\nis ours. 'From the dark womb of unbeing we emerge in the awful light\nof consciousness from which the only virtuous escape is Cavesway.\u2019 I\nquote from Iris\u2019s last testament. It was found among her papers after\nher death.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid _she_ take Cavesway?\u201d\n\nJessup frowned. \u201cIt is said that she died of pneumonia but had death\n_not_ come upon her unexpectedly it was well known that she would have\ntaken Cavesway. There has been considerable debate over this at Dallas.\nI hear from highly placed people that before many years have passed\nthey will promulgate a new interpretation, applying only to Iris, which\nwill establish that intent and fact are the same, that though she died\nof pneumonia she _intended_ to take Cavesway and, therefore, took\nCavesway in spirit and therefore in fact.\u201d\n\n\u201cA most inspiring definition.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is beautifully clear, though perhaps difficult for an untrained\nmind. Can I read your memoir?\u201d His eyes strayed curiously to the table.\n\n\u201cWhen it\u2019s finished,\u201d I said. \u201cIt\u2019s almost done now. In a few days\nperhaps; I should be most curious to see how it strikes you.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I won\u2019t take up any more of your time. I hope you\u2019ll let me come\nto see you.\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing could give me more pleasure.\u201d And then, with a pat on my\nshoulder and a kind suggestion that should I choose Cavesway he would\nbe willing to administer the latest drug, Jessup departed.\n\nI remained very still for some minutes, holding my breath for long\nintervals, trying to die. Then, in a sudden rage, I hurled my pillow\nacross the room and beat the mattress with my fists: it was over. All\nwas at an end except my own miserable life which will soon enough be\ngone. My name erased; my work subverted; all that I most detested\nregnant in the world. I could have wept had there been one tear left\nin me. Now there is nothing I can do but finish this narrative ... for\nits own sake since it will be thought, I know, the ravings of a mad man\nwhen Jessup reads it, as he surely will after I am dead.\n\nI have tried now for several hours to describe my last meeting with\nIris but I find that my memory is at last seriously impaired, the\nresult, no doubt, of that tiny vein which broke this morning in my\nbrain. It all seems a jumble. I think there were several years in which\nI was in opposition. I think that I had considerable support and I am\nalmost sure that, until the attempted assassination of Iris at Seattle,\nI was close to dominating the Council of Residents. The idiotic attempt\non her life, however, ruined everything. She knew of course that I had\nhad nothing to do with it but she was a resolute leader and she took\nthis opportunity to annihilate my party. I believe we met for the last\ntime in a garden. A garden very like the one where we first met in\nCalifornia. No, on the banks of the Hudson ... I must reread what I\nhave written to refresh my memory. It is all beginning to fade rapidly.\n\nIn any case, we met in a garden in the late autumn when all the trees\nwere bare. She was white-haired then, though neither of us was much\nover forty.\n\nI believe that she wept a little: for we were the last who had been\nclose to Cave, heirs both though now adversaries, she victrix and I\nvanquished. I never loved her more than at that last moment; of this I\nam sure. We talked of possible places of exile. She had arranged for my\npassage on a ship to Alexandria under the name of Richard Hudson (yes,\nshe who erased my name, in her compassion, gave me a new one). She did\nnot want, however, to know where I intended to go from there.\n\n\u201cIt would be a temptation to the others,\u201d she said. I remember that\none sentence and I do remember the appearance of the garden though its\nlocation I have quite forgotten: there was a high wall all around it\nand the smell of moldering leaves was acrid. From the mouth of a satyr\nno water fell in a mossy pool.\n\nAh yes! the question and the answer. That\u2019s it of course. The key.\nI had nearly lost it. Before I left, I asked her what it was that\nCave had said to her when he was dying, the words the rest of us had\nnot heard. At first she hesitated but then, secure in her power and\nconfident of her own course, she told me: \u201cHe said: 'Gene was right.\u2019\u201d\nI remember looking at her with shock, waiting for her to continue, to\nmake some apology for the monstrousness of her deeds, for her reckless\nfalsification of Cave\u2019s life and death. But she said no more: there\nwas, I suppose, no explanation she might have made. We parted without\nfarewells, without more words.\n\nI left the gray garden which had become bitter cold during our\nconversation. I left America that same day and my real life ended.\n\nThere\u2019s more to it than this but I cannot get it straight in my mind.\nSomething has happened to my memory. I wonder if perhaps I have not\ndreamed all this: a long nightmare drawing to its bitter close in this\ndry ruin of an older world.\n\nIt is late now. I still live though I am exhausted and indifferent to\neverything except that violent living sun whose morning light has just\nthis moment begun to strike upon the western hills across the river:\nall that is left, all that ever was, the red fire.\n\nI shall not take Cavesway even though I die in pain and confusion.\nAnubis must wait for me in the valley until the last and, even then, I\nshall struggle in his arms for I know now that life, _my_ life was more\nvaluable than I knew, more significant and virtuous than the other\u2019s\nwas in her bleak victory.\n\nThough my memory is going from me rapidly, the meaning is clear and\nunmistakable and I see the pattern whole at last, marked in giant\nstrokes upon the air: I was he whom the world awaited. I was that\nfigure, that messiah whose work might have been the world\u2019s delight,\nand liberation. But the villain death once more undid me and to _him_\nbelongs the moment\u2019s triumph. Yet life continues, though I do not. Time\nbends upon itself. The morning breaks. Now I will stop for it is day.\n\n                           1947 to November, 1953: Barrytown, N. Y.","title":"Messiah","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":83685}