Eye in the Sky (1957) by Philip K. Dick

“Where’s the organ? And the candles? Don’t you even have candles?”
    “Can’t afford that sort of
business,” the little man said, scurrying toward the rear. “Now, just
what is it you want? You want me to convert this heretic?” He caught hold
of Hamilton’s arm and scrutinized him. “I’m Father O’Farrel. You’ll have
to kneel down, young man. And bow your head.”
    Hamilton said, “Has it always
been like this?”
    Momentarily pausing, Father
O’Farrel said, “Like what? What do you mean?”
    A wave of compassion touched
Hamilton. “Let it go,” he said.
    “Our organization is very
old,” Father O’Farrel told him hesitantly. “Is that what you mean? It
goes back centuries.” His tone wavered. “Back before even the First
Bab. I’m not positive of the exact date of origin. They say it’s—” He
faltered. “We don’t have much authority. The First Bab, of course, that
was 1844. But even before that—”
    “I want to talk to God,”
Hamilton said.
    “Yes, yes,” Father
O’Farrel agreed. “So do I, young man.” He patted Hamilton’s arm; the
pressure was light, almost unfelt. “So does everybody.”
    “Can’t you help me?”
Hamilton said. “It’s very difficult,” Father O’Farrel said. He disappeared
into a back closet, a chaotic storeroom. Wheezing and groping, he reappeared
carrying a wicker basket of assorted bones, fragments, bits of dried hair and
skin. “This is everything we’ve got,” he gasped, setting the basket
down. “Maybe you can get some use out of these. You’re welcome to help
yourself.”
    As Hamilton gingerly lifted a few
pieces out, McFeyffe said in a shattered voice, “Look at them. Phonies. Junk — curios.”
    “We do what we can,”
Father O’Farrel said, pressing his hands together.
    Hamilton said, “Is there any
way we can get up there?”
    For the first time, Father O’Farrel
smiled. “You’d have to be dead, young man.”
    Gathering up his umbrella, McFeyffe
moved toward the door. “Let’s go,” he said heavily to Hamilton.
“Let’s get out of here; I’ve had enough.”
    “Wait,”
Hamilton said.
    Halting, McFeyffe asked, “Why
do you want to talk to God? What good will
it do? You can see the situation. Look around.”
    Hamilton said, “He’s the only
one who can tell us what’s happened.”
    After
a pause, McFeyffe said, “I don’t care what’s hap pened. I’m leaving.”
    Working rapidly, Hamilton laid out a
circle of bones and teeth, a ring of relics. “Give me a hand,” he
said to McFeyffe. “You’re in this, too.”
    “What you’re after,”
McFeyffe said, “is a miracle.”
    “I know,” Hamilton said.
    McFeyffe walked back. “It won’t
do any good. It’s hopeless.” He stood gripping his great black umbrella.
Father O’Farrel paced about restlessly, bewildered by what was happening.
    “I want to know how this
business got started,” Hamilton said. “This Second Bab, this whole
mess. If I can’t find out there—” Reaching, he seized the great black
umbrella from McFeyffe, and, taking a deep breath, raised it. Like the spread
of a leathery vulture, the struts and fabric of the umbrella opened above him;
a few drops of stagnant moisture dripped down.
    “What’s this?” McFeyffe
demanded, stepping past the circle of relics to grope for his umbrella.
    “Grab on.” Holding tightly
to the handle of the umbrella, Hamilton said to Father O’Farrel, “Is
there water in that jug?”
    “Y-yes,”
Father O’Farrel said, peering into an earthen ware urn. “Some, at the bottom.”
    “As you toss the water,”
Hamilton said, “recite that up-going
part.”
    “Up-going?”
Perplexed, Father O’Farrel retreated. “I—”
    “Et
resurrexit. You remember.”
    “Oh,”
Father O’Farrel said. “Yes, I believe so.” Nod ding, he
dubiously dipped his hand into the urn of holy water and began sprinkling it onto the umbrella. “I sin cerely
doubt if this will work.”
    “Recite,”
Hamilton