an astronaut in zero gravity, nothing pulling at you, no obligations . . .
The tube door opened. Someone grabbed his ankles and yanked him backward. The torpedo room smelled like burning hair, something he had not noticed before. The syrupy strings were now playing ‘Over There.’ George flexed his knees and stood up. Pain screwed through his shoulder bones.
A thirtyish man, handsome and stocky, dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit, grinned at him with what seemed like a surplus of teeth. His hair was auburn and abundant, like a well-nourished orangutan’s coat.
‘What happened to those ensigns?’ George asked. He stepped forward, scissoring his legs so as to hide his soggy crotch.
‘They had to go off watch, George,’ said his rescuer amiably. ‘I believe they just wanted to scare you.’
‘Whatever made them think that threatening to launch me into the ocean would scare me?’ The tomb inscriber laughed. His rescuer did not. George had never before met such a clean-shaven individual. It was as if all the man’s whisker follicles had been cauterized.
‘My grandfather was in the Navy,’ said the rescuer. His voice was like gourmet coffee, silky, layered. ‘Evidently it’s changed a lot since those days. These sailors have not received the Holy Spirit.’
George looked at his knuckles. They were speckled with a substance resembling tar. ‘Their blood is black.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said the rescuer.
‘You in the Navy, too?’
‘Ever watch Christian television?’
‘Not a great deal.’
‘Last year Countdown to God’s Wrath – you’ve never caught it? – we had a consistently better rating than Gospel Sing-Along . We get two and a half tons of mail a week. The Lord is doing so many wonderful things.’
‘My wife always wanted to be on television.’
The evangelist extended a soft, pliant hand. ‘Reverend Peter Sparrow,’ he said. Taking Sparrow’s hand, George felt sustenance and comfort radiate from each finger. This was a very fine evacuee indeed.
‘Television is becoming God’s chosen medium these days, just the way Gutenberg’s press used to be,’ said the evangelist. ‘We’ve been running a lot of old movies on Countdown lately, to build up our audience, follow what I’m saying? You’ve got to start where people are at. Sure, maybe Ben-Hur isn’t such a great picture – I mean, leprosy doesn’t really look like that, it’s quite a bit worse – but then you can move them toward the better stuff, The Robe and Quo Vadis and so on.’
George coughed. The torpedo tube had probably contained several infectious diseases. ‘So we’re all going to Antarctica.’
‘Isn’t it wonderful how nuclear exchanges cannot touch Christians?’ said Sparrow. ‘I knew the Perfect Exile would be a time of joy, but I hadn’t realized how rapturous the joy would be. I’m about to see my family.’
‘They’re in Antarctica?’
‘They’re in the sky with Jesus.’
George glanced up.
‘May I ask you something?’ The evangelist touched George’s spotted knuckles. ‘Are you saved?’
‘Yes, you just saved me. I’m most grateful to you. If your program was still on, I’d watch it.’
‘I’m talking about your relationship with—’
‘My family died when the Russians blew up Wildgrove. Or so I’m told.’
Reverend Sparrow frowned. ‘The Hebrew prophets – Ezekiel, Jeremiah – they’re all batting a thousand, understand? The Perfect Exile, the Terrible Trial, the destruction of the temple at Jerusalem – they saw everything, right? You’re saved, George, or you wouldn’t be on this trip.’
‘I’m a Unitarian.’
‘I’m going to pray for you,’ said Reverend Sparrow firmly.
‘I appreciate it,’ said George, and he did.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In Which Our Hero Makes a Strategic Decision and Acquires a Reason Not to Curse God and Die
In the days that followed, George’s grief took on a New England quality, becoming not so much an emotion as a job
The tube door opened. Someone grabbed his ankles and yanked him backward. The torpedo room smelled like burning hair, something he had not noticed before. The syrupy strings were now playing ‘Over There.’ George flexed his knees and stood up. Pain screwed through his shoulder bones.
A thirtyish man, handsome and stocky, dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit, grinned at him with what seemed like a surplus of teeth. His hair was auburn and abundant, like a well-nourished orangutan’s coat.
‘What happened to those ensigns?’ George asked. He stepped forward, scissoring his legs so as to hide his soggy crotch.
‘They had to go off watch, George,’ said his rescuer amiably. ‘I believe they just wanted to scare you.’
‘Whatever made them think that threatening to launch me into the ocean would scare me?’ The tomb inscriber laughed. His rescuer did not. George had never before met such a clean-shaven individual. It was as if all the man’s whisker follicles had been cauterized.
‘My grandfather was in the Navy,’ said the rescuer. His voice was like gourmet coffee, silky, layered. ‘Evidently it’s changed a lot since those days. These sailors have not received the Holy Spirit.’
George looked at his knuckles. They were speckled with a substance resembling tar. ‘Their blood is black.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said the rescuer.
‘You in the Navy, too?’
‘Ever watch Christian television?’
‘Not a great deal.’
‘Last year Countdown to God’s Wrath – you’ve never caught it? – we had a consistently better rating than Gospel Sing-Along . We get two and a half tons of mail a week. The Lord is doing so many wonderful things.’
‘My wife always wanted to be on television.’
The evangelist extended a soft, pliant hand. ‘Reverend Peter Sparrow,’ he said. Taking Sparrow’s hand, George felt sustenance and comfort radiate from each finger. This was a very fine evacuee indeed.
‘Television is becoming God’s chosen medium these days, just the way Gutenberg’s press used to be,’ said the evangelist. ‘We’ve been running a lot of old movies on Countdown lately, to build up our audience, follow what I’m saying? You’ve got to start where people are at. Sure, maybe Ben-Hur isn’t such a great picture – I mean, leprosy doesn’t really look like that, it’s quite a bit worse – but then you can move them toward the better stuff, The Robe and Quo Vadis and so on.’
George coughed. The torpedo tube had probably contained several infectious diseases. ‘So we’re all going to Antarctica.’
‘Isn’t it wonderful how nuclear exchanges cannot touch Christians?’ said Sparrow. ‘I knew the Perfect Exile would be a time of joy, but I hadn’t realized how rapturous the joy would be. I’m about to see my family.’
‘They’re in Antarctica?’
‘They’re in the sky with Jesus.’
George glanced up.
‘May I ask you something?’ The evangelist touched George’s spotted knuckles. ‘Are you saved?’
‘Yes, you just saved me. I’m most grateful to you. If your program was still on, I’d watch it.’
‘I’m talking about your relationship with—’
‘My family died when the Russians blew up Wildgrove. Or so I’m told.’
Reverend Sparrow frowned. ‘The Hebrew prophets – Ezekiel, Jeremiah – they’re all batting a thousand, understand? The Perfect Exile, the Terrible Trial, the destruction of the temple at Jerusalem – they saw everything, right? You’re saved, George, or you wouldn’t be on this trip.’
‘I’m a Unitarian.’
‘I’m going to pray for you,’ said Reverend Sparrow firmly.
‘I appreciate it,’ said George, and he did.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In Which Our Hero Makes a Strategic Decision and Acquires a Reason Not to Curse God and Die
In the days that followed, George’s grief took on a New England quality, becoming not so much an emotion as a job
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