“What do you think they’ll try to do to him?”

“Convert him, of course. Then get their hands on his fortune.”

“I thought you had things fixed so that nobody could do that?”

“No, I just fixed it so that nobody could take it away from him against his will. Ordinarily he couldn’t even give it away without the government stepping in. But giving it to a church, especially a politically powerful church like the Fosterites, is another matter.”

“I don’t see why.”

Jubal sighed. “My dear, religion is practically a null area under the law. A church can do anything any other human organization can do—and has no restrictions. It pays no taxes, need not publish records, is effectively immune to search, inspection, or control—and a church is anything that calls itself a church. Attempts have been made to distinguish between ‘real’ religions entitled to these immunities and ‘cults.’ This can’t be done, short of establishing a state religion . . . which is a cure worse than the disease. In any case, we haven’t done it, and both under what’s left of the old United States Constitution and under the Treaty of Federation, all churches are equal and equally immune—especially if they swing a big bloc of votes. If Mike is converted to Fosterism . . . and makes a will in favor of his church . . . and then ‘goes to heaven’ some sunrise, it will all be, to put it in the correct tautology, ‘as legal as church on Sunday.’”

“Oh, dear! I thought we had him safe at last.”

“There is no safety this side of the grave.”

“Well . . . what are you going to do about it, Jubal?”

“Nothing. Just fret, that’s all.”

Mike stored their conversation without any effort to grok it. He recognized the subject as one of utter simplicity in his own language but amazingly slippery in English. Since his failure to achieve mutual grokking on this subject, even with his brother Mahmoud, with his admittedly imperfect translation of the all-embracing Martian concept as: “Thou art God,” he had simply waited until grokking was possible. He knew that the waiting would fructify at its time; his brother Jill was learning his language and he would be able to explain it to her. They would grok together.

In the meantime the scenery flowing beneath him was a neverending delight, and he was filled with eagerness for experience to come. He expected, or hoped, to meet a human Old One.

Senator Tom Boone was waiting to meet them at the landing flat. “Howdy, folks! And may the Good Lord bless you on this beautiful Sabbath. Mr. Smith, I’m happy to see you again. And you, too, Doctor.” He took his cigar out of his mouth and looked at Jill. “And this little lady—didn’t I see you at the Palace?”

“Yes, Senator. I’m Gillian Boardman.”

“Thought so, m’dear. Are you saved?”

“Uh, I guess not, Senator.”

“Well, it’s never too late. We’ll be very happy to have you attend the seekers’ service in the Outer Tabernacle—I’ll find a Guardian to guide you. Mr. Smith and the Doc will be going into the Sanctuary, of course.” The Senator looked around.

“Senator—”

“Uh, what, Doc?”

“If Miss Boardman can’t go into the Sanctuary, I think we had all better attend the seekers’ service. She’s his nurse and translator.”

Boone looked slightly perturbed. “Is he ill? He doesn’t look it. And why does he need a translator? He speaks English—I heard him.”

Jubal shrugged. “As his physician, I prefer to have a nurse to assist me, if necessary. Mr. Smith is not entirely adjusted to the conditions of this planet. An interpreter may not be necessary. But why don’t you ask him? Mike, do you want Jill to come with you?”

“Yes, Jubal.”

“But—Very well, Mr. Smith.” Boone again removed his cigar, put two fingers between his lips and whistled. “Cherub here!”

A youngster in his early teens came dashing up. He was dressed in a short robe, tights, and slippers, and had what appeared to be pigeon’s wings (because they were) fastened, spread, on his shoulders. He was bare-headed, had a crop of tight golden curls, and a sunny smile. Jill thought that he was as cute as a ginger ale ad.

Boone ordered, “Fly up to the Sanctum office and tell the Warden on duty that I want another pilgrim’s badge sent to the Sanctuary gate right away. The word is Mars.”

“‘Mars,’” the kid repeated, threw Boone a Boy Scout salute, turned and made a mighty sixty-foot leap over the heads of the crowd. Jill realized why the short robe had looked so bulky; it concealed a personal jump harness.