Jubal hesitated, then gave in. “Well—There won’t be a lot of other people? This boy has had enough excitement for one day.”

“Just the Supreme Bishop. He wants to see you privately.” Boone ushered them into a small elevator concealed in the decorations of the tunnel; moments later they were waiting in a parlor of Digby’s private apartments.

A door opened, Digby hurried in. He had removed his vestments and was dressed in flowing robes. He smiled at them. “Sorry to keep you waiting, folks—I just have to have a shower as soon as I come off. You’ve no notion how it makes you sweat to punch Satan and keep on slugging. So this is the Man from Mars? God bless you, son. Welcome to the Lord’s House. Archangel Foster wants you to feel at home here. He’s watching over you.”

Mike did not answer. Jubal was surprised to see how short the Supreme Bishop was. Lifts in his shoes when he was on stage? Or the way the lighting was arranged? Aside from the goatee he wore in evident imitation of the departed Foster, the man reminded him of a used-car salesman—the same ready smile and warm sincere manner. But he reminded Jubal of some one else, too . . . somebody—Got it! “Professor” Simon Magus, Becky Vesey’s long-dead husband. Jubal relaxed a little and felt friendlier toward the clergyman. Simon had been as likable a scoundrel as he had ever known—

Digby had turned his charm on Jill. “Don’t kneel, daughter; we’re just friends in private here.” He spoke a few words to her, startling Jill with a surprising knowledge of her background and adding earnestly, “I have deep respect for your calling, daughter. In the blessed words of Archangel Foster, God commands us first to minister to the body in order that the soul may seek the light untroubled by ills of the flesh. I know that you are not yet one of us . . . but your service is blessed by the Lord. We are fellow travelers on the road to Heaven.”

He turned to Jubal. “You, too, Doctor. Archangel Foster has told us that the Lord commands us to be happy . . . and many is the time I have put down my crook, weary unto death with the cares and woes of my flock, and enjoyed an innocent, happy hour over one of your stories . . . and have stood up refreshed, ready to fight again.”

“Uh, thank you, Bishop.”

“I mean it deeply. I’ve had your record searched in Heaven—now, now, never mind; I know that you are an unbeliever but let me speak. Even Satan has a purpose in God’s Great Plan. It is not yet time for you to believe. Out of your sorrow and heartache and pain you spin happiness for other people. This is all credited on your page of the Great Ledger. Now please! I did not bring you here to argue technology. We never argue with anyone, we wait until they see the light and then we welcome them. But today we shall just enjoy a happy hour together.”

Digby then proceeded to act as if he meant it. Jubal was forced to admit that the glib fraud was a charming host, and his coffee and liquor and food were all excellent. Jubal noticed that Mike seemed decidedly jumpy, especially when Digby deftly cut him out of the herd and spoke with him alone—but, confound it, the boy was simply going to have to get used to meeting people and talking to them on his own, without Jubal or Jill or somebody to feed him his lines.

Boone was showing Jill some relics of Foster in a glass case on the other side of the room; Jubal covertly watched her evident reluctance with mild amusement while he spread paté de fois gras on toast. He heard a door click and looked around; Digby and Mike were missing. “Where did they go, Senator?”

“Eh? What was that, Doctor?”

“Bishop Digby and Mr. Smith. Where are they?”

Boone looked around, seemed to notice the closed door. “Oh, they’ve just stepped in there for a moment. That’s a little retiring room used for private audiences. You were in it, weren’t you? When the Supreme Bishop was showing you around.”

“Um, yes.” It was a small room with nothing in it but a chair on a dais—a “throne,” Jubal corrected himself with a private grin—and a kneeler with an arm rest. Jubal wondered which one would use the throne and which one would be left with the kneeler—if this tinsel bishop tried to argue religion with Mike he was in for some shocks. “I hope they don’t stay in there too long. We really do have to be getting back.”

“I doubt if they’ll stay long. Probably Mr. Smith wanted a word in private. People often do . . . and the Supreme Bishop is very generous that way. Look, I’ll call the parking lot and have your cab waiting right at the end of that passageway where we took the elevator—that’s the Supreme Bishop’s private entrance. Save you a good ten minutes.”