Jubal looked at him. “Don’t get up.”

“I can’t, she’s sitting on me. A little higher up, Miriam. Hi, Mike.”

“Hi, my brother Stinky Dr. Mahmoud.” Mike then gravely greeted Ben, and asked to be excused.

“Run along, son,” Jubal told him.

Anne said, “Wait a minute, Mike. Have you had lunch?”

He said solemnly, “Anne, I am not hungry. Thank you,” turned and went into the house.

Mahmoud twisted, almost unseating Miriam. “Jubal? What’s troubling our son?”

“Yeah,” said Ben. “He looks seasick.”

“Let him alone and he’ll get well. An overdose of religion. Digby has been working on him.” Jubal sketched the morning’s events.

Mahmoud frowned. “But was it necessary to leave him alone with Digby? This seems to me—pardon me, my brother!—unwise.”

“He’s not hurt. Stinky, he’s got to learn to take such things in his stride. You’ve preached your brand of theology to him—I know you have; he’s told me about it. Can you name me one good reason why Digby shouldn’t have his innings? Answer me as a scientist, not as a Muslim.”

“I am unable to answer anything other than as a Muslim,” Dr. Mahmoud said quietly.

“Sorry. I recognize the correctness of your answer, even though I don’t agree with it.”

“But, Jubal, I used the word ‘Muslim’ in its exact, technical sense, not as a sectarian which Maryam incorrectly terms ‘Mohammedan.’”

“And which I’m going to go right on calling you until you learn to pronounce ‘Miriam’ correctly! Quit squirming. I’m not hurting you.”

“Yes, Maryam. Ouch! Women should not be so muscular. Jubal, as a scientist, I find Michael the greatest prize of my career. As a Muslim, I find in him a willingness to submit to the will of God . . . and this makes me happy for his sake, although I readily admit that there are great semantic difficulties and as yet he does not seem to grok what the English word ‘God’ means.” He shrugged. “Nor the Arabic word ‘Allah.’ But as a man—and always a Slave of God—I love this young man, our foster son and water brother, and I would not have him come under bad influences. Quite aside from his creed, this Digby strikes me as a bad influence. What do you think?”

“Olé!” Ben applauded. “He’s a slimy bastard—and the only reason I haven’t been taking his racket apart in my column is that the Syndicate is afraid to print it. Stinky, keep talking that well and you’ll have me studying Arabic and buying me a rug.”

“I hope so. But the rug is not necessary.”

Jubal sighed. “I agree with both of you. I’d rather see Mike smoking marijuana than be converted by Digby. But I don’t think there is the slightest chance of Mike’s being taken in by that syncretic hodgepodge Digby peddles . . . and he’s got to learn to stand up to bad influences. I consider you a good influence—but I don’t really think you stand much more chance than Digby has—the boy has an amazingly strong mind of his own. Muhammad may have to make way for a new prophet.”

“If God so wills it,” Mahmoud answered calmly.

“That leaves no room for argument,” Jubal agreed.

“We were discussing religion before you got home,” Dorcas said softly. “Boss, did you know that women have souls?”

“They do?”

“So Stinky says.”

“Maryam,” Mahmoud explained, “wanted to know why we ‘Mohammedans’ thought only men had souls. So I cited the Writings.”

“Miriam, I’m surprised at you. That’s as vulgar a misconception as the notion that Jews sacrifice Christian babies in secret, obscene rites. The Koran is explicit in half a dozen places that entire families enter into Paradise, men and women together. For example, see ‘Ornaments of Gold’—verse seventy, isn’t it, Stinky?”

“‘Enter the Garden, ye and your wives, to be made glad.’ That’s as well as it can be put, in English,” agreed Mahmoud.

“Well,” said Miriam, “I had heard about the beautiful houris that Mohammedan men have for playthings when they go to heaven and that didn’t seem to leave much room for wives.”

“Houris aren’t women,” said Jubal. “They are separate creations, like djinni and angels. They don’t need human souls, they are spirits to start with, eternal and unchanging and beautiful. There are male houris, too, or the male equivalent of houris. Houris don’t have to earn their way into Paradise; they’re on the staff. They serve endless delicious foods and pass around drinks that never give hangovers and entertain in other ways as requested. But the souls of human wives don’t have to do any housework, any more than the men. Correct, Stinky?”