Mrs. Paiwonski laughed triumphantly. “That’s just one bonus from the True Faith, my dears! Jill hon, I’m ‘way into my forties. Just how far in we won’t say; I’ve quit counting.”

“You certainly don’t look it.”

“I know I don’t. That’s what Happiness does for you, dearie. After my first kid, I let my figure go to pot. I got quite a can on me—they invented the word ‘broad’ just to fit me. My belly always looked like four months gone, or worse. My busts hung down—and I’ve never had ’em lifted. You don’t have to believe me; sure, I know a good plastic surgeon doesn’t leave a scar . . . but on me it would show, dear; it would chop chunks out of two of my pictures.

“Then I seen the light! I got converted. Nope, not exercise, not diet—I still eat like a pig and you know it. Happiness, dear. Perfect Happiness in the Lord through the help of Blessed Foster.”

“It’s amazing,” said Jill, and meant it. She knew women who had kept their looks quite as well (as she firmly intended to keep hers) . . . but in every case only through great effort. She knew that Aunt Patty was telling the truth about diet and exercise, at least during the time she had known her . . . and as a surgical nurse Jill knew exactly what was excised and where in a breast-lifting job; those tattoos had certainly never known a knife.

But Mike was not amazed. He assumed conclusively that Pat had learned how to think her body as she wished it, whether she attributed it to Foster or not. He was still trying to teach this control to Jill, but knew that she would have to perfect her knowledge of Martian before it could be perfect. No hurry, waiting would accomplish it. Pat went on talking:

“I wanted you to see what the Faith has done for me. But that’s just outside; the real change is inside. Happiness. I’ve got to try to tell you about it. The good Lord knows that I’m not ordained and I’m not gifted with tongues . . . but I’ve got to try. And then I’ll answer your questions if I can. The first thing that you’ve got to accept is that all the other so-called churches are traps of the Devil. Our dear Jesus preached the True Faith, so Foster said and I truly believe. But, in the Dark Ages his words were deliberately twisted and added to and changed until Jesus wouldn’t recognize ’em. And that is why Foster was sent down to Earth, to proclaim a New Revelation and straighten it out and make it clear again.”

Patricia Paiwonski pointed her finger and suddenly looked very impressive, a priestess clothed in holy dignity and mystic symbols. “God wants us to be Happy. He filled the world with things to make us Happy if only we see the light. Would God let grape juice turn into wine if He didn’t want us to drink and be joyful? He could just as easily let it stay grape juice . . . or turn it straight into vinegar that nobody could get a happy giggle out of. Ain’t that true? Of course He don’t mean you should get roaring drunk and beat your wife and neglect your kids . . . but He gave us good things to use, not to abuse . . . and not to ignore. But if you feel like a drink or six, among friends who have seen the light, too, and it makes you want to jump up and dance and give thanks to the Lord on high for his goodness—why not? God made alcohol and he made feet—and he made ’em so you could put ’em together and be happy!”

She paused and said, “Fill ’er up again, honey; preaching is thirsty work—and not too strong on the ginger ale this time; that’s good rye. And that ain’t all. If God didn’t want women to be looked at, he would have made ’em ugly—that’s reasonable, isn’t it? God isn’t a cheat; He set up the game Himself—He wouldn’t rig it so that the marks can’t win, like a flat joint wheel in a town with the fix on. He wouldn’t send anybody to Hell for losing in a crooked game.

“All right! God wants us to be Happy and he told us how: ‘Love one another!’ Love a snake if the poor thing needs love. Love thy neighbor if he’s seen the light and has love in his heart . . . and the back of your hand only to sinners and Satan’s corruptors who want to lead you away from the appointed path and down into the pit. And by ‘love’ he didn’t mean namby-pamby old-maid-aunt love that’s scared to look up from a hymn book for fear of seeing a temptation of the flesh. If God hated flesh, why did He make so much of it? God is no sissy. He made the Grand Canyon and comets coursing through the sky and cyclones and stallions and earthquakes—can a God who can do all that turn around and practically wet his pants just because some little sheila leans over a mite and a man catches sight of a tit? You know better, hon—and so do I! When God told us to love, He wasn’t holding out a card on us; He meant it. Love little babies that always need changing and love strong, smelly men so that there will be more little babies to love—and in between go on loving because it’s so good to love!