“Whew! Jubal, you should have been a preacher.”

“Missed it by only a razor’s edge, my boy—and I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head. One more word in Mike’s defense and I’ll throw him on the mercy of the court. If he can show us a better way to run this fouled-up planet, his sex life is vindicated thereby, regardless of your taste or mine. Geniuses are notoriously indifferent to the sexual customs of the culture in which they find themselves, they make their own rules; this is not opinion, it was proved by Armattoe ’way back in 1948. And Mike is a genius; he’s shown it more ways than one. He can therefore be expected to ignore Mrs. Grundy and diddle to suit himself. Geniuses are justifiably contemptuous of the opinions of their inferiors.

“And from a religious standpoint Mike’s sexual behavior is as kosher as fish on Friday, as orthodox as Santa Claus. He preaches that all living creatures are collectively God . . . which makes him and his disciples the only self-aware gods in his pantheon—which rates him a union     card by the rules for godding on this planet. Those rules always permit gods sexual freedom limited only by their own judgment; mortal rules never apply. Leda and the Swan? Europa and the Bull? Osiris, Isis, and Horus? The incredible incestuous games of the Norse gods? Of course . . . but why stop there? Take a hard look at the family relations of the Trinity-in-One of the most widely respected western religion (I won’t cite eastern religions; their gods do things a mink breeder wouldn’t put up with!). The only way in which the odd interrelations of the various aspects of what purports to be a monotheos can be reconciled with the precepts of the religion thereto is by assuming that the rules in these matters for deity are not the rules for ordinary mortals. Of course most people don’t think about it; they compartment it off in their minds and mark it: ‘Holy—Do Not Disturb.’

“But an outside referee is forced to allow Mike the same dispensation granted all other gods. There are rules for this game: one god alone splits into at least two parts, male and female—and breeds. Not just Jehovah—they all do it. Look it up. Contrariwise, a group of gods will breed like rabbits, every time, and with as little regard for human formalities. Once Mike entered the godding business, those orgies of his group were as logically certain as Sunday follows Saturday. So quit using the standards of Podunk and judge them only by Olympian morals—I think you will then find that they are showing unusual restraint. Furthermore, Ben, this ‘growing-closer’ by sexual union    , this unity-into-plurality and plurality-back-into-unity, cannot tolerate monogamy inside the god group. Any pairing that excluded the others would be immoral, obscene, under the postulated creed. And if such mutual, shared-by-all sexual congress is essential to their creed, as I grok it has to be, then why do you expect this holy union     to be hidden behind a door? Your insistence that they should hide it would have turned a holy rite—which it was—into something obscene—which it was not. You just plain did not understand what you were looking at.”

“Maybe I didn’t,” Ben said glumly.

“I’m going to offer you one box-top premium, as an inducement. You wondered how Mike got rid of his clothes so quickly. I’ll tell you how.”

“How?”

“It was a miracle.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!”

“Could be. But one thousand dollars says that it was a miracle by the usual rules for miracles—outcome to be decided by you. Go back and ask Mike how he did it. Get him to show you. Then send me the money.”

“Hell Jubal, I don’t want to take your money.”

“You won’t. I’ve got inside information. Bet?”

“No, damn it. Jubal, you go down there and see what the score is. I can’t go back—not now.”

“They’ll take you back with open arms and not even ask why you left so abruptly. One thousand on that prediction, too. Ben, you were there less than a day—fifteen hours, about—and you spent over half that time sleeping and playing hop-scotch with Dawn. Did you give them a square shake? The sort of careful investigation you give something smelly in public life before you blast it in your column?”

“But—”

“Did you, or didn’t you?”

“No, but—”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake yourself, Ben! You claim to be in love with Jill . . . yet you won’t give her the consideration you give a crooked politician. Not a tenth the effort she made to help you when you were kidnapped. Where would you be today if she had given it so feeble a try? Pushing up daisies! Roasting in hell! You’re bitching about those kids over some friendly fornication—but do you know what I’m worried about?”