“Only to observe it.”

Most of the others had left the table, leaving quietly and without formality when they wished. Ruth came over and stood by them. “Are you two going to sit here all night? Or shall we move you out with the dishes?”

“I’m henpecked. Come on, Jubal.” Sam stopped to kiss his wife.

They stopped only momentarily in the room with the stereo tank. “Anything new?” asked Sam.

“The county attorney,” someone said, “has been orating in an attempt to prove that all of today’s disasters are our doing . . . without admitting that he doesn’t have the slightest notion how any of it was done.”

“Poor fellow. He’s bitten a wooden leg and his teeth hurt.” They went on through and found a quieter living room; Sam said, “I had been saying that these troubles can be expected—and they will get much worse before we can expect to control enough public opinion to be tolerated. But Mike is in no hurry. So we close down the Church of All Worlds—it is closed down. So we move and open the Congregation of the One Faith—and we get kicked out again. Then we reopen elsewhere as the Temple of the Great Pyramid—that one will bring flocking the foolish fat and fatuous females, and some of them will end up neither fat nor foolish—and when we have the Medical Association and the local bar and the newspapers and the boss politicos snapping at our heels there—why, we open the Brotherhood of Baptism somewhere else. Each one means solid progress, a hard core of disciplined who can’t be hurt—Mike started here hardly over a year ago, uncertain himself, and with only the help of three untrained priestesses-by-courtesy. Now we’ve got a solid Nest . . . plus a lot of fairly advanced pilgrims we can get in touch with later and let rejoin us. And someday, someday, we’ll be too strong to persecute.”

“Well,” agreed Jubal, “it could work. Jesus made quite a splash with only twelve disciples. In due course.”

Sam grinned happily. “A Jew boy. Thanks for mentioning Him. He’s the outstanding success story of my tribe—and we all know it, even though many of us don’t talk about Him. But He was a Jew boy that made good and I’m proud of Him, being a Jew boy myself. Please to note that Jesus didn’t try to get it all done by next Wednesday. He was patient. He set up a sound organization and let it grow. Mike is patient, too. Patience is so much part of the discipline that it isn’t even patience; it’s automatic. No sweat. Never any sweat.”

“A sound attitude at any time.”

“Not an attitude. The functioning of the discipline. Jubal? I grok you are tired. Would you wish to become untired? Or would you rather go to bed? If you don’t, our brothers will keep you up all night, talking. Most of us don’t sleep much, you know.”

Jubal yawned. “I think I’ll choose a long, hot soak and about eight hours of sleep. I’ll visit with our brothers tomorrow . . . and other days.”

“And many other days,” agreed Sam.

Jubal found his own room, was immediately joined by Patty, who again insisted on drawing his tub, then turned back his bed, neatly, without touching it, placed his setup for drinks (fresh ice cubes) by his bed, and fixed one and placed it on the shelf of the tub. Jubal did not try to hurry her out; she had arrived displaying all her pictures. He knew enough about the syndrome which can lead to full tattooing to be quite sure that if he did not now remark on them and ask to be allowed to examine them, she would be very hurt even though she might conceal it.

Nor did he display or feel any of the fret that Ben had felt on an earlier, similar occasion; he went right ahead and undressed, making nothing of it—and discovered with wryly bitter pride that it did not matter to him in the least even though it had been many years since the last time he had allowed anyone, man or woman, to see him naked. It seemed to matter not at all to Patty and even less to him. She simply made sure that the tub was just right before allowing him to step into it.

Then she remained and told him what each picture was and in what sequence to view them.

Jubal was properly awed and appropriately complimentary, while completely the impersonal art critic. But it was, he admitted to himself, the goddamdest display of virtuosity with a needle he had ever seen—it made his fully decorated Japanese friend look like a cheap carpet as compared with the finest Princess Bokhara.

“They’ve been changing a little,” she told him. “Take the holy birth scene here—that rear wall is beginning to look curved . . . and the bed looks almost like a hospital table. Of course I have been changing, too, quite a lot. I’m sure George doesn’t mind. There hasn’t been a needle touched to me since he went to Heaven . . . and if some miraculous changes take place, I’m sure he knows about them and has a finger in it somehow.”