“Economical, at least.”

“Uh huh, our liquor bill isn’t anything. Matter of fact, running that whole Temple hasn’t cost what it costs you to keep up our home. Except for the initial investment and replacing some of the props, coffee and cakes was about all—we made our own fun. We were happy. We needed so little that I used to wonder what to do with all the money that came in.”

“Then why did you take collections?”

“Huh? Oh, you have to charge ’em, Jubal. The marks won’t pay serious attention to anything that’s free.”

“I knew that, I just wondered if you did.”

“Oh, yes, I grok marks, Jubal. At first I did try to preach free—just give it away. I had plenty of money, I thought it was all right. It didn’t work. We humans have to make considerable progress before we can accept a free gift, and value it. Usually I never let them have anything free until about Sixth Circle. By then they can accept . . . and accepting is much harder than giving.”

“Hmm . . . son, I think maybe you should write a book on human psychology.”

“I have. But it’s in Martian. Stinky has the tapes.” Mike looked again at his glass, took a slow sybaritic sip. “We do use some liquor. A few of us—Saul, myself, Sven, some others—like it. And I’ve learned that I can let it have just a little effect, then hold it right at that point, and gain a euphoric growing-closer much like trance without having to withdraw. The minor damage is easy to repair.” He sipped again. “That’s what I’m doing this morning—letting myself get just the mildest glow and be happy with you.”

Jubal studied him closely. “Son, you aren’t drinking entirely to be sociable; you’ve got something on your mind.”

“Yes, I have.”

“Do you want to talk it out?”

“Yes. Father, it’s always a great goodness to be with you, even if nothing is troubling me. But you are the only human I can always talk to and know that you will grok and that you yourself won’t be overwhelmed by it, too. Jill . . . Jill always groks—but if it hurts me, it hurts her still more. Dawn the same. Patty . . . well, Patty can always take my hurt away, but she does it by keeping it herself. All three of them are too easily hurt for me to risk sharing in full with them anything I can’t grok and cherish before I share it.” Mike looked very thoughtful. “Confession is needful. The Catholics know that, they have it—and they have a corps of strong men to take it. The Fosterites have group confession and pass it around among themselves and thin it out. I need to introduce confession into this church, as part of the early purging—oh, we have it now, but spontaneously, after the pilgrim no longer really needs it. We need strong men for that—‘sin’ is hardly ever concerned with a real wrongness . . . but sin is what the sinner groks as sin—and when you grok it with him, it can be very disturbing. I know.”

Mike went on earnestly, “Goodness is not enough, goodness is never enough. That was one of my first mistakes, because among Martians goodness and wisdom are the same thing, identical. But not with us. Take Jill. Her goodness was perfect when I met her. Nevertheless she was all mixed up inside—and I almost destroyed her, and myself too—for I was just as mixed up—before we got squared away. Her endless patience (not very common on this planet) was all that saved us . . . while I was learning to be a human and she was learning what I knew.

“But goodness alone is never enough. A hard, cold wisdom is required, too, for goodness to accomplish good. Goodness without wisdom invariably accomplishes evil.” He smiled and his face lit up. “And that’s why I need you, Father, as well as loving you. I need to make confession to you.”

Jubal squirmed. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Mike, don’t make a production out of it. Just tell me what’s eating you. We’ll find a way out.”

“Yes, Father.”

But Mike did not go on. Finally Jubal said, “Do you feel busted up by the destruction of your Temple? I wouldn’t blame you. But you aren’t broke, you can build again.”

“Oh, no, that doesn’t matter in the slightest!”

“Eh?”

“That temple was a diary with all its pages filled. Time for a new one, rather than write over and deface the filled pages. Fire can’t destroy the experiences in it . . . and strictly from a standpoint of publicity and practical church politics, being run out of it in so spectacular a fashion will be helpful, in the long run. No, Jubal, the last couple of days have simply been an enjoyable break in a busy routine. No harm done.” His expression changed. “Father . . . lately I learned that I was a spy.”