“And thank you, Jick Morris and the developers of Elysian Fields! I think we’ve got something, folks! Yes, sir, I think we do—”

(“They’re coming out the front entrance,” Patty said quietly. “The crowd hasn’t spotted Michael yet.”)

“Maybe not yet . . . but soon. You are now looking at the main entrance of the magnificent Sans Souci Hotel, Gem of the Gulf, whose management is in no way responsible for this hunted fugitive and who have cooperated with the authorities throughout according to a statement just issued by Chief of Police Davis. And while we’re waiting to see what will happen, a few high lights in the strange career of this half-human monster raised on Mars—”

The live scene was replaced by quick cuts of stock shots: The Envoy blasting off years earlier, the Champion floating upwards silently and effortlessly under Lyle Drive, Martians on Mars, the triumphant return of the Champion, a quick of the first faked interview with the “Man from Mars”— “What do you think of the girls here on Earth?” . . . “Gee!”—a quicker shot of the conference in the Executive Palace and the much-publicized awarding of a doctorate in philosophy, all with rapid-fire commentary.

“See anything, Patty?”

“Michael is at the top of the steps, the crowd is at least a hundred yards away, being kept off the hotel grounds. Duke has grabbed some pix and Mike is waiting to let him change lenses. No hurry.”

Happy Holliday went on, as the tank shifted to the crowd, semi-close and panning: “You understand, friends, that this wonderful community is in a unique condition today. Something strange has been going on and these people are in no mood to trifle. Their laws have been flouted, their security forces treated with contempt, they are angry, righteously so. The fanatic followers of this alleged antichrist have stopped at nothing to create turmoil in a futile effort to let their leader escape the closing net of justice. Anything can happen—anything!”

The announcer’s voice climbed: “Yes, he’s coming out now—he’s walking toward the people!” The scene cut to reverse; Mike was walking directly toward another camera. Anne and Duke were behind him and dropping farther behind. “This is it! This is it! This is the blow-off!”

Mike continued to walk unhurriedly toward the crowd until he loomed up in the stereo tank in life size, as if he were in the room with his water brothers. He stopped on the grass verge in front of the hotel, a few feet from the crowd. “You called me?”

He was answered with a growl.

The sky held scattered clouds; at that instant the sun came out from behind one and a shaft of golden light hit him.

His clothes vanished. He stood before them, a golden youth, clothed only in his own beauty—beauty that made Jubal’s heart ache, thinking that Michelangelo in his ancient years would have climbed down from his high scaffolding to record it for generations unborn. Mike said gently, “Look at me. I am a son of man.”

The scene cut for a ten-second plug, a line of can-can dancers singing:

“Come on, ladies, do your duds!

In the smoothest, yummiest suds!

Lover Soap is kind to hands—

But be sure you save the bands!”



The tank filled completely with foamy suds amid girlish laughter and the scene cut back to the newscast:

“God damn you!” A half brick caught Mike in the ribs. He turned his face slightly toward his assailant. “But you yourself are God. You can damn only yourself . . . and you can never escape yourself.”

“Blasphemer!” A rock caught him just over his left eye and bloodwelled forth.

Mike said calmly, “In fighting me, you fight yourself . . . for Thou art God . . . and I am God . . . and all that groks is God—there is no other.”

More rocks hit him, from various directions; he began to bleed in several places. “Hear the Truth. You need not hate, you need not fight, you need not fear. I offer you the water of life—” Suddenly his hand held a tumbler of water, sparkling in the sunlight. “—and you may share it whenever you so will . . . and walk in peace and love and happiness together.”

A rock caught the glass and shattered it. Another struck him in the mouth.

Through bruised and bleeding lips he smiled at them, looking straight into the camera with an expression of yearning tenderness on his face. Some trick of sunlight and stereo formed a golden halo back of his head. “Oh my brothers, I love you so! Drink deep. Share and grow closer without end. Thou art God.”

Jubal whispered it back to him. The scene made a five-second cut: “Cahuenga Cave! The night club with real Los Angeles smog, imported fresh every day. Six exotic dancers.”