“Lynch him! Give the bastard a nigger necktie!” A heavy-gauge shotgun blasted at close range and Mike’s right arm was struck off at the elbow and fell. It floated gently down, then came to rest on the cool grasses, its hand curved open in invitation.

“Give him the other barrel, Shortie—and aim closer!” The crowd laughed and applauded. A brick smashed Mike’s nose and more rocks gave him a crown of blood.

“The Truth is simple but the Way of Man is hard. First you must learn to control your self. The rest follows. Blessed is he who knows himself and commands himself, for the world is his and love and happiness and peace walk with him wherever he goes.” Another shotgun blast was followed by two more shots. One shot, a forty-five slug, hit Mike over the heart, shattering the sixth rib near the sternum and making a large wound; the buckshot and the other slug sheered through his left tibia five inches below the patella and left the fibula sticking out at an angle, broken and white against the yellow and red of the wound.

Mike staggered slightly and laughed, went on talking, his words clear and unhurried. “Thou art God. Know that and the Way is opened.”

“God damn it—let’s stop this taking the Name of the Lord in vain!”—“Come on, men! Let’s finish him!” The mob surged forward, led by one bold with a club; they were on him with rocks and fists, and then with feet as he went down. He went on talking while they kicked his ribs in and smashed his golden body, broke his bones and tore an ear loose. At last someone called out, “Back away a little so we can get the gasoline on him!”

The mob opened up a little at that warning and the camera zoomed to pick up his face and shoulders. The Man from Mars smiled at his brothers, said once more, softly and clearly, “I love you.” An incautious grasshopper came whirring to a landing on the grass a few inches from his face; Mike turned his head, looked at it as it stared back at him. “Thou art God,” he said happily and discorporated.



38

Flame and billowing smoke came up and filled the tank. “Golly!” Patty said reverently. “That’s the best blow-off ever used.”

“Yes,” agreed Becky judicially, “the Professor himself never dreamed up a better one.”

Van Tromp said very quietly, apparently to himself: “In style. Smart and with style—the lad finished in style.”

Jubal looked around at his brothers. Was he the only one who felt anything? Jill and Dawn were seated each with an arm around the other—but they did that whenever they were together; neither one seemed disturbed. Even Dorcas was dry-eyed and calm.

The inferno in the tank cut to smiling Happy Holliday who said, “And now, folks, a few moments for our friends at Elysian Fields who so graciously gave up their—” Patty cut him off.

“Anne and Duke are on their way back up,” she said. “I’ll let them through the foyer and then we’ll have lunch.” She started to leave.

Jubal stopped her. “Patty? Did you know what Mike was going to do?”

She seemed puzzled. “Huh? Why, of course not, Jubal. It was necessary to wait for fullness. None of us knew.” She turned and left.

“Jubal—” Jill was looking at him. “Jubal our beloved father . . . please stop and grok the fullness. Mike is not dead. How can he be dead when no one can be killed? Nor can he ever be away from us who have already grokked him. Thou art God.”

“‘Thou art God,’” he repeated dully.

“That’s better. Come sit with Dawn and me—in the middle.”

“No. No, just let me be.” He went blindly to his own room, let himself in and bolted the door after him, leaned heavily with both hands gripping the foot of the bed. My son, oh my son! Would that I had died for thee! He had had so much to live for . . . and an old fool that he respected too much had to shoot off his yap and goad him into a needless, useless martyrdom. If Mike had given them something big—like stereo, or bingo—but he gave them the Truth. Or a piece of the Truth. And who is interested in Truth? He laughed through his sobs.

After a while he shut them off, both heart-broken sobs and bitter laugh, and pawed through his traveling bag. He had what he wanted with him; he had kept a supply in his toilet kit ever since Joe Douglas’s stroke had reminded him that all flesh is grass.

Well, now his own stroke had come and he couldn’t take it. He prescribed three tablets for himself to make it fast and certain, washed them down with water, and lay quickly on the bed. Shortly the pain went away.

From a great distance the voice reached him. “Jubal—”

“’M resting. Don’ bother me.”