Longstreet propelled Cynthia forward. "Let's move a little nearer. I don't want to miss any of this."
Cynthia resisted. "I don't want to be anywhere near those people. I'm not drunk, and they scare me to death."
The pressure on her arm was insistent. "We don't have anything to worry about. Dreisler fries bigger fish than us."
Cynthia let herself be pushed toward the other end of the room, hoping that Longstreet had not found his deathwish. To her relief, he stopped at what would be a safe distance from the confrontation between Dreisler and Booth.
Dreisler was affable and smiling, although his eyes were still hidden behind the black glasses. "How are you, Deacon Booth?"
Even Booth's florid cheeks seemed to have paled a little. "I'm well, thank you, Deacon Dreisler."
"I didn't know you were a follower of the Reverend Proverb."
It looked as if only an accustomed fear was keeping Booth from exploding. "Indeed I am not."
Dreisler was still smiling pleasantly. "Indeed?"
"I came here to see for myself how far the man would go."
"And how far has he gone so far?"
"Sadly, I have to tell you that serious questions are being raised regarding the loyalty of the Reverend Proverb."
Dreisler regarded Booth from over the top of his glasses. "But you haven't told me how for he's gone. Isn't that what you came here for?"
The pallor had gone from Booth's face. He was turning purple. "For a start, he's as good as – "
Dreisler waved a autocratic hand, summarily cutting Booth off. "I'll see for myself."
He stepped up to the window and looked down at the stage. He could not have picked a better time. Proverb was on a full tilt roll. The fire of damnation was all around him.
"Prophets of doom in the pulpit, and the money changers grow fat on the humble offerings of the poor. The chatter of commerce and the clash of the register drown the Word. The Light grows dim in the midnight of deception."
Dreisler looked back at nobody in particular. "He really is a little radical."
"John, chapter two, verse thirteen." Proverb gave the quote as if it was the ultimate authority. For many there, it was.
"And Jesus went up to Jerusalem, and found in the temple those who sold oxen and sheep and doves, and the changers of money sitting: and when he had made a scourge out of small cords, he drove them all out of the temple, and the sheep, and the oxen; and poured out the changers' money, and overthrew the tables; and said unto them that sold doves, take these things hence; make not my Father's house a house of merchandise."
Dreisler glanced back at Booth. "He seems to be quoting holy scripture."
"The Devil can quote scripture."
Dreisler turned back to the window. "Of course."
Proverb had put down his Bible.
"Now I don't think there are too many sheep and oxen around the temples of our land today – " Proverb suddenly grinned, " – although there are times when I ain't so sure." He paused for the explosion of laughter and then became serious. "One thing I do know for sure is that there are plenty of money changers and the like hanging around, getting fat while the rest of us get poorer."
There were some militant shouts. Everybody seemed to have overlooked the fact that the very last thing that Alien Proverb ever got was poorer.
"Fat cats in Washington and fat cats in Los Angeles talking the name of Jesus but walking this country, this land of the free, into harder times than we've ever seen."
Booth flashed Dreisler a look of triumph. "He's directly referring to the administration and the hierarchy."
Proverb had his arms outstretched. "But let me promise you one thing, friends and neighbors. The fat cats' days are numbered."
There was a blaze of light in the auditorium.
"There will be a cleansing of the temple. Believe me, friends and neighbors…" Again the voice came from the mountain-top. "There will be a cleansing of the temple!"
Dreisler turned away from the window. Cynthia was looking directly at him. For a fleeting instant, she saw a smile of intense and pure delight, that of a small boy who was seeing an elaborate practical joke coming together. Then it was gone. In shock she glanced at Longstreet, but he appeared not to have noticed anything.
Winters
All around him, people were shouting and cheering. It was like a battle cry.
"There will be a cleansing of the temple!"
Winters was lost. He did not know what to think. There was open sedition and heresy right there in Madison Square Garden and then, at the height of Proverb's headlong flight into blasphemy, out came that phrase, trumpeted in that terrible amplified voice. It was that same phrase that had so mysteriously appeared on his primary computer screen a few days earlier and, from that moment on, had caused him so much soul-nagging unease. He looked about for another of the deacons from his team. No one was in sight. All around him was a chaos of jumping, waving people, bumping and jostling him as they allowed themselves to become obscenely carried away by Proverb's cheap tricks. They were out of their seats and out of control, surging toward the stage like mindless lemmings. The security did nothing to stop them. It was a pagan hysteria that verged on violence. All order and control was deliberately being broken down, and if that was not criminal, Winters did not know what was. He was being carried forward by the bovine stampede. He pushed back, hunching his shoulders and letting them flow around him. They had to be insane, the staring eyes, the outstretched hands. Wordless noise came from the gaping mouths. There was something terribly perverted in the way that Proverb was able to take hold of those people's minds. He had to be more than just a cynical hustler. Was he a real agent of the Antichrist?
The crowd had closed in around him, and he was being carried forward again. In that instant, he hated those people. He hated them with a cold, unforgiving venom. They were ugly, stupid, and dangerous, and there was no place for them in the world that they were trying to create. Why did they not just move the army in and clean out the whole bunch of them? It would have to come one day. He was repulsed by the physical intensity of the whole thing. It was the complete and extreme opposite of the clean, cold godliness that was the core of his beliefs. A big burly man with triangular sideburns and greasy hair, and smelling of beer and cheap aftershave was thumping him on the back and yelling into his face. The man had to be an Elvi. There was sweat running down his cheeks and flecks of spittle on his chin.
"Praise the Lord, brother. The day is coming. There will be a cleansing of the temple."
Winters was eaten up with a blind fury. He loathed being touched by strangers. He wanted to strike out at the man, but the offender was already gone.
"You stupid hillbilly bastard!"
He wanted to go on screaming at the crowd that they were sick, that they were abandoning themselves to an unnatural evil. His hatred and outrage were, however, tempered by a deep-seated fear. Those very same words had appeared on his primary screen, and he did not know what they meant. Could he somehow be a part of all this?
He spotted Rogers through the mass of people. Rogers, too, was pushing his way backward, struggling against the tick. Winters cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled. "Hey, Rogers! Over here!"
Rogers did not respond.
Winters yelled again. "Rogers! Over here!"
Rogers was looking around. He spotted Winters and began moving toward him. "This is getting to be a mess."