“Well-you didn’t have to make it so personal.”
“Ah, but I did have to. We were speaking of the psychodynamics of emotion, and emotions are personal, subjective things which must be experienced to be understood. You were of the belief that you, as an educated man, were immune to this form of attack—so I ran a lab test to show you that no one is immune. Now just what did I say to you?”
“You said-Never mind. Okay, so it was a test. But I don’t care to repeat it. You’ve made your point: I don’t like it.”
“But what did I say? All I said, in fact, was that you were the legitimate offspring of a legal marriage. Right? What is insulting about that?”
“But'—I stopped and ran over in my mind the infuriating, insulting, and degrading things he had said—and, do you know, that is absolutely all they added up to. I grinned sheepishly. “It was the way you said it.”
“Exactly, exactly! To put it technically, I selected terms with high negative indices, for this situation and for this listener. Which is precisely what we do with this propaganda, except that the emotional indices are lesser quantitatively to avoid arousing suspicion and to evade the censors-slow poison, rather than a kick in the belly. The stuff we write is all about the Prophet, lauding him to the skies . . . so the irritation produced in the reader is transferred to him. The method cuts below the reader’s conscious thought and acts on the taboos and fetishes that infest his subconscious.”
I remembered sourly my own unreasoned anger. “I’m convinced. It sounds like heap big medicine.”
“It is, chum, it is. There is magic in words, black magic-if you know how to invoke it.”
After dinner Zeb and I went to his cubicle and continued to bat the breeze. I felt warm and comfortable and very, very contented. The fact that we were part of a revolutionary plot, a project most unlikely to succeed and which would most probably end with us both dead in battle or burned for treason, affected me not at all. Good old Zeb! What if he did get under my guard and hit me where it hurt? He was my “family'-all the family that I had. To be with him now made me feel the way I used to feel when my mother would sit me down in the kitchen and feed me cookies and milk.
We talked about this and that, in the course of which I learned more about the organization and discovered-was very surprised to discover-that not all of our comrades were brethren. Lodge Brothers, I mean. “But isn’t that dangerous?”
“What isn’t? And what did you expect, old son? Some of our most valuable comrades can’t join the Lodge; their own religious faith forbids it. But we don’t have any monopoly on hating tyranny and loving freedom and we need all the help we can get. Anybody going our direction is a fellow traveler. Anybody.”
I thought it over. The idea was logical, though somehow vaguely distasteful. I decided to gulp it down quickly. “I suppose so. I imagine even the pariahs will be of some use to us, when it comes to the fighting, even if they aren’t eligible for membership.”
Zeb gave me a look I knew too well. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, John! When are you going to give up wearing diapers?”
“Huh?”
“Haven’t you gotten it through your head yet that the whole “pariah” notion is this tyranny’s scapegoat mechanism that every tyranny requires?”
“Yes, but—”
“Shut up. Take sex away from people. Make it forbidden, evil, limit it to ritualistic breeding. Force it to back up into suppressed sadism. Then hand the people a scapegoat to hate. Let them kill a scapegoat occasionally for cathartic, release. The mechanism is ages old. Tyrants used it centuries before the word “psychology” was ever invented. It works, too. Look at yourself.”
“Look, Zeb, I don’t have anything against the pariahs.”
“You had better not have. You’ll find a few dozen of them in the Grand Lodge here. And by the way, forget that word “pariah.” It has, shall we say, a very high negative index.”
He shut up and so did I; again I needed time to get my thoughts straight. Please understand me—it is easy to be free when you have been brought up in freedom, it is not easy otherwise. A zoo tiger, escaped, will often slink back into the peace and security of his bars. If he can’t get back, they tell me he will pace back and forth within the limits of bars that are no longer there. I suppose I was still pacing in my conditioned pattern.
The human mind is a tremendously complex thing; it has compartments in it that its owner himself does not suspect. I had thought that I had given my mind a thorough housecleaning already and had rid it of all the dirty superstitions I had been brought up to believe. I was learning that the “housecleaning” had been no more than a matter of sweeping the dirt under the rugs—it would be years before the cleansing would be complete, before the clean air of reason blew through every room.
All right, I told myself, if I meet one of these par—no, “comrades,” I’ll exchange recognition with him and be polite-as long as he is polite to me! At the time I saw nothing hypocritical in the mental reservation.
Zeb lay back, smoking, and let me stew. I knew that he smoked and he knew that I disapproved. But it was a minor sin and, when we were rooming together in the Palace barracks, I would never have thought of reporting him. I even knew which room servant was his bootlegger. “Who is sneaking your smokes in now?” I asked, wishing to change the subject.
“Eh? Why, you buy them at the P.X . . . of course.” He held the dirty thing out and looked at it. “These Mexican cigarettes are stronger than I like. I suspect that they use real tobacco in them, instead of the bridge sweepings I’m used to. Want one?”
“Huh? Oh, no, thanks!”
He grinned wryly. “Go ahead, give me your usual lecture. It’ll make you feel better.”
“Now look here, Zeb, I wasn’t criticizing. I suppose it’s just one of the many things I’ve been wrong about.”
“Oh, no. It’s a dirty, filthy habit that ruins my wind and stains my teeth and may eventually kill me off with lung cancer.” He took a deep inhalation, let the smoke trickle out of the corners of his mouth, and looked profoundly contented. “But it just happens that I like dirty, filthy habits.”
He took another puff. “But it’s not a sin and my punishment for it is here and now, in the way my mouth tastes each morning. The Great Architect doesn’t give a shout in Sheol about it. Catch on, old son? He isn’t even watching.”
“There is no need to be sacrilegious.”
“I wasn’t being so.”
“You weren’t, eh? You were scoffing at one of the most fundamental-perhaps the one fundamental-proposition in religion: the certainty that God is watching!”
“Who told you?”
For a moment all I could do was to sputter. “Why, it isn’t necessary. It’s an axiomatic certainty. It’s—”
“I repeat, who told you? See here, I retract what I said. Perhaps the Almighty is watching me smoke. Perhaps it is a mortal sin and I will burn for it for eons. Perhaps. But who told you? Johnnie, you’ve reached the point where you are willing to kick the Prophet out and hang him to a tall, tall tree. Yet you are willing to assert your own religious convictions and to use them as a touchstone to judge my conduct. So I repeat: who told you? What hill were you standing on when the lightning came down from Heaven and illuminated you? Which archangel carried the message?”
I did not answer at once. I could not. When I did it was with a feeling of shock and cold loneliness. “Zeb . . . I think I understand you at last. You are an-atheist. Aren’t you?”
Zeb looked at me bleakly. “don’t call me an atheist,” he said slowly, “unless you are really looking for trouble.”
“Then you aren’t one?” I felt a wave of relief, although I still didn’t understand him.
“No, I am not. Not that it is any of your business. My religious faith is a private matter between me and my God. What my inner beliefs are you will have to judge by my actions . . . for you are not invited to question me about them. I decline to explain them nor to justify them to you. Nor to anyone . . .—not the Lodge Master . . . nor the Grand Inquisitor, if it comes to that.”