It was the fourth year that had been the killer.
All the time he was telling his audience the instructive story of Matthew the tax collector, the one who became the servant of the Lord and changed from taking the worthless coin of Mammon to giving, giving the saving Word of God ... all that time, his gaze was far above the heads of his dwindling company of listeners, and fixed firmly on the despised Here After marquee just across the street. That was the Enemy incarnate. Its presence taunted him. The line of men and women waiting to get into it was an affront. Did they not know that they were damning their souls?
Rowena had known that. He had told her so himself, the moment he learned that—for hours on end, while he was in his study preparing his next installment of God's Truth for his parishioners—she had been furtively talking with heretics and blasphemers on the p-net. The things they had talked about were nearly unforgivable. Women's rights! Abortion! Freedom of thought! Worst of all, the vile physical low between woman and woman, their bodies joined in the filthiest of lusts.
Oh, Rowena had sworn, it was all theoretical, she had never clone any of those things, not even registered to vote. She was just interested. As a matter of curiosity. And when he told her to what those interests and curiosities would lead her—when he threatened to expose her wickedness to the congregation that very next Sunday—that was when she had stormed out of the house, and driven her car into the space that was just about to be occupied by the lead tractor of a high-speed freight caravan. Had that been by accident or by design? It didn't matter. She had sinned. It was people like the ones across he street that had let her avoid the life payment for her sin, by committing a sin greater still.
And there before him, a score of men and women were lined up before the Here After office to repeat that same irremediable sin.
He made a decision. As soon as he finished his present thought—at the latest, as soon as the shadow of the statue behind him reached the little clump of flowers on the other side of the walk—he would dismiss his audience, leave the little park and cross the street to deal with the greater emergency there. Preaching against them to begin with. Maybe a little righteous trashing of the premises, if enough of his audience could be motivated to the deed. It was the right thing to do, he told himself. He was at fault for not doing it sooner....
However, it did not happen.
It didn't happen because, without warning, McClune was suddenly unsteady on his feet, then more than unsteady.
It was one of those little earthquakes, his interior voice was telling him wisely, just as he discovered that he could not stand at all. This particular earthquake wasn't all that little. McClune dropped to his knees and grabbed the back of the bench to keep from falling ... but was falling anyway, falling in a tumbling sprawl that dropped him on his back in the yellowed grass, his skull smacking against the brittle sod, blurring his vision ... but not blurring it so much that he didn't see the grave, granite face of Fra Junipero Serra bending down toward his own, toppled as surely as himself by this latest earthquake ... the face coming closer and closer, as though to give him his kiss of death.
Because death it was going to be. McClune had no doubt of that. The thought terrified him, and it made him exultant, too, because this would be the time when he met his Maker, and got His unfailing reward for a lifetime of faithful service.
Or so, he believed, ho deserved. But there was terror as well, because how could any mortal know the nature of God's awful justice? He voiced an impassioned plea for mercy to his Lord, not so much a prayer as a single begging shout, because that was all the time he had before those adamantine lips touched his own, and then went farther, and brought with them an instant explosion of pain....
And then nothing. Only blackness.
VII
But when Orbis McClune managed to get his eyes open again—it had been curiously hard to make his muscles obey his will—it wasn't the late Fra Junipero Serra who was kissing him. It was an elderly man with a bald head and a ginger-colored beard, and the breath that he was forcing into Orbis McClune's mouth tasted nastily of beer and other, worse things. "Hey!" McClune cried—or intended to cry, but it took three or four attempts to get the words out—"Hey!" And "What." And "You." And "Think." And "You." And "Do?"—a syllable at a time, each produced with its own single great effort.
The man didn't seem to notice anything out of the way. He sat back, looking aggrieved. "You're another one didn't go the briefing, right? Christ's a'mighty, what was the matter with you people? I was just trying to get you started, like they said we should do, you know?"
McClune overlooked the profanity in the worse shame of the physical act. "They ... said ... you ... should ... kiss ... me?"
The man seemed embarrassed. "Well, sure, if you want to call it that. It's the kiss of life, you understand? Making believe like I was trying to get you breathing again. So like at first you'd think that you'd drowned or something, see?" And then, reassuringly, "Don't worry if you're kind of having trouble getting your body to work right. Everybody does, at first. You'll get it after a while."
McClune frowned and licked his lips—then, remembering that nasty kiss, scoured at them with the back of his hand. That, too, took a trial or two before he could get the hand properly turned and positioned. He said hoarsely, "Explain. Please."
Irritated, the man gave him a scowl. "Well, now, what do you think there is to explain, God's sake? They were right across the street when that monument thing fell on you, weren't they? So they got to you right away, before you got too, uh, spoiled."
"Who across the street? Who got to me?"
"Jeez," the man groaned, "you're a real pain. The Here After people, who else? You've been machine-stored. Don't you see their collection agents coming this way?"
McClune saw them all right, pretty young women in perky blue uniforms. He wasn't thinking about them, though. He had something bigger on his mind, something that looked like the biggest, scariest, most important thing in his life.
Orbis McClune had lived his entire life in the glorious certainty that death meant judgment. If you had lived the life God desired for you, then you were rewarded. If not, then you were punished. One way or another, as soon as you died the matter was settled.
But not in this eternal undeath that also wasn't real life.
The thought was crushing. All his life McClune had proclaimed his willingness to accept whatever God handed him. But this? This was unfair!
That was when one of the Here After cashiers, her voice as perky as her pretty blue minidress, spoke to him. "Good morning, Mr.—ah— McClune. As I am sure you have realized by now, your organic body has passed on. In your case, I understand it was by some kind of organic-world accident, and Here After wants to extend its deepest sympathy for your loss. Though, of course, now that you've been vastened, it's not really a loss, is it?" Then, briskly, but with a dimpled smile, she changed the subject. "How would you like to settle your account, Mr. McClune? We accept all major debit or credit cards."
Taken aback, Orbis said, "I don't have any."
"No problem, Mr. McClune! We are glad to arrange direct transfer from your checking, savings or special-purpose bank account"—he was shaking his head—"or you could execute a lien on your home or business property—" Still shaking. She frowned. "An insurance policy, then? No? Well, we're glad to have you pledge jewelry, art objects, anything at all of value, subject of course to valuation by our experts—"