They crossed the plaza to the dining hall. Just within the entrance was a dark-walled low-ceilinged vestibule; a pair of swinging doors gave access to the dining rooms beyond. Through windows set in the doors Oxenshuer could glimpse dimly-lit vastnesses to the left and the right, in which great numbers of solemn people, all clad in the same sort of flowing robes as his three companions, sat at long bare wooden tables and passed serving bowls around. Nick told Oxenshuer to drop his pack and leave it in the vestibule; no one would bother it, he said. As they started to go in, a boy of ten erupted explosively out of the left-hand doorway, nearly colliding with Oxenshuer. The boy halted just barely in time, backed up a couple of paces, stared with shameless curiosity into Oxenshuer’s face, and, grinning broadly, pointed to Oxenshuer’s bare chin and stroked his own as if to indicate that it was odd to see a man without a beard. Matt caught the boy by the shoulders and pulled him against his chest; Oxenshuer thought he was going to shake him, to chastise him for such irreverence, but no, Matt gave the boy an affectionate hug, swung him far overhead, and tenderly set him down. The boy clasped Matt’s powerful forearms briefly and went sprinting through the righthand door.
“Your son?” Oxenshuer asked.
“Nephew. I’ve got two hundred nephews. Every man in this town’s my brother, right? So every boy’s my nephew.”
—If I could have just a few moments for one or two questions, Captain Oxenshuer.
—Provided it’s really just a few moments. I’m due at Mission Control at 0830, and—
—I’ll confine myself, then, to the one topic of greatest relevance to our readers. What are your feelings about the Deity, Captain? Do you, as an astronaut soon to depart for Mars, believe in the existence of God?
—My biographical poop-sheet will tell you that I’ve been known to go to Mass now and then.
—Yes, of course, we realize you’re a practicing member of the Catholic faith, but, well, Captain, it’s widely understood that for some astronauts religious observance is more of a public-relations matter than a matter of genuine spiritual urgings. Meaning no offense, Captain, we’re trying to ascertain the actual nature of your relationship, if any, to the Divine Presence, rather than—
—All right. You’re asking a complicated question and I don’t see how I can give an easy answer. If you’re asking whether I literally believe in the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, whether I think Jesus came down from heaven for our salvation and was crucified for us and was buried and on the third day rose again and ascended into heaven, I’d have to say no. Not except in the loosest metaphorical sense. But I do believe—ah—suppose we say I believe in the existence of an organizing force in the universe, a power of sublime reason that makes everything hang together, an underlying principle of rightness. Which we can call God for lack of a better name. And which I reach toward, when I feel I need to, by way of the Roman Church, because that’s how I was raised.
—That’s an extremely abstract philosophy, Captain.
—Abstract. Yes.
—That’s an extremely rationalistic approach. Would you say that your brand of cool rationalism is characteristic of the entire astronaut group?
—I can’t speak for the whole group. We didn’t come out of a single mold. We’ve got some all-American boys who go to church every Sunday and think that God Himself is listening in person to every word they say, and we’ve got a couple of atheists, though I won’t tell you who, and we’ve got guys who just don’t care one way or the other. And I can tell you we’ve got a few real mystics, too, some out-and-out guru types. Don’t let the uniforms and hair-cuts fool you. Why, there are times when I feel the pull of mysticism myself.
—In what way?
—I’m not sure. I get a sense of being on the edge of some sort of cosmic breakthrough. An awareness that there may be real forces just beyond my reach, not abstractions but actual functioning dynamic entities, which I could attune myself to if I only knew how to find the key. You feel stuff like that when you go into space, no matter how much of a rationalist you think you are. I’ve felt it four to five times, on training flights, on orbital missions. I want to feel it again. I want to break through. I want to reach God, am I making myself clear? I want to reach God.
—But you say you don’t literally believe in Him, Captain. That sounds contradictory to me.
—Does it really?
—It does, sir.
—Well, if it does, I don’t apologize. I don’t have to think straight all the time. I’m entitled to a few contradictions. I’m capable of holding a couple of diametrically opposed beliefs. Look, if I want to flirt with madness a little, what’s it to you?
—Madness, Captain?
—Madness. Yes. That’s exactly what it is, friend. There are times when Johnny Oxenshuer is tired of being so goddamned sane. You can quote me on that. Did you get it straight? There are times when Johnny Oxenshuer is tired of being so goddamned sane. But don’t print it until I’ve blasted off for Mars, you hear me? I don’t want to get bumped from this mission for incipient schizophrenia. I want to go. Maybe I’ll find God out there this time, you know? And maybe I won’t. But I want to go.
—I think I understand what you’re saying, sir. God bless you, Captain Oxenshuer. A safe voyage to you.
—Sure. Thanks. Was I of any help?
Hardly anyone glanced up at him, only a few of the children, as Matt led him down the long aisle toward the table on the platform at the back of the hall. The people here appeared to be extraordinarily self-contained, as if they were in possession of some wondrous secret from which he would be forever excluded, and the passing of the serving bowls seemed far more interesting to them than the stranger in their midst. The smell of scrambled eggs dominated the great room. That heavy, greasy odor seemed to expand and rise until it squeezed out all the air. Oxenshuer found himself choking and gagging. Panic seized him. He had never imagined he could be thrown into terror by the smell of scrambled eggs. “This way,” Matt called. “Steady on, man. You all right?” Finally they reached the raised table. Here sat only men, dignified and serene of mien, probably the elders of the community. At the head of the table was one who had the unmistakable look of a high priest. He was well past seventy—or eighty or ninety—and his strong-featured leathery face was seamed and gullied; his eyes were keen and intense, managing to convey both a fierce tenacity and an all-encompassing warm humanity. Small-bodied, lithe, weighing at most a hundred pounds, he sat ferociously erect, a formidably commanding little man. A metallic embellishment of the collar of his robe was, perhaps, the badge of his status. Leaning over him, Matt said in exaggeratedly clear, loud tones, “This here’s John. I’d like to stand brother to him when the Feast comes, if I can. John, this here’s our Speaker.”