“Freeman Kirby, it’s a pleasure to see you,” the Martian said in a deep, rasping voice.
“The honor is mine, Freeman Weiner.”
“Permit me,” Weiner said. He drew his laser pistol. Kirby’s robot scurried forward with the velvet cushion. The Martian placed the weapon carefully on the plush mound. The robot slid across the floor to bring the gun to Kirby.
“Call me Nat,” the Martian said.
Kirby smiled thinly. He picked up the gun, resisted the insane temptation to ash the Martian on the spot and briefly examined it. Then he replaced it on the cushion and flicked his hand at the robot, who carried it back to its owner.
“My friends call me Ron,” Kirby said. “Reynolds is a lousy first name.”
“Glad to know you, Ron. What’s to drink?”
Kirby was jarred by the breach of etiquette, but he maintained an equable diplomatic mask. The Martian had been punctilious enough with his gun ritual, but you’d expect that with any frontiersman; it didn’t mean that his manners extended beyond that. Smoothly Kirby said, “Whatever you like, Nat. Synthetics, realies—you name it and it’s here. What about a filtered rum?”
“I’ve had so much rum I’m ready to puke it, Ron. Those gabogos in San Juan drink it like water. What about some decent whiskey?”
“You dial it,” Kirby said with a grand sweep of his hand. The robot picked up the console of the bar and carried it to the Martian. Weiner eyed the buttons a moment and stabbed almost at random, twice.
“I’m ordering a double rye for you,” Weiner announced. “And a double bourbon for me.”
Kirby found that amusing. The rude colonial was not only selecting his own drink but one for his host. Double rye, indeed! Kirby hid his wince and took the drink. Weiner slipped comfortably into a webfoam cradle. Kirby sat also.
“How are you enjoying your visit to Earth?” Kirby asked.
“Not bad. Not bad. Sickening the way you people are crammed together here, though.”
“It’s the human condition.”
“Not on Mars it isn’t. Not on Venus, either.”
“Give it time,” Kirby said.
“I doubt it. We know how to regulate our population up there, Ron.”
“So do we. It just took us a while to get the idea across to everybody, and by that time there were ten billion of us. We hope to keep the rate of increase down.”
“You know what?” Weiner said. “You ought to take every tenth person and feed ‘em to the converters. Get some good energy back out of all that meat Cut your population by a billion over-night.” He chuckled. “Not serious. Wouldn’t be ethical. Just a passing joke.”
Kirby smiled. “You aren’t the first to suggest it, Nat And some of the others were plenty serious.”
“Discipline—that’s the answer to every human problem. Discipline and more self-discipline. Denial. Planning. This whiskey is damned good, Ron. How about another round?”
“Help yourself.”
Weiner did. Generously.
“Damned fine stuff,” he murmured. “We don’t get drinks like this on Mars. Got to admit it, Ron. Crowded and stinking as this planet is, it’s got comforts. I wouldn’t want to live here, mind you, but I’m glad I came. The women—mmmm! The drinks! The excitement!”
“You’ve been here two days?” Kirby asked.
“That’s right. One night in New York—ceremonies, banquet, all that garbage, sponsored by the Colonial Association. Then down to Washington to see the President. Nice old chap. Soft belly, though. Could stand some exercise. Then this idiot thing in San Juan, a day of hospitality, meeting the Puerto Rican comrades, that kind of junk. And now here. What’s to do here, Ron?”
“Well, we could go downstairs for a swim first—”
“I can swim all I like on Mars. I want to see civilization, not water. Complexity.” Weiner’s eyes glowed. Kirby abruptly realized that the man had been drunk when he walked in and that the two stiff jolts of bourbon had sent him into a fine glow of intoxication. “You know what I want to do, Kirby? I want to get out and grub in the dirt a little. I want to go to opium dens. I want to see espers have ecstasies. I want to take in a Vorster session. I want to live the life, Ron. I want to experience Earth—muck and all!”
two
The Vorster hall was in a shabby, almost intolerably seedy old building in central Manhattan, practically within spitting distance of the U.N. buildings. Kirby felt queasy about entering it; he had never really conquered his uneasiness about slumming, even now when most of the world was one vast teeming slum. But Nat Weiner had commanded it, and so it must be. Kirby had brought him here because it was the only Vorster place he had visited before, and so he didn’t feel too sharply out of place among the worshipers.
The sign over the door said in glowing but splotchy letters:
Brotherhood of the Immanent RadianceAll WelcomeServices DailyHeal Your HeartsHarmonize With the All
Weiner snickered at the sign. “Look at that! Heal your hearts! How’s your heart, Kirby?”
“Punctured in several places. Shall we go in?”
“You bet we shall,” Weiner said.
The Martian was sloshingly drunk. He held his liquor well, Kirby had to admit. Through the long evening Kirby had not even tried to match the colonial envoy drink for drink, and yet he felt hazy and overheated. The tip of his nose prickled. He yearned to shake Weiner off and crawl back into the Nothing Chamber to get all this poison out of his system.
But Weiner wanted to kick over the traces, and It was hard to blame him for that. Mars was a rough place, where there was no time for sell-indulgence. Terraforming a planet took a maximum effort. The job was nearly done now, after two generations of toil, and the air of Mars was sweet and clean, but no one was relaxing up there yet. Weiner was here to negotiate a trade agreement, but it was also his first chance to escape from the rigors of Martian life. The Sparta of space, they called it. And here he was in Athens.
They entered the Vorster hall.
It was long and narrow, an oblong box of a room. A dozen rows of unpainted wooden benches ran from wall to wall, with a narrow aisle down one side. At the rear was the altar, glowing with the inevitable blue radiance. Behind it stood a tall, skeleton-thin man, bald, bearded.
“Is that the priest?” Weiner whispered harshly.
“I don’t think they’re called priests,” said Kirby. “But he’s in charge.”
“Do we take communion?”
“Let’s just watch,” Kirby suggested.
“Look at all these damned maniacs,” the Martian said.
“This is a very popular religious movement.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Watch. Listen.”
“Down on their knees—groveling to that half-pint reactor—”
Heads were turning in their direction. Kirby sighed. He had no love for the Vorsters or their religion himself, but be was embarrassed at this boisterous desecration of their shrine. Most undiplomatically, he took Weiner’s arm, guided the Martian into the nearest pew, and pulled him down into a kneeling position. Kirby knelt beside him. The Martian gave him an ugly glance. Colonists didn’t like their bodies handled by strangers. A Venusian might have slashed at Kirby with his dagger for something like that. But, then, a Venusian wouldn’t be here on Earth at all, let alone cutting capers in a Vorster hall.
Sullenly, Weiner grabbed the rail and leaned forward to watch the service. Kirby squinted through the near darkness at the man behind the altar.