E. S. P. Worm Page 4

  “What is the world coming to!” said the liberal with high lace collar and red-dyed hair bun.

  “Ladies, ladies,” I said, unstrapping myself from the seat. I could not remember anchoring myself for the landing and hadn’t been aware of the restraint until this moment. I rose and stepped forward, head itching. “We are but three lonely travelers in search of succor. I and this lovely lady, and this most significant of aliens-”

  “See here,” said the conservative. “I’m the Reverend Abigail Swartz and this is the Church of the Wood’s annual Sunday School picnic!”

  I quailed behind my worm-sponsored facade. Better to have fallen into a vat of vipers! No group supported Freddy more devoutly than the collected Churches of the Wood.

  “I’m sure it is,” I said. I walked boldly out onto the ramp and faced them in a manner quite unlike myself. “Providence has been kind to us.” I turned to Qumax. “Brother Qumax, did you hear what this magnificent woman has said? This is a Sunday School!” Doom.

  “Joy and Hallelujah!” he replied.

  “Are you a—a minister?” the reverend asked.

  “Fully ordained,” I lied. “I am in fact a missionary.”

  A bewildered expression swept over Abigail’s hatchet face. With new horror I realized that my itch was temporarily absent. “Why I do believe—why of course! You are Dr. Andra Moxie, evangelist. Now you’ve returned to Earth and—it’s the strangest thing”—awe timbred her voice—”something whispers to me that you are to redeem us.”

  “I don’t understand,” said the modern, her hands to her face. And then she very obviously did. “Yes—I remember now!” She smiled and kept on smiling, despite the agony it must have been.

  “Well,” said the liberal, “I think”—emotions fought on her face—”that it is truly a great honor you have done us in coming here!”

  As though of one mind the three swept forward. I found myself suddenly enveloped by three pairs of well-padded arms. It was an intimacy I could have lived without. All three of the old dears had bad cases of halitosis. And one and all thought it necessary to apply their withered lips to my holy cheek.

  It occurred to me that they could not, subconsciously, have been completely unwilling. Otherwise Qumax could never have made three act at once. Unless the rationalization he had proffered through my lips overrode all else, even common sense.

  “Ladies,” my traitorous mouth said, “I am indeed flattered by your kind attention. But now, please be so patient as to let me introduce a true convert.” I turned and beckoned to Qumax. The worm rumpled out of the jetcopter, his antennae and tentacles wriggling.

  “Oh—what is it?” the Rev. Abigail asked.

  “A Christian,” Qumax said.

  “A—a Christian?” Even the rationalization was beginning to creak under the strain. Qumax was anything but Christian!

  “The finest,” the worm said, controlling a hiss.

  “Really!” The Rev. Abigail was obviously shocked. “A C-Christian, you say?”

  “A most enthusiastic convert!” I said. “In fact it may be that he, not I, will lead this world to redemption.” I was no Church of the Wood partisan, but I felt a little sick. I began almost to fear that the police were not coming.

  “Redemption—Earth?” asked the thoroughly confused preacher.

  “Of course,” I said. “What better? Who better knows the pitfalls and glories of our world than one who has seen similar? But we’re forgetting my assistant. Nancy, if you please, come out here.”

  “Do you really mean that,” she said pitifully.

  “I do,” I said.

  She came, keeping her hands in her pockets.

  Three pairs of elderly eyes and a number of younger eyes stared at the coveralls. For a long, long time. Finally Abigail spoke: “Would you—would you care to have something to eat?”

  “Certainly,” I said, privately appreciating her attempt to change the subject. At least she wasn’t jumping on Nancy. Now if only Qumax let well enough alone . . .

  “Oh, don’t mind those coveralls,” I said loftily. Oh no! “Those are just the start of Earth’s redemption.”

  “Re-redemption?” Abigail looked as though a very large bone had stuck in her throat.

  “That’s what it will prove to be,” I said. “Evil is in the mind and it must be attacked in the mind—as our wisest ancestors realized. ‘Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, 0 ye of little faith?’ Matthew, chapter six, verse thirty.”

  “I’m not sure I follow that,” she said.

  “You will, Reverend Swartz,” I said.

  “Perhaps,” the woman preacher said uneasily, “you would prefer for us to bring you something from the picnic tables. Perhaps some chicken and lemonade?”

  “That would be very fine,” I said. “But for Brother Qumax, a little something different.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. What will you have?” she said with commendable grace, turning to Qumax.

  “I’ll have,” Qumax said carefully, “that exotic dish you Earthians call potato chips.”

  “Potato chips!” exclaimed a young girl’s voice, and looking down I beheld a regular Becky Thatcher. She looked back saucily, her freckled nose wrinkling. She stuck out a tongue, licked her lips and remarked with great wisdom, “I like potato chips.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” Qumax said. “Potato chips and—honey, I believe, if you have some?”

  “No honey,” the little girl said, “but there’s soda pop and ice cream.”

  “Ice cream will do fine,” Qumax said, “though I prefer a little sugar on it.”

  “Sugar on ice cream—that’s funny!” said the girl.

  “To you, Little Maid,” Qumax said. “To me, some of the things humans eat are . . . interesting.”

  “You’re very strange.”

  “Very.”

  “Well, we’ll bring you your lunch,” the Reverend Abigail said awkwardly.

  “Fine,” Qumax said, “and afterwards we’ll speak about redemption.”

  I lost hope that the police would come. Either this picnic group had been too amazed to tattle, or Qumax had kept a tight security check while seeming to banter foolishly with children.

  “And about my assistant’s dress, among other things,” I said for Qumax. “After you hear, perhaps you will feel the urge to help spread the word.”

  Abigail threw one confused, embarrassed glance at Nancy, then turned and walked away, followed by her sister crones. She could choke down a talking alien worm, a pseudo minister, and sacrilege—but an unbagged woman was beyond her tolerance.

  Forgotten, the little girl stood gazing up at Qumax. She cleared her throat with what she must have thought was adult solemnity.

  “Do you give rides?” the child asked.

  “Rides?” For once the big worm was taken aback. “On your back? Do you charge people to carry them?”

  Qumax made his frying sound. He crawled forward. “For you, Little Maid, no charge.” His tentacles flicked out, wrapped around the startled girl and lifted her high over his head. His front end came down to ramp level, and there was Becky Thatcher high on a huge green cabbage worm.

  “Oh my!” the pretty child said. “Just like a whole handful of elephants!” She meant, of course, the squirming tentacles.

  “Better than elephants,” Qumax said. “Better than trunks or hands or anything. And those ridges on my belly, they’re better than any old legs and are a lot surer footed. Better than anything except—”

  “Except what!” she asked happily.

  “Wings,” he replied, momentarily solemn. “You’ve got a good hold?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Then away we go!” And Qumax rumpled off with the most exaggerated up-and-down motion.

  It was a measuring worm’s crawl, partly, and it was fast, and I knew it was impossible. He was showing off, like the brat he was. Suddenly he slammed on the
brakes and began his sidewise sidewinder undulation, also fast and completely incompatible with the inchworm locomotion. Becky was raised up and down, stood still for a moment and then shot forward. She shrieked in joy, clearly not bothered by the incredible contortions.

  “Harold?”

  “Yes, Nancy?” At least the subject had shifted from her bumps—er, her attire.

  “Don’t you think we’d better follow them? For the—safety?”

  I was surprised again. I would have expected her interest to be on the ride’s mechanics. Instead she was acting as though she were Becky’s mother.

  “Harold?”

  I turned my head as the gang of boys raced by. “In your coveralls?” I asked. Then bit my tongue.

  “God bless,” she swore shockingly, “my bulgy old coveralls! Come on!”

  Amen, I added fervently, but mentally.

  Without further ado we joined the big parade at the tail. The kids seemed to be having the time of their lives. “Hi-Hi up there!” one of the boys shouted to the girl. “Hang on tight— don’t you let go.”

  “I won’t—for anything!” the little girl said. And then we were winding three times as fast between some trees and there was a purling stream and a song bird’s choked off voice and a number of very ordinary people looking up with startled expressions from picnic tables. There was a general cessation of conversation.

  Into the breach stepped one Harold Prodkins, now being manipulated as Dr. Andra Moxie, fictitious evangelist extraordinary.

  “Behold, Friends,” I said, spreading my puppet arms wide and holding my palms high and outwards. “Child of Man and child of Jamborang playing together in peace and friendship. It’s a beautiful sight, isn’t it?”

  There were audibly indrawn breaths. I could imagine what they were thinking: who was I, who was this green thing, and above all who was this delightfully bumpy Jezebel tempting all the men to wicked thoughts just by her appearance? What kind of a Sunday School picnic was this? And then the Head Crone was up and explaining. This was a well-known missionary and his assistant and his convert.

  I made a preaching act. I stood up on a picnic table, stepped over the potato salad and cleared my throat. “Friends,” I said, “it is high time that we recognize that ours is not a completely hostile universe. There are entire worlds filled with beings such as Qumax—beings who can teach us the supposedly human virtues that are the basis of all Christianity. Friends, do you know what I am talking about? Do you realize that the alien creature you see before you is more pure of heart than most adult Christians? This purity must be accepted, admired, emulated. Only in so far as we succeed in this will we approach the ethical ideal that is the basis of all true Christianity.”

  I looked out over the heads of my audience. The reverent stillness made me suspect that the worm was exerting himself again—except that he could hardly have much left over after controlling me. Maybe that silence was utter shock. “And how do we attain such purity? Certainly not by concealment. No, concealment and condemnation never have worked and never will work! What we need is the sort of courage displayed here by my assistant. We need to get our minds out of the gutter and cultivate purity of thought, and to do that we need to discard, among other things, that most useless of all affectations—the bag-dress.”

  This was worm-talk, not my own—but I found myself agreeing with it. I had often imagined saying something like this to stodgy cousin Freddy . . . but had never come close to working up the courage to open my mouth. Qumax wasn’t all brat . . .

  I raised my hands commandingly. “Ah yes, I know how you fear to abandon what the excesses of our ancestors seemed to Christian minds to make necessary. But a change of clothing did not make for a change of style, as those who compare present with the past will recognize. Today’s attitudes remain much the same as they have always been. It is the attitudes we must change— the attitudes that make for hypocrisy. Too much concealment fosters the very thoughts it is intended to prevent. Yet a sudden drastic change of costume would leave those attitudes untouched. What we must do is work to change the attitude while working slowly at changing the costume. To begin with, there is no reason why ladies may not choose either to wear or not to wear gloves, and why they should not begin to wear something a trifle less all-concealing than the bag-dress. Friends, let us all work to this purpose!”

  I put my hands down and beamed benignly at my congregation—and realized sickeningly that the itch was gone from my head, and had been gone for at least a paragraph. I was doing it myself! Stage fright smashed me back and I almost fell off the table. I had to get out of here!

  I started to step down—and found my left foot in the potato salad. “Friends,” I essayed miserably as I scraped off my heel, “let me now conclude only by saying that my two companions and I hope to—to share your repast. We—”

  I was interrupted by swelling laughter. The salad had finally toppled onto the ground, and my foot was now nudging a pitcher of cream. I was sharing the repast, all right—with the ants!

  Then, blessedly, the itch returned. “Friends,” my worm-mouth said, “let me now conclude by saying—” That repetition gave them time to calm down. “That after this delightful interlude we plan to leave immediately for a destination that may surprise you. Dear Friends-” I then paused dramatically while Qumax waited for the suspense to build. “We are on our way to a city that some of you may have cursed as the very stronghold of lewdness. The city, a virtual Sodom if not Gomorrah, holds the Tower of Babel itself. We are going, friends, to Trebvee City, Hooeywood.”

  Oh no! I thought despairingly. By sheer lucky luck we had somehow avoided detection by Freddy’s forces. But now the worm intended to advertise our whereabouts by going on trebvee!

  Chapter 5

  Much talk and food later, we were on our way. Again Warden Nitti piloted, having been revived for this purpose. We provided him with some leftover, foot-squished potato salad for his repast. I almost felt sorry for him, until I remembered how he had treated us at Lucifernia.

  As we rose in the air I saw the upturned faces of the three crones, any one of whom might, hours earlier, have carried a flaming faggot to the Jezebel.

  Now Nancy made pleasant company during five hours of steady, eventless flying. She basked while I dreamed and Nitti guided the copter silently, and then Big Green Mouth cracked to tell us we were landing.

  Nitti parked us gently in a copter-slot before being gassed again, and we waited like company big shots for the men in company uniform. They came, hurrying between copters. They bowed respectfully and opened our doors. “Minister Prodkins, Dr. Dilsmore, Qumax, your studio is waiting for you.”

  I thought about what it meant as we crossed the lot. Qumax, grossly overconfident after the park scene, must have been busy sending mental signals ahead, forcing government men to pull strings for us and shut up afterwards. It was the only way to travel, I thought. We were doomed, naturally, but the respite had been pleasant.

  We entered a large studio. On a sound stage surrounded by cameras and cameramen were grouped table, chairs and a couch. Qumax winked an eye at us and rumpled up to the stage. In back of the cameras sat a small audience seemingly composed entirely of studio executives and government men.

  “Minister Prodkins, Dr. Dilsmore—” A man who certainly looked like an executive showed us to some seats in the audience. He flashed an even smile as he sat down. “Exactly on schedule. Just three minutes before the Face the World trebcast.”

  “What do you mean—” I started, but I was afraid I knew. Qumax wouldn’t be content to visit a trebcast, or to arrange a modest appearance—oh no, he’d have to be right in the middle of the show! My worst fears were being realized.

  Alvin Swept walked on stage right then. Following close on his heels were three men in conservative suits. All took chairs. Two other men joined the group, then a sixth; the last wore a broad white collar with no opening in front. Following the priest came a Jewish rabbi, an African, three Orientals and
an Arab. All took seats.

  A light flashed. Cameras dollied onto invisible chalk marks. A large sign lit with the words ON THE AIR.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” said the barely seated Alvin, “the World Broadcasting Network in cooperation with the Planetary News Service takes pleasure in presenting LIVE this highly special edition of Face the World! There will be no interruptions for commercials and no set time limit on what promises to be the interview of the century. Paying for this—one might almost say extemporaneous—trebcast is the world government itself. This is of course unprecedented, even in time of elections.

  “But, ladies and gentlemen, this trebcast is unprecedented in another way. When in the entire history of the human species have representatives of all the world’s major religions gotten together to instruct a visitor from another planet on the subject of Earth’s religions? It’s astonishing—I would never have believed that we would see such a thing in this generation. Ladies and gentlemen, I’m a little overwhelmed. I haven’t been allowed to prepare myself ahead of time with so much as an organized outline. Approximately ten minutes ago I was informed suddenly by a call directly from the chairman of the World Communications Commission and another surprise call from a quote high official in world government unquote that this historical trebcast would be made. Perhaps now the best thing I can do is simply turn the opening explanation over to the being who is making this all possible. Ladies and gentlemen, Brother Qumax, visitor to Earth from Jamborango, a world near the cultural center of our galaxy!”

  There was, I was sure, consternation inside and outside the studio—wherever human beings saw the trebcast. And Freddy would be literally gnashing his teeth. This was going to be awful!

  The cameras dollied in. Qumax vibrated antennae, looked with shoe-button eyes into the lens, and spoke:

  “For the purpose of comparing the tenets of Earth religions with other and older faiths . . .”

  I could see what he was trying to do, but the worm had really overreached himself this time. He expected to read these men’s innermost thoughts, feelings and desires and make all hostility vanish. He thought he could publicly examine and reexamine every major premise of religion and turn it inside out with unprecedented respect for logic. He thought there would be a weeping, head-shaking, gravely stricken panel led by one grotesquely smiling Qumax. A trebethon to end trebethons—the whole world and all trebvee-receiving planets would be gasping and wondering and trying to digest the sweat-drenched hours of theological agonizing. A really historic occurrence—of that he had no doubt.