Collected Short Fiction, page 859
Who could doubt that it would come? Not you, not I. And not the strange wild-eyed folk who emerged among us like dark growths pushing out of rotting logs, the Apocalyptists, who raised Schadenfreude to the sacramental level and organized an ecstatic religion of doom. The end of the world, they told us, was scheduled for January 1, a.d. 2000, and upon that date, 144,000 elite souls, who had “sealed” themselves unto God by devotion and good works, would be saved; the rest of us poor sinners would be hauled before the Judge. I could see their point. Although I rejected their talk of the Second Coming, having long ago rejected the First, and although I shared neither their confidence in the exact date of the apocalypse nor their notions of how the survivors would be chosen, I agreed with them that the end was close at hand. The fact that for a quarter of a century we had been milking giddy cocktail-party chatter out of the impending collapse of Western civilization didn’t of itself guarantee that Western civilization wasn’t going to collapse; some of the things people like to say at cocktail parties can hit the target. As a physicist with a decent understanding of the entropic process I found all the signs of advanced societal decay easy to identify: for a century we had been increasing the complexity of society’s functions so that an ever-higher level of organization was required in order to make things run, and for much of that time we had simultaneously been trending toward total universal democracy, toward a world consisting of several billion self-governing republics with a maximum of three citizens each. Any closed system which experiences simultaneous sharp increases in mechanical complexity and in entropic diffusion is going to go to pieces long before the maximum distribution of energy is reached. The pattern of consents and contracts on which civilization is based is destroyed; every social interaction, from parking your car to settling an international boundary dispute, becomes a problem that can be handled only by means of force, since all “civilized” techniques of reconciling disagreement have been suspended as irrelevant; when the delivery of mail is a matter of private negotiation between the citizen and his postman, what hope is there for the rule of reason? Somewhere, somehow, we had passed a point of no return—in 1984, 1972, maybe even that ghastly day in November of 1963—and nothing now could save us from plunging over the brink.
Nothing?
Out of Nevada came Thomas, shaggy Thomas, Thomas the Proclaimer, rising above the slot machines and the roulette wheels to cry, If ye have faith, ye shall be saved I An anti-Apocalyptist prophet, no less, whose message was that civilization still might be preserved, that it was not yet too late. The voice of hope, the enemy of entropy, the new Apostle of Peace. Though to people like me he looked just as wild-eyed and hairy and dangerous and terrifyingly psychotic as the worshipers of the holocaust, for he, like the Apocalyptists, dealt in forces operating outside the realm of sanity. By rights he should have come out of the backwoods of Arkansas or the crazier comers of California, but he didn’t, he was a desert rat, a Nevadan, a sand-eating latter-day John the Baptist. A true prophet for our times, too, seedy, disreputable, a wine-swiller, a cynic. Capable of beginning a global telecast sermon with a belch. An ex-soldier who had happily napalmed whole provinces during the Brazilian Pacification Program. A part-time dealer in boot-legged hallucinogens. An expert at pocket-picking and computer-jamming. He had gone into the evangelism business because he thought he could make an easy buck that way, peddling the Gospels and appropriating the collection box, but a funny thing had happened to him, he claimed: he had seen the Lord, he had discovered the error of his ways, he had become inflamed with righteousness. Hiding not his grimy past, he now offered himself as a walking personification of redemption: Look ye, if I can be saved from sin, there’s hope for everyone! The media picked him up. That magnificent voice of his, that great mop of hair, those eyes, that hypnotic self-confidence—perfect. He walked from California to Florida to proclaim the coming millennium. And gathered followers, thousands, millions, all those who weren’t yet ready to let Armageddon begin, and he made them pray and pray and pray, he held revival meetings that were beamed to Karachi and Katmandu and Addis Ababa and Shanghai, he preached no particular theology and no particular scripture, but only a smooth ecumenical theism that practically anybody could swallow, whether he be Confucianist or Moslem or Hindu. Listen, Thomas said, there is a God, some kind of all-powerful being out there whose divine plan guides the universe, and He watches over us, and don’t you believe otherwise! And He is good and will not let us come to harm if we hew to His path. And He has tested us with all these troubles, in order to measure the depth of our faith in Him, So let’s show Him, brethren! Let’s all pray together and send up a great shout unto Him! For He would certainly give a Sign, and the unbelievers would at last be converted, and the epoch of purity would commence. People said, Why not give it a try? We’ve got a lot to gain and nothing to lose. A vulgar version of the old Pascal wager: if He’s really there, He may help us, and if He’s not, we’ve only wasted a little time. So the hour of beseeching was set.
In faculty circles we had a good deal of fun with the whole idea, we brittle worldly rational types, but sometimes there was a nervous edge to our jokes and a forced heartiness to our laughter, as if some of us suspected that Pascal might have been offering pretty good odds, or that Thomas might just have hit on something. Naturally I was among the skeptics, though as usual I kept my doubts to myself. (The lesson learned so long ago, the narrow escape from the Irish lads.) I hadn’t really paid much attention to Thomas and his message, any more than I did to football scores or children’s video programs: not my sphere, not my concern. But as the day of prayer drew near, the old temptation beset me. Give in at last, Gifford. Bow your head and offer homage. Even if He’s the myth you’ve always known He is, do it Do it! I argued with myself. I told myself not to be an idiot, not to yield to the age-old claims of superstition. I reminded myself of the holy wars, the Inquisition, the lascivious Renaissance popes, all the crimes of the pious. So what, Gifford? Can’t you he an ordinary humble God-fearing human being for once in your life? Down on your knees beside your brethren? Read your Pascal. Suppose He exists and is listening, and suppose your refusal is the one that tips the scales against mankind? We’re not asking so very much. Still I fought the sly inner voice. To believe is absurd, I cried. I must not let despair stampede me into the renunciation of reason, even in this apocalyptic moment. Thomas is a cunning ruffian and his followers are hysterical grubby fools. And you’re an arrogant elitist, Gifford. Who may live long enough to repent his arrogance. It was psychological warfare, Gifford vs. Gifford, reason vs. faith.
In the end reason lost. I was jittery, off balance, demoralized. The most astonishing people were coming out in support of Thomas the Proclaimer, and I felt increasingly isolated, a man of ice, heart of stone, the village atheist scowling at Christmas wreaths. Up until the final moment I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, but then the hour struck and I found myself in my study, alone, door locked, safely apart from wife and children—who had already, all of them, somewhat defiantly announced their intentions of participating—and there I was on my knees, feeling foolish, feeling preposterous, my cheeks blazing, my lips moving, saying the words. Saying the words. Around the world the billions of believers prayed, and I also. I too prayed, embarrassed by my weakness, and the pain of my shame was a stone in my throat.
And the Lord heard us, and He gave a Sign. And for a day and a night (less 1 X 12-4 sidereal day) the Earth moved not around the sun, neither did it rotate. And the laws of momentum were confounded, as was I. Then Earth again took up its appointed course, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Imagine my chagrin. I wish I knew where to find those Irish boys. I have some apologies to make.
4. Thomas Preaches in the Marketplace
I hear what you’re saying. You tell me I’m a prophet. You tell me I’m a saint. Some of you even tell me I’m the Son of God come again. You tell me I made the sun stand still over Jerusalem. Well, no, I didn’t do that, the Lord Almighty did that, the Lord of Hosts. Through His divine Will, in response to your prayers. And I’m only the vehicle through which your prayers were channeled. I’m not any kind of saint, folks. I’m not the Son of God reborn, or any of the other crazy things you’ve been saying I am. I’m only Thomas.
Who am I?
I’m just a voice. A spokesman. A tool through which His will was made manifest. I’m not giving you the old humility act, friends, I’m trying to make you see the truth about me.
Who am I?
I’ll tell you who I was, though you know it already. I was a bandit, I was a man of evil, I was a defiler of the law. A killer, a liar, a drunkard, a cheat! I did what I damned pleased. I was a law unto myself. If I ever got caught, you bet I wouldn’t have whined for mercy. I’d have spit in the judge’s face and taken my punishment with my eyes open. Only I never got caught, because my luck was running good and because this is a time when a really bad man can flourish, when the wicked are raised high and the virtuous are ground into the mud. Outside the law, that was me! Thomas the criminal! Thomas the brigand, thumbing his nose! Doing bad was my religion, all the time—when I was down there in Brazil with those flamethrowers, or when I was free-lancing your pockets in our cities, or when I was ringing up funny numbers on the big computers. I belonged to Satan if ever a man did, that’s the truth, and then what happened? The Lord came along to Satan and said to him, Satan, give me Thomas, I have need of him. And Satan handed me over to Him, because Satan is God’s servant too.
And the Lord took me and shook me and knocked me around and said, Thomas, you’re nothing but trash!
And I said, I know that, Lord, but who was it who made me that way?
And the Lord laughed and said, You’ve got guts, Thomas, talking back to me like that. I like a man with guts. But you’re wrong, fellow. I made you with the potential to be a saint or a sinner, and you chose to be a sinner, yes, your own free will! You think I’d bother to create people to be wicked? I’m not interested in creating puppets, Thomas, I set out to make me a race of human beings. I gave you your options and you opted for evil, eh, Thomas? Isn’t that the truth?
And I said, Well, Lord, maybe it is; I don’t know.
And the Lord God grew annoyed with me and took me again and shook me again and knocked me around some more, and when I picked myself up I had a puffed lip and a bloody nose, and He asked me how I would do things if I could live my life over again from the start. And I looked Him right in the eye and said, Well, Lord, I’d say that being evil paid off pretty well for me. I lived a right nice life and I had all my happies and I never spent a day behind bars, oh, no. So tell me, Lord, since I got away with everything the first time, why shouldn’t I opt to be a sinner again?
And he said, Because you’ve done that already, and now it’s time for you to do something else.
I said, What’s that, Lord?
He said, I want you to do something important for me, Thomas. There’s a world out there full of people who’ve lost all faith, people without hope, people who’ve made up their minds it’s no use trying any more, the world’s going to end. I want to reach those people somehow, Thomas, and tell them that they’re wrong. And show them that they can shape their own destiny, that if they have faith in themselves and in me they can build a good world.
I said, That’s easy, Lord. Why don’t You just appear in the sky and say that to them, like You just did to me?
He laughed again and said, Oh, no, Thomas, that’s much too easy. I told you, I don’t run a puppet show. They’ve got to want to lift themselves up out of despair. They’ve got to take the first step by themselves. You follow me, Thomas?
Yes, Lord, but where do I come in?
And He said, You go to them, Thomas, and you tell them all about your wasted, useless, defiant life, and then tell them how the Lord gave you a chance to do something worthwhile for a change, and how you rose up above your evil self and accepted the opportunity. And then tell them to gather and pray and restore their faith, and ask for a Sign from on high. Thomas, if they listen to you, if they pray and it’s sincere prayer, I promise you I will give them a Sign, I will reveal myself to them, and all doubt will drop like scales from their eyes. Will you do that thing for me, Thomas?
Friends, I listened to the Lord, and I discovered myself shaking and quivering and bursting into sweat, and in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, I wasn’t the old filthy Thomas any more, I was somebody new and clean, I was a man with a high purpose, a man with a belief in something bigger and better than his own greedy desires. And I went down among you, changed as I was, and I told my tale, and all of you know the rest of the story, how we came freely together and offered up our hearts to Him, and how He vouchsafed us a miracle these two and a half weeks past, and gave us a Sign that He still watches over us.
But what do I see now, in these latter days after the giving of the Sign? What do I see?
Where is that new world of faith? Where is that new dream of hope? Where is mankind shoulder to shoulder, praising Him and working together to reach the light?
What do I see? I see this rotting planet turning black inside and splitting open at the core. I see the cancer of doubt. I see the virus of confusion. I see His Sign misinterpreted on every hand, and its beauty trampled on and destroyed.
I still see painted fools dancing and beating on drums and screaming that the world is going to be destroyed at the end of this year of nineteen hundred and ninety-nine. What madness is this? Has God not spoken? Has He not told us joyful news? God is with us! God is good! Why do these Apocalyptists not yet accept the truth of His Sign?
Even worse! Each day new madnesses take form! What are these cults sprouting up among us? Who are these people who demand of God that He return and spell out His intentions, as though the Sign wasn’t enough for them? And who are these cowardly blasphemers who say we must lie down in fear and weep piteous tears, because we have invoked not God but Satan, and destruction is our lot? Who are these men of empty souls who bleat and mumble and snivel in our midst? And look at your lofty churchmen, in their priestly robes and glittering tiaras, trying to explain away the Sign as some accident of nature! What talk is this from God’s own ministers? And behold the formerly godless ones, screeching like frightened monkeys now that their godlessness has been ripped from them! What do I see? I see madness and terror on all sides, where I should see only joy abounding!
I beg you, friends, have care, take counsel with your souls. I beg you, think clearly now if you ever have thought at all. Choose a wise path, friends, or you will throw away all the glory of the Day of the Sign and lay waste to our great achievement. Give no comfort to the forces of darkness. Keep away from these peddlers of lunatic creeds. Strive to recapture the wonder of that moment when all mankind spoke with a single voice. I beg you—how can you have doubt of Him now?—I beg you—faith—the triumph of faith—let us not allow—let us—not allow—not—allow—
(Jesus, my throat! All this shouting, it’s like swallowing fire. Give me that bottle, will you? Come on, give it here! The wine. The wine. Now. Ah. Oh, that’s better! Much better, oh, yes. No, wait, give it back—good, good—stop looking at me like that, Saul. Ah. Ah.)
And so I beseech you today, brothers and sisters in the Lord—brothers and sisters (what was I saying, Saul? what did I start to say?)—I call upon you to rededicate yourselves—to pledge yourselves to—to (is that it? I can’t remember)—to a new Crusade of Faith, that’s what we need, a purging of all our doubts and all our hesitations and all our (oh, Jesus, Saul, I’m lost, I don’t remember where the hell I’m supposed to be. Let the music start playing. Quick. That’s it. Good and loud. Louder.) Folks, let’s all sing! Raise your voices joyously unto Him!
I shall praise the Lord my God,
Fountain of all power . . .
That’s the way! Sing! Everybody sing!
5. Ceremonies of Innocence
Throughout the world the quest for an appropriate response to the event of June 6 continues. No satisfactory interpretation of that day’s happenings has yet been established, though many have been proposed. Meanwhile passions run high; tempers easily give way; a surprising degree of violence has entered the situation. Clearly the temporary slowing of the earth’s axial rotation must have imposed exceptional emotional stress on the entire global population, creating severe strains that have persisted and even intensified in the succeeding weeks. Instances of seemingly motiveless crimes, particularly arson and vandalism, have greatly increased. Government authorities in Brazil, India, the United Arab Republic, and Italy have suggested that clandestine revolutionary or counterrevolutionary groups are behind much of this activity, taking advantage of the widespread mood of uncertainty to stir discontent. No evidence of this has thus far been made public. Much hostility has been directed toward the organized religions, a phenomenon for which there is as yet no generally accepted explanation, although several sociologists have asserted that this pattern of violent anticlerical behavior is a reaction to the failure of most established religious bodies as of this time to provide official interpretations of the so-called “miracle” of June 2.
