Job: A Comedy of Justice

by Robert A. Heinlein

  I looked at Katie with increased respect, and some trepidation. She had referred to matters I had never mentioned to Jerry. “Katie? Are you human? Or are you, uh, a fallen throne or something like that?”

  She giggled. “First time anyone has suspected that. I’m human, all too human, Alec love. Furthermore I’m no stranger to you; you know lots about me.”

  “I do?”

  “Think back. April of the year one thousand four hundred and forty-six years before the birth of Yeshua of Nazareth.”

  “I should be able to identify it that way? I’m sorry; I can’t.”

  “Then try it this way: exactly forty years after the exodus from Egypt of the Children of Israel.”

  “The conquest of Canaan.”

  “Oh, pshaw! Try the Book of Joshua, chapter two. What’s my name, what’s my trade; was I mother, wife, or maid?”

  (One of the best-known stories in the Bible. Her? I’m talking to her?) “Uh…Rahab?”

  “The harlot of Jericho. That’s me. I hid General Joshua’s spies in my house…and thereby saved my parents and my brothers and sisters from the massacre. Now tell me I’m ‘well preserved.’”

  Sybil snickered. “Go ahead. I dare you.”

  “Gosh, Katie, you’re well preserved! That’s been over three thousand years, about thirty-four hundred. Hardly a wrinkle. Well, not many.”

  “‘Not many’! No breakfast for you, young man!”

  “Katie, you’re beautiful and you know it. You and Margrethe tie for first place.”

  “Have you looked at me?” demanded Sybil. “I have my fans. Anyhow, Mom is over four thousand years old. A hag.”

  “No, Sybil, the parting of the Red Sea was in four-teen-ninety-one B.C. Add that to the date of the Rapture, nineteen-ninety-four A.D. Then add seven years—”

  “Alec.”

  “Yes, Jerry?”

  “Sybil is right. You just haven’t noticed it. The thousand years of peace between Armageddon and the War in Heaven is half over. My Brother, wearing his Jesus hat, is now ruling on earth, and I am chained and cast down into the Pit for this entire thousand years.”

  “You don’t look chained from here. Could I have some more Jack Daniel’s?—I’m confused.”

  “I’m chained enough for this purpose; I’ve ceased ‘going to and fro in the earth and walking up and down in it.’ Yahweh has it all to Himself for the short time remaining before He destroys it. I won’t bother His games.” Jerry shrugged. “I declined to take part in Armageddon—I pointed out to Him that He had plenty of homegrown villains for it. Alec, with My Brother writing the scripts, I was always supposed to fight fiercely, like Harvard, then lose. It got monotonous. He’s got me scheduled to take another dive at the end of this Millennium, to fulfill His prophecies. That ‘War in Heaven’ He predicted in the so-called Book of Revelation. I’m not going to go. I’ve told My angels that they can form a foreign legion if they want to, but I’m sitting this one out. What’s the point in a battle if the outcome is predetermined thousands of years before the whistle?”

  He was watching me while He talked. He stopped abruptly. “What’s eating on you now?”

  “Jerry…if it has been five hundred years since I lost Margrethe, it’s hopeless. Isn’t it?”

  “Hey! Damnation, boy, haven’t I told you not to try to understand things you can’t understand? Would I be working on it if it were hopeless?”

  Katie said, “Jerry, I had Alec all quieted down…and You got him upset again.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You didn’t mean to. Alec, Jerry is blunt, but He’s right. For you, acting alone, the search was always hopeless. But with Jerry’s help, you may find her. Not certain, but a hope worth pursuing. But time isn’t relevant, five hundred years or five seconds. You don’t have to understand it, but do please believe it.”

  “All right. I will. Because otherwise there would be no hope, none.”

  “But there is hope; all you have to do now is be patient.”

  “I’ll try. But I guess Marga and I will never have our soda fountain and lunch counter in Kansas.”

  “Why not?” asked Jerry.

  “Five centuries? They won’t even speak the same language. There will be no one who knows a hot fudge sundae from curried goat. Customs change.”

  “So you reinvent the hot fudge sundae and make a killing. Don’t be a pessimist, son.”

  “Would you like one right now?” asked Sybil.

  “I don’t think he had better mix it with Jack Daniel’s,” Jerry advised.

  “Thanks, Sybil…but I’d probably cry in it. I associate it with Marga.”

  “So don’t. Son, crying in your drink is bad enough; crying into a hot fudge sundae is disgusting.”

  “Do I get to finish the story of my scandalous youth, or won’t anybody listen?”

  I said, “Katie, I’m listening. You made a deal with Joshua.”

  “With his spies. Alec love, to anyone whose love and respect I want—you, I mean—I need to explain something. Some people who know who I am—and even more who don’t—class Rahab the harlot as a traitor. Treason in time of war, betrayal of fellow citizens, all that. I—”

  “I never thought so, Katie. Jehovah had decreed that Jericho would fall. Since it was ordained, you couldn’t change it. What you did was to save your father and mother and the other kids.”

  “Yes, but there is more to it, Alec. Patriotism is a fairly late concept. Back then, in the land of Canaan, any loyalty other than to one’s family was personal loyalty to a chief of some sort—usually a successful warrior who dubbed himself ‘king.’ Alec, a whore doesn’t—didn’t—have that sort of loyalty.”

  “So? Katie, in spite of studying at seminary I don’t really have any sharp concept of what life was like back then. I keep trying to see it in terms of Kansas.”

  “Not too different. A whore at that time and place was either a temple prostitute, or a slave, or a self-owned private contractor. I was a free woman. Oh, yeah? Whores don’t fight city hall, they can’t. An officer of the king comes in, he expects free tail and free drinks, same for the civic patrol—the cops. Same for any sort of politician. Alec, I tell you the truth; I gave away more tail than I sold—and often got a black eye as a bonus. No, I did not feel loyalty to Jericho; the Jews weren’t any more cruel and they were much cleaner!”

  “Katie, I don’t know of any Protestant Christian who thinks anything bad of Rahab. But I have long wondered about one detail in her—your—story. Your house was on the city wall?”

  “Yes. It was inconvenient for housekeeping—carrying water up all those steps—but convenient for business, and the rent was low. It was the fact that I lived on the wall that let me save General Joshua’s agents. Used a clothesline; they went out the window. Didn’t get my clothesline back, either.”

  “How high was that wall?”

  “Hunh? Goodness, I don’t know. It was high.”

  “Twenty cubits.”

  “Was it, Jerry?”

  “I was there. Professional interest. First use of nerve warfare in combination with sonic weapons.”

  “The reason I ask about the height, Katie, is because it states in the Book that you gathered all your family into your house and stayed there, all during the siege.”

  “We surely did, seven horrid days. My contract with the Israelite spies required it. My place was only two little rooms, not big enough for three adults and seven kids. We ran out of food, we ran out of water, the kids cried, and my father complained. He happily took the money I brought in; with seven kids he needed it. But he resented having to stay under the same roof where I entertained Johns, and he was especially bitter about having to use my bed. My workbench. But use it he did, and I slept on the floor.”

  “Then your family were all in your house when the walls came tumbling down.”

  “Yes, surely. We didn’t dare leave it until they came for us, the two spies. My house was marked at the window with red string.”<
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  “Katie, your house was on the wall, thirty feet up. The Bible says the wall fell down flat. Wasn’t anyone hurt?”

  She looked startled. “Why, no.”

  “Didn’t the house collapse?”

  “No. Alec, it’s been a long time. But I remember the trumpets and the shout, and then the earthquake rumble as the city wall fell. But my house wasn’t hurt.”

  “Saint Alec!”

  “Yes, Jerry?”

  “You should know; you’re a saint. A miracle. If Yahweh hadn’t been throwing miracles right and left, the Israelites would never have conquered the Canaanites. Here this ragged band of Okies comes into a rich country of walled cities—and they never lose a battle. Miracles. Ask the Canaanites. If you can find one. My Brother pretty regularly had them all put to the sword, except some few cases where the young and pretty ones were saved as slaves.”

  “But it was the Promised Land, Jerry, and they were His Chosen People.”

  “They are indeed the Chosen People. Of course, being chosen by Yahweh is no great shakes. Do you know your Book well enough to know how many times He crossed ’em up? My Brother is a bit of a jerk.”

  I had had too much Jack Daniel’s and too many shocks. But Jerry’s casual blasphemy triggered me. “The Lord God Jehovah is a just God!”

  “You never played marbles with Him. Alec, ‘justice’ is not a divine concept; it is a human illusion. The very basis of the Judeo-Christian code is injustice, the scapegoat system. The scapegoat sacrifice runs all through the Old Testament, then it reaches its height in the New Testament with the notion of the Martyred Redeemer. How can justice possibly be served by loading your sins on another? Whether it be a lamb having its throat cut ritually, or a Messiah nailed to a cross and ‘dying for your sins.’ Somebody should tell all of Yahweh’s followers, Jews and Christians, that there is no such thing as a free lunch.

  “Or maybe there is. Being in that catatonic condition called ‘grace’ at the exact moment of death—or at the Final Trump—will get you into Heaven. Right? You got to Heaven that way, did you not?”

  “That’s correct. I hit it lucky. For I had racked up quite a list of sins before then.”

  “A long and wicked life followed by five minutes of perfect grace gets you into Heaven. An equally long life of decent living and good works followed by one outburst of taking the name of the Lord in vain—then have a heart attack at that moment and be damned for eternity. Is that the system?”

  I answered stiffly, “If you read the words of the Bible literally, that is the system. But the Lord moves in mysterious—”

  “Not mysterious to Me, bud: I’ve known Him too long. It’s His world, His rules, His doing. His rules are exact and anyone can follow them and reap the reward. But ‘just’ they are not. What do you think of what He has done to you and your Marga? Is that justice?”

  I took a deep breath. “I’ve been trying to figure that out ever since Judgment Day…and Jack Daniel’s isn’t helping. No, I don’t think it’s what I signed up for.”

  “Ah, but you did!”

  “How?”

  “My Brother Yahweh, wearing His Jesus face, said: ‘After this manner therefore pray ye:’ Go ahead, say it.”

  “‘Our Father, which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done—’”.

  “Stop! Stop right there. ‘Thy will be done—’ No Muslim claiming to be a ‘slave of God’ ever gave a more sweeping consent than that. In that prayer you invite Him to do His worst. The perfect masochist. That’s the test of Job, boy. Job was treated unjustly in every way day after day for years—I know, I know, I was there; I did it—and My dear Brother stood by and let Me do it. Let Me? He urged Me, He connived in it, accessory ahead of the fact.

  “Now it’s your turn. Your God did it to you. Will you curse Him? Or will you come wiggling back on your belly like a whipped dog?”

  XXVIII

  Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find;

  knock, and it shall be opened unto you.

  Matthew 7:7

  I was saved from answering that impossible question by an interruption—and was I glad! I suppose every man has doubts at times about God’s justice. I admit that I had been much troubled lately and had been forced to remind myself again and again that God’s ways are not man’s ways, and that I could not expect always to understand the purposes of the Lord.

  But I could not speak my misgivings aloud, and least of all to the Lord’s Ancient Adversary. It was especially upsetting that Satan chose at this moment to have the shape and the voice of my only friend.

  Debating with the Devil is a mug’s game at best.

  The interruption was mundane: a telephone ringing. Accidental interruption? I don’t think Satan tolerates “accidents.” As may be, I did not have to answer the question that I could not answer.

  Katie said, “Shall I get it, dear?”

  “Please.”

  A telephone handset appeared in Katie’s hand. “Lucifer’s office, Rahab speaking. Repeat, please. I will inquire.” She looked at Jerry.

  “I’ll take it.” Jerry operated without a visible telephone instrument. “Speaking. No. I said, no. No, damn it! Refer that to Mr. Ashmedai. Let Me have the other call.” He muttered something about the impossibility of getting competent help, then said, “Speaking. Yes, Sir!” Then He said nothing for quite a long time. At last He said, “At once, Sir. Thank you.”

  Jerry stood up. “Please excuse Me, Alec; I have work to do. I can’t say when I will be back. Try to treat this waiting as a vacation…and My house is yours. Katie, take care of him. Sybil, keep him amused.” Jerry vanished.

  “Will I keep him amused!” Sybil got up and stood in front of me, rubbed her hands together. Her western clothes faded out, leaving Sybil. She grinned.

  Katie said mildly, “Sybil, stop that. Grow more clothes at once or I’ll send you home.”

  “Spoilsport.” Sybil developed a skimpy bikini. “I plan to make Saint Alec forget that Danish baggage.”

  “What’ll you bet, dear? I’ve been talking to Pat.”

  “So? What did Pat say?”

  “Margrethe can cook.”

  Sybil looked disgusted. “A girl spends fifty years on her back, studying hard. Along comes some slottie who can make chicken and dumplings. It’s not fair.”

  I decided to change the subject. “Sybil, those tricks you do with clothes are fascinating. Are you a graduate witch now?”

  Instead of answering me at once, Sybil glanced at Katie, who said to her: “All over with, dear. Speak freely.”

  “Okay. Saint Alec, I’m no witch. Witchcraft is poppycock. You know that verse in the Bible about not suffering witches to live?”

  “Exodus twenty-two, eighteen.”

  “That’s the one. The Old Hebrew word translated there as ‘witch’ actually means ‘poisoner.’ Not letting a poisoner continue to breathe strikes me as a good idea. But I wonder how many friendless old women have been hanged or burned as a result of a sloppy translation?”

  (Could this really be true? What about the “literal word of God” concept on which I had been reared? Of course the word “witch” is English, not the original Hebrew…but the translators of the King James version were sustained by God—that’s why that version of the Bible [and only that one] can be taken literally. But—No! Sybil must be mistaken. The Good Lord would not let hundreds, thousands, of innocent people be tortured to death over a mistranslation He could so easily have corrected.)

  “So you did not attend a Sabbat that night. What did you do?”

  “Not what you think; Israfel and I aren’t quite that chummy. Chums, yes; buddies, no.”

  “‘Israfel’? I thought he was in Heaven.”

  “That’s his godfather. The trumpeter. This Israfel can’t play a note. But he did ask me to tell you, if I ever got a chance, that he really isn’t the pimple he pretended to be as ‘Roderick Lyman Culverson, Third.’”

  “I�
��m glad to hear that. As he certainly did a good job of portraying an unbearable young snot. I didn’t see how a daughter of Katie and Jerry—or is it just of Katie?—could have such poor taste as to pick that boor as a pal. Not Israfel, of course, but the part he was playing.”

  “Oh. Better fix that, too. Katie, what relation are we?”

  “I don’t think even Dr. Darwin could find any genetic relationship, dear. But I am every bit as proud of you as I would be were you my own daughter.”

  “Thank you, Mom!”

  “But we all are related,” I objected, “through Mother Eve. Since Katie, wrinkles and all, was born while the Children of Israel were wandering in the wilderness, there are only about eighty begats from Eve to Katie. With your birthdate and simple arithmetic we could make a shrewd guess at how close your blood relationship is.”

  “Oh, oh! Here we go again. Saint Alec, Mama Kate is descended from Eve; I am not. Different species. I’m an imp. An afrit, if you want to get technical.”

  She again vanished her clothes and did a body transformation. “See?”

  I said, “Say! Weren’t you managing the desk at the Sans Souci Sheraton the evening I arrived in Hell?”

  “I certainly was. And I’m flattered that you remember me, in my own shape.” She resumed her human appearance, plus the tiny bikini. “I was there because I knew you by sight. Pop didn’t want anything to go wrong.”

  Katie stood up. “Let’s continue this outside; I’d like a dip before dinner.”

  “I’m busy seducing Saint Alec.”

  “Dreamer. Continue it outdoors.”