by Damon Knight
"I don't like talking about it behind his back this way," said Irma.
"I don't either, but he has only told us that he doesn't want us to talk about it to him. He hasn't said that we mustn't talk about it among ourselves. Well, never mind that, but there is something more important. How can we do our duty to him unless we try to understand what is happening? I assume that you all feel as I do, that we have a duty to him. To help him and protect him as far as we can. Would you agree?"
Their heads were nodding.
"Well, we can't predict the future, but sometimes we can see a pattern. That's really all I am saying."
In the spring Gene Anderson continued his tour; He was traveling now in his own Lear jet, with a modified motor home waiting for him at every airport. Plans for a European tour had preoccupied him through the winter. He was studying Russian and Polish with a young man named Kozlow, who reported that his progress was excellent. There was talk of buying a short-wave radio station in West Germany, perhaps a TV station as well.
On the evening before the rally in Houston, the group assembled as usual in the living room of Gene's suite. Through the open window came the sound of a car radio at full volume:
You're the one, Gene Anderson, You are the one. Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh! Anderson, You are the one, oh-oh!
"That tune is driving me crazy," said Linck. "I have heard choral versions, one with a brass band, an organ version, and I don't know what all. It goes around and round. I can forget it quite easily, but then somebody plays it again."
"Let's begin," said Gene. "Anything earthshaking today?"
Lisa Finn, the public relations director, showed them a religious magazine, poorly printed on coarse paper. On the cover was a drawing of a Gene's Dollar which had been altered to give him a Satanic appearance. The headline was "The Mark of the Beast."
"This kind of thing isn't too important -- these people are always calling for a crusade against somebody. Here's something that worries me a little more, though." She held up a newspaper, opened to a syndicated column. The headline was "Against America."
"Let me read you a little of this. 'Gene Anderson is telling us to give up competitiveness, reduce our population, reduce consumption, disarm ourselves -- in other words, to give up all the things that make this country strong. The rosy future he paints for us is one of villagers baking their own bread, milking their own cows, and patching their own pants, probably under the eye of a commissar appointed by the Kremlin. Is Gene Anderson the Anti-Christ? Maybe. Is he Anti-American? No doubt about it.'"
"Piffle," said Brian Altman.
"Maybe so, but it's the kind of piffle they seem to like in Washington. You know that Senator Monroe has introduced a bill making it a criminal offense to promulgate the doctrines of a cult."
"How can they do that?" asked Cliff Guthrie. "I thought there was something in the Constitution against any law about religion."
"The bill isn't directed against religions, only against cults."
"Well, how do you tell the difference?"
"The bill sets up a Federal Commission on Cults. So a cult is anything declared to be a cult by the commission -- meaning anything the Moral Majority doesn't like."
"Brian, how serious is this?" Gene asked.
"Not very. In my opinion, the bill won't pass, and if it should, it will be struck down by the courts -- this cult commission is a transparent device to evade the Constitution. In any event, they're obviously out to get the Moonies and Hare Krishnas, Church of Scientology, people like that; I don't see how it affects us."
"Lisa?"
"I think we ought to oppose it on principle, just the same. I could get together with a couple of lobbyists and work something out."
"How much?" Gene asked.
"Oh -- sixty, seventy thousand. Maybe a little more."
"Okay, let's do it. Next item?"
From Art Buchwald's column:
The other day my friend Garfinkel handed me a pink dollar bill. "What's this?" I said.
"A Gene's Dollar. I gave it to you because you did something nice. You were starting to light your cigar, but when you saw me coming you put the match out."
I examined the dollar; sure enough, it said: "YOU WERE NICE TO ME."
"What can I do with this?" I asked.
"You can give it to somebody who's nice to you."
"Suppose everybody is nasty to me?"
"Then you get to keep the dollar."
I lit my cigar and puffed smoke at him. "If I put this out again, do I get another dollar?"
"No, because I've only got one more and I'm saving it for my girlfriend."
I puffed steadily; he coughed and turned a little green. Finally, as he got up to go, he handed me another bill: on the top it said "Garfinkel's Dollar," and on the bottom, "YOU WERE LOUSY TO ME."
They were in Roanoke a month later when news came that the Anti-Cult Bill had been passed by the Senate and the House on the same day. On the following day it was signed into law by the President, who appointed a five-man commission. At the end of the week the commission announced its preliminary list of organizations proscribed as cults. There were thirty-six; among them was the Anderson Movement.
"They really railroaded it through," said Brian Altman. "Under the statute, anybody who promulgates a proscribed doctrine or induces anyone to join a proscribed organization can be brought up on criminal charges. I hate to say this, but I think we'd better cancel the rest of the tour."
"There will be ten thousand people waiting to get into the civic center tomorrow night. The network crews are here; we've got three people lined up to be healed."
"How can this be happening?" Margaret asked. "You know the Moral Majority is a minority."
"Yes, but it's the kind of minority that runs a lynch mob," said Lisa Finn. "I saw this happen thirty years ago -- a lot of good people were afraid not to quack when everybody else was quacking."
"How's the hate mail running?" Gene asked.
"Pretty high. Worse the last month or so. Some death threats."
"I can't believe this country will throw away its greatest traditions overnight," said Cliff Guthrie.
"Let me tell you about those traditions." Lisa Finn tapped with a pencil on the table for emphasis. "Most of the civil rights we take for granted are recent. Women didn't even get the vote until nineteen twenty. In the forties, thousands of Japanese-Americans were rounded up into concentration camps. The traditions you're talking about say that couldn't happen -- so does the Constitution -- but in fact it was very easy. The President said do it. That's all it took. Don't think it can't happen again."
"Do you agree with Brian, then?"
"I agree it's serious. About going on tonight, I think that's your decision."
Gene looked around the table. The others were nodding. "All right," he said; "we'll go on."
In the focus of the lights and the ten thousand faces, hearing the echoes of his words come back like the sound of handballs bouncing from a court, he said, "The Bible tells you that you must worship God, but I tell you that God doesn't care if you worship him or not. The Bible tells you that you must follow God's commandments, but I tell you that there are no commandments, except the ones built into your bodies, and you haven't got much choice about those -- when you are hungry, you eat, and when you are sleepy you sleep. The Bible tells you that you will be rewarded in heaven if you are good, but I tell you that there is no heaven or hell except in the minds of human beings. This is our life, right here, right now, and it's the only one we've got. The Bible tells you that God is all-knowing, but I tell you that if he knew everything, he would be bored for all eternity. God made us, not because he knew what we would do, but to find out what we would do.
"Remember I didn't say that God doesn't care about us. He does care, because we give him joy and delight, but he won't step in to save us from starving, or getting sick, or falling out a window. He might like to, but that would spoil his great experiment -- to see what will happen if he brings us i
nto the world and then leaves us alone. That's what the world is all about, and that's why he takes delight in us, along with all his other creatures -- because we do things he never expected us to do. What would be the point of an experiment if you knew how it was going to turn out? Or what would be the point of it if you stopped it in the middle and made it turn out the way you thought it would? How would you ever learn anything that way?
"God doesn't care if the human race survives or not. We are not his chosen people. If we become extinct, he's got millions of other species -- species that we're killing off right now at the rate of about one a day. He's got the leopards and the deer and the elephants and the fish in the ocean and the spiders with their wonderful webs. Everything in God's world reflects his beauty, and he can get along without us. We depend on him, not the other -- "
The flat crack of an explosion echoed from the rear of the hall. A little gray smoke was drifting above the distant balcony, and there was a confusion there -- people standing, moving like ants; there were shouts and screams. Ushers and security people were converging on the spot. Just below the podium, the head of the security detail was speaking into his walkie-talkie. "What is it?" Gene said.
"A bomb, looks like. We don't know yet how many are hurt."
Gene said into the microphone, "Please remain in your seats." To the security man he said, "Get me up there."
Seven people were lying between the rows of seats, bloody and ragged. He healed five of them, one after the other; but two were dead.
"You were right," he said to Brian. "Lisa, you were trying to tell me the same thing. It was my damned pride. Those people would be alive if I'd listened to you. Cancel the rest of the tour. We're going home."
Chapter Twenty-seven
Driving dowh the wrong road and knowing it, The fork years behind, how many have thought To pull up on the shoulder and leave the car Empty, strike out across the fields; and how many Are still mazed among dock and thistle, Seeking the road they should have taken? --Gene Anderson
At the airport the next morning, as they approached the fence, a man in a gray suit came up to them, followed by three armed men in uniform.
"Mr. Anderson, you are under arrest for the crime of felony murder, as defined in section three oh-nine of the U.S. Criminal Code. I warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you." He put a hand on Gene's arm.
"I'm Mr. Anderson's attorney," said Brian. "Let me see your warrant."
The man in the gray suit took a paper from his breast pocket, unfolded it and held it out. Before Brian could take it, Gene plucked it out of his hand and examined it. "There must be some mistake," he said, and held the paper up. It was blank on both sides.
"Give me that," said the man in the gray suit. He took the paper and looked at it in disbelief. He fumbled in his pocket again, then stared at Gene. "That was a properly executed warrant when I gave it to you," he said. "This kind of stunt won't get you anywhere, Mr. Anderson."
"I don't see any warrant," Brian said, "all I see is a blank sheet of paper. Come on, everybody."
They crossed the boarding area and climbed into the airplane. "Close that door quick," said Brian. He called to the pilot, "Have you got clearance? Let's go."
When they were airborne, he said, "Did you blank out that warrant?"
"Yes."
"Well, I wish you hadn't done that -- now we don't know what was on it. Wait a minute." He took his phone out of his pocket and punched in a number. "Phil? Gene Anderson was just hit with a federal warrant for felony murder, but the warrant disappeared -- Never mind that now, they couldn't serve it because it disappeared, but we don't know what the specific charge was. . . . Yes, all right, tell them anything you want. Okay." He put the phone back in his pocket. "He's going to try to find out and call me back. Meanwhile, let's see what our options are. Assuming that's a valid warrant, number one, Gene can surrender and stand trial. I don't think they can get a conviction, whatever it is, but we'll wait and see. If they do get a conviction, we'll appeal."
"How long would that take?"
"In the worst case, if it had to go to the Supreme Court, two, three years."
"And in the meantime, what, is he out on bail?"
Brian hesitated. "I can't promise that. The new Criminal Code gives federal judges the right -- " His phone buzzed. "Excuse me, that's my call." He took the phone out of his pocket. "Yes?"
He listened for a moment. "Okay, Phil, thanks. I don't know, I'll call you back. We haven't got our feet under us yet. Okay? Okay, Phil."
He turned to face them. "Well, it's bad. They pulled a double whammy on us. They must have been hoping for something like this, or maybe they rigged it, I wouldn't put anything past them."
"What are you talking about?"
"The bomb victims. By holding that meeting in defiance of the Anti-Cult Act, you technically committed a felony. If anybody gets killed while you,re committing a felony, you can be charged with murder."
"Can they make that stick?"
"I don't know. Now wait a minute, let's not get excited, let's talk about our options. Surrender is one. What else is there?"
"Gene could get out of the country."
"Yes, but think about the consequences. It would have to be to some country that doesn't have an extradition treaty with the U.S. That would effectively restrict his movements from then on -- he'd be stuck in some place like Venezuela."
"How about this? Gene submits to arrest, they put him in jail, and he opens the doors and walks out. You could do it, couldn't you, Gene?"
"Yes."
"Then they come and arrest him again, and he walks out again. That would be a shot in the arm for the Movement, when they see no jail can hold him."
"That's beautiful, but it won't work. After the first time, they'd put a twenty-four-hour guard on him."
"Well -- "
"No, Lisa, he's right," said Gene. "I could knock out the guards, I could unload their guns -- that's the kind of thing you're thinking of, isn't it? That's all true, but then if they locked me up a third time, they would take extraordinary measures. Either I couldn't get out at all, or I could do it only by killing somebody."
"What's the answer, then?"
After a moment Gene said, "I don't know."
That night in Florida he dreamed of an enormous canvas marked off in squares and diagonals in preparation for transferring a cartoon to it. That was curious, because he had not thought of drawing or painting in over a year. Then the canvas somehow faded away, and only the charcoal lines remained; he was climbing them like a trellis, but he knew there was something waiting for him at the center, and that when he got there he would fall.
Early in the morning, before anyone was awake, he put some food and clothes in the motor home. He left a note for Pongo in his cottage, and another, addressed to everyone, in the kitchen of the big house.
"Where do you suppose he's gone?" Margaret asked.
"Where can he go?"
"As long as they don't know where to look for him, he can go anywhere he wants. He'll travel at night, use back roads."
"I think I know where he has gone," said Linck.
It would take Gene at least six days, more likely seven or eight, to drive across the continent. Linck made his preparations carefully. He packaged a revolver and a box of cartridges and airmailed them to Portland, Oregon -- an illegal act, but he could not carry a weapon onto an airplane. He spent several days in the Pinellas Park offices, settling policy questions and making contingency plans. For the time being at least, until the legal problems were settled, the Movement would have to go underground. There was, after all, a good precedent for that. Linck bought a few necessary things and packed a suitcase. On the eighteenth, four days after Gene's departure, he boarded a flight for Portland, Oregon.
He was well aware that from one point of view he was about to commit a monstrous act of betrayal. He did not underestimate the duties of friendship or the claims of sentiment, but he beli
eved in the existence of something more important.
It was Linck's conviction that Jesus of Nazareth had been a man like Gene Anderson, gifted with the same power; all but a few of his reported miracles could be explained in that way, and in addition there was a suggestive passage in the Gospel of Peter, where he was made to say on the cross, not "My God, my God," but "My power, my power, thou hast deserted me."