"Because," the high priest said, "it is common practice for supplicants to make a voluntary sacrifice of money to the Oracle. But if you do not have the money, you can give equally acceptable things such as chattel mortgages, bonds, stocks, deeds, or any other papers which men deem of value."
"I have none of these things," Joenes said sadly.
"Do you not own lands in Polynesia?" the priest asked.
"I do not," Joenes said. "My parents' land was given to them by the government, to whom it must return. Nor do I hold other properties, for in Polynesia such things are not considered important."
"Then you own nothing?" the priest asked. He seemed disturbed.
"Nothing but eight dollars and thirty cents," Joenes said, "and a guitar which is not my own but belongs to a man named Lum in distant California. But Father, are these things really necessary?"
"Of course not," the priest replied. "But even cyberneti-cists must live, and an act of generosity from a stranger is looked upon as pleasing, especially when the time comes to interpret the words of the Oracle. Also, some believe that a penniless man is one who has not worked to amass money for the Oracle in case the day of divine wrath should ever be upon him, and who is therefore lacking in piety. But that need not concern us. We will now state your case, and ask for a judgment."
The priest took the Attorney General's statement, and Joenes's defense, and translated them into the secret language in which the Oracle listened to the words of men. Soon there was a reply.
The Oracle's judgment was as follows:
SQUARE IT TO THE TENTH POWER MINUS THE SQUARE ROOT OF MINUS ONE.
DO NOT FORGET THE COSIGN, FOR MEN MUST NEEDS HAVE FUN.
ADD IN X AS A VARIABLE, FREE-FLOATING, FANCY-FREE.
IT WILL COME AT LAST TO ZERO, AND MORE YOU NEED NOT ME.
When this decision had been delivered, the priests met to interpret the words of the Oracle. And this is what they said:
SQUARE IT means correct the wrong.
THE TENTH POWER is the degree and number in which the penitent must labor in penal servitude in order to correct the wrong; namely ten years.
THE SQUARE ROOT OF MINUS ONE, being one imaginary number, represents a fictitious state of grace; but being instrumental, represents also the possibility of power and fame for the supplicant. Because of this, the previous ten-year sentence is suspended.
THE X VARIABLE represents the incarnate furies of the earth, among whom the supplicant shall dwell, and who shall show him all possible horrors.
THE COSIGN is the mark of the goddess herself, protecting the supplicant from some of the terror of the furies, and promising him certain fleshly joys.
IT WILL COME AT LAST TO ZERO, means that the equation of divine justice and human guilt is balanced in this case.
FURTHER YOU NEED NOT ME, means that the supplicant may not apply again to this or any other Oracle, since the rendering is complete.
So it was that Joenes received a ten-year suspended sentence. And the Attorney General had to obey the decision of the Oracle and set him free.
Once freed, Joenes continued his journey through the land of America, bearing upon his head a curse and a promise, as well as a ten-year suspended sentence. He departed hastily from Sperry and rode a train to the great city of New York. And what he did there, and what happened to him, is the story which must now be told.
5. THE STORY OF JOENES, WATTS, AND THE POLICEMAN
(As told by Mdaoa of Samoa)
Never had joenes seen anything like the great city of New York. The ceaseless rush and bustle of so many people was strange to him, but curiously exciting. When night came, the frantic life of the city continued unabated, and Joenes observed New Yorkers hurrying in and out of nightclubs and dance halls in their quest for pleasure. Nor was there any lack of culture in the city, for great numbers of people were attentive to the lost art of the moving pictures.
In the small hours of the night, the city's pace slowed. Then Joenes came upon many old men, and some young ones too, who sat listlessly on benches or stood near subway exits. When Joenes looked into their faces he saw a terrible nothingness, and when he spoke to them he could not understand their mumbled replies. These atypical New Yorkers disturbed him, and Joenes was glad when morning came.
At first light, the frenzied movements of the crowds began again, and people pushed and shoved each other in their haste to get somewhere and do something. Joenes wanted to learn the reason for all of this, so he chose a man out of the crowd and stopped him.
"Sir," Joenes said, "could you spare a moment of your valuable time and tell a stranger something about the great and purposeful vitality I see all around me?"
The man said, "Whatsamatter, you some kind of nut?" And he hurried off.
But the next man Joenes stopped gave the question careful thought, and said, "You call it vitality, huh?"
"So it appears," Joenes said, glancing at the restless crowds surging around them. "By the way, my name is Joenes."
"Mine's Watts," the man said, "as in Watts the matter.
In answer to your question, I'll tell you that what you see is not vitality. It's panic."
"But what are they in a panic about?" Joenes asked.
"To put it in a nutshell," Watts said, "they're afraid if they stop hurrying and pushing, somebody will find out they're dead. It's a very serious matter being found dead, because then they can fire you from your job, foreclose all your bills, raise your apartment rental, and carry you squirming to your grave."
Joenes found this reply scarcely credible. He said, "Mr. Watts, these people do not look dead. And in actual fact, all exaggeration aside, they are not dead, are they?"
"I never put exaggeration aside," Watts told him. "But since you're a stranger, 111 try to explain a little more. To begin with, death is merely a matter of definition. Once the definition was very simple: you were dead when you stopped moving for a long time. But now the scientists have examined this antiquated notion more carefully, and have done considerable research on the entire subject They have found that you can be dead in all important respects, but still go on walking and talking."
"What are these important respects?" Joenes asked.
"First of all," Watts told him, "the walking dead are characterized by an almost total lack of emotionality. They can feel only anger and fear, though they sometimes simulate other emotions in the crude manner of a chimpanzee pretending to read a book. Next, there is a robotic quality in their actions, which accompanies a cessation of the higher thinking processes. Frequently there is a reflex motion toward piety, which is not unlike the frantic movements that a chicken makes after its head has been chopped off. Because of this reflex, many of the walking dead are detected around churches, where some of them even try to pray. Others can be found on park benches or near subway exits—"
"Ah," said Joenes. "When I walked in the city late last night I saw certain men at those places—"
"Exactly," said Watts. "Those are the others who no longer pretend that they are not dead. But others copy the living with great and pathetic earnestness, hoping to pass unnoticed. They can usually be detected because they overdo it, either by talking too much or by laughing too hard."
"I had no idea of all this," Joenes said.
"It is a tragic problem," Watts said. "The authorities are doing their best to cope with it, but it has assumed formidable proportions. I wish I could tell you other characteristics of the walking dead, and how they resemble the old-fashioned nonwalking dead, for I'm sure that you would find it interesting. But now, Mr. Joenes, I see a policeman approaching, and therefore I had better make my departure."
So saying, Watts broke into a full spring and raced through the crowd. The policeman started after him, but soon gave up the pursuit and returned to Joenes.
"Damn it," the policeman said, "I've lost him again."
"Is he a criminal?" Joenes asked.
"Smartest jewel thief in these parts," the policeman said, mopping his ma
ssive red brow. "He likes to disguise himself as a beatnik."
"He was talking to me about the walking dead," Joenes said.
"He's always making up those stories," the policeman told him. "Compulsive liar, that's what he is. Crazy. And dangerous as they come. Especially dangerous because he doesn't carry a gun. I've almost caught him three times. I order him to stop in the name of the law, just like the book says, and when he doesn't stop, I shoot at him. So far I've killed eight bystanders. The way I'm going, I'll probably never make sergeant. They make me pay for my own bullets, too."
"But if this Watts never carries a gun—" Joenes began, then stopped abruptly. He had seen a strange sullen expression cross the policeman's face, and had seen his hand drop to the butt of his gun. "What I meant to say," Joenes continued, "is there anything in what Watts told me about the walking dead?"
"Naw, that's just a beatnik line he makes up to kid people with. Didn't I tell you he was a jewel thief?"
"I forgot," Joenes said.
"Well don't forget it. I'm just a plain ordinary man, but a guy like Watts gets me sore. I do my duty just like the book says, and in the evening I go home and watch the tv, except on Friday evenings when I go bowling. Does that sound like being a robot, like Watts says?"
"Of course not," Joenes said.
"That guy," the policeman continued, "talks about people not having no emotion. Let me tell you, I'm maybe no psychologist, but I know I got emotions. When I have this gun in my hand, I feel good. Does that sound like I got no emotions? Furthermore, let me tell you something. I was raised in a tough section of this city, and when I was a kid I used to run with a gang. We all had zip guns and gravity knives, and we enjoyed ourselves with armed robbery, murder, and rape. Does that sound like no emotion? And I might of gone right on in that way, from being a kid criminal to being an adult criminal, if I hadn't met this priest. He wasn't no stuffed shirt, he was just like one of us, because he knew that was the only way he could reach us wild types. He used to go out on stomps with us, and more than once I saw him cut the hell out of somebody with a little switchblade he always carried. So he was regular and we accepted him. But he was also a priest, and seeing he was regular I let him talk to me. And he told me how I was wasting my life in that way."
"He must have been a wonderful man," Joenes said.
"He was a saint," the policeman said, in a heavy brooding voice. "That man was a real saint, because he did everything we did but he was good inside and he always told us we should get out of criminality."
The policeman looked Joenes in the eye and said, "Because of that man, I became a cop. Me, who everyone thought would end up in the electric chair! And that Watts has the nerve to speak of the walking dead. I became a cop, and I've been a good cop instead of some lousy punk hoodlum like Watts. I've killed eight criminals in the line of duty, winning three merit badges from the department. And I've also accidentally killed 27 innocent bystanders who didn't get out of the way fast enough. I'm sorry about those people, but I've got a job to do, and I can't let people get in the way when I'm going after a criminal. And no matter what the newspapers say, I've never taken a bribe in my life, not even for a parking ticket." The policeman's hand tightened convulsively around the butt of his revolver. "I'd give a parking ticket to Jesus Christ himself and no number of saints would be able to bribe me. What do you think about that?"
"I think you are a dedicated man," Joenes said carefully.
"You're right. And I've got a beautiful wife and three wonderful children. I've taught them all how to shoot a revolver. Nothing's too good for my family. And Watts thinks he knows something about emotion! Christ, these smooth-talking bastards get me so sore sometimes I can feel my head coming off. It's a good thing I'm a religious man."
"I'm sure it is," Joenes said.
"I still go every week to see that priest who got me out of the gang. He's still working with kids, because he's dedicated. He's getting sorta old to use a knife, so now it's usually a zip gun, or sometimes a bicycle chain. That man has done more for the cause of law than all the youth rehabilitation centers in the city. I give him a hand sometimes, and between us we've redeemed fourteen boys who you would have thought were hopeless criminals. Many of them are respected businessmen now, and six have joined the police force. Whenever I see that old man, I feel religion."
"I think that's wonderful," Joenes said. He began backing away, because the policeman had drawn his revolver and was toying with it nervously.
"There's nothing wrong with this country that good-heartedness and straight thinking won't cure," the policeman said, his jaw twitching. "Good always triumphs in the end, and it always will as long as there are good-hearted men to help it along. There's more law in the end of my nightstick than in all the musty old lawbooks. We bring them in and the judges let them go. What about that? Nice state of business, huh? But us cops are used to it, and we figure one broken arm is worth a year in stir, so we take care of a lot of the sentencing ourselves."
Here the policeman drew his nightstick. With it in one hand, his revolver in the other, he looked hard at Joenes. Joenes sensed the sudden hugeness of the policeman's need to enforce law and order. He stood utterly still, hoping that the policeman, now advancing toward him with shining eyes, would not kill him or break any bones.
A crucial moment was approaching. But Joenes was saved at the last moment by a citizen of the city, who,
made absentminded by the tropic sun, stepped off the curb before the traffic light changed to green.
The policeman whirled, fired two warning shots, and charged toward the man. Joenes walked quickly away in the opposite direction, and continued walking northward until he was beyond the limits of the city.
JOENES AND THE THREE TRUCK DRIVERS
(This and the three Truck Driver stories that comprise it are told by Teleu of Huahine)
As joenes was walking along a highway to the north, a truck stopped beside him. Within the truck were three men who said they would willingly give him a ride as far as they were going.
Very happily Joenes got into the truck, declaring his gratitude to the truck drivers. But they said the pleasure was theirs, since driving a truck was lonely work even for three, and they enjoyed talking to different men and hearing of their adventures. This being the case, they asked Joenes to tell what had happened to him since he had left his home.
Joenes told these men that he was from a distant island, had come to the city of San Francisco where he had been arrested, questioned before a Congressional Committee, tried by an Oracle and given a ten-year suspended sentence, gone to New York where a policeman had nearly killed him. Nothing had gone right since he had left his island, Joenes said, and everything had gone badly. Therefore he considered himself a very unfortunate man.
"Mr. Joenes," said the first truck driver, "you have indeed gone through misfortunes. But I am the most unfortunate of men, for I have lost something more precious than gold, the loss of which I bemoan every day of my life."
Joenes asked the man to tell his story. And this is the story that the first truck driver told.
THE STORY OF THE SCIENTIFIC TRUCK DRIVER
My name is Adolphus Proponus, and by birth I am a Swede. Ever since I was a child, I loved science. I possessed that love not merely for itself, but because I be-
lieved that science was mankind's greatest servant, which would lift humanity out of the cruelty of the past, to peace and happiness. In spite of all the atrocities I saw men perform, and even though my own neutral country grew rich by supplying guns to warring nations, I still believed in the goodness and superiority of mankind, and in its liberation through science.
Because of my humanistic instincts and my scientific inclinations, I became a doctor. I applied for work at the United Nations Health Commission, desiring the furthest and most wretched place on earth for my post. Not for me a quiet practice in a somnolent Swedish town; I wished to throw myself deep into the battle against disease, and for humanity.
This area obviously needed a good doctor, since there was a great prevalence of diseases. Many of these were known to me, for I had studied them in books. Others were new. The new ones, I learned, had been propagated artificially, as part of the neutralization of Africa. I do not know whose decision this was, but someone had wished a truly neutral Africa, which could assist neither East nor West. To this purpose germs had been introduced, and also certain laboratory plants, which had the effect of making dense jungle even denser. These things stopped men from having time for politics, since all their time had to be spent in a battle for life itself.
These things had also wiped out several hundred million Western troops, who were engaged in combat against Eastern guerrillas. The guerrillas, too, were wiped out. Also many species of animal had been destroyed, although a few had thrived. The rat, for example, flourished. Snakes of all species multiplied. Among insects, there was a great increase in flies and mosquitoes. Among birds, the vultures had increased beyond counting.
I had never known about this state of affairs, since news like this is generally ignored in a democracy, and is banned in a dictatorship. But I saw these horrors in Africa. And I learned that the same was true in the tropical parts of Asia, Central America, and India. All of those places were
now truly neutral, through accident or through design, since they were engaged in a desperate struggle for life itself.
As a doctor I was saddened because of the many diseases, old and new. These sprang from the jungle, which had been aided and augmented by man. The growth rate of that jungle was fantastic; and therefore equally fantastic was its decay rate. Because of this, disease germs of all kinds multiplied and spread in the most congenial atmosphere possible.
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