Giving presents was a great goodness and taught Mike the true value of money. But he did not forget other things he was eager to grok. Jubal put off Senator Boone twice without mentioning it and Mike did not notice; his grasp of time made «next Sunday» no particular date. But the next invitation came addressed to Mike; Boone was under pressure from Supreme Bishop Digby and sensed that Harshaw was stalling.

Mike took it to Jubal. «Well?» Jubal growled. «Do you want to go? You don't have to. We can tell 'em to go to hell.»

A Checker Cab with a human pilot (Harshaw refused to trust a robocab) called next Sunday morning to deliver Mike, Jill, and Jubal to the Archangel Foster Tabernacle of the Church of the New Revelation.

ALL THE way to church Jubal was trying to warn Mike — of what, Mike was not certain. He listened — but the landscape tugged for attention; he compromised by storing what Jubal said. «Look, boy,» Jubal admonished, «these Fosterites are after your money. And the prestige of having the Man from Mars join their church. They'll work on you — you'll have to be firm.»

«Beg pardon?»

«Damn it, you're not listening.»

«I am sorry, Jubal.»

«Well … look at it this way. Religion is a solace to many and it is conceivable that some religion, somewhere, is Ultimate Truth. But being religious is often a form of conceit. The faith in which I was brought up assured me that I was better than other people; I was “saved”, they were “damned” — we were in a state of grace and the rest were “heathens”. By “heathen” they meant such as our brother Mahmoud. Ignorant louts who seldom bathed and planted corn by the Moon claimed to know the final answers of the Universe. That entitled them to look down on outsiders. Our hymns were loaded with arrogance — self-congratulation on how cozy we were with the Almighty and what a high opinion he had of us, what hell everybody else would catch some Judgment Day. We peddled the only authentic brand of Lydia Pinkham's — »

«Jubal!» Jill protested. «He doesn't grok it.»

«Uh? Sorry. My folks tried to make a preacher of me; I guess it shows.»

«It does.»

«Don't scoff, girl. I would have made a good one if I hadn't fallen into the fatal folly of reading. With a touch more confidence and a liberal helping of ignorance I would have been a famous evangelist. Shucks, this place we're headed for would be known as “Archangel Jubal Tabernacle”. »

Jill shuddered. «Jubal, please! Not so soon after breakfast.»

«I mean it. A confidence man knows he's lying; that limits his scope. But a successful shaman believes what he says — and belief is contagious; there is no limit to his scope. But I lacked the necessary confidence in my own infallibility; I could never become a prophet… just a critic — a sort of fourth-rate prophet with delusions of gender.» Jubal frowned. «That's what worries me about Fosterites, Jill. I think they are sincere. Mike is a sucker for sincerity.»

«What do you think they'll try to do?»

«Convert him. Then get their hands on his fortune.»

«I thought you had things fixed so that nobody could?»

«No, just so that nobody can grab it against his will. Ordinarily he couldn't give it away without the government stepping in. But giving it to a politically powerful church is another matter.»

«I don't see why.»

Jubal scowled. «My dear, religion is a null area in the law. A church can do anything any organization can do — and has no restrictions. It pays no taxes, need not publish records, is effectively immune to search, inspection, or control — and a church is anything that calls itself a church. Attempts have been made to distinguish between “real” religions entitled to immunities, and “cults”. It can't be done, short of establishing a state religion … a cure worse than the disease. Both under what's left of the United States Constitution and under the Treaty of Federation, all churches are equally immune — especially if they swing a bloc of votes. If Mike is converted to Fosterism … and makes a will in favor of his church … then “goes to heaven” some sunrise, it will be, in the correct tautology, “as legal as church on Sunday”. »

«Oh, dear! I thought we had him safe at last.»

«There is no safety this side of the grave.»

«Well … what are you going to do, Jubal?»

«Nothing. Just fret.»

Mike stored their conversation without trying to grok it. He recognized the subject as one of utter simplicity in his own language but amazingly slippery in English. Since his failure to achieve mutual grokking even with his brother Mahmoud, through imperfect translation of the all-embracing Martian concept as: «Thou art God,» he had waited. Waiting would fructify at its time; his brother Jill was learning his language and he would explain it to her. They would grok together.

Senator Boone met them at the Tabernacle's landing flat. «Howdy, folks! May the Good Lord bless you this beautiful Sabbath. Mr. Smith, I'm happy to see you again. And you, too, Doctor.» He took his cigar out of his mouth and looked at Jill. «And this little lady — didn't I see you at the Palace?»

«Yes, Senator. I'm Gillian Boardman.»

«Thought so, m'dear. Are you saved?»

«Uh, I guess not, Senator.»

«It's never too late. We'll be happy to have you attend seekers' service in the Outer Tabernacle — I'll find a Guardian to guide you. Mr. Smith and the Doc will be going into the Sanctuary.»

«Senator — »

«Uh, what, Doc?»

«If Miss Boardman can't go into the Sanctuary, we had better attend seekers' service. She's his nurse.»

Boone looked perturbed. «Is he ill?»

Jubal shrugged. «As his physician, I prefer to have a nurse with us. Mr. Smith is not acclimated to this planet. Why don't you ask him? Mike, do you want Jill with you?»

«Yes, Jubal.»

«But — Very well, Mr. Smith.» Boone again removed his cigar, put fingers between his lips and whistled. «Cherub here!»

A youngster in his teens came dashing up. He was dressed in short full robe, tights, slippers, and pigeon's wings. He had golden curls and a sunny smile. Jill thought he was as cute as a ginger ale ad.

Boone ordered, «Fly up to the Sanctum office and tell the Warden on duty that I want another pilgrim's badge at the Sanctuary gate right away. The word is Mars.»

«“Mars”,» the kid repeated, threw Boone a Scout salute, and made a sixty-foot leap over the crowd. Jill realized why the robe looked bulky; it concealed a jump harness.

«Have to watch those badges,» Boone remarked. «Be surprised how many sinners would like to sample God's Joy without having their sins washed away. We'll mosey along and sightsee while we wait for the third badge.»

They pushed through the crowd and entered the Tabernacle, into a long high hall. Boone stopped. «I want you to notice. There is salesmanship in everything, even the Lord's work. Any tourist, whether he attends seekers' service or not — and services run twenty-four hours a day — has to come through here. What does he see? These happy chances.» Boone waved at slot machines lining both walls. «The bar and quick lunch is at the far end, he can't even get a drink without running this gauntlet. I tell you, it's a remarkable sinner who gets that far without shedding his change.

«But we don't take his money and give him nothing. Take a look — » Boone shouldered his way to a machine, tapped the woman playing it. «Please, Daughter.»

She looked up, annoyance changed to a smile. «Certainly, Bishop.»

«Bless you. You'll note,» Boone went on, as he fed a quarter into the machine, «that whether it pays off in worldly goods or not, a sinner is rewarded with a blessing and a souvenir text.»

The machine stopped; lined up in the window was: GOD — WATCHES — YOU.