EIGHT

1

It began indeed, like the first recorded shot of a war. The day after

the explosion, we left the island and Cave was flown to another

retreat, this time in the center of New York City where, unique in all

the world, there can exist true privacy, even invisibility.

The Cavite history of the next two years is publicly known and the

private aspects of it do not particularly reveal. It was a time of

expansion and of battle.

The opposition closed its ranks. Several attempts were made on all

our lives and, six months after our return from Florida, we were all,

except the indomitable Clarissa, forced to move into the brand-new

Cavite Center, a quickly built but handsome building of yellow glass on

Park Avenue. Here on the top floor, in the penthouse which was itself

a mansion surrounded by Babylonian gardens and a wall of glass through

which the encompassing city rose like stalagmites, Cave and Paul,

Stokharin and Iris and I all lived with our bodyguards, never venturing

out of the building which resembled, during that time, a military

headquarters with guards and adjutants and a maze of officials through

whom both strangers and familiars were forced to pass before they could

meet even myself, much less Cave.

In spite of the unnaturalness of the life, it was, I think, the

happiest time of my life. Except for brief excursions to the Hudson,

I spent the entire two years in that one building, knowing at last

the sort of security and serenity which monks must have known in

their monasteries, in their retreats. I think the others were also

content, except for Cave who eventually grew so morose and bored by his

confinement that Paul not only had to promise him a world tour but,

for his vicarious pleasure, played, night after night in the Center’s

auditorium, travel films which Cave devoured with eager eyes, asking

for certain films to be halted at various interesting parts so that

he might examine some landscape or building (never a human being, no

matter how quaint); favorite movies were played over and over again,

long after the rest of us had gone off to bed, leaving Cave and the

projectionist alone with the bright shadows of distant places ... alone

save for the ubiquitous guards.

There were a number of attacks upon the building itself but since all

incoming mail and visitors were checked by machinery for hidden weapons

there was never a repetition of that island disaster which had had

such a chilling effect on all of us. Pickets of course marched daily

for two years in front of the Center’s door and, on four separate

occasions, mobs attempted to storm the building: they were repulsed

easily by our guards (the police, for the most Catholic, did not unduly

exert themselves in our defense; fortunately, the building had been

constructed with the idea of defense in mind).

The life in the Center was busy. In the penthouse each of us had an

office and Cave had a large suite where he spent his days watching

television and pondering journeys. He did not follow with much interest

the doings of the organization though he had begun to enjoy reading the

attacks which regularly appeared against him and us in the newspapers.

Bishop Winston was the leader of the non-Catholic opposition and his

apologias and anathemas inspired us with admiration. He was, I think,

conscious of being the last great spokesman of the Protestant churches

and he fulfilled his historic function with wit and dignity and we

admired him tremendously. By this time, of course, our victory was in

sight and we could show magnanimity to those who remained loyal to

ancient systems.

I was the one most concerned with answering the attacks since I was

now an editor with an entire floor devoted to the _Cavite Journal_ (we

were not able to think up a better name). At first it was published

weekly and given away free but after the first year it became a daily

newspaper, fat with advertising, and sold on newsstands.

Besides my duties as editor, I was also the official apologist and I

was kept busy composing dialogues on various ethical matters, ranging

from the virtues of cremation to fair business practices. Needless to

say, I had a good deal of help and some of my most resounding effects

were contrived by others, by anonymous specialists. Each installment,

however, of Cavite doctrine (or rationalization as I preferred to think

of my work) was received as eagerly by the expanding ranks of the

faithful as it was denounced by the Catholic Church and the new league

of Protestant Churches under Bishop Winston’s guidance.

We received our first serious setback when, in the autumn of our first

year in the new building, we were banned from the television networks

through a series of technicalities created by Congress for our benefit

and invoked without warning. It took Paul’s lawyers a year to get the

case through the courts which finally reversed the government’s ruling.

Meanwhile, we counterattacked by creating hundreds of new Centers

where films of Cave were shown regularly. Once a week he was televised

for the Centers where huge crowds gathered to see and hear him and it

was always Paul’s claim that the government’s spiteful action had,

paradoxically, been responsible for the sudden victory of Cavesword:

not being able to listen to their idol in their own homes the Cavites,

and even the merely curious, were forced to visit the Centers where,

in the general mood of camaraderie and delight in the same word, they

were organized quite ruthlessly. Stokharin’s clinics handled their

personal problems. Other departments assumed the guidance and even

the support, if necessary, of their children while free medical and

educational facilities were made available to all who applied.

At the end of the second year, there were more enrolled Cavites than

any other single religious denomination including the Roman Catholic.

I published this fact and the accompanying statistics with a certain

guilt which, needless to say, my fellow directors did not share. The

result of this revelation was a special Congressional hearing.

In spite of the usual confusion attendant upon any of the vigorous

old Congress’s hearteningly incompetent investigations, this event

was well-staged, preparing the way politically, to draw the obvious

parallel, for a new Constantine.

It took place in March and it was the only official journey any of

us, excepting Paul, had made from our yellow citadel for two years.

The entire proceedings were televised, a bit of unwisdom on the part

of the hostile Congressmen who, in their understandable eagerness for

publicity, overlooked their intended victim’s complete mastery of that

medium. I did not go to Washington but I saw Cave and Paul and Iris off

from the roof of the Center. Because of the crowds which had formed in

the streets, hoping for a glimpse of Cave, the original plan to fly to

Washington aboard a chartered airplane was discarded at the last minute

and two helicopters were ordered instead to pick up Cave and his party

on the terrace in front of the penthouse, a mode of travel not then

popular.

Paul saw to it that the departure was filmed. A dozen of us who were

not going stood about among the trees and bushes while the helicopters

hovered a few feet above the roof, their ladders dangling. Then Cave

appeared with Paul and Iris while a camera crew recorded their farewell

and departure. Cave looked as serene as ever, quite pale in his dark

blue suit and white shirt ... a small austere figure with downcast

eyes. Iris was bright-faced from the excitement and cold; there was a

sharp wind on the roof which tangled her hair.

“I’m terrified,” she whispered fiercely in my ear as we shook hands

formally for the camera.

“Paul seems in full command,” I said, comfortingly. And Paul, not Cave,

was making a short speech to the camera while Cave stood alone and

still; then, in a gust of wind, they were gone and I went to my office

to watch the hearings.

The official reason for the investigation was based upon certain

charges made by the various churches that the Cavites were subverting

Christian morality by championing free love and publicly descrying the

eternal institution of marriage. This was the burden of that complaint

against Cave which the Committee most wished to contemplate since it

was the strongest of the numerous allegations and, in their eyes, the

most dangerous to the state, the one most likely to get the largest

amount of publicity. For some years the realm of public morals had been

a favorite excursion grounds for the Congress and their tournaments at

public expense were attended delightedly by everyone. This particular

one, affecting as it did the head of the largest single religious

establishment in the country would, the Congressmen were quite sure,

prove an irresistible spectacle. It was.

At first there was a good deal of confusion. Newspaper men stumbled

over one another; flash bulbs were dropped; Congressmen could not

get through the crowd to take their seats. To fill in, while these

preliminaries were got over, the camera was trained upon the crowd

which was beginning to gather in front of the Capitol; a crowd which

grew, as one watched, to Inaugural size. Though it was orderly, a troop

of soldiers in trucks soon arrived, as though by previous design, and

they got out, forming a cordon of fixed bayonets before the various

entrances to the Capitol.

Here and there, against the gusty blue sky, banners with the single

word “Cave,” gold on blue, snapped: _In hoc signo_ indeed!

Then the commentators who had been exclaiming at some length on the

size of the crowd, excitedly announced the arrival of Cave. A roar of

sound filled the plaza. The banners were waved back and forth against

the sky and I saw everywhere the theatrical hand of Paul Himmell.

The scene shifted to the House of Representatives entrance to the

Capitol. Cave wearing an overcoat but bareheaded, stepped out of the

limousine. He was alone. Neither Paul nor Iris was in sight. It was

most effective that he should come like this, without equerries or

counselors. He stood for a moment in the pillared entrance, aware of

the crowd outside; even through the commentator’s narrative one could

hear, like the surf falling: Cave! Cave! Cave! For a moment it seemed

that he might turn and go, not into the Capitol, but out onto the steps

to the crowd; but then the chief of the Capitol guard, sensing perhaps

that this might happen, gently steered him up the stairs.

The next shot was of the Committee Room where the hearings had at last

begun. A somewhat phlegmatic Jesuit was testifying. His words were

difficult to hear because of the noise in the committee room, and the

impotent shouts of the chairman. The commentator gave a brief analysis

of the Jesuit’s attack on Cave and then, in the midst of a particularly

loud exchange between the chairman and the crowd, the clerk of the

court proclaimed: John Cave.

There was silence. The crowd parted to make way for him. Even the

members of the committee craned to get a good look at him as he moved

quietly, almost demurely, to the witness chair. The only movement in

the room was that of the Papal Nuncio who, in his robes, sat in the

front rank of the audience. He crossed himself as Cave passed and shut

his eyes.

Cave was respectful, almost inaudible. Several times he was asked

to repeat his answers even though the room was remarkably still.

At first Cave would answer only in monosyllables, not looking up,

not meeting the gaze of his interrogators who took heart at this,

professionals themselves: their voices which had almost matched his

for inaudibility, began to boom with confidence.

I waited for the lightning. The first intimation came when Cave looked

up. For nearly five minutes he had not raised his eyes once during the

questioning. Suddenly he looked up and I saw that he was trying to

locate the camera; he did, and it was like a revelation: a sudden shock

went through me and as well as I knew him, as few illusions as I had

about him, I was arrested by his gaze ... it was as though only he and

I existed, as though he _were_ I; all of those who watched responded in

the same fashion to that unique gaze.

The Committee, however, was not aware of what had happened, that

their intended victim had with one glance appropriated the eye of the

world. The subsequent catechism is too well known to record here; we

used it as the main exposition of Cavesword, the one testament which

contained the entire thing. It was almost as if the Congressmen had

been given the necessary questions to ask, like those supporting

actors whose minor roles are designed to illuminate the genius of the

star. Two of the seven members of the Committee were Cavites. This was

soon apparent. The other five were violently in opposition. One as a

Catholic, another as a Protestant, and two as materialistic lovers of

the old order. Only one of the attackers, a quiet scholarly-looking

Jew, made any real point. He argued the perniciousness of an

organization which, if allowed to prosper, would replace the state and

force all dissenters to conform; it was his contention that the state

prospered most when no one system was sufficiently strong to dominate.

I wanted to hear more of him but his Catholic colleague, a bull-voiced

Irishman, drowned him out, winning the day for the Cavites.

Cave, to my astonishment, had memorized most of the dialogues I’d

written and he said my words with the same power that he said his own.

I was startled by this. There had been no hint that such a thing might

happen and I couldn’t, for some time, determine the motive until I

recalled Cave’s reluctance to being quoted in print; he had apparently

realized that now there would be a complete record of his testimony and

so, for the sake of both literacy and consistency, he had committed to

memory those words of mine which were thought to be his. At the great

moment, however, the peroration (by which time there were no more

questions and Cave’s voice alone was heard) he became himself, and

spoke Cavesword.

Then, without the Committee’s leave, in the dazzled silence which

followed upon his last words, he got up abruptly and left the room. I

switched off the television set. That week established Cavesword in the

country and, except for various priests and ministers of the deserted

gods, the United States was Cavite.

2

The desertion of the old establishments for the new resembled, at

uneasy moments, revolution.

The Congressional Committee, though anti-Cavite, did not dare even

to censure him ... partly from the fear of the vast crowd which

waited in the Capitol plaza and partly from the larger, more cogent

awareness that it was politically suicidal for any popularly elected

Representative to outrage a minority of such strength.

The hearing fizzled out after Cave’s appearance and though there were a

few denunciatory speeches on the floor of Congress, no official action

was taken; shortly afterwards the ban on Cave’s television appearances

was lifted but by then it was too late and millions of people had got

permanently into the habit of attending weekly meetings at the various

Centers to listen to Cave, to discuss with the Residents and their

staffs the points of doctrine ... and doctrine it had become.

The second year in our yellow citadel was more active than the first.

It was decided that Cave make no personal appearances anywhere.

According to Paul, the mystery would be kept intact and the legend

would grow under the most auspicious circumstances. He did not reveal

his actual motive in Cave’s presence but I was aware, from private

conversations we had, just the two of us, of the wisdom of his plan.

He explained himself to me late one afternoon in my office.

“Get him in front of a really hostile crowd and there’d be no telling

what might happen.” Paul was restlessly marching about the room in his

shirtsleeves ... a blunt cigar in his mouth gave him the appearance of

a lower-echelon politician.

“There’s never been a hostile audience yet,” I reminded him. “Except

for the Congressional hearings and I thought he handled himself quite

well with them.”

“With your script in his head,” Paul chuckled and stopped his march

to the filing cabinet by way of that huge television screen which

dominated every office and home. “What I mean is, he’s never been in

a debate. He’s never had a tough opponent, a heckler. The Congressmen

were pretty mild and even though they weren’t friendly they stuck to

easy issues. But what would happen if Bishop Winston got him up before

an audience? Winston’s a lot smarter and he’s nearly as good in public.”

“I suppose Cave would hypnotize him, too.”

“Not on your life.” Paul threw himself into a chair of flimsy chrome

and plastic. “Winston’s been trying to arrange a debate for over two

years. He issues challenges every Sunday on his program (got a big

audience, too ... though not close to ours; I keep checking it).”

“Does Cave want to give it a try?”

“He’s oblivious to such things. I suppose he would if he thought about

it. Anyway it’s to our advantage to keep him out of sight. Let them see

only a television image, hear only his recorded voice. It’s wonderful

copy! Big time.” He was out of the chair and playing with the knob of

the television set: the screen was suddenly filled with a romantic

scene, a pulsating green grotto with water falling in a thin white

line ... so perfected had the machine become that it was actually like

looking through a window, the illusion of depth quite perfect and the

colors true. A warm deep voice off-screen suggested the virtues of a

well-known carbonated drink. Paul turned the switch off. I was relieved

since I, alone in America, was unable to think or work or even relax

while the screen was bright with some other place.

“He won’t like it. He expects next year, at the latest, to start his

world tour.”

“Perhaps then,” said Paul thinly. “Anyway, the longer we put it off the

better. Did you know we turn away a thousand people a day who come here

just to get a glimpse of him?”

“They see him at the Center meetings.”

“Only our own people ... the ones in training to be Residents. I keep

those sessions carefully screened. Every now and then some outsider

gets in but it’s rare.”

I glanced at the tear-sheet of my next day’s editorial; it contained,

among other useful statistics, the quite incredible figures of Cavite

membership in the world. Dubiously, I read off the figure which Paul

had given me at a directors’ meeting.

“It’s about right,” he said complacently, coming to a full stop at the

files. “We don’t actually know the figures of places without proper

Centers like the Latin countries where we are undergoing a bit of

persecution. But the statistics for this country are exact.”

“It’s hard to believe.” I looked at the figure which represented so

many human beings, so much diversity, all touched by one man. “Less

than three years....”

“Three more years and we’ll have most of Europe too.”

“Why, I wonder?”

“Why?” He slammed shut the cabinet drawer which he’d been examining. He

looked at me sharply. “You of all people ask why? Cavesword ... and all

your words too, did the trick. That’s what. We’ve said what they wanted

to hear ... just the opposite of my old game of publicity where we said

what _we_ wanted them to hear. This time it’s just the other way around

and it’s big, ah, it’s big.”

I could agree with that but I pressed him further. “I know what’s

happened, of course, and your theory is certainly correct if only

because had we said the opposite of what they wanted to hear nothing

would have happened. But the question in my mind, the real 'why,’ is

Cave and us. Why we of all the people in the world? Cavesword, between

us and any school of philosophy, is not new. Others have said it more

eloquently. In the past it was a reasonably popular heresy which the

early popes stamped out....”

“Timing! The right man at the right time saying the right thing.

Remember the piece you did on Mohammed....”

“I stole most of it.”

“So what? Most effective. You figured how only at that one moment in

Arabian political history could such a man have appeared.”

I smiled. “That is always the folly of the 'one unique moment.’ For all

I know such a man could have appeared in any of a hundred other Arab

generations.”

“But he never did except that one time ... which proves the point.”

I let it go. Paul was at best not the ideal partner in the perennial

conversation. “There is no doubt but that Cave’s the man,” I said,

neutrally. “Not the last of the line but at least the most effective,

considering the shortness of the mission so far.”

“We have the means. The old people didn’t. Every man, woman, and child

in this country can see Cave for themselves, and at the same moment. I

don’t suppose ten thousand people saw Christ in action ... it took a

generation for news of him to travel from one country to the next.”

“Parallels break down,” I agreed. “It’s the reason I wonder so

continually about Cave and ourselves and what we are doing in the

world.”

“We’re doing good. The people are losing their fear of death. Last

month there were twelve hundred suicides in this country directly

attributable to Cavesword. And these people didn’t kill themselves just

because they were unhappy, they killed themselves because he had made

it easy, even desirable. Now you know there’s never been anybody like

that before in history, anywhere.”

“I’ll say not.” I was startled by the figure he had quoted. In our

_Journal_ we were always reporting various prominent suicides and,

though I had given orders to minimize these voluntary deaths, I had

been forced every now and then to record the details of one or another

of them. But I’d had no idea there had been so many. I asked Paul if he

was quite sure of the number.

“Oh yes.” He was blithe. “At least that many we know of.”

“I wonder if it’s wise.”

“Wise? What’s that got to do with it? It’s logical. It’s the proof of

Cavesword. Death is fine so why not die?”

“Why not live?”

“It’s the same thing.”

“I would say not.”

“Well, you ought to play it up a little more anyway. I meant to talk

about it at the last directors’ meeting but there wasn’t time.”

“Does Cave know about this? About the extent....”

“Sure does.” Paul headed for the door. “He thinks it’s fine. Proves

what he says and it gives other people nerve. This thing is working.”

There was no doubt about that of course. It is hard, precisely, to give

the sense of those two years when the main work got done in a series of

toppling waves which swept into history the remaining edifices of other

faiths and institutions. I had no real firsthand impressions of the

country for I seldom stirred from our headquarters.

I’d sold the house on the river. I had cut off all contacts with old

friends and my life, simply, was Cave. I edited the _Journal_, or

rather presided over the editors. I discussed points of doctrine with

the various Residents who came to see me in the yellow tower. They

were devoted men and their enthusiasm was heartening, if not always

communicable to me. Each week was published further commentaries on

Cavesword and I found my time grew short if I tried to read them all.

I contented myself, finally, with synopses prepared for me by the

_Journal’s_ staff and I felt like a television emperor keeping abreast

of contemporary letters, but there was not enough time, as it was, in

which to contemplate the great things.

Once a week we all dined with Cave. Except for that informal occasion

we seldom saw him; though he complained continually about his captivity

(and it was exactly that; we were all captives to some degree), he

was cheerful enough. Paul saw to it that he was kept busy all day

addressing Residents and Communicators, answering their questions,

firing them by the mere fact of his presence. It was quite common

for strangers to faint upon seeing him for the first time, as a man

and not as a figure on a bit of film. He was good-natured, though

occasionally embarrassed by the chosen groups which were admitted to

him. He seldom talked privately to any of them, however, and he showed

not the faintest interest in their problems, not even bothering to

learn their names. He was only interested in where they were from and

Paul, aware of this, as an added inducement to keep Cave amenable, took

to including each group at least one Cavite from some far place like

Malaya or Ceylon.

Iris was busiest of all. She had become, without design or preparation,

the head of all the Cavite schools throughout the country where

the various Communicators of Cavesword were trained, thousands of

them each year, in a course which included not only Cavesword but

history and psychology as well. There were also special classes in

television-producing and acting. Television, finally, was the key. It

was the primary instrument of communication. Later, with a subservient

government and the aid of mental therapists and new drugs, television

became less necessary but, in the beginning, it was everything.

Clarissa’s role was, as always, enigmatic. She appeared when she

pleased and she disappeared when she pleased. I discovered that her

position among the directors was due to her possession of the largest

single block of stock, dating back to the first days. During the

crucial two or three years, however, she was often with us merely for

protection since all our lives had been proscribed by the last remnants

of the old churches who, as their dominion shrank, fought more and more

recklessly to destroy us.

Stokharin spent his days much like Iris, instructing the Communicators

and Center-therapists in psychology. His power over Paul had

fortunately waned and he was far more likeable: Paul was “freed,”

Stokharin would say with some satisfaction, due to therapy ... and a

new father-image.

Less than two years after the Congressional hearings, Paul, in his

devious way, entered politics and in the following Congressional

elections, without much overt campaigning on our part, the majority

of those elected to both Houses of the Congress were either Cavite or

sympathetic.

3

At last I have met him. Early this evening I went downstairs to see

the manager about an item on my bill which was incorrect. I had

thought that I should be safe for this was the time when most of the

hotel guests are bathing and preparing for dinner. Unfortunately, I

encountered Butler and his newly arrived colleague in the center of the

lobby. I suddenly found myself attempting, by an effort of will, very

simply to vanish into smoke like one of those magicians in a child’s

book. But I remained all too visible. I stopped halfway across the

lobby and waited for them.

They came toward me. Butler murmuring greetings and introductions

to Communicator Jessup (soon to be Resident of Luxor “when we get

underway”): “And this, Jack, is the Mr Hudson I told you about.”

The Resident-to-be shook my hand firmly. He was not more than thirty,

a lean, dark-eyed mulatto whose features and coloring appealed to me,

used as I now am to the Arabs; beside him, Butler looked more red and

gross than ever.

“Butler has told me how useful you’ve been to us,” said Jessup.

His voice was a little high but he did not have the trick of

over-articulation which used to be so common among educated Negroes in

earlier times, a peculiarity they shared with Baptist clergymen and

professional poets.

“I’ve done what I could, little as it is,” I said ceremoniously. Then,

without protest, I allowed them to lead me out onto the terrace which

overlooked the setting sun and the muddy river.

“We planned to see you when Jack, here, arrived,” said Butler

expansively when we were seated, a tray of gin and ice and tonic water

set before us by a waiter who was used now to American ways. “But you

had the sign on your door so I told Jack we’d better wait, till Mr

Hudson is feeling better. You _are_ okay now, aren’t you?”

“Somewhat better,” I said, enjoying the British gin: I’d had none since

I left Cairo. “At my age one is either dead or all right. I seem not to

be dead.”

“How I envy you!” said Jessup solemnly. His voice though high was

strong.

“Envy me?” For a moment I did not quite understand.

“To be so near the blessed state! Not to see the sun again and feel the

body quivering with corrupt life ... oh, what I should give to be as

old as you!”

“You could always commit suicide,” I said irritably, forgetting my role

as an amiable soft-headed old cretin.

This stopped him for only the space of a single surprised breath.

“Cavesway is not possible for his servants,” he said at last,

patiently. “You have not perhaps followed his logic as carefully as you

might had you been living in the civilized world.” He looked at me with

his bright dark eyes inscrutably focused.

Why are you here? I wanted to ask furiously, _finally_, but I only

nodded my head meekly and said, “So much has changed since I came out

here. I do recall, though, that Cavesway was considered desirable for

all.”

“It is ... but not for his servants who must, through living, sacrifice

their comfort ... it is our humiliation, our martyrdom in his behalf.

Even the humblest man or woman can avail themselves of Cavesway

unlike us, his servants, who must live, disgusting as the prospect

is, made bearable only by the knowledge that we are doing his work,

communicating his word.”

“What courage it must take to give up Cavesway!” I intoned with

reverent awe.

“It is the least we can do for him.”

The bright sun resembled that red-gold disk which sits on the brow of

Horus. A hot wind of Numidia stirred the dry foliage about us. I could

smell the metallic odor of the Nile’s water. A muezzin called, high and

toneless in the evening.

“Before I slip off into the better state,” I said at last, emboldened

by gin, “I should like to know as much as possible about the new world

the Cavites have made. I left the United States shortly after Cave took

his way. I have never been back.”

“How soon after?” The question came too fast. I gripped the arms of my

chair tightly.

“Two years after, I think,” I said. “I came to Cairo for the digging

out in El Abul.”

“How could you have missed those exciting years?” Jessup’s voice became

zealous. I remained on guard. “I was not even born then ... and I’ve

always cursed my bad luck. I used to go about talking to complete

strangers who had been alive in those great years. Of course most were

laymen and knew little about the things I had studied but they could

tell me how the sky looked the day he took his way. And, every now and

then, it was possible to meet someone who had seen him.”

“Not many laymen ever saw him,” I said. “I remember with what secrecy

all his movements were enveloped. I was in New York much of the time

when he was there.”

“In New York!” Jessup sighed voluptuously.

“You saw him too, didn’t you, Mr Hudson?” Butler was obviously eager

that I make a good impression.

“Oh yes, I saw him the day he was in Washington. One of his few public

appearances! I was very devout in those days. I am now too, of course,”

I added hastily. “But in those days when it was all new one was, well,

exalted by Cavesword. I made a special trip to Washington just to

get a glimpse of him.” I played as resolutely as possible upon their

passionate faith.

“Did you really see him?”

I shook my head sadly. “Only a quick blur as he drove away. The crowd

was too big and the police were all around him.”

“I have of course relived that moment in the library, watching the

films, but actually to have been there that day....” Jessup’s voice

trailed off as he contemplated the extent of my good fortune.

“Then afterwards, after his death, I left for Egypt and I’ve never been

back.”

“You missed great days.”

“I’m sure of that. Yet I feel the best days were before, when I was in

New York and each week there would be a new revelation of his wisdom.”

“You are quite right,” said Jessup, pouring himself more gin. “Yours

was the finer time even though those of us who feel drawn to the mother

must declare that later days possessed some virtue too, on her account.”

“Mother?” I knew of course before he answered what had happened.

“As Cave was the father of our knowledge, so Iris is its mother,” said

Jessup. He looked at Butler with a half-smile. “Of course there are

some, the majority in fact, of the Communicators who deprecate our

allegiance to the mother, not realizing that it enhances rather than

detracts from Cave. After all, the Word and the Way are entirely his.”

Butler chuckled. “There’s been a little family dispute,” he said.

“We keep it out of the press because it really isn’t the concern of

anybody but us, Cave’s servants. Don’t mind talking to you about it

since you’ll be dead soon anyway and up here we’re all in the same

boat, all Cavites. Anyway, some of the younger fellows, the bright ones

like Jessup, have got attached to Iris ... not that we don’t all love

her equally. It’s just that they’ve got in the habit of talking about

death being the womb again, all that kind of stuff without any real

basis in Cave.”

“It runs all through his work, Bill. It’s implicit in all that he

said.” Jessup was amiable but I sensed a hardness in his tone. It had

come to this, I thought.

“Well, we won’t argue about it,” said Butler, turning to me with a

smile. “You should see what these Irisians can do with a Cavite text.

By the time they finish you don’t know whether you’re coming or going.”

“Were you at all active in the Mission?” asked Jessup, abruptly

changing the subject.

I shook my head. “I was one of the early admirers of Cave but I’m

afraid I had very little contact with any of his people. I tried once

or twice to get in to see him ... when they were in the yellow tower,

but it was impossible. Only the Residents and people like that ever got

to see him personally.”

“He was busy those days,” said Jessup, nodding. “He must have dictated

nearly two million words in the last three years of his life.”

“You think he wrote all those books and dialogues himself?”

“Of course he did.” Jessup sounded surprised. “Haven’t you read Iris’s

accounts of the way he worked? The way he would dictate for hours at a

time, oblivious of everything but Cavesword.”

“I suppose I missed all that,” I mumbled. “In those days it was always

assumed that he had a staff who did the work for him.”

“The lutherists,” said Jessup, nodding. “They were extremely subtle in

their methods but of course they couldn’t distort the truth for very

long....”

“Oh,” said Butler. “Mr Hudson asked me the other day if I knew what

the word lutherist came from and I said I didn’t know. I must have

forgotten for I have a feeling it _was_ taught us, back in the old days

when we primitives were turned out, before you bright young fellows

came along to show us how to do Caveswork.”

Jessup smiled. “We’re not that bumptious,” he said. “As for lutherist,

it’s a word based on the name of one of the first followers of Cave.

I don’t know his other name or even much about him. All that I know

I’ve been told ... as far as I remember, the episode was never even

recorded. Much too disagreeable ... and of course we don’t like to

dwell on our failures.”

“I wonder what it was that he did,” I asked, my voice trembling despite

all efforts to control it.

“He was a nonconformist of some kind. He quarreled with Iris, they say.”

“Wonder what happened to him?” asked Butler. “Did they send him through

indoctrination?”

“No, as far as I know.” Jessup paused. When he spoke again his voice

was thoughtful. “According to the story I heard ... legend really ...

he disappeared. They never found him and though we’ve wisely removed

all record of him, his name is still used to describe our failures:

those among us, that is, who refuse Cavesword without indoctrination.

Somewhere, they say, he is living, in hiding, waiting to undo

Caveswork. As Cave was the anti-Christ so he, or rather another like

him, will attempt to destroy us.”

“Not much chance of that.” Butler’s voice was confident. “Anyway, if he

was a contemporary of Cave he must be dead by now.”

“Not necessarily. After all Mr Hudson was a contemporary and _he_

is still alive.” Jessup looked at me then; his eyes, in a burst of

obsidian light, caught the sun’s last rays. I think he knows.

4

There’s not much time left and I must proceed as swiftly as possible to

the death of Cave and my own exile.

The year of Cave’s death was not only a year of triumph but one of

terror as well. The counteroffensive reached its peak in those busy

months, and we were all in danger of our lives.

In the South, groups of Baptists stormed the new Centers, demolishing

them and killing, in several instances, the Residents. Despite our

protests and threats of reprisal, many state governments refused to

protect the Cavite Centers and Paul was forced to enlist a small army

to defend our establishments in those areas which were still dominated

by the old religions. Several attempts were made to destroy our New

York headquarters; fortunately, they were all apprehended before any

damage could be done though one fanatic, a Catholic, got as far as

Paul’s office where he threw a grenade into a waste-basket, killing

himself and slightly scratching Paul who had, in his usual fashion,

been traveling nervously about the room, getting out of range at the

proper moment.

The election of a Cavite-dominated Congress eased things for us

considerably, though it made our enemies all the more desperate.

Paul fought back. Bishop Winston, the most eloquent of the Christian

prelates and the most dangerous to us, had died, giving rise to the

rumor, soon afterwards confirmed by Cavite authority to be a fact, that

he had killed himself and that, therefore, he had finally renounced

Christ and taken to himself Cavesword.

Many of the clergy of the Protestant sects, aware that their

parishioners and authority were falling away, became, quietly, without

gloating on our part, Cavite Residents and Communicators.

The bloodiest persecutions, however, did not occur in North America.

The Latin countries, the seat of the old Catholic power which was

itself the shadow of the Roman Empire, provided the world with a series

of massacres remarkable even in that murderous century. Yet it was a

fact that in the year of Cave’s death, Italy was half-Cavite while

France, England and Germany were nearly all Cavite while only Spain

and parts of Latin America held out, imprisoning, executing, deporting

Cavites against the inevitable day when our Communicators, undismayed,

proud in their martyrdom, would succeed in their assaults upon these

last citadels of paganism.

On a hot day in August, our third and last autumn in the yellow tower,

we dined on the terrace of Cave’s penthouse overlooking the city. The

bright sky shuddered with heat.

Clarissa, who had just come from abroad where she had been enjoying

several seasons under the guise of an official tour of reconnaissance,

was entirely the guest of honor. She sat wearing a large picture hat

beneath the striped awning which sheltered our glass-topped table

from the sun’s rays. Cave insisted on eating out-of-doors as often as

possible even though the rest of us preferred the cool interior where

we were not disturbed by either heat or by the clouds of soot which

floated above the imperial city, impartially lighting upon all who

ventured out into the open.

It was our first “family dinner” in some months (Paul insisted on

regarding us as a family and the metaphors which he derived from this

one conceit used even to irritate the imperturbable Cave). At one end

of the table sat Clarissa, with Paul and me on either side of her; at

the other end sat Cave, with Iris and Stokharin on either side of him;

Iris was on his left and on my right and, early in the dinner, when the

conversation was particular, we talked.

“I suppose we’ll be leaving soon,” she said. A sea gull missed the

awning by inches.

“I haven’t heard anything about it. Who’s leaving ... and why?”

“John thinks we’ve all been here too long; he thinks we’re too remote.”

“He’s quite right about that.” I blew soot off my plate. “But where are

we to go? After all, there’s a good chance that if any of us shows his

head to the grateful populace someone is apt to blow it off.”

“That’s a risk we have to take. But John is right. We must get out

and see the people ... talk to them direct.” Her voice was urgent.

I looked at her thoughtfully, seeing the change that three years of

extraordinary activity had wrought: she was overweight and her face,

as sometimes happens in the first access of weight, was smooth, without

lines, younger-looking but also without much character or expression

... I kept thinking irrelevantly of a marshmallow for, in the light of

day, her casually made-up face did resemble a pale smoothly powdered

confection. Her wonderful sharpness, her old fineness was entirely gone

and the new Iris, the busy, efficient Iris had become like ... like ...

I groped for the comparison, the memory of someone similar I had known

in the past, but the ghost did not materialize; and so haunted, faintly

distrait, I talked to the new Iris I did not really know, to the

visible half of a like-pair whose twin was lost somewhere in my memory.

“I’ll be only too happy to leave,” I said, helping myself to the salad

which was being served us by one or the Eurasian servants Paul, in an

exotic mood, had engaged to look after the penthouse and the person of

Cave. “I don’t think I’ve been away from here half a dozen times in two

years.”

“It’s been awfully hard,” Iris agreed. Her eyes shifted regularly to

Cave, like an anxious parent. “Of course I’ve had more chance than

anyone to get out but I haven’t seen nearly as much as I ought. It’s my

job, really, to look at all the Centers, to supervise in person all the

schools but of course I can’t if Paul insists on turning every trip I

take into a kind of pageant.”

“It’s for your own protection.”

“I think we’re much safer than Paul thinks. The country’s almost

entirely Cavite.”

“All the more reason to be careful. The die-hards are on their last

legs; they’re maniacal, some of them.”

“Well, we must take our chances. John says he won’t stay here another

autumn. September is his best month, you know. I think he’s a little

superstitious about it: it was September when he first spoke Cavesword.”

“What does Paul say?” I looked down the table at our ringmaster who was

telling Clarissa what she had seen in Europe.

Iris frowned. “He’s doing everything he can to keep us here ... I

can’t think why. John’s greatest work has been done face to face with

people yet Paul acts as if he didn’t dare let him out in public. We

have quarreled about this for over a year. Paul and I.”

“He’s quite right. I know. I’d be nervous to go about in public without

some sort of protection. You should see the murderous letters I get at

the _Journal_.”

“We’ve nothing to fear,” said Iris flatly. “And we have everything to

gain by mixing with people. We could easily grow out of touch, marooned

in this tower.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad.” To my surprise, I found myself defending

our monastic life. “Everyone comes here. Cave speaks to groups of

the faithful every day. I sit like some disheveled hen over a large

newspaper and I couldn’t be more instructed, more engaged in life,

while you dash around the country almost as much as Paul does.”

“But only seeing the Centers, only meeting the Cavites. I have no other

life any more.” I looked at her curiously. There was no bitterness in

her voice yet there was a certain wistfulness which I’d never noticed

before.

“Do you regret all this, Iris?” I asked. It had been some time, three

years, since I had spoken to her of ourselves, of personal matters: we

had become, in a sense, the offices which we held; our symbolic selves

paralyzing all else within, true precedent achieved at a great cost.

Now a fissure had suddenly appeared in that monument which Iris had

become and, through the flaw, I heard again, briefly, the voice of the

girl I had met on the bank of the Hudson in the spring of a lost year.

“I never knew it would be like this,” she said, almost whispering, her

eyes on Cave while she spoke to me. “I never thought my life would be

as alone as this, all work.”

“Yet you wanted it: you _do_ want it. Direction, meaning, you wanted

all that and now you have it. The magic worked, Iris. Your magician was

real.”

“But I sometimes wonder if _I_ am real anymore.” The words, though

softly spoken, fell upon my ear like rounded stones, smooth and hard.

“It’s too late,” I said, mercilessly. “You are what you wanted to be.

Live it out, Iris. There is nothing else.”

“You’re dead too,” she said at last, her voice regaining its usual

authority.

“Speaking of dead,” said Cave suddenly turning toward us (I hoped he

had not heard all our conversation), “Stokharin here has come up with a

wonderful scheme.”

Even Clarissa fell silent. We all did whenever Cave spoke which was

seldom on social occasions. Cave looked cheerfully about the table for

a moment. Stokharin beamed with pleasure at the accolade.

“You’ve probably all heard about the suicides as a result of

Cavesword.” Cave had very early got into the habit of speaking of

himself in the third person whenever a point or doctrine was involved.

“Paul’s been collecting the monthly figures and each month they double.

Of course they’re not accurate since there are a good many deaths due

to Cavesword which we don’t hear about. Anyway, Stokharin has perfected

a painless death by poison, a new compound which kills within an hour

and is delightful to take.”

“I have combined certain narcotics which together insure a highly

exhilarated state before the end, as well as most pleasant fantasies.”

Stokharin smiled complacently.

Cave nodded and continued. “I’ve already worked out some of the

practical details for putting this into action. There are still a

lot of wrinkles, but we can iron them out in time. One of the big

problems of present-day _unorganized_ suicide is the mess it causes

for the people unfortunate enough to be left behind. There are legal

complications; there is occasionally grief in old-fashioned family

groups; there is also a general disturbance which, though only social,

still tends to leave a bad taste, giving suicide, at least among the

reactionaries, a bad name.

“Our plan is simple. We will provide at each Center full faculties

for those who have listened to Cavesword and have responded to it by

taking the better way. There will be a number of comfortable rooms

where the suicidalist may receive his friends for a last visit. We’ll

provide legal assistance to put his affairs in order. Not everyone of

course will be worthy of us. Those who choose death merely to evade

responsibility will be censured and restrained. But the deserving,

those whose lives have been devoted and orderly, may come to us and

receive the gift.”

I was appalled; before I could control myself I had said: “But the law!

You just can’t let people kill themselves....”

“Why not?” Cave looked at me coldly and I saw, in the eyes of the

others, concern and hostility. I had anticipated something like this

ever since my talk with Paul but I had not thought it would come so

swiftly or so boldly.

Paul spoke for Cave. “We’ve got the Congress and the Congress will make

a law for us. For the time being, though, it _is_ against the present

statutes; however, we’ve been assured by our lawyers that there isn’t

much chance of their being invoked except perhaps in the remaining

pockets of Christianity where we’ll go slow until we do have the

necessary laws to protect us.”

At that moment the line which had, from the very beginning, been

visibly drawn between me and them, became a wall apparent to everyone.

Even Clarissa, my usual ally, fearless and sharp, did not speak out.

They looked at me, all of them awaiting a sign; even Cave regarded me

with curiosity.

My hand shook and I was forced to seize the edge of the table to steady

myself. The sensation of cold glass and iron gave me a sudden courage.

I brought Cave’s life to its end.

I turned to him and said, quietly, with all the firmness I could

summon: “Then you’ll have to die as well as they, and soon.”

There was a shocked silence. Iris shut her eyes. Paul gasped and sat

back abruptly in his chair. Cave turned white but he did not flinch.

His eyes did not waver. They seized on mine, terrible and remote, full

of power; with an effort, I looked past him. I still feared his gaze.

“What did you say?” The voice was curiously mild yet it increased

rather than diminished the tension. We had reached the crisis, without

a plan.

“You have removed the fear of death for which future generations will

thank you, as I do. But you have gone too far ... all of you.” I looked

about me at the pale faces; a faint wisp of new moon curled in the pale

sky above. “Life is to be lived until the flesh no longer supports the

life within. The meaning of life, Cave, is more life, not death. The

enemy of life is death, an enemy not to be feared but no less hostile

for all that, no less dangerous, no less wrong when the living choose

it instead of life, either for themselves or for others. You’ve been

able to dispel our fear of the common adversary; that was your great

work in the world ... now you want to go further, to make love to this

enemy we no longer fear, to mate with death ... and it is here that

you, all of you, become the enemies of life.”

“Stop it!” Iris’s voice was high and clear. I did not look at her. All

that I could do now was to force the climax.

“But sooner or later every act of human folly creates its own

opposition. This will too, more soon than late, for if one can make any

generality about human beings it is that they want _not_ to die. You

cannot stampede them into death for long. They are enthusiastic now.

They may not be soon ... unless of course there is some supreme example

before them, one which you, Cave, can alone supply. _You_ will have to

die by your own hand to show the virtue and the truth of all that you

have said.”

I had gone as far as I could. I glanced at Iris while I spoke; she had

grown white and old-looking and, while I watched her, I realized whom

it was she resembled, the obscure nagging memory which had disturbed

me all through dinner: she was like my mother, a woman long dead, one

whose gentle blurred features had been strikingly similar to that

frightened face which now stared at me as though I were a murderer.

Paul was the one who answered me. “You’re out of your mind, Gene,” he

said, when my meaning had at least penetrated to them all. “It doesn’t

follow in the least that Cave must die because others want to. The main

work is still ahead of him. This country is only a corner of the world.

There’s some of Europe and most of Asia and Africa still ahead of us.

How can you even suggest he quit now and die?”

“The work will be done whether he lives or not, as you certainly know.

He’s given it the first impetus. The rest is up to the others, to the

ambitious, the inspired ... we’ve met enough of _them_ these last few

years: they’re quite capable of finishing the work without us.”

“But it’s nothing without Cave.”

I shrugged. I was suddenly relieved as the restraint of three furious

years went in a rush. “I am as devoted to Cave as anyone,” I said (and

I was, I think, honest). “I don’t want him to die but all of you in

your madness have made it impossible for him to live. He’s gone now to

the limit, to the last boundary: he is the son of death and each of you

supports him. I don’t, for it was only my wish to make life better, not

death desirable. I never really believed it would come to this: that

you, Cave, would speak out for death, against life.” I raised my eyes

to his. To my astonishment he had lowered his lids as though to hide

from me, to shut me out. His head was shaking oddly from left to right

and his lips were pressed tight together.

I struck again, without mercy. “But don’t stop now. You’ve got your

wish. By all means, build palaces if you like for those who choose to

die in your name. But remember that you will be their victim, too. The

victim of their passionate trust. They will force you to lead the way

and _you_ must be death’s lover, Cave.”

He opened his eyes and I was shocked to see them full of tears. “I’m

not afraid,” he said.