"Somebody," I answered, "whose religion doesn't insist it knows all
about all truth for all people for all time. Somebody who isn't a
stuck-up, luxury-struck, fatuous, patronizing jerk in a black vest
who carries around God's credit card in his hip pocket and keeps in
the collection-plate business by holding smut sessions in the church
gymnasium. Now, for God's sake, get out of here and let me work."
He stood at the door. He smiled again. "I'm sorry for you, Phil. Truly
sorry. You're a brave man--in a way--and so arrogantly blind."
"Sure. We all are."
"Do me one favor?"
"Do me one. Cross the hall--poke the bell--"
"Pray."
"You pray. Wear holes in the sky. Tell God you're coming, soon. And
tell Him I am, too, while you're at it. See you there!"
When he was gone, I felt washed out.
Why had I bothered to try something that couldn't come off? Didn't
I know the work I'd done--the hells I'd gone through to get my
Inkling--would never tempt that fat bastard past the first six steps of
a million rugged miles?
Houses on sand
paper roofs
putty pillars
no brains
What is conscience but fealty to truth?
What man can have good conscience if his beliefs conceal the smallest
truth--or especially if they conceal himself from himself?
With honesty toward science--and toward the inner sciences--man and
ethic are one.
Ethos is, indeed, what man has, and is.
Come off it, Wylie! The serial!
4
But I couldn't work, any longer.