Chapter Twelve

   THE eager young reporter now returned and escorted Chris and Rusty from the reviewing stand to a comfortable reception room in an adjoining clubhouse. There he introduced them to a man who was waiting to greet them with a cigarette holder in the corner of his mouth. He proved to be Mr. Max Spirochete of the Abaddonland public relations staff.

   "Well, gentlemen, you have been turned into celebrities by the fickle goddess of chance," he said with a grin. "I hope you enjoyed the show this afternoon, and I hope even more that you enjoy what we have planned for you."

   "That all depends," began Rusty. "We'd like to—"

   "Two young ladies, selected by a popularity poll, have been provided as your escorts," went on Spirochete, unheeding. "You will be meeting them in the studio next door. After our formal interview with the press and TV you will be officially presented from the reviewing stand to the great unholiday crowd. A chauffeur will then drive you and your girl friends to a private dining spot on the edge of the city. And then"—Spirochete's face became a smirk—"an

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evening of pleasure awaits you at a place we call the Court and Sport. But first, gentlemen, business. I must familiarize myself more with your background since you are to be my guests. We'll start with you, Mr. Anders."

   "If you don't mind," interrupted Rusty, "I would like to be taken first."

   ''Of course. You are Mr. Ness, are you not? Tell me what parts of the Fair have appealed to you."

   "We really haven't seen it, you know. We were just passing through when they stopped us."

   "Ah, yes. And you are coming from—''

   "I'm from Doomsdale originally."

   "We both are," said Chris.

   "Well, you will want to visit our Doomsdale Pavilion tomorrow. It's considered socially quite significant. You'll find it right behind the Garden of Sodom. You did say you were a tour guide, didn't you, Mr. Ness?"

   "That's right."

   "Then you should be bringing some chartered groups here to see these exhibits. Are you operating out of Doomsdale?"

   ''Well, I hope to be." Chris had taken off his all-prayer button and had slipped it into Rusty's hand. Rusty now looked at it, and his shoulders squared the slightest bit. "My headquarters are in Life City," he said. "We're heading there now."

   Spirochete carefully put down the cigarette holder. "You are Christians?" he asked. They nodded. Spirochete closed his notebook and stood up with a

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glassy look in his eyes. "You will wait here for instructions," he said, and left the room.

   Rusty looked at Chris. "Let's pray," he said. For the next twenty minutes they moved into another dimension of existence, so much so that they hardly noticed when an armed guard stepped in and quietly took a position by the door. At last Spirochete returned, his face still impassive.

   "If I may interrupt, gentlemen," he said, "it is forbidden to offer prayers in this Principality to anyone or anything but evil spirits, on penalty of death." He put a fresh cigarette in his holder. "Your plans for this evening have been revised. It seems your arrival has come at an opportune time and will prove of great advantage to our kingdom of darkness. This will deprive you of some pleasant company this evening, which is unfortunate. But our people have been allowing signs of slackness. There has been a drop-off in religious interest. I must confess that I too am guilty—I have not been to a Black Mass in over a year. My superiors have informed me that attendance at religious services this morning was computed at five percentage points below a year ago."

   "We sold you that computer," said Chris. "I remember the shipping order."

   "How interesting. And now you will help us again, for we are going to recognize you with a special Act of Apostasy tonight."

   "Where?'' asked Ness.

   "Right here at the parade ground. They are announcing it now from the studio."

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   "If you don't mind, Mr. Spirochete," said Rusty, standing up, "we have other plans. Our passports are valid and in order, and you are expected to honour them. We want to go on through the city. We appreciate the favour you have shown us, but our business is more important than yours."

   "A debatable point," said Spirochete, smiling. "Let me examine your passports."

   "They are in the car. Coming here was not our idea, you will remember."

   "It does not matter; you will not be needing the passports. Please sit down. You are to remain in this room; some food is being brought in."

   "Why are you keeping us?" demanded Rusty. "We have committed no offence against your city. We had tickets and passes.''

   "You forget that you entered it illegally on an unholiday. I trust you like deviled ham. . . ."

   By seven o'clock the entrances to the parade ground were jammed with unholidaymakers seeking admission. The word had circulated quickly, for Acts of Apostacy were popular in Pridesburg. As the crowd swelled in numbers a murmur of subdued excitement filled the air punctuated by occasional catcalls. Many of the new arrivals carried signs placarding four-letter words and oaths that reflected the spirit of the evening. Lively dance music blared out from a combo that announced itself (on its bass drum) as the Damnation Army Swingers. As Chris and Rusty were marched out to the reviewing stand by a detail of bayoneted soldiers, a great roar went up from those massed in

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the centre of the parade ground. Shouting and gesticulating was carried on until a tall, grim, white-haired man in a military tunic came to the podium and held up his hands for silence. The band gave a fanfare. Spirochete now stepped to a side microphone and said, "Men and women of Pridesburg, guests of Abaddonland, we bid you welcome and present to you our distinguished master of ceremonies, his excellency, the Commander-in-chief of the armies of Magog, Marshal of the Legion, General Pitt!"

   Amid cheers the white-haired figure then spoke: "On the occasion of this great Act of Apostasy I bring you greetings from your profane lord, his Ultimate Bottomness, the Archimandrite of the Abyss, the Father of Lies, our own Depth of Being!" The responding roar became deafening, then broke down into a kind of chant.

   "What are they saying?" whispered Chris, his voice trembling.

   "They're yelling, 'Take off their clothes,' " replied Rusty. "They don't like the cut of the outfits they gave us on the hill. Seems it's the wrong style in Pridesburg."
   "What'll we do?"

   "Trust God. This crowd is high on booze and dope. Look over by the entrances, you can see the bottles being passed out."

   "Aren't you afraid?" asked Chris.

   "Was Stephen afraid?" retorted Rusty.

   "Who?"

   "Stephen the Apostle."

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   "I don't know if he was or not. Why do you ask?"

   "Just came over me," said Rusty. "Somehow I felt very close to him."

   The general had quieted the chanters and was now intoning, "It is the Great Accuser's desire to recall the people of this Principality to their natural goals of indifference, self-interest and self-indulgence."

   "Nice choice of words," murmured Chris. "The old boy can sure push his product."

   "His stuff is all produced and screened by the linguistics centre," whispered Rusty. "Every public utterance is controlled."

   "Tonight," the General was saying, "we are celebrating the nineteen-hundredth anniversary of the fall of Jerusalem with a special televised pageant. Among other spectacular numbers, the Brimstone Company players will present from this platform a brilliant reproduction of the desecration of the temple" (here he was interrupted by another series of shouts). "And for your enjoyment, we are adding as the climax a very special Act of Apostacy" (the howling became more shrill).

   "These people want blood," said Rusty grimly. He handed the all-prayer button back to Chris.

   "Let me, at the beginning of the evening," said the General, "present to you the men who are the principals in our Act. They were arrested this morning within the walls of our Principality, right on the fair grounds, through the brilliant counterespionage work of our intelligence agents. At the time," the General turned to look scornfully upon Chris and Rusty, "they

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were illegally and deceitfully attempting to sneak through the heart of our glorious Abaddonland and to escape into enemy territory. They claimed to have passports, but they have been unable to produce them to the authorities. We sought in our innocence to do them honour, only to discover by clever interrogation that they are people most unwelcome in our midst."

   Ugly, flushed faces crowded to the front of the reviewing stand, and Chris noted that bottles were being brandished threateningly. "Get out of the way, General," a voice shouted. "Let us at 'em!"

   But the General held up his arms. "I sympathize completely with you," he called out, "but I must ask you to restrain yourselves. We have a long-standing tradition in Pridesburg that everyone is accepted within our Principality on his own free responsibility. It is true that we do not like spies, but these men have a right to establish their own guilt and corruption. I present them now to state their position, and ask you to remain silent while they speak."

   He motioned to Chris and Rusty, and immediately Rusty walked forward and seized the microphone. ''Citizens of Pridesburg and friends," he said in an emotionally stirred voice, "I bring you greetings in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, the King of Heaven. He has commissioned my brother Chris and me to share with you the good news of God's free salvation in Christ Jesus. I call upon you tonight in our risen Saviour's name to renounce Satan and all his works, to repent, and seek the face of the Lord. From the bottom of my heart I plead with you to receive the

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gift of life that Jesus Christ offers to you now in love, and which He made possible through His death on the cross for your sins." The crowd began to growl, and Rusty pitched his voice higher. "Brethren!" he cried. "The forces of evil you serve are doomed to destruction. Come back! Come back to God! He is the only true God. He loves you! He will save you!"

   By the time Rusty reached the word "save" the howling had reached a crescendo that drowned out all further speech. Up to this point Chris had sat transfixed by Rusty's display of courage; now he looked around to discover that the reviewing stand was completely empty. General Pitt, Spirochete, the guards and the band had all quietly disappeared. A bottle crashed against the podium and shivered. As he ducked, Chris saw Rusty attempting to crawl behind it. He himself dropped on all fours and barricaded himself behind a chair. Bottles were now smashing everywhere as the crowd shrieked and roared. Chris heard Rusty cry out. Then a bottle struck his own ankle and broke. He felt the blood oozing inside his sock.

   Suddenly the lights on the reviewing stand went out, and shadowy, yelling figures began to clamber on the platform. A voice whispered fiercely to Chris, "Come with me!" It was a girl carrying a large, heavy poster which she now used to shield them from the flying bottles. Together they slid off the stand to the ground, where she dropped the sign and dived through the bunting underneath the platform. Chris followed her. As they groped through the undershoring they could hear frenzied people overhead stamping and crying,

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"Kick him! Kill him! Lynch him! Cut his throat! Where'd the other one go?"

   "God in your heart, Rusty," Chris muttered as he limped after his guide to the back of the stand and through a hole that had been freshly cut in the wire fence surrounding the parade ground. Once through the hole they were met by a young man who stepped out of the shadows and whispered, "This way!" By now the lights were turned on again and they could hear military officers barking orders. The young man led them to some bushes outside a building, where two Hondas were concealed.

   "Get on behind David," said the girl, "and don't speak."

   The two little vehicles sped through the nearly empty fair-grounds as the shouts of the crowd gradually became fainter. The young man, David, now turned his head. "Can you hear me?"

   "Yes."

   "We've got two gates to pass. One is the exit from the Fair, the other is the iron gate of the city. The Babel wave has been picking up our movements from the tower, so we can expect UFO's to start coming our way."

   As he spoke a bright streak shot through the sky overhead, then another. "There they are," said David. Chris patted the all-prayer button in his pocket and remembered something.

   "God!" he shouted. "Neutralize!"

   "What's that mean?" asked David.

   "I haven't the slightest idea," said Chris. "All I know is, it works."

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   By the time they approached the east Fair exit, the UFO storm had begun to subside, and the Hondas held a rendezvous behind a concession booth. It was discovered that only two patrolmen were manning the gate that was open for vehicular traffic.

   "The trouble is," said David, "the tower has alerted them and they're watching for us. It looks as if they haven't had time to set up a real roadblock, but if we try to run for it they'll simply mow us down."

   "Listen!" whispered the girl. A roaring noise was approaching, and it turned out to be the sound of a giant helicopter, approaching from the east and flying at an extremely low altitude. It swooped down over the main control booth to the Fair gate and caused both guards, who appeared with drawn guns, to throw themselves to the floor. Immediately David lurched ahead in his Honda and raced through the exit, followed by the girl. They pursued a devious course across the city in the direction from which the helicopter had come. After five miles of zigzagging and dodging down side streets, David stopped again. In the distance they could hear the sound of police sirens.

   "We are a quarter of a mile from the iron gate," he said. "We'll wait here for the helicopter to come back."

   "How do you know it's coming back?" asked Chris.

   "You should ask us!" said the girl. "You've got the all-prayer button."

   "Must be the Lord," said David.

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   "But where is it?" asked Chris.

   The girl put her hand on his arm. "They went to get your friend," she said gently. "They're taking him across the river."

   "Who are?"

   "The three men you met on the hill."

   "The ones with the grease on them?"

   "They're the ones. They're now a rescue crew. They've just about landed on the parade grounds by this time."

   "But with all that drunken mob—"

   "The people are used to it. They just scatter and clear a space. Nobody ever opens fire on that helicopter."

   "Then why didn't we wait and get picked up too?"

   David smiled and hesitated. "You want to go with them?"

   "I want to be with Rusty?"

   "You'd better wait. Here they come. They're going to make another pass, and we've got to get through that iron gate or else."

   ''Dad should be outside with your Mustang," added the girl as she started her Honda.

   "Your dad—" began Chris.

   "Here we go!" called out David. The giant helicopter was bearing down on the huge old gate, its engines wide open, its twin blades whirring. It came within three feet of the entry booths and the waiting guards flattened themselves. Immediately the two Hondas emerged from behind an outbuilding. As they came to the archway there was a clanking sound and

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suddenly, mysteriously, one of the ancient iron portals creaked open on its hinges just enough to allow the vehicles to slip through. Shots rang out of the dark behind them. Chris, hugging his young driver, shouted, "Praise the Lord!" and looked up to see a greased arm waving to him from the cockpit of the helicopter. He could make out a vague form sitting next to the pilot. Chris waved back until his eyes filled and he could no longer see.

Chapter Thirteen  ||  Table of Contents