Chapter Five

   AS HE dashed out of the tunnel Chris found himself on a dirt path leading down through a grove of oak trees. A greenish mist obscured the slope, punctuated by occasional bright flashes. There was an odd smell in the air. Glancing up, he noticed something bright streaking through the sky about two hundred feet over his head. It was followed by another streak and another, each coming closer to him. They looked like tracer bullets. It occurred to Chris that the Principalities might be taking their sport by firing UFO's at him; and the thought of a supernatural war being waged against his body filled him with terror. Another flash went by, this time so close that he ducked instinctively. Then came a stabbing pain full in the back and he knew he had been hit. The ground vibrated beneath his feet. He lurched off the trail and staggered into a tree.

   In disengaging himself from the tree-trunk he

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tripped on a root and fell sprawling. As he lay there an unhealthy warm odour rose from the ground, making him gag and choke. With a superhuman effort he pulled himself up by the young oak tree and started back to the path. The shooting pains were beginning to affect his optic nerves, but he could see well enough to continue downhill. "I'll make it, I'll make it," he muttered between coughs, "or go down swinging."

   At that moment a raucous flock of starlings appeared from nowhere and began dive-bombing him, pecking at his head and tearing his clothes. When he fought them off, the birds screeched louder than ever and went for his eyes. He was forced to cover his face with his hands and run blindly, ricocheting off one tree, then another. "No!" he cried. "They'll never get me. I won't let 'em. No. No!" And again he stumbled and fell, and again the noxious odour of the earth began to choke him and forced him, staggering, to his feet. Then he remembered: the guard said if they had time, they could neutralize the attacks.

   He became half-hysterical; swinging his elbows back and forth against the flapping birds as he ran, he bawled out,, "God! Neutralize! Neutralize!" The hill suddenly levelled off under his feet and he was in the clear. The attackers disappeared as quickly as they had come. Chris opened his fingers and peered through them. His vision was returning. He found he had reached the saddle of the ridge and was only a few yards from the path, which stretched out and up before him, heading toward another summit perhaps

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a thousand feet above. The green mist clung to the hill behind him. The sky looked down benignly. He bent over with difficulty, picked up a clod of earth and smelled it; it was cool and sweet.

   Chris found a rock, sat down with a wince and a grunt, and examined himself tenderly. The ray or whatever it was that struck his back had caused an additional angry swelling along his upper spine. He felt almost humpbacked. The birds had drawn blood in about twenty places; his hair was caked and matted; his clothes had been plucked until they were rags. Yet inspite of his pains he felt a strange sense of exhilaration, as if he had been delivered from all the demons of hell. He swabbed at his wounds as best he could, then gingerly rose to his feet and started up the path.

   It took Chris several hours to make his way up the mountain. He was forced into a stoop by the swelling on his back and neck; moreover, his feet bothered him, and he was astonished to discover that the soles had been burned off both shoes. When the trail became stony, it was not long before he was leaving tell-tale red marks on the path; but he hardly noticed the added pain, so intent was he on reaching the summit. As he approached the peak something about the topography began to take on an air of familiarity. It remained a mystery until he rounded a bend and came to the base of a forty-foot cliff, which he recognized as the one he has seen in the photograph on Major Putter's slide projector. It was Gordon's Calvary.

   The most prominent feature of the cliff was the skull face, where indentations marked the eye sockets

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and cheek bones. Above it was a level place that might have been used by the Romans for execution purposes. "Not exactly established as the authentic site," the Major had said, "but it does very well for our purposes." Chris stared at the cliff, then began the final ascent around it to the top. He knew of course that there would be no crosses on the summit, no holes where crosses had been, nothing whatever in fact except a bare and windswept place. Yet a deep-borne instinct made him drag his way, bent as he was, up the final incline until he stood on the highest ground.

   Like any good climber, he spent a moment gazing at the view from the top—north, west, south and east. So this was Calvary! The place where, according to Major Putter, a moral change had been brought about in the universe. The Place of the Skull. The Jerusalem city dump. The bald peak where dogs and foxes once gathered at night to leap at the entrails of dangling corpses. The scene of the Good Friday earthquake. The despised place, the place of loathsomeness, where hapless criminals shed cheap blood and Rome kept its mailed hand on Israel's throat. He had read about it in Bible literature, long ago.

   As he looked around the small area of the summit, Chris wondered why God would choose such a forsaken spot to bring Heaven and earth together. He wondered whether he could ever leap the moral and intellectual picket fence that had kept him out of Christianity in the past. For the hundredth time he asked himself how it was possible for sins to be forgiven through the death of one man—here. Did God

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really ''lay upon His Son the iniquity of us all?" Did Christ really make a "full, perfect and sufficient sacrifice for the offences of the whole world, the innocent for the guilty, the just for the unjust, to bring us to God" —as he had heard in Church so often in his boyhood?

   Problems everywhere, and apparently no solutions available on this hill or anywhere else. Chris looked over toward the lower eminence where the transmitter stood. The green mist still blanketed its base, and he could see occasional streaks darting through it. "Somebody else getting the business, "he thought,

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fingering the sores on his arms. Then he noticed that the red light on the transmitter was flashing an odd pattern. As he studied it, he saw it blinking three quick flashes and then a long, sustained flash. Three shorts, one long. The light on a transmitter tower, he knew, was nothing more than an aircraft warning beacon. It had no business signalling. But just suppose the people in that place were trying to get a message to him without running the gauntlet of UFO artillery. What kind of message would it be? Something spiritual. . . .

   Spiritual! Now he was clicking. What was it Colonel Goodall had said about the Holy Spirit? The problems in the Bible—all these questions about a man getting right with God—were spiritual matters and the answers did not come by logic or reason but from the Spirit of God Himself. He, Chris, had not started away from Doomsdale just to "opt out"; he had started first of all because the Spirit of God was drawing him. That's what the Colonel had said. The whole thing was already worked out in the counsels of God. So here he was at Gordon's Calvary, and here was this light trying to tell him something: three shorts, one long.

   Victory! Of course. The victory sign. But whose victory? Spiritual victory? A quiver went through him, and he suddenly realized that his body was no longer bending forward, that watching the light he had unconsciously straightened up, and that for at least five minutes he had felt no pain in his back.

   "Why, what—?" he began. Then he shouted.

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"God! You've done it! You've done it!" But he couldn't believe it. His thumbs reached around to touch his shoulder blades; everything was back to normal. He punched upwards at his spine with his fist; there was no soreness. "Man!" he hollered, and began to dance about in his bird-spattered rags; but his feet hurt and the torn clothes tripped him. In a moment or two his knees buckled; he bowed his head, and the tears began to flow. Whatever was wrong with the world, whatever Calvary was about, he knew that in the twinkling of an eye he, Chris Anders, had become a new creation.

    After a long while he straightened his back and, still kneeling, opened his eyes and then his arms. He felt as if he had fallen in love with the whole world. He wanted to talk, to sing, to shout, and to do it all at once. But the best he could come up with was a

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silly little chorus Dana had brought home from Sunday School:

Turn it over to Jesus

And smile the rest of the day.

   At last he got painfully to his feet and tried a few calisthenics to test the rest of his body. It remained for the time mutilated by the jabs of his attackers, but the great burning pain of his back was gone, and he knew that the burden of his life had rolled away, instantaneously, completely, permanently. Again he tipped back his head and laughed for sheer joy. Even his feet seemed better. Again he swivelled his body from his hips and tried another chorus of Dana's that rushed into his mind:

Nothing is impossible when you put your trust in

God;

Nothing is impossible when you're trusting in His

Word.

Hearken to the voice of God to thee;

"Is there anything too hard for Me?"

   Some hikers appeared in view on the trail approaching the summit. There were three of them. Each was stripped to the waist and each wore heavy boots and hiking shorts of forest green. Their bodies shone with a grease of some sort, and they carried full packs. Chris walked toward them, fully conscious that he was a comical sight but refusing to let it disturb his state of ecstacy.

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   "Praise the Lord!" he shouted as the men reached the top. They nodded amicably.

   "Praise the Lord!" they returned.

   "Did you fellows come through that mist down there?"

   "No problem," said one. "This grease we have acts as a shield."

   "But what about breathing? I almost choked, it was so bad."

   The hiker tapped his pack. "Oxygen,'' he said.

   A second hiker held out his hand. "May I extend my congratulations and stamp your forehead?" he asked, smiling. Chris looked at him more closely. There were no marks on the man's face. He grasped the hand, puzzled.

   "Thanks, but what's the forehead bit?"

   "Just an identification. Nothing to it, but it will help you where you're going."

   "Am I going somewhere?"asked Chris.

   "I thought you were going to Life City."

   "That's right."

   "Your car's waiting for you at the foot of the mountain." By this time the man had removed his pack, taken out a rubber stamp, and pressed it on Chris's forehead.

   "That'll fix you up," he said.

   ''What does it say?" asked Chris.

   "Sealed," he said, "but you can't read it."

   "Sealed?"

   "Yup."

   The first man to address him had unloaded his pack

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and now came toward Chris with a load of clothing on his arm.

   "Here you are," the hiker said. "Peel off those rags and get into these."

   Chris wasted no time. It took approximately seven seconds to divest himself on the remnants of his wardrobe. Eagerly he slipped into the clean linen and the comfortable green wool outfit. Everything fitted perfectly, including soft wool socks and a new pair of hiking boots.

   "Marvellous. Absolutely marvellous," he said. "Like wallpaper. How did you know my size?"

   "We didn't, but your size is known in Life City. That's where the clothes come from."

   The hiker took Chris's rags and stuffed them into his knapsack. "You won't be needing these," he said.

   The second hiker, having put away his stamp, now approached Chris with some food and a canteen of water. The food was bread and cheese which Chris gratefully accepted. The bread was then passed out to the others and the canteen started following around. Chris, who was acutely conscious of emptiness, had already begun nibbling the cheese when he noticed the other men bowing their heads.

   "We remember Your death,'' said the second hiker, "until You come."

   The simple meal lasted approximately four minutes. No one bothered to be seated. Then as the others were closing their flaps and reshouldering their packs, the third hiker walked over to Chris with a book.

   "This is the Bible you were reading back in Doomsdale,"

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he said. "You're to carry it on your journey and then show it at the city gate.''

   Chris took it and examined it wonderingly. "How'd you ever get hold of that?" he asked.

   The hiker smiled. "You'll find out some day. Meanwhile don't lose it. It's your passport!''

   Chris thanked him and immediately sat down and began to look up the passage in Revelation that had started up the burning pain in his back. He wanted to be sure it wouldn't happen again. When he found it he read it aloud, half-fearing the worst. Nothing happened. He patted the book, jumped up and began doing another jig despite his painful feet. "I made it,'' he shouted. When had he ever felt like this? Could he really be forty-three years old? He looked around him. While he was reading, the hikers had quietly returned down the trail.

   Chris studied the grass. It seemed greener to him than usual. He wondered whether it really did have all that chlorophyll or whether his eyes were affected, and then remembered another tune little Dana had brought home from Sunday School:

His name is Wonderful, His name is Wonderful,

His name is Wonderful, Jesus my Lord.

Singing and whistling, Chris started down the hill. In his trousers pocket he felt the keys to the Mustang. Following the map, he took a path that led directly to the bottom. As he descended through a wood, again he had the sensation of being alive to nature in a fresh way. He spotted a cardinal, then a cedar waxwing,

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then a couple of bluebirds. A chipmunk chattered at him. Lizards seemed to smile at him as they dodged about.

Bow down before Him, love and adore Him,

His name is Wonderful, Jesus my Lord.

   Emerging from the wood, he came to a brokendown fence with a sign that read LAZY 3 RANCH. By now he had nearly reached the valley floor and was looking about for the car park with the Mustang. The trail became a bridle path. It dipped into a slight hollow and Chris found himself in front of a decrepit unpainted building whose false front announced that it was the LAST CHANCE SALOON. It looked like a prop from a Hollywood ghost town. Chris stuck his head inside the door and discovered three men, bearded and dirty, seated at a table and engaged in a card game. One of them turned half around and stared at him.

   "That you doin' all that singin'?'' he demanded.

   "Yes. I—''

   "Beat it, he said, turning back and reshuffling the cards in his hands. Chris glanced around the gloomy interior. Cobwebs were everywhere. The dust lay a quarter-inch thick on the bar. Beetles crawled through cracks in the plank floor.

   "Beat it, I said."

   Chris looked at the man and noticed that his ankle was chained to a huge iron ring set in the floor. Similar chains were attached to bands on the other player's legs. It was an incredible sight. Still intoxicated

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with the new wine of freedom, Chris found it impossible to accept the strange condition of these human beings, trapped and bound in the decaying saloon. "What do you mean, beat it?'' he said excitedly. 'Don't you want to get out? Don't you see what they've done to you? Praise the Lord! Give me ten minutes and I'll have those chains off you."

   The first man shifted around on his chair again, his feet making a clanking noise. He reached for his hip.

   "Draw,'' he said.

   Chris ducked back in the doorway as a shot rang out. He ran down the bridle path, stepping high with sore feet. Rounding a bend he suddenly came upon the ranch gate, and there parked outside it was the Mustang. He slowed his pace and reached for the keys, shaking his head.

   Opening the car door, Chris found two men sitting in the back seat, smoking. One was about twenty-five and wore a tuxedo and black bow tie; the other was obviously a young hippie, bearded, hairy, with a fragrance on the ripe side.

   "Well," said Chris.

   "Hello!" said the man in the tux. "We're just hitchhikers."

   "Hitchhikers to where?'' asked Chris, wondering whether he should get in.

   ''Where are you heading?''

   "I'm on my way to Life City.''

   The two in the rear seat grinned at each other. "That's where we want to go," said the young one.

    Chris reacted pleasantly, then did a retake.

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   "Did you walk down from the transmitter on the hill?'' he asked.

   They looked blank. "We must have bypassed it," said the one who had spoken first. "We came from Doomsdale by a short-cut."

   Chris frowned. "I don't believe there is a short-cut,'' he said.

   "What do you mean, there's no short-cut?'' demanded the hippie. "You heard what he said—that's the way we came."

   ''It says in the book that no one gets in by short-cuts or back doors or any way except the main route and the front gate. I just read it on the hill. Don't you have a book?"

   "Not with us," said the one in the tuxedo easily, "but we both have a wide acquaintance with the literature on the subject. Take formal prayer, for example. That's been my specialty at the seminary. I guess I've memorized a hundred prayers out of the old prayer books."

   "Did anyone stamp your forehead?" asked Chris.

   "Are you a nut or something?" asked the bearded one. "Even hippies don't stamp their foreheads.''

   'Well, fellows,'' said Chris, "I'd really like to take you, but there's no point in your going unless you have a passport."

   "We have our credentials, old boy, don't worry,'' said the seminarian comfortably. ''I've got a pass that will certify us through the gate."

   "We're just as good as you are and don't you forget it!'' said the hippie.

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   "You may be much better,'' said Chris, "but I don't think that cuts much ice in Life City. What you need is a briefing. There must be a way back to the transmitter from here. They can clue you in better than I can. Let me drop you off here.''

   ''Oh, no, you don't,'' said the hippie.

   Chris tried another tack. ''All right, let's go back up the path to the top of the hill. That's where I got my passport. I'm sure they'll fix you up too.'' If there was one thing Chris did not feel like, it was another hike, but it was the only alternative.

   "Why don't you just take us into Life City and forget all this skirmishing?'' asked the tuxedoed one. "Doesn't the Word say, 'Whosoever will may come'?''

   "I'm not clear about it,'' Chris admitted, 'but I believe I was told at the transmitter that you have to come by the cross.''

   "Oh, I know all that. I've repeated it in church five thousand times. I believe it. What more do you want? Let's get moving.''

   Chris still hesitated. ''I'll be glad to take you, but it doesn't seem right for you to waste—''

   The hippie exploded. ''This guy is weak. He turns me off,'' he snarled. ''He won't take us along unless we've read the right books and repeated the right sayings. What's his idea anyway? No wonder the church is dead. Let's split out of here." He opened the door and got out.

   The seminarian followed him and sighed as he held out his hand to Chris. ''I think I would have enjoyed it,''

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he said. ''I might have been able to teach you some quaint old prayers along the way. But something about your theological position repels me. It has too many a priori's. You apparently have no doctrine of the church—no sense of living tradition. Where, for example, do you work in the leitourgia, the diaconia, the koinonia? If going to Life City is as simple a thing as you make it out to be, I'm not sure I'm interested any more.''

   "Maybe we'll come and picket the place,'' said the hippie. "Have a croak-in.''

   Chris drove away, leaving the two doubled up in laughter.

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