He found Ezekiel Joshua Tubber seated at a table in a corner of Dixon’s Bar.
The drive down from Elysium, through Shady and Bearsville, had been accomplished in a state of mental confusion.
But now that he considered it, he had never been in a state other than one of confusion every time he came up against Tubber and his movement. The man had started out seemingly a Bible belt itinerant revivalist, and wound up with an academecian’s degree in political economy from Harvard. His daughter had started off as a simple, slightly plumpish girl in gingham print dress who blushed, and had wound up an ex-strip teaser and only a sort-of-adopted member of the Tubber family. The new religion had started off just one more sect of cranks, and now was revealed to have among its followers Nobel Prize winner Martha Kent, and ultra-top research biochemist Felix Wetzler.
However, he was, beginning to lose his fear of Ezekiel Joshua Tubber. The Lincolnesque prophet—if that were the term—was beginning to take on aspects of reality.
Ed Wonder had brought himself up sharp at that point. Reality, his neck. There was no reality in a situation that embraced the laying on of worldwide hexes, just because an elderly twitch got himself into a tizzy against this or that aspect of modern society, from time to time.
He spotted the Tubber horse and wagon pulled up before a smallish autobar which read simply Dixon’s. Ed Wonder began fumbling in his pockets for a coin for the parking meter; there being an empty place right next to the wagon. However, at this point he saw a cop coming along the street toward him and scowling unbelievingly at each meter in its turn.
When he came abreast of Ed’s Volkshover, Ed said, “What seems to be the matter, Officer?”
The other looked at him unbelievingly. “These here parking meters. Something crazy’s happened.”
Ed Wonder could see it coming, but he couldn’t help saying, “What?”
“There’s no slot for the coin to go in. There’s gotta be a slot. There was a slot yesterday. There’s always been a slot for the coins to go in. This is crazy. You’d think they were hexed, or something.”
“Yeah,” Ed said, wearily. He climbed out of the hovercar and made his way toward Dixon’s.
There was a blast of juke box music emanating from the autobar. Ed Wonder set his shoulder against it, and pushed his way in. For some reason, since the elimination of radio and TV, everybody seemed to have tuned up their juke boxes to the cyclonic point.
Tubber was seated in a corner, a half-full glass of beer before him. In spite of the fact that the place was packed, his table was empty except for himself. He looked up at Ed’s approach and smiled gentle welcome.
“Ah, dear one. Will you share a glass of beer with me?” Ed steeled himself and took a chair. He said bravely, “Sure, I’ll have a glass of beer. What surprises me is that you’re having one. I thought all you reformers were on the blue-nosed side. How come the pilgrims on the path to Elysium aren’t morally opposed to the demon alcohol?”
Tubber chuckled again. At least the old boy seemed to be in a good humor. He raised his voice over the blast of the juke box. “I see you are beginning to pick up some of our symbolic terminology. But why should we be opposed to the blessing of alcohol? It is one of the All-Mother’s earliest gifts to mankind. So far back as we can trace, in history and prehistory, man was aware of alcoholic beverages and enjoyed them.” He held up his glass of beer. “We have written records of the brewing of beer going back some 5000 years B.C in Mesopotamia. By the way, were you aware of the fact that when the Bible mentions wine, in its earlier books, it is referring to barley wine, which is, of course, actually beer. Beer is a much older beverage than wine.”
“No, I didn’t know it,” Ed said. He dialed himself a Manhattan, feeling a need for some more substantial backing than beer would promote. “But most religions point out that alcohol can be a disaster. The Mohammedans don’t allow it at all.”
Tubber shrugged pleasantly, after darting a disapproving glance over at the juke box which was now rendering a Rock’n’Swing version of Silent Night. He all but yelled to get his voice above the alleged music. “Anything can be a disaster if overdone. You can drink enough water to kill yourself. What in the name of the All-Mother is that piece they’re playing? It seems, very vaguely, to be familiar.”
Ed told him.
Tubber looked disbelief. “That’s Stille Nacht ? Dear one, you are jesting.”
Ed figured they’d gone through enough preliminary pleasantries. He said, “Look here, Mr. Tubber…”
Tubber bent an eye on him.
“…Uh, that is, Ezekiel. I’ve been assigned to contact you and try to come to some understanding on these developments of the past couple of weeks. I don’t suppose there’s any need of telling you that the world is going to pot by the minute. There are riots going on in half of the larger cities of the world. People are going batty for lack of something to do. No TV, no radio, no movies. Not even comics or fiction, to read.”
“Surely you are mistaken. Why, the world’s classics haven’t been effected through my righteous actions.”
“The world’s classics! Who the devil reads classics? The people want something they can read without thinking! After a hard day, people can’t concentrate.”
“A hard day?” Tubber said mildly.
“Well, you know what I mean.”
The bearded religious leader said gently, “That is the difficulty, dear one. The All-Mother designed man to put in a hard day, as you call it. A full day. A productive day. Not necessarily a physically hard day, of course. Mental endeavor is just as important as physical.”
“Just as important,” Ed said. “More important. Anybody knows that.”
“No,” Tubber said mildly. “The hand is as important as the brain.”
“Yeah? Without the brain where would man be?”
“And where without the hand?”
“Some of the monkeys have hands and haven’t got very far.”
“Such animals as dolphins and whales have brains and haven’t gotten very far either. Both are needed, dear one. The one as badly as the other.”
Ed said, “We’re getting away from the point. The point is that the world’s on the point of collapse because of this, these… well, whatever it is you do.”
Tubber nodded and dialed himself another beer. He scowled at the juke box which was now roaring out a hill billy lament, complete with vocal twang. The hill billy twang, it came to Ed Wonder, intensified as each decade went by. He wondered if a hundred years ago there had actually been a twang in Ozark speech.
“Fine,” Tubber said.
“What?” Ed asked. The juke box had distracted him.
“You said the world is on the point of collapse.” The Speaker of the Word nodded satisfaction. “After the collapse, perhaps all will take up the path to Elysium.”
Ed finished his Manhattan and dialed another. “Now look,” he said aggressively, “I’ve been checking on some of your background. You’re a well-educated man. You’ve been around. In short, you’re not stupid.”
“Thank you, Edward,” Tubber said. He scowled again over at the juke box. They had to shout to make themselves heard.
“All right. Now suppose everything you say about the Welfare State is correct. Let’s concede that. All right. I’ve just been over to Elysium. I’ve seen how you live there. Okay. It’s fine for some people. Some people must love it. Nice and quiet. Good place to write poetry, or do handicrafts or scientific experiments, maybe. But, holy smokes, do you expect everybody to want to live like that? You’ve got this tiny community of a few dozen households. The whole world can’t join up. It’s a small basis thing. You keep talking about taking the road to Elysium. Suppose everybody did, how would you pack four or five billion people into that little Elysium of yours?”