Frank ditched his beer bottle and assumed a funeral parlor expression and went to the door.
He returned with a man of possibly thirty. Mike noted with satisfaction that the other was a sincere, clean cut type and undoubtedly of Nordic background. That had been another of the requirements, he'd worked into the computer selections. He suspected that it would be easier for the Russkies to identify with the northern races rather than, say, the Latins.
Frank said, "Bishop Edwards, this is Henry Matheson, one of the students selected for the scholarship."
Mike came around the desk and clasped the other by the hand heartily and said, "Congratulations, son.
It is a pleasure to meet you."
The newcomer looked from Mike to Frank and back again. He said, "Students? Scholarship? What's all this about? In the mails I received a check large enough to pay my expenses here to Greater Washington and with a rather cryptic suggestion of an offer. I supposed it was a job. What's this Bishop bit?"
"Be seated, be seated, son." Mike told him. "I'll tell you all about it."
The other, bewildered, took a chair across the desk from Mike's place.
Mike Edwards came directly to the point. He said, 'The Old Time Religion Foundation is awarding scholarships to those most suited for the first semester of the Old Time Religion Seminary for Missionaries."
The other gaped at him. "And I was picked?"
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Mike looked down at his list on the desk. "That is correct, son. Of all the young men and women in America, you were one of the few hundred selected. Congratulations."
The other shook his head emphatically. "You must have the wrong Henry Matheson. Either that, or somebody is way off the beam. Me go to a seminary for missionaries? I'm an agnostic."
Mike smiled at him. 'That is of no importance, my son. Perhaps by the time you have finished the course, you will see the light and remain on with the Old Time Religion as a missionary, spreading the light of the gospel of moderation."
"Not a chance, friend." Matheson began to come to his feet.
But Mike held up a restraining hand. "My son, the computers selected you from the National Data Banks. It is unlikely that they made a mistake. You have failed to enquire about the terms of the scholarship."
The other hesitated. "Terms? A scholarship is a scholarship, isn't it? Free tuition. I couldn't afford the other expenses involved even if I did take it."
Mike pretended to check his list again. He said, "Your dossier reveals that you are at present unemployed. The foundation is generously endowed. Not only are you given free tuition and all other expenses involved in your studies, but you receive regular pay which would be somewhat in excess of what you were making on your last job."
The other sank back into the chair he had just deserted. "Pay?" he said.
"Yes, of course," Mike said jovially. "We couldn't let our earnest students starve, could we? And then, at the end of the six month intensive course, if you took the missionary assignment, that pay would be doubled."
"But… but I told you I was an agnostic."
"Of no moment, my son," Mike said unctuously. "And perhaps you will be converted to the gospel once you have studied it, as I have said. The work is most important. This first class to graduate is scheduled to bring the good word to the Soviet Complex."
"A trip to the Soviet Complex, eh? All expenses paid, of course?"
"Of course. And a bonus for every month spent overseas."
The other cleared his throat. "When does this first semester of the new missionary school start?"
Frank Jones said, ever so smoothly, "Next week, but, particularly in view of your unemployed status, your pay would begin as of now. Perhaps you would like an advance of, say, a month's salary?"
When Henry Matheson had staggered out, a check in hand, a dazed expression on his face, the two looked after him.
Frank said, "One will get you ten that lad will become piously converted to the Old Time Religion Church before the month is out."
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"No bet," Mike said. "Listen, I've just had another idea. Get hold of the biggies in clothing style design.
We're going to start the Old-Fashioned Look. Spend a lot of dough on advertising. Spend as much as is necessary in all the media. This new style, for both men and women, will stress conservatism in dress, if not downright Puritanism. The Russkies notoriously copy Western styles. It'll put them in a frame of mind to be receptive to the Old Time religion."
"Sounds good," Frank said. "There goes the bell again. Probably another of your scholarship students."
"Show him in, Frank."
Mik6 rubbed his hands in anticipation. So far, everything was shaping up.
Chapter XVI
Bishop Michael J. Edwards flew into Moscow approximately a year after his crash program had begun.
He had been preceded by the Reverend Frank Jones and a contingent of the first missionary seminary graduates. Others of the spreaders of the new gospel had been dispatched to other cities. Back at home, new classes were being taught in the various languages of the Soviet Complex ranging from Hungarian to several of the more widely spoken Siberian tongues. If nothing else, Mike was playing it thorough.
When he finally arrived at the capital city of the Soviet Complex, he found that Moscow offered him few surprises. He had already known that the mushrooming Russkie capital had surpassed even Tokyo in population. Books, TV and films had prepared him for the ultra-cleanliness of the streets, the beauty of the Kremlin and Red Square, the other squares and parks all over the city, the booming night clubs arid good-time centers.
He was met at the Vnukovo airport by three of his young missionaries and by several of the United States Embassy officials, all of whom had been instructed by their superiors to give his arrival a big play.
After all, he was Michael J. Edwards, Bishop of the Old Time Religion Church and titular head of all missions abroad, including those in the Soviet Complex.
Of course, not even the State Department was acquainted with the real purpose of Mike's descending upon Moscow, but it didn't hurt to have the local embassy people backing him up. If nothing else, it would give him some prestige in the eyes of the Russkies. Perhaps he would have them throw him a big welcoming banquet. But no, that wouldn't fit in with the moderation pitch.
Even as he came down the ramp from the rocketplane which had brought him across the Atlantic, he noted with satisfaction that the aircushion cars belonging to the Western consular officials were in the new styles from Detroit. Black in color, ultra-austere in lines. The campaign toward simplicity and austerity was moving along at a satisfying clip. They'd had their work cut out getting Detroit to adapt the Old-Fashioned Look to auto design, in fact their advertising departments had torn out large swaths of hair, but the President pushed it through with promises of lower taxes..
A young man in black, and with reversed collar, was the first to pump his hand enthusiastically. "Bishop Edwards," he gushed, "you have no idea what a pleasure it is to greet you. I haven't seen you since your inspiring talk to the graduating class. Undoubtedly, you don't remember me, I'm David Masters. I'm to be your secretary-assistant, under the Reverend Jones, of course."
"Certainly I remember you, Reverend," Mike said severely. "One does not rise to the rank of Bishop in the Old Time Religion Church by being forgetful of the loyal missionaries in the field who are attempting Page 62
to increase the number of the flock in the fold."
Hell, that came out pretty good, Mike felt. He was beginning to get the feel of this thing.
Others were coming up. Too many of them for Mike to retain any names. Well, that could come later.
He shook hands all around, made with the usual banalities of greetings, and finally wound up in a black limousine, driven by a dark uniformed chauffeur. The Reverend David Masters piled in beside him.