Jesus On Mars

'Hang on. It'll just take a minute.'

He did something to the levers. Gently, the boat lifted off the ground straight up, paused when it was twenty feet above the ground, turned towards the platform, and slowly accelerated towards it. There was no noise from any propulsive unit, though it could have been drowned by the roar of the mob. Nor was there any feeling by the passengers that power was being applied.

When the boat was above the platform it lowered gently, landed, and the Krsh indicated that they should get out. A moment later it rose and, going faster this time, shot out beyond the crowd. There it landed, and the Krsh got out.

Hfathon said, 'You could have got here by asking the people to step aside. They would've made a path for you. But you were behind schedule, so I ordered a shrrt.'

His expression indicated that they had failed some sort of test. Probably the IQ, Orme thought. He did not mention Madeleine's reluctance. The Krsh, however, must have known that there was something wrong with her. Her skin was almost grey, and her eyes moved from side to side as if she expected something to come at her. Possibly, though, he didn't look any better. Was he pale beneath his dark pigment, and did his face look strained?

Neither Bronski nor Shirazi looked at ease.

The platform was still moving upwards slowly, but when it was about thirty- five feet above the ground, it stopped. Minutes passed. He looked up near the globe, shading his eyes. It was burning as brightly as ever.

A Krsh stepped out of the closely packed throng in the centre of the shaft. His robe was branded with alternating white and blue, over his real beard he wore a false one, long, curling, and red, and in his right hand was the shaft of a shepherd's crook of some dark blue wood.

'Rabbi Manasseh ben-Makhir,' Hfathon said in Orme's ear.

The rabbi lifted the staff. The roar and the music faded to a complete silence except for a number of crying babies. A woman at the edge of the crowd below the platform uncovered and stuck her nipple in her baby's mouth, and then it fell silent. Orme, seeing the magnificent breast, felt a surge in his groin. A moment later, he felt shame. Here he was waiting for the Messiah to appear, due in a few minutes, and he was sexually excited.

'Lord, forgive me,' he murmured.

But he thought, how could I help it? It's been a long time, and I'm no saint.

The rabbi began chanting, and on the third phrase the crowd joined in. The words were in Hebrew, which Orme did not understand but he chanted with them, filling in with nonsense words for a while, then switching to the Lord's Prayer in English.

Hfathon nudged him then and said, 'It's not necessary for you to join in with them. Better to be silent than say the wrong words.'

Orme felt his face burning.

The rabbi lifted his staff again. Silence once more, except for the screaming of babies. This time, though, there seemed to be fewer. Orme didn't look down; he didn't want to be distracted by bare breasts. Nevertheless, he thought, he can read my mind, and he'll know. But a second later he thought that that was surely nonsense. After all, according to what he'd been told, the Messiah was only a man - though adopted by God - and was not a telepath. And then he thought, anyway, I don't know that he is what they say he is. Maybe Danton is right.

A moment later, he murmured, 'Oh, Lord, help me get rid of my doubts. Make me believe the truth.'

Ah, so there it was! But was that just the child in him speaking, the child who had believed everything his father and mother had told him? The child that never dies?

He became aware that while he'd been lost in his thought the rabbi was leading the crowd in another chant, this one in Krsh. That he could understand, or much of it anyway, and he joined in. But the third chant was in Hebrew, and he kept silent, aware of Hfathon's stern gaze.

The rabbi lifted his staff; the million voices, except for the infants', fell away like a dying surf. Slowly, the glowing pulsating lights died out to be replaced by the solid blue. But, immediately, the sun began to get dark, and at this a long drawn-out cry of awe arose. Swiftly, the blue sky became dull, then black. The sphere glowed redly, then became invisible as night filled the cavern. Orme could not even see Hfathon or Danton next to him. There was only a total darkness around him and inside him, and the only sound was the singing in his ears, the blood moving through its cha

How long did this last? He couldn't say. It seemed like many minutes. Suddenly, there was a thump, and he jumped. It was the butt of the rabbi's staff striking the stone, and then his voice lifted up, and the crowd chanted again.

He had not ceased to look up, so he saw the first blackish-red glow of the sun returning to life. Gradually, it became brighter, and then its glow stayed at a level which enabled him to see the others near him and the i

Again, the people sang, and at the end of it the sun became somewhat brighter. Once more, there was an exclamation of awe from the people. Now he could see a black dot against the orange globe. It moved down towards him, becoming larger.

The sun brightened some more, though not so much that he could not look into it for a second or two at intervals. The object descending was now near enough to be seen as a tiny man.

He moaned, and he gripped Danton's hand. It was cold and wet.

Behind him, someone farted loudly.

Orme giggled; he couldn't help it. He expected the culprit to be reprimanded, but the others on the platform broke into a loud laugh. He looked around and saw Ya'aqob gri

Orme looked upwards again.

Danton said, 'Your teeth are chattering, Richard.'

He ground his teeth together, became aware that he was shaking as if he had a fever, and he said, 'You don't look so great yourself, Madeleine.'

Neither did Shirazi seem well composed. His skin was pale, and he was biting his lip. Bronski's lips were open, his teeth clamped together, his hands raised half-clenched to the level of his chest.

A man clad in a sky-blue robe floated downward. His feet were bare. His long hair trailed behind him, hair that seemed to be dark-red. His arms hung down at his sides, and his head was thrown back.

The rabbi cried, 'Ya Yeshua' ha-Meshiakh!' and the mob roared out the same greeting.

'Oh, Jesus the Messiah!'

The man who alighted on the platform amidst the screams and yells and sobbing of a million people was about five feet eleven inches tall. His hair was Titian and so was his beard. The face was that of a handsome Levantine. It did not, however have the features impressed upon the famous shroud of Turin. His arms were muscular but not massive. His hands were large, but the long fingers made them seem less broad.

The eyes were black, liquid, and luminous. The lips were, Orme thought, a little too thick for a Caucasian's, but then who was he to criticise? The cheekbones were high; the cheeks, somewhat sunken; the nose, long and slightly aquiline; the chin, strong and well-rounded and deeply clefted. His skin was a beautiful golden-brown.

He stood there for a moment, looking at the people upon the platform. Then he turned and raised his right hand and spoke in a rich baritone, a voice with great authority.

'May The Spirit of Holiness continue to smile upon you, my children. He has been well-pleased with you, and the Day of the Return is near.'