To his Colombian advisor he said, “Give me the psychologi- cal profile on this Cardinal Harms.”
“Yes, Comrade General.” Ms. Reiz passed him the file on the American troublemaker.
Studying the file, Bulkowsky said, “His head is up his ass. He’s a spinner of theology. The Vatican picked the wrong per- son.” We will tie Harms into knots, he said to himself, pleased.
“Sir,” Ms. Reiz said, “Cardinal Harms is said to have cha- risma. He attracts crowds wherever he goes.”
“He will attract a lead pipe to the head,” Bulkowsky said, “if he shows up in Colombia.”
As a distinguished guest of an afternoon TV talkshow, the Roman Catholic Cardinal Fulton Statler Harms had lapsed into his usual sententious prose. The moderator, hoping to interrupt at some point, in order to achieve a much-needed commercial information dump, looked ill at ease.
“Their policies,” Harms declared, “inspire disorder. which they capitalize on. Social unrest is the cornerstone of atheistic communism. Let me give you an example.”
“We’ll be back in just a moment,” the moderator said, as the camera panned up on his bland features. “But first these mes- sages.” Cut to a spraycan of Yardguard.
To the moderator-since for a moment they were off camera -Fulton Harms said, “What’s the real estate market like, here in Detroit? I have some funds I want to invest, and office build- ings, I’ve discovered, are about the soundest investments of all.”
“You had better consult-” The moderator received a visual signal from the show’s producer; immediately he composed his face into its normal look of sagacity and said, in his informal but
194 Philip K. Dick The Divine Invasion 195
professional tone, “We’re talking today with Cardinal Fulton Harmer-”
“Harms,” Harms said.
“-Harms of the Diocese of-”
“Archdiocese,” Harms said, miffed.
“-of Detroit,” the moderator continued. Cardinal, isn’t it a fact that in most Catholic countries, especially those in the Third World, no substantial middle class exists? That you tend to find a very wealthy elite and a poverty-stricken population with little or no education and little or no hope of bettering them- selves? Is there some kind of correlation between the Church and this deplorable situation?”
“Well,” Harms said, at a loss.
“Let me put it to you this way,” the moderator continued; he was perfectly relaxed, perfectly in control of the situation. “Hasn’t the Church held back economic and social progress for centuries upon centuries? Isn’t the Church in fact a reactionary institution devoted to the betterment of a few and the exploitation of the many, trading on human credulity? Would that be a fair statement, Cardinal, sir?”
“The Church,” Harms said feebly, “looks after the spiritual welfare of man; it is responsible for his soul.”
“But not his body.”
“The communists enslave man’s body and man’s soul,” Harms said. “The Church-”
“I’m sorry, Cardinal Fulton Harms,” the moderator broke in, “but that’s all the time we have. We’ve been talking with-”
“Frees man from original sin,” Harms said.
The moderator glanced at him.
“Man is born in sin,” Harms said, totally unable to gather his train of thought together.
“Thank you Cardinal Fulton Statler Harms,” the moderator said. “And now this.”
More commercials. Harms, within himself, groaned. Some- how, he ruminated as he rose from the luxurious chair in which they had seated him, somehow I feel as if I’ve known better days.
He could not put his finger on it, but the feeling was there. And now I have to go to that little rat’s ass country Colombia, he reflected. Again; I’ve been there once, as briefly as possible, and now I have to fly back this afternoon. They have me on a string and they just plain jerk me around this way and that. Off to Colombia, back home to Detroit, over to Baltimore, then back to Colombia; I’m a cardinal and I have to put up with this? I feel like stepping down.
This is not the best of all possible worlds, he said to himself as he made his way to the elevator. And TV hosts of daytime talk shows abuse me.
Libera me Domine, he declared to himself, and it was a mute appeal; save me, God. Why doesn’t he listen to me? Harms won- dered as he stood waiting for the elevator. Maybe there is no God; maybe the communists are right. If there is a God he cer- tainly doesn’t do anything for me.
Before I leave Detroit, he decided, I’ll check with my invest- ment broker about office buildings. If I have the time.
Rybys Rommey-Asher, plodding listlessly into the living room of their apartment, said, “I’m back.” She shut the front door and took off her coat. “The doctor says it’s an ulcer. A pyloric ulcer, it’s called. I have to take phenobarb for it and drink Maalox.”
“Does it still hurt?” Herb Asher said; he had been going through his tape collection, searching for the Mahler Second Symphony.
“Could you pour me some milk?” Rybys threw herself down on the couch. “I’m exhausted.” Her face, puffy and dark, seemed to him to be swollen. “And don’t play any loud music. I can’t take any noise right now. Why aren’t you at the shop?”
“It’s my day off.” He found the tape of the Mahler Second. “I’ll put on the earspeakers,” he said. “So it won’t bother you.
Rybys said, “I want to tell you about my ulcer. I learned some interesting facts about ulcers-I stopped off at the library. Here.” She held out a manila folder. “I got a printout of a recent article. There’s this theory that-”
“I’m going to listen to the Mahler Second,” he said. [ 196 Philip K. Dick
“Fine.” Her tone was bitter and sardonic. “You go ahead.”
“There’s nothing I can do about your ulcer,” he said.
“You can listen to me.
Herb Asher said, “I’ll bring you the milk.” He walked into the kitchen and he thought, Must it be like this?
If I could hear the Second, he thought, I’d feel okay. The only symphony scored for many pieces of rattan, he mused. A Ruthe, which looks like a small broom; they use it to play the bass drum. Too bad Mahler never saw a Morley wah-wah pedal, he thought, or he would have scored it into one of his longer works.
Returning to the living room he handed his wife her glass of milk.
“What have you been doing?” she said. “I notice you haven’t picked up or cleaned up or anything.”
“I’ve been on the fone to New York,” he said.
“Linda Fox,” Rybys said.
“Yes. Ordering her audio components.”
“When are you going back to see her?”
“I’ll be supervising the installation. I want to check the sys- tem over when it’s all set up.
“You really like her,” Rybys said.
“It’s a good sale.”
“No, I mean personally. You like her.” She paused and then said, “I think, Herb, I’m going to divorce you.”
He said, “Are you serious?”
“Very.”
“Because of Linda Fox?”
“Because I’m sick and tired of this place being a sty. I’m sick and tired of doing dishes for you and your friends. I’m especially sick and tired of Elias; he’s always showing up unexpectedly; he never fones before he comes over. He acts like he lives here. Half the money we spend on food goes for him and his needs. He’s like some kind of beggar. He looks like a beggar. And that nutty religious crap of his, that ‘The world is coming to an end’ stuff. . . I can’t take any more of it.” She fell silent and then, in pain, she grimaced.
“Your ulcer?” he asked. The Divine Invasion 197
“My ulcer, yes. The ulcer I got worrying about-”
“I’m going to the shop,” he said; he made his way to the door. “Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Herb Asher,” Rybys said. “Leave me here and go stand around talking to pretty lady customers and listening to high-performance new audio components that’ll knock your socks off, for half a million dollars.”
He shut the door after him, and, a moment later, rose up into the sky in his flycar.
Later in the day, when no customers wandered around the store checking out the new equipment, he seated himself in the listening room with his business partner. ‘Elias,” he said, “I think Rybys and I have come to the end.”
Elias said, “What are you going to do instead? You’re used to living with her; it’s a basic part of you, taking care of her. Satisfying her wants.”
“Psychologically,” Herb said, “she is very sick.”
“You knew that when you married her.”
“She can’t focus her attention. She’s scattered. That’s the technical term for it. That’s what the tests showed. That’s why she’s so messy; she can’t think and she can’t act and she can’t concentrate.” The Spirit of Futile Effort, he said to himself.
“What you need,” Elias said, “is a son. I saw how much affection you have for Manny, that woman s little brother. Why don’t you-” He broke off. “It’s none of my business.”