The Man in the Tree

Chapter Twenty-five

All around him, the other worlds sheaved away in layers of gray mist. There were worlds in which the Chinese had colonized North and South America, in which the Christian religion did not exist, in which giant sloths and tapirs roamed the Great Plains. Even closer to home, there were things even more bizarre in their own way: there was a world in which Shirley Temple had been appointed an ambassador, and Ronald Reagan was President of the United States. Most of the time it seemed to make no difference at all who was president, premier, or chairman; the world drifted in its massive way toward the same catastrophe just the same.

There were worlds in which it had already happened: there were rotting corpses along the highways, beside the lines of abandoned cars. The cities were fields of rubble, like vast firebombed junkyards.

Since the idea had occurred to him, or rather since the first moment when he had known with an electric tingle in his nerves that he was going to take the risk, he had thought carefully about groups and their dynamics. He already knew that the only comfortable place in a group for him was at the center; he had formed groups around himself again and again solely for that reason, and not because of any impulse toward hospitality or benevolence, although he was glad enough to let people think those were his reasons.

Others liked to be near the center of power but did not care for the responsibility or the risk of managing a group of their own. And there were still others who liked to be on the fringe, to be told what to do. He did not understand it, but it must be so, or every adult human being would have his own group, with a membership of one.

He ate in his room, and did not go downstairs until the others had had time to finish breakfast. He found them in the dining room, with pads and pencils in front of them. They fell silent and their heads turned as he walked in.

"Good morning," he said. "I hope you've all been thinking about what I said last night. You probably have some questions, but I'd like to hold those until later. What I want us to do this morning is to have a brainstorming session -- does everybody know what that is?"

"Sounds like a fit of lunacy," said Wilcox.

"Brainstorming is a way of getting ideas," Coomaraswami explained. "The rule is, you have a certain problem to talk about, and you try to generate as many ideas as possible, never mind whether they are good ideas or not: that you can decide later. But I am not quite clear what we are going to talk about."

"All right," said Gene. "The problem is this: the organization that we talked about last night has to be a political movement, even if it looks like something else, and yet it can't be a nationalist or ethnic movement -- it has to be universal, or it won't work. That suggests to me that we must have a very simple core message. It has to be something that even a child can understand, and something that can be expressed in any language. Yes, Stan?"

"When you say the idea has to be simple, that rules out things like 'Support scientific education,' for instance."

"Yes, and also it's not enough to be simple. 'Save the whales' is a simple idea, and a good idea, but it's not universal -- not everybody can do anything about saving the whales."

"So, then, you just want something that will improve people's behavior generally, is that it?"

"Maybe."

"What about, 'You shall love thy neighbor as thyself'?" Irma asked quietly.

"That has been tried," said Linck. "Unfortunately it always turns out that most people love themselves better."

"Not always," Salomon retorted. "I'm tired of hearing that you can't change 'human nature.' People who say that usually assume that whatever behavior their own society produces is natural. So if you grew up in a highly competitive and cynical society, you think that's human nature. But the Pueblo Indians were not like that, for instance -- they were cooperative, nurturant, nonaggressive. To them, that was human nature."

"Remember that we're not going to criticize these ideas now, just try to get as many out as we can. Maggie, are you making notes?"

She nodded. Linck, she saw, was also writing on his pad; one or two of the others were doodling.

"So, then," said Coomaraswami, "what we are looking for is an idea that will make people behave better toward each other? How about 'Be kind'? That is simple enough -- two words."

"Before we go any further," Salomon said, "I think I see something missing. It isn't enough for your idea to be simple and universal; there also has to be some reward for the person who adopts the idea. It could be something just as simple as 'Be kind.' And if everybody heard that and said, 'Great, I'll be kind,' it would make a big difference. But how are you going to get them to do it? What's in it for them?"

"We could give them a dollar whenever they're kind to somebody," Wilcox said with a grin. There was a ripple of laughter.

"Maybe that's not such a dumb idea," said Salomon slowly.

"How, Start?" asked Linck. "There isn't enough money in the world."

"No, not money, but -- " Salomon was sketching on the pad in front of him. He tore off the sheet and held it up: he had drawn a circle in which a scribble of a face appeared, and around the edge he had lettered: YOU WERE NICE TO ME.

"Call them 'Gene's dollars,' "he said. "Hand them out at meetings, maybe five or ten to a customer. The idea is, they give them to people who are nice to them. And so on. An instant reinforcement."

The group was silent for a while.

"Instead of tokens, we could pass out our own credit cards. People could get them punched, or something, when they were kind to somebody else."

"Rubber stamps -- you could stamp somebody's forehead."

"Free balloons."

"Or gerbils -- they breed like crazy, so that would take care of the manufacturing problem."

They branched out into suggestions about the meetings:

"There should be music."

"Not rock."

"No, something very quiet, to give a kind of feeling of expectancy."

"Moog would be best."

"You need ushers to lead people to their seats, and so on. Give them something distinctive to wear."

"Not a uniform. Smocks, maybe, or little vests."

"The lighting is important. It has to be bright enough so they can see the healing, but it ought to be diffuse, kind of golden."

"How do they sign up? There has to be a long table at the front, and people to take down their names and addresses, give them membership cards or whatever, and maybe little leaflets -- "

"If you want the organization to grow, you're going to have to pick out leaders right away, and help them set up the local chapter or whatever."

"What does the local chapter do? If it holds meetings when Gene's not there, you can't have the healing every time."

"They could take applications for the next time he is there."

"What about having films of Gene healing? That would be the next best thing."

"Yes, and videotapes for TV."

"You need somebody to speak at meetings, and they have to know what to say."

"There should be a manual for heads of chapters."

"Not only that, I think we need a training course. You need the manual, and you've got to train the people who train people."

"Dinners and picnics."

"Little envelopes for donations."

"We have to think of ways to encourage recruiting. Announce the number of new members every meeting, and tell who signed them up."

"Give them special badges or something for recruiting ten people or more."

"Put their names on a big bulletin board."

"About publicity -- we should arrange for all the interviews we can get, naturally. And I think Gene should write a book."

"Thanks a lot," said Gene.

"Well, I think so. And, I'm looking ahead now, there ought to be some TV specials, and maybe a weekly newspaper column."

The discussion came back to "Gene's dollars."

"I think we should use paper money instead of coins. Otherwise it's a bottleneck. You've got to get a wax model made, then dies, and you've got to find a manufacturer, and we're going to need billions of them. Paper is quicker, cheaper, you can get more run off whenever you need them. It doesn't have to look like real money -- it shouldn't, in fact."

"It ought to be a little bigger than real money, so people don't get them mixed up."

"You could have little folders for them, so you could pull one out whenever you want it."

"It shouldn't look like any foreign currency, either. Make it an unusual color, pink, for example."

"How's this? I was thinking about the printing costs. Put a portrait of Gene on the front, and all the stuff we were talking about, and then on the back, divide it up into spaces for signatures. Everybody who gets one signs it before they pass it on, and when. you get one that's full, you can turn it in for ten more."

Eventually Gene called a halt, and Margaret read the list of suggestions aloud. There were murmurs of agreement for some of them, silence or rude noises for others.

"Gene, how big an organization are we talking about here -- I mean how many professionals? I think we ought to see what we're getting into."

Linck said, "I have been making a list as we went along. I can't tell you numbers of people, but perhaps it will help if we just see how many sections there are. We need first of all a planning section -- we need economists, demographers, and God knows what to draw a master plan for at least the first five years. We need an executive section. A personnel section, to find and recruit the people we need. A training section. Then there is housing: someone has to find office space and arrange for leases and so on. Legal section, probably quite large. Publicity section, that will be very important. Transportation and liaison. At some point we will probably need a political section, with lobbyists in Washington and in other countries. Security. Public relations. Procurement. Accounting. That is thirteen sections so far, and probably there are others I have forgotten."

"Translation," said Margaret.

"Yes, a very good point. That would come under the heading of an information section, I think, but we will also need interpreters."

"Let's talk about some of the legal problems," Cliff Guthrie said. "Is this going to be a not-for-profit corporation, or what? Do you want to incorporate it as a church, for the tax advantages?"

"Not a church," Gene said. "There are one or two things I won't do, and one is to let anybody put a halo on my head."

"Then probably it has to be a scientific and educational corporation, but I.R.S. doesn't like to hand out that designation. Then there's another thing. A non-profit corporation can't engage in political activity of any kind. That means lobbying is out."

"Here's something we haven't talked about. The organization has to have a name -- what are we going to call it?"

"Maybe an acronym, something with the initials G.E.N.E.?"

"General Exodus of Nuclear Energy."

"Why not just something descriptive like, A World at Peace?"

"Peace is a good word, but a lot of people are using it."

"There are some other words we can't use either, like Crusade. Popular. People's."

"How about 'A World for Mankind'? Then you could have a great logo, with the 'W' and the' M.'"

"What happened to womankind?"

"I like the idea of getting 'World' into it, and I like the M. World of Miracles."

"Let's keep this simple. Remember whatever we pick has to be translated into a lot of languages -- you don't want any ambiguities."

"The World Movement."

"Sounds like a giant laxative."

"One World would be perfect, but that's been done."

"As far as the initials are concerned, they've got to be different in every language anyhow, so let's not get hung up on them."

Wilcox suggested a committee to look into the question of names; Gene promptly appointed him the head of it, and then said, "Let's break for lunch. Afterward, I'd like to spend the rest of the afternoon talking to you in the library, one at a time -- or if two or three of you want to come together, that's all right." He got up and left the room.

The others got up more slowly. As they straggled out, Stan Salomon said, "Do you realize that when we went in there it was just a game, and when we left we were committed?"

Gene's place was still vacant at lunch.

"You know, it is possible, what he is talking about," said Coomaraswami. "It really is possible. It took about a century for the Islamic movement to spread through North Africa and Spain, and it took a lot of fighting also, but imagine what Mohammed could have done if he had been able to go around the world on jet planes, and preach by television. It is very much easier now to persuade a lot of people very quickly. And if you tell them something sensible that they want to hear, and you also can demonstrate a kind of supernatural ability, then you sort of get them both ways, because you are giving them something practical, and also something transcendental. I am willing to believe that he can do it. The only question in my mind is, will it be a good thing or a bad thing?"

"How could it be a bad thing?"

"Well, I have a picture in my mind of the world Gene wants -- fewer people, not so many big cities. And I think it may be a world in which it is not possible to do physics."

"Come in, Mike."

Wilcox sat down and crossed his legs nervously. Gene was in his outsize black leather armchair; between them was a table with a coffeepot, cups, sugar.

"Coffee?"

"No, thanks. You know, all this has more or less knocked my pins out from under me. I mean, all my life I've been going on the assumption that magic is a highly specialized form of deception. Now I have to get used to the idea that there really is a sort of magic."

"There isn't anything magical about it," Gene said.

"Well, if you say not. Anyhow, I'm curious about something. What's your limit, I mean in size? Could you make an elephant appear, for instance?"

"No. I think the limit is somewhere around my own size, and I haven't even got very close to that. Why do you mention elephants?"

"Just something that crossed my mind. I'd like to talk about these meetings of yours. Stop me if I speak out of turn. I suppose you've never spoken in public before? Are you nervy about it?"

"Yes, a little."

"How long will your speech run?"

"About an hour."

"Pardon me, but that's not enough. When people come to a meeting, or the theater or whatever, they expect to be entertained or jawed at for two hours, more or less."

"I don't think I can make it last that long."

"No, that's what I'm getting at. There's got to be something else to fill up the evening, and my idea is to use magic. I can get some really spectacular illusions from New York if you say the word. An hour of magic, an hour of lecture -- do the healing, and there you are."

"What sort of illusions?"

"The famous glass box on wheels, for one. I take it money is no object?"

"Right."

"Well, I know a man who will rent us one if we make him an offer he can't refuse. I can get his stage crew as well. It will pack the customers in, I promise you."

Gene said, "Mike, I'm grateful, but if we use fake magic, won't people think I'm a fake too?"

"Not with the healing. We could make a point of that, in fact -- the contrast. Anyhow, it's quite likely that some people will call you a fake, whatever you do. The point is, the people who're seen you won't believe that, and people who haven't seen you will come because they're curious."

"Come in, Cliff. Coffee?"

"No, thanks."

"Cliff, there's one good reason why this can't be a church. I want to thank you for that suggestion; I know you were thinking of what's best for me and putting aside your own religious feelings. But we can't do that, because a church can only grow at the expense of other churches. We can't get three billion people in ten years that way. This has to be a movement that anybody can belong to, Christian, Jew, Moslem, whatever."

"That's right. I wasn't thinking."

"And I hope I can say what I have to say without tearing down anybody's religious beliefs. If you catch me doing that, tell me."

"I will. But I'll tell you one thing."

"Yes?"

"If I had a choice between you and the Baptist Church, I'd follow you."

"What's the matter, Cliff? What happened?"

Guthrie had a curious look on his face. "He touched me on the forehead," he said.

"Coffee, Piet?"

"Yes, please." Linck sat down, took out a cigar, and settled himself comfortably. "There are some practical details that I want to discuss with you, and then I have a frivolous question."

"Good."

"Practical things first. You realize that you are going to need a large number of professional people of very high caliber. The best place to recruit them would be New York. If you wish, I'll go there and talk to some headhunters, do some preliminary interviews."

"Yes, Piet. Thank you."

Linck waved his cigar. "I have nothing else to do. I have to go back to Amsterdam for a week or so in July or August, otherwise I am free. Now for the frivolous question. Frivolous is not the right word, perhaps, but it is just something I'm curious about. Don't answer if you would rather not. Have you ever had what people call a religious experience?"

"Funny you should ask," Gene said. "Years ago, When I left home, something did happen. I was eleven at the time. Out in eastern Oregon one night I hitched a ride with an old man who got suspicious of me and left me off on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. It was getting late, and it was cold. I didn't know where I was. I started walking down that road and I came to a forest. It wasn't like any other forest I've ever seen. Tall pines and little twisted junipers, spaced pretty widely apart, growing in white sand. That place scared me, it was so quiet. There wasn't a sound, no insects, no birds, nothing. Then it began to rain, and in a funny way that made it easier to take, because of the sound. I walked into the forest a little way, out of sight of the road, and lay down curled up around the trunk of one of those trees, and went to sleep there.

"Sometime just after dawn I woke up and the rain had stopped, the place was deathly still again. And then -- this is the hard part. I don't know how to explain it. I felt, I sensed, that there was somebody up there, and then I heard a voice. Not a voice, but a -- I don't know what. Telling me something. It was a word, or maybe a number -- some number too big to grasp. Just the one thing, the big voice that wasn't a voice. And I heard what it said, and I couldn't understand it. Not because the voice wasn't speaking clearly, but because my head was too small for what it was saying."

He shifted in his chair. "That was all. I started walking again, and got to another road, hitched another ride, and I wound up in San Francisco."

"And you've never gone back there?"

"No. I don't know if it would be worse if I went back and it happened again, or if it didn't -- if nothing happened. I know where that place is -- I looked it up later. It's called the Lost Forest, in eastern Oregon. It's a place that shouldn't be there, because those are Ponderosa pines, growing in sand, in a place that never gets more than about six inches of rainfall a year."

"And you still don't know what the voice was trying to say to you?"

"I know. But I don't know what it is that I know. My head still isn't big enough."

"Irma, I've got to talk to you."

"Come in the pantry, honey. What is it, did he touch you on the forehead too?"

"Yes, but that's not it. He told me he's going to need a personal secretary, and an appointments secretary, and a press secretary, and at least two office managers, one for here and one for downtown, and he asked me to choose."

Irma cocked an ironic eyebrow at her. "You want me to guess?"

Margaret picked up a cocktail napkin and began to shred it. "Irma, I know I should have said I wanted to be an office manager. But then somebody else would have been with him all the time."

"I understand," Irma said~ "Isn't it hell?"