“Also, it said that ten percent of
Homo sapiens
had always inclined to a certain degree toward homosexuality. The ten percent had certain inclinations, that is. Not all of the ten percent were practicing homosexuals, but the tendency was there. This had been the rule since the Ethicals started making duplicate records of humanity. And it was assumed that this had been so since
Homo sapiens
originated.
“The tendency is genetically determined. What interested me about this is that in 1983, a few years before that, too, the militant homosexuals claimed that they had made a free and conscious choice to be homosexuals. In other words, they weren’t born homosexuals, they had deliberately chosen to be such because they preferred that sexual way of life.
“They talked as if, when you reached the age of reason, you made up your mind about your path of action. What they ignored or failed to consider, was that, if this were true, then heterosexuals also made their free and conscious decision to be heterosexual. But this just wasn’t so. A heterosexual was so because he was born so.”
“What about…?” Burton said.
“You were going to say, ‘What about those who have homosexual tendencies but behave heterosexually? Or those who are bisexuals? Or those who marry women but have homosexual affairs on the side?’ There are varying degrees of homosexuality … and heterosexuality … of course. And in any society where it was dangerous to be openly homosexual, the homosexual had to hide his or her tendency. In any event, homosexuality or heterosexuality is not a matter of choice. It’s inborn.
“That makes no difference. Being homosexual or not is not a matter of morality. It’s not a person’s decision. It’s what you do with your homosexuality or heterosexuality that matters, that is moral. Rape, sadism, violence are evil whether or not you’re homosexual.”
Sophie spoke up. “I can’t help overhearing you two, you’re so loud. What’s all this about free will and determinism and genes and choice? I was very interested in those subjects when I went to college. Really interested. I got passionate about such things, I used to enjoy getting angry at those who didn’t agree with me, the stupid jerks! But when I graduated, no, some time before that, I saw that … well … thinking you can solve anything by discussing philosophy or those other matters was foolish. There’s no end to it, no possible irrefutable conclusions. Fun, maybe, but profitless. Sophomoric. It really is. So I quit talking about it. If somebody wanted to discuss such things, I steered them to some other subject or just walked away, though I wasn’t rude about it.”
“Sure, that’s right!” Frigate said. “You were right! But the point is that the Ethicals have put these subjects beyond the range of discussion or opinion. They’ve proved these points. We’re no longer in the dark!”
“Maybe. I have to agree with Dick about that.
Maybe.
But that doesn’t matter. What was it Buddha said? ‘Work out your own salvation with diligence.’ Whoever Mr. or Mrs. Diligence is. I’ve been looking for Mr. Dilegence for a long time. I even borrowed Diogenes’ lantern to help me. Which, by the way, the old Greek didn’t need. He was honest, why should he go out looking for another honest person?
“Anyway, as Dick said, we all act as if we had free will. So who cares if there is such a thing? All I know is that only I, I alone, am responsible for my moral behavior. Heredity, environment, excuses. Excuses, alibis: scorned. Race, nationality, tribe, parents, religion, society: excuses. I decide what I am. And that’s that!”
“Was that why you burned your soufflé yesterday?” Frigate said. “You didn’t just forget about watching it. You decided to cremate it?”
Frigate and Lefkowitz burst out laughing. Burton said, “You cook?”
“Why, yes,” Sophie said. “I like to cook. When it’s not required of me, that is. I was making our dinner last night, and I forgot to watch the soufflé. I was reading a book, and…”
They started talking about food and that led to other subjects and finally to dinner. Eating together was a custom more ancient than conversation.
On Christmas Day, many guests stood before the door of Turpinworld. Burton was not the only one surprised at the number of Gull’s companions. There were forty at least, all Dowists whom Gull had known in The Valley. They looked Roman in their long white togas and sandals, but it was unlikely that Romans had ever worn headbands with a big aluminum D.
“D,” Gull said. “D for Dow and Deliverance. D for Deus, too.”
“Death and Damnation also begin with D,” someone muttered.
Gull was not affronted or, at least, did not seem to be so. “True, my friend, whoever you are,” he said dignifiedly. “Death and Damnation for those who do not follow the true way.”
“Disgusting,” the same voice said.
“Drivel,” someone else said.
“Dangerously Dubious,” a third person said.
“Devastating Dung!”
“We are used to insults and ill-considered rebukes for ‘A, double-L,-part people,’ ” Gull said. “But Grace abounding is always offered to the chief of sinners.”
“What the hell does ‘A, double-L-,-part’ mean?” a woman said softly.
“I do not know,” Burton said. “It doesn’t mean ‘All-part,’ as you might think. Gull and his followers refuse to define it. They say that when you understand it, then Grace has come to you and you are one of them.”
“It was a pejorative often used by Lorenzo Dow to describe his enemies,” Frigate said. “It wasn’t much of a description, though it certainly sounds ominous, since his enemies never understood it.”
De Marbot muttered, “It was a mistake to invite them. You can’t carry on a decent conversation with them. They want only to convert you. Tom should have known better.”
“Who resurrected Gull?” Sophie said. “No one in her right mind would.”
“No one knows,” Burton said. “I asked the Computer for the identity of the person who had raised Gull, Netley, Crook, Stride, and Kelly, but it replied that the datum was available to only one person. It didn’t say to whom.”
A face appeared in the glowing circle on the door.
“Santa Claus!” Frigate cried.
The man wore a big red stocking cap trimmed with white fur, and he had a huge bushy white beard. His skin was rather dark for the conventional St. Nick, however.
Turpin said, “Yeah, I’m Santa Claus. Tom Ho-Ho-Ho! Turpin hisself to be more exact.”
“Merry Christmas!” several shouted.
“And a Merry Christmas to you, too!” Turpin said. “We also got plenty of snow, folks, but it ain’t what you’re used to. At least, I think it ain’t. You’re such good folks, ho, ho, ho!”
The door swung open, and there was a jam-up as those in front tried to get their flying chairs through at the same time. These were Li Po and his group, most of them loaded three feet below their Plimsoll line with liquor of various kinds. They had never heard of Christmas until Turpin’s invitation, but they were eager to learn about it. After some struggling and good-natured cursing, Li Po got them organized, and they entered one at a time. Burton and his companions went next. The Dowists followed them; they had waited politely for the first two groups at Gull’s command. Burton noted that they were trading glances of disdain and sorrow with one another. Evidently, they did not care for the boisterous behavior of the Chinese.
Behind the Dowists were Stride, Kelly, and Crook, dressed in elegant if somewhat flashy Victorian gowns and wearing diamond earrings and many rings bearing huge diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires. He was not surprised to see unfamiliar male faces with them. Annie Crook was accompanied by one man; the other woman had a man on each arm.
About twenty feet behind them was Netley, dressed like a race tout, gleaming with jewelry, with a woman clinging to each of his arms.
Behind them was a group of twenty that startled him. So, it was true that gypsies had been resurrected. They were dressed in the exotic clothes familiar to him, since he had associated with them in England and in Europe. He planned to ask them if they knew their benefactor, but he never got around to doing so. By the time he remembered, it was too late.
The party flew in a long straggling line under an early noon sun and over the forest, marshes, roads, and railroad tracks. Turpin had a railroad! They came down on the designated area, Louis Chauvin Street, one end of which had been roped off as a landing place. Little St. Louis or Turpinville was bright with Christmas lights and decorations and noisy with revelers. It seemed to Burton that the two thousand he had heard about some weeks ago had increased to four thousand. The streets were jammed with dancers and paraders dressed in outlandish costumes. It was more like Mardi Gras than Yuletide. Five bands were playing five different types of music, ragtime, dixieland, hot jazz, cool jazz, and spirituals. Scores of dogs ran around barking.
The group pushed their way through the crowds while liquor bottles and cigarettes and cigars of marijuana and hashish were pressed upon them. The odor of booze and grass was almost solid, and everybody was red-eyed.
Turpin, still clad in his Santa Claus suit, stood on the front porch of his huge red-brick headquarters to welcome them.
“The joint is jumping, the jerks are joyous, and jazzing is jake!” Turpin cried. “Give me some skin, brothers and sisters!”
Frigate was the only one who knew what he meant. He held his hand out palm up and Turpin slapped it. “Right on, brother!”
While the others followed his example, Frigate explained to Burton that some late twentieth-century blacks must have been resurrected here. The outlandish greeting came from that era.
“That’s what he meant when he said there was plenty of snow for Christmas,” Frigate said. He pointed at two black males sitting on the steps and staring blankly straight ahead of them. “They must be on heroin. Snow in the vernacular.”
Turpin was revved up, but his high spirits were not of the alcoholic variety. His eyes were clear, and his speech was distinct. Everybody else might be stoned and, hence, vulnerable, but not canny Tom.
They went inside the Rosebud to the vestibule, which was almost as large as Grand Central Station. There was a big crowd there and twenty long bars of polished mahogany or gold behind which white-skinned androids in tuxedoes served drinks. Burton had to step over several unconscious men and women to follow Turpin. He took them into the big elevator and up to the third floor. They went into an office, which Alice said looked like the reception room in Buckingham Palace.
Tom asked them to sit down. He stood in front of a twenty-foot-long desk and ran his brown eyes over them before speaking.
“I’m the boss,” he said, “and I run this place like it’s a choo-choo train and I’m the engineer. I have to. But I let them have a good time. Most of them are pretty good, they behave like they should, don’t go beyond the limits I laid down for them.
“The thing is I know some of them’d like to be the boss, so I keep an eye on ’em like fleas on a dog. The Computer does that for me. Trouble is I didn’t pick most of the people here. Anybody I resurrected, I studied their past. But I couldn’t tell by that what people the people I picked was going to pick.
“Besides the ones that’d like to sit on my throne, there’s two different kinds of people here. Most of them are good-timers, they was whores and pimps and musicians on Earth. But some of them are church people, Holy Rollers, Second Chancers, or New Christians. They raise hell about the hell-raisers and the hell-raisers raise hell about their interfering.”
“Why don’t you just get rid of all of them and start over?” Star Spoon said.
Burton was surprised. She seldom spoke up unless directly addressed or asked for an opinion. Moreover, it was a strange question, not in keeping with what he knew about her nature.
Turpin lifted his palms.
“How do I do that?”
“There must be ways. The Computer…”
“I ain’t no mass murderer. I been pretty rough in my time, but I ain’t going to slaughter people just to get some peace and quiet. Besides, keeping them in line gives me something to do.”
He grinned and said, “Time to get them out of the streets and into the Rosebud. We going to have a party here, and it ain’t easy to herd them in.”
He went to the wall behind the desk, said a few words, and a glowing round spot appeared. Then he uttered some codewords.
He turned, grinning even more broadly. “Man, I got the power! I’m Merlin the Magician and the Wizard of Oz rolled up in one and smoking like a ten-dollar Havana. I’m the Great God Turpinus, the black Zeus, mighty Thor the Thunderer, the Old Rainmaker, the Chief Snake Oil Seller, Mr. Bones the Puppeteer.”
Within three minutes clouds had cut off the sun, clouds that thickened and blackened. A wind whistled through the bars in the open windows and lifted the togas, kilts, and skirts.
“They’ll all be inside quicker’n you can say scat to a cat,” he said. “They be bitching about getting wet, but that don’t matter.”
“There are unconscious people out there,” Alice said. “What about them?”
“They got to take their chances. Besides, it’ll do them good. Some of them need a bath. Nobody gets pneumonia, anyway.”
He gave them some instructions about keeping out of trouble if the drunks gave them a hard time. “They shouldn’t. I gave them orders they was to treat you nice even if you is white.”
“What about us?” Li Po said. “We aren’t white.”
“You are to them. Anybody who ain’t black is white. It’s a matter of fine but not subtle semantic distinction.”
Burton was partly amused by the latter statement and partly irritated. The man deliberately shifted back and forth from the English of the well-educated to ghetto lingo as if he wanted to anger his listeners. Or perhaps to play the clown. Or both. Somewhere in him was a self-contempt engendered by the white-ruled system of his time. He might not be conscious of it, but it was there. According to Frigate, the American Negroes of the later twentieth century had overcome this, or tried to, and claimed to be proud to be black. But Turpin was still playing a game for which there was no need.
But, as Nur had said, one should not be proud to be black or white. One should only be proud to be a good human being, and that pride should watch out for stumbles.