"So they did it with their hands. What's their price? We probably can get them cheaper than one of our ministers."
"They have not been found. I worry. For the men who could do this, I know, have been in India before, hundreds of years before, I believe in times before your great grandfather received his enlightenment. Our people were not always hill tribesmen. The Ilhibad once lived prosperously in the valleys. We served a great mogul, and one of our leaders thought, why should we who are the strength of the mogul, why should we who die for the mogul, why should we who are the foundation of the mogul, take crumbs from his table instead of filling our bellies on the sweetmeats?"
"You never get to the point, do you?" said the maharaji.
"And our ancestors planned that on the night of a great feast, they would slay the mogul and his sons and take his table and his women, his wealth and his power. But on that night our leader died. In a tent surrounded by faithful, he was found, his neck not only broken but shattered. And a new leader stepped forward and planned the assault on the mogul for the next night. But on the next night, he too was dead, his neck but skin covering jelly."
"C'mon, c'mon, get to the point."
"And a third leader…"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. His neck too, right? So?"
"So the great mogul called the Ilhibad to his palace, and in ranks he stood us before him. And he told us that while we thought we were warriors, we were but babies with swords. And he called the best swordsman forward. And he called the best lancer forward. And he called the strongest-muscled of us forward. And he said to us that when the tiger is away, the monkey thinks he is king. Here, he said, is a tiger. And before all, an Oriental appeared, a yellow man. And the mogul promised that if any of our best could slay this man, he could have the mogul's lands and women and table."
"And they didn't do it, so go on," said the maharaji.
"Ah, but how they failed. The swordsman's hands were severed. The lancer's eyes were plucked, and the back of the strong man was shattered, and so fast were the hands of this one Oriental that none of my ancestors could see them move. And then to each of the three dead men he went, and with a movement so slight it looked like a touch, he shattered their necks. And the mogul said that here was the tiger and that since we were monkeys, we should go where monkeys went. To the hills. Any man who stayed would have to face the Master. The mogul called this Oriental the Master. And he said that any of my ancestors who returned to the valley would have to face the Master. And that is the story, and not until this day, O Perfection, have I heard of one who slays like that until our follower was killed in the state of New Mexico, America."
"So what's the problem?"
"The problem, O Perfection, is that on the day the black man of God died, the earth shook, and I now fear what comes from the east."
"You're afraid of some Chinaman, right?"
"Someone of the east."
"Tell me, what's your name, how did you ever get down from the mountain? I mean most of your people are still up there."
"I served your father, Precious One."
"Yeah, but why? I mean, why did you venture down?"
"Because your father freed me. He was the truth that freed me, and I and my many brothers, of all my people, ventured forth down from the mountains to Patna. We are the only Ilhibad who dare wear the silver mark on our foreheads while in the valley."
"Well, as good as my father was, I'm better. And if I'm not as good, then your proof is not as good. Therefore, get back to work and keep the Baptist ministers happy, okay?"
"My essence knows not to fear, but my stomach, O Perfection, does not heed my essence."
"You had a classy hit man who did the job on a whole tribe, so we'll buy us some hit men of our own. What's the grief or trouble? We'll get assassins to protect us from your stupid legend."
"I shall seek the assassins myself."
"You won't do anything of the kind. I wouldn't trust you and your brothers to chew gum right. I'll do it."
"But, Perfection, hiring killers is against the law in Western countries."
"It's against the law here too."
"But you know the laws of India are hopes, while those of those faraway places are mean and cruel rules, enforced whether a man be maharaji or untouchable."
And to his arch-priest, Maharaji Gupta Mahesh Dor gave this command:
"Get lost, and this time don't fuck up advance preparations. Kezar Stadium's a fortune to rent. And don't play with the Baptist ministers. You already killed one."
"We have others, O Blissful Master."
"Yeah, a crumby half dozen."
"Many of them proved difficult."
"Everything is difficult for an asshole."
"We have another who is dying, I regret to say."
"Shit," said the maharaji. "I have to do everything myself."
So he went down to the hospital and was allowed past barred doors by a bowing guard-priest and spoke in turn to each of the Baptist ministers. His words were brief, but always reassuring, that of course the ministers had done the right thing. Hadn't the god they worshipped made their bodies? Did their bodies lie to them? Did they think God wanted them to be unhappy? And besides, who had brought them here, but the will of their god?
To the minister who was dying, the Blissful Master asked why he did this to himself. Why did he not enjoy his life?
"Your way is death," gasped the man, his pale face haggard, his eyes red, his white hair matted on the hospital pillow. The maharaji dismissed the handmaidens waiting on the minister. He pulled back the pale gray blanket with Divine Bliss Mission, Inc., on it and saw the handcuffs and leg irons were still attached. The man had been here a week and was still in stage one. Dor knew that the human body could not stand stage one for a week. Already there were deep dark rings beneath the red eyes. He felt the chest with his fingertips. It was not a strong heartbeat.
"You're dying," said Dor.
"I know," said the man.
"Tell me, why did you resist your body? What made you do this foolish thing? The others did not resist."
"I know that."
"Why you?"
"I've been here before."
"In Patna?" asked Dor.
"No. Narcotics. I was a pimp once. I was a gambler. I was a burglar, a whorer, a murderer, and a thief. The lowest of the low. And I know a fix when I get one. I've turned girls out onto the street like that. The sex and the fix and they're yours, and the longer they stay, the stronger the habit of staying gets, and then you don't even need the fix."
"I didn't know it was so common. That's interesting. I thought it was a formula invented by my great grandfather."
"The devil is not new."
"Yes, but the combination. The withdrawal of a person's sense and the substitution of the senses you want."
"Old hat."