"I'll pray for you, Wilbur."
"I'll release my negative forces for you, Mom." Wilbur remembered that sad conversation as he bowed to the portrait of Dr. Rubin Dolomo, founder of Poweressence, set above the entranceway to the second floor of the building. Only those who had passed the first level were allowed up here. Those walking in from the street for their free character test were kept downstairs in booths, away from pictures of Dr. Dolomo, even away from any mention of Poweressence. This was not deception.
The deception was all the lies people told about Poweressence. Therefore, to hide the fact that Poweressence was behind the tests was really giving the truth a chance, because then the person, after taking the test and seeing what was offered, would have a chance to judge fairly. Otherwise, bombarded by newspaper propaganda, a perfectly innocent person might logically be led to think this was all a come-on for a fraud, a hustle to part a victim from his money and his self-control.
Therefore, Dr. Rubin Dolomo's picture was kept only on the second floor, and only when a person reached this floor was he allowed to venerate the picture and understand, yes, indeed, in the secrecy of pure surroundings, that this was religion, and Dr. Dolomo was sent by the forces of the universe to help mankind.
Only when he saw the picture did the young chemist allow himself to think thoughts of religion. He kept the vial and the formula close to his body. He told one of the workers he had an urgent message.
His Level Three guide was unavailable, so a Level Four guide had to come and see him. The Level Four guide looked somewhat harried for someone who was supposed to be free of negative thoughts.
"I have discovered in my job an incredibly powerful drug that will remove people's memory. It is so dangerous only we should have it."
"Fantastic. What does it do?"
When Wilber explained the chemical formula, the Level Four guide decided it was above his power to make a decision and moved Wilbur up to a Level Five guide. The Level Five guide whistled at the thought of blocking memory with a whisper of a substance and he passed Wilbur along to the next level. The Level Six guide was working an adding machine and smoking a cigarette. Cigarette addiction was something Poweressence was supposed to cure.
Level Six did not seem at peace with the positive forces of existence, rather still a sufferer of negative input. "Okay, what do you got? Whatya got?"
Wilbur explained.
"Okay, what do you want for it?"
"I want for it to be used for the positive power of mankind."
"C'mon. You gonna do business or you gonna play in my pudding? How much you want? You sellin' the formula? You sellin' what? A dose? A quart?"
"I am not selling anything. I want to give back the many blessings I have received."
"Where did you come from?"
"From downstairs."
"What level are you?"
"I have, with the good help of my guides, broken through to Level Three."
"Ooooooh," said the man with the light of recognition on his face. "I see. This is not business. Good for you, kid. You're going to give it away, right? Explain it to me again."
And Wilbur tried to explain the formula.
"Look, kid. That's too big for this Toledo franchise. You had better go right to headquarters yourself. Right to Dr. Dolomo."
"I'm going to see the doctor?"
"You got to. This is national. But tell him that Toledo is in for Toledo's share. Okay? He'll know what I'm talking about, and don't forget to tell him you're at Level Three. Right?" said the man, giving Wilbur's cheek a little pat.
"I'm only at Level Three. I don't know if I am qualified to talk to the good doctor myself."
"Yeah. Yeah. You are, kid. It's beautiful. You're a sweet boy. Just tell him what you told me."
"Do you think I should work on a rapid transcendence of the spirit before I enter his presence? I've heard it could be rushed with help."
"What's that, the $1,998.99 weekend in our Chillicothe temple?"
"No, I believe the offering is $900 and it's a day's intensive powering in the Columbus facility."
"Just pay for your own plane fare to headquarters. That's purifying enough. Okay, kid, anything else?"
"Yes. I thought you weren't supposed to smoke once you passed Level Three," said Wilbur, nodding to the burning cigarette.
"Right. Go downstairs; there are people paid to explain it all to you. Now get outta here, kid, and don't forget-tell Dolomo this is a Toledo find. He knows what I'm talking about."
Wilbur went right to the airport, not even bothering to inform Brisbane Pharmaceuticals he was taking a day off. He was troubled by the cigarette smoking at so high a level. But then he remembered what they had told him at Level Two, when he had paid for the $500 hard-bound step-by-step guide through the levels.
"Don't expect to get rid of a lifetime of wrong thinking just because you buy a set of books. It will take years. It will take courses. And most of all, it will take money. But don't feel that because you still worry, or want to smoke or drink or spend your money foolishly, that you have not progressed. Sometimes an isolated negative thought will strike even the most advanced of us."
This explained why someone at so high a level could still be smoking. Still, Wilbur worried about it, though his concerns turned to elation as his cab pulled up to the famed "Tower of Poweressence." Dr. Dolomo lived on an estate in California, facing the Pacific. It had more lawn than most state parks. He had read about it in Poweressence literature.
Dr. Dolomo, having achieved the highest level of Poweressence, needed no sleep and worked twenty-four hours a day for the good of mankind. And he worked his great works from here. Wilbur pulled out his step-by-step guide but he was too excited to cram. In a few minutes he'd be face-to-face with the young man with incredibly blue eyes who stared out of the book cover. This was a Level Two book. There were rumors that people just sleeping on it under their pillow had advanced in positive power. Wilbur slid it between the seat of the car and the seat of his pants.
There were guards at the gates, but once inside, people seemed to wander about at will. There were no prohibitions. Wilbur Smot tried to absorb the positive vibrations that must be coming from here. He felt the sun and the grass and he knew again all was good.
A secretary downstairs brought him to an inner room where a man who called himself the Midwest regional director watched a taped football game while eating chocolates.
"He's to see Dr. Dolomo. He's from Toledo."
"Upstairs," said the man.
"Don't you think you ought to go with him? He is sort of new to everything."
"No. No. Leave me alone. What's there to climbing stairs? Get out of here."
Wilbur looked to the secretary. That was definite negative behavior.
The secretary smiled.
"It's all right," she said. "Just go upstairs."
On the second floor a group of maids were in a frenzy. Mrs. Dolomo, he heard, was screaming about something. Mrs. Dolomo was using profane language. Mrs. Dolomo didn't want to talk to him or any other jerk from Toledo, Ohio. Mrs. Dolomo wanted her beige bathing suit and she wanted it now, and if he didn't know where it was, would he kindly stay the bleeping hell out of the way.
Wilbur Smot found Dr. Dolomo dozing, his potbelly heaving with each breath, a large cigar stagnating in an ashtray.
"Dr. Dolomo?" Wilbur said, praying this was not the man who had found the force that had released Wilbur from so much personal pain.
"Who wha?" cried out the portly figure in panic. He jerked himself up to a sitting position, reached for his bifocals, and focused his eyes. "Get me the pills. Those pills."