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Considering the alternative. "Of course, you know that the Jaunt is teleportation, no more or less," he said. "Sometimes in college chemistry and physics they call it the Carune Process, but it's really teleportation, and it was Carune himself - if you can believe the stories - who named it Њthe Jaunt.' He was a science-fiction reader, and there's a story by a man named Alfred Bester, The Stars My Destination it's called, and this fellow Bester made up the word Њjaunte' for teleportation in it. Except in his book, you could Jaunt just by thinking about it, and we can't really do that." The attendants were fixing a mask to the steel nozzle and handing it to an elderly woman at the far end of the room. She took it, inhaled once, and fell quiet and limp on her couch. Her shirt had pulled up a little, revealing one slack thigh road-mapped with varicose veins. An attendant considerately readjusted for her while the other pulled off the used mask and affixed a fresh one. It was a process that made Mark think of the plastic glasses in motel rooms. He wished to God that Patty would cool out a little bit; he had seen children who had to be held down, and sometimes they screamed as the rubber mask covered their faces. It was not an abnormal reaction in a child, he supposed, but it was nasty to watch and he didn't want to see it happen to Patty. About Rick he felt more confident. "I guess you could say the Jaunt came along at the last possible moment," he resumed. He spoke toward Ricky, but reached across and took his daughter's hand. Her palm was cool and sweating lightly. "The world was running out of oil, and most of what was left belonged to the middle-eastern desert peoples, who were committed to using it as a political weapon. They had formed an oil cartel they called OPEC - " "What's a cartel, Daddy?" Patty asked. "Well, a monopoly," Mark said. "Like a club, honey," Marilys said. "And you could only be in that club if you had lots of oil." "Oh." "I don't have time to sketch the whole mess in for you," Mark said. "You'll study some of it in school, but it was a mess - let's let it go at that. If you owned a car, you could only drive it two days a week, and gasoline cost fifteen oldbucks a gallon - " "Gosh," Ricky said, "it only costs four cents or so a gallon now, doesn't it, Dad?"

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I order her brain shut down!” the spokesperson for the board said; his face was pale, sweat stood out on his forehead. “We should see more first,” I said. I found it highly exciting, this enactment of our own sacrament, our highest sacrament, in which our Savior consumes us. “Agneta,” Elms whispered, “did you see that? Christ ate Travis. There’s nothing left but his gloves and boots.” Oh, God, Agneta Rautavaara thought. What is happening? I don’t understand. She moved away from the figure, over to Elms. Instinctively. “He is my blood,” the figure said as it licked its lips. “I drink of this blood, the blood of eternal life. When I have drunk it, I will live forever. He is my body. I have no body of my own; I am only a plasma. By eating his body, I obtain everlasting life. This is the new truth that I proclaim, that I am eternal.” “He’s going to eat us, too,” Elms said. Yes, Agneta Rautavaara thought. He is. She could see now that the figure was an Approximation. It is a Proxima life form, she realized. He’s right; he has no body of his own. The only way he can get a body is- “I’m going to kill him,” Elms said. He popped the emergency laser rifle from its rack and pointed it at the figure. The figure said, “The hour has come.” “Stay away from me,” Elms said. “Soon you will no longer see me,” the figure said, “unless I drink of your blood and eat of your body. Glorify yourself that I may live.” The figure moved toward Elms. Elms fired the laser rifle. The figure staggered and bled. It was Travis’s blood, Agneta realized. In him. Not his own blood. This is terrible. She put her hands to her face, terrified. “Quick,” she said to Elms. “Say, ‘I am innocent of this man’s blood.’ Say it before it’s too late.” “I am innocent of this man’s blood,” Elms whispered hoarsely. The figure fell. Bleeding, it lay dying. It was no longer a bearded man. It was something else, but Agneta Rautavaara could not tell what it was. It said, “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?” As she and Elms gazed down at it, the figure died. “I killed it,” Elms said. “I killed Christ.” He held the laser rifle pointed at himself, groping for the trigger. “That wasn’t Christ,” Agneta said. “It was something else. The opposite of Christ.” She took the gun from Elms. Elms was weeping. The Earthpersons on the Board of Inquiry possessed the majority vote, and they voted to abolish all activity in Rautavaara’s artificially sustained brain. This disappointed us, but there was no remedy for us. We had seen the beginning of an absolutely stunning scientific experiment: the theology of one race grafted onto that of another. Shutting down the Earthpersons’ brain was a scientific tragedy. For example, in terms of the basic relationship to God, the Earth race held a diametrically opposite view from us. This of course must be attributed to the fact that they are a somatic race while we are a plasma. They drink the blood of their God; they eat his flesh; that way they become immortal. To them, there is no scandal in this. They find it perfectly natural. Yet to us it is dreadful. That the worshiper should eat and drink its God? Awful to us; awful indeed. A disgrace and a shame-an abomination. The higher should always prey on the lower; the God should consume the worshiper. We watched as the Rautavaara case was closed-closed by the shutting down of her brain so that all EEG activity ceased and the monitors indicated nothing. We felt disappointment. In addition, the Earthpersons voted out a verdict of censure of us for our handling of the rescue mission in the first place. It is striking, the gulf that separates races developing in different star systems. We have tried to understand the Earthpersons, and we have failed. We are aware, too, that they do not understand us and are appalled in turn by some of our customs. This was demonstrated in the Rautavaara case. But were we not serving the purposes of detached scientific study? I myself was amazed at Rautavaara’s reaction when the Savior ate Mr. Travis. I would have wished to see this most holy of the sacraments fulfilled with the others, with Rautavaara and Elms as well. But we were deprived of this. And the experiment, from our standpoint, failed. And we live now, too, under the ban of unnecessary moral blame.