Free Eye in the Sky (1957) by Philip K. Dick Page B

girl
sniffed. Pulling up her skirt, she indicated a small white object slipped under
her garter. “Try and beat that,”
she told McFeyffe.
    Fascinated, McFeyffe gazed at the
object “What is
    “The
metatarsal bone of Mohammed.”
    “Saints
preserve us,” McFeyffe said piously, sipping his beer.
    Pushing
down her skirt, the girl addressed Hamilton. “Haven’t I seen you in
here before? You work across the street at that big bomb factory, don’t
you?”
    “I
used to,” Hamilton answered.
    “This
joker’s a Red,” McFeyffe volunteered. “And an atheist”
    Horrified,
the girl drew back. “No kidding?”
    “Sure,”
Hamilton told her. At this point, it was all the same to him. “I’m Leon Trotsky’s maiden aunt. I gave birth to Joe Stalin.”
    Instantly,
a shattering pain snapped through his ab domen; doubled up, he fell from the stool onto the floor and sat clutching himself, teeth chattering with
agony.
    “That’s
what you get,” McFeyffe said without pity.

“Help,”
Hamilton appealed.
    Solicitous,
the girl crouched down beside him. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?
Where’s your Bayan?”
    “Home,” he whispered,
ashen with pain. Renewed cramps lashed up and down inside him. “I’m dying. Burst appendix.”
    “Where’s your prayer wheel? In
your coat pocket?” Lithely she began searching his coat; her nimble
fingers plucked and flew.
    “Get—me
to a—doctor,” he managed.
    The bartender leaned over.
“Throw him out or fix him up,” he told the girl brusquely. “He
can’t die here.”
    “Does somebody have a little
holy water?” the girl called, in a
penetrating soprano.
    The crowd stirred; presently a small
flat flask was passed forward. “Don’t
use it all,” a voice cautioned peev ishly. “That was filled at
the font at Cheyenne.”
    Unscrewing the top, the girl
dribbled the tepid water on her red-nailed fingers and quickly sprinkled drops
over Hamilton. As they touched him, thefierce pain ebbed. Relief spread over his tortured body.
After a time, with some help from the girl, he was able to sit up.
    “The
curse is gone,” the girl remarked matter-of-factly, returning the
holy water to its owner. “Thanks, mister.”
    “Buy that man a beer,”
McFeyffe said, without turn ing around.
“He’s a true follower of the Bab.”
    As
the foaming mug of beer was passed back into the crowd, Hamilton crawled
miserably back onto his stool. Nobody noticed him; the girl had now gone
off to fondle the owner of the holy water.
    “This
world,” Hamilton grated, between clenched teeth, “is crazy.”
    “Crazy,
hell,” McFeyffe answered. “What’s crazy about it? I haven’t
paid for a beer all day.” He wagged his mighty array of charms. “All
I have to do is appeal to these.”
    “Explain it,” Hamilton
muttered. This place—this bar. Why doesn’t God erase it? If this world operates
by moral laws—”
    “This bar is necessary to the
moral order. This is a sinkpit of corruption
and vice, a fleshpot of iniquity. You think salvation can function
without damnation? You think virtue can exist without sin? That’s the trouble
with you atheists; you don’t grasp the mechanics of evil. Get on the inside and enjoy life, man. If you’re one of the
Faithful, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
    “Opportunist”
    “Bet
your sweet soul.”
    “So
God lets you sit here lapping up booze and did dling these floozies. Swearing and lying, doing anything you
want”
    “I know my rights,”
McFeyffe said sleekly. “I know what’s on top, here. Look around you and
learn. Pay attention to what’s going on.”
    Nailed
to the wall of the bar beside the mirror was the motto, What Would
The Prophet Say If He Found You In A Place Like This?
    “Ill
tell you what he’d say,” McFeyffe informed Hamil ton. “He’d
say, ‘Pour one for me, boys.’ He’s a regular fellow.
Not like you egghead professors.”
    Hamilton waited hopefully, but no
rain of stinging snakes