"Don, you're all right, aren't you ?"
"You expect me to be dead ? Come now, Richard. " '
"And this is not a dream ? I won't forget seeing you now ?"
"No. This is a dream. It's a different space-time and any different space-time is a dream for a good sane earthling, which you are going to be for a while yet. But you will remember, and that will change your thinking and your life."
"Will I see you again ? Are you coming back ?"
"I don't think so. I want to get beyond times and spaces . . . I already am, as a matter of fact. But there is this link between us, between you and me and the others of our family. You get stopped by some problem, hold it in your head and go to sleep and we'll meet here by the airplane and talk about it, if you want."
"Don . . ."
"What ?"
"Why the shotgun ? Why did that happen ? I don't see any power and glory in getting your heart blown out by a shotgun."
He sat down in the grass by the wing. "Since I was not a front-page Messiah, Richard, I didn't have to prove anything to anybody. And since you need the practice in being unflustered by appearances, and unsaddened by them," he added heavily, "you could use some gory appearances for your training. And fun for me too. Dying is like diving into a deep lake on a hot day. There's the shock of that sharp cold change, the pain of it for a second, and then accepting is a swim in reality. But after so many times, even the shock wears off."
After a long moment he stood. "Only a few people are interested in what you have to say, but that's all right. You don't tell the quality of a master by the size of his crowds, remember."
"Don, I'll try it, I promise. But I'll run away forever as soon as I stop having fun with the job. "
Nobody touched the Travel Air, but its propeller turned, its engine pouted cold blue smoke, and the rich sound of it filled the meadow. "Promise accepted, but . . . " and he looked at me and smiled as if he didn't understand me.
"Accepted but what ? Speak. Words. Tell me. What's wrong ?"
"You don't like crowds," he said.
"Not pulling at me, no. I like talk and ideas back and forth, but the worship thing you went through, and the dependence . . . I trust you're not asking me . . . I've already run away. . ."
"Maybe I'm just dumb, Richard, and maybe I don't see something obvious that you see very well, and if I don't see it will you please tell me, but what is wrong with writing it down on paper? Is there a rule that a messiah can't write what he thinks is true, the things that have been fun for him, that work for him ? And then maybe if people don't like what he says, instead of shooting him they can burn his words, hit the ashes with a stick? And if they do like it, they can read the words another time, or write them on a refrigerator door, or play with whatever ideas make sense to them? Is there something wrong with writing? But maybe I'm just dumb."
"In a book?"
"Why not ?"
"Do you know how much work... ? I promised never to write another word again in my life!"
"Oh Sorry " he said "There you have it. I didn't know that." He stepped on the lower wing of the airplane, and then into the cockpit "Well. See you around. Hang in there and all that. Don't let the crowds get to you. You don't want to write it, you're sure?"
"Never," I said. "Never another word."
He shrugged and pulled on his flying gloves pressed the throttle forward, and the sound of the engine burst and swirled around me until I woke under the wing of the Fleet with the echoes of the dream still in my ears.
I was alone, the field
was as silent as green-autumn snow soft over the dawn and the world.
and then for the fun of it, before I was fully awake, I reached for my journal and began to write, one messiah in a world of others, about my friend:
1. THERE WAS A MASTER COME UNTO THE EARTH,
BORN IN THE HOLY LAND OF INDIANA,