ANTHONY BOUCHER
BALAAM
“WHAT IS A ‘MAN’?” RABBI CHAIM ACOSTA DEMANDED. TURNING his back on the window and its view of pink sand and infinite pink boredom. “You and I, Mule, in our respective ways, work for the salvation of man—as you put it, for the brotherhood of men under the fatherhood of God. Very well, let us define our terms: Whom, or more precisely what, are we interested in saving?”
Father Aloysius Malloy shifted uncomfortably and reluctantly closed the American Football Yearbook which had been smuggled in on the last rocket, against all weight regulations, by one of his communicants. I honestly like Chaim, he thought, not merely (or is that the right word?) with brotherly love, nor even out of the deep gratitude I owe him, but with special individual liking; and I respect him. He’s a brilliant man—too brilliant to take a dull post like this in his stride. But he will get off into discussions which are much too much like what one of my Jesuit professors called “disputations.”
“What did you say, Chaim?” he asked.
The Rabbi’s black Sephardic eyes sparkled. “You know very well what I said, Mule; and you’re stalling for time. Please indulge me. Our religious duties here are not so arduous as we might wish; and since you won’t play chess . . .”
. . .
