Getting to his feet he crossed the waiting room to the Padre booth; seated inside he put a dime into the slot and dialed at random. The marker came to rest at Zen.
“Tell me your torments,” the Padre said, in an elderly voice marked with compassion. And slowly; it spoke as if there were no rush, no pressure. All was timeless.
Joe said, “I haven’t worked for seven months and now I’ve got a job that takes me out of the Sol System entirely, and I’m afraid. What if I can’t do it? What if after so long I’ve lost my skill?”
The Padre’s weightless voice floated reassuringly back to him. “You have worked and not worked. Not working is the hardest work of all.”
That’s what I get for dialing Zen, Joe said to himself. Before the Padre could intone further he switched to Puritan Ethic.
“Without work,” the Padre said, in a somewhat more forceful voice, “a man is nothing. He ceases to exist.”
Rapidly, Joe dialed Roman Catholic.
“God and God’s love will accept you,” the Padre said in a faraway gentle voice. “You are safe in His arms. He will never—”
Joe dialed Allah.
“Kill your foe,” the Padre said.
“I have no foe,” Joe said. “Except for my own weariness and fear of failure.”
“Those are enemies,” the Padre said, “which you must overcome in a jihad; you must show yourself to be a man, and a man, a true man, is a fighter who fights back.” The Padre’s voice was stern.
Joe dialed Judaism.
“A bowl of Martian fatworm soup—” the Padre began soothingly, but then Joe’s money wore out; the Padre closed down, inert and dead—or anyhow dormant.
Fatworm soup, Joe reflected. The most nourishing food known. Maybe that’s the best advice of all, he thought. I’ll head for the spaceport’s restaurant.