"Sacrilege and blasphemy," exploded Doylen. "I came to plead with you. I wanted to bring you into the fold—to show you the error of your sinful way. And what do I find? I find, guarding the city, a massive facade of mother-of-pearl and platinum. Solid gold bars on gates which swing wide at the approach. A bearded man in a white cloak recording those who enter. Once inside—"
"You find a broad street paved with gold. Diamonds in profusion stud the street for traction, since gold is somewhat slippery as a pavement. The sidewalks are pure silver and the street-stop lights are composed of green emeralds, red rubies, and amber amethysts. They got sort of practical at that point, Reverend. Oh, I also see that you have taken your sample."
Doylen looked down at the brick. It was the size of a housebrick—but of pure gold. Stamped in the top surface were the words:
"99.99% pure gold. A souvenir of Fabriville."
"What means all this?" stormed the Reverend, waving the brick.
"My very good friend, it is intended to prove only one thing. Nothing—absolutely nothing—is worth anything. The psychological impact of the pearly gate and the street of gold tends to strike home the fact that here in Fabriville nothing of material substance is of value. Service, which cannot be duplicated, is the medium of exchange in Fabriville—have you anything to offer, Reverend?"
"The Lord saith: 'Six days shalt thou labor—' You have destroyed that law, Johnson."
"That's no law. That's an admonition not to overdo your labor. He didn't want us laboring seven days per. If He were running things under the present set-up, He'd be tickled pink to see people taking it easy five days per week, believe me."
"Sacrilege!"
"Is it? Am I being sacrilegious to believe that He has a sense of humor and a load more common sense than you and I?"