In the darkness I could see him peering at me suspiciously. "Is this some worldly seduction from the Christian path?"
"I think you will find what I have to offer a material aid to your church."
"I have no church," he said. "We are Christians and recognize no manmade institution."
"Well, then, to your movement or whatever you call it." In spite of his reluctance, which was now as great as mine had been originally, I persuaded him to accompany me. He sat uneasily forward while I told him who I was and sketched the plan for collecting some of the Grass.
"What is this to me? I have long ago put aside all material thoughts and now care only for the life of the spirit."
This must be true, I thought, noting his shabby clothes, sweatgreasy muffler at once hiding and revealing lack of necktie, and cracked shoes, one sock brown, the other black. "It is this to you: if you don't want the salary and bonus attached to organizing and superintending the expedition—and I am prepared to be generous—you can turn it over to Brother Paul. I imagine it will be acceptable."
He shook his head, muttering, "Satan, Satan." The lower part of his face was wide and divided horizontally, like an inverted jellymold. It tapered up into bracketing ears, supporting gingery eaves. I pressed home my arguments.
"I will put your proposition to Brother Paul," he conceded at length.
"I thought distinctions between one man and another were worldly and trivial," I prodded him. "Arent you Brother Paul?"
"Satan, Satan," he repeated.