-------FOR CHRISTIANS ONLY-------

Christians suffer from a religious version of Alzheimer's disease.

They hear the right things, Sunday by Sunday. They say the right things. Then they go off and promptly forget what they're meant to be doing.

Er - what ARE Christians meant to be doing?

In simply terms, stripped of all the ecclesiastical gobbledygook, they're supposed to introduce folk to God. The good news is that, because of all Jesus did, God actually wants to get to know us, get involved in our everyday life, cut through the tangle of religious red tape that generations of well-meaning ministerial bureaucrats have used in a vain attempt to keep the Creator at a decent distance from his creation. In between times, Christians are supposed to demonstrate that God is real for them.

There's the snag. Christians tend to become heavily involved in whatever programme their organisation has concocted. If it's some form of social service, that's nice. Vital, maybe, given today's economic disasters. But whatever it demonstrates, it doesn't automatically prove God is alive and well and wanting to get in touch.

There's another snag. Church programmes often look like a recruiting drive to the suspicious-minded outsider. A sprat to catch a mackerel, style of thing. If a person is offered help, why press them to join the club? Why should they perpetuate the artificial divisions that rigid membership creates in what the Lord regards as the Body of Christ?

No, we're not advocating a Superchurch. Big business may be more cost-effective than the small back street enterprise, but it's not necessarily more user-friendly, despite all the advertising hype. That applies to churches as well as commerce.

What we're suggesting is this. If only the church members who are so eager to promote "their" denomination or "their" group would realise that this is the exact opposite of what Jesus wanted.

What are you waiting for? Permission?

Like we said, not a Superchurch. Just something real, like a family from Religious Group A having a good time with a family from Religious Group B.

Remember that criticism the apostle Paul levelled at believers - about one saying: "I'm of Paul", another: "I'm of Peter" another: "I'm of Christ". Nowadays only the names have changed. So what should we say?

Answer: "ALL believers are of Christ". No other label is legal.

So how come believers prefer to divide up into neatly tagged groups? And only get some rough and ready working relationship when their leaders hear a Billy Graham-type evangelist is coming.

Maybe this is why more and more people - ourselves included - are choosing to ignore the religious organisations as outmoded, divisive and irrelevant, instead preferring to learn direct relationship with God, and enjoying meeting Christians of all theological hues. Informally. In home settings.

The trouble is, this depends on a couple of vital points.

One: your motive. Like - do you really want folk to meet God? Or are you empire-building, scalp-hunting, playing the numbers game? It does happen, you know, even though the saints piously deny it.

The other point is this: how real is God? You and your grandparents before you may have warmed a pew thrice weekly since the year dot. But if God is simply a nice concept, something "your church teaches" - then you won't have much enthusiasm for introducing people to him.

Instead, you'll offer them an organisation.

Plastic, instead of a Person.

Now you know why we called this article "For Christians Only". It's not a thinly disguised come-'n'-join-us aimed at the wicked heathen. It's a straightforward suggestion that those of us who are known as Christians get our act together.

Try and remember what we're supposed to be doing. For God's sake.

The two soldiers...

The two soldiers were concealed behind boulders at the entrance to the gorge. Their position was good, capable of delaying enemy supplies until reinforcements arrived to wipe out the entire supply convoy.

It was early morning.

Private Margot stared down at her uniform and grimaced.

"Don't I look a fright! Sleeping out here creases everything. And I'm sure my buttons are starting to tarnish."

She reached into her kitbag, pulled out a duster and began rubbing at the gleaming brass of her uniform buttons. Then she flicked petulantly at specks of dust on her highly- polished boots.

Private Barbara looked up from the stripped-down AK-47, grinned, and said nothing. Margot continued:

"I do wish you'd take more care over your appearance, Barbara. Remember what the corporal told us? 'A smart appearance makes for confidence in battle', that's what he said. If you don't mind my saying, dear, you look like an unmade bed. And the smell of that gun oil!"

Deftly, with an economy of movement borne of long practice, Private Barbara reassembled her weapon. Carefully she checked that the action worked freely, then fitted a full magazine to the rifle.

Safety off, up to the shoulder, relax, centre the cross- hairs, allow for windage, and - don't pull - squeeze. A brief burst of gunfire awoke a clatter of echoes in the gorge, and a lone rock on the hillside opposite exploded into a cloud of shards and dust.

"Oh, don't!" reproved Margot. "There's no need for that at all. I'm sure the enemy just has to see us to turn tail and run. All that noise!"

She turned on the field radio. A Sousa march was playing, and Margot hummed along, beating time with a neatly manicured hand.

"Remember where we last heard that? At the ceremonial parade. What a spectacle that was! Thousands of troops marching around the square. Our corporal was proud of us - well, of me. I seem to remember he had a few words to say afterwards about your uniform. And the way you couldn't keep in step."

The music abruptly faded as an announcer's voice cut in.

"Attention, attention. Enemy reported approaching sector H-5. Repeat, sector H-5. Red alert status. Red alert status."

Barbara gave a happy smile. She flipped open the catch on a box of hand grenades and clipped a couple on her belt. Margot turned the radio off with an irritated movement.

"Really! They should have more sense than to say things like that. It just frightens people. Enemy approaching, indeed. We don't need news of that nature. Why can't they concentrate on the parades and the marching and the music? People will lose confidence, mark my words."

Barbara stared at her.

"But the enemy is the whole reason we're here. I don't give a hoot for the spit and polish of the barracks. And as for that corporal - honestly, Margot, I suspect you've got a bit of a schoolgirl crush on him."

The flush on Margot's cheeks was a giveaway.

"Ridiculous. You're - you're jealous, that's all. Corporal is everything a soldier should be. Efficient, smart, knows the regulations from cover to cover, doesn't tolerate the slightest slackness."

"And has never been in action against the enemy," commented Barbara. She switched the radio on again.

"...in sector H-5. That area must be held at all costs until reinforcements arrive. Repeat: enemy should be in sight in sector H-5."

Margot glared at Barbara.

"Go on. Say you're enjoying all this. Say it. But what if you get wounded? The pain, the blood. You could be killed. This isn't why I volunteered. I don't like any of this one little bit. Go on. Tell me you aren't afraid."

Barbara shrugged. Took one hand off the barrel of the AK-47 and held it out. Watched as it trembled slightly.

"Of course I'm afraid, stupid. But this - this is what soldiering is all about. The uniforms, the music, even your precious corporal - and I must admit he can be quite a poppet at times, but then, that's what he's paid for - all that's irrelevant. There's a war on. It's what we've trained for. It's what we're equipped for. It's - look out! There they are."

The two soldiers hit the ground, rifles at the ready.

"Wait till the convoy reaches the first bit of open ground. Aim for the drivers first. Now!"

Barbara began firing in short steady bursts. Below her, the first two trucks swerved off the road and collided.

"Oh blast, blast, blast!" moaned Margot. "My gun's jammed. I knew to would."

Barbara never even looked. Crisply, methodically, step by step she recited the procedure for removing the stuck cartridge case, punctuating her instructions with a spray of automatic fire. Finally Margot freed her weapon and began tentatively shooting.

"Thanks," she whispered.

"Forget it. Look - that third truck. I got the tyres. But see how those soldiers are avoiding it. Ammunition and explosives, shouldn't wonder. If I could get close enough to lob a grenade..."

Deftly she slithered away from the cover of the boulders. The enemy spotted her movement and began firing, getting the range more and more accurately. A hollow-nosed bullet splattered into shapeless molten lead beside her. It chipped a sliver of rock that ripped through Barbara's sleeve and tore into her arm. Hell, the pain! The searing, knife-edged pain was worse than she could have imagined.

That did it. Barbara forgot all her training, all the principles of good soldiering and ran, a stumbling lurching run. She ignored cover, slithering over loose stones and half-tripping on the larger rocks. Until she found herself almost directly above the third truck.

Enemy bullets were slamming into the ground beside her. With her good arm she unclipped a grenade and used her teeth to tug out the pin.

"...three, four." Barbara lobbed the device at the vehicle and had only just begun to duck when the grenade set off the explosive cargo in the truck. The devastating concussion knocked her unconscious.

Somewhere, somehow, she was being moved. There were voices. Friendly voices, not the enemy. Slowly her vision cleared and she saw an MO working on the injury to her arm. Then she turned her head and saw the Commander looking down at her.

"You broke all the rules, you know," he stated.

"Yes, sir."

"Running across an open area like that."

"Yes, sir."

"So congratulations. If you hadn't, that truck would've made the safety of the gorge, giving the enemy enough supplies to hold out for a long time. As it is, they'll probably surrender before nightfall. Good work, Private. There'll be a medal, I can promise you that."

"Yes, sir! Sir? Where's Private Margot?"

"The MO will tell you. I must go now."

The staff doctor pursed his lips and frowned a little.

"Your companion? She'll recover. Unconscious longer than you, she was."

Barbara sat bolt upright, sending a shaft of pain through her lacerated arm.

"Why? What happened to her?"

"If you want my professional opinion - otherwise what you might call an educated guess -it was when the splinter of rock wounded you. Private Margot must've fainted at the sight of blood."

The CIA agent grimaced with what was meant to be amusement.

"Ten years with the company. Now I've seen it all."

He stared down into the abyss where, perhaps a kilometre or more below, two figures were walking a granite causeway that jutted into the centre of the great void. The red flicker of distant fires made monitoring their progress difficult.

His older companion grunted.

"You get used to it. Soon everybody will. The company's organising media leaks as of now. Next month, a few hard facts. Come Fall, minority group protests, denials. The usual pattern. Then a si-multaneous announcement by the President and most every other head of state, worldwide. Tidy."

The younger man never took his eyes away from the two ant-like people in the chasm far beneath him.

"How tidy?" he asked.

"Enough. You'll be busy; me too. Eliminating a few. Most, though, will accept the takeover once the TV news tells them to."

The two figures had reached the end of the causeway. There, isolated in the terrible pit that surrounded them, they halted. The immense overhang of the distant rockfaces that served as walls to the abyss began to throb with a bass echo that could be felt, rather than heard.

"It's still unbelievable. You've been around longer'n me. How did we get onto it in the first place?"

The older man's eyes narrowed as the glow from the fires intensified.

"The company's always onto everything," he stated flatly. "That's our strength. We crunch data. Watch. Record. Believe everything, yet believe nothing. And never discard."

"Sure. I read the brochure before I joined. What gave with this one?"

Away at an infinite depth below the tiny figures, something was beginning to stir.

"The usual mix of facts and fantasy. In this case, what we tell the media to call UFOs. Or flying saucers."

"That goes back. I heard tell of foo-fighters from World War II."

"Before that, junior."

The movement was still far, far below the waiting pair, but now a boiling motion, a writhing, coiling action emerged at the uttermost limit of visibility. The older man's nostrils wrinkled as if in anticipation.

"People seeing things," he continued. "Lights, odd flying craft, weird beings. Never a pattern to it. So we took notes, got statements, spread enough disinformation to keep Joe Public from worrying. And dragged a few witnesses away to see what went wrong with their heads."

"And?"

"And nothing. Oh, the inevitable handful of crazies, sure. But maybe fewer'n get elected to the Senate in a bad year. Most were just telling it like it was. Or like they thought it was. Okay, they might've been shellshocked by what they'd seen. And quite a few were the worse for wear once we'd been nice to them. But that aside, those folks were straight."

The granite chasm was filling now with quiet noise. Dry sounds of hissing and rustling, small clicks and scraping. The distant figures on the rocky causeway had moved closer together, as if for protection.

"No pattern, though?"

"We didn't see one. Not for a long time. Whole communities would turn out to watch a fleet of UFOs perform night after night. A middle-aged couple would be kidnapped and carried off to Venus or wherever."

"Or a dozen jet planes would vanish in the Bermuda Triangle," suggested the younger CIA agent.

"We shoulda suppressed that one. It was round then that some bright cookie in the company made the right connections. Remember, by that time we had sworn affidavits from every country in the world, bar none. Police, doctors, military. Astronauts, even."

Now, far away, a shape could be seen. A form that seemed to fill the pit from wall to wall. A form that awoke associations of mythology and heraldry. And roused a feeling that the younger man couldn't immediately name.

"It was after an encounter involving somebody's airforce that one of our boys twigged. Asked himself how the world runs. Conquest; always has been, always will. Until Hiroshima, conquest by sheer brute force. After Hiroshima, the really big fellows try to slug it out on paper. Hence the cold war: Uncle Joseph says he has a dozen ICBMs, so Uncle Sam says he has a hundred. Nobody, but nobody wants to sling the damn things. They might go off."

"I'm slow. Make the point," grumbled the younger man.

"The point was that somebody or something was out there. Not the Russkies or the Yellow Peril this time. Something alien. Whatever that means. It could communicate. But it wasn't wanting to trade or be buddies or anything cute like that. This wasn't Spielberg or Disney. This was your ultimate conquest. Like they were telling us they had it all sewn up. If they wanted, they flew their saucer over your car and the electrics shorted out. Or a jet fighter would fly up its own tail trying to chase them. Those critters were real - whatever real means - but when they said time to go, there they were, gone."

What was that feeling coming from the abyss? Not fear. Fear was the CIA agent's stock-in-trade. The cue that set adrenaline pumping, putting mind and muscle into overdrive. Not revulsion. Half a face blown away with a careful shot from a magnum .45, eventually you get used to it. What, then?

Horror. Sheer horror.

The younger agent used every reserve of willpower to keep his bladder under control. He forced his eyes to remain fixed on the chasm below, and his voice to speak calmly.

"That wasn't enough to make the superpowers run out the white flag, surely. Or did little green men actually visit?"

"There was more, naturally. Europe, especially, led by the Brits, developed a few tricks. Every time they were beaten. Not instantly, maybe. But in a few days or weeks, like there was a learning curve. So the company bought the idea of conquest. Plus the idea that if you can't beat 'em, go talk terms."

"How d'you find who 'they' were?"

The occupant of the great void was nearer now. Its coils and spikes and scales slithered harshly in one endless movement, upward, nearer and closer towards the two men below on the rocky outcrop.

"You buy wholesale in our game. Who's the expert on parallel universes and the things that inhabit them? Answer: somebody in the company had a cautious what-if conversation with their opposite number in the Vatican. There were a few low-key interviews with cardinals, mainly small talk. Then our man went to a monastery in the hills of northern Italy and met an abbot who was their tame demonologist."

The younger man gave a start. The older agent stared ahead and below.

"Our man admitted being a CIA agent, explained how the company interpreted the whole UFO phenomenon. After five minutes or so the abbot simply lifted one hand and stopped him. 'Already?' he said. 'Very well, we shall meet them.' Just like that. He knew how, where, all the details. Seems the old legends, stuff that Dante wrote, Greek mythology, are little more than facts set as poetry to keep 'em popular."

"Just like that, eh."

"Oh, our two friends down on the causeway that we're supposed to be minding, they needed more persuading. Priests and politicians grow more sceptical the higher they rise. But eventually they bought the idea. This must be the twentieth time they've met."

"Met - what?"

It had reached the men. Now its endless bulk withered and shrank, wrinkling in on itself, losing some of its reptilian look, approximating to how an alien mind might imagine a human to be.

"Like one of the old writings say: 'the dragon, that old serpent, which is the Devil and Satan'. 'The worm that never dies.' Or, if you prefer: 'Lucifer, transforming into an angel of light'."

Below, the two men were receiving their orders. A sibilance of whispers filled the air of the abyss.

"That's Bible, isn't it?" demanded the younger agent.

"So?" The older man became wary.

"We're on the wrong side, then. If the company can believe - this - then they'd better believe the rest of the package. That down there, that gets defeated. We're backing a loser."

"So?" The older man was unimpressed. "When did you ever check out the ideologies of the people you terminated? It's a job, nothing more. How does the company keep you loyal, stop you doubling for Beijing or Moscow? Pays you over the top, that's how. This game, everybody loses, sooner or later. Some stay lucky longer, that's all. Like, ask yourself what happened to the guy who did this duty before you. Don't you foul it up."

The younger agent suddenly understood.

"Sorry. I'm out as of now."

Even as he reached for his gun, a plume of flame spat from the jacket of the older agent as a muffled .45 coughed its rebuke. The still-twitching torn corpse of the younger man slammed into the ground beside him. The older man shook his head and resumed watching the scene below.

"Too bad," he said softly. "They shoulda told you. Never apologise, never explain."

Evening, Sid.

Sorry. I know it's late, Sid. Fact of the matter is I've spent most of this evening figuring out what I'd say to you. Then I asked myself - how long have we been neighbours? Worked out it's the best part of twenty years.

A long time, Sid. Seen our kids and your kids grow up, go a bit wild, then settle down and become almost respectable.

We've got on well. That's meant a lot to us, you know. Good neighbours take the sweat out of life. You've worked at it, we've worked at it. Like - from the very day we moved in here, we resolved not to ram our religion down your throats.

We've a saying in our church. "Your life will show." And we've always waved to you as we've gone off to the services, so you could see what it meant to us. Always there, rain or shine, that's us.

Remember that Christmas we decided to invite you? And you came along. Nice, that was. You said so yourself, Sid. Somehow we hoped you might start attending regularly. But the next Sunday, although we hung about as long as we could, there you were busy doing the lawns. We'd tried, though.

Look, Sid... I'll get to the point. Just that I'm not good at this sort of thing.

That time the house opposite was sold to those hippies. A bit of a circus and no mistake. All beads and embroidery, wacky baccy in the greenhouse and the cops busting them more or less when they happened to be passing. No real trouble, except it doesn't help property values.

Then bingo! It stopped. The drugs and cops bit, that is. Not the beads and embroidery, although they did get married and he took a steady job. I remember you commenting at the time, Sid.

I still kick myself for not grabbing the chance to explain what'd happened. They'd found, ah, given their hearts to, er, been born, um - you might say they'd got religion.

No. Look, Sid... I won't beat about the bush. They, well, they met God. And you're not going to believe this but, well, He changed them. We heard later they destroyed several thousand dollars' worth of pills and things the cops had never managed to ferret out. That's serious, when folk do that.

So they turned up at church. Everyone gave them a warm welcome - we'd had this big seminar on making a fuss of visitors so we all knew what to do. Minister found they lived near us, so we had the job of discipling them. And they were enrolled in the membership classes.

These two hippies were a breath of fresh air at the start, Sid. Caused a few smiles, I can tell you, by not quite knowing the drill in the services. Middle of the sermon, if minister said something they didn't follow, they'd call out a question. I mean, that's just not on in church. Or the time the deacons were taking up the offering, and the hippy fellow stood up and started saying something he thought God wanted us to hear. But we managed to shush him and no harm was done.

Enthusiasm is what our church needs, don't get me wrong. Just that those two didn't realised there's a time and place for everything.

Perhaps that's why they eventually stopped coming to the services, Sid. They had this bee in their bonnets about 'End Times', and couldn't talk about anything else. So of course they got the cold shoulder from most of the congregation. All except old Sam Guthrie. You know him. Lives right at the end, on the corner. Dear old fellow, a sort of harmless eccentric if you know what I mean.

Look, Sid... I can see by your expression that 'End Times' doesn't ring bells with you. Sorry. It's a phrase. Means that, er, you know about Christmas, don't you? And Easter? Well, later, Jesus went back to Heaven, okay? The 'End Times' thing is where some people believe He's going to return here. Rule for a thousand years from Jerusalem.

Sure, our church believes it. Just doesn't talk about it much, Sid. Which I suppose is why I'd never mentioned it to you.

But those hippies talked about nothing else. 'Get ready', they kept saying. To us, even! I mean - we were church folk before they were born.

So they stopped going to the services after a while. Started getting their old druggie pals to drop in. 'Back on the cannabis?' I asked them once. They weren't indignant. Amused, rather. 'Not on your life,' they said. 'We're telling all our mates about the Lord coming back'.

Well, if they wanted to be divisive and stop fellowshipping at the church, that's their lookout.

Until the business with their dog. Ugly brute. Remember the time it got the postie, Sid?

Anyhow, those two hippies came across the road and banged on our door one day. Holding a big plastic supermarket bag and grinning kind of stupidly. Asked us if we'd mind feeding the dog sometime.

Of course we said 'Sure; when?' and their silly grins got bigger and they said 'Dunno; soonish', which made me wonder if they were smoking the stuff again.

Then they explained.

Look, Sid... The Lord had, er, told them... Well, that's what they said... That He was about to come back. And, look, there's something else we've never told you.

Some folk believe that, before Jesus returns, Christians get taken to meet him. Half-way, style of thing. And this couple were getting everything ready, just in case.

Oh, we've all read tall tales of nutty groups climbing mountains in their nighties for the same reason. These two weren't nutters, though. Simply tidying their affairs. Keeping bills paid up-to-date. And getting us to feed the dog.

There was an irony in that, Sid. Didn't hit us until Friday.

Friday evening I'd been washing the car. Almost dark. That couple had been playing in their front garden, throwing sticks for the dog. Big kids, really, I always say. Then, as I was winding up the hose, they went indoors. Caught my eye first. Waved. I waved back. The dog stayed outside, on the mat.

Sometimes details stay in your memory for no good reason.

That was when we had the squall. Remember, Sid? A flash of lightning and a peal of thunder that made me jump, and a sudden fierce gust of wind that sent doors banging and bushes threshing around like we were in for one of those tornadoes you read about.

Set that dog of theirs barking, too. Noisy brute. And it was still barking when I sat down to my tea. Except that the bark had changed to a howl.

'Can't stand much more of this,' I told the wife. I mean, this is a quiet neighbourhood, Sid. Or should be. You are, we are.

Over I went. The dog knows me, luckily. His howling changed to a whine and he began scratching at the front door. No, not so much scratching as raking at the panels with those dreadful claws of his. I knocked and banged for a while. No answer, so I tried the handle.

Never locked up, those two, if they were home. Too trusting by half, I always said.

In I went, Sid. With the dog keeping so close to me it was like he was nervous or something.

There were lights on in the kitchen. The door was ajar, so I knocked again and went in. Look, Sid... That room was empty. A stew or something was boiling away on the stove. I turned it off. And a letter had been started - there was a pad on the kitchen table - with the pen on the floor, as if it'd been dropped, just like that.

Yes, I read it.

To some mate of their's. Saying to be ready to meet the Lord.

We're feeding the dog, now. He sleeps on our back step. Alongside old Sam Guthrie's cat, like they'd been friends for years.

Yes, old Sam's - away too.

That's what I meant by irony. That hippie couple didn't ask old Sam to feed their dog. They asked us. Like they knew we wouldn't...

Wouldn't...

Look, Sid... We've been good church folk for years. But we're still here, same as you. While those two and old Sam are heaven-knows-where.

But I'll tell you this, and I'll tell you straight. We've got a bit of time, just a bit, to get things straight before the Lord actually arrives to reign.

We've missed out on something. Something I suppose I only half believed in, to be honest. But I'm blowed if I'm going to miss out again.

In fact - no, I'm not swearing; I never swear - but I'm damned if I miss out again.

You too, Sid. After all these years, I owe it to you.

* * *

The taxi driver thumbed a button on the dashboard; the boot of the Mercedes sighed open.

"Your pack in the back. You up front. Okay?"

The vehicle nudged into the stream of traffic passing the Jaffa Gate.

"Where to?"

Peter shrugged.

"Just drive. I got in at Ben Gurion this morning. Took the first bus. Later I'll need somewhere cheap to stay. For now, say we circle the Old City."

And talk. The journalism course had stressed to try obvious sources first. Taxi drivers, barmen. Talking, listening is part of their job. So sometimes they give a lead.

"You missed Tabernacles," stated the driver.

"Most people miss Tabernacles," replied Peter. Neutrally. No point in offending. Okay, there's this law that says everybody goes to Israel for the Feast of Tabernacles. But as long as a token number go from each country there's no comeback.

"Then why come now?" the driver persisted. "With the rebuilding we need help. Or maybe on a kibbutz."

The course had said wait for the opening, then ask all you wanted. That way, they talk like it was their idea.

"I want to find the Messiah," Peter said in a casual voice.

The taxi driver gave a grunt of amusement.

"So you're a prime minister. Or you own Coca Cola already. Have a good day, my friend!"

Peter struggled not to sound annoyed. The course had stressed you keep cool whatever. With anger, people close off.

"Okay, it sounds cheeky," he admitted. "But this is the way I've been thinking. First time round, the Messiah was more involved with ordinary folk than top brass, right? According to the Bible."

The driver gave Peter a sideways glance.

"First a prime minister. Now a fundamentalist. I get them all in this cab."

"I have to start somewhere," protested Peter. "And then a few years back, like the prophecies said, the Messiah returns. There's the earthquake. Down goes the Dome of the Rock, and the whole Islamic scene with it. Most of the Christian religion gets stood on its head. And Judaism does a double take and says sorry for dropping the biggest clanger of all time."

"Nobody's perfect", said the cabbie mildly. "Doesn't explain why you're here, though."

"Okay. From then on, the papers are full of 'Messiah says this', 'Messiah says that'. Jerusalem becomes the centre of the world government. First time ever, laws start to work, make sense. The Millennium, like they always promised. But...".

Peter's voice trailed off. For a moment he stared through the windscreen at the kaleidoscope of Israeli life outside: street vendors and limos, Arabs on donkeys, the pale gold of stone walls and archways. The driver's voice cut in on his thoughts.

"So you thought you could maybe wangle an audience with the Messiah and go brag about it to the folks back home. What's in your pack, then? Polaroid? A dinky Jap cassette recorder? 'Tell me, Mr. Messiah: how does it feel to be back home after all these centuries?'"

Peter's eyes blazed and he thumped the dashboard with his fist. All the good advice at the journalism course went on hold.

"Not everyone's like that, for heaven's sake! I'm serious, believe it or not. I've read the papers like I said. Always there's - nothing wrong, just missing."

The driver was grinning at him.

"You could be an Israeli, you know. We lose tempers, yell, carry on. 'Be angry' like the scriptures say. But 'sin not'. Meaning no harm's done. Okay, what's missing?"

Peter calmed down.

"Anything personal," he stated. "Sure, papers quote what the Messiah says. But never how or where. Or who to. Whether he stands up in the Knesset or gives out xeroxed press releases. He's never reported as going anywhere, doing anything. Yet, same time, nobody writes him up as a recluse. Nobody writes him up, period."

"So," said the cabbie. "You calculate you can probe the mystery of the Messiah. How long have you got? Like, what flight are you booked out on?"

"It's an open ticket. No date. I'd have taken a one-way if immigration laws allowed. So where d'you suggest I start looking? Or perhaps you could drive me to his home."

The taxi driver shook his head. Matter-of-factly, Peter noticed. Always look for changes of expression, the course had told him. That way you pick up clues. This clue suggested he was being taken seriously.

"This time of day he'll be working. Why don't you start with the phone book? Remember Teddy Kollek? Used to be mayor here. His number was in the book. Perhaps you'll get lucky."

It was obvious enough. Peter thanked him, then - "Can you recommend somewhere to stay? Cheap."

The cabbie nodded.

"This evening. Leave your pack with me. It'll be safe enough; even taxi drivers are honest in the Millennium. Five o'clock, head of the rank at the Jaffa Gate. We'll settle the fare when I take you to your accommodation. Meantime - there's a phone kiosk. Shalom."

* * *

Peter felt slightly foolish as he flicked through the dog-eared directory pages and struggled with crisp Hebrew characters that perversely read from right to left. The word "Meshiach" occurred several times, but appeared to relate to the equivalent of a Bible college. With no great conviction he tried 'Y' for 'Yeshuah'. There were too many 'Ben Yosefs' to be worth pursuing.

He attempted to call Directory Assistance.

"...no, I am not joking...if I had a number I would have dialled it...no, I have no address...yes, there is a directory in the kiosk...perhaps you have an unlisted number..."

The loudness of the click suggested the operator tired of the conversation first.

* * *

The journalism course had taught him to buttonhole people in the street. Anybody. You put them at ease with a friendly, direct approach. Once in a while you could get useful information. Clearly the planners of the course had never worked with Israelis.

"No English, sorry."

"You missed Tabernacles."

"The Messiah? Pray. That's how."

"Two thousand years we were looking, and you expect I have the address in my pocket?"

And some simply stared at Peter with undisguised suspicion and walked around him.

* * *

Hours later he sighted a rabbi sitting on a park bench. Carefully, politely he introduced himself. Cautiously, diffidently he stated his purpose.

The rabbi turned his lined and bearded face to gaze at Peter.

"Interesting. Yes, very interesting. And I'm certain - nearly certain - that if you knocked on the door of every orthodox Jew in Mea Shearim you could eventually find one who would know - might know - where the Messiah is to be found. Whether he would tell you is another matter, of course."

"Would you tell me?" asked Peter gently.

"Tell?" The rabbi considered for several seconds. "No. Not 'tell'. 'Assist' would be more appropriate. For instance, you can forget the government offices, simply because there are so many of them. No - a private home is what you must look for."

"Where?"

"Oh, look around you. This is quite a vantage point. Ask yourself what home is clearly the most, er, suitable for the Messiah. But now, please excuse me."

The elderly rabbi walked slowly away as Peter thanked him.

* * *

Only one house within view had the dignity that could be linked with kingship. Peter braced himself to walk up to the gate set in the high stone wall. It opened noiselessly at his approach and he entered a charming walled garden. The path was a mosaic - probably genuine Byzantine, Peter noted - and wound its way between bubbling fountains to a shady colonnade.

A servant came quietly towards him.

"Sir?"

Peter's heart pounded.

"Your master - may I meet him?"

"Of course, sir."

Peter followed the servant into the house, down cool passages and through high-ceilinged rooms hung with age- darkened paintings. They reached carved oak double doors. With a practised gesture the servant swung them open and stood aside.

Peter entered. And halted.

The room was long, sparsely furnished, with an executive desk at the far end. Behind the desk sat a well-groomed Levantine, a black velvet cloth spread before him. On the cloth sparkled tiny ice-cold points of light. He looked up at Peter.

"Shalom, my dear fellow. Come - I have the finest diamonds in all Israel."

"I'm sorry." The disappointment was plain in Peter's voice. "I was misdirected. My search is for the Messiah."

The merchant shrugged a massive shrug.

"You are not the first. And you will not be the last. For me, it is as well that I need no security arrangements in the Millennium. For you, well, surely you must search for somewhere far more fitting than this to be the home of the Messiah. Nevertheless, I am flattered. Shalom to you."

* * *

Peter's first day had scarcely been a success. There had been a score of false leads, clues that pointed nowhere. Often he suspected Jerusalemites were playing a game with him, laughing behind his back. Sometimes he wondered if he was simply an intruder, crass and blustering, trying to push his way into an area simply too private, too holy, for any outsider.

But the journalism course had warned that the greatest barrier to investigating was his own feeling of discouragement. A good meal, a sound sleep was all he needed. Only a crazy optimist expects immediate results. Tomorrow he would continue the search, and for as many tomorrows as he needed.

He reached the Jaffa Gate.

"You're early. It's not five yet."

"Am I?" Peter recognised the driver in the first cab. "I've given up for today. Perhaps I'm tired after the flight."

"Get in. Your pack's still in the boot. If it's cheap lodgings you're after, I know a place."

As the taxi nosed through the afternoon traffic, Peter outlined the frustrations of the day. The driver grinned sympathetically.

"Instant success you expected? Perhaps you've come on the wild goose chase. Why don't you change your plans? Go sightseeing, explore the Negev. Climb Sinai or swim in the Dead Sea. Look, I ask you - anybody you spoke to, had they ever met the Messiah?"

"I didn't actually ask that," admitted Peter. Then - "I say - where are we going?" The taxi had breasted the steep climb up the Mount of Olives and was headed away from the city to a nearby village.

"Bethany," explained the driver. "If you know Jewish history you'll know it was the red light district of Bible days. Plus the odd leper and other social misfits. But within the legal limit for travel on the Sabbath, so it made a fairly honest buck out of el cheapo accommodation. Still does, for that matter, although we've cleaned up on prostitution and leprosy. Here we are."

The road had become a cobbled lane between two irregular rows of cheek-by-jowl Middle East houses. The Mercedes swung through a low archway and stopped at a small door.

"The Hilton it isn't," said the cabbie cheerfully. "But kosher it might be, and cheap it is. It'll suit you well enough. Get your pack."

Peter noted he was not being given any option. But the outside looked clean, so he obeyed instructions. The driver flung open the front door.

"Your place?" demanded Peter, suspiciously. The driver nodded.

"I make a few shekels on the side this way," he admitted. "In the cab I check them out first, that way I get no surprises. The system works. Go in."

Peter followed him. There was no hallway. The main room he found himself in was furnished simply: a table, a few chairs, in one corner a card table piled with books and papers. To the left a door opened into a tiny kitchen. To the right, a steep staircase presumably led to upstairs bedrooms.

"You'll be ready for a drink," stated his host. Peter nodded. "Then I'll get you a decent meal, after."

Peter dropped his pack and drew a chair up to the table. He watched the man go into the kitchen and open a cupboard.

"Your suggestion of going sightseeing," Peter called. "It's sensible, perhaps. But no. I came to Israel for one purpose only. Look, I've never bothered to obey the law about keeping the Feast of Tabernacles. But I went to the effort of taking a journalism course, just so's I could learn the simple technique of asking the right questions, ferreting out information. And I've struggled to learn the Hebrew alphabet so I could find my way around phone books, reference books, that sort of thing.

From the kitchen, the driver could be seen uncorking a bottle and putting glasses on a tray.

"So let's say someone tells you where to find the Messiah," replied the cabbie. "Say you get an appointment. Wait in the queue with - what? hundreds? - thousands of others wanting to meet him. What then? You thought about that, my friend? Perhaps you have the list of big questions so you can write your book on theology. Tell me, what does a gentile do when - if - he ever gets to meet the Messiah?"

"That question's bothered me from the very start of my search," admitted Peter. "No matter what I thought of, anything I might say or ask or do would simply be too trivial. So in the end I decided that if - when - I meet him, he takes it from there. He'll know what to say or ask or do. It wouldn't be my place to initiate anything.

Peter's host placed the tray on the table and picked up the bottle. He began to pour the wine, then paused.

"But it was your place to initiate the search for the Messiah."

"I wonder," said Peter. "I'm not into theology, but I wonder where the idea to meet him came from. Who put it in my mind?"

His host finished pouring the wine. From beside the two glasses he picked up a small, flat loaf of fresh Israeli bread. Carefully he tore it into two equal parts. Matter-of- factly he gave thanks for it, then handed one piece to his guest.

"Shalom, Peter," he said quietly. "It's good to meet you at last. Eat, and drink. You've got a lot of listening to do."