The followers were suffering from something.

Aloud, he said to his superior, “They want to suffer as a means of denying their private, personal existences. It’s a communion in which they all suffer and experience Mercer’s ordeal together.” Like the Last Supper, he thought. That’s the real key: the communion, the participation that is behind all religion. Or ought to be. Religion binds men together in a sharing, corporate body, and leaves everyone else on the outside.

Herrick said, “But primarily it’s a political movement, or must be treated as such.”

“From our standpoint,” Crofts agreed. “Not theirs.”

The intercom on the desk buzzed and his secretary said, “Sir, Mr. John Lee is here.”

“Tell him to come in.”

The tall, slender young Chinese entered, smiling, his hand out. He wore an old-fashioned single-breasted suit and pointed black shoes. As they shook hands, Mr. Lee said, “She has not left for Havana, has she?”

“No,” Crofts said.

“Is she pretty?” Mr. Lee said.

“Yes,” Crofts said, with a smile at Herrick. “But—difficult. The snappish kind of woman. Emancipated, if you follow me.”

“Oh, the suffragette type,” Mr. Lee said, smiling. “I detest that type of female. It will be hard going, Mr. Crofts.”

“Remember,” Crofts said, “your job is simply to be converted. All you have to do is listen to her propaganda about Zen Buddhism, learn to ask a few questions such as, ‘Is this stick the Buddha?’ and expect a few inexplicable blows on the head—a Zen practice, I understand, supposed to instill sense.”

With a broad grin, Mr. Lee said, “Or to instill nonsense. You see, I am prepared. Sense, nonsense; in Zen it’s the same thing.” He became sober, now. “Of course, I myself am a Communist,” he said. “The only reason I’m doing this is because the Party at Havana has taken the official stand that Mercerism is dangerous and must be wiped out.” He looked gloomy. “I must say, these Mercerites are fanatics.”