Part 12: Stairway from Heaven

In Philadelphia Homer Nilmot stewed. He had expected to be taken into Edward Lodge's confidence, but the information flow had been one-way. Homer didn't demand much in the way of salary and perks. But he wanted to feel needed. To be in the know. To be a part of the decision-making process. Yet after pumping him relentlessly about Oral Jerry Swagger's history, Edward Lodge had proceeded with the operation without making Homer privy to the details.

Homer had to know what was happening. That, he knew, had been one of the reasons he had broken with Oral Jerry Swagger. And, as in those days, he now found himself standing on a step ladder, pushing up the acoustical tile in the ceiling, and sticking his head through the opening to take a look around.

Nothing more than a tight crawl space above an aluminum frame. Was it structurally stable? His weight might bring the whole ceiling crashing down into the room.

It had been easier back at OJS headquarters in Pasadena. There, in the area above the fourth, or top, floor had been a small catwalk alongside the air conditioning ducts. So if you pulled the ladder up behind you, you could then move from office to office, dropping in at will after removing a ceiling panel and lowering the ladder like a stairway from heaven. It had been simple to bypass door locks and security alarms.

The best, safest time had been in the middle of the night, when he would make his way through Oral Jerry Swagger's desk drawers and filing cabinets, reading the letters and the memos, perusing the strategy papers he was normally denied access to.

There was no one to whom Homer could have justified his activities, in those days. No one but himself. They wouldn't understand his dedication and his desire to know. He just needed to understand, he had told himself, so that he could be of greatest assistance to the Work. So that he could make the maximum contribution. He wasn't stealing, trespassing, he told himself. But he had been well aware he would have been fired had he been caught in the act.

Homer looked around the crawl space. The path into Edward Lodge's office looked impossible. Maybe he could remove a panel just this side of the office wall, wiggle through, and come down immediately on the other side of the wall, bracing against office furniture or the wall itself. But this appeared dangerous. He would leave marks, dust. The trail would lead right back to Homer Nilmot's own office.

Homer sighed and replaced the ceiling tile. When someone took everything you knew, and then said thank you very much, and kicked you out of the room . . . Well, it felt like mental rape. A violation of a trust. What you have to tell us is important, they seemed to be saying, but what you think about what you are saying is irrelevant.

It was worse than that, even. For Edward Lodge had brought an outsider into his deliberations. The woman. The goddess. Trisha. When Homer had first seen Trisha around the office, he had asked Lodge if she was a Trans-Global employee. No, Lodge had answered. Was she a client? No. Well, what was she? A fellow traveler, Lodge had grinned. Just a fellow traveler. For a while Homer had thought Trisha was one of Lodge's girlfriends. But that wasn't right either.

She was a fellow traveler who was involved in the operation against OJS, Homer had come to realize. When he had discovered that, he had almost spoken to her. Almost, but not actually. Women that beautiful terrified him.

Homer was sensitive to nuances. Back in Pasadena, he had first come across Jack Parsons' name in the bundle of letters Oral Jerry Swagger kept locked in his upper right desk drawer. It had been Homer's third or fourth middle-of-the-night visit to OJ's office, when he found the key hidden in the bottom of a hanging folder in one of the filing cabinets. The folder was labeled "Moriah" and contained some news clippings about the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. Homer had tried the key immediately and it had fit. OJS had apparently placed the spare in an obscure location, but one easy for him to remember.

Homer had puzzled his way through the letters. The occasional references to Jack Parsons had always seemed cryptic, tinged with mystery, pregnant with meaning. But never explained.

Yet one thing had been evident. What the exact relationship had been between Parsons and OJS wasn't clear, yet the subject of Jack Parsons terrified Oral Jerry Swagger. And the letter writer was well aware of that fact, taunting the evangelist, and asking for money to help pay various medical bills.

Homer sat down at his desk and leaned back in his chair. He looked at the ladder. He would have to return it to the janitor closet before he left. He looked at his watch. It was only 8:30 p.m.

Then he thought of Sheri. She was Trisha's roommate: might she know something? No, it didn't seem plausible. Sheri was also Hermes' secretary. "We need a diversion," Lodge had said. And then he had set Hermes on the track of Parsons' killer, sending Homer himself to recruit the "ontological detective" for the job. Homer was sure that Hermes and his secretary Sheri were that diversion. Just bit players, really, to stir the waters, and to give OJS the illusion he was being pursued by a demented ex-stock broker from Philadelphia.

But Trisha might have said something to Sheri. Why she was going to the West Coast. Or why her departure coincided roughly with that of Hermes. Or whatever. Who knows what she might have let slip?

8:30 was just 5:30 in Pasadena. Sheri might well still be at the office, in case her boss called in from the West Coast. Homer picked up the phone and dialed the number for Personal Paradigms Inc.
 

Sheri had had a good day. With both Hermes and Trisha gone, she felt generally lonely, even a little lost.

Hermes had called in that morning, in a rush.

"Parsons wrote something called The Book of the Antichrist. Do we have a copy in the files somewhere?"

"How did you hear about it?" Sheri wanted to know.

"Renny told me about it. I'll explain later," Hermes had said.

Renny? Was that a man's name or a woman's name? Sheri felt an immediate prick of jealousy that there might be some woman out in Pasadena helping Hermes in his search, while she was stuck back here in Philadelphia in the dark.

But after looking through all the magic files, Sheri had eventually found a copy in a different location, tucked away with some Christian interpretations of the Book of Revelation, the Beast 666, and so on. It was a stupid filing system, Sheri had decided, much like creating an "anti" file where one placed material on the Antichrist along with scientific articles on the antiproton and political material on antidisestablishmentarianism.

She faxed a copy to Hermes at the Pasadena Hilton. Only afterward did it occur to her to wonder who would pull it off the fax machine, and whether they would read it before placing the fax in the appropriate guest mailbox. Oh, well. Pasadena was a weird place, and they had to be used to weird things like that.

Now she sat sipping frop and annotating the text of The Book of the Antichrist. Today's choice in frop beverages was an underground cola with phenylalanine, and it cleared her mind and made her heart go pitter- patter. She felt alive and excited. She planned to stay right on top of things, Renny or no Renny.

First paragraph:

Now it came to pass even as BABALON told me, for after receiving her Book I fell away from Magick, and put away Her Book and all pertaining thereto. And I was stripped of my fortune, (the sum of about $50,000) and my house, and all I possessed.

Sheri was sure this referred to Allied Enterprises, the joint venture with L. Ron Hubbard and Betty. The idea had been to buy boats cheaply on the East Coast, and then to sell them on the West Coast, where they would bring a premium. Betty was the USC coed who had been Parsons sister-in-law, and then his mistress, before devoting herself to Hubbard.

Parsons had put up most of the money in the venture, about $21,000, Sheri's information said. But Parsons had lost more money than this. $50,000, it said here in the Antichrist. And he had lost the house on South Orange Grove, the one he had inherited from his father, the one-time tycoon.

This all took place "after receiving [Babalon's] book". Allied Enterprises had been formed in January 1946 and was later dissolved in July 1946. So Parsons must have received Babylon's book before this--in 1945. That would have been when he was attempting to create a Moonchild with his new scarlet woman, Marjorie Cameron.

Sheri began flipping a pencil in the air, seeing if she could catch it by the point after two flips. It was ironic. Parsons, the Magician-Scientist "fell away from magic" at this time. And immediately things begin to go wrong. It was as though Parsons had cut off one of the founts of his genius and success.

Next paragraph:

Then for a period of two years I worked in the world, recouping my fortune somewhat. But that was also taken from me, and my reputation, and my good name in my worldly work, that was in science.

Two years. This would be approximately July 1946 to July 1948. What had happened? Parsons says he had gotten some of his fortune back, but then lost it. How? Along with his scientific reputation. Why? This was a mystery. None of the sources she and Hermes had consulted said anything about Parsons' activities during this two-year period. Hmm, hmm, hmm. A sip of frop.

And on the 31st of October, 1948, BABALON called on me again, and I began the last work, that was the work of the wand. And I worked for 17 days, until BABALON called me in a dream, and instructed me on an astral working. Then I reconstructed the temple, and began the Black Pilgrimage, as She instructed.

The work of the wand. That would be some form of sex magic. The wand was the penis. Was BABALON really just a metaphor for Marjorie Cameron? Some entity that spoke through her? Although now BABALON was speaking directly to Parsons:

"BABALON called me in a dream, and instructed me on an astral working."

Then he "reconstructed the temple." This was probably a temple like the one at 1003 South Orange Grove, where the Agape Lodge had held their meetings. And then the Black Pilgrimage began. Right. What the hell was that?

And I went into the sunset with Her sign and into the night past accursed and desolate places and cyclopean ruins, and so came at last to the City of Chorazin. And there a great tower of Black Basalt was raised, that was part of a castle whose further battlements ruled over the gulf of stars. And upon the tower was this sign.

The City of Chorazin. Maybe Parsons was astral traveling. A soul (mind, nous, whatever) journey while his body stayed in California. Sheri had decided such journeys were not impossible, in principle. Was Parsons in the Middle East? Black Basalt. Wasn't the kaabah stone in Mecca constructed of Black Basalt?

And one heavily robed and veiled showed me this sign, and told me to look, and behold, I saw flash before me four past lives wherein I had failed in my object. And I beheld the life of Simon Magus, preaching the Whore Helen as the Sophia, and I saw that my failure was in Hubris, the pride of the spirit. And I saw my life as Giles de Retz, wherein I attempted to raise Jehanne d'Ark to be Queen of the Witchcraft, and failed through her stupidity, and again my pride. And I saw myself in Francis Hepburne, Earl Bothwell, manipulating Gille Duncan, that was an unworthy instrument.

Hmm. The past lives of Jack Parsons. The first one, Simon Magus, was the big bugaboo of the early church fathers. He had--according to their diatribe--been one of the primary early heretics. Simon Magus had tried to fly from a tower, or so the story went. Much like Parsons had tried to fly via his solid-fuel rockets. But Parsons had succeeded. Giles de Retz? Earl Bothwell? Sheri would have to look them up.

And again as Count Cagliostro, failing because I failed to comprehend the nature of women in my Seraphina. And I was shown myself as a boy of 13 in this life, invoking Satan and showing cowardice when He appeared. And I was asked: "Will you fail again?" and I replied "I will not fail." (For I had given all by blood to BABALON, and it was not I that spoke.)

As a boy of 13, this would be--what? 1928. Toward the end of the Roaring 20's. Parsons at 13 invoking Satan? The age of puberty. Sheri wondered what he had done and how he knew it was Satan and not some other spiritual imposter.

And thereafter I was taken within and saluted the Prince of that place, and thereafter things were done to me of which I may not write, and they told me, "It is not certain that you will survive, but if you survive you will attain your true will, and manifest the Antichrist."

What had they done to Parsons? You haven't been brainwashed until you've been brainwashed by the spirits, Hermes was fond of saying. Maybe Parsons' experience was positive. But maybe it was a spiritual mind-fuck. Either way he had been through Chapel Perilous.

And thereafter I returned and swore the Oath of the Abyss, having only the choice between madness, suicide, and that oath. But the oath in no wise ameliorated that terror, and I continued in the madness and horror of the abyss for a season. But of this no more. But having passed the ordeal of 40 days, I took the oath of a Magister Templi, even the Oath of Antichrist before Frater 132, the Unknown God.

Frater 132 would be Wilfred Smith. The former head of the Agape Lodge whom Crowley had expelled. The one who had run off with Parsons' wife Helen. Apparently he was still around. This was in 1948, Sheri reflected. Crowley had died in December 1947.

And thus was I Antichrist loosed in the world; and to this I am pledged, that the work of the Beast 666 shall be fulfilled, and the way for the coming of BABALON be made open and I shall not cease or rest until these things are accomplished. And to this end I have issued this my Manifesto.

Belarion Armituss AL
Dagjal Antichrist

Jack Parsons
210
First revealed Oct. 31, 1948 e.v.

Well, at least Parsons had a mission.

The phone rang, and Sheri picked it up, expecting to hear Hermes again.

It was Homer Nilmot instead. Theme and variation on the letter "H", Sheri thought. Hermes was the Greek messenger of the gods. But "Homer"? That was a hick name. Why didn't Homer change it? Sheri thought all this. But what she said was:

"Yeah, Mr. Nilmot. What can I do for you?"

Zak gradually learned that Hoova was a sort of messenger. As best he could determine, Hoova, coming as it (as they?) did from the future, was in all probability simply a forward version of humanity itself. Hoovans had long since disgarded ordinary biochemical bodies and now existed as personality/character recordings in some unknown, but more permanent, medium. In that form they controlled their ships, which were, in truth, mobile homes. They were virtually immortal.

Hoova was only one genre of a hierarchy of messengers. At the top of the pyramid were the Nine Controllers of the Universe. Zak wasn't exactly sure what Controllers did, but he understood the Nine were responsible for his own contact.

Sometimes Hoova would leave messages on his telephone answering machine, or on the tape recorder which he left unplugged in a nearby desk drawer. After he had listened to a tape, he would later find it had erased itself. Sometimes the tape disappeared entirely.

To avoid socio-political disturbances, the Hoovans had elected to contact selected humans in a manner that would avoid much tangible evidence for their existence. Thus if their alien presence became psychologically intolerable to the public, an automatic process of reaction would reduce the credibility of such contact.

The Hoovans explained their conditioning process thusly: "The surge of interest in ufos will soon peak, then gradually fall out of fashion. Then we will see what came in with the tide. We work in periodic waves. The force of each wave crests, then ebbs in preparation for a new surge. The ebb period is important, for it allows the debris and jetsam to drift away, leaving the sands clean for a new impression. Each successive surge, proportionate to its power, generates a foam of premature credulity and false or half-false contacts, along with a scum of books, talks, efforts, frauds, and talk-show clackings. During the ebb period, the latter are blown away by the winds of common sense. The lack of immediate re-inforcement allows the idle- and weak-minded to turn the inconstancy of their attention elsewhere.

"One of our most important pieces of work was to foster the rise of metaphysical sensationalism in The Weekly World News, The National Inquirer, and similar publications. The public is bombarded daily with news of Bermuda triangle disappearances, teenagers pregnant by Bigfoot, ufo crews in Moscow hospitals, Presidents who consult astrologers, three-headed babies who speak six languages, ghosts aboard 737s, killers possessed by a family pet, and secret races dwelling at the center of the moon. The sheer number of outrageous reports leads the educated public to believe none of them. The signal has been effectively obscured by a barrage of noise."

Despite the attempted explanation, it was not clear to Zak what Hoova was up to. Hoova frequently talked about peace and seemed to have an inordinate interest in the Middle East. Because, they said, they had first landed in Jerusalem thousands of years ago. Zak thought about it. If the Hoovans were really from the future, what the fuck were they doing in Jerusalem thousands of years ago? It was one more of a growing list of Hoova enigmas.

For a season Zak hypothesized Hoova was a group of Cosmic Clowns, out to have a good time by razzing the natives.

On one occasion Hoova informed him its agents had infiltrated U.S. and U.S.S.R. military bases and had determined that the Arab-Israeli confrontation in the Middle East had increased the probability of nuclear war to nearly thirty percent. The Hoovans themselves, being recorded intelligences, were relatively impervious to the threat, but they had thoughtfully prepared an assortment of shelters for the more earthbound messengers.

Each shelter would furnish food and supplies for 100 people for approximately two years. No one would be permitted to bring into the shelter any electrical apparatus, watches with phosphorescent dials, or objects made from pure titanium.

Hoova had instructed Zak to maintain a prayer vigil for peace, but he had rebelled because they wouldn't tell him where the shelters were. Finally they had relented and said there was one near Dulce, New Mexico.

A shelter in Dulce will do me a lot of good in Los Angeles, Zak had reflected. He had erased the tape himself, and instead of praying for peace had gone out for pizza.

But, more often than not, he did what Hoova asked. He went over to Hollywood and Vine to witness a curiously-dressed individual get out of a black limousine, walk stiltedly to the corner, and disappear. He took one of the tapes recorded by Hoova, put it in a brown paper sack with the name "Sally Rand" marked in large letters, placed two empty mason jars on top of the tape, and left the sack on the doorstep of a house in San Marino. He drove out to the Mojave desert late at night and waited for an hour until a large aerial craft with blinking blue lights passed, then returned to his apartment at 5:00 a.m. to observe the light sunburn covering his body. He purchased a borrower's card at UCLA and spent hours researching Middle East history.

"Why do what they want?" Dean asked him once. "Maybe they really are just jokers, sending you out to play fetch like an obedient dog." Dean was one of the few people Zak told about Hoova. Dean and two childhood friends.

Zak mused: "I guess it's because I'm having more fun doing this than anything else I can think of."

Dean's question had been rhetorical. Dean didn't believe in Hoova for a minute. Zak obviously worked for the Mossad. How else could Zak have learned about his meeting with Larry Meier?