Kryten

'Come on, everyone - they're here! They're in orbit! Heavens! There's so much to do.' Kryten rushed down the sloping corridor, pausing only to water a lusciously green plastic pot plant.

Things were going very well. Very well indeed. The Girls had been quiet and really most forlorn of late. Being marooned light years from home with scant hope of rescue had been very trying, to say the least. He'd done his best to keep them entertained, to keep their spirits high, but over the last few weeks, he'd felt intuitively that they were losing hope.

Even his Friday night concert parties, usually the highlight of the week, had begun to be greeted with growing apathy. Miss Yvette was especially guilty of this. She hadn't particularly enjoyed them from the beginning, and had told him so.

The concert parties always began in the same way. After baths and supper Kryten would clear the decks while the girls played cards, or read. At nine sharp the lights would be dimmed, and Kryten would tap-dance onto a makeshift stage in the engine-room, singing I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy, juggling two cans of beeswax.

And then he'd go into his impressions. His best one was of Parkur, the mechanoid aboard the Neutron Star' but none of the girls knew him, so it never went down that well. Then there were the magic tricks. Or, to put it more accurately, the magic trick. He would lie in a box and saw himself in half. It wasn't much of a trick because he actually did saw himself in half. And then the evening suffered a slight hiatus while they waited the forty minutes it took for Kryten to reconnect his circuitry.

Then he'd round off the evening with a selection of hits from The Student Prince. And then they'd play prize bingo. The prize in the prize bingo was always a can of jiffy WindoKleen. Nobody ever wanted a can of Jiffy WindoKleen, so Kryten always got it back and was able to use it as the next week's prize.

In an odd kind of way Kryten was grateful for the accident. His life had taken on a new vitality. He was needed. The girls depended on him. His days were full. There was the cooking, the changing of the bandages, the physiotherapy, the concert parties. And, of course, there was the cleaning.

Kryten took almost orgasmic delight in housework. Piles of dirty dishes thrilled him. Mounds of unwashed laundry filled him with rapture. An unmopped floor left him drymouthed with lust. He loved cleaning things even more than he loved things being clean. And things being clean sent him into a frenzy of ecstasy.

And at night, when everyone was safely tucked in bed and all the chores were done and there was absolutely nothing left to clean, then, and only then, he'd sink into his favourite chair, cushions aplump, and watch Androids.

Androids was a soap opera, aimed at the large mechanoid audience who had huge buying power when it came to household goods. Kryten had all one thousand, nine hundred and seventy-four episodes on disc. He'd seen them all many times, but he still winced when Karstares was killed in the plane crash. He still wept when Roze left Benzen. He still laughed and slapped his metal knee when Hudzen won the mechanoid lottery and hired his human master as a servant. And he always cheered when Mollee took on the android brothels, put the pimps into prison and set the prostidroids free.

Androids, he told himself, was his one vice. That, and the single chocolate he allowed himself each viewing, to conserve supplies. When he watched Androids he wasn't just a mechanoid, marooned light years from nowhere, with three demanding dependants and a never-ending schedule of work He was somewhere different. Somewhere glamorous. Somewhere else.

He was Hudzen, winning the lottery and hiring a human to serve him. He was Jaysee, swinging the mega-quidbuck deals, dining in the best restaurants, living in his vast penthouse atop the Juno Hilton.

He was someone else.

***

Kryten rushed down the slope and onto the main service deck, where the girls were breakfasting.

'Come on! They're here!' He clapped his hands.

Richards, Schuman and Fantozi didn't move. They hadn't moved, in fact, for almost three million years.

The three skeletons sat round the table, in freshly-laundered uniforms, and grinned.

'I don't know what's so funny,' said Kryten. 'They'll be here any moment, and there's so much to do!' He clucked and shook his head. 'Miss Elaine, honestly: you haven't even made an effort. Look at your hair.'

He fussed over to the table' and took out a hairbrush.

'What a mess you look.' He hummed Stay Young And Beautiful, and combed her long blonde wig with smooth, gentle strokes. When her hair was just so, he stood back and eyed her critically. He wasn't quite satisfied. He took out a lipstick that matched her uniform and touched up her makeup.

'Dazzling. You could go straight on the cover of Vogue.'

He shuffled down the table.

'Miss Yvette! You haven't touched your soup. It's no wonder you're looking so pasty. He patted her gingerly on the shoulder. There was a long, slow creaking noise, and the skeleton slumped face down into the bowl of tomato soup. Kryten threw up his hands in horror. 'Eat nicely, Miss Yvette! What will that nice Captain Rimmer think if he sees you eating like that?' He hoisted the skeleton back onto the chair, sprayed her with a squirt of windo-Kleen, and gave her head a quick polish.

'Now then, Miss Kirsty.' He waddled over to the remaining skeleton and looked her up and down: the trendy knee length boots, the chic, deep red mini-skirt and the peaked velvet cap cocked at a racy angle.

'No,' he beamed, putting the hairbrush away. 'You look absolutely perfect!'

EIGHTEEN

The Cat slinked down the docking bay gantry in his gold, hand-stitched flightsuit, carrying a two-feet-high, cone-shaped matching space helmet under his arm.

He climbed up the boarding steps into Blue Midget, where Lister and Rimmer were sitting in the drive seats waiting for him. He jumped into the cramped cabin, struck a pose like King of the Rocket Men, legs splayed, chest puffed out, hand on one hip, and said: 'Put your shades on, guys. You're looking at a nuclear explosion in lurex.' He gleamed a smile at them and fluttered his eyes.

'You're looking good,' said Lister' craning round.

'Looking good?? Did I hear the man say, "Looking only good??" Buddy, I am a plastic surgeon's nightmare. Throw away the scalpel; improvements are impossible.'

'A spacesuit,' said Rimmer, 'with cufflinks?'

'Listen,' said the Cat, dusting the console scat before arranging himself on it, 'you've got to guarantee me we don't pass any mirrors. If we do, I'm there for the day.'

Lister flicked on the remote link with Holly.

Holly appeared on the screen looking somehow different. Lister scrutinised the image. He couldn't quite work out what it was.

'All right, then, dudes? Everybody set?'

Lister twigged. 'Holly, why are you wearing a toupee?, Holly was upset. He spent some considerable time corrupting his digital image to give himself a fuller head of hair. 'So it's not undetectable, then? It doesn't blend in naturally and seemlessly with my own natural hair?'

'It looks,' said Lister, 'like you've got a small, furry animal nesting on top of your head.'

'What is wrong with everybody?' Rimmer straightened his cap. 'Three million years without a woman, and you all go crazy.'

He's right, thought Holly, who am I trying to impress? I'm a computer! How humiliating to have that pointed out by a hologram! Out of spite he instantly simulated a large and painful boil on the back of Rimmer's neck, and made it start to throb.

***

Blue Midget, the powerful haulage transporter originally designed to carry ore and silicates to and from the ship, looked strangely graceful as it flickered between the red and blue lights of the twin sun system above the howling icy green wasteland of the moon that had become Nova 5's graveyard.

Lister peered through the furry dice dangling from the windscreen. 'Nice place for a skiing holiday.'

Rimmer stared unblinkingly at the tracking monitor. 'Nothing yet,' he said helpfully. He slipped his finger down the collar of his shirt where a large boil was really beginning to hurt.

Lister struggled hopelessly with the twelve gear levers. Each provided five gears, making it sixty gears in all, and Lister hadn't yet been in the right one throughout the twenty-minute jag.

The tracking monitor started delivering a series of rapid bleeps.

'We've got it!' Rimmer cried. 'Lat. twenty-seven, four, Long. seventeen, seven.'

Lister looked at him like he was speaking Portuguese.

'Left a bit, and round that glacier.'

'Oh' right.'

***

Lister landed appallingly in forty-seventh gear. Blue Midget stalled, bounced and rocked, before settling to rest with an exhausted sigh. Lister pushed in the button marked 'C'. The caterpillar tracks' telescoped out of their housing, rotated down to the icy emerald surface and hoisted the transporter ten feet above the ground.

'Hey,' said the Cat' impressed, 'You really can drive this thing.'

'Actually,' said Lister, 'I thought that was the cigarette lighter.'

The red-hot wiper blades melted green slush from the windscreen as Blue Midget rose and fell over a series of icy dunes. As they reached the peak of the next range, they saw, in the hollow below, the broken wreck jutting out of the landscape like a child's discarded toy.

The gearbox groaned and rattled as they made their slippery descent down into the crater.

'Yoo-hoo!' the Cat squealed in falsetto, and waved madly out of the port side window.

***

'Ah, come in, come in.' Kryten ushered them in from the airlock. 'How lovely to meet you,' he said, and bowed deeply.

'Cârmita,' said Rimmer' speaking too loudly. 'What a delightful craft - reminds me of my first command.' He turned and hissed to Lister: 'Call me Ace.'

Lister pretended not to understand and walked off down the spotless, newly painted white corridor after Kryten, who was chattering banalities about the weather.

'Green slush again. Tut tut, tut.'

The Cat flossed his teeth one last time, and followed them.

Kryten, used to the strange tilt, walked speedily down the thin corridor, listing at an odd angle.

He went through a large pear-shaped hatchway, and they followed him across what must have been the ship's Engine Room. Even Lister, who knew next to nothing about these things, could tell Nova 5's technology was far in advance of Red Dwarf's. Taking up three-quarters of the room was the strangest piece of machinery Lister had ever seen: it was like a huge series of merry-go-rounds stacked one on top of the other and turned on their sides. Each of these was filled with silver discs joined by thick gold rods, and at the end was what looked like an enormous cannon.

'What's that?' asked Lister.

'It's the ship's Drive,' Kryten replied. 'It's the Duality Jump.'

'What's a Duality Jump?'

'Don't be thick, Lister. Everybody knows what a Duality Jump is,' said Rimmer, lying.

Kryten scurried through the pear-shaped exit, and Lister practically had to sprint out of the engine-room to catch up with them two corridors later.

Suddenly, the Cat swivelled, as they passed a full-length mirror recessed in the wall. His heart pounded, his pulse quickened. He felt silly and giddy. He was in love.

'You're a work of Art, baby,' he crooned softly at his reflection.

Lister turned and shouted: 'Come on!'

'I can't. You're going to have to help me.'

Lister picked up his golden-booted foot and started to yank him down the corridor. Unable to help himself, the Cat hung on to the mirror. His gloved fingers squeaked across the glass surface as Lister pulled him free.

'Thanks, Man,' the Cat said gratefully. 'That was a bad one.'

***

'I'm so excited,' said Kryten, shuffling along and absently dusting a completely clean fire-extinguisher. 'We all are. The girls can hardly stop themselves from jumping up and down.'

'Ha ha haaa,' brayed Rimmer' falsely. 'Cârmita, Cârmita'

'Ah!' said Kryten, 'Ii parolas Esperanton, Kapitano Rimmer?'

'I'm sorry?'

'Vi parolas Esperanton, Kapitano Rimmer?'

'Come again?'

'You speak Esperanto' Captain Rimmer?'

'Ah, oui, oui, oui. Jawol. Si, si.' Rimmer searched desperately through his memory for the appropriate phrase. Mercifully it came to him. 'Bonvolu alsendi la pordiston laiisajne estas rano en mia bideo.'

'A frog?' said Kryten. 'In which bidet?'

'Ha ha haaaaa,' brayed Rimmer, even less convincingly. 'It doesn't matter. I'll deal with in myself.'

***

Kryten walked round the corner and down the ramp on to the service deck.

'Well, here they are,' he said.

Without looking where Kryten was beckoning, Rimmer bent down on one knee and swept his cap 'in a smooth arc. 'Cârmita!' he purred.

Lister and the Cat tumbled in behind him.

Their eyes met the hollow sockets of the three grinning skeletons sitting around the table.

There was a very, very long silence.

It was followed by another very, very long silence.

'Well,' said Kryten, a little upset 'isn't anybody going to say "Hello"?'

'Hi.' said Lister, weakly. 'I'm Dave. This is the Cat. And this here is Ace.'

Rimmer still hadn't closed his mouth from forming the final vowel of Cârmita.

Lister leaned over and whispered to him conspiratorially: 'I think that little blonde one's giving you the eye, Cap.'

'Now,' Kryten clapped his hands, 'you all get to know one another, and I'll run off and fetch some tea.' He staggered off up the slope.

'I don't believe this,' said Rimmer, massaging the 'H' on his forehead.

Lister looked at him. 'Be strong, Big Man.'

'Our one contact with intelligent life in over three million years, and he turns out to be an android version of Norman Bates.'

'So, they're a little on the skinny side,' said the Cat, ever hopeful. 'A few hot dinners, and who knows?'

Lister walked up to the table and put his arms around two of the skeletons' shoulders.

'I know this may not be the time or the place to say this, girls, but my mate, Ace here, is incredibly' incredibly brave ...'

'Smeg off' dogfood face!'

'And he's got tons and tons of girlfriends.'

'I'm warning you Lister.

Kryten raced back down the slope' carrying a tray which held several plates of triangular-shaped sandwiches, a pot of steaming tea and a plate with seven of his precious chocolates on it. As he laid out the cups on the table' he looked up, suddenly aware of the lack of conversation.

'Is there something wrong?' he asked.

'Something wrong??' said Rimmer' aghast. 'They're dead.'

'Who's dead?' asked Kryten, pouring some milk into the cups.

'They're dead,' Rimmer waved at the three skeletons. 'They're all dead.'

'My God!' Kryten stepped back in horror. 'I was only away two minutes!'

'They've been dead for centuries.'

'No!'

'Yes!'

'Are you a doctor?'

'You only have to look at them,' Rimmer whined. 'They've got less meat on them than a chicken nugget!'

'Whuh ... whuh ... well, what am I going to do?' Kryten stammered. 'I'm programmed to serve them.'

'Well, the first thing we should do is, you know ... bury them,' said Lister quietly.

'You're that sure they're dead?'

'Yes!' Rimmer shouted.

Kryten waddled over to Richards's leering skeleton. 'What about this one?'

Rimmer sighed. 'Look. There's a very simple test.' He walked up to the head of the table. 'All right,' he said, 'hands up any of you who are alive.'

Kryten looked on anxiously. To his dismay there was no response. He made frantic signals, coaxing the girls to raise their hands.

'OK?' said Rimmer finally.

Kryten's shoulders buckled' and he dropped limply into a chair' totally defeated.

'I thought they might be ... but I wouldn't allow myself ... I didn't want to admit ... I ... I'm programmed to serve them ... It's all I can do ... I let them down so badly ... I...'

Lister shuffled uncomfortably.

'What am I to do?' Kryten said plaintively. A buzzer went off in Kryten's head.

It was his internal alarm clock telling him it was time for Miss Yvette's bath.

Automatically he raised himself and then remembering, sank back down again. He took a sonic screwdriver from his top pocket, flipped a series of release catches on his neck, removed his head and plonked it down unceremoniously on to the table.

'What are you doing?' said the Cat.

'I'm programmed to serve,' said Kryten's head. 'They're dead. The programme is finished. I'm activating my shutdown disc.'

'Woah!' said Lister. 'Slow down.'

Kryten's hands twisted the right ear off his disembodied head and pressed a latch which flipped open his skull.

'Kryten - listen to me ...'

Kryten started removing the minute circuit boards from inside his brain' and stacking them neatly on the table.

'Kryten ...'

He tugged out several batches of interface leads' neatly wrapped them up and placed them tidily beside the rest of his mind.

Finally he located his shutdown programme. 'Sorry about the mess he said, and switched himself off.

His eyes rotated back into the plastic of his skull; his body slumped forward in his seat and crashed onto the floor.

NINETEEN

'It's driving me batty. Must you do it here?' Rimmer surveyed the array of android organs spread higgledy piggledy all over the sleeping quarters. 'What's this on my pillow? It's his eyes!'

'I'm trying to fix him,' said Lister, holding Kryten's nose in one hand and poking a pipe cleaner soaked in white spirit up his nostril with the other.

It had taken them a week to transport the two broken halves of the Nova 5 back to Red Dwarf. They had needed all six of the remaining transporter craft, operating on auto pilot, to wrench the ship free of the centuries-old methane ice, but after five days of maximum thrust the small transporters had finally yanked the wreck clear, and hauled it slowly and precariously up to the orbiting Red Dwarf.

The Drive section of Nova 5 held few surprises - Kryten had meticulously updated the inventory every Tuesday evening for two million years. Most of the food was still vacuum stored. Lister had been delighted to discover they had twenty-five thousand spicy poppadoms and a hundred and thirty tons of mango chutney; enough, he pointed out at the time, to keep him happy for the best part of a month.

There was, thankfully, nearly two thousand gallons of irradiated cow's milk, and Lister had insisted the dog's milk be flushed out into the vacuum of space, where it had instantly frozen, leaving a huge dog-milk asteroid for some future species to ponder over.

'Why d'you have to keep his bits all over my bunk?'

'So I know where they are.'

'Yes, well, I'm sorry, but I refuse to have somebody else's eyes on my pillow.'

'Look - I'll have him finished by this afternoon.'

'You've been saying that, for two months. What's this in my coffee mug? It's a big toe.'

'Rimmer, will you just smeg off and leave me to it?'

'What the smeg do you want to repair him for anyway? He's just a mechanoid. A mechanoid that's gone completely barking mad.'

'I want to find out about that duality drive - I want to know if we can fix it.

And. I... I dunno ... I feel sorry for him.'

'Sorry for him? He's a machine. It's like feeling sorry for a tractor.'

'It's not. He's got a personality.'

'Yes, a personality that should be severely sedated, bound in a metal straightjacket and locked in a rubber room with a stick between his teeth.'

'I think I can fix that.'

'You think it's just like repairing your bike, don't you? Spot of grease, clean all his bits, re-bore his carburettor, and bang! He's as good as new.'

'Same principle.'

'He's got a defect in his artificial intelligence. You'd need a degree in Advanced Mental Engineering from Caltech to set him to rights.'

Lister prodded one of Kryten's circuit boards with a soldering iron. The noseless head fizzed momentarily into life...'

'Ah-ha,' it said, in rapid falsetto, 'elephant rain dingblat VietNam.' The eyes on Rimmer's pillow rotated and blinked. 'Telephone sandwich kerplunk armadillo Rumplestiltskin purple.'

'Well,' said Rimmer. 'Once again you've proved me wrong.'

***

HNNNnnnnNNNNNKRHHhhhhhhHHHHHHH

HNNNnnnnNNNNNKRHHhhhhhhhHHHHHH

Rimmer looked at his bunkside clock. 2.34 a.m.

HNNNnnnnNNNNNKRHHhhhhhhhHHHHHH

HNNNnnnnNNNNNKRHHhhhhhhhHHHHHH

Rimmer clambered down from his bunk and looked over at Lister's sleeping body.

He was still holding one of Kryten's circuit boards in one hand, and a sonic screwdriver in the other.

And I'm supposed to keep you sane? he thought. Who the smeg is supposed to keep ME sane?

Rimmer closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

HNNNnnnnNNNNNKRHHhhhhhhhHHHHHH HNNNnnnnNNNNNKRHHhhhhhhhHHHHHH

It was useless. He got Holly to simulate his red, black, white, blue, yellow and orange striped skiing anorak, and decided to check out the salvage operation in the shuttle bay.

A Fairy Godfather

xx

 “Inside, Jim. Inside.

Too bad you didn’t Connect — you coulda gone to Juvenile Hall.... 

That’s What You Really WANT, isn’t it?”

•sad mumbling•

“Sure it is! You want to BUG us until we have to lock you up —WHY?”

“Just leave me alone...”

“No!”

Our Culture understands little about these matters, so when we ask The Other Person for Our Gold back, she probably won’t know what we’re talking about. 

She  might say, 

“Last week you were opening doors for me and treating me like A  Princess, 

and this week you’re ignoring me.” 

People don’t understand the dynamics. 

It is only after you get Your Gold back that you can see The Gold of The Other Person. 

When The Time is Right, when you are Ready to Bear The Weight, You Must Get  Your Gold Back. 

If you can do it with Dignity and Tact, that’s Best. 

But you MUST get  it back, one way or another.  

When you are struck, when Gold is being exchanged, sit quietly until The Smoke  clears and You See Where You Are.

If you can talk this out with The Person Holding  Your Gold — with all the Dignity and Intelligence you can muster — it’s a beautiful  way of affirming what is going on. It may be risky, but it is well worth the effort.  

One reason we hesitate to carry Our Own Gold is that it is Dangerously Close to God.  

Our Gold has Godlike characteristics, and it is difficult to bear The Weight of it.  

In Indian culture, there’s a time-honored custom that you have the right to go to  another person — a man, a woman, a stranger — and ask him or her to be The Incarnation of God for you. 

There are Strict Laws governing this. 

If the person agrees to  be The Incarnation of God for you, you must never pester him. 

You must never put  a heavy weight on him — it’s weighty enough as it is. 

And you must not engage in  any other kind of relationship with that person. 

You don’t become friends, and you  don’t Marry Him. 

The Person becomes a kind of Patron Saint for You.  

J. Krishnamurti was a wonderful man. 

Lots of people put Gold on him. 

One  afternoon, he and I went for a walk in Ojai, California, and a little old lady was  kneeling alongside the path. 

We just walked by. 

Later he told me, 

“She has put the  image of God on me. 

She knows what she’s doing. 

She never talks or asks anything of me. 

But when I go for a walk, she somehow knows where I’m going to be,  and she’s always there.” 

What was most touching was his attitude. 

If she needed  this, he would do it.

This is the original meaning of the terms Godfather and Godmother. 

That person  is The Carrier of Godlike qualities for you. 

Nowadays we think of a Godparent as the  one who will take care of us materially in case our parents are not able to see it  through. 

But the original meaning was of someone who carries the subtle part of  your life — a parent in an interior, Godlike way. It’s a wonderful custom. 

Most parents are worn out just seeing their child through to physical maturity.

We need  someone else who isn’t bothered with Authority Issues, like “How much is my allowance this week?” 

Being a Godparent was originally a quiet arrangement for holding a child’s Gold.  

When I was sixteen, two years after meeting Thor, I desperately needed someone like that. 

So I appointed a Godmother and Godfather, and those two people  saved My Life. 

They knew instinctively the duties of this need, and they fulfilled  them. 

My godmother died when I was twenty-two, and I wasn’t ready to give her  up. It was the most difficult loss of My Life. 

I was forced to take my Gold back before I was ready. My Godfather lived until I was in my fifties, and by then I was  ready to let him go.  

I love the idea of Godparents. 

Sometimes Young People come circling around  me, and I bring up This Language. “Do you want a Godfather?” 

If it fits, we work out  the necessary rules. “You may have this out of me, and you must not ask that.”  

These are the old Godparent laws. It’s a version of the incarnation of God in Indian  custom.    

Sometimes Gold is Dark    

I love India, but being there can be challenging, sometimes even dreadful. During  one visit, I nearly sank in The Darkness.  

An Indian friend and I went to Calcutta. He wanted to see his father, who lived  in a politically sensitive zone near The City, where foreigners were not allowed. 

So I  said, “Please go. I’ll stay in Calcutta while you visit him.” 

My Friend tried to help me  get a hotel, but there were no good ones, so I ended up in a sleazy hotel in a dark  part of town. 

Because he was so anxious to see His Father, once he got me settled, I  encouraged him to go.  

Within hours, a woman on the street thrust a dead baby into my hands, children  with amputated limbs poked their stumps into my ribs begging for money, and lepers and corpses were lying in the streets where I walked. 

It was too much for me,  and I didn’t know how to get away from it. 

Normally I could just go to my room  and hole up. As an introvert, that isn’t difficult for me. 

But my room in that hotel  had paper-thin walls, and someone was actually dying in the room on one side,  people were screaming and fighting in the room on the other side, and there was a  nightlong political rally in the square outside my window. 

I just couldn’t take it. 

I  had more in me than I could hold, and I started falling to pieces.  

Gold comes in many varieties. Sometimes our Gold is bright, but at other times  it is heavy and difficult, and seems anything but Golden. 

I had no friends and no  telephone, and couldn’t cope. 

Then I remembered the custom I’d witnessed with  Krishna-murti. 

I needed to ask someone to be the incarnation of God for me,  someone with whom I could share my burden.  

I went to a park nearby to look for a candidate. 

After standing still and observing  many people for about twenty minutes, I selected a middle-aged man who was  wearing traditional Indian garb. 

I felt a particular respect for him. He walked with  great Dignity. I continued to watch him closely.  

Finally, trembling, I went up to him and asked, “Sir, do you speak English?”  

“Yes.”  

“Will you be The Incarnation of God for me?” 

It was the second sentence I  spoke to that Man.  

And, God bless him, he said, “Yes.” 

I told him who I was and how frightened and burdened I was feeling, and that I  was unable to stand it. I poured out my misery, and he just listened without saying  a word. 

Finally I wound down and apologized for splashing all over him. 

I felt so  much better. 

I had my feet under me again.  

I thanked him, and then I asked, “And Who Are You?”  

He told me his name. I said, “Yes, and Who Are You?” 

He said, “I am a Roman  Catholic Preist.” 

There are very few Catholic Preists in India, and I had picked one  to be The Incarnation of God for me. 

He had listened, heard, and understood. Then  we bowed to each other and went our separate ways. 

Because he did that for me,  neither of us will ever be the same again. He did exactly what I needed with a Grace  and a Dignity that lives with me to this day.    

Making the Exchange Conscious    

I’m astonished by the enormity of the transfers of Gold that I watch every day. It  goes on everywhere. 

Often when I give a talk, for example, I single out someone  and speak to him, putting Gold in his lap. 

I do this to nourish myself. 

I used to  think, 

“What kind of adolescent impostor am I?” 

But one day I was lecturing with  Marie Louise von Franz, one of Dr. Jung’s foremost disciples, and she cheerfully  said, “The only way I can lecture is to find somebody I like and talk to him.” What a  relief Occasionally after doing this, I tell the person, but mostly, I don’t.  

Generally we don’t exchange Gold well, and much of our depression and loneliness revolves around misunderstanding this exchange. We run around in a state  of guilt. 

“I’m a failure.” 

“This isn’t working.”

“What are they going to think about me?”

But when you understand the Transmission of Gold, you can honor it and not feel  guilty. You know something indirect is taking place. 

You can sense it, but you can’t  possess it yet. Just try to remember that it’s your Gold that is being held by  whomever or whatever. 

Knowing this gives you a certain Dignity, which we all desperately need.