The Worshippers

III

The most difficult part was the number of things that he had to learn. There was no trouble about anything he wanted done by others; he simply commanded, and that was the end of it. But the mass of knowledge about the Terranovans and their world before he came appalled him not only by its sheer bulk but by its intricacy, the unexplained gaps, the contradictions. For a long time after the founding of New Washington—later New Jerusalem—he was still bothered a little by doubt. He wanted to learn all that there was to learn about the Terranovans, so that finally he would understand them completely and the doubt would be gone.

Eventually he confessed to himself that the task was impossible. He was forty-seven years old; he had perhaps thirty years ahead of him, and it was not as if he were able to devote them solely to study. There was the written history of the Terranovans, which covered minutely a period of nine thousand years—though not completely; there were periods and places which seemed to have left no adequate records of themselves. The natives had no reasonable explanation of this phenomenon; they simply said that the keeping of histories sometimes went out of fashion.

Then there was the biology of the Terranovans and the countless other organisms of the planet—simply to catalogue them and give them English names, as he had set out to do, would have occupied him the rest of his lifetime.

There was the complex and puzzling field of social relations—here again everything seemed to be in unaccountable flux, even though the over-all pattern remained the same and seemed as rigid as any primitive people's. There was physics, which presented exasperating difficulties of translation; there was engineering, there was medicine, there was economics....

When he finally gave it up, it was not so much because of the simple arithmetical impossibility of the job as because he realized that it didn't matter. For a time he had been tempted away from the logical attitude toward these savages of his—a foolish weakness of the sort that had given him that ridiculous hour or two, when, he now dimly recalled, he had been afraid of the Terranovans—afraid, of all things, that they were fattening him for the sacrifice!

Whereas it was clear enough, certainly, that the former state of the Terranovans, their incomprehensible society and language and customs, simply had no practical importance. He was changing all that. When he was through, they would be what he had made them, no more and no less.

It was strange, looking back, to realize how little he had seen of his destiny, there at the beginning. Timid little man, he thought half in amusement, half contemptuously: nervous and fearful, seeing things small. Build me a house, like the one I had in Schenectady!

They had built him a palace—no, a temple—and a city; and they were building him a world. A planet that would be his to the last atom when it was done; a corner of the universe that was Algernon James Weaver.

He recalled that in the beginning he had felt almost like these creatures' servant—"public servant," he had thought, with self-righteous lukewarm, pleasure. He had seen himself as one who built for others—the more virtuous because those others were not even men.

But it was not he who built. They built, and for him.

It was strange, he thought again, that he should not have seen it from the first. For it was perfectly clear and all of a pattern.

The marriage laws. Thou shalt not live in adultery.

The dietary laws. Thou shalt not eat that which is unclean.

And the logical concomitant, the law of worship. Thou shalt have no gods before Me.

The apostles ... Mark, Luke and John. Later, Matthew, Philip, Peter, Simon, Andrew, James, Bartholomew and Thomas.

He had a feeling that something was wrong with the list besides the omission of Judas—unluckily, he had no Bible—but it was really an academic question. They were his apostles, not that Other's.

The pattern repeated itself, he thought, but with variations.

He understood now why he had shelved the project of Christianizing the natives, although one of his first acts had been to abolish their pagan sects. He had told himself at first that it was best to wait until he had put down from memory the salient parts of the Holy Bible—Genesis, say, the better-known Psalms, and a condensed version of the Gospels; leaving out all the begats, and the Jewish tribal history, and awkward things like the Songs of Solomon. (Thy mandibles are like pomegranates ... no, it wouldn't do).

And, of course, he had never found time to wrack his brains for the passages that eluded him. But all that had been merely a subterfuge to soothe his conscience, while he slowly felt his way into his new role.

Now, it was almost absurdly simple. He was writing his own holy book—or rather, Luke, Thomas, and a corps of assistants were putting it together from his previous utterances, to be edited by him later.

The uneasy rustling of chitinous arms against white robes recalled him from his meditation. The swarm of priests, altar boys, and the rest of his retinue was still gathered around him, waiting until he should deign to notice them again. Really, God thought with annoyance, this woolgathering—at such a moment!

The worshippers were massed in the Temple. A low, excited twittering rose from them as He appeared and walked into the beam of the spotlight.

The dark lenses of television cameras were focused on Him from every part of the balcony at the rear of the hall. The microphones were ready. Weaver walked forward as the congregation knelt, and waited an impressive moment before He spread His hands in the gesture that meant, "Rise, my children." Simon, previously coached, translated. The congregation rose again, rustling, and then was still.

At a signal from Simon, the choir began a skirling and screeching which the disciples warranted to be music—religious music, composed to fit the requirements He had laid down. Weaver endured it, thinking that some changes must come slowly.

The hymn wailed to an end, and Weaver gripped the lectern, leaning carefully forward toward the microphones. "My children," He began, and waited for Solomon's twittering translation. "You have sinned greatly—" Twitter. "—and in many ways." Twitter. "But I have come among you—" Twitter. "—to redeem your sins—" Twitter. "—and make them as though they had never been." Twitter.

He went on to the end, speaking carefully and sonorously. It was not a long sermon, but He flattered Himself that it was meaty. At the end of it He stepped back a pace, and folded His arms, in their long white-silk sleeves, across His chest.

Simon took over now, and so far as Weaver could judge, he did well. He recited a litany which Weaver had taught him, indicating by gestures that the congregation was to repeat after him every second speech. The low chirping welled from the hall; a comforting, warming sound, almost like the responses of a human congregation. Weaver felt tears welling to His eyes, and He restrained Himself from weeping openly only by a gigantic effort. After all, He was a god of wrath; but the love which swept toward Him at this moment was a powerful thing to gainsay.

When it was all over, He went back to His sanctum, dismissed all His retinue except His regular assistants, and removed the ceremonial robes.

"The people responded well," He said. "I am pleased."

Simon said, "They will work hard to please You, Master. You bring great happiness to them."

"That is well," said Weaver. He sat down behind His great desk, while the others stood attentively below Him, in the sunken fore-section of the sanctum. "What business have you for Me today?"

"There is the matter of the novel, Master," said Mark. He stepped forward, mounted the single step to Weaver's dais, and laid a sheaf of papers on the desk. "This is a preliminary attempt which one called Peter Smith has made with my unworthy help."

"I will read it later," Weaver told him. It was poor stuff, no doubt—what else could one expect?—but it was a start. He would tell them what was wrong with it, and they would try again.

Literary criticism, armaments, tariffs, manners—there was no end to it. "What else?"

Luke stepped forward. "The plans for the large weapons You commanded Your servants to design, Master." He put three large sheets of parchment on the desk.

Weaver looked at the neat tracery on the first, and frowned. "You may come near Me," He said. "Show Me how these are meant to operate."

Luke pointed to the first drawing. "This is the barrel of the weapon, Master," he said. "As You commanded, it is rifled so that the missile will spin. Here the missile is inserted at the breech, according to Your direction. Here is the mechanism which turns and aims the weapon, as You commanded. It is shown in greater detail on this second sheet.... And here, on the third, is the missile itself. It is hollow and filled with explosive powder, as You ordered, and there is in the tip a device which will attract it to the target."

Weaver gravely nodded. "Has it been tested?"

"In models only, Master. If You direct, the construction will begin at once."

"Good. Proceed. How many of these can you make for Me within a month?"

Luke hesitated. "Few, Master. At first all must be done by hand methods. Later it will be possible to make many at a time—fifty, or even a hundred in one month—but for the first two or three months, Master, two weapons in a month is all that Your unworthy servants can do."

"Very well," said Weaver. "See to it."

He turned and examined the large globe of the planet which stood on His desk. Here was another product of His genius; the Terranovans had scarcely had maps worthy of the name before His Coming.

The three major continents trailed downward like fleshy leaves from the north pole; He had called them America, Europe and Asia, and they were so lettered on the globe. In the southern hemisphere, besides the tips of Europe and Asia and fully a third of America, there was a fourth continent, shaped rather like a hat, which He had called Australia. There was no Africa on Terranova, but that was small loss: Weaver had never thought highly of Africa.

The planet itself, according to the experts who had been assigned the problem, was a little more than ten thousand miles in diameter. The land area, Weaver thought, probably amounted to more than fifty million square miles. It was a great deal to defend; but it must be done.

"Here is your next assignment," He told Luke. "Put a team to work on selecting and preparing sites for these guns, when they are built. There must be one in every thousand square miles...."

Luke bowed and took the plans away.

... For otherwise, Weaver thought somberly, another ship might land, some day. And how could I trust these children not to welcome it?

Sunlight gleamed brilliantly from the broad, white-marble plaza beyond the tall portico. Looking through the windows, He could see the enormous block of stone in the center of the plaza, and the tiny robot aircar hovering near it, and the tiny ant-shapes of the crowd on the opposite side. Beyond, the sky was a clear, faultless blue.

"Are you ready now, Master?" asked Luke.

Weaver tested His limbs. They were rigid and almost without sensation; He could not move them so much as the fraction of an inch. Even His lips were as stiff as that marble outside. Only the fingers of His right hand, clutching a pen, felt as if they belonged to Him.

A metal frame supported a note-pad where His hand could reach it. Then he wrote, "Yes. Proceed with the statue."

Luke was holding a tiny torpedo-shaped object that moved freely at the end of a long, jointed metal arm. He moved it tentatively toward Weaver's left shoulder. Outside, the hovering aircar duplicated the motion: the grinder at its tip bit with a screech into the side of the huge stone.

Weaver watched, feeling no discomfort; the drug Luke had injected was working perfectly. Luke moved the pantograph pointer, again and again, until it touched Weaver's robed body. With every motion, the aircar bored a tunnel into the stone to the exact depth required, and backed out again. Slowly a form was beginning to emerge.

The distant screech of the grinder was muffled and not unpleasant. Weaver felt a trifle sleepy.

The top of one extended arm was done. The aircar moved over and began the other, leaving the head still buried in stone.

After this, Weaver thought, He could rest. His cities were built, His church founded, His guns built and tested, His people trained. The Terranovans were as civilized as He could make them in one generation. They had literary societies, newsstands, stock markets, leisure and working classes, baseball leagues, armies.... They had had to give up their barbaric comfort, of course; so much the better. Life was real, life was earnest—Weaver had taught them that.

The mechanism of His government ran smoothly; it would continue to run, with only an occasional guiding touch. This was His last major task. The monument.

Something to remember Me by, He thought drowsily. Myself in stone, long after I am gone. That will keep them to My ways, even if they should be tempted. To them I will still be here, standing over them, gigantic, imperishable.

They will still have something to worship.

Stone dust was obscuring the figure now, glittering in the sunlight. Luke undercut a huge block of the stone and it fell, turning lazily, and crashed on the pavement. Robot tractors darted out to haul the pieces away.

Weaver was glad it was Luke whose hand was guiding the pantograph, not one of the bright, efficient younger generation. They had been together a long time, Luke and He. Almost ten years. He knew Luke as if he were a human being; understood him as if he were a person. And Luke knew Him better than any of the rest; knew His smiles and His frowns, all His moods.

It had been a good life. He had done all the things He set out to do, and He had done them in His own time and His own way. At this distance, it was almost impossible to believe that He had once been a little man among billions of others, conforming to their patterns, doing what was expected of Him.

His free hand was growing tired from holding the pen. When all the rest was done, Luke would freeze that hand also, and then it would be only a minute or so until he could inject the antidote. He scribbled idly, "Do you remember the old days, before I came, Luke?"

"Very well, Master," said the apostle. "But it seems a long time ago."

Yes, Weaver told Himself contentedly; just what I was thinking. We understand each other, Luke and I. He wrote, "Things are very different now, eh?"

"Very different, Master. You made many changes. The people are very grateful to You."

He could see the broad outlines of the colossal figure now: the arms, in their heavy ecclesiastical sleeves, outstretched in benediction, the legs firmly planted. But the bowed head was still a rough, featureless mass of stone, not yet shaped.

"Do you know," Weaver wrote, on impulse, "that when I first came, I thought for a time that you were savages who might want to eat Me?"

That would startle Luke, He thought. But Luke said, "We all wanted to, very much. But that would have been foolish, Master. Then we would not have had all the other things. And besides, there would not have been enough of You for all."

The aircar screeched, driving a tunnel along the edge of the parted vestments.

God felt a cold wind down the corridor of time. He had been that close, after all. It was only because the natives had been cold-bloodedly foresighted that He was still alive. The idea infuriated Him, and somehow He was still afraid.

He wrote, "You never told me this. You will all do a penance for it."

Luke was dabbing the pointer carefully at the bald top of Weaver's head. His horny, complicated face was unpleasantly close, the mandibles unpleasantly big even behind his mouth veil.

Luke said, "We will, very gladly ... except that perhaps the new ones will not like it."

Weaver felt bewildered. In one corner of His mind He felt a tiny darkness unfolding: the kernel of doubt, forgotten so long, but there all the time. Growing larger now, expanding to a ragged, terrifying shape.

He wrote, "What do you mean? Who are 'the new ones'?"

Luke said, "We did not tell You. We knew You would not like it. A spaceship landed in Asia two months ago. There are three people in it. One is sick, but we believe the other two will live. They are very funny people, Master."

The pantograph pointer moved down the side of God's nose and another wedge of stone fell in the plaza.

"They have three long legs, and a very little body, and a head with one eye in front and one behind. Also they have very funny ideas. They are horrified at the way we live, and they are going to change it all around."

Weaver's fingers jerked uncontrollably, and the words wavered across the page. "I don't understand. I don't understand."

"I hope You are not angry. Master," said Luke. "We are very grateful to You. When You came, we were desperately bored. There had been no new thing for more than seven thousand years, since the last ship came from space. You know that we have not much imagination. We tried to invent new things for ourselves, but we could never think of anything so amusing as the ones You gave us. We will always remember You with gratitude."

The pantograph was tracing Weaver's eyelids, and then the unfeeling eyes themselves.

"But all things must end," said Luke. "Now we have these others, who do not like what you have done, so we cannot worship you any more. And anyway, some of the people are growing tired. It has been ten years. A long time."

One thought pierced through the swirling fear in Weaver's mind. The guns, built with so much labor, the enormous guns that could throw a shell two hundred miles. The crews, manning them night and day to destroy the first ship that came in from space. And they had never meant to use them!

Anger fought with caution. He felt peculiarly helpless now, locked up in his own body like a prison. "What are you going to do?" he scrawled.

"Nothing that will hurt, Master," said Luke. "You remember, I told you long ago, we had no machines for killing before you came. We used other things, like this drug which paralyzes. You will feel no pain."

Algernon Weaver's hand, gripping the pen as a drowning man holds to a stave, was moving without his volition. It was scrawling in huge letters, over and over, "NO NO NO"....

"It is too bad we cannot wait," said Luke, "but it has to be done before the new ones get here. They would not like it, probably."

He let the pointer go, and it hung where he had left it. With two jointed claws he seized Weaver's hand and straightened it out to match the other, removing the pen. With a third claw he thrust a slender needle under the skin. Instantly the hand was as rigid as the rest of Weaver's body. Weaver felt as if the last door had been slammed, the telephone wires cut, the sod thrown on the coffin.

"This is the way we have decided," said Luke. "It is a shame, because perhaps these new ones will not be as funny as you, after all. But it is the way we have decided."

He took up the pantograph pointer again.

In the plaza, the aircar ground at the huge stone head, outlining the stern mouth, the resolute, bearded jaw. Helplessly, Weaver returned the stare of that remorseless, brooding face: the face of a conqueror.