by Damon Knight
any of the rest; knew His smiles and His frowns, all Hismoods.
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 manamong billions of others, conforming to their patterns, doing what wasexpected of Him.
His free hand was growing tired from holding the pen. When all the restwas done, Luke would freeze that hand also, and then it would be only aminute or so until he could inject the antidote. He scribbled idly, "Doyou 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. Weunderstand each other, Luke and I. He wrote, "Things are very differentnow, eh?"
"Very different, Master. You made many changes. The people are verygrateful to You."
He could see the broad outlines of the colossal figure now: the arms, intheir heavy ecclesiastical sleeves, outstretched in benediction, thelegs firmly planted. But the bowed head was still a rough, featurelessmass of stone, not yet shaped.
"Do you know," Weaver wrote, on impulse, "that when I first came, Ithought 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 nothave had all the other things. And besides, there would not have beenenough of You for all."
The aircar screeched, driving a tunnel along the edge of the partedvestments.
* * * * *
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-bloodedlyforesighted that He was still alive. The idea infuriated Him, andsomehow 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 mandiblesunpleasantly big even behind his mouth veil.
Luke said, "We will, very gladly ... except that perhaps the new oneswill not like it."
Weaver felt bewildered. In one corner of His mind He felt a tinydarkness unfolding: the kernel of doubt, forgotten so long, but thereall the time. Growing larger now, expanding to a ragged, terrifyingshape.
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. Aspaceship 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 funnypeople, Master."
The pantograph pointer moved down the side of God's nose and anotherwedge of stone fell in the plaza.
"They have three long legs, and a very little body, and a head with oneeye in front and one behind. Also they have very funny ideas. They arehorrified at the way we live, and they are going to change it allaround."
Weaver's fingers jerked uncontrollably, and the words wavered across thepage. "I don't understand. I don't understand."
"I hope You are not angry. Master," said Luke. "We are very grateful toYou. When You came, we were desperately bored. There had been no newthing for more than seven thousand years, since the last ship came fromspace. You know that we have not much imagination. We tried to inventnew things for ourselves, but we could never think of anything soamusing as the ones You gave us. We will always remember You withgratitude."
The pantograph was tracing Weaver's eyelids, and then the unfeeling eyesthemselves.
* * * * *
"But all things must end," said Luke. "Now we have these others, who donot like what you have done, so we cannot worship you any more. Andanyway, some of the people are growing tired. It has been ten years. Along time."
One thought pierced through the swirling fear in Weaver's mind. Theguns, built with so much labor, the enormous guns that could throw ashell two hundred miles. The crews, manning them night and day todestroy the first ship that came in from space. And they had never meantto use them!
Anger fought with caution. He felt peculiarly helpless now, locked up inhis own body like a prison. "What are you going to do?" he scrawled.
"Nothing that will hurt, Master," said Luke. "You remember, I told youlong ago, we had no machines for killing before you came. We used otherthings, like this drug which paralyzes. You will feel no pain."
Algernon Weaver's hand, gripping the pen as a drowning man holds to astave, was moving without his volition. It was scrawling in hugeletters, over and over, "NO NO NO"....
"It is too bad we cannot wait," said Luke, "but it has to be done beforethe new ones get here. They would not like it, probably."
He let the pointer go, and it hung where he had left it. With twojointed claws he seized Weaver's hand and straightened it out to matchthe other, removing the pen. With a third claw he thrust a slenderneedle under the skin. Instantly the hand was as rigid as the rest ofWeaver's body. Weaver felt as if the last door had been slammed, thetelephone wires cut, the sod thrown on the coffin.
"This is the way we have decided," said Luke. "It is a shame, becauseperhaps these new ones will not be as funny as you, after all. But it isthe way we have decided."
He took up the pantograph pointer again.
* * * * *
In the plaza, the aircar ground at the huge stone head, outlining thestern mouth, the resolute, bearded jaw. Helplessly, Weaver returned thestare of that remorseless, brooding face: the face of a conqueror.
Transcriber's Note
This etext was produced from _Space Science Fiction_ March 1953.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errorshave been corrected without note.