The Worshippers | Page 9

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