The Worshippers | Page 9

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.