"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.