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.