The Worshippers by Damon Knight (books to read for beginners .TXT) 📕

they reached the village where they were to sleep that night; and Weaver lay awake in his downy bed, staring at the faint shimmer of reflected starlight on the carved roof-beams, and meditating soberly on the unexpected, the appalling magnitude of the task he had set himself.

From this, he came to consider that small dark kernel of doubt. It was of course dreadful to find that his people were so wholly corrupt, but that at least was understandable. What he did not understand was the reason they could be so easily weaned from their wickedness. It left him feeling a little off-balance, like a man who has hurled himself at his enemy and found him suddenly not there. This reminded him of ju-jitsu, and this in turn of the ancient Japanese—to whom, indeed, his Terranovans seemed to have many resemblances. Weaver's uneasiness increased. Savage peoples were notoriously devious—they smiled and then thrust knives between your ribs.

He felt a sudden prickling coldness at the thought. It was improbable, it was fantastic that they would go to such lengths to gratify his every wish if they meant to kill him, he told himself; and then he remembered the Dionysian rites, and a host of other, too-similar parallels. The king for a day or a year, who ruled as an absolute monarch, and then was sacrificed—

And, Weaver remembered with a stab of panic, usually eaten.

He had been on Terranova for a little over a month by the local calendar. What was his term of office to be—two months? Six? A year, ten years?

He slept little that night, woke late in the morning with dry, irritated eyes and a furred mouth, and spent a silent day, inspecting each new batch of natives without comment, and shivering inwardly at each motion of the clawed arms of Mark, Luke or John. Toward evening he came out of his funk at last, when it occurred to him to ask about weapons.

He put the query slyly, wording it as if it were a matter of general interest only, and of no great importance. Were they familiar with machines that killed, and if so, what varieties did they have?

At first Mark did not understand the question. He replied that their machines did not kill, that very long ago they had done so but that the machines were much better now, very safe and not harmful to anyone. "Then," wrote Weaver carefully, "you have no machines which are made for the purpose of killing?"

Mark, Luke and John discussed this with every evidence of excitement. At last Mark wrote, "This very new idea to us."

"But do you have in this world no large, dangerous animals which must be killed? How do you kill those things which you eat?"

"No dangerous animals. We kill food things, but not use machines. Give some things food which make them die. Give some no food, so they die. Kill some with heat. Some eat alive."

Weaver winced with distaste when he read this last, and was about to write, "This must stop." But he thought of oysters, and decided to reserve judgment.

After all, it had been foolish of him to be frightened last night. He had been carried away by a chance comparison which, calmly considered, was superficial and absurd. These people were utterly peaceful—in fact, spineless.

He wrote, "Take the aircar up farther, so that I can see this village from above."

He signaled John to stop when they had reached a height of a few hundred feet. From this elevation, he could see the village spread out beneath him like an architect's model—the neat cross-hatching of narrow streets separating the hollow curves of rooftops, dotted with the myriad captive balloons launched in honor of his appearance.

The village lay in the gentle hollow of a wide valley, surrounded by the equally gentle slopes of hills. To his right, it followed the bank of a fair-sized river; in the other three directions the checkered pattern ended in a careless, irregular outline and was replaced by the larger pattern of cultivated fields.

It was a good site—the river for power, sanitation and transportation, the hills for a sheltered climate. He saw suddenly, in complete, sharp detail, how it would be.

"The trip is over," he wrote with sudden decision. "We will stay here, and build a city."

III

The most difficult part was the number of things that he had to learn. There was no trouble about anything he wanted done by others; he simply commanded, and that was the end of it. But the mass of knowledge about the Terranovans and their world before he came appalled him not only by its sheer bulk but by its intricacy, the unexplained gaps, the contradictions. For a long time after the founding of New Washington—later New Jerusalem—he was still bothered a little by doubt. He wanted to learn all that there was to learn about the Terranovans, so that finally he would understand them completely and the doubt would be gone.

Eventually he confessed to himself that the task was impossible. He was forty-seven years old; he had perhaps thirty years ahead of him, and it was not as if he were able to devote them solely to study. There was the written history of the Terranovans, which covered minutely a period of nine thousand years—though not completely; there were periods and places which seemed to have left no adequate records of themselves. The natives had no reasonable explanation of this phenomenon; they simply said that the keeping of histories sometimes went out of fashion.

Then there was the biology of the Terranovans and the countless other organisms of the planet—simply to catalogue them and give them English names, as he had set out to do, would have occupied him the rest of his lifetime.

There was the complex and puzzling field of social relations—here again everything seemed to be in unaccountable flux, even though the over-all pattern remained the same and seemed as rigid as any primitive people's. There was physics, which presented exasperating difficulties of translation; there was engineering, there was medicine, there was economics....

When he finally gave it up, it was not so much because of the simple arithmetical impossibility of the job as because he realized that it didn't matter. For a time he had been tempted away from the logical attitude toward these savages of his—a foolish weakness of the sort that had given him that ridiculous hour or two, when, he now dimly recalled, he had been afraid of the Terranovans—afraid, of all things, that they were fattening him for the sacrifice!

Whereas it was clear enough, certainly, that the former state of the Terranovans, their incomprehensible society and language and customs, simply had no practical importance. He was changing all that. When he was through, they would be what he had made them, no more and no less.

It was strange, looking back, to realize how little he had seen of his destiny, there at the beginning. Timid little man, he thought half in amusement, half contemptuously: nervous and fearful, seeing things small. Build me a house, like the one I had in Schenectady!

They had built him a palace—no, a temple—and a city; and they were building him a world. A planet that would be his to the last atom when it was done; a corner of the universe that was Algernon James Weaver.

He recalled that in the beginning he had felt almost like these creatures' servant—"public servant," he had thought, with self-righteous lukewarm, pleasure. He had seen himself as one who built for others—the more virtuous because those others were not even men.

But it was not he who built. They built, and for him.

It was strange, he thought again, that he should not have seen it from the first. For it was perfectly clear and all of a pattern.

The marriage laws. Thou shalt not live in adultery.

The dietary laws. Thou shalt not eat that which is unclean.

And the logical concomitant, the law of worship. Thou shalt have no gods 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. "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 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