nds 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