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 t