o,
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.

He wrote, "You never told me this. You will all do a penance for it."

Luke was dabbing the pointer carefully at the bald top of Weaver's head.
His horny, complicated face was unpleasantly close, the mandibles
unpleasantly big even behind his mouth veil.

Luke said, "We will, very gladly ... except that perhaps the new ones
will not like it."

Weaver felt bewildered. In one corner of His mind He felt a tiny
darkness unfolding: the kernel of doubt, forgotten so long, but there
all the time. Growing larger now, expanding to a ragged, terrifying
shape.

He wrote, "What do you mean? Who are 'the new ones'?"

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