Second Variety and Other Stories (38 page)

"Tim," Mary's voice came faintly.

"Yes."

"We're not going to -- to make it."

"We're not going to -- to make it."

"We're not. I can tell."

"Maybe not." He grunted in pain as a board struck his back, settling over him. Boards and
plaster, covering him, burying him. He could smell the sour smell, the night air and ash. It drifted and
rolled into the cellar, through the broken window.

"Daddy," Judy's voice came faintly.

"What?"

"Aren't we going back?"

He opened his mouth to answer. A shattering roar cut his words off. He jerked, tossed by the
blast. Everything was moving around him. A vast wind tugged at him, a hot wind, licking at him, gnawing
at him. He held on tight. The wind pulled, dragging him with it. He cried out as it seared his hands and
face.

"Mary --"

Then silence. Only blackness and silence.

Cars.

Cars were stopping nearby. Then voices. And the noise of footsteps. Tim stirred, pushing the
boards from him. He struggled to his feet.

"Mary." He looked around. "We're back."

The basement was in ruins. The walls were broken and sagging. Great gaping holes showed a
green line of grass beyond. A concrete walk. The small rose garden. The white stucco house next door.

Lines of telephone poles. Roofs. Houses. The city. As it had always been. Every morning.

"We're back!" Wild joy leaped through him. Back. Safe. It was over. Tim pushed quickly
through the debris of his ruined house. "Mary, are you all right?"

"Here." Mary sat up, plaster dust raining from her. She was white all over, her hair, her skin, her
clothing. Her face was cut and scratched. Her dress was torn. "Are we really back?"

"Mr McLean! You all right?"

A blue-clad policeman leaped down into the cellar. Behind him two white-clad figures jumped. A
group of neighbors collected outside, peering anxiously to see.

"I'm okay," Tim said. He helped Judy and Virginia up. "I think we're all okay."

"What happened?" The policeman pushed boards aside, coming over. "A bomb? Some kind of a
bomb?"

"The house is a shambles," one of the white-clad interns said. "You sure nobody's hurt?"

"We were down here. In the basement."

"You all right, Tim?" Mrs Hendricks called, stepping down gingerly into the cellar.

"What happened?" Frank Foley shouted. He leaped down with a crash. "God, Tim! What the
hell were you doing?"

The two white-clad interns poked suspiciously around the ruins. "You're lucky, mister. Damn
lucky. There's nothing left upstairs."

Foley came over beside Tim. "Damn it man! I told you to have that hot water heater looked at!"

"What?" Tim muttered.

"The hot water heater! I told you there was something wrong with the cut-off. It must've kept
heating up, not turned off..." Foley winked nervously. "But I won't say anything, Tim. The insurance.
You can count on me."

Tim opened his mouth. But the words didn't come. What could he say? -- No, it wasn't a
defective hot water heater that I forgot to have repaired. No, it wasn't a faulty connection in the stove. It
wasn't any of those things. It wasn't a leaky gas line, it wasn't a plugged furnace, it wasn't a pressure
cooker we forgot to turn off.

It's war. Total war. And not just war for me. For my family. For my house.

It's for your house, too. Your house and my house and all the houses. Here and in the next block,
in the next town, the next state and country and continent. The whole world, like this. Shambles and
ruins. Fog and dank weeds growing in the rusting slag. War for all of us. For everybody crowding down
into the basement, white-faced, frightened, somehow sensing something terrible.

ruins. Fog and dank weeds growing in the rusting slag. War for all of us. For everybody crowding down
into the basement, white-faced, frightened, somehow sensing something terrible.

Mary was watching him. The policeman, the neighbors, the white-clad interns -- all of them were
watching him. Waiting for him to explain. To tell them what it was.

"Was it the hot water heater?" Mrs Hendricks asked timidly. "That was it, wasn't it, Tim? Things
like that do happen. You can't be sure..."

"Maybe it was home brew," a neighbor suggested, in a feeble attempt at humor. "Was that it?"

He couldn't tell them. They wouldn't understand, because they didn't want to understand. They
didn't want to know. They needed reassurance. He could see it in their eyes. Pitiful, pathetic fear. They
sensed something terrible -- and they were afraid. They were searching his face, seeking his help. Words
of comfort. Words to banish their fear.

"Yeah," Tim said heavily. "It was the hot water heater."

"I thought so!" Foley breathed. A sigh of relief swept through them all. Murmurs, shaky laughs.
Nods, grins.

"I should have got it fixed," Tim went on. "I should have had it looked at a long time ago. Before
it got in such bad shape." Tim looked around at the circle of anxious people, hanging on his words. "I
should have had it looked at. Before it was too late."

"What is it?" Patricia Blake demanded eagerly.

"What's what?" Eric Blake murmured.

"What did you bring? I know you brought me something!" Her bosom rose and fell excitedly
under her mesh blouse. "You brought me a present. I can tell!"

"Honey, I went to Ganymede for Terran Metals, not to find you curios. Now let me unpack my
things. Bradshaw says I have to report to the office early tomorrow. He says I better report some good
ore deposits."

Pat snatched up a small box, heaped with all the other luggage the robot porter had deposited at
the door. "Is it jewelry? No, it's too big for jewelry." She began to tear the cord from the box with her
sharp fingernails.

Eric frowned uneasily. "Don't be disappointed, honey. It's sort of strange. Not what you expect."
He watched apprehensively. "Don't get mad at me. I'll explain all about it."

Pat's mouth fell open. She turned pale. She dropped the box quickly on the table, eyes wide with
horror. "Good Lord! What is it?"

Eric twisted nervously. "I got a good buy on it, honey. You can't usually pick one of them up.
The Ganymedeans don't like to sell them, and I --"

"What is it?"

"It's a god," Eric muttered. "A minor Ganymedean deity. I got it practically at cost."

Pat gazed down at the box with fear and growing disgust. That? That's a -- a god?"

In the box was a small, motionless figure, perhaps ten inches high. It was old, terribly old. Its tiny
clawlike hands were pressed against its scaly breast. Its insect face was twisted in a scowl of anger -mixed
with cynical lust. Instead of legs it rested on a tangle of tentacles. The lower portion of its face
dissolved in a complex beak, mandibles of some hard substance. There was an odor to it, as of manure
and stale beer. It appeared to be bisexual.

Eric had thoughtfully put a little waterdish and some straw in the box. He had punched air holes in
the lid and crumpled up newspaper fragments.

Eric had thoughtfully put a little waterdish and some straw in the box. He had punched air holes in
the lid and crumpled up newspaper fragments.

"No." Eric shook his head stubbornly. "This is a genuine deity. There's a warranty, or something."

"Is it -- dead?"

"Not at all."

"Then why doesn't it move?"

"You have to arouse it." The bottom of the figure's belly cupped outward in a hollow bowl. Eric
tapped the bowl. "Place an offering here and it comes to life. I'll show you."

Pat retreated. "No thanks."

"Come on! It's interesting to talk to. Its name is --" He glanced at some writing on the box. "Its
name is Tinokuknoi Arevulopapo. We talked most of the way back from Ganymede. It was glad of the
opportunity. And I learned quite a few things about gods."

Eric searched his pockets and brought out the remains of a ham sandwich. He wadded up a bit
of the ham and stuffed it into the protruding belly-cup of the god.

"I'm going in the other room," Pat said.

"Stick around." Eric caught her arm. "It only takes a second. It begins to digest right away."

The belly-cup quivered. The god's scaly flesh rippled. Presently the cup filled with a sluggish
dark-colored substance. The ham began to dissolve.

Pat snorted in disgust. "Doesn't it even use its mouth?"

"Not for eating. Only for talking. It's a lot different from usual life-forms."

The tiny eye of the god was focused on them now. A single, unwinking orb of icy malevolence.
The mandibles twitched.

"Greetings," the god said.

"Hi." Eric nudged Pat forward. "This is my wife. Mrs Blake. Patricia."

"How do you do," the god grated.

Pat gave a squeal of dismay. "It talks English."

The god turned to Eric in disgust. "You were right. She is stupid."

Eric colored. "Gods can do anything they want, honey. They're omnipotent."

The god nodded. "That is so. This is Terra, I presume."

"Yes. How does it look?"

"As I expected. I have already heard reports. Certain reports about Terra."

"Eric, are you sure it's safe?" Pat whispered uneasily. "I don't like its looks. And there's
something about the way it talks." Her bosom quivered nervously.

"Don't worry, honey," Eric said carelessly. "It's a nice god. I checked before I left Ganymede."

"I'm benevolent," the god explained matter-of-factly. "My capacity has been that of Weather
Deity to the Ganymedean aborigines. I have produced rain and allied phenomena when the occasion
demanded."

"But that's all in the past," Eric added.

"Correct. I have been a Weather Deity for ten thousand years. There is a limit to even a god's
patience. I craved new surroundings." A peculiar gleam flickered across the loathsome face. "That is why
I arranged to be sold and brought to Terra."

"You see," Eric said, "the Ganymedeans didn't want to sell it. But it whipped up a thunderstorm
and they sort of had to. That's partly why it was so cheap."

"Your husband made a good purchase," the god said. Its single eye roved around curiously. "This
is your dwelling? You eat and sleep here?"

That's right," Eric said. "Pat and I both --"

The front door chimed. "Thomas Matson stands on the threshold," the door stated. "He wishes
admission."

"Golly," Eric said. "Good old Tom. I'll go let him in."

Pat indicated the god. "Hadn't you better --"

"Oh, no. I want Tom to see it." Eric stepped to the door and opened it.

"Oh, no. I want Tom to see it." Eric stepped to the door and opened it.

"That's my god," Eric said modestly.

"Really? But God is an unscientific concept."

"This is a different god. I didn't invent it. I bought it. On Ganymede. It's a Ganymedean Weather
Deity."

"Say something," Pat said to the god. "So he'll believe your owner."

"Let's debate my existence," the god said sneeringly. "You take the negative. Agreed?"

Matson grinned. "What is this, Eric? A little robot? Sort of hideous looking."

"Honest. It's a god. On the way it did a couple of miracles for me. Not big miracles, of course,
but enough to convince me."

"Hearsay," Matson said. But he was interested. "Pass a miracle, god. I'm all ears."

"I am not a vulgar showpiece," the god growled.

"Don't get it angry," Eric cautioned. "There's no limit to its powers, once aroused."

"How does a god come into being?" Tom asked. "Does a god create itself? If it's dependent on
something prior then there must be a more ultimate order of being which --"

"Gods," the tiny figure stated, "are inhabitants of a higher level, a greater plane of reality. A more
advanced dimension. There are a number of planes of existence. Dimensional continuums, arranged in a
hierarchy. Mine is one above yours."

"What are you doing here?"

"Occasionally beings pass from one dimensional continuum to another. When they pass from a
superior continuum to an inferior -- as I have done -- they are worshipped as gods."

Tom was disappointed. "You're not a god at all. You're just a life-form of a slightly different
dimensional order that's changed phase and entered our vector."

The little figure glowered. "You make it sound simple. Actually, such a transformation requires
great cunning and is seldom done. I came here because a member of my race, a certain malodorous Nar
Dolk, committed a heinous crime and escaped into this continuum. Our law obliged me to follow in hot
pursuit. In the process this flotsam, this spawn of dampness, escaped and assumed some disguise or
other. I continually search, but he has not yet been apprehended." The small god broke off suddenly.
"Your curiosity is idle. It annoys me."

Tom turned his back on the god. "Pretty weak stuff. We do more down at the Terran Metals
Lab than this character ever --"

The air crackled, ozone flashing. Tom Matson shrieked. Invisible hands lifted him bodily and
propelled him to the door. The door swung open and Matson sailed down the walk, tumbling in a heap
among the rose bushes, arms and legs flailing wildly.

"Help!" Matson yelled, struggling to get up.

"Oh, dear," Pat gasped.

"Golly." Eric shot a glance at the tiny figure. "You did that?"

"Help him," Pat urged, white-faced. "I think he's hurt. He looks funny."

Eric hurried outside and helped Matson to his feet. "You okay? It's your own fault. I told you if
you kept annoying it something might happen."