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."
A Present for Pat
"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.