First, the galaxy, he thought, and then the universe. First the galaxy, then the universe.
Those others, sitting smug within their restricted orbits, secure in their associations with their triad fellows, had missed the one bet that he had not missed. They had missed because of their misplaced arrogance and their fatal smugness, their failure to recognize a simple truth — that they could be wrong.
Over the millennia, Center had come upon hundreds, perhaps thousands, of faith systems. Difficult as they might be to study, they had been studied and after being studied tested and in every instance had failed the tests; all of them, every one of them, had been judged meaningless. Not only was it concluded that all gods were false gods; the judgment had been carried one step further: There were no gods at all, either weak or strong, true or false. The faith systems had been pegged as no more than self-delusions, willing self-delusions sought after and propounded by weak people who felt compelled to erect shelters for themselves against the bitter truth of existence, against the overwhelming evidence that there was nothing within the universe that cared.
Plopper landed directly in front of him and now, instead of plopping off in a new direction, it jumped in place, straight up and down in front of him. Plop, plop, plop it went, going very fast.
Watching it, half hypnotized by the straight up and down, by the steady rhythm of the plopping, he felt the wonder, the never-ending wonder, enter him; he felt the piety, the passion, and the power, all welded together, the piety to the passion and both of them welded to the power. All of the three equally sanctified so that the power was no whit baser than the piety. And gripped by all of this, he thought, marginally, that all was as it should be, that the power was equally sanctified with the piety and passion. That pleased him for it was the power that he cared about. There were those who said that power was evil and the use of it was evil, but that was not so, for those who said it were in error. As they had been in error when they had said there were no gods. Wrong because he had found a god and it was his own — along with Haystack and Decker, it was his very own. In time, it would give the power he needed to carry out his plan. When the time came for him to move, he would hold the power.
Worship me, the god commanded.
So he worshipped it, for that was the bargain he had made with it.
Plop, plop, plop went Plopper.
Fifty-nine
Smoky sat on his dais. Looking at him closely, Tennyson saw that he was a rather splendid creature. Now that some of the unfamiliarity had fallen away, the outer beauty of him was revealed. He was egg-shaped rather than globular, and his outer shell, if it was a shell, had a pearl-like sheen with iridescent highlights. The dimple in the egg was cloudy, like a small area of gray woolen clouds, with the hint of clouds still remaining when they cleared away to some extent to reveal the face, which was a cartoon face, the sort of face that a human child, scribbling with crayons, might have drawn in its first attempt at art.
To one side of Smoky squatted Haystack, more like a haystack than a living creature, with the occasional twinkle of eyes glinting through the hay. Standing on the other side of Smoky was Decker II. Looking at him again, Tennyson sought some feature that would distinguish him from the authentic Decker. There was none; he was Decker come to life. In front of Smoky, Plopper was plopping all about, but covering not too great an area, simply plopping back and forth.
All about the room stood the cones, sinister in their stolid blackness. Functionaries of some sort, Tennyson wondered, or were they guards? That was foolish he thought, for against Jill and him there was no need of guards.
Whisperer spoke to Tennyson.
— Don't look around, he said, but the equation people have just now arrived.
— Do you have any idea of what is going on? asked Jill.
— I do not, said Whisperer. It is an audience of course, but its purpose I fail to catch. The Bubbly, I am certain, is up to no good, and watch out for the Plopper.
— The Plopper?
— The Plopper is the key.
Decker spoke to Tennyson. 'Smoky greets you and wishes to know if you have been well treated. Is there anything you wish?
'We have been well treated, said Tennyson. 'There is nothing that we wish.
The bubbly spoke in his grating guttural tones.
Decker said, 'Smoky says the Duster must go. He has an antipathy to Dusters. He does not want it here.
'You tell the Bubbly, said Tennyson, 'that the Duster stays.
'I warn you friend, said Decker, 'that this is most unwise.
'Nevertheless, please tell him that the Duster stays. He is one of us.
Decker spoke to the Bubbly and the Bubbly answered, his eyes gleaming out of the cloudy dimple straight at Tennyson.
'It is against his wish, said Decker, 'much against his wish, but in the hope of harmony and a fruitful conversation, he concedes the point.
— Mark one up for us, said Jill. He is not so tough.
— Don't kid yourself, said Whisperer.
'I thank you, said Tennyson. 'Tell the Bubbly that I thank him.
The Bubbly spoke again and Decker translated. 'We are glad that you came to us. We are always glad to meet new friends. The Center's aim is to work cooperatively with other life in the galaxy.
'We are glad to be here, Tennyson said shortly.
The Bubbly spoke, Decker translating, 'It would be proper now for you to tender us your credentials, with a statement of why you came, so kindly, to visit us.
'We have no credentials, said Tennyson. 'We are representing no one. We came as free members of the galactic society. We came as travelers.
'Then, perhaps, said the Bubbly, 'you would not mind telling how you came to know of us.
'Certainly, said Tennyson, 'all in the galaxy must know of the greatness of the Center.
'This one mocks us, Smoky said to Decker. 'He would make sport of us.
'I doubt it, said Decker. 'It is just his way of speaking. He is a rank barbarian.
The Bubbly said to Tennyson, 'Then your purpose. You must have had a purpose.
'We were looking around, said Tennyson. 'We were no more than giddy tourists.
— You're pushing it a bit, Jill said to Tennyson. You best ease off.
— He's fishing for information, said Tennyson. I'm not about to give any. It's apparent he doesn't know who we are or where we came from, and it's best he remain in ignorance.