"You just better undo him!" Pat shrieked, clenching her small fists. "If you don't undo him you'll have Terran Metals after you. Even a god can't stand up to Horace Bradshaw."
"Better change him back," Eric said.
"It'll do him good," the god said. "I'll leave him that way for a couple of centuries—"
"Centuries!" Pat exploded. "Why, you little blob of slime!" She advanced ominously toward the box, shaking with wrath. "See here! You turn him back or I'll take you out of your box and drop you into the garbage disposal unit!"
"Make her be still," the god said to Eric.
"Calm down, Pat," Eric implored.
"I will not calm down! Who does it think it is? A present! How dare you bring this moldy bit of refuse into our house? Is this your idea of a—"
Her voice ceased abruptly.
Eric turned apprehensively. Pat stood rigid, her mouth open, a word still on her lips. She did not move. She was white all over. A solid gray-white that made cold chills leap up Eric's spine. "Good Lord," he said.
"I turned her to stone," the god explained. "She made too much noise." It yawned. "Now, I think I'll retire. I'm a little tired, after my trip."
"I can't believe it," "Eric Blake said. He shook his head numbly. "My best friend a toad. My wife turned to stone."
"It's true," the god said. "We deal out justice according to how people act. They both got what they deserved."
"Can—can she hear me?"
"I suppose."
Eric went over to the statue. "Pat," he begged imploringly. "Please don't be mad. It isn't my fault." He gripped her ice-cold shoulders. "Don't blame me! I didn't do it." The granite was hard and smooth under his fingers. Pat stared blankly ahead.
"Terran Metals indeed," the god grumbled sourly. Its single eye studied Eric intently. "Who is this Horace Bradshaw? Some local deity, perhaps?"
"Horace Bradshaw owns Terran Metals," Eric said gloomily. He sat down and shakily lit a cigarette. "He's about the biggest man on Terra. Terran Metals owns half the planets in the system."
"Kingdoms of this world do not interest me," the god said noncommittally, subsiding and shutting its eye. "I will retire now. I wish to contemplate certain matters. You may wake me later, if you wish. We can converse on theological subjects, as we did on the ship coming here."
"Theological subjects," Eric said bitterly. "My wife a stone block and it wants to talk about religion."
But the god was already withdrawn, retired into itself.
"A lot you care," Eric muttered. Anger flickered in him. "This is the thanks I get for taking you off Ganymede. Ruin my household and my social life. Fine god you are!"
No response.
Eric concentrated desperately. Maybe when the god awoke it would be in a better mood. Maybe he could persuade it to turn Matson and Pat back to their usual forms. Faint hope stirred. He could appeal to the god's better side. After it had rested and slept for a few hours... .
If nobody came looking for Matson.
The toad sat disconsolately on the walk, drooping with misery. Eric leaned toward it. "Hey, Matson!"
The toad looked slowly up.
"Don't worry, old man. I'll get it to turn you back. It's a cinch." The toad didn't stir. "A lead-pipe cinch," Eric repeated nervously.
The toad drooped a little more. Eric looked at his watch. It was late afternoon, almost four. Tom's shift at Terran began in half an hour. Sweat came out on his forehead. If the god went on sleeping and didn't wake up in half an hour—
A buzz. The vidphone.
Eric's heart sank. He hurried over and clicked the screen on, steeling himself. Horace Bradshaw's sharp, dignified features faded into focus. His keen glance bored into Eric, penetrating his depths.
"Blake," he grunted. "Back from Ganymede, I see."
"Yes, sir." Eric's mind raced frantically. He moved in front of the screen, cutting off Bradshaw's view of the room. "I'm just starting to unpack."
"Forget that and get over here! We're waiting to hear your report."
"Right now? Gosh, Mr. Bradshaw. Give me a chance to get my things away." He fought desperately for time. "I'll be over tomorrow morning bright and early."
"Is Matson there with you?"
Eric swallowed. "Yes, sir. But—"
"Put him on. I want to talk to him."
"He—he can't talk to you right now, sir."
"What? Why not?"
"He's in no shape to—that is, he—"
Bradshaw snarled impatiently. "Then bring him along with you. And he better be sober when he gets here. I'll see you at my office in ten minutes." He broke the circuit The screen faded abruptly.
Eric sank wearily down in a chair. His mind reeled. Ten minutes! He shook his head, stunned.
The toad hopped a little, stirring on the walk. It emitted a faint, despondent sound.
Eric got heavily to his feet. "I guess we have to face the music," he murmured. He bent down and picked up the toad, putting it gingerly in his coat pocket. "I guess you heard. That was Bradshaw. We're going down to the lab."
The toad stirred uneasily.
"I wonder what Bradshaw is going to say when he sees you." Eric kissed his wife's cold granite cheek. "Good-bye, honey." He moved numbly down the walk to the street. A moment later he hailed a robot cab and entered it. "I have a feeling this is going to be hard to explain." The cab zipped off down the street. "Hard as hell to explain."
Horace Bradshaw stared in dumbfounded amazement. He removed his steel-rimmed glasses and wiped them slowly. He fitted them back on his hard, hawklike face and peered down. The toad rested silently in the center of the immense mahogany desk.
Bradshaw pointed shakily at the toad. "This—this is Thomas Matson?"
"Yes, sir," Eric said.
Bradshaw blinked in wonder. "Matson! What in the world has happened to you?"
"He's a toad," Eric explained.
"So I see. Incredible." Bradshaw pressed a stud on his desk. "Send in Jennings from the Biology Lab," he ordered. "A toad." He poked the toad with his pencil. "Is it really you, Matson?"
The toad chugged.
"Good Lord." Bradshaw sat back, wiping his forehead. His grim expression faded into sympathetic concern. He shook his head sadly. "I can't believe it. Some kind of bacterial blight, I suppose. Matson was always experimenting on himself. He took his work seriously. A brave man. A good worker. He did much for Terran Metals. Too bad he had to end this way. Well extend full pension to him, of course."
Jennings entered the office. "You wanted me, sir?"
"Come in." Bradshaw beckoned him impatiently in. "We have a problem for your department. You know Eric Blake here."
"Hi, Blake."
"And Thomas Matson." Bradshaw indicated the toad. "From the Nonferrous Lab."
"I know Matson," Jennings said slowly. "That is, I know a Matson from Nonferrous. But I don't recall—that is, he was taller than this. Almost six feet."
"This is him," Eric said gloomily. "He's a toad now."
"What happened?" Jennings' scientific curiosity was aroused. "What's the lowdown?"
"Its a long story," Eric said evasively.
"Can't you tell it?" Jennings scrutinized the toad professionally. "Looks like a regular type of toad. You're sure this is Tom Matson? Come clean, Blake. You must know more than you're telling!"
Bradshaw studied Eric intently. "Yes, what did happen, Blake? You have a strange, shifty look. Are you responsible for this?" Bradshaw half rose from his chair, his grim face bleak. "See here. If it's your fault one of my best men has been incapacitated for further work—"