DAYLIGHT had come back to Megatheopolis, bathing the terraces of the Sanctuary with a white splendor. There was a general feeling of emptiness and of dazed relief, as when, after a great hurricane, fisherfolk come out on the beach to talk in hushed voices of the might of the storm and of the damage it has wrought, to peer curiously at the wreckage washed ashore and incredulously at the highwater marks of last night’s waves.
Such a feeling was apparent in the faces of the commoners who wandered about the terraces in small groups-and not too many of those, for the victors in last night’s struggle were determined to keep matters well in hand. Later on the commoners would begin to talk in loud voices and poke at things and pry, but for the present they touched nothing, said little. Their eyes and their minds were too busy.
.They kept meeting priests who were wandering about even more aimlessly than themselves. At such times they merely stepped aside to avoid each other, without comment. Most of the priests wore ragged black armbands, perhaps torn from the robe of a dead deacon, to indicate that they had changed sides, although no one as yet had asked them to.
Occasionally the terraces were crossed by a man or woman who walked briskly and obviously knew what he or she was doing. Most of these wore a simple black tunic, but a few were still clothed as commoners or even as priests. On the shoulders of some peering familiars perched, like trained monkeys.
Necks were craned as a faint hissing broke the silence. Looming over the intervening structures, the Great God’s head was visible. A light scaffolding had been set up on the shoulders, and pygmy figures were setting to work in a businesslike way. There was the flicker of tiny blue flames. Onto the topmost terrace four figures issued-one in the scarlet and gold of an archpriest; two in black tunics; one-a woman-in drab homespun.
“Yes, it was very simple,” Sharlson Naurya was saying, and the after-the-storm emptiness was apparent in her words. “No alternate timestream, no dead come alive, nothing like that. But it was what Asmodeus had devised for you long ago, and so it worked-though the emergency forced us to make some changes. It was your familiar who influenced your thoughts by telepathy. Likewise it was he who called your name from your apartments. With one exception, the ghostly figures that appeared to you were telesolidographic projections, reconstructed on the basis of old duplicate solidographs preserved in the Hierarchic Dossiers of Commoners, the effect of normal aging being achieved by painstaking retouching. Telesolidographic projections also accounted for the seeming change in your room.
“You would have known that they were solidographs, except that you touched me and found me real. I placed myself in such a way that it would be me you touched. My clothes were impregnated and my skin filmed with a faintly glowing preparation, so that I would resemble the others.
“You found I was real-and yet you knew I could not be real, for you had just destroyed me with your wrath beam. There lay Asmodeus’ clinching subtlety. When you first saw me in your apartments, you saw a telesolidographic projection. That was what you destroyed. A sequence showing its blackening and dissolving had been faked and was switched on by the operator as soon as you activated your wrath ray. You may remember the time lag.
“Had the scheme failed, as by some error in timing, you would instantly have been killed and an alternate plan adopted. But it was better to let you live and make use of your power over the Hierarchy, to defeat it, than to kill you and by that action perhaps jar your overawed subordinates into taking over your responsibilities and the supreme command. Asmodeus died, but the Witchcraft triumphed, because there were those who could and did succeed him. With you it was just the other way.”
Goniface did not reply. Once again his face was a mask-to hide his bitter, nauseous selfcontempt. But he was not altogether without consolation. For he knew that the Hierarchy would still win out, although with no credit to himself. Almost slyly, he turned his head and looked beyond the Sanctuary walls. On this side, away from the commoners’ section, lay the Blasted Heath, an arid gray expanse of many acres, on which no vegetation grew. His gaze lingered there knowingly.
“All my life I have looked forward to this moment,” he heard Sharlson Naurya say, and there was a weariness apparent in her voice. “As if all my life I had been falling from the bridge and looking up at your face and willing the miraculous moment to come when I would be able to reach up and pull you after me. Now the moment has come and it means very little.”
The oddly distorted shadow of a man entered her field of vision. She looked up. The Black Man raised his hand in greeting. Dickon was responsible for the distortion. From his shoulder-perch he imitated his brother’s greeting. His fur was a gorgeous golden red in the sunlight.
“I have just come from Web Center,” the Black Man explained. “We have established contact with our forces in most of the key cities. There only remains the mopping-up of a few small towns and rural sanctuaries.”
Without any animosity, but with frank curiosity, he looked at Goniface, who slowly turned back from his contemplation of the Blasted Heath. The glances of the two leaders met. At that instant there came a distant roaring that grew momently louder, a curiously profound throbbing and drumming that seemed to shake the ground. Those wandering on the terrace gazed quickly toward the head of the Great God and the workmen who were still busy around the neck. But the new sound was too big for that.
Its thundering filled the sky. Something was coming from the sun, darkening it. There was a sluggish triumph in Goniface’s eyes, as he held those of the Black Man. “You’ve won,” he said, “but now you’ve lost. Late but not too late comes the aid we summoned from Heaven, bringing enough military machines to turn the tide and win back the scantily armored Earth.”
The thunder rose to a shattering climax. A great shadow darkened the Sanctuary. A vast ellipsoid construction appeared overhead from the direction of the sun and came to rest above the Blasted Heath, its mighty repulsor beams plowing like huge pillars into the gray soil, digging great pits. While it still rocked there aloft, circular ports began to open in its dully gleaming surface. Goniface waited for the look of dismay to come over his adversary’s face. But it never came. As the thunder died the Black Man smiled in a friendly way and said casually, “Oh, I know all about the relief ship from Luciferopolis. I came out to see it land. What you say about it is largely true. I also know that Lucifer is the name of the Morning Star-Venus. Unfortunately for the Hierarchy, it’s also one of the names of Satan. Of course, it’s understandable that you wouldn’t know about the recent turn of events there. Communications with Venus have been very bad, haven’t they? And not altogether because she’s moving toward opposition, I fancy. Still, I would have thought that you’d have guessed that the Witchcraft was operating on Venus, too-and that it would work a little faster in the colonies than on the mother planet. I imagine it’s been all over on Mars, too, for some time, but since Mars is on the other side of the Sun, it will be a couple of months before we find out for sure.”
He turned and looked up. From the open ports of the spaceship, black squadrons were darting, to the amazement and awe of the wanderers on the terrace, who looked as if they might start a panicky flight.
“They’ll be all angels, I imagine,” he commented. “Just refinished in black and touched up a bit. Except the bigger ones. You call those archangels and seraphim, I believe?
“You see, it was really our relief ship,” he went on reflectively. “I imagine that Asmodeus understood from the beginning that any revolt against the Hierarchy must be multi-planetary. Besides, the Hierarchy was always a bit more shaky in the two colonies. The colonies are supposed to have been a bit more in the right, I’m told, in the interplanetary war that paved the way for the Hierarchy. It would have taken a big war like the interplanetary one to have shattered the Golden Age, wouldn’t it now? The Blasted Heath itself is one of the scars of that war, isn’t it? Devilish weapons they used in those days. Ours would seem very puny to them by comparison.”
He looked sideways at Goniface. With a certain malicious humor, he remarked, “Must have been rather comforting for you priests to know that you could always call for aid from Heaven, or escape there if need be-and an ironic pleasure in knowing that the myth of mankind storming Heaven was no more than literally true. Well, now we’ll have a bit of Heaven on earth for a change.”
Goniface no longer sought to conceal his sick self-contempt.
“I hardly need remind you,” he said coldly, “that it would be just as well-indeed, very wise-to order my immediate execution. Unless you desire to enjoy further crude jibes at my expense.”
The Black Man laughed heartily. “I do enjoy them,” he said. “I seem to be one of the few who can enjoy that sort of thing.” This with a quick glance at Sharlson Naurya. Then he looked at Goniface and his voice grew somewhat more serious. “No, I’m afraid we can’t enjoy the luxury of that kind of revenge. We’re too shorthanded to spare material. The Hierarchy had its hands full managing the commoners, so our difficulties must be very obvious to you. We can’t spare a mind like yours. It occurs to me that Brother Dhomas would as soon remake personalities in one direction as another-all he cares about is the changing. Of course, it might not work. Jarles was rather a costly success, wasn’t he? Still, with suitable precautions, it’s worth a try.”
After the former World Hierarch had been led away, the Black Man and Sharlson Naurya watched the jittery excitement of the crowd as some of the black devil squadrons landed on the lower terraces and their Venusian colonist pilots emerged. Then they turned toward the Cathedral and noted that the workmen had almost completed their circuit of the Great God’s neck. He confided to her in an undertone. “I’m a lot more eager than I even admitted to put the best Hierarchic minds to work on our side. It’s no joke about us being shorthanded-especially considering what we want to do. And Asmodeus dead-oblivion be good to him! When I think of what’s coming! Things will be quiet for a few days, but after that- First of all, the commoners will want to kill off all the priests. There’s a little of that sort of thing going on right now. We’re their only protection. Next, the commoners are still thoroughly steeped in supernaturalism. They take it as a matter of course that the Witchcraft will be set up as a religion. They fully expect to go to church and find an image of Sathanas over the altar.
They’re probably already disappointed that there aren’t a lot more satanic miracles going on. When they find that we consider the Witchcraft finished, some of them will want to revive it against us. Others, a little later, will decide to revive the cult of the Great God. On top of all that, Hierarchic counterrevolutions will be attempted! I fear that all of us will spend very busy old ages-if we live that long. When you think of the work that’s going to be involved in educating the commoners and remaking their social system and gradually shifting them over to Hierarchic-I mean scientific-economy! For, of course, at the beginning we’ll have to maintain both economies-feudal and Hierarchic-which will inevitably suggest to some of our none-too-wellbalanced coworkers that it would be very convenient to revive the Hierarchy under a new name, with black robes instead of scarlet. Oh, things will be lively, never fear!”
As he broke off he noticed that a fat little priest with a black armband was peering at him and at Sharlson Naurya from a distance-timidly and nervously, as if debating whether to attempt to introduce himself and perhaps ask a favor. Apparently the looks he got in return frightened rather than encouraged him, for he turned and walked off rapidly.
“I know that priest,” said Naurya. “He was the one who-“
“I know him even better,” the Black Man interrupted. “Brother Chulian. Dear little Brother Chulian. Mild, soft, quite well-intentioned, but utterly selfish-and completely typical of the vast majority of them. When you think that we’ve got to integrate chaps like that back into their families, or at least back into the society of commoners, remembering-as you know well-that commoners are no paragons of loving kindness, but have been turned hard and cold by generations of useless, backbreaking toil-
Oh, well, we’ve been over that before. But doesn’t it suggest to you that I’ll need someone to comfort me during the years of exasperation and thankless labor ahead?”
And he looked very frankly at Sharlson Naurya.
And she looked back at him as frankly. For a moment the grave, tired lines of her face softened into a smile. Then she slowly shook her head and looked away. The Black Man followed the direction of her gaze.
He was standing at the far end of the uppermost terrace, his back to them, looking out into space. He still wore the scarlet robe of a Fourth Circle priest.
“Oh, I suppose you’re right,” the Black Man admitted rather unwillingly after a moment. “I suppose he deserves something, too, after the rough time he’s had. And I don’t suppose the provisional government will want to execute him for the murder of Asmodeus. Yes, I see your point, all right!” he finished rather sourly.
She nodded. “I’ve lived for a thing like revenge,” she said softly. “I’ve gone through something of the kind of hell he’s going through. When it was over, this morning, he tried to kill himself. I made him promise-“
As he turned to go, she added, “After all, you at least have a sense of humor to comfort you.”
“Yes,” he admitted. “But there are some situations in which a sense of humor isn’t very amusing.”
And with that he turned to walk away. But a crooked figure in rags and a peaked hat, accompanied by a black cat and hurriedly hobbling up the terraces, waved her cane at him to wait. To either side the commoners made way for her, bowing low and making awed reverences. They seemed rather relieved to see someone who was obviously and undeniably a witch. It satisfied their sense of what was fitting in the situation.
“Silly ninnikins!” was the contemptuous term that Mother Jujy applied to them when she arrived, somewhat out of breath, on the topmost terrace. “Everywhere bobbing and scraping to me, as if I were an archpriest or some other monstrosity! A few days ago they wanted to burn Mother July, but we don’t hear any talk of that now!”
“Greetings, ancient and honorable one,” said the Black Man. “Do you dislike the homage that is your due? Is there anything that you desire? You have only to ask.”
“Maybe I’ve come for my pint of blood,” she suggested darkly.
“Oh, Mother Jujy,” replied the Black Man, cutting short Dickon’s floridly piped gratitude, “that pint of blood is the most precious in the world. If we were going to put the Cathedral to its former use, I would have that pint of blood enshrined as the most sacred relic of them all.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” said Mother Jujy. “I’m a wicked old woman and I like vile sensations. That’s the only reason I let him play the vampire.” She leered at Dickon. “No, I didn’t come here to be buttered with praise. I want to know what’s going to happen to me.”
“I think you can be of very great help to us,” said the
Black Man thoughtfully. “We stand in need of your-er-No-nonsense point of view, and the commoners will want, even more than before, just that sort of counsel that you alone can give them. A kind of general liaison officer, perhaps-“
Mother Jujy emphatically shook her head. “No. A witch I am and a witch I remain! And I want to tell you I don’t like what’s going on! Why, your people are going around telling commoners that Sathanas doesn’t exist!”
“That’s right, Mother Jujy. The Hierarchy and the Witchcraft are both finished.”
“I don’t like it! You’ll get into trouble if you start giving away your secrets. That always happens.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” he said.
With a hollow reverberation, as of departing thunder, the head of the Great God crashed in the Square.
The End
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