The Worshippers Read online

  Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  THE WORSHIPPERS

  BY DAMON KNIGHT

  ILLUSTRATED BY EMSH

  Destiny reached out a hand to Algernon Weaver--but he was a timid man, at first. But on the strange world of Terranova, there was much to be learned--of destiny, and other things....

  It was a very different thing, Algernon Weaver decided, actually totravel in space. When you read about it, or thought about it in terms ofwhat you read, it was more a business of going from one name to another.Algol to Sirius. Aldebaran to Epsilon Ceti. You read the names, and thedescriptions that went with them, and the whole thing--althoughbreathtaking in concept, of course, when you really stopped to_meditate_ on it--became rather ordinary and prosaic and somehow moreunderstandable.

  Not that he had ever approved. No. He had that, at least, to look backupon; he had seen the whole enterprise as pure presumption, and had saidso. Often. The heavens were the heavens, and Earth was Earth. It wouldhave been better--_much_ better for all concerned--if it had been leftthat way.

  He had held that opinion, he reminded himself gratefully, from the verybeginning, when it was easy to think otherwise. Afterward, ofcourse--when the first star ships came back with the news that spacewas aswarm with creatures who did not even resemble Man, and had neverheard of him, and did not think much of him when they saw him.... Well,who but an idiot could hold any other opinion?

  If only the Creator had not seen fit to make so many human beings in Hisimage but without His common sense....

  Well, if He hadn't then for one thing, Weaver would not have been wherehe was now, staring out an octagonal porthole at an endless sea ofdiamond-pierced blackness, with the empty ship humming to itself allaround him.

  * * * * *

  It was an entirely different thing, he told himself; there were nonames, and no descriptions, and no feeling of going from one known placeto another known place. It was more like--

  It was like standing outdoors, on a still summer night, and looking upat the dizzying depths of the stars. And then looking down, to discoverthat there was no planet under your feet--and that you were all alone inthat alien gulf....

  It was enough to make a grown man cry; and Weaver had cried, often, inthe empty red twilight of the ship, feeling himself hopelessly andforever cut off, cast out and forgotten. But as the weeks passed, a kindof numbness had overtaken him, till now, when he looked out the portholeat the incredible depth of sky, he felt no emotion but a thin,disapproving regret.

  Sometimes he would describe himself to himself, just to refute thefeeling that he was not really here, not really alive. But his mind wastoo orderly, and the description would come out so cold andterse--"Algernon James Weaver (1942- ) historian, civic leader, poet,teacher, philosopher. Author of _Development of the School System inSchenectady and Scoharie Counties, New York_ (pamphlet, 1975); _AnAddress to the Women's Clubs of Schenectady, New York_ (pamphlet, 1979);_Rhymes of a Philosopher_ (1981); _Parables of a Philosopher_ (1983),_Reflections of a Philosopher_ (1986). Born in Detroit, Michigan, son ofa Methodist minister; educated in Michigan and New York public schools;B.A., New York State University, 1959; M.A., N.Y.S.U. Extension, 1964.Unmarried. Surviving relatives--"

  That was the trouble, it began to sound like an obituary. And then thegreat humming metal shell would begin to feel like a coffin....

  Presumption. Pure presumption. None of these creatures should have beenallowed to get loose among the stars, Man least of all. It clutteredup the Universe. It undermined Faith. And it had got Algernon Weaverinto the devil of a fix.

  * * * * *

  It was his sister's fault, actually. She would go, in spite of hisadvice, up to the Moon, to the UN sanatorium in Aristarchus. Weaver'ssister, a big-framed, definite woman, had a weak heart and seventy-fivesuperfluous pounds of fat. Doctors had told her that she would livetwenty years longer on the Moon; therefore she went, and survived thetrip, and thrived in the germ-free atmosphere, weighing just one-sixthof her former two hundred and ten pounds.

  Once, she was there, Weaver could hardly escape visiting her. Harrietwas a widow, with large resources, and Weaver was her only nearrelative. It was necessary, it was prudent, for him to keep on her goodside. Moreover, he had his family feeling.

  He did not like it, not a minute of it. Not the incredible trip, risingtill the Earth lay below like a botched model of itself; not the silentmausoleum of the Moon. But he duly admired Harriet's spacious room inthe sanatorium, the recreation rooms, the auditorium; space-suited, hewalked with her in the cold Earthlight; he attended her on the excursiontrip to Ley Field, the interstellar rocket base on the far side of theMoon.

  The alien ship was there, all angles and planes--it came from ZetaAurigae, they told him, and was the second foreign ship to visit Sol.Most of the crew had been ferried down to Earth, where they wereinspecting the people (without approval, Weaver was sure). Meanwhile,the remaining crewman would be pleased to have the sanatorium partyinspect _him_.

  * * * * *

  They went aboard, Harriet and two other women, and six men counting theguide and Weaver. The ship was a red-lit cavern. The "crewman" turnedout to be a hairy horror, a three-foot headless lump shaped like aneggplant, supported by four splayed legs and with an indefinite numberof tentacles wriggling below the stalked eyes.

  "They're more like us than you'd think," said the guide. "They'remammals, they have a nervous organization very like ours, they'resusceptible to some of our diseases--which is very rare--and they evenshare some of our minor vices." He opened his kit and offered the thinga plug of chewing tobacco, which was refused with much tentacle-waving,and a cigar, which was accepted. The creature stuck the cigar into thepointed tip of its body, just above the six beady black eyes, lit itwith some sort of flameless lighter, and puffed clouds of smoke like avolcano.

  "--And of course, as you see, they're oxygen breathers," the guidefinished. "The atmosphere in the ship here is almost identical to ourown--we could breathe it without any discomfort whatever."

  _Then why don't we?_ Weaver thought irritably. He had been forced towear either a breathing mask or a pressure suit all the time he had beenon the Moon, except when he had been in his own sealed room at thesanatorium. And his post-nasal drip was unmistakably maturing into acold; he had been stifling sneezes for the last half hour.

  He was roused by a commotion up ahead; someone was on the floor, and theothers were crowding around. "Help me carry her," said the guide's voicesharply in his earphones. "We can't treat her here. What is she, a heartcase?... Good Lord. Clear the way there, will you?"

  Weaver hurried up, struck by a sharp suspicion. Indeed, it was Harrietwho was being carried out--and a good thing, he thought, that theydidn't have to support her full weight. He wondered vaguely if she woulddie before they got her to a doctor. He could not give the thought hisfull attention, or feel as much fraternal anxiety as he ought, because--

  He had ... he _had_ to sneeze.

  * * * * *

  The others had crowded out into the red-lit space of the control room,where the airlock was. Weaver stopped and frantically tugged his armfree of the rubberoid sleeve. The repressed spasm was an acute agony inhis nose and throat. He fumbled the handkerchief out of his pocket,thrust his hand up under the helmet--and blissfully let go.

  His eyes were watering. He wiped them hurriedly, put the handkerchiefaway, worked his arm back into the sleeve, and looked around to see whathad become of the others.

  The airlock door was closed, and there was no one in the room but thehairy
eggplant shape of the Aurigean, still puffing its cigar.

  "Hey!" said Weaver, forgetting his manners. The Aurigean did notturn--but then, which was its front, or back? The beady black eyesregarded him without expression.

  Weaver started forward. He got nearly to the airlock before a cluster ofhairy tentacles barred his way. He said indignantly, "Let me out, youmonster. Let me out, do you hear?"

  The creature stood stock-still in an infuriating attitude until a littlelight on the wall changed from orange to red-violet. Then it crossed tothe control board, did something there, and the inner door of the lockswung open.

  "Well, I should think so!" said Weaver. He stepped forward again--Buthis eyes were beginning to water. There was an intolerable tickling farback in his nostrils. He was going to--he was--

  Eyes squeezed shut, his whole body contorted with effort, he raised hisarm to begin the desperate race once more. His hand brushed againstsomething--his