A Choice of Gods

"I think," said Jason, "that you may have known for years the location of the Earth, but you had no interest in it. You knew that it had little of value left, that it offered nothing but the room to live. And then, somehow, you heard a rumor about people left on Earth and how they could travel to the stars without any help at all—going anywhere they wished in the flicker of an eyelash—and how they talked telepathically across great distances. Perhaps not a true picture in the first rumor, but there were other rumors and the story built up and up. And you thought if only you could add this sort of ability to your technology you could progress the faster, that you'd increase your profits, that you'd have more power. And it wasn't until then that you thought of coming back to Earth."

"I fail to see the point of what you say," said Harrison. "The fact is we are here."

"The point is this," said Jason. "Don't use your threat to take over Earth in the belief that we are bluffing and will finally give in and give you what you want to keep you from colonizing Earth."

"And if we still decide to colonize?"

"Then you'll colonize. There's no way we can Stop you. Red Cloud's people will be swept away. The robotic dream may end. Two cultures that might have come to something will be cut off and you'll have a worthless planet on your hands."

"Not worthless," Reynolds said. "You should give us credit for the progress we have made. With what we have now Earth would have economic value as an outpost, as a base, as an agricultural planet. It would be worth our while."

The candles guttered in a wind that came out of nowhere and a silence fell—a silence, Jason thought, because all had been said that could be said and there was no use of saying further. This was the end of it, he knew. There was no compassion in these two men across the table; an understanding, perhaps, of what might be at stake, but a cold, hard understanding that they'd weigh to their own advantage. They'd been sent to do a job, these two here and the others up there in the ship orbiting the Earth—they had been sent to do a job and they meant to do it. It did not matter to them what might come about because they did the job—it had never mattered, neither now nor in the years before. Societies had been smashed, cultures erased, human lives and hopes used up, all decency ignored. All was sacrificed to progress. And what, he wondered, might progress be? How did one define it? Was it merely naked power, or was there more to it than that?

Somewhere a door banged and a rush of chill autumn air came with the banging of the door. Feet came down the hall and through the doorway came a robot that glittered as he walked.

Jason came swiftly to his feet. "Stanley," he said, "I'm glad that you could come, although I am afraid too late."

Stanley gestured at the two across the table.

"Are these the ones?" he asked.

"They are, indeed," said Jason. "I would like to have you meet…"

The robot brushed aside the introduction.

"Gentlemen," he said to them, "I have a message for you."

32

He came down the ridge that ran above the river, striding in the crisp, moonlit autumn night, and came to the edge of a cornfield where the shocks stood like ghostly wigwams. Behind him the mewling creature humped along, hurrying to keep pace with him, tagging at his heels. From somewhere across the field a coon made lonesome whickering.

David Hunt was coming back to the great house that stood above the rivers; now he could come back because he knew the answer or at least the begi

He still carried the bow and the quiver of arrows was slung across his shoulder, although now he knew he carried them from habit; he no longer needed them. He wondered, as he strode along, how long he may have carried them beyond the time of need.

Above the trees he could see the topmost stories and the chimney-studded roof of the great house, a blur of darkness against the nighttime sky, and as he rounded a small tongue of timber that jutted out into the field, he saw the gleaming, metallic object that squatted there.

The sight of it brought him to a halt and he half crouched, as if the gleaming object might be an unknown danger, although even as he crouched, he knew what it was—a machine that brought men from the stars. Evening Star had told him of the threat posed to the Earth by such a ship that even then was heading toward the planet. And here it was; in the short time he'd been gone, it had arrived. But even so he felt a shiver of fear reach out and touch him and, touched by the fear, it seemed that he could see the indistinct outline of a shape that lurked behind the ship.

He moved backward a step and at the step, the shape moved out from behind the ship and it was strange that it should have been hidden by the ship, for it was larger than the ship. It was huge and, shadowy as it was, there was a brutality about it and as it lurched toward him he knew he had not outrun it, for all the miles he had covered. There was no outru

The Dark Walker lurched another ponderous step and David turned to run, then spun back again to face the oncoming shadow-thing. If he ran now, he knew, he'd keep ru

Now, perhaps, there was no need to run.

It was closer now and he could see it better, although it bent forward, reaching for him, and the string came back, legs like tree trunks, a massive torso, a tiny head, clawed hands reaching out.

And in that moment it became, not the Dark Walker, but the grizzly bear rising from its bed and towering over him, too close to shoot, far too close to shoot. Without even thinking of it, his hand went back to grasp an arrow and the bow came up and his mind—or the thing inside his mind, the power inside his mind—went crashing out.

It did not drop as the grizzly had dropped. It faltered, bent forward, reaching for him, and the string came back, almost to the bowman's ear, with the arrow steady. The Walker dropped away and the arrow whistled and struck against the gleaming ship with a clanging sound. The Walker was no longer there.

David Hunt lowered the bow and stood shaking. He slumped to his knees and huddled, muscles twitching, nerves as taut as bowstrings. The can of worms moved closer to him, pressed hard against him, grew a tentacle and held him tight, broadcasting unheard comfort.