The Earth Gods Are Coming

The Prophets of Earth slept crated in their thousands.

They filled the ship's bomb bays, lying quietly waiting in their machine-gleaming metal sheaths.

Each individual one was destined to conquer a world.

Each individual one lay there, quiescent in its capsule, awaiting the master command that would send it, one after the other, in strict mathematical order, out over a new and unknown world to plunge down to its destined consummation..

They were all alike and each one epitomized the embodiment of the Perfect Man.

Made by the cunning hands and brains of men they yet possessed the chilling power of striking awe into those charged with their care, protection and delivery. The knowledge that these godlike beings were composed of steel and plastic, of synthetic flesh and bones and blood, with memory-sponge brains and nuclear-battery hearts, did not dispel that cloying aura of unease and dread.

Prometheus raised fire for man and paid the price, and if from that fire man dared to raise other beings, would he in turn have to pay an even greater price?

Quietly the Prophets of Earth waited. Unawakened they lay, crated in their thousands, ready one by one to arise to the challenge of a new world and to go forth rejoicing and to proclaim the Word—which was the Word of Man.

-

The fear took him unawares as he leaned over emptiness. The bomb bay hived with activity. The keynote was speed. A hectic rush and hurry possessed all the crewmen sweating there. Movement flickered. Smells of sweat, acrid on the pumped air, of thick machine oil, of bearings smoking, all the tang of highly trained men busy about a task that had one end and one meaning. And the smell of fear clogging in his nostrils, the taste of bile in his throat.

The speed and the fear, hurrying along together, to coalesce as he pressed the button to evacuate the bomb bay.

Speed. The dully-shining steel flank of the capsule rolling on oiled bearings. Rush. Surge of meters as power tapped from the engines buried in the ship's core swamped from generators, subtly altered, to the terminals waiting on the capsule. Hurry. Check everything, check connections, circuits, resistances, anti-grav—check and triple check everything that would take that capsule out into space and from thence down onto the planet.

So little time!

"Move it along there, Adams. Get with it."

Himself shouting orders. Himself, Abd al-Malik ibn-Zobeir, despatch chief, bullying these men, hustling them along, riding them.

"Make it snappy, Zimmerman!" and "Get the lead out of your spacesuit, Lee Wong!"

So little time.

In three thousand years every second was precious.

Beneath him floated greenly-gray and white-stippled the sickle of the planet. The planet had no name. No name, at least, that men knew to record in their Galactic Almanacs. Perhaps in three thousand years or so when next men sailed in from space again to this planet they would have given it a name or, perhaps, they would use the name the people living down there used. If the plan was fulfilled the name they used would be Terran whichever way it was derived.

The ship, The Solarian CDB ship
Isabella,
had fleeted in from the stars following her precomputed flight path, and had completed one orbit about the planet during which the crew technicians had carried out all their checks and sampled, docketted and filed every detail it had been possible to obtain in the time and at the distance. Now, as she straightened on to a course that would take her out into space and on to the next stellar system, the Phrophet of Earth trundled along in its capsule, slipping a little on the bearings, positioning itself over the bomb drop.

The dropping crew were all clad in spacesuits of the heavy-duty type that were common in deep space. In a scientific civilization which could mass produce such marvels as the Prophets of Earth to spread the Word of Man, it was considered fitting that the final checks should be carried out by humans. Solterran scientific resources were strained almost beyond the point of containment by the Dissemination Project, so the ship used trained crewmen because even their fantastically complex, lengthy and expensive indoctrination was cheaper than using androids or robots. Especially for this sort of job, when they were away from Earth for years on end.

"All checked. All clear. Ready on signal."

The reports flowed in over Abd al-Malik's headset. He gave a last long look around the bomb bay, scrutinizing every detail of the predrop layout. Then, holding off the fear alive within him, he pressed the lock button. The bomb bay's inner doors were already closed above the despatch crew's head; at the pressure on the button the cycling light glowed and, smoothly, without draught, the bay evacuated of air.

The outer bomb bay doors opened.

Between himself and Space lay—space.

The glimmering sickle of the planet far beneath hung so that he could reach out a gauntleted hand and pluck it from the night sky, brushed with stars. He swallowed, fighting the fear. This was just routine, just another drop, just one more in the regulation five thousand, just another duty call in a life that had been trained and drilled to do exactly what he was doing now. The capsule containing the Prophet of Earth would be jettisoned, the light would blink the all-clear, and he would close up the bomb bay doors; the blessed air would gush back into the bay and he could shuck his space suit and go back to his quarters and forget that he had been standing perched over nothingness.

Only—now he was hanging over emptiness—
now.

"All okay, Abdul?" The voice in his helmet startled him.

Again he swallowed, thankful they were not using throat microphones. A despatch chief wore a golden symbol—a gold-thread capsule and a silver-thread spaceship—on his right sleeve. That meant something. That meant he had worked and studied and kept in line for his promotion—and it meant these men of the despatch crew jumped when he said so.

"All okay," he said harshly. "Prepare to drop."

Now arrived the moment.

As crew chief he had to personally superintend the capsule that was plummeting through the opening precisely to the microsecond. His own all-clear had gone via miles of wiring up to the bridge. Up there the officers and techs had computed the exact co-ordinates for dropping. They would align the ship, ride her up to the dropping area and—right on the dot—flash for capsule away.

After all that, it was up to him, personally, to see that the capsule was released, was set free at the exactly predetermined time. That was why he wore the gold and silver symbol on his sleeve.

He could hear his crew's breathing over the headset. There was a waiting, animal alertness in the quiet rhythm. He tried to control his own unsteady breathing and only made it worse. His helmet wipers were already working, clearing the sweat away. His stomach was somewhere aboard
Isabella
but he doubted that it was anywhere near himself.

On his crew chief's panel the green light flickered, changed to amber. His tongue rasped over his lips.

The red light came on.

No sound came in the airlessness from the capsule clamps. But the first two went up, the thick metal bars smacking home against their retainers. The second pair followed, triggered fractionally later by the signal from the bridge so that the capsule could drop cleanly end on. The second pair ...

One hung up.

He stared at it, knowing what it meant, understanding that if man played at being God a sacrifice must be made. His training took over then, blasting aside the dark superstitious doubts and fears. He went scrabbling out along the supporting rail, his wrench ready, everything in him aimed at knocking that release clamp over and getting rid of the capsule.

He swung the wrench in a calculated, skilful blow. The release resisted. He tried again, slamming the wrench in hard. They could bust him for this, break him right down to capsule oiler, send him to bunk in cheerless crew quarters far removed from his own little cubby; they could strip off his sleeve that gold and silver symbol.

One more good hard shrewd knock—the wrench slammed again at the clamp. It must have been partially freed by his earlier blows. He had used far too much power. The clamp flipped over smoothly and the wrench savaged around, pulling his arm with it, twisting his shoulder in the spacesuit, tugging at him.

Clumsy in the big suit he toppled off the rail.

Without thought, the black fear in him blanking all reason, he hooked one arm and leg into the capsule's handling rings.

Capsule and man—Prophet of Earth and son of Adam-went out the bomb bay together.

He had one single lucid thought that pierced him with its sheer pitiless logic.

A sacrifice had been needed.

He had known this would happen from the beginning.

Then the darkness that lay beyond reasoning engulfed him in a warm and comfortable blackness.

The Prophet of Earth that had been made by the hands of Man lay gently humming in its capsule awaiting the day of uprising into life—and Abd al-Malik ibn-Zobeir lay unconscious in his spacesuit, riding the capsule down onto the mystery of the planet beneath.

-

Roy Inglis glowered at his reflection in the shaving mirror and was abysmally displeased with what he saw.

He wiped the last of the scentless depilatory cream away from his cheeks and tossed the paper towel into the disposal. Look at him! There he shone from the mirror, lean-faced, black-eyed, radiating crows' feet giving him a permanently quizzical look about those eyes and upper nose, and a mean gash of mouth firmed down now into disgust lines as he stared right back at himself.

Soft.

That was the trouble. Too much desk flying from a comfortably padded armchair. The last time he'd been into space was over eighteen months ago, a courier assignment across to the Centaur System, a sparrow's hop twenty light-years off. No Earthman regarded slipping across to Mars or Venus or the moons of Saturn as going into space, and anyway, he hadn't even dodged up to the Moon in a month.

He reached for his white shirt, released the magne clasps, put it on, shut the clamps, slung a drab gray and silver tie around his neck and, knotting it, stuck his tongue out at his reflection. He shuddered at the sight.

Soft.

Soft as Laura had been soft when he'd married her, seven years ago. Now, he was the softie and she was the tough, practical, bustling one, armored in her own competence.

The speaker in the wall above the mirror hissed, and then Laura's voice said, "Breakfast." The hissing cut.

Roy Inglis sighed, jerked his tie into final shape and whipped a comb through his hair. If he'd been living a few thousand years ago he'd have been losing that by now, seeing the dread telltale pink patches creeping up his skull.

Oh, well. There was always the office. The office brought unpleasant memories, and he was aroused by the hissing from the speaker and Laura's voice. There was more bite in it now. "Roy? Breakfast. Didn't you hear me?"

"Yes, dear. Coming right away."

He went through into the lounge, looking automatically out the window to see what Weather Bureau had contrived. He never bothered to read their arrangements in the paper or watch their reports over the TV. He fancied that weather, for some reason, should be unpredictable.

It would be the only unpredictable thing in life, he had often thought, sourly.

Laura glanced up from her reconstituted chicken. She was breathtakingly beautiful; well, she had every right to be the money she spent on herself. Inglis didn't begrudge her that extravagance. He liked her to look nice. He only wished, sadly, that some of that cosmetic treatment would put back the laugh lines, the gayness, the thought of life and fun first and Laura Inglis second.

The day was going to be fine, with sufficient cloud to temper the sun. Up here, fifty floors above ground level, the breeze slithered against the picture window, not unpleasantly.

Inglis bent down and touched his lips to Laura's cheek. That was a routine he had been indoctrinated into as thoroughly as he had learned to handle the fire controls of a Zeus-type cruiser. Something that had been, at first, outside his expected functions. He sat down, flipped open the paper napkin, and began to eat his reconstituted bacon and eggs. He was not fond enough of chicken, like Laura, to desire it for breakfast. Laura said nothing, eating.

He wondered if he had mussed her makeup; but that was hardly possible. He hadn't moved his lips—a straight run in on target, capsule delivery, a clean run out—anyway, that costly a facial didn't muss.

What was he doing dreaming of capsule delivery? He'd finished his stint on that the year before he'd married Laura. Nobody came out quite the same; merely handling the Prophets of Earth subtly changed a man's thinking processes in ways far beyond the planetbound imaginations of those excused the duty.

Laura said, "We are dining with Laurence* Tung Chih Men tonight, Roy. I'd appreciate it if you were particularly attentive to his wife."

Inglis contrived to carry on eating placidly. "Very well dear."

"Mister Tung has important mining interests out beyond the Chandelier cluster, I've heard he owns over half the planets there, and—"

"I know, dear. I've met him."

That was a mistake.

Laura was gathering her massive arsenal of injured womanhood, sarcastic citizen, misunderstood wife, when Inglis was saved by the telephone bell. He rose at once, dabbing his lips with the napkin, thankful that what promised to be a growing and monumental row had been postponed.

"Excuse me, dear. Phone."

Quite deliberately, he took the call in the lobby. The screen lit up and a pert, selfconsciously efficient young female-rating's face showed. She said, "Colonel Inglis?"

"Speaking."

A shadow moved in the doorway. So Laura hadn't been able to resist finding out even what this early morning call held. Oh, well.

The communications rating said, "Colonel Inglis. A message from Admiral Rattigan. Would you please call on him as soon as you can. Your office has been informed."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you. Goodby."

His hand had not left the cut off switch before Laura spoke.

"Who is this Admiral Rattigan? I've never heard of him."

Inglis did not say what immediately occurred to him. Instead, he smiled, and said, "I've never met him. I think he's a pretty big bug in the CDB—"

"Them!" Laura's face was tight now with sudden fear-sudden selfish fear, Inglis felt, watching her with the dis-passion that sometimes shocked him.

"I finished my stint before I met you, remember? Now let's finish breakfast, then I'll be off. Admirals do not like to be kept waiting. Especially by officers of another service."

By the time he had breakfasted, put on his well-cut gray civilian coat, found his briefcase and cane and dialed for the flier, he was suffocated by the luxury flat, as usual. The fresh air outside was like wine. He drove quickly but skilfully through the airlanes, heading for the CDB block rising in isolated grandeur on the south bank of the river. The city had been of enormous extent before sociological planning had defined limits, contracting here, expanding there, trimming, organizing and finishing up with planned comfort, space and security for every individual on planet. Now sunshine glinted from spire and pinnacle and manmade glass cliffs submerged and part of the abundant greenery-trees and forests growing half way up the tallest towers on their ziggurats. The city was a beautiful place, well enough. A man or woman could leave a whole lot of the Galaxy unexplored and remain quite happy here. But, even then, riding across town with that luxurious beauty spread about him as a feast for the eyes and senses, Inglis allowed himself to hope that Rattigan would have an off-system mission for him.

The tower came up and he slipped his flier into the indicated lane, flashed his ident cipher and switched over to auto. He locked the manuals and leaned back, taking out a green cigar and lighting up; the first today.

Somewhere in that plastic and glass colossus a robotic brain was charting all the myriad fliers, buzzing merrily in and out, sorting them into lanes, bringing them in to then-correct landing stages, channeling them out and handing over to other traffic controls in the city. Inglis waited until his flier touched down, in quiet composure. Any man who spends much time in space grows accustomed to waiting.

There was a uniformed human attendant at the landing stage; a slip of a girl in smart uniform that showed rather too much leg for razor-sharp discipline. She didn't smile, checking the vehicles in. She'd probably been on duty for about an hour and was already heartily sick of it.

She directed Inglis' flier into a garage and Inglis to a reception room. Here another young girl who might have been the third of the triplets he had seen that morning told him to wait in a comfortable lounge.

Despite his own phlegmatic acceptance of procedure, Inglis began to wonder. After all, the Solarian Culture Dissemination Bureau was an extremely powerful organization in the hierarchy of ministries, departments and bureaus administering the Solar Commonwealth of Stars. If they wanted to bother their heads over a relatively insignificant colonel —no, why bother to cavil? A completely insignificant colonel of Marines; then, if they were interested in him, he would have expected a much longer run around than this. No forms, in quintuplicate, for instance.

Inglis allowed himself to become a little excited.

The receptionist looked up. She was listening to her instruments. Then, without smiling; but with perfect courtesy and politeness, she said, "Would you go through door fifteen, please, Colonel Inglis?"

"Thank you," Inglis said, rising. Door fifteen took him into a corridor with another door opposite. He went through. Through that door was another. He went through.

A very large, very silent, very craggy man in total black, cradling a small hand machine gun, felt Inglis' clothes, grunted and indicated that he was clean and could go ahead.

By this time Inglis didn't know whether to be extremely annoyed, extremely frightened or to laugh.

The last door took him into a vestibule. Soft lights and a thick carpet reassured him, giving him the information that he was back in civilization once again. He walked forward into a wide, high-ceilinged room. The walls were covered with what he recognized as maps even though they were security blanketed. Scattered about were a few welcoming armchairs, a table or so with drinks carelessly standing. A communications panel covered the end wall, in front of which stood celestial globes which were not at that moment alight—and the outstretched hand and beamingly fatuous face of Dick Myrtle.

"Roy! You old landlubber! How are you?"

"Dick! I thought they'd pensioned you off years ago. How are you, you busted drive tube, you?"

Inglis was genuinely pleased to see Dick Myrtle again. They'd been shipmates scores of times, and yet in the odd way these things always go, since they'd parted company from the old
Sappho
they'd never even tried to contact each other.

"Married?" Myrtle was saying. Oddly, some of the welcoming gleam went out of his face. But he was still the same old fooling, never-serious Myrtle as he turned to the room's only other occupant.

"Sorry, Gus. Old shipmates, you know."

"That's okay, Dick. Gave me a chance to size up your recommendation."

"Recommendation?" Inglis said, shaking the proffered hand. Gus was burly, his dark blue uniform giving added bulk to the figure, and his face had a scrubbed, raw-beef look that showed many tiny blue veins like marbling. His eyes were deep-set and shrouded; he was wearing a very small jewel in his left ear.

Only after all that registered did Inglis become aware of the enormous weight on the sleeve Gus wore.

He swallowed. He had been about to make some jocular remark. Instead, he said, "Colonel Inglis reporting as ordered, Admiral."

How—why—was nitwitted Dick Myrtle calling a full space navy Admiral, Gus?

Admiral Rattigan motioned to the chairs. As he sat down, he grunted, then said, "I've a job for you, Roy. You've been out disseminating capsules. You know the score. Well, we're up against what we planned against."

"Three thousand years time?" said Inglis.

"No. Nothing vague or futuristic. We're up against the evil—here and now!"

-