It was a picnic of pleasure. When the heavily laden procession came to a town the inhabitants all joined it to share the burdens a part of the way. They rolled over the foothills and up the flank of the Great Divide. When Jochann's golden barometer pinged he struck his staff into the ground and shouted, "This is the place."
In the mountain meadow there, looking out over a green valley with the ice-topped mountains as a back drop, the palace was constructed. They camped in a silken pavilion while the people labored with pleasure. Swiftly the building rose and was surrounded by gardens and fountains and music, and a great celebration was held when it was done.
"My darling, I must return to the palace to work," he told her in the privacy of their bed that night.
"I shall miss you, truly. will you return soon?"
"As quickly as I can. But when there is only one true God He cannot rest."
"I know. I shall be waiting."
The nine months passed quickly and Jochann had horse stations established along the route so he could travel post haste between the two palaces. He had planned to be there for the delivery, but he was detained on business and his son surprised him by an early arrival. The first inkling he had of the unexpected, though still blessed event was when a breathless and dusty messenger staggered into the throne room and sprawled before him holding up, with his last bit of strength, the forked stick with the message. Jochann read it and the universe reeled.
What chilled his blood was the apparent haste with which the note had been written and dispatched, and the fact something else had been written in place of "of interest" and then scratched out. When he held it to the light he saw that the word was
He killed three horses during that historic ride, and almost himself when an expiring mount collapsed at the edge of a cliff. But made it he did and burst open the door of the completely equipped and staffed hospital and seized the doctor by his coat and lifted him wriggling into the air.
"What has happened?" be shouted, hoarse-voiced and filthy, red-eyed with fatigue.
"Nothing, they are both fine," said the doctor, and would say no more until released.
"Your wife is fine, your son is fine. She wants to talk to you now and the nurse will help you clean up before you enter her room."
Chagrined, he submitted to the ministrations of the off-planet nurse hired for this occasion, then tiptoed in to Osie's room. They kissed and she smiled and patted the bed beside her.
"It has all been wonderful. Your son is blue-eyed and blond-haired, like his father, with a great voice and force of will. He is without infirmities and perfect in every way."
"I must see him!"
"The nurse is bringing him now. But first I must ask you something."
"Anything."
"During my studies I read about theology and understood that man had made God in his own image."
"It is usually quoted the other way around, but that is true."
"Therefore if people believe strongly enough and hard enough that there is a God there will be a God."
"It could be argued that way. Could we have this discussion later since I admit to being distracted somewhat?"
"I am finished. And here is your son."
The baby was perfect as they had said. Already smiling and clenching small fists.
They had not told him that there was something else.
Floating, just four centimeters above his head, and moving when he moved, was a shining silver loop of light.
Waiting Place
AS SOON AS Jomfri stepped out of the screen of the matter transmitter, he realized that there had been a terrible mistake. For one thing his head hurt with a pain that almost blinded him, a classic symptom of MT malfunction. For another this was not his destination, not this gray and dusty chamber. He had been on his way home. Staggering, his arm before his eyes, he felt his way to the hard bench that was secured to one wall. He sat, slumped, with his head on his hands, and waited for the pain to ooze away.