"A dog?" asked Sam.
"Just so," Jan replied.
Jan filled the silence and two glasses with a splashing of alcohol.
"Thanks."
"Happy hellfire." He replaced the bottle on his workstand.
"On an empty stomach yet. . . . You make that yourself?"
"Yep. Got a still in the next room."
"Congratulations, I guess. If I had any bad karma, it should all be dissolved by now."
"The definition of bad karma is anything our friends the gods don't like."
"What made you think you had some?"
"I wanted to start passing out machines among our descendants here. Got batted down at Council for it. Recanted, and hoped they'd forget. But Accelerationism is so far out now that it'll never make it back in during my lifetime. Pity, too. I'd like to lift sail again, head off toward another horizon. Or lift ship. . ."
"The probe is actually sensitive enough to spot something as intangible as an Accelerationist attitude?"
"The probe," said Jan, "is sensitive enough to tell what you had for breakfast eleven years ago yesterday and where you cut yourself shaving that morning, while humming the Andorran national anthem."
"They were experimental things when we left home," said Sam. "The two we brought along were very basic brain-wave translators. When did the breakthrough occur?"
"Hear me, country cousin," said Jan. "Do you remember a snot-nosed brat of dubious parentage, third generation, named Yama? The kid who was always souping up generators, until one day one blew and he was so badly burned that he got his second body-one over fifty years old-when he was only sixteen? The kid who loved weapons? The fellow who anesthetized one of everything that moves out there and dissected it, taking such pleasure in his studies that we called him deathgod?"
"Yes, I recall him. Is he still alive?"
"If you want to call it that. He now is deathgod-not by nickname, but by title. He perfected the probe about forty years ago, but the Deicrats kept it under wraps until fairly recently. I hear he's dreamed up some other little jewels, too, to serve the will of the gods . . . like a mechanical cobra capable of registering encephalogram readings from a mile away, when it rears and spreads its fan. It can pick one man out of a crowd, regardless of the body he wears. There is no known antidote for its venom. Four seconds, no more. . . . Or the fire wand, which is said to have scored the surfaces of all three moons while Lord Agni stood upon the seashore and waved it. And I understand that he is designing some sort of jet-propelled juggernaut for Lord Shiva at this moment. . . things like that."
"Oh," said Sam.
"Will you pass the probe?" Jan asked.
"I'm afraid not," he replied. "Tell me, I saw a machine this morning which I think may best be described as a pray-o-mat-are they very common?"
"Yes," said Jan. "They appeared about two years ago-dreamed up by young Leonardo over a short glass of soma one night. Now that the karma idea has caught on, the things are better than tax collectors. When mister citizen presents himself at the clinic of the god of the church of his choice on the eve of his sixtieth year, his prayer account is said to be considered along with his sin account, in deciding the caste he will enter-as well as the age, sex and health of the body he will receive. Nice. Neat."
"I will not pass the probe," said Sam, "even if I build up a mighty prayer account. They'll snare me when it comes to sin."
"What sort of sin?"
"Sins I have yet to commit, but which are being written in my mind as I consider them now."
"You plan to oppose the gods?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"I do not yet know. I shall begin, however, by contacting them. Who is their chief?"
"I can name you no one. Trimurti rules-that is, Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. Which of these three be chiefest at any one time, I cannot say. Some say Brahma-"
"Who are they-really?" asked Sam.
Jan shook his head. "I do not know. They all wear different bodies than they did a generation ago. They all use god names."
Sam stood. "I will return later, or send for you."
"I hope so. . . . Another drink?"
Sam shook his head. "I go to become Siddhartha once more, to break my fast at the hostel of Hawkana and announce there my intent to visit the Temples. If our friends are now gods then they must commune with their priests. Siddhartha goes to pray."
"Then put in no words for me," said Jan, as he poured out another drink. "I do not know whether I would live through a divine visitation."
Sam smiled. "They are not omnipotent."
"I sincerely hope not," replied the other, "but I fear that day is not far off."
"Good sailing, Jan."
"Skaal."
Prince Siddhartha stopped on the Street of the Smiths, on his way to the Temple of Brahma. Half an hour later he emerged from a shop, accompanied by Strake and three of his retainers. Smiling, as though he had received a vision of what was to come, he passed through the center of Mahartha, coming at last to the high, wide Temple of the Creator.
Ignoring the stares of those who stood before the pray-o-mat, he mounted the long, shallow stairway, meeting at the Temple entrance with the high priest, whom he had advised earlier of his coming.
Siddhartha and his men entered the Temple, disarming themselves and paying preliminary obeisances toward its central chamber before addressing the priest.
Strake and the others drew back a respectful distance as the prince placed a heavy purse in the priest's hands and said, in a low voice:
"I'd like to speak with God."
The priest studied his face as he replied, "The Temple is open to all. Lord Siddhartha, where one may commune with Heaven for so long as one wishes."
"That is not exactly what I had in mind," said Siddhartha. "I was thinking of something more personal than a sacrifice and a long litany."
"I do not quite follow you . . ."
"But you understand the weight of that purse, do you not? It contains silver. Another which I bear is filled with gold-payable upon delivery. I want to use your telephone."
"Tele . . . ?"
"Communication system. If you were of the First, such as I, you would understand my reference."
"I do not . . ."
"I assure you my call will not reflect adversely upon your wardenship here. I am aware of these matters and my discretion has always been a byword among the First. Call First Base yourself and inquire, if it will put you at ease. I'll wait here in the outer chamber. Tell them Sam would have words with Trimurti. They will take the call."
"I do not know. . ."
Sam withdrew the second purse and weighed it in the palm of his hand. The priest's eyes fell upon it and he licked his lips.
"Wait here," he ordered, and he turned on his heel and left the chamber.
Ili, the fifth note of the harp, buzzed within the Garden of the Purple Lotus.
Brahma loafed upon the edge of the heated pool, where he bathed with his harem. His eyes appeared closed, as he leaned there upon his elbows, his feet dangling in the water.
But he stared out from beneath his long lashes, watching the dozen girls at sport in the pool, hoping to see one or more cast an appreciative glance upon the dark, heavily muscled length of his body. Black upon brown, his mustaches glistened in moist disarray and his hair was a black wing upon his back. He smiled a bright smile in the filtered sunlight.
But none of them appeared to notice, so he refolded his smile and put it away. All their attention lay with the game of water polo in which they were engaged.
Ili, the bell of communication, buzzed once more, as an artificial breeze waited the odor of garden jasmine to his nostrils. He sighed. He wanted so for them to worship him-his powerful physique, his carefully molded features. To worship him as a man, not as a god.
But though his special and improved body permitted feats no mortal man could duplicate, still he felt uneasy in the presence of an old war horse like Lord Shiva-who, despite his adherence to the normal body matrix, seemed to hold far more attraction for women. It was almost as if sex were a thing that transcended biology; and no matter how hard he tried to suppress the memory and destroy that segment of spirit, Brahma had been born a woman and somehow was woman still. Hating this thing, he had elected to incarnate time after time as an eminently masculine man, did so, and still felt somehow inadequate, as though the mark of his true sex were branded upon his brow. It made him want to stamp his foot and grimace.
He rose and stalked off toward his pavilion, past stunted trees that twisted with a certain grotesque beauty, past trellises woven with morning glory, pools of blue water lilies, strings of pearls swinging from rings all wrought of white gold, past lamps shaped like girls, tripods wherein pungent incenses burnt and an eight-armed statue of a blue goddess who played upon the veena when properly addressed.
Brahma entered the pavilion and crossed to the screen of crystal, about which a bronze Naga twisted, tail in teeth. He activated the answering mechanism.
There was a static snowfall, and then he faced the high priest of his Temple in Mahartha. The priest dropped to his knees and touched his caste mark three times upon the floor.
"Of the four orders of gods and the eighteen hosts of Paradise, mightiest is Brahma," said the priest. "Creator of all. Lord of high Heaven and everything beneath it. A lotus springs forth from your navel, your hands churn the oceans, in three strides your feet encompass all the worlds. The drum of your glory strikes terror in the hearts of your enemies. Upon your right hand is the wheel of the law. You tether catastrophes, using a snake for rope. Hail! See fit to accept the prayer of your priest. Bless me and hear me, Brahma!'