And the logical concomitant, the law of worship. _Thou shalt have no gods before Me._ * * * * * The apostles ... Mark, Luke and John. Later, Matthew, Philip, Peter, Simon, Andrew, James, Bartholomew and Thomas. He had a feeling that something was wrong with the list besides the omission of Judas--unluckily, he had no Bible--but it was really an academic question. They were _his_ apostles, not that Other's. The pattern repeated itself, he thought, but with variations. He understood now why he had shelved the project of Christianizing the natives, although one of his first acts had been to abolish their pagan sects. He had told himself at first that it was best to wait until he had put down from memory the salient parts of the Holy Bible--Genesis, say, the better-known Psalms, and a condensed version of the Gospels; leaving out all the begats, and the Jewish tribal history, and awkward things like the Songs of Solomon. (_Thy mandibles are like pomegranates_ ... no, it wouldn't do). And, of course, he had never found time to wrack his brains for the passages that eluded him. But all that had been merely a subterfuge to soothe his conscience, while he slowly felt his way into his new role. Now, it was almost absurdly simple. He was writing his own holy book--or rather, Luke, Thomas, and a corps of assistants were putting it together from his previous utterances, to be edited by him later. The uneasy rustling of chitinous arms against white robes recalled him from his meditation. The swarm of priests, altar boys, and the rest of his retinue was still gathered around him, waiting until he should deign to notice them again. Really, God thought with annoyance, this woolgathering--at such a moment! * * * * * The worshippers were massed in the Temple. A low, excited twittering rose from them as He appeared and walked into the beam of the spotlight. The dark lenses of television cameras were focused on Him from every part of the balcony at the rear of the hall. The microphones were ready. Weaver walked forward as the congregation knelt, and waited an impressive moment before He spread His hands in the gesture that meant, "Rise, my children." Simon, previously coached, translated. The congregation rose again, rustling, and then was still. At a signal from Simon, the choir began a skirling and screeching which the disciples warranted to be music--religious music, composed to fit the requirements He had laid down. Weaver endured it, thinking that some changes must come slowly. The hymn wailed to an end, and Weaver gripped the lectern, leaning carefully forward toward the microphones. "My children," He began, and waited for Solomon's twittering translation. "You have sinned greatly--" Twitter. "--and in many ways." Twitter. "But I have come among you--" Twitter. "--to redeem your sins--" Twitter. "--and make them as though they had never been." Twitter.