“Did you get a look at these Sacred Books, or find out what they might be?”
Loudons shook his head disgustedly. “Every time I brought up the question, they evaded. The Tenant sent the Reader out to bring in this old lady, Irene Klein—she was a perfect gold mine of information about the history and traditions of the Toon, by the way—and then he sent him out on some other errand, undoubtedly to pass the word not to talk to us about their religion.”
“I don’t get that,” Altamont said. “They showed me everything they had—their gunshop, their powder mill, their defenses, everything.” He smoked in silence for a moment. “Say, this slain god couldn’t be the original platoon commander, could he?”
“No. They have the greatest respect for his memory—decorate his grave regularly, drink toasts to him—but he hasn’t been deified. They got the idea for this deity of theirs out of the Sacred Books.” Loudons gnawed the end of his cigar and frowned. “Monty, this has me worried like the devil, because I believe that they suspect that you are the Slain and Risen One.”
“Could be, at that. I know the Tenant came up to me, very respectfully, and said, ‘I hope you don’t think, sir, that I was presumptuous in trying to display my humble deductive abilities to you.’ ”
“What did you say?” Loudons demanded rather sharply.
“Told him certainly not; that he’d used a good quick method of demonstrating that he and his people weren’t like those mindless subhumans in the woods.”
“That was all right. I don’t know how we’re going to handle this. They only suspect that you are their deity. As it stands, now, we’re on trial, here. And I get the impression that logic, not faith, seems to be their supreme religious virtue; that skepticism is a religious obligation instead of a sin. That’s something else that’s practically unheard of. I wish I knew—”
Tenant Mycroft Jones, and Reader Stamford Rawson and Toon Sarge Verner Hughes, and his son Murray Hughes, sat around the bare-topped table in the room, on the second floor of the Aitch-Cue House. A lighted candle flickered in the cool breeze that came in through the open window throwing their shadows back and forth on the walls.
“Pass the tantalus, Murray,” the Tenant said, and the youngest of the four handed the corncob-corked bottle to the eldest. Tenant Jones filled his cup, and then sat staring at it, while Verner Hughes thrust his pipe into the toe of the moccasin and filled it. Finally, he drank about half of the clear wild-plum brandy.
“Gentlemen, I am baffled,” he confessed. “We have three alternate possibilities here, and we dare not disregard any of them. Either this man who calls himself Altamont is truly He, or he is merely what we are asked to believe, one of a community like ours, with more of the old knowledge than we possess.”
“You know my views,” Verner Hughes said. “I cannot believe that He was more than a man, as we are. A great, a good, a wise man, but a man and mortal.”
“Let’s not go into that, now.” The Reader emptied his cup and took the bottle, filling it again. “You know my views, too. I hold that He is no longer upon earth in the flesh, but lives in the spirit and is only with us in the spirit. There are three possibilities, too, none of which can be eliminated. But what was your third possibility, Tenant?”
“That they are creatures of the Enemy. Perhaps that one or the other of them is the Enemy.”
Reader Rawson, lifting his cup to his lips, almost strangled. The Hugheses, father and son, stared at Tenant Jones in horror.
“The Enemy—with such weapons and resources!” Murray Hughes gasped. Then he emptied his cup and refilled it. “No! I can’t believe that; he’d have struck before this and wiped us all out!”
“Not necessarily, Murray,” the Tenant replied. “Until he became convinced that his agents, the Scowrers, could do nothing against us, he would bide his time. He sits motionless, like a spider, at the center of the web; he does little himself; his agents are numerous. Or, perhaps, he wishes to recruit us into his hellish organization.”
“It is a possibility,” Reader Rawson admitted. “One which we can neither accept nor reject safely. And we must learn the truth as soon as possible. If this man is really He, we must not spurn Him on mere suspicion. If he is a man, come to help us, we must accept his help; if he is speaking the truth, the people who sent him could do wonders for us, and the greatest wonder would be to make us, again, a part of a civilized community. And if he is the Enemy—”
“If it is really He,” Murray said, “I think we are on trial.”
“What do you mean, son? Oh, I see. Of course, I don’t believe he is, but that’s mere doubt, not negative certainty. But if I’m wrong, if this man is truly He, we are being tested. He has come among us incognito; if we are worthy of Him, we will penetrate His disguise.”
“A very pretty problem, gentlemen,” the Tenant said, smacking his lips over his brandy. “For all that it may be a deadly serious one for us. There is, of course, nothing that we can do tonight. But tomorrow, we have promised to help our visitors, whoever they may be, in searching for this crypt in the city. Murray, you were to be in charge of the detail that was to accompany them. Carry on as arranged, and say nothing of our suspicions, but advise your men to keep a sharp watch on the strangers, that they may learn all they can from them. Stamford, you and Verner and I will go along. We should, if we have any wits at all, observe something.”
“Listen to this infernal thing!” Altamont raged. “Wielding a gold-plated spade
