and so on. But he hasn't been deified. They got the idea for this
god of theirs out of the Sacred Books."

Loudons put the cigar down again and returned to chewing his
mustache. "Monty, this has me worried like the devil:

"I believe that they suspect that you are the Slain and Risen
One!"

Altamont considered the idea, then nodded slowly. "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," Loudons approved, but then his worries
returned. "I don't know how we're going to handle this--"

"Jim, how about that pows business? Is there something there?"

"Monty!" Loudons voice was drily chiding as he took a pad of
paper and scribbled briefly. "Take a look and figure for
yourself."

Altamont looked at the paper. Loudons had simply printed the
first three letters of the word in capitals and separated each
letter with a period. "Ouch! Yes, of course, that's what an
infantry platoon would be guarding.

"Go ahead, Jim, this is your end of our business. I'll stay out
of it and, especially, I'll keep my mouth shut."

"I don't think you'll be able to," Loudons said soberly. "As
things stand now, they only suspect that you are their deity.

"And that means this: we're on trial here!"

"We have been in spots like this before, Jim," Altamont reminded
his friend.

"Not like this, Monty, and let me explain.

"I get the impression here that logic, not faith, is the supreme
religious virtue. And get this, Monty, because it's something
practically unheard of: skepticism is a religious obligation, not
a sin!

"I wish I knew...."

VII

Tenant Mycroft Jones, Reader Stamford Rawson, 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