Divinity

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  DIVINITY

  BY WILLIAM MORRISON

  ILLUSTRATED BY FREAS

  Bradley had one fear in his life. He had to escape regeneration. To do that, he was willing to take any chance, coward though he was--even if it meant that he had to become a god!

  Bradley seemed to have escaped regeneration. Now he had only death toworry about.

  Ten minutes before, he had been tumbling through the air head overheels, helpless and despairing. And before that--

  He remembered how his heart had been in his mouth as he had crept downthe corridor of the speeding ship. He could hear Malevski's voice comingfaintly through one of the walls, and had been tempted to run back,fearful of being shot down on the spot if he were caught. He had foughtback the temptation and kept on. No one had seen him as he crept intothe lifeboat.

  "This is your one chance," he told himself. "You have to take it. Ifthey get you back to port, you're finished."

  Luck had been with him. They were broadcasting the results of theMars-Earth matches at the time, and most of the crew were grouped aroundthe visors. He had picked the moment when news came of a sensationalupset, and for a minute or two after the lifeboat blasted off, no onerealized what had happened. When the truth did penetrate, they had ahard time swinging the ship around, and by then the lifeboat was out ofradar range. He was free.

  He had exulted wildly for a moment, until it struck him that freedom inspace might be a doubtful gift. He would have to get to some civilizedport, convince the port authorities that he had been shipwrecked andsomehow separated from the other crew members, and then lose himselfquickly in the crowd of people that he hoped would fill the place. Therewould be risks, but he would take them. It would be better than runningout of air and food in space.

  It had been the best possible plan, and it had gone wrong, all wrong. Hehad been caught, before he knew it, in the gravity of a planet he hadoverlooked. The lifeboat had torn apart under the combined stresses ofits forward momentum and its side rockets blasting full force, and hehad been hurled free in his space suit, falling slowly at first, thenfaster, faster, faster--

  The automatic parachutes had suddenly sprung into operation when hereached a critical speed, and he had slowed down and stopped tumbling.He fell more gently, feet first, and when he landed it was with a shockthat jarred but did no real damage.

  * * * * *

  Slowly he picked himself up and fumbled at the air valve. Something inthe intake tubes had jammed under the shock of landing, and the air wasno longer circulating properly. Filled with the moisture of his ownbreath, it felt hot and clammy, and clouded the viewplates.

  If he had kept all his wits about him he would have tried to remember,before he took a chance, whether the planet had an oxygen atmosphere,and whether the oxygen was of sufficient concentration to support humanlife. Not that he had any real choice, but it would have been good toknow. As it was, he turned the air valve automatically, and listenednervously as the stale air hissed out and the fresh air hissed in.

  He took a deep breath. It didn't kill him. Instead, it sent his bloodracing around with new energy. Slowly the moisture evaporated from hisviewplates. Slowly he began to see.

  He perceived that he was not alone. A group of people stood in front ofhim, respectful, their own eyes full of fear and wonder. Some oneuttered a hoarse cry and pointed at his helmet. The unclouding of theviewplates must have stricken them with awe.

  The air was wonderful to breathe. He would have liked to remove hishelmet and fill his lungs with it unhampered, expose his face to itssoft caress, expand his chest with the constriction of the suit. Butthese people--

  They must have seen him tumble down from the sky and land unhurt. Theycarried food and flowers, and now they were kneeling down to him as toa--Suddenly he realized. To them he was a god.

  The thought of it made him weak. To Malevski and the ship's crew he wasa criminal, a cheap chiseler and pickpocket, almost a murderer, escapingcredit for _that_ crime only by grace of his own good luck and hisvictim's thick skull. They had felt such contempt for him that theyhadn't even bothered to guard him too carefully. They had thought him acomplete coward, without the courage to risk an escape, without theintelligence to find the opportunities that might be offered to him.

  They hadn't realized how terrified he was of the thing with which theythreatened him. Regeneration, the giving up of his old identity? Not forhim. They hadn't realized that he preferred the risks of a dangerousescape to the certainty of _that_.

  And here he was a god.

  * * * * *

  He lifted his hand without thinking, to wipe away the perspiration thatcovered his forehead. But before the hand touched his helmet he realizedwhat he was doing, and let the hand drop again.

  To the people watching him the gesture must have seemed one of doublesignificance. It was at once a sign of acceptance of their food andflowers, and their offer of good-will, and at the same time an order towithdraw. They bowed, and moved backwards away from him. Behind him theyleft their gifts.

  They seemed human, human enough for the features on the men's faces toimpress him as strong and resourceful, for him to recognize that thewomen were attractive. And if they were human, the food must be fit forhuman beings. Whether it was or wasn't, however, again he had no choice.

  He waited until they were out of sight, and then, stiffly, he removedhis helmet and ate. The food tasted good. And with his helmet off, withthe wind on his face, and the woods around him whispering in his ears,it was a meal fit for the being they thought him to be.

  He was a god. Possibly it was the space suit which made him one,especially the goggle-eyed helmet. He could take no chance of becomingan ordinary mortal, and that would mean that he would have to wear thespace suit continually. Or at least the helmet. That, he decided, waswhat he would do. That would leave his body reasonably free, and at thesame time impress them with the fact that he was different from them.

  By manipulating the air valve he would be able to make the viewplatescloud and uncloud at will, thus giving dramatic expression to hisfeelings. It would be a pleasant game to play until he had learnedsomething of their language. It would be safer than trying to makethings clear to them with speech and gestures that they could notunderstand anyway.

  He wondered how long it would be before Malevski would find theshattered lifeboat drifting in space, and then trace its course anddecide where he had landed. That would be the end of his divinity.Meanwhile, until then--

  Until then he was a god. Unregenerated. Permanently unregenerated.Holding his helmet, he threw back his head and laughed loud and long,and wondered what his mother would have thought.

  * * * * *

  For awhile he was being left alone. They were afraid of him, of course,fearful of intruding with their merely mortal affairs upon themeditations of so divine a being. Later, however, curiosity and perhapsa desire to show him off to newcomers might draw them back. In theinterval, it would be well to find out what sort of place this was inwhich he had landed.

  He looked around him. There were trees, with sharp green branches, sharpgreen twigs, sharp red leaves. He shuddered as he thought of what wouldhave happened to him if he had fallen on the point of a branch. Thetrees seemed rigid and unbending in the wind that caressed his face.There were no birds that he could see. Small black objects bounded fromone branch to another as if engaged in complicated games of tag. Hewondered if the games were as serious as the one he had been playingwith Malevski, with him
self as It.

  * * * * *

  There were no ground animals in sight. If any showed up later, theycouldn't be too dangerous, not with the natives living here in suchapparent peace and contentment. There probably wouldn't be anything thathis pocket gun, which he had taken the precaution to remove from thelifeboat before that shattered, wouldn't be able to handle.

  Near him was a strange spring, or little river, or whatever you mightcall it. It broke from the ground, ran along the hard rocky surface fora dozen feet, and then plunged underground again. There were othersprings of a similar nature scattered here and there, and now herealized that their combined murmuring was the noise he had mistaken, onfirst removing his helmet, for the rustle of the wind in the woods.

  He would have enough to drink. The natives would bring him food. Whatelse could any reasonable man want?

  It wasn't the kind of life he had dreamed of. No Martian whiskey, nodrugs, no night spots, no bigtime gamblers slapping him on the back andcalling him