THE
WORSHIPPERS
BY DAMON KNIGHT
ILLUSTRATED BY EMSH
It was a very different thing,Algernon Weaver decided, actuallyto travel in space. When youread about it, or thought aboutit in terms of what you read,it was more a business of goingfrom one name to another. Algolto Sirius. Aldebaran to EpsilonCeti. You read the names, andthe descriptions that went withthem, and the whole thing—althoughbreathtaking in concept,of course, when you really stoppedto meditate on it—becamerather ordinary and prosaic andsomehow more understandable.
Not that he had ever approved.No. He had that, at least, to lookback upon; he had seen the wholeenterprise as pure presumption,and had said so. Often. Theheavens were the heavens, andEarth was Earth. It would havebeen better—much better for allconcerned—if it had been leftthat way.
He had held that opinion, hereminded himself gratefully,from the very beginning, whenit was easy to think otherwise.Afterward, of course—when thefirst star ships came back withthe news that space was aswarmwith creatures who did not evenresemble Man, and had neverheard of him, and did not thinkmuch of him when they saw him....Well, who but an idiot couldhold any other opinion?
If only the Creator had notseen fit to make so many humanbeings in His image but withoutHis common sense....
Well, if He hadn't then for onething, Weaver would not havebeen where he was now, staringout an octagonal porthole at anendless sea of diamond-piercedblackness, with the empty shiphumming to itself all aroundhim.
It was an entirely differentthing, he told himself; therewere no names, and no descriptions,and no feeling of goingfrom one known place to anotherknown place. It was more like—
It was like standing outdoors,on a still summer night, andlooking up at the dizzying depthsof the stars. And then lookingdown, to discover that there wasno planet under your feet—andthat you were all alone in thatalien gulf....
It was enough to make agrown man cry; and Weaver hadcried, often, in the empty redtwilight of the ship, feeling himselfhopelessly and forever cutoff, cast out and forgotten. Butas the weeks passed, a kind ofnumbness had overtaken him, tillnow, when he looked out theporthole at the incredible depthof sky, he felt no emotion but athin, disapproving regret.
Sometimes he would describehimself to himself, just to refutethe feeling that he was not reallyhere, not really alive. But hismind was too orderly, and thedescription would come out socold and terse—"Algernon JamesWeaver (1942- ) historian,civic leader, poet, teacher, philosopher.Author of Developmentof the School System in Schenectadyand Scoharie Counties, NewYork (pamphlet, 1975); An Addressto the Women's Clubs ofSchenectady, New York (pamphlet,1979); Rhymes of a Philosopher(1981); Parables of a Philosopher(1983), Reflections of aPhilosopher (1986). Born in Detroit,Michigan, son of a Methodistminister; educated in Michiganand New York publicschools; B.A., New York StateUniversity, 1959; M.A., N.Y.S.U.Extension, 1964. Unmarried.Surviving relatives—"
That was the trouble, it beganto sound like an obituary.And then the great hummingmetal shell would begin to feellike a coffin....
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