A stern gray-haired Onist who said he was Nari’s father took me aside afterwards. "Now, Jak," he asked me, "what can you say of what you have seen?"
I shrugged. "I can say that somehow you’ve found one of the Maker statues. What more?"
"It’s one, is it not?"
"Of course it’s one. They are rare, but I have seen three, all told, in Pluralist villages."
"And each time they were separate? You never saw a group?"
"No. No, I didn’t."
He slapped his hands together triumphantly. "Then that proves it. Each is a copy of the original Maker, but there was only one. Otherwise you would have seen statues in groups. And that is why you are here, Jak: we want you to go back to your people and tell them what you saw."
I shook my head. "What you say isn’t logical. So what if the statues are never in pairs or groups? We’ve only seen a few, when once there must have been many. Also, when your artists do their magic with dyes and create portraits, are they generally done one at a time or in groups?"
"One at a time, so the artist may capture the personality in each face, naturally. I have seen group portraits, but I think they are silly things."
"Exactly." Now I was triumphant. "Exactly as the Makers thought, which is why the statues are always single—"
"But it is impious to say there was more than one Maker! He had all the knowledge in the world at his fingertips, and so there was no need for more than one. More than this world, even: he went to the stars. Or don’t you believe that?"
"Of course I believe it. Only, they went to the stars, the thousands of Makers. It isn’t impious, because if you can think of one being as great as that, try to picture thousands. Yes, thousands. That makes me thousands of times more pious than you Onists."
He shook his head wearily. "What’s the use? It is for this we are fighting our war, and we thought if we took one of you here, showed him the undeniable truth of our statue.... Well, will you at least return to your people with a tale of what you have seen?"
I agreed readily enough: probably, the alternative was death. Although Pluralists on rare occasions have been known to take Onist women as their wives, an Onist prisoner of war was an unwanted thing. The reverse would also be true.
*
They all bid me goodbye, except for Nari. I could not find her anywhere in the village, and a little sadly I set out on my long journey back to the Sunset Land. By now our raiding party had finished its work on the small Onist village on the rim of our country, and I could do nothing but return to my people, where we might plan new strategy against the unbelievers.
But I had wanted to bid Nari farewell.
I met her in the woodlands, a travel bag slung over her shoulder like a male’s. "I wanted to say goodbye privately," she told me.
"Good," I said, but I knew she was lying. Else why the travel bag?
"Goodbye," Nari whispered, but she was not looking at me. Looking, instead, behind her, at the land of her people.
"Nari," I told her, "I have to admit it. You are very pretty—even by Pluralist standards. You are—"
This time she did not stumble against me. It wasn’t necessary. I drew her to me, and I kissed her a long kiss. Then I told her I loved her, and women, I suppose, will always be women, because she said she knew it.
I will take Nari back to our village in the Sunset Land, where we will be married by the laws of my people. And if ever there is to be peace between the Pluralists and the Onists, it may, after all, come on these grounds. The Onists have their beliefs, and so I hate them for their impious thoughts. But the love of a man for a maid exists apart from that.
It won’t be easy. Our arguing continued all the way back to the Sunset Land, and Nari is as stubborn as I am firm.
"There is one Maker," she said.
And I told her, "No, there are many."
Or later, as we neared the Sunset Land, we picked up the thread of our thoughts again. Pluralist or Onist, we androids are dogmatic creatures.
"One Robot created us all before he went to the stars," said Nari.
Off Course
by Mack Reynolds
Shure and begorra, it was a great day for the Earth! The first envoy from another world was about to speak—that is, if he could forget that horse for a minute....
First on the scene were Larry Dermott and Tim Casey of the State Highway Patrol. They assumed they were witnessing the crash of a new type of Air Force plane and slipped and skidded desperately across the field to within thirty feet of the strange craft, only to discover that the landing had been made without accident.
Patrolman Dermott shook his head. "They’re gettin’ queerer looking every year. Get a load of it—no wheels, no propeller, no cockpit."
They left the car and made their way toward the strange egg-shaped vessel.
Tim Casey loosened his .38 in its holster and said, "Sure, and I’m beginning to wonder if it’s one of ours. No insignia and—"
A circular door slid open at that point and Dameri Tass stepped out, yawning. He spotted them, smiled and said, "Glork."
They gaped at him.
"Glork is right," Dermott swallowed.
Tim Casey closed his mouth with an effort. "Do you mind the color of his face?" he blurted.
"How could I help it?"
Dameri Tass rubbed a blue-nailed pink hand down his purplish countenance and yawned again. "Gorra manigan horp soratium," he said.
Patrolman Dermott and Patrolman Casey shot stares at each other. "‘Tis double talk he’s after givin’ us," Casey said.
Dameri Tass frowned. "Harama?" he asked.
Larry Dermott pushed his cap to the back of his head. "That doesn’t sound like any language I’ve even heard about."
Dameri Tass grimaced, turned and reentered his spacecraft to emerge in half a minute with his hands full of contraption. He held a box-like arrangement under his left arm; in his right hand were two metal caps connected to the box by wires.
While the patrolmen watched him, he set the box on the ground, twirled two dials and put one of the caps on his head. He offered the other to Larry Dermott; his desire was obvious.
Trained to grasp a situation and immediately respond in manner best suited to protect the welfare of the people of New York State, Dermott cleared his throat and said, "Tim, take over while I report."
"Hey!" Casey protested, but his fellow minion had left.
"Mandaia," Dameri Tass told Casey, holding out the metal cap.
"Faith, an’ do I look balmy?" Casey told him. "I wouldn’t be puttin’ that dingus on my head for all the colleens in Ireland."
"Mandaia," the stranger said impatiently.
"Bejasus," Casey snorted, "ye can’t—"
Dermott called from the car, "Tim, the captain says to humor this guy. We’re to keep him here until the officials arrive."
Tim Casey closed his