Jeffrey A. Carver - What Gods Are These

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What Gods Are These?

by Jeffery Carver

_First published in GALILEO Magazine, 1978_

The gods have not yet come, but they will.

I believe I am not alone here, though I don't know who is with me. Hanging cockeyed to my uncertain

frame of reference, I stare at my Earth with sorrow and hate, wanting to curse it, to destroy it before the

gods have it all. My visor fogs momentarily, as though to remind me of my helplessness. I am weightless:

orbiting, falling . . . falling. Motionless . . . only the Earth moves. My ruined planet is a cool cheek bulging

over my right shoulder, a delicate cloud and water ball, the stage of a hopeless drama against the

house-darkness of space. On its dim nightside crescent, I see one or two cities burning, tiny embers.

Slowly the planet drifts further around to the right, where it will pass behind me for a little while, behind

the station. As I float with my boots hooked on a twisted bit of station girder and stare for hour after

endless hour, I have the feeling that Earth is nothing more than an enormous sop, sweeping debris out of

space, and grit . . . and mindless, gabbling spacemen.

No. It is the Saviors who will do that. They will not miss a one down there. And on their way back up

they will find you here, whispers my soul. Find you waiting, helpless.

The thought sets me on edge. Hiding here behind the wrecked ferry shack on an arm of ruined

Spacehome, my radio silent, whisper of spacesuit air for company, I pretend that I am safe, yes, from the

preying Savior ships. They will find the others and take them, but I will be safe. And yet . . . to be left

here uncaptured to die in peace, what a terrible, lonely end. I float, boots anchored, and watch that great

ball against the black sink, now moving slowly out of my angle of view. The sun flares across the girder

arm, white against the infinite black, and suddenly the endless, falling orbit of the station steals the breath

out of my soul. Has the Earth turned an anesthetic green, or is that merely a distortion of my trembling,

leapfrogging mind?

When I turn to follow the Earth, I see near its rim a short flare, a leaping spark: a Savior ship. Then it is

gone, and I cannot say whether it was a ship climbing into orbit, or one diving into the filmy atmosphere

-- or, after all, nothing. Imagining marvels and dangers and possibilities has become my only pastime.

Must I lose that, too, when they come?

* * *

In my Wooster, Ohio home, there was a dream I had, before I left again for the East -- before panic

blazed through the human race like fire through kindling. The dream was puzzling but clear, still vivid upon

my awakening: _Humans filing serenely, by the thousands, through the wards and halls of a great, sighing

ship of the stars . . . drinking liquid tranquillity in cool draughts from a communal fount . . . peering, each

in turn, through a fabulous viewing-lens at the stars drifting by, and at the star-beacon ahead which would

be the new home, after readjustment and reeducation . . . the Saviors, tall and fair and milky-faced,

counseling, teaching the difficult arts of kindness and moral judgment . . . incorrigibles: deftly realigned

and then set to work aiding those less fortunate . . . the grave joy of lying together in endless communal

sleeping rows, mating at need, with that solemn bliss denied no one . . .._

The dream left me intrigued, but I became uneasy when it recurred, and continued recurring. And then I

learned that Jim Pfeiffer, next door, and his wife and young child had also dreamed it; and then

MacNamara, and then my cousin Sue and her husband -- and the list grew, until the whole town rumbled

about dreams of starships and "Saviors. " Visions of the Saviors, tall and swift and fair, singing:

_"Disturbed children, come this way, we come for you. "_ Inevitably, there were outcries to the coming

angels, the Coming of the Lord, the vindication of the Revelations -- but I joined those who felt other

feelings in the premonition, who listened for night sounds which turned out to be merely windrush, who

jumped at footfalls which were only friends and lovers coming round, who woke from the recurring

dream drenched with sweat. A dream of gods, or would-be gods. With (I was sure) many others, I felt a

rising apprehension -- but I had no family close by with whom to share my fear, and so I kept it to

myself.

I came east, destined eventually for the Space Center, just days before the Saviors arrived and the skies

erupted. But by then the location hardly mattered, because suddenly we were all, every human, foxes

before the hounds. We were on our own; the armies had been swept away, the nuclear arsenals silenced,

the lasers and missiles unmanned. Not a few cities (I heard) were burning. And through it all was the

question asked of the astonished night: _Why?_

* * *

The view of Earth palls in the slow passage of hours blinked away on the chronometer. Once the stunning

magnificence of my homeworld caused me to cry; but now the treasure tarnishes, leaves a film of dust

across my eyes. No longer can Earth console my gaze, nor can I console myself with thoughts of life

gone by, of people and places loved, of deeds done and old joys and sorrows. All of that is behind me

now. I have hardly moved, these last few hours -- except for falling in silent clockwork turns about the

Earth. The station tumbles slowly. Three times, night has crept over North America since I docked the

shuttle; but, two days ago, the station's control system died of cut control wires. Sabotage: therefore, I

know I am not alone.

Whoever shares Spacehome with me does not wish to be seen, apparently, and though I have kept my

eyes open, I have made no real effort to search. A ruined space station offers many hiding places, and if

my companion wishes not to be found, I will respect his privacy. Strangely, I do not fear him (or her) --

though I wonder at the motive for sabotage. What else could he be except a human, and what is one

man's irrationality to me in this hour except, perhaps, a small comfort?

When sunlight has crept over northern Africa, over the auburn deserts, it is time for me to replenish my

suit. Gently, I disengage my feet from the bent frame of the ferry dock, and with one hand on a girder I

float around to face the shambles, gleaming in weightless sunshine. Torn shrouding floats like golden kelp,

still attached to the exploded side of the once-magnificent structure. The station has been smashed open

like a piata, leaving ruptured skin and a wreckage of cross-members, broken decks, ripped wiring and

plumbing. A tiny plume issues from within the wreckage, fuel escaping from some slowly leaking valve or

joint. This is how Randall and I, arriving, found the station -- to all appearance lifeless, airless, several

vacuum-frozen bodies floating inside which had not drifted off into space. I had known only one of the

dead men; Randall had known all three. What could I say, how could I begrudge him his despair when

he took his own life to join them, leaving me so alone? There was nothing for me to do but to follow him

into death, or to radio Earth, if there was anyone left to hear, and to gnaw my microphone and clench my

stiff fingers and sweat inside my stinking suit, waiting to be captured or to die. I listen to the station

whisper to me, and wonder if I shall go mad.

Perhaps there remains some token of usefulness here, something with which to fight. There must be

_some_ way to fight. It is hard to believe that the Saviors were frightened of this station, but why else

destroy it? Did they think it a threat to their plans? Why did they leave a lurking ghost, my companion?

There are no answers -- only nightmarish questions, the stuff of an endless, dark, whispering orbit.

The shuttle orbiter, docked alongside, stares at me with somber eyes. With insufficient fuel and a faulty

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