Her voice ceased abruptly.
Eric turned apprehensively. Pat stood rigid, her mouth open, a word still on her lips. She did not move. She was white all over. A solid gray-white that made cold chills leap up Eric's spine. "Good Lord," he said.
"I turned her to stone," the god explained. "She made too much noise." It yawned. "Now, I think I'll retire. I'm a little tired, after my trip."
"I can't believe it," "Eric Blake said. He shook his head numbly. "My best friend a toad. My wife turned to stone."
"It's true," the god said. "We deal out justice according to how people act. They both got what they deserved."
"Can—can she hear me?"
"I suppose."
Eric went over to the statue. "Pat," he begged imploringly. "Please don't be mad. It isn't my fault." He gripped her ice-cold shoulders. "Don't blame me! I didn't do it." The granite was hard and smooth under his fingers. Pat stared blankly ahead.
"Terran Metals indeed," the god grumbled sourly. Its single eye studied Eric intently. "Who is this Horace Bradshaw? Some local deity, perhaps?"
"Horace Bradshaw owns Terran Metals," Eric said gloomily. He sat down and shakily lit a cigarette. "He's about the biggest man on Terra. Terran Metals owns half the planets in the system."
"Kingdoms of this world do not interest me," the god said noncommittally, subsiding and shutting its eye. "I will retire now. I wish to contemplate certain matters. You may wake me later, if you wish. We can converse on theological subjects, as we did on the ship coming here."
"Theological subjects," Eric said bitterly. "My wife a stone block and it wants to talk about religion."
But the god was already withdrawn, retired into itself.
"A lot you care," Eric muttered. Anger flickered in him. "This is the thanks I get for taking you off Ganymede. Ruin my household and my social life. Fine god you are!"
No response.
Eric concentrated desperately. Maybe when the god awoke it would be in a better mood. Maybe he could persuade it to turn Matson and Pat back to their usual forms. Faint hope stirred. He could appeal to the god's better side. After it had rested and slept for a few hours... .
If nobody came looking for Matson.
The toad sat disconsolately on the walk, drooping with misery. Eric leaned toward it. "Hey, Matson!"
The toad looked slowly up.
"Don't worry, old man. I'll get it to turn you back. It's a cinch." The toad didn't stir. "A lead-pipe cinch," Eric repeated nervously.
The toad drooped a little more. Eric looked at his watch. It was late afternoon, almost four. Tom's shift at Terran began in half an hour. Sweat came out on his forehead. If the god went on sleeping and didn't wake up in half an hour—
A buzz. The vidphone.
Eric's heart sank. He hurried over and clicked the screen on, steeling himself. Horace Bradshaw's sharp, dignified features faded into focus. His keen glance bored into Eric, penetrating his depths.
"Blake," he grunted. "Back from Ganymede, I see."
"Yes, sir." Eric's mind raced frantically. He moved in front of the screen, cutting off Bradshaw's view of the room. "I'm just starting to unpack."
"Forget that and get over here! We're waiting to hear your report."
"Right now? Gosh, Mr. Bradshaw. Give me a chance to get my things away." He fought desperately for time. "I'll be over tomorrow morning bright and early."
"Is Matson there with you?"
Eric swallowed. "Yes, sir. But—"
"Put him on. I want to talk to him."
"He—he can't talk to you right now, sir."
"What? Why not?"
"He's in no shape to—that is, he—"
Bradshaw snarled impatiently. "Then bring him along with you. And he better be sober when he gets here. I'll see you at my office in ten minutes." He broke the circuit The screen faded abruptly.
Eric sank wearily down in a chair. His mind reeled. Ten minutes! He shook his head, stunned.
The toad hopped a little, stirring on the walk. It emitted a faint, despondent sound.
Eric got heavily to his feet. "I guess we have to face the music," he murmured. He bent down and picked up the toad, putting it gingerly in his coat pocket. "I guess you heard. That was Bradshaw. We're going down to the lab."
The toad stirred uneasily.
"I wonder what Bradshaw is going to say when he sees you." Eric kissed his wife's cold granite cheek. "Good-bye, honey." He moved numbly down the walk to the street. A moment later he hailed a robot cab and entered it. "I have a feeling this is going to be hard to explain." The cab zipped off down the street. "Hard as hell to explain."
Horace Bradshaw stared in dumbfounded amazement. He removed his steel-rimmed glasses and wiped them slowly. He fitted them back on his hard, hawklike face and peered down. The toad rested silently in the center of the immense mahogany desk.
Bradshaw pointed shakily at the toad. "This—this is Thomas Matson?"
"Yes, sir," Eric said.
Bradshaw blinked in wonder. "Matson! What in the world has happened to you?"
"He's a toad," Eric explained.
"So I see. Incredible." Bradshaw pressed a stud on his desk. "Send in Jennings from the Biology Lab," he ordered. "A toad." He poked the toad with his pencil. "Is it really you, Matson?"
The toad chugged.
"Good Lord." Bradshaw sat back, wiping his forehead. His grim expression faded into sympathetic concern. He shook his head sadly. "I can't believe it. Some kind of bacterial blight, I suppose. Matson was always experimenting on himself. He took his work seriously. A brave man. A good worker. He did much for Terran Metals. Too bad he had to end this way. Well extend full pension to him, of course."
Jennings entered the office. "You wanted me, sir?"
"Come in." Bradshaw beckoned him impatiently in. "We have a problem for your department. You know Eric Blake here."
"Hi, Blake."
"And Thomas Matson." Bradshaw indicated the toad. "From the Nonferrous Lab."
"I know Matson," Jennings said slowly. "That is, I know a Matson from Nonferrous. But I don't recall—that is, he was taller than this. Almost six feet."
"This is him," Eric said gloomily. "He's a toad now."
"What happened?" Jennings' scientific curiosity was aroused. "What's the lowdown?"
"Its a long story," Eric said evasively.
"Can't you tell it?" Jennings scrutinized the toad professionally. "Looks like a regular type of toad. You're sure this is Tom Matson? Come clean, Blake. You must know more than you're telling!"
Bradshaw studied Eric intently. "Yes, what did happen, Blake? You have a strange, shifty look. Are you responsible for this?" Bradshaw half rose from his chair, his grim face bleak. "See here. If it's your fault one of my best men has been incapacitated for further work—"
"Take it easy," Eric protested, his mind racing frantically. He patted the toad nervously. "Matson is perfectly safe—as long as nobody steps on him. We can rig up some sort of protective shield and an automatic communication system that'll enable him to spell out words. He can continue his work. With a few adjustments here and there everything should speed along perfectly."
"Answer me!" Bradshaw roared. "Are you responsible for this? Is this your doing?"
Eric squirmed helplessly. "In a way, I suppose. Not exactly. Not directly." His voice wavered. "But I guess you'd say if it hadn't been for me..."
Bradshaw's face set in a rigid mask of rage. "Blake, you're fired." He yanked a heap of forms from his desk dispenser. "Get out of here and never come back. And get your hand off that toad. It belongs to Terran Metals." He shoved a paper across the desk. "Here's your paycheck. And don't bother looking for work elsewhere. I'm listing you on the inter-system blacklist. Good day."
"But, Mr. Bradshaw—"
"Don't plead." Bradshaw waved his hand. "Just go. Jennings, get your biology staff busy at once. This problem must be licked. I want you to rearrange this toad back to its original shape. Matson is a vital pa
rt of Terran Metals. There's work to be done, work only Matson can do. We can't have this sort of thing holding up our research."
"Mr. Bradshaw," Eric begged desperately. "Please listen. I want to see Tom back as he was. But there's only one way we can get him back his original shape. We—"
Bradshaw's eyes were cold with hostility. "You still here, Blake? Must I call my guards and have you dismembered? I'm giving you one minute to be off Company land. Understand?"
Eric nodded miserably. "I understand." He turned and shuffled unhappily toward the door. "So long, Jennings. So long, Tom. I'll be home if you want me, Mr. Bradshaw."
"Sorcerer," Bradshaw snapped. "Good riddance."
"What would you do," Eric asked the robot cabdriver, "if your wife had turned to stone, your best friend were a toad, and you had lost your job?"
"Robots have no wives," the driver said. "They are nonsexual. Robots have no friends, either. They are incapable of emotional relationships."
"Can robots be fired?"
"Sometimes." The robot drew his cab up before Eric's modest six-room bungalow. "But consider. Robots are frequently melted down and new robots made from the remains. Recall Ibsen's Peer Gynt, the section concerning the Button Molder. The lines clearly anticipate in symbolic form the trauma of robots to come."
"Yeah." The door opened and Eric got out. "I guess we all have our problems."
"Robots have worse problems than anybody." The door shut and the cab zipped off, back down the bill.
Worse? Hardly. Eric entered his home slowly, the front door automatically opening for him.
"Welcome, Mr. Blake," the door greeted him.
"I suppose Pat's still here."
"Mrs. Blake is here, but she is in a cataleptic state, or some similar condition."
"She's been turned to stone." Eric kissed the cold lips of the statue gloomily. "Hi, honey."
He got some meat from the refrigerator and crumbled it into the belly-cup of the god. Presently digestive fluid rose and covered the food. In a short time the single eye of the god opened, blinked a few times, and focused on Eric.
"Have a good sleep?" Eric inquired icily.
"I wasn't asleep. My mind was turned toward matters of cosmic import. I detect a hostile quality in your voice. Has something unfavorable occurred?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all. I just lost my job, on top of everything else."
"Lost your job? Interesting. What else do you refer to?"
Eric exploded in rage. "You've messed up my whole life, damn you!" He jabbed at the silent, unmoving figure of his wife. "Look! My wife! Turned to granite. And my best friend, a toad."
Tinokuknoi Arevulopapo yawned. "So?"
"Why? What did I ever do to you? Why do you treat me this way? Look at all I've done for you. I only brought you here to Terra. Fed you. Fixed you up a box with straw and water and newspapers. That's all."
"True. You did bring me to Terra." Again an odd gleam flickered across the god's dark face. "All right. I'll restore your wife."
"You will?" Pathetic joy surged through Eric. Tears came to his eyes. He was too relieved to ask any questions. "Gosh, I sure would appreciate it!"
The god concentrated. "Stand out of the way. It's easier to distort the molecular arrangement of a body than to restore the original configuration. I hope I can get it exactly as it was." It made a faint motion.
Around Pat's silent figure the air stirred. The pale granite shuddered. Slowly, color seeped back into her features. She gasped sharply, her dark eyes flashing with fear. Color filled her arms, shoulders, breasts, spreading through her trim body. She cried out, tottering unsteadily. "Eric!"
Eric caught her, hugging her tight. "Gosh, honey. I'm sure glad you're all right." He crushed her against him, feeling her heart thump with terror. He kissed her soft lips again and again. "Welcome back."
Pat pulled abruptly away. "That little snake. That miserable particle of waste. Wait until I get my hands on it." She advanced toward the god, eyes blazing. "Listen, you. What's the idea? How dare you!"
"See?" the god said. "They never change."
Eric pulled his wife back. "You better shut up or you'll be granite again. Understand?"
Pat caught the urgent rasp in his voice. She subsided reluctantly. "All right, Eric. I give up."
"Listen," Eric said to the god. "How about Tom? How about restoring him?"
"The toad? Where is he?"
"In the Biology Lab. Jennings and his staff are working on him."
The god considered. "I don't like the sound of that. The Biology Lab? Where is that? How far away?"
"Terran Metals. Main Building." Eric was impatient. "Maybe five miles. How about it? Maybe if you restore him Bradshaw will give me my job back. You owe it to me. Set things back the way they were."
"I can't."
"You can't! Why the hell not?"
"I thought gods were omnipotent," Pat sniffed petulantly.
"I can do anything—at short range. The Terran Metals Biology Lab is too far. Five miles is beyond my limit. I can distort molecular arrangements within a limited circle only."
Eric was incredulous. "What? You mean you can't turn Tom back?"
"That's the way it is. You shouldn't have taken him out of the house. Gods are subject to natural law just as you are. Our laws are different, but they are still laws."
"I see," Eric murmured. "You should have said."
"As far as your job goes, don't worry about that. Here, I'll create some gold." The god made a motion with its scaly hands. A section of curtain flashed suddenly yellow and crashed to the floor with a metallic tinkle. "Solid gold. That ought to keep you a few days."
"We're no longer on the gold standard."
"Well, whatever you need. I can do anything."
"Except turn Tom back into a human being," Pat said. "Fine god you are."
"Shut up, Pat," Eric muttered, deep in thought.
"If there were some way I could be closer to him," the god said cautiously. "If he were within range..."
"Bradshaw will never let him go. And I can't set foot around there. The guards will tear me to bits."
"How about some platinum?" The god made a pass and a section of the wall glowed white. "Solid platinum. A simple change of atomic weight. Will that help?"
"No!" Eric paced back and forth. "We've got to get that toad away from Bradshaw. If we can get him back here—"
"I have an idea," the god said.
"What?"
"Perhaps you could get me in there. Perhaps if I could get onto the Company grounds, within range of the Biology Lab..."
"It's worth a try," Pat said, putting her hand on Eric's shoulder. "After all, Tom's your best friend. It's a shame to treat him this way. It's—it's un-Terran."
Eric grabbed his coat. "It's settled. I'll drive as close as I can to the Company grounds. I ought to be able to get near enough before the guards catch sight of me to—"
A crash. The front door collapsed abruptly in a heap of ash. Teams of robot police surged into the room, blastguns ready.
"All right," Jennings said. "That's him." He strode quickly into the house. "Get him. And get that thing in the box."
"Jennings!" Eric swallowed in alarm. "What the hell is this?"
Jennings' lip curled. "Cut out the pretense, Blake. You're not fooling me." He tapped a small metal case under his arm. "The toad revealed all. So you've got a non-Terrestrial in this house, have you?" He laughed coldly. "There's a law against bringing non-Terrans to Earth. You're under arrest, Blake. You'll probably get life."
"Tinokuknoi Arevulopapo!" Eric Blake squeaked. "Don't forsake me at a time like this!"
"I'm coming," the god grunted. It heaved violently. "How's this?"
The robot police jerked as a torrent of force erupted from the box. Abruptly they disappeared, winking out of existence. Where they had stood a horde of mechanical mice milled aimlessly, spilling frantically through the doorway, out into the yard.
Jennings' face showed a
stonishment and then panic. He retreated, waving his blaster menacingly. "See here, Blake. Don't think you can scare me. We've got this house surrounded."
A bolt of force hit him in the stomach. The bolt lifted him and shook him like a rag doll. His blaster skidded from his fingers, falling to the floor. Jennings groped for it desperately. The blaster turned into a spider and crawled rapidly off, out of bis reach.
"Set him down," Eric urged.
"All right." The god released Jennings. He crashed to the floor, stunned and frightened. He scrambled wildly to his feet and ran from the house, down the path to the sidewalk.
"Oh dear," Pat said.
"What is it?"
"Look."
Pulled up in a circle around the house was a solid line of atomic cannon. Their snouts gleamed wickedly in the late afternoon sunlight. Groups of robot police stood around each cannon, waiting alertly for instructions.
Eric groaned. "We're sunk. One blast and we're finished."
"Do something!" Pat gasped. She prodded the box. "Enchant them. Don't just sit there."
"They are out of range," the god replied. "As I explained, my power is limited by distance."
"You in there!" a voice came, magnified by a hundred loudspeakers. "Come out with your hands up. Or we open fire!"
"Bradshaw," Eric groaned. "He's out there. We're trapped. You sure you can't do something?"
"Sorry," the god said. "I can put up a shield against the cannon." It concentrated. Outside the house a dull surface formed, a globe rapidly hardening around them.
"All right," Bradshaw's magnified voice came, muffled by the shield. "You asked for it."
The first shell hit. Eric found himself lying on the floor, his ears ringing, everything going around and around. Pat lay beside him, dazed and frightened. The house was a shambles. Walls, chairs, furniture, all was in ruins.
"Fine shield," Pat gasped.
"The concussion," the god protested. Its box lay in the corner on its side. "The shield stops the shells, but the concussion—"
A second shell struck. A wall of pressure rolled over Eric, stunning him. He skidded, tossed by a violent wind, crashing against heaps of debris that had been his house.
"We can't last," Pat said faintly. "Tell them to stop, Eric. Please!"