. . Around the shining minnow, tending it, were Giants.
This, then, was the end of the battle to do what was right, whatever the odds. All the show of courage against superstition, all the black battles against Hell itself, came down to this: The Giants were real!
They were unarguably real. Though they were twice as tall as men, stood straighter, had broader shoulders, were heavier across the seat and had no visible tails, their fellowship with men was clear. Even their voices, as they shouted to each other around their towering metal minnow, were the voices of men made into gods, voices as remote from those of men as the voices of men were remote from those of monkeys, yet just as clearly of the same family.
These were the Giants of the Book of Laws. They were not only real, but they had come back to Tellura as they had promised to do.
And they would know what to do with unbelievers, and with fugitives from Hell. It had all been for nothing—not only the physical struggle, but the fight to be allowed to think for oneself as well. The gods existed, literally, actually. This belief was the real hell from which Honath had been trying to fight free all his life—but now it was no longer just a belief. It was a fact, a fact that he was seeing with his own eyes.
The Giants had returned to judge their handiwork. And the first of the people they would meet would be three outcasts, three condemned and degraded criminals, three jail-breakers—the worst possible detritus of the attic world.
All this went searing through Honath’s mind in less than a second, but nevertheless Alaskon’s mind evidently had worked still faster. Always the most outspoken unbeliever of the entire little group of rebels, the one among them whose whole world was founded upon the existence of rational explanations for everything, his was the point of view most completely challenged by the sight before them now. With a deep, sharply indrawn breath, he turned abruptly and walked away from them.
Mathild uttered a cry of protest, which she choked off in the middle; but it was already too late. A round eye on the great silver minnow came alight, bathing them all in an oval patch of brilliance.
Honath darted after the navigator. Without looking back, Alaskon suddenly was running. For an instant longer Honath saw his figure, poised delicately against the black sky. Then he dropped silently out of sight, as suddenly and completely as if he had never been.
Alaskon had borne every hardship and every terror of the ascent from Hell with courage and even with cheerfulness but he had been unable to face being told that it had all been meaningless.
Sick at heart, Honath turned back, shielding his eyes from the miraculous light. There was a clear call in some unknown language from near the spindle.
Then there were footsteps, several pairs of them, coming closer.
It was time for the Second Judgment.
After a long moment, a big voice from the darkness said: “Don’t be afraid. We mean you no harm. We’re men, just as you are.”
The language had the archaic flavor of the Book of Laws, but it was otherwise perfectly understandable. A second voice said: “What are you called?”
Honath’s tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of his mouth. While he was struggling with it, Mathild’s voice came clearly from beside him:
“He is Honath the Pursemaker, and I am Mathild the Forager.”
“You are a long distance from the place we left your people,” the first Giant said. “Don’t you still live in the vine-webs above the jungles?”
“Lord—”
“My name is Jarl Eleven. This man is Gerhardt Adler.”
This seemed to stop Mathild completely. Honath could understand why. The very notion of addressing Giants by name was nearly paralyzing. But since they were already as good as cast down into Hell again, nothing could be lost by it.
“Jarl Eleven,” he said, “the people still live among the vines. The floor of the jungle is forbidden. Only criminals are sent there. We are criminals.”
“Oh?” Jarl Eleven said. “And you’ve come all the way from the surface to this mesa? Gerhardt, this is prodigious. You have no idea what the surface of this planet is like—it’s a place where evolution has never managed to leave the tooth-and-nail stage. Dinosaurs from every period of the Mesozoic, primitive mammals all the way up the scale to the ancient cats the works. That’s why the original seeding team put these people in the treetops instead.”
“Honath, what was your crime?” Gerhardt Adler said.
Honath was almost relieved to have the questioning come so quickly to this point. Jarl Eleven’s aside, with its many terms he could not understand, had been frightening in its very meaninglessness.
“There were five of us,” Honath said in a low voice. “We said we—that we did not believe in the Giants.”
There was a brief silence. Then, shockingly, both Jarl Eleven and Gerhardt Adler burst into enormous laughter.
Mathild cowered, her hands over her ears. Even Honath flinched and took a step backward. Instantly, the laughter stopped, and the Giant called Jarl Eleven stepped into the oval of light and sat down beside them. In the light, it could be seen that his face and hands were hairless, although there was hair on his crown; the rest of his body was covered by a kind of cloth. Seated, he was no taller than Honath, and did not seem quite so fearsome.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “It was unkind of us to laugh, but what you said was highly unexpected. Gerhardt, come over here and squat down, so that you don’t look so much like a statue of some general. Tell me, Honath, in what way did you not believe in the Giants?”
Honath could hardly believe his ears. A Giant had begged his pardon! Was this still some joke even more cruel? But whatever the reason, Jarl Eleven had asked him a question.
“Each of the five of us differed,” he said. “I held that you were not—not real except as symbols of some abstract truth. One of us, the wisest, believed that you did not exist in any sense at all. But we all agreed that you were not gods.”
“And of course we aren’t,” Jarl Eleven said. “We’re men. We come from the same stock as you. We’re not your rulers, but your brothers. Do you understand what I say?”
“No,” Honath admitted.
“Then let me tell you about it. There are men on many worlds, Honath. They differ from one another, because the worlds differ, and different kinds of men are needed to people each one. Gerhardt and I are the kind of men who live on a world called Earth, and many other worlds like it. We are two very minor members of a huge project called a ‘seeding program’, which has been going on for thousands of years now. It’s the job of the seeding program to survey newly discovered worlds, and then to make men suitable to live on each new world.”
“To make men? But only gods—”
“No, no. Be patient and listen,” said Jarl Eleven. “We don’t make men. We make them suitable. There’s a great deal of difference between the two. We take the living germ plasm, the sperm and the egg, and we modify it. When the modified man emerges, we help him to settle down in his new world. That’s what we did on Tellura—it happened long ago, before Gerhardt and I were
