Falcon kept his voice low; he looked round furtively, as if the furniture might be listening. “We’ve captured an African god.” I said nothing. Surely you can understand why. “Oh, I’m not one to believe in heathen gods, but I know ’tis different from anythin’ seen back in the States. The Allmuseri have worshiped it since the Stone Age. They say it sustains everythin’ in the universe. It never sleeps. Night and day, it works, like a weaver—like rust, or an Alabama field hand—to ensure that galaxies push outward and particles smaller than the eye dance their endless, pointless reel. It is the heat in fire, they say. The wetness in water. Once a year the whole tribe stays awake all night so it can rest, then resume its labor of creating and destroying the cosmos, then creating it again, cycle after cycle. According to Allmuseri priests, it accomplishes this with only one-fourth of its full power. That alone is enough to, say, guarantee photosynthesis and keep the planet on its axis.
