God of Tarot by Piers Anthony Page A

dubiously—his face was very good at dour expressions—”your God surely watches over you well.”
    “My God is the same as your God,” Brother Paul said modestly—and was amazed at the reaction this brought. Evidently he had committed a faux pas .
    “We shall introduce ourselves,” the man said, gruffly easing the awkwardness. “I am the Reverend Siltz of the Second Church Communist, spokesman for this party by consent of the participants.”
    Brother Paul’s face never even twitched. After Antares the gelatinous alien, a living Tarot Empress, and the Breaker, what was a little anomaly like a Communist Church? “Glad to make your acquaintance, Reverend Siltz,” he said. The man did not offer to shake hands, so Brother Paul merely nodded affirmatively as he spoke.
    The man to the Reverend’s right spoke: “Janson, Adventist.” And, in turn, the others: “Bonly, Mason.” “Appermet, Yoga.” “Smith, Swedenborgian.” “Miller, Vegan Vegetarian.”
    “We were expecting you,” Reverend Siltz said gruffly. “We were not informed of your precise time of arrival, but the matter is of some concern to us.” Here one of the others stifled a snort, reminding Brother Paul again of the intricate currents that flowed beneath this troubled surface. What had he gotten into?
    Reverend Siltz scowled, but continued, “Church Communist was selected by lot in accordance with the Covenant to encounter you initially and proffer hospitality for the duration of your mission. This denotes no comment on the validity of your mission, or our opinion of same. You are of course free to choose an alternate accommodation, as you please. The Order of Vision has no station here.”
    Currents indeed! Had the lot chosen an enemy to host him, or was this merely excessive formality? He would have to navigate his shallow craft carefully, until he knew more of this peculiar situation. “I am pleased to accept your offer, Reverend, hoping my presence will not inconvenience you or cause you embarrassment.”
    Now Siltz made an honest smile. “We know of your Order. Hosting you will be a privilege.”
    So acceptance had been the right decision. Maybe the man’s gruffness had been in anticipation of demurral, so that he would not lose face when Brother Paul did the expected. But it could also have stemmed from some other factor, such as this evident individuality of gods, as though each religion had its own separate deity. Brother Paul made a silent prayer that he would not make too many wrong decisions here. How fortunate that the reputation of his Order extended even to distant planets! Of course this colony, like all the others in the human sphere, could not be more than four years old, five at the most, so the colonists would have carried their knowledge of religious sects with them from Earth. So this was really no miracle.
    Reverend Siltz swung about to orient on the capsule receiver building, his motion and manner reminding Brother Paul not too subtly of the Breaker. “Now we must unload, before it mattermits out. Is it a good shipment?”
    “Sewing machines, spinning wheels, stoves,” Brother Paul said as they walked toward it. “Carding tools, axes—”
    “Good, good!” Reverend Siltz said. “They have dowered you well.” There was a murmur of agreement, surprising Brother Paul. He suffered a two-level thought: first, the confirmation that he was not completely welcome here, so had been “dowered,” as though he were an unpretty bride requiring a monetary inducement to make him and his mission palatable; and second, the reaction to the shipment. Of course such artifacts were useful, but did these colonists have no yearnings for the more advanced products of civilization?
    The next two hours were spent unloading. It was heavy work, but no one stinted; all the men were husky, and Reverend Siltz applied himself as vigorously as any of them. Yet throughout, Brother Paul was aware of a certain diffidence, directed not at him