But the prayer went on. “Ele deu tudo aos pequeninos, e tu nos disseste, Salvador, que qualquer coisa que fazemos a estes pequeninos, fazemos a ti.”

Miro wanted to interrupt. If I gave all to the pequeninos, I did it for them, not for myself. But Quim's words held him silent: You told us, Savior, that whatever we do to these little ones, we do to you. It was as if Quim were demanding that God hold up his end of a bargain. It was a strange sort of relationship that Quim must have with God, as if he had a right to call God to account.

«Ele nao ‚ como Jў, perfeito na coracao.»

No, I'm not as perfect as Job. But I've lost everything, just as Job did. Another man fathered my children on the woman who should have been my wife. Others have accomplished my accomplishments. And where Job had boils, I have this lurching half-paralysis– would Job trade with me?

«Restabelece ele como restabeleceste Jў. Em nome do Pai, e do Filho, e do Espirito Santo. Amem.» Restore him as you restored Job.

Miro felt his brother's arms release him, and as if it were those arms, not gravity, that held him on his brother's chest, Miro rose up at once and stood looking down on his brother. A bruise was growing on Quim's cheek. His lip was bleeding.

“I hurt you,” said Miro. “I'm sorry.”

“Yes,” said Quim. “You did hurt me. And I hurt you. It's a popular pastime here. Help me up.”

For a moment, just one fleeting moment, Miro forgot that he was crippled, that he could barely maintain his balance himself. For just that moment he began to reach out a hand to his brother. But then he staggered as his balance slipped, and he remembered. “I can't,” he said.

“Oh, shut up about being crippled and give me a hand.”

So Miro positioned his legs far apart and bent down over his brother. His younger brother, who now was nearly three decades his senior, and older still in wisdom and compassion. Miro reached out his hand. Quim gripped it, and with Miro's help rose up from the ground. The effort was exhausting for Miro; he hadn't the strength for this, and Quim wasn't faking it, he was relying on Miro to lift him. They ended up facing each other, shoulder to shoulder, hands still together.

“You're a good priest,” said Miro.

“Yeah,” said Quim. “And if I ever need a sparring partner, you'll get a call.”

“Will God answer your prayer?”

“Of course. God answers all prayers.”

It took only a moment for Miro to realize what Quim meant. “I mean, will he say yes.”

“Ah. That's the part I'm never sure about. Tell me later if he did.”

Quim walked– rather stiffly, limping– to the tree. He bent over and picked up a couple of talking sticks from the ground.

“What are you talking to Rooter about?”

“He sent word that I need to talk to him. There's some kind of heresy in one of the forests a long way from here.”

“You convert them and then they go crazy, huh?” said Miro.

“No, actually,” said Quim. “This is a group that I never preached to. The fathertrees all talk to each other, so the ideas of Christianity are already everywhere in the world. As usual, heresy seems to spread faster than truth. And Rooter's feeling guilty because it's based on a speculation of his.”

“I guess that's a serious business for you,” said Miro.

Quim winced. “Not just for me.”

“I'm sorry. I meant, for the church. For believers.”

“Nothing so parochial as that, Miro. These pequeninos have come up with a really interesting heresy. Once, not long ago, Rooter speculated that, just as Christ came to human beings, the Holy Ghost might someday come to the pequeninos. It's a gross misinterpretation of the Holy Trinity, but this one forest took it quite seriously.”

“Sounds pretty parochial to me.”

“Me too. Till Rooter told me the specifics. You see, they're convinced that the descolada virus is the incarnation of the Holy Ghost. It makes a perverse kind of sense– since the Holy Ghost has always dwelt everywhere, in all God's creations, it's appropriate for its incarnation to be the descolada virus, which also penetrates into every part of every living thing.”

“They worship the virus?”

“Oh, yes. After all, didn't you scientists discover that the pequeninos were created, as sentient beings, by the descolada virus? So the virus is endued with the creative power, which means it has a divine nature.”

“I guess there's as much literal evidence for that as for the incarnation of God in Christ.”

“No, there's a lot more. But if that were all, Miro, I'd regard it as a church matter. Complicated, difficult, but– as you said– parochial.”

“So what is it?”

“The descolada is the second baptism. By fire. Only the pequeninos can endure that baptism, and it carries them into the third life. They are clearly closer to God than humans, who have been denied the third life.”

“The mythology of superiority. We could expect that, I guess,” said Miro.

"Most communities attempting to survive under irresistible pressure from a dominant culture develop a myth that allows them to believe they are somehow a special people. Chosen. Favored by the gods. Gypsies, Jews– plenty of historical precedents.

“Try this one, Senhor Zenador. Since the pequeninos are the ones chosen by the Holy Ghost, it's their mission to spread this second baptism to every tongue and every people.”

“Spread the descolada?”

“To every world. Sort of a portable judgment day. They arrive, the descolada spreads, adapts, kills– and everybody goes to meet their Maker.”

“God help us.”

“So we hope.”

Then Miro made a connection with something he had learned only the day before. “Quim, the buggers are building a ship for the pequeninos.”

“So Ender told me. And when I confronted Father Daymaker about it–”

“He's a pequenino?”

“One of Human's children. He said, 'Of course,' as if everyone knew about it. Maybe that's what he thought– that if the pequeninos know it, then it's known. He also told me that this heretic group is angling to try to get command of the ship.”

“Why?”

“So they can take it to an inhabited world, of course. Instead of finding an uninhabited planet to terraform and colonize.”

“I think we'd have to call it lusiforming.”

“Funny.” Quim wasn't laughing, though. “They might get their way. This idea of pequeninos being a superior species is popular, especially among non-Christian pequeninos. Most of them aren't very sophisticated. They don't catch on to the fact that they're talking about xenocide. About wiping out the human race.”

“How could they miss a little fact like that?”

“Because the heretics are stressing the fact that God loves the humans so much that he sent his only beloved son. You remember the scripture.”

“Whoever believes in him will not perish.”

“Exactly. Those who believe will have eternal life. As they see it, the third life.”

“So those who die must have been the unbelievers.”

“Not all the pequeninos are lining up to volunteer for service as itinerant destroying angels. But enough of them are that it has to be stopped. Not just for the sake of Mother Church.”

“Mother Earth.”

“So you see, Miro, sometimes a missionary like me takes on a great deal of importance in the world. Somehow I have to persuade these poor heretics of the error of their ways and get them to accept the doctrine of the church.”

“Why are you talking to Rooter now?”

“To get the one piece of information the pequeninos never give us.”

“What's that?”

“Addresses. There are thousands of pequenino forests on Lusitania. Which one is the heretic community? Their starship will be long gone before I find it by random forest-hopping on my own.”

“You're going alone?”

“I always do. I can't take any of the little brothers with me, Miro. Until a forest has been converted, they have a tendency to kill pequenino strangers. One case where it's better to be raman than utlanning.”