The conductor smiled ecstatically, “Oh, happy life! I want to go to the factories.”

“Of course you would,” replied Mr. Crumley. “You’d be a fine Crumleyite otherwise, wouldn’t you? Come!” He pointed at the door of the car, and the door slid open. They walked out and Crumley kept on pointing. Rock faded away in front, and bit down again behind. Through the wall Cullen walked, following that little figure who was his god.

That was a god, thought Cullen. Any god that could do that was one hell of a damn good god to believe in.

And then he was at the factory-in another cave, only smaller. Mr. Crumley seemed to like caves.

Cullen didn’t pay much attention to his surroundings. He couldn’t see much anyway on account of the faint violet mist that blurred his vision. He got the impression of a slowly-moving conveyor belt, with men stationed at intervals along it. Disciples, he thought. And the parts being machined on that belt were probably non-Believers, or such low trash.

There was a man watching him, smiling. A Disciple, Cullen thought, and quite naturally made the sign to him. He had never made it before, but it was easy. The Disciple replied in kind.

“He told me you were coming,” said the Disciple. “He made a special miracle for you, he said. That’s quite a distinction. Do you want me to show you around the belt?”

“You bet.”

“Well, this is Factory One. It’s the nerve center of all the factories of the country. The others give preliminary treatment only; and make only Believers. We make Disciples.”

Oh, boy, Disciples! “Am I going to be a Discipler asked Cullen eagerly.

“After being miraculated by him. Of course! You’re a somebody, you know. There are only five other people he ever took personal charge of.”

This was a glorious way to do things. Everything Mr. Crumley did was glorious. What a god! What a god!

“You started that way, too.”

“Certainly,” said the Disciple, placidly, “I’m an important fellow, too. Only I wish I were more important, even.”

“What for?” said Cullen, in a shocked tone of voice. “ Are you murmuring against the dictates of Mr. Crumley? (may he prosper).This is sacrilege.”

The Disciple shifted uncomfortably, “Well, I’ve got ideas, and I’d like to try them out.”

“You’ve got ideas, huh?” muttered Cullen balefully. “Does Mr. Crumley (may he live forever) know?”

“Well-frankly, no! But just the same,” the Disciple looked over each shoulder carefully and drew closer, “I’m not the only one. There are lots of us that think Mr. Crumley (on whom be blessings) is just a trifle old-fashioned. For instance, take the lights in this place.”

Cullen stared upwards. The lights were the same type as those in the terminal-cave. They might have been stolen from any line of the IRT subway. Perfect copies of the stop-and-go signals and the exit markers.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

The Disciple sneered, “They lack originality. You’d think a grade A god would do something new. When he takes people, he does it through the subway, and he obeys subway rules. He waits for the Dispatcher to tell him to go; he stops at every station; he uses crude electricity and so on. What we need,” the Disciple was waving his hands wildly and shouting, “is more enterprise, more git-and-go. We’ve got to speed up things and run them with efficiency and vim.”

Cullen stared hotly, “You are a heretic,” he accused. “you are doomed to damnation.” He looked angrily about for a bell, whistle, gong, or drum wherewith to summon the great Crumley, but found nothing.

The other blinked in quick thought. “Say,” he said, bluffly, “look at what time it is. I’m behind schedule. You better get on the belt for your first treatment.”

Cullen was hot about the slovenly assistance Mr. Crumley was getting from this inferior Disciple, but a treatment is a treatment, so making the sign devoutly, he got on. He found it fairly comfortable despite its jerky motion. The Disciple motioned to Cullen’s first preceptor-another Disciple-standing beside a sort of blackboard. Cullen had watched others while discussing Crumley and he had noticed the question and answer procedure that had taken place. He had noticed it particularly.

Consequently, he was surprised, when the second Disciple, instead of using his heavy pointer to indicate a question on the board, reversed it and brought it down upon his head.

The lights went out!

When he came to, he was under the belt, at the very bottom of the cave. He was tied up, and the Rebellious Disciple and three others were talking about him.

“He couldn’t be persuaded,” the Disciple was saying. “Crumley must have given him a double treatment or something.”

“It’s the last double treatment Crumley’ll ever give,” said the fat little man.

“Let’s hope so. How’s it coming?”

“Very well. Very well, indeed. We teleported ourselves to Section Four about two hours ago. It was a perfect miracle.”

The Disciple was pleased. “Fine! How’re they doing at Four?”

The fat little man clucked his lips. COW ell, now, not so hot. For some reason, they’re getting odd effects over there. Miracles are just happening. Even ordinary Crumleyites can pass them, and sometimes they-just happen. It’s extremely annoying.”

“Hmm, that’s bad. If there are too many hitches, Crumley’ll get suspicious. ti he investigates there first, he can reconvert all of them in a jiffy, before he comes here and then without their support we might not be strong enough to stand up against him.”

“Say, now,” said the fat man apprehensively, “we’re not strong enough now, you mow. None of this going off half-cocked.”

“We’re strong enough,” pointed out the Disciple stiffly, “to weaken him long enough to get us a new god started, and after that-

“A new god, eh?” said another. He nodded wisely.

“Sure,” said the Disciple. “ A new god, created by us, can be destroyed by us. He’d be completely under our thumb and then instead of this one-man tyranny, we can have a sort of-er-council.”

There were general grins and everyone looked pleased.

“But we’ll discuss that further some other time,” continued the Disciple briskly. “Let’s Believe just a bit. Crumley isn’t stupid, you mow, and we don’t want him to observe any slackening. Come on, now. All together.”

They closed their eyes, concentrated a bit, and then opened them with a sigh.

“Well,” said the little, fat man, “ that’s over. I’d better be getting back now.”

From under the belt, Cullen watched him. He looked singularly like a chicken about to take off for a tree as he flexed his knees and stared upwards. Then he added to the resemblance not a little when he spread his arms, gave a little hop and fluttered away.

Cullen could follow his flight only by watching the eyes of the three remaining. Those eyes turned up and up, following the fat man to the very top of the cave, it seemed. There was an air of self-satisfaction about those eyes. They were very happy over their miracles.

Then they all went away and left Cullen to his holy indignation. He was shocked to the very core of his being at this sinful rebellion, this apostasy-this-this-There weren’t any words for it, even when he tried Gaelic.

Imagine trying to create a god that would be under the thumbs of the creators. It was anthropomorphic heresy (where had he heard that word, now?) and struck at the roots of all religion. Was he going to lie there and watch anything strike at the roots of all religion? Was he going to submit to having MI. Crumley (may he swim through seas of ecstasy) deposed?

Never!

But the ropes thought otherwise, so there he stayed.

And then there was an interruption in his thoughts. There came a low, booming sound-a sound which would have been a voice if it had not been pitched so incredibly low. There was a menace to it that got immediate attention. It got attention from Cullen, who quivered in his bonds; from the others in the cave, who quivered even harder, not being restrained by ropes; from the belt itself, which stopped dead with a jerk, and quivered mightily.

The Rebellious Disciple dropped to his knees and quivered more than any of them.

The voice came again, this time in a recognizable language, “WHERE IS THAT BUM, CRUMLEY?” it roared.

There was no wait for an answer. A cloud of shadow gathered in the center of the hall and spat a black bolt at the belt. A spot of fire leaped out from where the bolt had touched and spread slowly outward. Where it passed, the belt ceased to exit. It was far from Cullen, but there were humans nearer, and among those scurrying pandemonium existed.

Cullen wanted very much to join the flight, but unfortunately the Disciple who had trussed him up had evidently been a Boy Scout. Jerking, twisting, and writhing had no effect upon the stubborn ropes, so he fell back upon Gaelic and wishing. He wished he were flee. He wished he weren’t tied. He wished he were far away from that devouring flame. He wished lots of things, some unprintable, but mainly those.

And with that he felt a gentle slipping pressure and down at his feet was an untidy pile of hempen fibre. Evidently the forces liberated by the rebellion were getting out of control here as well as in Section Four. What had the little fat man said? “Miracles are just happening. Even ordinary Crumleyites can pass them, and sometimes they-just happen.”

But why waste time? He ran to the rock wall and howled a wish at it to dissolve into nothing. He howled several times with Gaelic modifications, but the wall didn’t even slightly soften. He stared wildly and then saw the hole. It was on the side of the cave, diametrically across from Cullen’s position at the bottom of the hall, and about three loops of the belt up. The upward spiral passed just below it.

Somehow he made the leap that grabbed the lower lip of the spiral, wriggled his way onto it and jumped into a run. The fire of disintegration was behind him and plenty far away, but it was making time. Up the belt to the third loop he ran, not taking time to be dizzy from the circular trip. But when he got there, the hole, large, black and inviting, was just the tiniest bit higher than he could jump.

He leaned against the wall panting. The spot of fire was now two spots, crawling both ways from a twenty foot break in the belt. Everyone in the cavern, some two hundred people, was in motion, and everyone made some sort of noise.

Somehow, the sight stimulated him. It nerved him to further efforts to get into the hole. Wildly, he tried walking up the sheer wall, but this didn’t work.