'Oh, yeah?'

'Well, then, if you are stubborn, I'll pass a minor miracle. It's inconvenient, but now,' he made vague motions with his left hand, 'you Believe in me.'

'Certainly,' said Cullen, hurt. 'I always did. How do I go about worshipping you? I want to do this properly.'

'Just Believe in me, and that's enough. Now you must go to the factories and then we'll send you back home - they'll never know you were gone - and you can live your life like a Believer.'

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 Disciple?' 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. Tine! How're they doing at Four?'

The fat little man clucked his lips. 'Well, 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. If 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 know. 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 know, 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.

Gullen 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 Mr. Crumley (may he swim through seas of ecstasy) deposed?