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 v/as 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 free. 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.

And then Mr. Crumley stuck his head out of the hole and said, 'Oh, mercy me, what a perfectly terrible mess. Dear, dear! Come up here, Cullen! Why do you stay down there!'

A great peace descended upon Cullen. 'Hail, Mr. Crumley.' he cried. 'May you sniff the essence of roses forever.'

Mr. Crumley looked pleased, 'Thank you, Cullen.' He waved his hand, and the conductor was beside him - a simple matter of levitation. Once again,.Cullen decided in his inmost soul that here was a god.

'And now,' said Mr. Crumley, 'we must hurry, hurry, hurry. I've lost most of my power when the Disciples rebelled, and my subway car is stuck half-way. I'll need your help. Hurry!'

Cullen had no time to admire the tiny subway at the end of the tunnel. He jumped off the platform on Crumley's heels and dashed about a hundred feet down the tube to where the car was standing idle. He wafted into the open front door with the grace of a chorus-boy. Mr. Crumley took care of that.

'Cullen,' said Mr. Crumley, 'start this thing and take it back to the regular line. And be careful; he is waiting for me.'

'Who?'

'He, the new god. Imagine those fools - no, idiots - thinking they could create a controllable god, when the very essence of godship is uncontrollability. Of course, when they made a god to destroy me, they made a Destroyer, and he'll just destroy everything in sight that I created, including my Disciples.'

Cullen worked quickly. He knew how to start car 30990; any conductor would. He raced to the other end of the car for the control lever, snatched it off, and returned at top speed. That was all he needed. There was power in the rail; the lights were on; and there were no stop signals between him and God's Country.

Mr. Crumley lay himself down on a seat, 'Be very quiet. He may let you get past him. I'm going to blank myself out, and maybe he won't notice me. At any rate, he won't harm you - I hope. Dear, dear, since this all started in section four, things are such a mess.'

Eight stations passed before anything happened and then came Utopia Circle station and - well, nothing really happened. It was just an impression - an impression of people all around him for a few seconds watching him closely with a virulent hostility. It wasn't exactly people, but a person. It wasn't exactly a person either, but just a huge eye, watching -Watching - watching.

But it passed, and almost immediately Cullen saw a black and white ' Flatbush Avenue ' sign at the side of the tunnel. He jammed on his brakes in a hurry, for there was a train -waiting there. But the controls didn't work the way they should have, and the car edged up until it was in contact with the cars before. With a soft click, it coupled and 30990 was just the last car of the train.

It was Mr. Crumley's work, of course. Mr. Crumley stood behind him, watching. 'He didn't get you, did he? No - I see he didn't.'

'Is there any more danger?' asked Cullen, anxiously.

'I don't think so,' responded Mr. Crumley sadly. 'After he has destroyed all my creation, there will be nothing left for him to destroy, and, deprived of a function, he will simply cease to exist. That's the result of this nasty, slipshod work.

I'm disgusted with human beings.'

'Don't say that,' said Cullen.

'I will,' retorted Mr. Crumley savagely, 'Human beings aren't fit to be god of. They're too much trouble and worry. It would give any self-respecting god gray hairs and I suppose you think a god looks very dignified all gray. Darn all humans! They can get along without me. From now on, I'm going to go to Africa and try the chimpanzees. I'll bet they make much better material.'

'But wait,' wailed Cullen. 'What about me? I believe in you.'

'Oh, dear, that would never do. Here! Return to normal.'

Mr. Crumley's hand caressed the air, and Cullen, once more a God-fearing Irishman, let loose a roar in the purest Gaelic and made for him.

'Why, you blaspheming spalpeen -'

But there was no Mr. Crumley. There was only the Dispatcher, asking very impolitely - in English - what the blank-ety-blank hell was the matter with him.

 I am sorry to say that I have no clear memory, at this time, what parts of the story are mine and what parts are Pohl's. Going over it, I can say, 'This part sounds like me, this part doesn't,' but whether I'd be right or not I couldn't swear,

 Fantasy Book was a very borderline publication that lasted only eight issues. 'The Little Man on the Subway' was in the sixth.

 An amusing fact about this issue of a small magazine that had to make do with what it could find among the rejects of the field was that it included 'Scanners Live in Vain,' by Cord-wainer Smith. Thia was Smith's first published story and he was not to publish another for eight years or so. In the 1960s, Smith (a pseudonym for a man whose real identity was not made clear until after his death) became a writer of considerable importance, and this first story of his became a classic.