“Ah.” McCann was smiling. Malenfant could tell what he was thinking. This is what this guy believes. Don’t say anything to contradict him. McCann said, “We are on an island, an island that survived the Flood. Yes, of course.” He glanced out at the huddled Runners. “And that explains them.”

Praisegod said, “They are less than men yet more than the animals. What can they be but Homo diluvii testi — witnesses of the Flood? This island was spared the rising waters; and so were its inhabitants, who must have crowded here with the ignorant instincts of any animal.”

“Then,” said McCann carefully, “we are privileged to glimpse the antediluvian order of things.”

“Privileged or damned,” Sprigge muttered, staring at the Neandertal boy on Praisegod’s lap. “This place is an abomination.”

“Not an abomination,” snapped Praisegod. “It is like a strange reflected Creation. Man was born to look up at the orders of beings above him, the angels, prophets, saints and apostles, who serve the Holy Trinity. Here, we look down, down on these creatures with men’s hands and faces and even tongues, but creatures without mind or soul, who sprawl in the mud.”

They talked further, an incoherent conversation of disconnected fragments, peppered by misunderstanding, suffused by mistrust. But Malenfant slowly learned something of Praisegod Michael.

The Zealot township had been a godless place when Praisegod was a child, given to anarchy and lawlessness, weakened by the endless green lure of the forest. But — so Michael was told by his parents — God was involved in every detail of life. God watched the daily deeds of men and punished their sins, and the Elect — those who obeyed God’s law — would be saved. Praisegod learned this in prayer and torment, in misery and distrust, at the hands of what sounded to Malenfant like abusive parents.

And then they abandoned him, just melted away into the bush, leaving the child to the tender mercies of the townspeople.

Life had been very hard for the young Praisegod, it seemed. But eventually he had rediscovered the religion inside himself. He drew strength from this inner core. And when the growing, toughening Praisegod had come to see that he himself was one of the Elect, his duty had become clear: to devote himself to God’s fight and the establishment of His kingdom on this fragmentary world.

He had pursued that goal from then on with an ever-burning zeal and an unswerving fixity of purpose that had turned this gaunt, lisping, wart-ridden preacher into something like a man of true destiny.

But there was a cost, of course.

To the Zealots, it seemed to Malenfant, the other hominids, the pre-sapients, barely even existed. They had no language, no clothing, no religion, and therefore they had absolutely no rights under God or man. They were animals, no more than that, regardless of the curiosity of their gaze, the pain in their cries, their misery in enslavement: simply a resource for exploitation.

Malenfant leaned forward. “I’m curious. What do you want, Praisegod Michael? What do you want to achieve among all these animals?”

Michael’s eyes were bright. “I seek only to emulate Ramose, who led his nation out of Egypt to the land of Canaan…” Malenfant soon realized that this “Ramose” was a kind of analogue of Moses from his own timeline, like the John who had replaced Christ in McCann’s history. “I believe I have seen the providence of God, for surely it is by His dispensation I have been given my place here. And I have no choice but to follow that providence.”

McCann seemed to be growing agitated. “But one must search for the truth of providences, Praisegod Michael. One must be wary of the exaltation of the self.”

Michael just laughed. “You have not lived in this land long. You will learn that it is only I who stand between these mindless apes and chaos itself.” His hands, apparently without conscious volition, stroked the Neandertal boy’s broad chest. He glanced out of the tepee’s flap door; the rain had slackened. “Come. Time enough for theology later. For now there is a hunt to be made, bellies to be filled.” And he led the way out of the tepee.

“The man is too much,” McCann said, glowering at Praisegod’s back. “He takes divinity on himself. He is close to blasphemy. He likens himself to Bay — that is, his own twisted version of Bay.” Malenfant guessed that Bay was another of Moses” parallel-historical pseudonyms. “Malenfant, the man is a self aggrandizing monster. He must be stopped. Otherwise, what will come to pass, as Praisegod’s blasphemous hordes swarm like locusts over this wretched Moon?”

Malenfant shrugged. For all McCann’s talk of Praisegod’s ambitions, he found it hard to take seriously anybody who lived in a mud hut. “He’s vicious. But he’s a shithead. Anyhow I thought you were going to do business with him.”

McCann glared at him, angry, frustrated. And Malenfant saw that McCann’s mood had switched, just as he had feared. It was as if a veneer had been stripped away.

Malenfant felt only dismay. He just wanted to get out of here; if McCann went off the rails, he had no idea how he was going to handle the situation.

Now there was a commotion up ahead. Sprigge had reached the huddle of Hams. Two of them were standing unsteadily, while the third sprawled in the mud. Sprigge began to beat the Hams vigorously.

“It is the wine,” Praisegod remarked. “They steal it from us and hide it in their clothing. Though their bellies are large, their brains are small, and they cannot take it as men can.”

The Runners watched apathetically as the Hams were chastised.

The sky cleared rapidly. Through high thin clouds the sunlight returned. The red dust began to steam under their feet, making the air humid.

A little after noon, they reached the fringe of a belt of dense forest. They made a rough camp in the shade of the wood, spreading out their clothes and goods to dry. The Runners were tied up by their necks or ankles to tree trunks, but were able to forage for food among the roots of the trees.

McCann nodded. “Efficient. It saves their carrying their own provision. And while their fingers are nimble with food, their minds are too empty to puzzle out knots.”

Sprigge was to lead a hunting party into the forest. He would take four Runners, and — as a punishment — all three Hams, who seemed to have crashed into catastrophic hangovers. Both McCann and Malenfant were invited to join them; McCann agreed to go, but Malenfant refused.

Praisegod settled down on a sheet of leather. The other Zealot, a squat, silent man, dug foodstuffs from out of the Runners” packs and laid them out. Praisegod nibbled on nuts, fruit and dried meat; he pressed titbits into the mouth of his Ham boy, fingering the child’s lips each time.

Malenfant sat in the dirt, waiting for a turn at the food. The silent Zealot sat alone some distance away, chewing on something that looked like beef jerky; he watched Malenfant warily.

Praisegod said, “So you declined to join the hunt, Sir Malenfant.” He smiled coldly. “You are not a hunter, then — not a woodsman or a man of the heath either, I would say. What, then? A scholar?”

“A sailor, I guess.”

“A sailor.” Praisegod chewed thoughtfully. “In my father’s day some effort was made to escape this antediluvian island. Men took to the desert, which stretches west of this place. And they built boats and took to the sea, which stretches away to the east. Most did not come back, from either longitude. Those who did reported only emptiness — deserts of sand or water, the land populated by lowly forms. Of course you and your friend have yet to confess what marvellous ship, or providential accident, brought you here.”

“So that you can use it to get out of here,” Malenfant said cautiously. “Is that what you want?”

Praisegod said, “I do not long for escape. I know what you want, Reid Malenfant, for I have discussed your state of mind with your wiser companion. You seek your wife. You have wagered your life, in fact, on finding her. It is a goal with some nobility, but a goal of the body, not the soul.”