Feet of Clay

Life is pretty strange when a god who is good and benevolent must prove that he has
Feet of Clay
BY PHILLIP HOSKINS
Illustrated by Paul Orban
The problem, said Cassidy, would seem to be simple. He thumped his outsized knuckles against the desk. Almost too simple.
Why? The other was a wearer of the black and silver uniform of Extrasol Traders; a short man, made shorter by the beer-barrel shape of his body and the extreme width of his shoulders. His head was capped with close-cropped gray curls.
Why? he repeated. I've been studying it ever since it first cropped up, and I must admit that it's been beyond me.
I must confess, Dillon, said Cassidy, I wonder how you ever rose to the managerial ranks of Extrasol. I find it hard to imagine a personnel man stupid enough to put you in charge of even a backwater planet like this Kash. Surely somebody in the home office must know how dumb you are?
My dumbness is not the subject of this conversation, said Dillon, grimly. I didn't like the idea of calling in a trouble-shooter. I liked it even less when I found out it was to be you.
Cassidy grinned. You mean my wonderful personality hasn't made an impression on you? I'm cut to the quick.
I put up with you for only one reason. You know aliens, far better than I could ever hope to. You're about the best in the field.
Only about? Really, Dillon, if you knew of someone better than me, why didn't you get them?