They had built him a palace—no, a temple—and a city; and they were building him a world. A planet that would be his to the last atom when it was done; a corner of the universe that was Algernon James Weaver.
He recalled that in the beginning he had felt almost like these creatures' servant—"public servant," he had thought, with self-righteous lukewarm, pleasure. He had seen himself as one who built for others—the more virtuous because those others were not even men.
But it was not he who built. They built, and for him.
It was strange, he thought again, that he should not have seen it from the first. For it was perfectly clear and all of a pattern.
The marriage laws. Thou shalt not live in adultery.
The dietary laws. Thou shalt not eat that which is unclean.
And the logical concomitant, the law of worship. Thou shalt have no gods before Me.
The apostles ... Mark, Luke and John. Later, Matthew, Philip, Peter, Simon, Andrew, James, Bartholomew and Thomas.
He had a feeling that something was wrong with the list besides the omission of Judas—unluckily, he had no Bible—but it was really an academic question. They were his apostles, not that Other's.