Angus sat with his head against the cliff, face tilted up. "That didn't help any."
"When are they going to give up?"
McIntosh glanced abstractedly at the horde. "How long would we keep it up if our God appeared among us?"
Drummond swore. "Damned if you haven't been reading the print off that Bible!"
"What do you suppose happened," Angus went on heedlessly, "to make them more than clunkers—to make them grope for the basic truths?"
Drummond spat disgustedly in answer.
"Civilization goes on for a hundred years," Angus said as he leaned back and closed his eyes, "spreading across a hunk of the Galaxy, carrying along its knowledge and religious convictions. And all the while, there's this little lost island of mimic beliefs—so much like our own creed, except that their god is called Jackson."
Drummond rose and paced. "Well, you'll have plenty of time to set them straight, if we're still sitting on this shelf eleven hours from now."
"Maybe that's what it'll take—bringing them step by step through theology."
"Overnight?"