"Must we classify this as a religious interpretation? Couldn't this just as easily be an alternative to theories of conflicting aliens, or factionaiized invaders?"

"I'm not sure what your theory is."

"'The moving finger, having writ.' That."

"Ah. 'Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin,' or whatever."

"Precisely. We've screwed up. Polluted, overarmed. The twentieth century has been a mess. The bloodiest century in human history. More needless human death than at any other time."

"I can't argue with that," Hicks said.

"And now, we move outward. Perhaps we've been suffered only so long as we remained on Earth. Now—"

"It's an old idea," Hicks interrupted, his unease converting rapidly to irritation.

"Does that mean it's invalid?"

"I think there are better ideas," Hicks said.

"Ah," Crockerman said, his own breakfast still untouched. "But none of them convince me. I am the only judge I can truly rely upon in this situation, am I not?"

"No, sir. There are experts—"

"In my political career, I have ignored the advice of experts many times, and I have prevailed. This made me different from other, more standard aspirants to high office. Now, I grant you, such a ploy has its risks."

"I'm getting lost again, sir. What ploy?"

"Ignoring experts." The President leaned forward, extending his hands across the table, fists clenched, his eyes moist. Crockerman's expression was a rictus of pain. "I asked the Guest one thing, and received one important answer, from all of our questions ... I asked it, 'Do you believe in God,' and it replied, ‘I believe in punishment.' " He leaned back, looking at his fists and relaxing them, rubbing the palms, where fingernails had dug deep. "That must be significant. Perhaps the Guest is from another world, another place where transgressors have been dealt with severely. That thing out there in the 'Furnace,' Death Valley of all places . . . We have been told it will render the Earth down into slag. Total destruction. We have been told we cannot destroy it. I believe in fact we cannot."

Hicks was about to say something, but Crockerman continued, his voice low.

"God, a superior intelligence, sculpts us all, finds us wanting, and sends our material back into the forge to be reshaped. That thing out there. The Furnace. That's the forge of God. That's what we're up against. Might be up against."

"And the Australian artifact, the robots, the messages?"

"I don't know," Crockerman said. "It would clearly sound insane to claim the Australians were dealing with an adversary . . . But perhaps."

"Adversary ... a kind of Satan?"

"Something opposed to the Creator. A force that hopes we will be allowed to continue our transgressions, to put all creation out of balance."

"I think there are better explanations, Mr. President," Hicks said quietly.

"Then please," Crockerman pleaded, "tell me what they are."

"I am not qualified," Hicks said. "I know almost nothing about what's happened. Only what you've told me."

"Then how can you be critical of my theory?"