. . . his hand will be against every man and every man’s hand against him, and he shall dwell in the presence of all his brethren.

Ship’s unmistakable presence filled Thomas’ head so suddenly that he clapped his hands over his ears in reflex.

“Ship!” He closed his eyes and found that he was near tears. I can’t give in to hysteria! I can’t.”

Why not, Devil? Hysteria has its moments. Particularly among humans.

“There isn’t time for hysteria.” He opened his eyes, brought his hands away from his ears, and spoke in the general direction of the ceiling sensor. “We have to solve Your problem of Worship. They won’t listen to me. I’ll have to take direct action.”

Ship was relentless: Not MY problem! Your problem.

“My problem, then. I’m going to share it with the others.”

It is time to talk of endings, Raj.

He glared at the sensor, as though that were the origin of the presence in his head.

“You mean . . . break the recording?”

Yes, it is the time of times.

Was that sadness in Ship?

“Must You?”

Yes.

So Ship really meant it. This was not just another diversion, another replay. Thomas closed his eyes, feeling his voice go slack in his throat, his mouth dry. He opened his eyes and the fly was gone.

“How . . . long do we . . . how long?”

There was a noticeable pause.

Seven diurns.

“That’s not enough! I might do it in sixty. Give me sixty diurns. What’s such a sliver of time to You?”

Just that, Raj: a sliver. Annoying, the way it works its way into the most sensitive area. Seven diurns, Raj, then I must be about other business.

“How can we discover the right way to WorShip in seven diurns? We haven’t satisfied You for centuries and . . .”

The kelp is dying. It has seven diurns until extinction. Oakes thinks it will be longer, but he is mistaken. Seven diurns, then, for you all.

“What will You do?”

Leave you to the certainty that you will wipe yourselves out.

Thomas leaped from his hammock, shouted: “I can’t do anything about it in here! What do You expect from . . .”

“You in there! Thomas!”

It was a male voice from a hidden vocoder. Thomas thought he recognized the voice of Jesus Lewis.

“Is that you, Lewis?”

“Yes. Who are you talking to?”

Thomas looked up at the sensor in the ceiling. “I have to talk to Oakes.”

“Why?”

“Ship is going to destroy us.”

Let you destroy yourselves. The correction was gentle but firm in his awareness.

“Was that what you were shouting about? You think you were talking to the ship?” There was derision in Lewis’ tone.

“I was talking to Ship! Our WorShip is all wrong. Ship demands that we learn how to . . .”

“Ship demands! The ship is about to be put in its proper place, a functional . . .”