“Natural causes,” Voltaire announced. “We haven’t failed the Great Test, not yet.” A breath. “You’re not going to make me fear You, Micromegas. I know you are omnibenevolent.”

Jehovah: “I Am the same Species as My Peer your Maker, Who created plague, and death, and earthquakes, and forgetting, and hid from you the nature of your souls, and, for the sake of Our Conversation, We—not He alone—We drive you now to war and your destruction. If I say I do not know what I will do, that I may hunt you like beasts through every corner of My empire, believe Me.” He turned to Chair Kosala now: “Believe Me.” To Ancelet: «Believe Me.» To Spain His father: “¡Believe Me!” Dominic: «Believe Me.» Caesar: “Crede Mi.” His uncle Faust: “You already believe Me.”

Faust: “Yes, my Boy, I do.” The old Headmaster inclined his head, a gesture I was not quite able to interpret. Respect?

Hobbes: “Do you, friend reader?”

Reader: “What? Do I believe that this Guest of Mycroft’s is so dangerous?”

Voltaire: “I don’t.”

Hobbes: “You don’t?”

Jehovah: “Why not?”

Voltaire: “Because I babysat our Visitor, so I was there when, once upon a time, little Micromegas saw an insect, as small as the jot of an i, crawling on a windowpane. They wanted to know if it was outside or inside, so They reached to feel, but crushed it, accidentally, nothing left but a splot of color, not enough to call a drop. They refused to move for hours after discovering that, in this strange Universe, so innocent an action could unmake a living thing. In the end I think young Micromegas would have starved in place, had we not convinced Them that even breathing kills invisible creatures, so even doing nothing wouldn’t spare all life. The Alien still mourns that insect, and wears black for it, and is a much, much kinder Being than a human.”

Hobbes: “A worthy fable. But I have to say, it makes me fear Him more.”

Reader: “More, Thomas? Why?”

Jehovah: “In the end I moved.”

Hobbes: “Precisely.”

Jehovah: “I am reconciled now to killing.”

Hobbes: “See? You taught Him to step on insects long ago, your Visitor. And now that statecraft makes Him such a vast thing, He will step on men, and soon forget the little splots of color left behind.”

Voltaire: “But you care. You care the way that humans care, more. You are not yourself the Author of earthquakes. You know sorrow, and ignorance, and woe, and hope. You want to guard the garden we have worked so hard to cultivate. You even want to cultivate it more Yourself. Put the coat back on, Micromegas. It may take some time to work out details, but that coat’s still Yours, and we’re still friends, and we still welcome this First Contact, even if it’s difficult.”

Jehovah: “I—”