This was the definition of eternity; it was the space of time devised by the Great God Om to ensure that everyone got the punishment that was due to them.

The Omnians had a great many hells.

Currently, Brutha was going through all of them.

Brother Nhumrod and Brother Vorbis looked down at him, tossing and turning on his bed like a beached whale.

"It's the sun," said Nhumrod, almost calm now after the initial shock of having the exquisitor come looking for him. "The poor lad works all day in that garden. It was bound to happen."

"Have you tried beating him?" said Brother Vorbis.

"I'm sorry to say that beating young Brutha is like trying to flog a mattress," said Nhumrod. "He says `ow!' but I think it's only because he wants to show he's willing. Very willing lad, Brutha. He's the one I told you about."

"He doesn't look very sharp," said Vorbis.

"He's not," said Nhumrod.

Vorbis nodded approvingly. Undue intelligence in a novice was a mixed blessing. Sometimes it could be channeled for the greater glory of Om, but often it caused . . . well, it did not cause trouble, because Vorbis knew exactly what to do with misapplied intelligence, but it did cause unnecessary work.

"And yet you tell me his tutors speak so highly of him," he said.

Nhumrod shrugged.

"He is very obedient," he said. "And . . . well, there's his memory."

"What about his memory?"

"There's so much of it," said Nhumrod.

"He has got a good memory?"

"Good is the wrong word. It's superb. He's word-perfect on the entire Sept-"

"Hmm?" said Vorbis.

Nhumrod caught the deacon's eye.

"As perfect, that is, as anything may be in this most imperfect world," he muttered.

"A devoutly read young man," said Vorbis.

"Er," said Nhumrod, "no. He can't read. Or write."

"Ah. A lazy boy."

The deacon was not a man who dwelt in grey areas. Nhumrod's mouth opened and shut silently as he sought for the proper words.

"No," he said. "He tries. We're sure he tries. He just does not seem to be able to make the . . . he cannot fathom the link between the sounds and the letters."

"You have beaten him for that, at least?"

"It seems to have little effect, deacon."

"How, then, has he become such a capable pupil?"

"He listens," said Nhumrod.

No one listened quite like Brutha, he reflected. It made it very hard to teach him. It was like-it was like being in a great big cave. All your words just vanished into the unfillable depths of Brutha's head. The sheer concentrated absorption could reduce unwary tutors to stuttering silence, as every word they uttered whirled away into Brutha's ears.

"He listens to everything," said Nhumrod. "And he watches everything. He takes it all in."

Vorbis stared down at Brutha.

"And I've never heard him say an unkind word," said Nhumrod. "The other novices make fun of him, sometimes. Call him The Big Dumb Ox. You know the sort of thing?"

Vorbis's gaze took in Brutha's ham-sized hands and tree-trunk legs.

He appeared to be thinking deeply.

"Cannot read and write," said Vorbis. "But ex­tremely loyal, you say?"

"Loyal and devout," said Nhumrod.

"And a good memory," Vorbis murmured.

"It's more than that," said Nhumrod. "It's not like memory at all."

Vorbis appeared to reach a decision.

"Send him to see me when he is recovered," he said.

Nhumrod looked panicky.

"I merely wish to talk to him," said Vorbis. "I may have a use for him."

"Yes, lord?"

"For, I suspect, the Great God Om moves in myste­rious ways."

High above. No sound but the hiss of wind in feathers. The eagle stood on the breeze, looking down at the toy buildings of the Citadel.

It had dropped it somewhere, and now it couldn't find it. Somewhere down there, in that little patch of green.

Bees buzzed in the bean blossoms. And the sun beat down on the upturned shell of Om.

There is also a hell for tortoises.

He was too tired to waggle his legs now. That was all you could do, waggle your legs. And stick your head out as far as it would go and wave it about in the hope that you could lever yourself over.

You died if you had no believers, and that was what a small god generally worried about. But you also died if you died.

In the part of his mind not occupied with thoughts of heat, he could feel Brutha's terror and bewilder­ment. He shouldn't have done that to the boy. Of course he hadn't been watching him. What god did that? Who cared what people did? Belief was the thing. He'd just picked the memory out of the boy's mind, to impress, like a conjuror removing an egg from someone's ear.

I'm on my back, and getting hotter, and I'm going to die . . .

And yet . . . and yet . . . that bloody eagle had dropped him on a compost heap. Some kind of clown, that eagle. A whole place built of rocks on a rock in a rocky place, and he landed on the one thing that'd break his fall without breaking him as well. And really close to a believer.

Odd, that. Made you wonder if it wasn't some kin f divine providence, except that you were divine providence . . . and on your back, getting hotter, preparing to die . . .

That man who'd turned him over. That expression on that mild face. He'd remember that. That expres­sion, not of cruelty, but of some different level of be­ing. That expression of terrible peace . . .

A shadow crossed the sun. Om squinted up into the face of Lu-Tze, who gazed at him with gentle, upside­down compassion. And then turned him the right way up. And then picked up his broom and wandered off, without a second glance.

Om sagged, catching his breath. And then bright­ened up.

Someone up there likes me, he thought. And it's Me.

Sergeant Simony waited until he was back in his own quarters before he unfolded his own scrap of paper.

He was not at all surprised to find it marked with a small drawing of a turtle. He was the lucky one.

He'd lived for a moment like this. Someone had to bring back the writer of the Truth, to be a symbol for the movement. It had to be him. The only shame was that he couldn't kill Vorbis.

But that had to happen where it could be seen.

One day. In front of the Temple. Otherwise no one would believe.

Om stumped along a sandy corridor.

He'd hung around a while after Brutha's disappear­ance. Hanging around is another thing tortoises are very good at. They're practically world champions.

Bloody useless boy, he thought. Served himself right for trying to talk to a barely coherent novice.

Of course, the skinny old one hadn't been able to hear him. Nor had the chef. Well, the old one was probably deaf. As for the cook . . . Om made a note that, when he was restored to his full godly powers, a special fate was going to lie in wait for the cook. He wasn't sure exactly what it was going to be, but it was going to involve boiling water and probably carrots would come into it somewhere.