“It's a machine for fighting,” said Simony. “The Turtle Moves, eh?”
“For fighting Ephebians?” said Brutha.
Urn turned around.
“What?” he said.
“You've built this . . . this thing . . . to fight Ephebians?”
“Well . . . no . . . no,” said Urn, looking bewildered. “We're fighting Ephebians?”
“Everyone,” said Simony.
"But I never . . . I'm an . . . I never-
Brutha looked at the spiked wheels and the sawedged plates around the edge of the Turtle.
“It's a device that goes by itself,” said Urn. "We were going to use it for . . . I mean . . . look, I never wanted it to . . .'
“We need it now,” said Simony.
“Which we?”
“What comes out of the big long spout thing at the front?” said Brutha.
“Steam,” said Urn dully. “It's connected to the safety valve.”
“Oh.”
“It comes out very hot,” said Urn, sagging even more.
“Oh?”
“Scalding, in fact.”
Brutha's gaze drifted from the steam funnel to the rotating knives.
“Very philosophical,” he said.
“We were going to use it against Vorbis,” said Urn.
“And now you're not. It's going to be used against Ephebians. You know, I used to think I was stupid, and then I met philosophers.”
Simony broke the silence by patting Brutha on the shoulder.
“It will all work out,” he said. “We won't lose. After all,” he smiled encouragingly, “we have God on our side.”
Brutha turned. His fist shot out. It wasn't a scientific blow, but it was hard enough to spin Simony around. He clutched his chin.
“What was that for? Isn't this what you wanted?”
“We get the gods we deserve,” said Brutha, “and I think we don't deserve any. Stupid. Stupid. The sanest man I've met this year lives up a pole in the desert. Stupid. I think I ought to join him.”
I. Why?
“Gods and men, men and gods,” said Brutha. “Everything happens because things have happened before. Stupid.”
II. But You Are The Chosen One.