THE GREEN GOD by David Dvorkin. SPAN 1 As soon as the crowd started yelling, I knew I had found it: the con man's gold mine among the stars. Bad luck on Hester, my previous stop, had made it necessary for me to leave that planet swiftly, and I had bought a ticket on the first starship scheduled to leave. I had only a few minutes to board, and in my hurry I committed the inexcusable error of leaving the crown jewels behind me at the ticket counter. The ship's departure came none too soon: we lifted off just as the Hesterical Royal Police came yelling and screaming out onto the field, my name on their lips and murder in their hearts. I hope the ship's backwash got some of them. The liner turned out to be headed for Goss Conf, a moderately backward planet about a month's voyage distant. One month was time enough for me to win some money from my fellow passengers, using a variety of rigged games of chance?almost enough money, in fact, to ease the pain I still felt at having been forced to leave most of my ill-gotten gains behind on Hester. Time enough, too, for the captain to hear the grumbling about my suspiciously persistent good luck and large winnings, so that the landing on Traj Coord, the principal city and only spaceport of Goss Conf, came at a welcome moment. Having no luggage and feeling rather distressed at the growing hostility of my shipmates, I was standing near the exit port during our descent, looking out a porthole and feeling anxious to leave the vessel. Therefore, as the liner settled down into its berth, I was able to see the immense crowd of natives pressing against the restraining fence a hundred or so feet from the touchdown area. There was about them an air of anxiety and expectation, and many of them were holding up large posters upon which was reproduced the face of a man. That face was disturbingly familiar, but I couldn't quite place it?probably because it had been painted with a simpering expression, eyes turned heavenward, and as though a light were shining down on it. No one I have ever known looked like that. The familiarity of the face, my strange inability to recognize it, and the presence of the alien crowd all combined to make me uneasy, but countering this was the strong feeling that something good was about to happen to me?a feeling that came to me from my ever-dependable sixth sense, that form of intuition concerning things illegal that is the mark of the truly brilliant charlatan. I noticed that the locals' skins had a distinctly greenish cast, so I reached quickly inside my shirt and brought forth a small can of Green Cream, a concoction I always carry with me "just in case." (I also carry cans of Red Cream, Purple Cream, and so on: it pays to be prepared.) I applied it quickly to my face, neck, and hands and then put it back. I couldn't tell if the shade was quite right, but it would have to do. Suddenly I recognized the face on the posters: it was my own! They were waiting for me! I was immediately convinced that the Hesterical Royal Police had somehow sent a message ahead and the crowd was waiting to tear me limb from limb. The political, jurisdictional, and astronomical difficulties precluding this eventuality did not occur to me in my panic, and I turned, intending to dash back to the passenger cabin area and hide there until the ship lifted off again; I could try my luck on the next world the ship visited. At this point, however, the air lock opened and a wave of exiting passengers carried me out onto the exit ramp. (I regret to add that I was given an extra shove out by a stewardess whom, during the long journey, I had deprived not of money, as I had my fellow passengers, but rather of that which she, a native of Puella II, considered more precious than wealth?her "honor.") As soon as they saw me, the native crowd began yelling excitedly and waving their posters up and down. And right then I somehow knew, as I have already said that I had found the con man's pie in the sky. They were yelling happily; they were glad to see me! Of course it must have something to do with that poster, and even though I didn't understand what was going on, I knew it was good news for my prime dependent. Some local policemen were struggling to hold the natives back, but there was one of those sudden, spontaneous movements that sometimes seize a crowd, and then the policemen were down, the fence was down, and the crowd spilled out upon the field and headed for my ship, yelling "Span! Span!" My erstwhile traveling companions scattered, trying desperately to get out of the way. They needn't have bothered: they were completely ignored, and the crowd came surging up the ramp toward me. I stood at the top with my arms outstretched beneficently, my eyes looking upwards, and an imbecilic simper on my face, in an attempted imitation of the painting on then-posters. They loved it. They hoisted me onto their shoulders and, to the obvious astonishment of my shipboard victims, carried me in triumph into the city. I think it worth recording that some of the crowd were quite obviously professional colleagues of mine who were along only for the confusion: in all the noise and bustle, some of my worshippers took the opportunity to burn, pillage, and rape as we moved through the city, so that we left behind us a trail of fires, looted shops, and deflowered virgins. Most of the crowd, though, were fully sincere religious fanatics. Their eyes burned, their nostrils flared, and they kept chanting "Span, Span!" as well as some other phrases which of course I was unable to understand. As we progressed, more and more of the genuine worshippers joined the now immense throng, while the seamier types began leaving the crowd in order to enjoy the fruits of their unholy labor, so that by the time we stopped I rode upon a veritable sea of pious fervor. Stop we did, eventually, in a large, sunny plaza dominated by a great, ugly building shaped like an inverted bowl. Before the building stood a ten-foot-high statue of that fellow who looked so like me? but again, as on the posters, with a simpering face and eyes turned upwards. His arms were outstretched as though to bless the multitude, but in front of him stood a line of armed guards, grim-jawed and obviously determined to keep this particular multitude away from the statue and the building The crowd murmured uncertainly, then began again to shout "Span! Span! Span!" and moved slowly forward. The grimness left the guards' jaws and fear filled their eyes as the vast number of tramping feet steadily approached them, and as one they obeyed that well-known soldiers' maxim, time-honored throughout the Galaxy, "Nobody ever gained a promotion by getting himself killed." They threw their weapons to the ground and cowered behind the statue. (I must say I heartily approved of their wise decision: as I was being carried right- at the front of the crowd at this time, I would have been quite exposed had there been any fighting. And I detest pain.) Once the way was clear, the pious mob ignored the quivering guards, set, me down on my feet in front of the building, and waited with reverent expectation. Perhaps I should pause at this point to enlighten you. Although I was unsure just what the situation was, I had settled by this tune upon two prime possibilities. The character on the posters?for whom I had of course been mistaken?was either some living leader (political, military, or religious) on Goss Conf, or else some dead (or perhaps even mythological) hero. In the first case, I had obvious problems: in particular, the real man would presumably show up sooner or later, with who could guess what evil result for me. In the second case, however, my fortune was made, my gold mine was found, my spaceship had docked, and my previous intuition was confirmed: after a few months spent posing as the hero returned from the dead, or come down from the heavens, or whatever the deal was, I would depart from this primitive planet with a large chunk of its wealth clutched between my holy fingers and never return. Either way, I told myself, boldness was my best course. I beamed beneficently upon the masses, raised my eyes skyward, stretched forth my arms, and simpered. They went mad with delight, screaming, stamping their feet, trampling one another to death, and so on. I turned and repeated my performance for the guards, who before this had not been able to see me clearly. Now they too widened their eyes and flared their nostrils in fanatic delight and began to mutter "Span!" Smiling paternally, I entered the building, moving in what I hoped was a floating, ethereal manner. The rumble of the crowd's "Span!" followed me in. (That constantly repeated "Span" bothered me, by the way, for I couldn't decide whether it was a nonsense word denoting religious ecstasy or supposed to b6 my name.) Just inside, I halted to savor the cool dimness after the hot, sun-bleached plaza and to allow my eyes to adjust. Slowly I became aware of a vast chamber which must have taken up almost a third of the building's interior volume; the entrance to the building was also the entrance to this great room. At the far end of the chamber there was a raised platform with a richly decorated throne upon it. I thought this a good beginning to my enterprise: the throne might be rather too large to smuggle aboard an interstellar liner in my underwear when the time came to depart, but the precious stones set into it definitely were not. From behind the throne a figure suddenly emerged, dressed in a floor-length robe with a hood. It lifted one draped arm and peremptorily beckoned me to follow. I did so, having come this far anyway and not knowing what else to do. There is an old saying in my profession, which I coined myself, to wit: "Small risk, small...
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