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he thundered, and kicked the offending boy under the chin, and then moved along the length of their conjunction to kick the girl also. “Hold up yore heads!” he yelled at them. “Raise yore faces and let all the world and Man see who ye air!” He kicked them again, and the boy and girl slowly raised their eyes to look woefully at the congregation, who, however, did not need this proof of their identity, having already identified them by smell through trembling sniffwhips. The boy was clearly Isham Whitter, a Carlotter, and the girl was just as obviously Lucy Whitter, his sister.
    “IN-CEST!” shouted Brother Tichborne. “He that lieth with his own sister is damned to eternal shame! She that lieth with her own brother shall bear monsters as children! Cursed be them both! No sin is more worser in the eyes of Man!” Brother Tichborne began tripping over his own tongue: “The insectuous incest—the incestuous insect is the low-downest, unmanliest, kickworthiest sinner in the world!” And he kicked the couple again.
    The minister could have used the awful example of Ish and Lucy Whitter to harangue and exhort the multitude for the rest of the night, but behold! a sudden blinding light flashed upon the scene from the open rear doorway of Holy House, and there stood the towering silhouette of Man Himself!
    If the assembly had not already been overwhelmed by Brother Tichborne, they were petrified by the appearance of Man, and all of them crouched as low as they could get. Then when He moved, they all found their gitalongs and scurried in every direction until they were hidden from the sight of Man, either beneath the Platform or into the deepest forest of the grass and weeds.
    Brother Tichborne alone, or rather alone with the offending incestuous couple, who still could not unjoin themselves and flee, or were attempting to flee in opposite directions and thus canceling each other’s attempts, remained on the Platform. The minister genuflected into most devout prayer and worship.
    A thousand—nay, two thousand, for everyone has two—sniff-whips and four thousand eyes watched warily as Man came stumbling down the back steps of Holy House and staggered out into the direction of Carlott. Man was not carrying His terrible swift revolver. His hands were empty, and free to swing through the air, grab at the air, to balance Himself, to grope His way out into the darkness.
    As He approached the Platform, Brother Tichborne raised his head and clasped his touchers and his fore-gitalongs together in abject entreaty. “Lord, if it be Thy will,” he prayed, “piss upon me!”
    But Man did not reach the Platform. He stopped, and held His great hands to the sky. “SHARON!” He called in the most deafening voice, and two thousand tailprongs were lowered away from the sound. Even louder He called again, “SHAY-RONNNN!”
    Then He pitched forward and fell headlong into the grass of Carlott, where He lay inert and seemingly lifeless for the rest of the night.
    Brother Tichborne announced, “The Lord but sleepeth. Let us pray.” He led them in an unenthusiastic prayer, and then he made a few routine announcements: the Crustian Young People’s Fellowship would hold a sunset-to-sunrise hymn-sing Saturday night. And at the Sunday night worship service and prayer meeting, open for the first time to Carlotters, who were free, for the duration of the service, to enter Holy House, there would be a special call to Rapture, right before the very eyes of the Lord Himself. Everybody welcome!
    “I’ll believe it when I see it,” a voice said beside Tish, and she turned to see that the roosterroach standing next to her, brushing her body with his own, was Archy Tichborne. He smiled handsomely at her, noticing her for the first time in his life, but she was too bashful even to smile back.

Chapter five

    I f Greg Sam Ingledew’s tailprongs had not been long since stunned into deafness by the continual announcements of his Clock, he might