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He wouldn't even know when it had happened. He wouldn't hear anything, see
anything.
One minute.
_Frozen men become warm again_
_And rabbits drug themselves in the wolfs jaws_
_God gives us ways out_
_I'm still thinking_
_But it doesn't hurt now._
_I know how very small and inconsequential_
_I_
From six miles away, Senator Gilmonn put on the smoky gray glasses the
lieutenant gave to him and looked across the desert at the distant black hump
that was the bogey. The cultists had scattered all across the desert floor,
most out of the area, farther away than his small group, but some hiding
behind piles of rock and other cinder cones. He had no idea how many of the
diehards would survive.
"He's not out of there," the lieutenant said, removing a pair of radio
headphones. Observers in the mountains had not seen Rogers leave the bogey.
"I wonder what happened?" Gilmonn asked. "Did he plant the...it?"
Beams of brilliant red light shot up from the false cinder cone, and the
desert floor was illuminated by a small sun. Huge black fragments twisted
upward in silhouette against the fireball, disintegrating, the smaller
fragments falling back in smoking arcs. The sound was a palpable wall, more
solid and painful than loud, and a violent blast of dusty wind progressed
visibly over the scrub and sand and rock. When it hit, they had a hard time
staying on their feet.
The dust cleared momentarily and they saw a tall, lean pillar of cloud rising,
a fascinating ugly yellow-green, shot through with pastel pinks and purples
and reds.
The lieutenant was weeping. "My god, he didn't get out. Dear Jesus. What a
blast! Like a goddamned pipe bomb."
Senator Gilmonn, too stunned to react, decided he simply did not understand.
The lieutenant understood, and his face was shiny with tears.
Fragments of rock and glass and metal fell for ten miles around for the next
ten minutes. At six miles, none of the fragments exceeded half an inch in
diameter.
They took refuge in the trucks and waited out the shower, and then drove away
from the site to the decontamination center in Shoshone.
49
January 6
The network between the Possessed was beginning to knit and connect. Arthur
could feel its progress. This both excited and saddened him; the time he was
spending with Francine and Marty might be coming to a close.
If she could not accept what had happened, he would have to continue without
them.
Arthur did not know quite how she was taking his revelation, until, in the
morning, he overheard her talking to Marty in the kitchen. He had just
finished a thorough check of the family station wagon and was wiping his hands
on a paper towel before passing through the swinging door.
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"Dad's going to have a lot of work to do soon," Francine said. Arthur paused
behind the door, crumpled towel in one hand, his jaw working.
"Can he stay with us?" Marty asked.
He could not see them, but he could tell that Francine was by the sink, facing
the center of the kitchen, where the boy stood. "What he's doing is
important," she said, not answering Marty's question. She didn't know the
answer.
"He's not working for the President now. He told me."
"Right," Francine said.
"I wish he could stay home."
"So do I."
"Is he going someplace without us?"
"I don't understand what you're asking, Marty."
"Is he going to leave us here when the Earth blows up?"
Arthur closed his eyes. The towel was a tight ball in his fist.
"He's not leaving us anywhere. He's just...working."
"Why work when everything's going to stop?"
"Everybody has to work. We don't know everything's going to stop. Besides,
he's working so that maybe it won't...stop." The catch in her voice made him
raise his head to keep the tears from dropping down his cheek.
"Mr. Perkins says there isn't much we can do."
"Mr. Perkins should stick to arithmetic," Francine said sharply.
"Is Dad ascared?"
"Afraid."
"Yeah, but is he?"
"No more than I am," she said.
"What can he do to stop things?"
"Time for us to take you to school now. Where's your father?"
_"Mo-ommm!_ Can he?"
"He's working with...some people. They think maybe they can do something."
"I'll tell Mr. Perkins."
"Don't tell Mr. Perkins _anything_, Marty. Please."
Arthur stepped back a few feet to make a noise, came through the door, and
dropped the thoroughly wadded towel into the trash bag under the sink. Marty
stared at him with wide eyes, lips pressed together and sucked inward.
"Everybody ready?"
They nodded.
"Have you been crying, Daddy?" Marty asked.
Arthur said nothing, simply staring between them.
"We're a team, aren't we, honey?" Francine said, hugging him and gesturing for
Marty to come. The boy was not of an age to be enthusiastic about physical
affection, but he came and Arthur knelt, one arm around Francine's waist, one
arm wrapped around his son.
"We sure are," he said.
What he received, in the way of messages, was a peculiar shorthand unlike
anything he had ever experienced before. The flow of information came as
truncated visuals, bits of spoken conversations (sometimes delivered by
separate and identifiable voices, sometimes monotoned or not auditory at all),
and as often as not, simply as memories. He could not remember receiving the
memories, but they were there, and they informed his planning and action.
By that evening, as he lay in bed again beside his wife, as yet more rain
pattered gently on the roof and windows, he knew that;
Lehrman, McClennan, and Rotterjack had formed a delegation to inform the
President of the destruction of the Furnace bogey. (Lehrman was one of the
Possessed.)
The President had listened to the information, delivered largely by
Rotterjack, and had said nothing, simply shaking his head and gesturing for
them to leave.
Page 147 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl aikidobyd.xlx.pl
He wouldn't even know when it had happened. He wouldn't hear anything, see
anything.
One minute.
_Frozen men become warm again_
_And rabbits drug themselves in the wolfs jaws_
_God gives us ways out_
_I'm still thinking_
_But it doesn't hurt now._
_I know how very small and inconsequential_
_I_
From six miles away, Senator Gilmonn put on the smoky gray glasses the
lieutenant gave to him and looked across the desert at the distant black hump
that was the bogey. The cultists had scattered all across the desert floor,
most out of the area, farther away than his small group, but some hiding
behind piles of rock and other cinder cones. He had no idea how many of the
diehards would survive.
"He's not out of there," the lieutenant said, removing a pair of radio
headphones. Observers in the mountains had not seen Rogers leave the bogey.
"I wonder what happened?" Gilmonn asked. "Did he plant the...it?"
Beams of brilliant red light shot up from the false cinder cone, and the
desert floor was illuminated by a small sun. Huge black fragments twisted
upward in silhouette against the fireball, disintegrating, the smaller
fragments falling back in smoking arcs. The sound was a palpable wall, more
solid and painful than loud, and a violent blast of dusty wind progressed
visibly over the scrub and sand and rock. When it hit, they had a hard time
staying on their feet.
The dust cleared momentarily and they saw a tall, lean pillar of cloud rising,
a fascinating ugly yellow-green, shot through with pastel pinks and purples
and reds.
The lieutenant was weeping. "My god, he didn't get out. Dear Jesus. What a
blast! Like a goddamned pipe bomb."
Senator Gilmonn, too stunned to react, decided he simply did not understand.
The lieutenant understood, and his face was shiny with tears.
Fragments of rock and glass and metal fell for ten miles around for the next
ten minutes. At six miles, none of the fragments exceeded half an inch in
diameter.
They took refuge in the trucks and waited out the shower, and then drove away
from the site to the decontamination center in Shoshone.
49
January 6
The network between the Possessed was beginning to knit and connect. Arthur
could feel its progress. This both excited and saddened him; the time he was
spending with Francine and Marty might be coming to a close.
If she could not accept what had happened, he would have to continue without
them.
Arthur did not know quite how she was taking his revelation, until, in the
morning, he overheard her talking to Marty in the kitchen. He had just
finished a thorough check of the family station wagon and was wiping his hands
on a paper towel before passing through the swinging door.
Page 146
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
"Dad's going to have a lot of work to do soon," Francine said. Arthur paused
behind the door, crumpled towel in one hand, his jaw working.
"Can he stay with us?" Marty asked.
He could not see them, but he could tell that Francine was by the sink, facing
the center of the kitchen, where the boy stood. "What he's doing is
important," she said, not answering Marty's question. She didn't know the
answer.
"He's not working for the President now. He told me."
"Right," Francine said.
"I wish he could stay home."
"So do I."
"Is he going someplace without us?"
"I don't understand what you're asking, Marty."
"Is he going to leave us here when the Earth blows up?"
Arthur closed his eyes. The towel was a tight ball in his fist.
"He's not leaving us anywhere. He's just...working."
"Why work when everything's going to stop?"
"Everybody has to work. We don't know everything's going to stop. Besides,
he's working so that maybe it won't...stop." The catch in her voice made him
raise his head to keep the tears from dropping down his cheek.
"Mr. Perkins says there isn't much we can do."
"Mr. Perkins should stick to arithmetic," Francine said sharply.
"Is Dad ascared?"
"Afraid."
"Yeah, but is he?"
"No more than I am," she said.
"What can he do to stop things?"
"Time for us to take you to school now. Where's your father?"
_"Mo-ommm!_ Can he?"
"He's working with...some people. They think maybe they can do something."
"I'll tell Mr. Perkins."
"Don't tell Mr. Perkins _anything_, Marty. Please."
Arthur stepped back a few feet to make a noise, came through the door, and
dropped the thoroughly wadded towel into the trash bag under the sink. Marty
stared at him with wide eyes, lips pressed together and sucked inward.
"Everybody ready?"
They nodded.
"Have you been crying, Daddy?" Marty asked.
Arthur said nothing, simply staring between them.
"We're a team, aren't we, honey?" Francine said, hugging him and gesturing for
Marty to come. The boy was not of an age to be enthusiastic about physical
affection, but he came and Arthur knelt, one arm around Francine's waist, one
arm wrapped around his son.
"We sure are," he said.
What he received, in the way of messages, was a peculiar shorthand unlike
anything he had ever experienced before. The flow of information came as
truncated visuals, bits of spoken conversations (sometimes delivered by
separate and identifiable voices, sometimes monotoned or not auditory at all),
and as often as not, simply as memories. He could not remember receiving the
memories, but they were there, and they informed his planning and action.
By that evening, as he lay in bed again beside his wife, as yet more rain
pattered gently on the roof and windows, he knew that;
Lehrman, McClennan, and Rotterjack had formed a delegation to inform the
President of the destruction of the Furnace bogey. (Lehrman was one of the
Possessed.)
The President had listened to the information, delivered largely by
Rotterjack, and had said nothing, simply shaking his head and gesturing for
them to leave.
Page 147 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]