[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
source of entertainment. '
There are theaters, Guil admitted.
Everyone, Strong said, needs something to make him feel superior, some group he can look down
upon. The Musicians in Vivaldi have a class system which al-lows this. I have learned this much. Your
Class Is can look down on your Class IIs, your Class IIs on your Class IIIs, and the IIIs on the IVs. But
where do the Class IVs go to find someone to feel superior to? The Populars, of course. So, aside from
revenge, aside from entertainment value, and aside from a simple sadistic streak that cuts down the
middle of their society, they needed us to provide the logical final rung in their social order.
They sat for a time, watching the beach. Several crabs scuttled out of the water and wobbled around
the sand for a few moments, looking for something only they could define. It was growing darker. And
colder. The mists were thicker, reaching fingers even into the hole in the wall where they sat.
Are you ready? Strong asked.
Yes, Guil said, standing. Let's go.
As they finished their trek home, maintaining silence by unspoken agreement, Guil tried to decide if,
after ab-sorbing this ugly detail, he was finally committed to the Populars in this coming war. All he found
was that he was on the thin line between sides, balancing. And he was a good balancer. He would not fall
one way or the other. He tried to make himself ashamed of his wa-vering. The evidence balanced against
the Musicians. He should already be deep into the Popular struggle. Yet . . .
Yet he liked the comfort of the society in which he had been raised. He could not give it up easily. If
he foiled this attempt at revolution, the Populars might never be able to rise again. And he would be safe.
He knew it was not a heroic stance he now occupied. In many ways, it was gutless, cowardly, and
revolting.
One more piece of sympathy for the Populars, he thought, and he would accept his role as a leader
of rev-olution. If just one more thing would happen to make him pity them and feel more deeply for their
plight. Then he would be their champion. But it was highly un-likely that anything else would happen to
persuade him. Highly unlikely . . .
FIRST:
Strong hunkered in the piles of brick and steel, hold-ing his infant son in his huge arms. The robo-doc
had placed a chemically time-triggered, micro-miniature mes-sage tape in the child's brain. It would go
off seventeen years from now, hopefully just after the boy had gained manhood in Musician society. He
had no doubts that the boy would reach a Class. His son, after all, was a prophet. And prophets were
nearly omnipotent.
There had been a moment when Blue had tried to dis-suade him from the plan, just after she had seen
the child that had come from her belly. To sooth her, he had sought a phrase from one of the Seven
Books, had found it: Wherefore didst thou marvel? This shall make war for the Lamb and the Lamb
shall help him to overcome them, for he is the Lord of Lords, the King of Kings, and they that are with
him are called, and chosen, and faith-ful. Such is your luck, such you are called to see, and let it come
rough or smooth, you must surely bear it.
YOU MUST SURELY BEAR IT . . .
Somehow, he did not think Blue had gotten the solace from those lines that he had.
Now, crouched in the tumble-down walls of his city, he watched the yellow shields of the Musicians
as the search party came across the nightmare landscape, prying into pockets of deep shadow, details of
them breaking off to enter tunnels down into the Popular Sector. When he judged the moment to be the
most dra-matic, when the enemy was dangerously close at hand, he leaped up, ran away from them, the
baby slung under his arm so that they might spot it immediately.
There were shouts behind.
A sound rifle beam sang into a marble slab as large as a house that lay at a forty-five degree angle to
his right. The marble fizzed into thousands of fireflies whose light lasted only an instant, was gone.
Then another bolt. Much closer. Too close, in fact. He stopped and put his child down on an old sofa
whose vinyl-plast covering had kept it from serious rot, then turned and ran faster than he had ever run
before in his life.
The Musicians fired after him.
But, soon, the chase was over. They had found the baby, and they were, temporarily anyway,
satisfied. Whether they would visit reprisals upon the Popular community in the days to come, or whether
they would just strengthen their security over their own buildings, he did not know. All he could consider
now, as he fell into a cave entrance and waited to watch the Musicians take his son away with the
assumption he was one of theirs, was the future, the glorious future. He had divine power. He had a
divine command to propagate this com-ing insurrection. His son was a prophet. What else could he be
but a prophet? What else could ever explain the birth of a perfect child to Popular parents? A statistical
law just now coming into actuality, deemed necessary by mathematics? No, that was the wrong thought
train. He prayed that the gods would give him strength to over-come evil thought. He prayed that they
would give him strength to live until the time for the revolution arrived, and to carry it out on the proper
day.
And he prayed for patience to wait out the next seven-teen years.
CHAPTER EIGHT
They returned to Strong's apartment and exchanged small talk with the women and each other over a
dinner composed chiefly of three succulent, small roasts that tasted nothing like what Guil was used to
eating in the city, tasted spicier and finer in some indefinable way. The talk of revolution was slight, almost
nonexistent. It seemed as if they had never even considered such violent political action. But the halcyon
hour was interrupted even before they reached the final course, which was hard, yeastless bread and
some sort of rich butter. Shouted alarms boomed down the corridors outside like cannon balls fired
down a muzzle, and the meal was abruptly forgotten.
Strong got quickly to his feet, surprising Guil once more with the agility that lurked in that mammoth
frame, hurried to the door and palmed it open, pressing against it as if he could not even bear to wait the
short moment it took the mechanism to withdraw the portal into the wall. Beyond the door, a mangy
head, scarred and quite hideous, appeared, the mouth working agita-tedly, though nothing seemed to be
coming out of it. At last, the owner got control of his body. Breakthrough! he said almost hysterically.
Corridor F. Won't be long. Four maybe five or six minutes.
You stay here, Strong said to his son.
What is it? What's going on?'
It's too dangerous. Forget it.
But being denied information only made his curiosity sharper. I'm not a woman, he said.
You mustn't be hurt, Strong argued. You are too valuable to us! There was definitely nothing
sentimental about that last statment; it was delivered coldly, sharply, and with the same evenness a
businessman might employ when talking about his inventory. Strong could just as easily have been
speaking of a valuable work animal or a piece of machinery now long out of production. That was
exactly what he was, Guil thought, a machine, a tool, a valuable trained animal upon which all the dreams [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl akte20.pev.pl
source of entertainment. '
There are theaters, Guil admitted.
Everyone, Strong said, needs something to make him feel superior, some group he can look down
upon. The Musicians in Vivaldi have a class system which al-lows this. I have learned this much. Your
Class Is can look down on your Class IIs, your Class IIs on your Class IIIs, and the IIIs on the IVs. But
where do the Class IVs go to find someone to feel superior to? The Populars, of course. So, aside from
revenge, aside from entertainment value, and aside from a simple sadistic streak that cuts down the
middle of their society, they needed us to provide the logical final rung in their social order.
They sat for a time, watching the beach. Several crabs scuttled out of the water and wobbled around
the sand for a few moments, looking for something only they could define. It was growing darker. And
colder. The mists were thicker, reaching fingers even into the hole in the wall where they sat.
Are you ready? Strong asked.
Yes, Guil said, standing. Let's go.
As they finished their trek home, maintaining silence by unspoken agreement, Guil tried to decide if,
after ab-sorbing this ugly detail, he was finally committed to the Populars in this coming war. All he found
was that he was on the thin line between sides, balancing. And he was a good balancer. He would not fall
one way or the other. He tried to make himself ashamed of his wa-vering. The evidence balanced against
the Musicians. He should already be deep into the Popular struggle. Yet . . .
Yet he liked the comfort of the society in which he had been raised. He could not give it up easily. If
he foiled this attempt at revolution, the Populars might never be able to rise again. And he would be safe.
He knew it was not a heroic stance he now occupied. In many ways, it was gutless, cowardly, and
revolting.
One more piece of sympathy for the Populars, he thought, and he would accept his role as a leader
of rev-olution. If just one more thing would happen to make him pity them and feel more deeply for their
plight. Then he would be their champion. But it was highly un-likely that anything else would happen to
persuade him. Highly unlikely . . .
FIRST:
Strong hunkered in the piles of brick and steel, hold-ing his infant son in his huge arms. The robo-doc
had placed a chemically time-triggered, micro-miniature mes-sage tape in the child's brain. It would go
off seventeen years from now, hopefully just after the boy had gained manhood in Musician society. He
had no doubts that the boy would reach a Class. His son, after all, was a prophet. And prophets were
nearly omnipotent.
There had been a moment when Blue had tried to dis-suade him from the plan, just after she had seen
the child that had come from her belly. To sooth her, he had sought a phrase from one of the Seven
Books, had found it: Wherefore didst thou marvel? This shall make war for the Lamb and the Lamb
shall help him to overcome them, for he is the Lord of Lords, the King of Kings, and they that are with
him are called, and chosen, and faith-ful. Such is your luck, such you are called to see, and let it come
rough or smooth, you must surely bear it.
YOU MUST SURELY BEAR IT . . .
Somehow, he did not think Blue had gotten the solace from those lines that he had.
Now, crouched in the tumble-down walls of his city, he watched the yellow shields of the Musicians
as the search party came across the nightmare landscape, prying into pockets of deep shadow, details of
them breaking off to enter tunnels down into the Popular Sector. When he judged the moment to be the
most dra-matic, when the enemy was dangerously close at hand, he leaped up, ran away from them, the
baby slung under his arm so that they might spot it immediately.
There were shouts behind.
A sound rifle beam sang into a marble slab as large as a house that lay at a forty-five degree angle to
his right. The marble fizzed into thousands of fireflies whose light lasted only an instant, was gone.
Then another bolt. Much closer. Too close, in fact. He stopped and put his child down on an old sofa
whose vinyl-plast covering had kept it from serious rot, then turned and ran faster than he had ever run
before in his life.
The Musicians fired after him.
But, soon, the chase was over. They had found the baby, and they were, temporarily anyway,
satisfied. Whether they would visit reprisals upon the Popular community in the days to come, or whether
they would just strengthen their security over their own buildings, he did not know. All he could consider
now, as he fell into a cave entrance and waited to watch the Musicians take his son away with the
assumption he was one of theirs, was the future, the glorious future. He had divine power. He had a
divine command to propagate this com-ing insurrection. His son was a prophet. What else could he be
but a prophet? What else could ever explain the birth of a perfect child to Popular parents? A statistical
law just now coming into actuality, deemed necessary by mathematics? No, that was the wrong thought
train. He prayed that the gods would give him strength to over-come evil thought. He prayed that they
would give him strength to live until the time for the revolution arrived, and to carry it out on the proper
day.
And he prayed for patience to wait out the next seven-teen years.
CHAPTER EIGHT
They returned to Strong's apartment and exchanged small talk with the women and each other over a
dinner composed chiefly of three succulent, small roasts that tasted nothing like what Guil was used to
eating in the city, tasted spicier and finer in some indefinable way. The talk of revolution was slight, almost
nonexistent. It seemed as if they had never even considered such violent political action. But the halcyon
hour was interrupted even before they reached the final course, which was hard, yeastless bread and
some sort of rich butter. Shouted alarms boomed down the corridors outside like cannon balls fired
down a muzzle, and the meal was abruptly forgotten.
Strong got quickly to his feet, surprising Guil once more with the agility that lurked in that mammoth
frame, hurried to the door and palmed it open, pressing against it as if he could not even bear to wait the
short moment it took the mechanism to withdraw the portal into the wall. Beyond the door, a mangy
head, scarred and quite hideous, appeared, the mouth working agita-tedly, though nothing seemed to be
coming out of it. At last, the owner got control of his body. Breakthrough! he said almost hysterically.
Corridor F. Won't be long. Four maybe five or six minutes.
You stay here, Strong said to his son.
What is it? What's going on?'
It's too dangerous. Forget it.
But being denied information only made his curiosity sharper. I'm not a woman, he said.
You mustn't be hurt, Strong argued. You are too valuable to us! There was definitely nothing
sentimental about that last statment; it was delivered coldly, sharply, and with the same evenness a
businessman might employ when talking about his inventory. Strong could just as easily have been
speaking of a valuable work animal or a piece of machinery now long out of production. That was
exactly what he was, Guil thought, a machine, a tool, a valuable trained animal upon which all the dreams [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]