[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
not for his own presence on Earth, his activities, we wouldn't have known the significance of the
DNA-analogue. He said he felt he should stop us before the damage was done.'
Suddenly, Falco found himself wondering if this 'DNA-analogue' had ever existed. Were even his
powers capable of telling, remotely, if such a thing were real?
What if this was all a set-up, by Reader? An entrapment?
'That sort of doubt doesn't constitute entitlement,' Stock said. 'By what right did he enter your
premises?'
'He had no right. He removed Readercorp property, legitimately acquired.' A trace of anger entered
Stiggins's voice, for the first time, audible through the tinniness of the small TV speakers. 'And he had no
right to stop our work. Regardless of the technological application, the increase in scientific
understanding we might have achieved... But he wouldn't let us proceed. We weren't mature enough as a
species. He said.'
'The judgement of an alien. Doctor, how did that make you feel?'
Stiggins's watery eyes, behind his glasses, gleamed with hatred.
Falco felt a stab of understanding, of empathy with this man.
This is why I betrayed him.
In the end, Falco realized, the details of the case hardly mattered. Reader, other commentators, the
sub-text of the case itself: all of these things spoke to something primal, sub-rational, in people. In the
jurors, the judge; in himself.
The conviction was inevitable. Unanimous.
The judge said he was making legal history, setting a precedent that mightn't be repeated for a thousand
years not until mankind left Earth, and reached the stars.
A superhero was too dangerous to be allowed to exist.
The sentence was going to have to be self-administered.
Jesus, Falco thought. Self-administered. What a situation; how absurd.
He, of course, submitted to the judgement, without comment.
Every screen in Falco's office, every screen in the world, was filled with Pacific blue sky, cirrus clouds;
Falco imagined thousands of lenses turned up to the sky over Hawaii, like a glass forest.
Martin Reader called Falco. He wanted Falco to come to his home and watch the show with him. 'I've a
proposition you may be interested in,' Reader said obliquely.
Falco told Reader he wasn't leaving his office. Not today. Reader could join him there, though.
To his surprise, Reader agreed.
A quarter-hour later, Reader was sitting in Falco's visitor's chair. He sipped Scotch whisky from a flask
he'd brought; he rested his small metal cup delicately on the piles of newsprint on Falco's desk. The blue
of the TV screens shone over his ageless face.
Beyond the glass walls of Falco's office, the news floor was silent; the paper's staff were huddled around
TV monitors. There was no other news today.
'What a spectacle,' Reader murmured. 'It is rather like waiting for the return of astronauts the
blossoming of parachutes against clear skies... I wonder who, of all the watching billions, will be the first
to spot that streak of red, blue and gold, descending from orbit?'
Falco chewed on an unlit cigar. 'Why the hell's he doing this?'
'I'm sure you understand, if you look into your heart,' Reader said.
'Suppose you tell me.'
Reader leaned forward, his pale eyes intense. 'Because even now, in extremis, he is acting in our
interest. Or so he believes. Perhaps we will be improved, marginally, by the experience of killing him.
Maybe when our blood lust has dispersed, we will reflect as did the crowds below Calvary, perhaps.'
He waved a gloved hand, dismissive. 'To him, his death is worth such a price.'
The screens showed their mosaic of blue sky fragments, as empty as dreams, flickering, the focus
wavering.
Reader went on, 'But we humans have killed our gods before: Osiris was torn to pieces beside the Nile;
Prometheus was chained to a stone while vultures tore at his entrails; Balder was nailed to a tree, and
flowers grew where his blood fell...' That waxy smile again. 'And we have nailed gods to other trees. And
what have we learned?'
'You can't argue that he has anything in common with Christ.'
'Of course he has,' Reader said gently. 'Oh, Falco don't you understand any of this? Look: like Christ,
a hero has moved among us, and yet he was not of us. Both he and Christ came from humble origins.
He is the adopted son of a simple farmer. Christ lived in a remote, difficult province of Rome, the
adopted son of a naggar that's the Aramaic word a craftsman. And he has acquired a Christ-like
moral authority, through his actions and heroic purpose. The parallels are obvious; why do you think he's
so popular?... These are the bones of myth, Falco.'
Falco stared at him; Reader sipped his whisky with bloodless lips.
'You're crazy,' Falco said. 'Is that what this is about? Are you trying to start a religion? And what do you
want of me?'
Reader's eyes gleamed, his eyes reflecting the blue shards of the screens. 'This is a beginning. But much
remains to be done.
'Every successful religion must absorb within it the avatars, the primordial images, which have come to us
from prehistory, and which speak to our souls. We have the Seed: the little spaceship which landed, as if
blown on the wind, in Kansas's fertile fields. The oldest avatar, and most potent, is the Mother... Well,
we have a mother here the grey-haired old lady from Kansas as well as the lost true mother on his
home planet and there is also the farm, which nurtured the Child. He himself is the Saviour, who
rescues us poor humans literally, during his lifetime, and figuratively, in the future. And, with those
extraordinary abilities, he is the God-Incarnate...
'Seed, Mother, Child, God-Incarnate, Saviour yes: these are indeed the raw materials, Falco, from
which one may construct a human religion.'
Falco studied Reader's unnaturally smooth face; there were no drops of sweat on his bald pate, despite
the close heat of the office. 'And what do you think he would have thought of all this?'
'He does not matter any longer. Don't you see that? Nor did Christ, after his death. The world is ready,
Falco. The established religions are tired, schismed, tainted with blood. We need something fresh. A new
god. And you can be a part of His manufacture, Falco.'
Now there was shouting from the screens. Falco and Reader turned.
There was something in the sky, the focus of a million jostling lenses: a streak, plasma-white; a vertical
bolt of light.
He was flying down from space, at orbital velocities, into the heart of the ancient Hawaiian volcano
system. Into the middle of the Pacific Plate. Where the basalt crust of the Earth is thinnest... It was
thought he'd penetrate the mantle to a depth of maybe fifty miles, before the friction of the compressed
silicates slowed him.
He would survive for days weeks, perhaps. But at last, cut off from the Sun, he must weaken. The
pressure would crush him, embed him.
Falco asked: 'Why are you destroying him, Reader?'
'I am not destroying him. I am completing his birth.
'Consider this. If my analogy with the story of Christ is to be followed: how is the tale to be finished? [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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not for his own presence on Earth, his activities, we wouldn't have known the significance of the
DNA-analogue. He said he felt he should stop us before the damage was done.'
Suddenly, Falco found himself wondering if this 'DNA-analogue' had ever existed. Were even his
powers capable of telling, remotely, if such a thing were real?
What if this was all a set-up, by Reader? An entrapment?
'That sort of doubt doesn't constitute entitlement,' Stock said. 'By what right did he enter your
premises?'
'He had no right. He removed Readercorp property, legitimately acquired.' A trace of anger entered
Stiggins's voice, for the first time, audible through the tinniness of the small TV speakers. 'And he had no
right to stop our work. Regardless of the technological application, the increase in scientific
understanding we might have achieved... But he wouldn't let us proceed. We weren't mature enough as a
species. He said.'
'The judgement of an alien. Doctor, how did that make you feel?'
Stiggins's watery eyes, behind his glasses, gleamed with hatred.
Falco felt a stab of understanding, of empathy with this man.
This is why I betrayed him.
In the end, Falco realized, the details of the case hardly mattered. Reader, other commentators, the
sub-text of the case itself: all of these things spoke to something primal, sub-rational, in people. In the
jurors, the judge; in himself.
The conviction was inevitable. Unanimous.
The judge said he was making legal history, setting a precedent that mightn't be repeated for a thousand
years not until mankind left Earth, and reached the stars.
A superhero was too dangerous to be allowed to exist.
The sentence was going to have to be self-administered.
Jesus, Falco thought. Self-administered. What a situation; how absurd.
He, of course, submitted to the judgement, without comment.
Every screen in Falco's office, every screen in the world, was filled with Pacific blue sky, cirrus clouds;
Falco imagined thousands of lenses turned up to the sky over Hawaii, like a glass forest.
Martin Reader called Falco. He wanted Falco to come to his home and watch the show with him. 'I've a
proposition you may be interested in,' Reader said obliquely.
Falco told Reader he wasn't leaving his office. Not today. Reader could join him there, though.
To his surprise, Reader agreed.
A quarter-hour later, Reader was sitting in Falco's visitor's chair. He sipped Scotch whisky from a flask
he'd brought; he rested his small metal cup delicately on the piles of newsprint on Falco's desk. The blue
of the TV screens shone over his ageless face.
Beyond the glass walls of Falco's office, the news floor was silent; the paper's staff were huddled around
TV monitors. There was no other news today.
'What a spectacle,' Reader murmured. 'It is rather like waiting for the return of astronauts the
blossoming of parachutes against clear skies... I wonder who, of all the watching billions, will be the first
to spot that streak of red, blue and gold, descending from orbit?'
Falco chewed on an unlit cigar. 'Why the hell's he doing this?'
'I'm sure you understand, if you look into your heart,' Reader said.
'Suppose you tell me.'
Reader leaned forward, his pale eyes intense. 'Because even now, in extremis, he is acting in our
interest. Or so he believes. Perhaps we will be improved, marginally, by the experience of killing him.
Maybe when our blood lust has dispersed, we will reflect as did the crowds below Calvary, perhaps.'
He waved a gloved hand, dismissive. 'To him, his death is worth such a price.'
The screens showed their mosaic of blue sky fragments, as empty as dreams, flickering, the focus
wavering.
Reader went on, 'But we humans have killed our gods before: Osiris was torn to pieces beside the Nile;
Prometheus was chained to a stone while vultures tore at his entrails; Balder was nailed to a tree, and
flowers grew where his blood fell...' That waxy smile again. 'And we have nailed gods to other trees. And
what have we learned?'
'You can't argue that he has anything in common with Christ.'
'Of course he has,' Reader said gently. 'Oh, Falco don't you understand any of this? Look: like Christ,
a hero has moved among us, and yet he was not of us. Both he and Christ came from humble origins.
He is the adopted son of a simple farmer. Christ lived in a remote, difficult province of Rome, the
adopted son of a naggar that's the Aramaic word a craftsman. And he has acquired a Christ-like
moral authority, through his actions and heroic purpose. The parallels are obvious; why do you think he's
so popular?... These are the bones of myth, Falco.'
Falco stared at him; Reader sipped his whisky with bloodless lips.
'You're crazy,' Falco said. 'Is that what this is about? Are you trying to start a religion? And what do you
want of me?'
Reader's eyes gleamed, his eyes reflecting the blue shards of the screens. 'This is a beginning. But much
remains to be done.
'Every successful religion must absorb within it the avatars, the primordial images, which have come to us
from prehistory, and which speak to our souls. We have the Seed: the little spaceship which landed, as if
blown on the wind, in Kansas's fertile fields. The oldest avatar, and most potent, is the Mother... Well,
we have a mother here the grey-haired old lady from Kansas as well as the lost true mother on his
home planet and there is also the farm, which nurtured the Child. He himself is the Saviour, who
rescues us poor humans literally, during his lifetime, and figuratively, in the future. And, with those
extraordinary abilities, he is the God-Incarnate...
'Seed, Mother, Child, God-Incarnate, Saviour yes: these are indeed the raw materials, Falco, from
which one may construct a human religion.'
Falco studied Reader's unnaturally smooth face; there were no drops of sweat on his bald pate, despite
the close heat of the office. 'And what do you think he would have thought of all this?'
'He does not matter any longer. Don't you see that? Nor did Christ, after his death. The world is ready,
Falco. The established religions are tired, schismed, tainted with blood. We need something fresh. A new
god. And you can be a part of His manufacture, Falco.'
Now there was shouting from the screens. Falco and Reader turned.
There was something in the sky, the focus of a million jostling lenses: a streak, plasma-white; a vertical
bolt of light.
He was flying down from space, at orbital velocities, into the heart of the ancient Hawaiian volcano
system. Into the middle of the Pacific Plate. Where the basalt crust of the Earth is thinnest... It was
thought he'd penetrate the mantle to a depth of maybe fifty miles, before the friction of the compressed
silicates slowed him.
He would survive for days weeks, perhaps. But at last, cut off from the Sun, he must weaken. The
pressure would crush him, embed him.
Falco asked: 'Why are you destroying him, Reader?'
'I am not destroying him. I am completing his birth.
'Consider this. If my analogy with the story of Christ is to be followed: how is the tale to be finished? [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]