audience?”
There was a loud thump, as if a microphone had been banged against something. The view, which was still from the roof, looking up, shook a little then suddenly there was a single note, a distant pastel sound of thousands of choral voices all blending together on a single, heavenly note … it changed slowly, hypnotically. Shire’s voice was shaking, muttering “Beautiful … beautiful … I can’t believe this is happening …” He was silent for a long moment – everyone was silent, all listening to the song of the angels – then Shire spoke again. He had regained his professional, modulated voice. “I’ve just been informed that the cloud is at seven-thousand feet and dropping, decelerating as it goes. Its speed, as tracked by the pilot of the Mercedes air launch, is approximately two-hundred-ten kilometers per hour, and slowing.
Nobody had much of anything to say after that, except for occasional cries of pleasure and awe. Masses of pilgrims began singing hymns as the cloud came down, obscuring the entire sky.
The view shifted back up to the scene from the air; the angle was from above, looking down at the mist, the angels and the pastel colors streaming from the bright glow. The scene was switched to the ground view, showing the glow and the cloud rushing visibly downward – suddenly it engulfed the camera and obscured everything in a thick mist, everything except the glow. The scene switched back up to the Mercedes, which was hovering above the mist at about 30 meters. The angels had vanished, perhaps into the mist.
“I can’t see anything!” the Reverend exclaimed. “Can you see anything, Norman?”
“No, I can’t.”
The singing of the pilgrims had grown to a fevered pitch; the angels had gone silent. The mist spread out and flattened like a cottony blanket over the Holy City, hiding everything. The glow had become golden, dimming in brightness, centering and drawing in on itself. The mist thinned, becoming translucent. The golden glow continued drawing in upon itself until it solidified, a bright spot of golden light, then it, too, diffused, remaining only a golden tinge in the thinning mist.
There was a sudden, awesome silence.
The view switched to the camera on the roof; it was already in the process of zooming in. There was a golden temple where none stood before, and on top of the temple stood a white-robed figure, a soft rainbow of light above its head. The flock of angels were nowhere to be seen.
“It’s Him,” Norman Shire breathed. “God is on Earth.” Then he raised his voice and shouted it, his words trembling and raw with emotion. “GOD IS ON EARTH!”
24. GOD ON EARTH
After watching the JTV spectacular, the first thing that went through Saul’s mind – and he was proud of himself for this –
was that the sales of the Mercedes 4000A were going to go through the roof. It was only after that, after his professional evaluation, that Saul wondered: Was that real? Could they have faked that? All that material?
I’m in the business, he thought. I know that can be faked.
But was it?
Was it?
Nobody had shown up to work except for a few apprentice technicians, so Saul spent the day in the production lab preparing the next day’s Travels from previous stocks of raw images. He had not done this part of the job for over 7 years – 4 promotions ago. But he fell back into the routine easily enough, working with conscious AIs was like working with people who already knew their jobs and just need you to point them in a certain direction.
All this time in the back of his mind Saul hid the terrible thought that maybe God had really returned to Earth and that he, Saul, was working against Him. It kept Saul on the edge, kept him working in a fevered state – pushing him on with fear, keeping him going so that he didn’t have time to think about it, to consider the possible consequences.
The AHL was turning out very tight, an insanely rich level.
At 57.6% it was a full 21 points over the old standard, which used to be considered impossible. It felt to Saul that he’d squeezed juices out of his brain to get it that high. The terrible thing was, he knew it could be higher. He knew he could make it much higher.
Thank God it’s over, he thought.
Saul looked at his watch. Enough was enough. The AIs knew what they were doing, they could finish without him. Saul walked around and logged off all the terminals, shutting the monitors down, then locked the room and headed up to his office to relax a few minutes and wait for the Mataphin to wear off a bit.
His office was dark when he walked in; he could see a little red light glaring on his desk terminal. There was mail waiting for him. Saul turned on the lights and walked over to his desk, bothered by the silence that lay thick and heavy over the room. It was a lonely silence. He sat down with a sigh, keeping his head together, deliberating on whether or not to look at the mail. It could be good news, he thought, trying to be positive. Turning it on, Saul watched the screen light up and tapped a few keys. “Mail: 03” it read. He took a breath, hesitating, but then shrugged and called it up onto the screen.
TO: Saul Kalman DATE: 6/15/42
FROM: Lisa Schemandle SUBJECT: Shit Saul, this is Lisa. I cannot take any of this anymore. The assassins I hired failed, those thieving bastards remain beyond my reach. I watched part of that goddamned program they launched against us and was amazed to find that I fucking believed it was actually happening. So I gave up. I made all my arrangements and turned in my resignation. You know, Saul, you’re a damned dependable person. You’re the only man I’ve ever liked.
Lisa
TO: Saul Kalman DATE: 6/15/42
FROM: Terry Liddy SUBJECT: Lisa Schemandle Saul, I just received a notice from the Reinke Street euthanasia center that Lisa Schemandle had herself put to death this afternoon. I don’t know what your relationship with her was but let me assure you that I share your shock and sense of loss. But she must be replaced immediately, and, considering your apparent talent and the successful job you did keeping the ratings from slipping too far over today’s crisis, I and the other members of the board unanimously agreed to give you the promotion, effective immediately.
I’ll be in your office tomorrow morning to go over things with you in detail.
T. Liddy
TO: Saul Kalman DATE: 6/15/42
FROM: Mirro Kalman SUBJECT: Vicky Honey, something terrible has happened. Vicky’s son was sentenced and we just found out that he’d elected Euthanasia instead of prison. He’s gone, he’s been gone for days and they hadn’t even told Vicky, they just notified her ex. She’s really torn up, and between this and that disturbing JTV
broadcast we just couldn’t handle it anymore.
I’ve decided the best thing I can do for her is to take her on a little trip down south so she could take her mind off of her son. Sorry to have to tell you like this, but we’re going now and there seemed no other way to reach you. Hope you don’t mind taking care of the kid. I love you.
Bye.
Saul stared at his wife’s name at the bottom of her message, gazing at it a long time but not seeing it. The panic was rising inside him, the feeling of spinning, the feeling his feet were at the edge of the chasm. Without realizing what he was doing, Saul pulled his Mataphin dispenser out and emptied its entire contents into his hand. Twenty pills, twenty tiny orange tabs. Slowly he raised them to his mouth, then flattened his tongue and used it as a shovel to scoop them in. In a moment they were gone, dry-swallowed. He sat there for a long time, his mind blank, staring at the terminal’s screen. Then he reached out, took a hold of the terminal, and began pushing it across the cold, smooth surface of his desk, pushing it toward the opposite edge.
No, he thought. No! I will not break an innocent piece of equipment. I will not kill the bearer of bad news. That is not done. That is not the kind of thing I do.
Oh my God, how much Mataphin did I take?
His own voice spoke to him from behind, like he was standing behind and to the side of himself. His voice was angry and impatient. It said: You have the power to do anything you want to do. The power is within you. Let go. Let yourself do it.
No!
Push the terminal off your desk.