“I hope he was. We sure could use one. People don’t pay much attention to the original anymore, even most that claim to. I’ve been reading old En-gunda in the newspaper for the better part of a year now. He was interesting, but I didn’t pay all that much attention till the last week or so.” He paused thoughtfully. “I’m a lot more at home with the Bible—the New Testament anyway—than with what he wrote. Been reading it all my life. But if anyone’s a new Messiah . . . I’ll tell you, with that aura and all the healings, and how he died—it seems to me he must have been.” He gestured toward the sky. “And now this. Is he going to rise from the dead?”
“Not physically. A physical resurrection was useful two thousand years ago. Now it would be counterproductive, and the asteroid will certify his reality. Nor did he intend that people look to him or his death for salvation. The teaching of Ngunda Aran, followed by the visit of the Infinite Soul, were simply to enlighten us—to provide new understanding, and inspire us. Which they’re doing. And the process will be greatly strengthened by the meteor impact.”
* * *
Pete MacIlvaine sat in the Marion County Sheriff’s Department cruiser, beside the deputy who’d found him. It was parked in the shade of a black oak, doors open to the breeze. The reservoir was some sixty yards away.
“I’m the what?” MacIlvaine said into the radio. “What happened to Marius?” His face fell. “Good gawd! I’ll be right down.” He shook his head. “And killed himself too. Huh! Probably just as well. It lessens the outrage. . . . Yeah, I’ll head south right away. . . . Can you what? Everett, if it’s all that urgent, do what you think best. I’ll back you on it.”
He disconnected. “Deputy,” he said, “call your sheriff and tell him I want you to escort me till we meet a state cruiser. Past the county line if need be. Sounds as if I’m needed in Little Rock right now.”
* * *
Simeon Narezhny put aside his wrench and wiped his hands on a piece of shirt. The mayor of Yakovskij Zaliv was not a paid official. He derived his living from a fishing boat he owned and operated with his son and a nephew. The problems of the village he addressed according to their urgency and the available time. And resources, which in small Kamchatka fishing villages were mostly the ingenuity, strength, and patience of their people.
This morning he’d needed to change the head gasket on the diesel-powered generator that provided the village’s electricity. To economize on fuel, it operated only at certain hours, varying with the season, mainly in the evening, and at noon so people could hear the midday news from Petropavlovsk.
He was reaching for the starter—and facing the open door—when a sleeting flash of light and heat seared him. He raised his forearm as if to shield his eyes.
War! was his first thought. But who would waste a nuclear bomb on this part of the world?
The glare died quickly, and he stepped outside. Even damaged, his eyes, looking eastward over the Pacific, saw a vast wall of something—steam, water—climbing into the sky. A miles-long mushroom cloud! At the institute he’d najored in fisheries science, but had been required to take courses in the Earth sciences as well, and he’d always read. So it seemed to him that he knew what this was, what it had to be, Not a bomb, not any kind of bomb.
Warn the village, he thought, then realized how badly damaged he was. Start the generator! The radio station in Petropavlovsk will warn them! He movd to step back inside, and fell. So he crawled, intent on finding the starter. Nausea seized him, and he vomited violently, as if to expel breakfast; stomach; gullet. When he’d finished, time seemed suspended, his sense of urgency alive but paralyzed. Finally he moved again. He couldn’t see at all now, so as he crawled he groped. Outside, he told himself. His hands found the wall, then a doorjamb, and with great and desparate effort, he pulled himself to his feet. His body felt on fire, but the pain was muted, separate from him. Staggering onto the stoop, he fell again, hard, to sprawl stunned in the dirt.