“THE WISE MAN NEVER STRIVES HIMSELF FOR THE GREAT, AND THEREBY THE GREAT IS ACHIEVED!’ WE DIDN’T CALL FOR THE SHIPS! WE DID NOT BUILD THEM! HAD WE SOUGHT THESE SHIPS, WE COULD NOT ENTER THEM, FOR THEY WOULD NOT EXIST.”
“I think he’s saying it’s okay to go,” a woman said, within earshot of McMurtrey. “Who cares what he says?” a man said. A few in the crowd chuckled, a rolling, gentle sound. Then other holy men and women stepped forward and spoke, with each giving reasons from their sacred scriptures why people should travel by ship to God’s domain far across the universe. No one spoke against the ships, not even a number of atheists who made their presence known. All agreed that it would be a great adventure, and that someone should embark upon it, although all present did not want to make the journey.
Generally, McMurtrey was impressed with the respect that each religion displayed for others. There were a few rude individuals in the gathering, but their choppy words of criticism toward other faiths fell as stones into a pit—unanswered—and these outcasts fell silent.
After waiting more patiently than he might have, McMurtrey wanted to continue his address. He asked the various representatives to yield to him.
They did so graciously, and McMurtrey spoke for a while longer.
Then he paused, and a current of assent swept all around, building to a crescendo of chanting: “PRAISE GOD AND McMURTREY! PRAISE GOD AND McMURTREY!”
McMurtrey saw the faces of many in the audience uplifted toward him, as if people were beholding divine light. To them, his words were God’s words.
McMurtrey spread his arms wide, gazed reverently at the sky.
But a solitary male voice rose from the multitude, to McMurtrey’s right. It cut through sanctified air like a razor on flesh, making McMurtrey shiver. But he was not cold. “Why you, Rooster?” the voice asked. “Why in the name of all that’s holy did God select you as His messenger?” As the man spoke, he pushed his way through the crowd. People let him past, and soon he stood on the bottom step of the stage, staring up defiantly at McMurtrey. “He has a gun!” someone shouted.
McMurtrey saw it even as he heard the warning, but he didn’t flinch.
An elephant pistol was holstered on the man’s hip, but he wasn’t making a move for the weapon. He wore a green sportscoat and was tall, with thinning brown hair combed straight back through untamable cowlicks. The eyes were the pale blue of the sea, looking through people, looking through this fraud, Evander McMurtrey.
McMurtrey was glad he hadn’t lied, for men such as this would have seen the truth and exposed him, McMurtrey’s knees quivered, threatening to fold on him and send him crashing to the floor of the stage.
He noticed that this man had a lot of nervous tics, the sort that invariably had distracted McMurtrey in the past, flooding his brain with images that blocked the thought patterns required for conversation. One of the man’s eyelids twitched occasionally, he tapped one foot on the step importunately, and his trigger finger, like an insect leg, rubbed the adjacent thumb.
Inexplicably, McMurtrey didn’t feel his thoughts muddling. He felt strong, at the crest of a momentous event. This was a purposeful strength, and it seemed capable of carrying him a long way.
McMurtrey took a deep breath and met the man’s gaze. “Your name?” McMurtrey asked.
“Johnny Orbust. I’m a Reborn Krassee, here to debate the Lord’s word and way with you, Rooster.”
“I always like to know who I’m talking to,” McMurtrey said. He squinted, detected no aura around the man. Then as he looked out upon the crowd in this fashion, McMurtrey no longer saw any auras, not even around individuals he had seen glowing before.
“Sun bothering you?” Orbust queried.
“No . . . it’s . . . You want to know why the Lord didn’t select a great leader for this task? Why not a person of grand stature, a
“I think he’s saying it’s okay to go,” a woman said, within earshot of McMurtrey. “Who cares what he says?” a man said. A few in the crowd chuckled, a rolling, gentle sound. Then other holy men and women stepped forward and spoke, with each giving reasons from their sacred scriptures why people should travel by ship to God’s domain far across the universe. No one spoke against the ships, not even a number of atheists who made their presence known. All agreed that it would be a great adventure, and that someone should embark upon it, although all present did not want to make the journey.
Generally, McMurtrey was impressed with the respect that each religion displayed for others. There were a few rude individuals in the gathering, but their choppy words of criticism toward other faiths fell as stones into a pit—unanswered—and these outcasts fell silent.
After waiting more patiently than he might have, McMurtrey wanted to continue his address. He asked the various representatives to yield to him.
They did so graciously, and McMurtrey spoke for a while longer.
Then he paused, and a current of assent swept all around, building to a crescendo of chanting: “PRAISE GOD AND McMURTREY! PRAISE GOD AND McMURTREY!”
McMurtrey saw the faces of many in the audience uplifted toward him, as if people were beholding divine light. To them, his words were God’s words.
McMurtrey spread his arms wide, gazed reverently at the sky.
But a solitary male voice rose from the multitude, to McMurtrey’s right. It cut through sanctified air like a razor on flesh, making McMurtrey shiver. But he was not cold. “Why you, Rooster?” the voice asked. “Why in the name of all that’s holy did God select you as His messenger?” As the man spoke, he pushed his way through the crowd. People let him past, and soon he stood on the bottom step of the stage, staring up defiantly at McMurtrey. “He has a gun!” someone shouted.
McMurtrey saw it even as he heard the warning, but he didn’t flinch.
An elephant pistol was holstered on the man’s hip, but he wasn’t making a move for the weapon. He wore a green sportscoat and was tall, with thinning brown hair combed straight back through untamable cowlicks. The eyes were the pale blue of the sea, looking through people, looking through this fraud, Evander McMurtrey.
McMurtrey was glad he hadn’t lied, for men such as this would have seen the truth and exposed him, McMurtrey’s knees quivered, threatening to fold on him and send him crashing to the floor of the stage.
He noticed that this man had a lot of nervous tics, the sort that invariably had distracted McMurtrey in the past, flooding his brain with images that blocked the thought patterns required for conversation. One of the man’s eyelids twitched occasionally, he tapped one foot on the step importunately, and his trigger finger, like an insect leg, rubbed the adjacent thumb.
Inexplicably, McMurtrey didn’t feel his thoughts muddling. He felt strong, at the crest of a momentous event. This was a purposeful strength, and it seemed capable of carrying him a long way.
McMurtrey took a deep breath and met the man’s gaze. “Your name?” McMurtrey asked.
“Johnny Orbust. I’m a Reborn Krassee, here to debate the Lord’s word and way with you, Rooster.”
“I always like to know who I’m talking to,” McMurtrey said. He squinted, detected no aura around the man. Then as he looked out upon the crowd in this fashion, McMurtrey no longer saw any auras, not even around individuals he had seen glowing before.
“Sun bothering you?” Orbust queried.
“No . . . it’s . . . You want to know why the Lord didn’t select a great leader for this task? Why not a person of grand stature, a
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