"021 - Dick, Philip K - Counter Clock World v1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dick Phillip K)

"Because it was true. A fact. I had to face the fact."
"Why?" Lindy demanded.
"That's what happens on the Day of Judgment," R.C. Buckley said philosophically. "That's the day you have to face all the reality you've been avoiding. I mean, we all lie to ourselves; we tell our own selves more lies than we ever do other people."
"Yes," Sebastian said; that expressed it. "It's hard to explain," he said. It would be interesting, if they could bring back the Anarch Peak, to talk to him about it; he might know a good deal. "He--God---can't help you until you understand that everything you do depends on Him."
"Religious victuals," Lindy said contemptuously.
"But think about it," Sebastian said. "Literally. I raise my hand." He raised his hand. "I think I do it, can do it. But it's done by a complex biochemical, physiological apparatus that I mherited, that I entered; I didn't construct it. A blood clot on one side of the brain, a clot no bigger than a pencil eraser, and I couldn't lift my hand again or move my leg or anything on that side for the rest of my life."
"So you grovel," Bob Lindy said, "before His majesty?"
Sebastian said, "He can help you if you face it. It's just so damn hard to face. Because when you do you--cease to exist, almost. You shrink down almost to nothing." But not quite; something real remained.
"'God is angry with the wicked every day,'" Father Faine quoted.
"I wasn't wicked," Sebastian said. "Just ignorant. It was necessary for me to be confronted, finally, with the truth. That way--" He hesitated. "I could go back to Him," he said finally. "Where I belonged. And understand that nine-tenths of everything I did in my life was really Him doing it; I was a bystander while He acted through me."
"You did all that good?" Lindy demanded.
"Everything. Good _and_ bad."
"A heresy," Father Faine said.
"So?" Sebastian said. "It was true. Remember, Father; _I've been there_. I'm not spouting my beliefs, my faith; I'm saying what is."
Dr. Sign said, "I am getting a cardiac fibrillation now. An arrhythmia. Auricular fibrillation; probably what finally killed him. He's successfully passed back to that stage. Normal cardiac rhythm will probably supervene, if we're lucky; if the process continues normally."
Still continuing the theological discussion, Cheryl Vale said, "I still don't see why God would want us to feel insignificant. Doesn't He _like_ us?"
"Be quiet," Dr. Sign said swiftly.
"We have to be little," Sebastian said, "so there can be so many of us. So billions upon billions of separate creatures can live; if one of us were big, the same size as God, then how many would there be? I see it as the only way by which every potential soul can--"
"He's alive," Dr. Sign said. And sagged visibly. "It worked out; it didn't kill him." He glanced at Sebastian, smiled slightly. "Your gamble paid off; we've got a live one, and the live one is the Anarch Thomas Peak."
"So now what?" Lindy said.
"So now," R.C. Buckley said, exulting, "we're rich. We've got an item in our catalog that'll bring prices we've never even heard of before." He grinned excitedly, his salesman's eyes darting and busy. "Okay," he said. "Here I go. That lead from Italy; that's just one, but they're bidding; that's what counts. And they'll keep bidding, up and up."
"Wow," Cheryl Vale said. "We ought to have a token pipeful of sogum together. To celebrate." This, she could understand; the theological discussion had baffled her, but not this. Like R.C., she had a good, common-sense, seasoned reasonability.
"Get out the sogum," Sebastian said. "It's sogum time."
"So now you've got him," Lindy said. "All you have to do is decide who to peddle him to." He grimaced mirthlessly.
"Maybe," Sebastian said, "we'll let him decide." It was an approach they had not discussed; the Anarch, while still a corpse, had seemed just that: an object, a commodity. But he was, now, appearing among them as a human being, although still technically the property of the vitarium . . . a commercial entity. "He was--is-a shrewd man," he pointed out. "He probably can tell us more about Ray Roberts than the Library can." And Lotta had not returned; this he noted, and sensed that something had gone wrong. He wondered what . . . and how seriously . . . and kept the thought alive, in the back of his mind. Despite the more pressing problem of the Anarch.
"Are we going to turn him over to a hospital?" R.C. asked.
"No," Sebastian decided. It was too risky; Dr. Sign, here on the premises, would have to provide the medical care.
Dr. Sign said, "Evidently he's going to become conscious. He seems to be passing through the rebirth process unusually rapidly; that indicates his death was originally rapid."
Bending over the Anarch, Sebastian studied him, studied the tiny, dark, wrinkled face. It was certainly a living face, now; the change struck him as enormous. To see what had been inert organic matter become active . . . this is the real miracle, he said to himself; the greatest of them all. Resurrection.
The eyes opened. The Anarch gazed up at Sebastian, his chest rising and falling regularly; his expression was tranquil, and Sebastian decided that in this state the man had died. Worthy of his calling, he reflected; the Anarch had died like Socrates: hating no one, fearing nothing. He found himself impressed. But always he and his crew at the Flask of Hermes Vitarium missed this moment: this took place before the digging up, the recovery; this took place in the dismal vacuity of the tomb.
"Maybe he'll say something profound," Lindy offered.
The pupils of the eyes moved; the inert man now living again was seeing each of them here in the room. The eyes roved but the expression in them and on the other features stayed constant. As if, Sebastian thought, we have resurrected a watching-machine. I wonder what he remembers, he asked himself. More than I? I hope so, and it would be reasonable. He, because of his calling, would be more alert.
The dry, cracked, darkened mouth stirred. The Anarch said in a rustling, wind-like whisper, "I saw God. Do you doubt it?"
There was a moment of silence and then, shockingly, R.C. Buckley said, "Do you dare to doubt it?"
The Anarch said, "I saw the Almighty Man."
"His hand," Buckley said, "was resting on a mountain." He paused, strained to remember; the others in the room watched him. The Anarch watched him, listening for him to go on. "And he looked upon the world," Buckley said finally. "And all about it."
"I saw him plainer than you see me now," the Anarch whispered. "You mustn't doubt it."
"What's that?" Bob Lindy said.
"An old Irish poem," Buckley said. "I'm Irish. It's by James Stephens, I think. As I remember."
The Anarch said, in a stronger voice, "He was not satisfied; his look was all dissatisfied." He shut his eyes then, rested; Dr. Sign listened to his heart, checked the registering gauges of body functions. "He lifted up his hand," the Anarch said, dimly. As if once more fading back into death. "I'm in the way, I said. And I will never move from where I stand."
"He said," Buckley said, "dear child, I feared that you were dead. And stayed his hand."
"Yes," the Anarch said, and nodded; his expression was peaceful. "I don't want to forget. He stayed his hand. Because of me."
Lindy said, "Were you something special?"
"No," the Anarch said. "I was something small."
"Small,'" Sebastian echoed, nodding. How well he remembered that. Terribly, completely small, the most meager iota in the universe of things. Now he, too, remembered this: the dissatisfied look; the raising of the hand . . . and then the staying of the hand, because he had said something. The Anarch's words, and Buckley's, had brought it back, the rest of his recollection. That terrifying, angry, lifted hand.
"He said," the Anarch said, "that he feared I was dead."
"Well, you were," Lindy said practically. "That's why you were there; right?" He glanced at Sebastian, clearly not impressed. "What about you, R.C.," he said to Buckley. "You were along? How come you know so much?"
"A poem!" Buckley said hotly. "I remember it from my childhood. For chrissake; forget it." He looked ill at ease. "It made a big impression on me when I was a kid. I don't remember it all, but what he said--" He gestured at the Anarch. "Brought most of it back."
Sebastian said to the Anarch, "That's how it was; I remember now." And more; he remembered more, a great deal. It would take him a long time to sift it and digest it. To Dr. Sign he said, "Can you provide him adequate medical attention? Can we keep him out of a hospital?"
"We can try," Dr. Sign said noncommittally. He continued taking readings, testing the pulse; he seemed particularly concerned about the pulse. "Adrenalin," he said, and dived into his medical bag; in a moment he was preparing an injection.