"Brian Herbert - The Race for God" - читать интересную книгу автора (Herbert Brian & Frank)

The editor sneered, motioned toward a computer terminal by his desk. "We're all on NewsData. They could find out abo
in seconds—unless you used a phony name. But you wouldn't dare do that, would you?"
Against Bureau rules, McMurtrey thought. Presumption of disloyalty.
"It happens that I've known about you for quite a while, McMurtrey—everyone in these parts does. Is that rumor true? D
your feisty chicken really peck a man's eyes out in the last town you lived in?"
McMurtrey didn't know where the rumor of his pet's ferocity came from, had never protested it.
"And that mantra of yours, how does it go?"
"Listen, you—"
"It's coming back to me. 'O Chubby Mother, let me rubba your belly . . . let me rubba your belly.'" He waggled the thumb
forefinger of one hand in the beaklike ritual of McMurtrey's organization.
"You're a rude little twerp."
The editor's eyes flashed. "You wanna start calling names, fella? I could burn your ears, but lucky for you I'm in a good m
today. Speaking of names, what is it you call that chicken? No Name, right?"
McMurtrey sighed, didn't recall telling anyone about that. Nervously, he rubbed one finger against a broken wooden edge
his chair.
"Your chicken has green plumes and you can walk around with it on one of your big wide shoulders. What is it, a mutant
parrot?"
"I had it checked by an expert once," McMurtrey replied. "He said it was a light Rahma, but a most unusual one, with un
plumage."
"I see."
"Aren't you going to enter that in the data base?"
"Later, maybe. Does it ever defecate on your shoulder?"
McMurtrey shook his head, felt a vein throbbing in his temple. "We get along fine. Look, I don't have to defend myself. T
the biggest scoop of your squalid little life. It's exactly like I told you. I was lying in bed this morning, just waking up, and G
spoke to me. He told me where He is, gave me the exact astronomical coordinates!"
"Yeah, yeah. At the break of dawn. You said His first words were 'Seeker, who says religion is the way to God?' What
hell is that supposed to be—some kind of trumped-up justification for your offbeat society? Is this a publicity stunt?"
"No! The ICCC is a religion, too!"
"Don't try to kid me. I think you're up to something."
"You're impossible!"
"Why were you chosen, of all people?"
"I don't know!"
"How did you say it went? Words were floating in the airspace above you . . . little flashes of voice-accompanied white l
on glimmering wavetops—as if the bedroom air were ocean water and you were above the surface looking down on it—a
surface that hung over you, defying gravity."
"That's close."
"You're damn right it's close. That's my business. I don't misquote. And I don't print lies."
McMurtrey sighed, stared at the ceiling. It was a sprayed-on rough texture, off-white with a brown scrape mark near on
wall.
When God's voice had come to him, it made him feel insignificant and dominated, but in retrospect he didn't think it had b
complete, all-consuming domination. The voice had been urgent and curiously plaintive, not the expected commanding tone
gave McMurtrey the feeling he could have refused to deliver God's message.
How could he feel this way, that a request from on high was not an edict?
Of course he didn't oppose it, for God had selected him from all others for a momentous occasion, an unheard-of occasio
McMurtrey couldn't wait to discover more. Since childhood, he'd felt a deep longing to know God, a longing that hadn't wa
with the formation of his farcical Interplanetary Church of Cosmic Chickenhood. Now he had the opportunity to fulfill the
penultimate dream of anyone's life, from a package of information thrust conveniently on his lap. But first he had to get pa
fools like this.
McMurtrey lowered his gaze. The editor was bent over the computer screen, an amber-lit unit, reading McMurtrey's do
"I've never printed a word about you," Robbins said, without turning his head. "People know you're a fraud, and I have m