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

person's mannerisms: He became distracted to the point of speechlessness by little tics. He'd been to innumerable doctors d
his life, but none of them, not even the most expensive psychoformers, had been of any assistance.
McMurtrey's gaze flitted involuntarily back to the librarian, to the still-quivering lip. The librarian removed foil from a plat
cookies and placed the plate to one side of the counter, apparently for patrons.
McMurtrey cleared his throat, spoke with an absence of difficulty that surprised him. He asked for a read-along cassette
Savnoy's Critique On Scholastic Theology, requested the week before.
This guy has a bad tic, McMurtrey thought. He stared at the quivering lip, felt unaffected, and breathed a tentative sigh
relief. It had been a most disquieting problem, and he wondered now if God's visitation that very morning might have somet
to do with the improvement. Maybe it was intended as proof, a small-scale miracle. In any event, McMurtrey hoped it wou
last.
The librarian searched through two stacks of book-tapes behind him.
A black fly buzzed irritatingly in McMurtrey's face and landed on his nose. McMurtrey shook his head, swatted at the in
and it circled his head, relanded on an ear. McMurtrey swatted the insect away, but within moments it was back once mor
upon his nose, as if it had landing rights there.
McMurtrey had been through this before. St. Charles Beach flies were tenacious, worse than he had seen in any other
climate or locale. The creatures weren't content to crawl along windows or counter tops. They didn't look for ways out of
rooms, didn't even seem to care much about morsels of unattended food. They hovered in people's faces.
McMurtrey shook his head briskly and used the rolled newspaper this time, making wild passes through the air. The fly
disappeared from view, may have lodged itself in his hair. He didn't feel it, gave up the effort.
"Oh, there you are, Savnoy," the librarian said, locating a cassette that had been lying on its edge behind one pile. He held
book-tape up so that McMurtrey could read the title on its spine. It looked like one of the old-fashioned books still sold in
specialty shops, but this was thinner than most of them, with a single cassette inside the cover.
For as long as he could remember, McMurtrey had been intrigued by the different facets of religion, all the major faiths.
the more he learned, the more utterly confused about God he became. He had always been convinced of God's existence a
longed to know God, but none of the doctrinal categories formed by other men seemed acceptable to him.
When the checkout procedure was completed, the librarian chirped, "Have a nice day, sir." His lip stopped quivering, and
presented a warmed-over, unimpassioned smile, the sort everyone who stepped up to this counter probably received.
"Do something about the flies in this place," McMurtrey said. "And don't give me any of that 'nice day' crap, you phony
functionary!"
"All right," came the response, with hardly a missed beat. "Fuck you, sir. Are you happy now?" These words were in the
identical "Have a nice day" tone, with the same smile.
McMurtrey felt his jaw drop, and his eyes opened so wide in surprise that they ached.
The irritating fellow held his expression and gazed off insipidly into the distance, civil-servant fashion. He showed no
appearance of hostility.
McMurtrey whirled and left without another word, carrying the newspaper and book-tape.
Someday I'll use my God pipeline to take care of guys like that, McMurtrey thought.
He cast an anxious gaze at the gray sky over the Bluepac Ocean, half expecting fiery thunder to lash him for the improp
of what he'd been thinking. It did begin to rain harder, but maybe it would have done so anyway. Nervously, McMurtrey hu
home.

Two evenings later, in Rimil, Wessornia of D'Urth . . .
Johnny Orbust let the fingers of his left hand dangle at his side and stared into the big red electronic eye mounted on one
of his apartment. A digital counter beneath the eye ticked off thousandths of a second in reverse, and beneath that, a
computer-selected scriptural reference was displayed, in black on amber letters: "Omanus 5:12."
When the counter reached zero, the eye turned green.
Orbust's hand darted across his body to a shoulder holster concealed beneath his sportscoat, making a soft, rapid slap of
leather. Almost instantly he had a black Babul open in both hands, and Omanus 5:12 was beneath one forefinger.
The counter showed his time: 3.414 seconds. Not his best performance, but not bad, either. Orbust practiced constantly,
keeping himself in shape for the religious arguments he had a habit of getting into.
He patted an .85 caliber elephant pistol on his hip, smiled at the thought of adversaries who stammered and perspired