The Godmakers (22 page)

"Blessed is Orne; blessed is Orne . . ."

It was a persistent chant in the Abbod's voice. There were others then --

Diana, Stetson . . . a multitude.

"Blessed is Orne . . ."

Orne saw with senses he created for the purpose, and into dimensions of his own making. Still, he sensed the flowing chaos, knowing that even this might not hold him. One had only to make the proper perception. Veils would fall away.

"Blessed is Orne," the Abbod prayed.

Orne felt a pang of sympathy for the old man, recognized the awe. It was like Emolirdo's aborted demonstration -- a three-dimensional shadow cast into a two-dimensional universe. The Abbod existed in a thin layer of time. Life projected the Abbod's matter along that thin dimension.

The Abbod prayed to his God Orne and Orne answered, coming down from the mountaintop, erasing the worship of the multitudes, coming to rest as a physical form cross-legged and seated upon the bed.

"Once again you summon me," Orne said.

"You have not said which you choose," the Abbod said. "God, prophet . . . or what?"

"It's interesting," Orne said. "You exist within these dimensions, yet outside them. I have seen your thoughts blaze through a lifetime, taking only a second for the journey. When you are threatened, your awareness retreats into no-time; you force time almost to a standstill."

The Abbod still sat propped up in bed, but now he held his hands extended prayerfully. He said: "I pray that you answer my question."

"You already know the answer," Orne said.

"I?" the Abbod's eyes opened wide in surprise. The thin old shanks trembled in the bed.

"You have known it for thousands of years," Orne said. "I have seen this.

Before men first ventured into space, some were looking at the universe in the right way and learning to answer such questions. They called it Maya. The tongue was called Sanskrit."

"Maya," the Abbod whispered. "I project my consciousness upon the universe."

"Life creates its own motive," Orne said. "We project our own reason for being. And always ahead of us -- the great cataclysm and the great awakening.

Always ahead of us -- the great burning time from which the phoenix arises.

The faith we have is the faith we create."

"How does that answer my question?" the Abbod pleaded.

"I choose that which any god would choose," Orne said.

And he disappeared from the Abbod's bedroom.

As Orne indicated, the prophet who calls forth the dead actually returns the body's matter to a time when it was alive. The man who walks from planet to planet sees time as a specific location; without time to stretch across it, there is no space. Orne has created our universe as an expanding balloon of irregular dimensions. Thus he accepted my challenge and answered my prayer.

We can continue staring at our universe through the symbol-grids which we construct. We can continue reading our universe like an old man with his nose pressed against the page.

-- Private report of the ABBOD HALMYRACH

In his Marak office, Tyler Gemine, director of R&R, faced his visitor across an immense blackwood desk. The desk smelled of a perfumed polish. Its wide top held a holographic projection of Gemine's family and a communications console.

Behind Gemine, a simulwindow looked out across the pyramid steps of Marak's Government Central, a descending line of parks and angular structures glistening under the green light of noon sun. The director was a rounded outline against the simulwindow, a fat and genial surface with smiling mouth and hard eyes. Frown wrinkles creased his forehead.

"Let me get this clear, Admiral Stetson," Gemine said. "You're telling me that Orne appeared in your office out of nowhere?"

Stetson slouched in the shaping chair across from Gemine, eyes almost level with the desk top. It interested him that the polished surface of the desk created an illusion of heat waves which danced across Gemine's chest.

"That's what I'm telling you, sir," Stetson said.

"Like that fellow from Wessen, you mean? A psi thing?"

"Call it whatever you want, sir: Orne just popped out of nowhere, grinned at me and delivered that message."

"I don't find this flattering at all," Gemine protested. His hard eyes bored into Stetson.

Stetson hid amusement under a mask of concern. "Well, sir, there are a lot of us from I-A who need jobs now that you've taken over our work."

"I understand that," Gemine said, his gaze cold and measuring. "But I resent, I deeply resent the suggestion that R&R has been making dangerous mistakes . .

."

There was that unfortunate business on Hamal, sir," Stetson said, "not to mention Gienah and . . ."

"I am not suggesting we're perfect, Admiral," Gemine said. "But our positions now remain pretty clear. The vote in the Assembly was decisive. The I-A is no more and we are . . ."

"Nothing's really decisive in a final sense, sir," Stetson said. "You'd better, ahhh, kind of go through once more what Orne is saying in that message."

"His message is plain enough," Gemine said. "And I must say it sounds rather farfetched to suggest that I should take this on faith and . . . I say, isn't it getting rather hot in here?" Gemine ran a finger around his collar.

Without shifting his body, Stetson pointed to the region above Gemine's left ear.

The R&R director turned, eyes going wide as his gaze encountered a dancing point of flame hanging in the air. Burning, prickling sensations crawled along his skin. Abruptly, the flame swelled to a ball almost a meter in diameter.

Gemine leaped to his feet, knocked over his chair as he stumbled backward.

Heat blasted his face.

"How now?" Stetson asked.

Gemine dodged to the right and the flame shot ahead of him, cutting him off.

It pressed him toward a corner.

"All right!" Gemine shrieked. "I agree! I agree!"

The flame dwindled to a spark, vanished.

"The way Orne explains it," Stetson said, "there's no place in the universe where there hasn't been flame at some time or other. It's just a matter of shifting space and time so the space coincides with a time of fire. As long as we've come to an agreement, you can sit down, sir. I don't think he'll bother you anymore unless . . ."

Gemine righted his chair, sank into it. Perspiration ran from his face. He stared at Stetson with a stricken expression, said: "But you said I was to remain in charge of the department!"

It was Stetson's turn to scowl. "Damn nonsense about hoes and handles!"

"What?"

"He says we live in a universe where anything can happen and that means even war has to be a possibility," Stetson growled. "You've read the report! We didn't dare leave a thing out of his message."

Gemine glanced fearfully at the area over his left ear, back to Stetson.

"Quite." He cleared his throat, leaned back and steepled his hands in front of him.

Stetson said: "I'm to be attached to your office as a special executive assistant. My duties are to facilitate the absorption of I-A into . . ." He hesitated, swallowed. ". . . R&R."

"Yes . . . of course." Gemine leaned forward, his manner suddenly confidential. "Any idea where Orne is now?"

"He said he was going on a honeymoon," Stetson growled.

"But . . ." Gemine shrugged. "I mean, with his powers, with the things he apparently can do . . . I mean, the psi thing and all . . ."

"All I know is what he told me," Stetson said. "He said he was going on a honeymoon. He said it was the thing any normal, red-blooded man would want to do at a time like this."

Once a psi, always a psi. Once a god, you can be anything you choose. I give you the proper obeisance. Reverend Abbod, for your kindness and your instruction. Humans get so conditioned to looking at the universe in terms of little labeled pieces they tend to act as though the universe really were those pieces. The matrix through which we perceive the universe has to be a direct function of that universe. If we distort the matrix, we don't change the universe; we just change our way of seeing it. As I told Stet, it's like a drug habit. If you enforce anything, including peace, you require more and more of that thing to satisfy you. With peace, it's a terrible paradox: You require the contrast of more and more violence, as well. Peace comes to those who've developed the sense to perceive it. In gratitude for this, I will keep my promise to you: humankind has an open-ended account in the Bank of Time.

Anything can still happen.

-- LEWIS ORNE to the Abbod Halmyrach

P.S. Please record a note that I want this inscription on my tomb: "He chose infinity one finite step at a time." We'll call our first son Hal and let him make up his own joke about what it means. I'm sure Ag will help him.

Love, L.O.