Read Online Phoenix Without Ashes by Harlan Ellison, Edward Bryant - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Harlan Ellison, Edward Bryant
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visible above the horizon when Devon cautiously crept near to the rear of the holy building.
He carried the flat metal rod the small boy had used earlier to roll the hoop. The closely spaced cypress made an effective screen. Devon wedged the end of the rod into the crack below the combination lock and exerted his weight downward. Just as the pry rod began to bend, the lock snapped open with a flat crack. Devon looked around guiltily, but no voice was raised in question, no Elder appeared around the corner of the building. Still carrying the rod in one hand, Devon lifted the door and stepped quickly down into the darkness.
Light filtered dimly into the basement from shallow window-wells at either end. Devon paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust. Impedimenta choked the basement: storage pods, stacks of unusued pews, boxes of virgin hymnals.
At the far end of the room, a dusty staircase led to the upper floor. Devon climbed the steps carefully; one of the boards creaked and he stopped. Overhead the plank flooring squeaked as one or more persons moved about. No one approached the trapdoor at the top of the stairs. Devon cautiously continued.
He could hear voices, but the words were muffled by the intervening ceiling and floor. Devon set the pry bar carefully down on the top step. Then he slowly raised the trapdoor a few centimeters and peered out through the crack.
The Creator’s machine was visible, projecting out of the surface of the lectern. Elder Micah, his back to the trapdoor, attended the machine. A second man in funereal garb—Elder Jubal—emerged from beyond the platform.
Micah punched the same key that had been triggered when the decree against Devon was given. The machine spoke: “Gene pool orders original mating selection without variance. New factor, coded: Devon, unsuitable. Balance maintained. Answerrrr—”
Micah gave the device a quick, sharp blow with the side of his hand.
“—werrrr.” Click. “Answer: none.”
“Damnable thing,” said Micah. “Pray that this device will endure. We have not the knowledge to repair it.” He pushed another control and an oblong plastic object, the length of the Elder’s thumb, popped out of the Creator’s machine. Micah held it for a moment contemplatively. “I suspect the cassette is nearly worn out, as are the others. It must last for one final service.”
Jubal said, “How will you do this?”
“His final disposition?” said Micah. “Apparently shaming him before the congregation will not set him on the path of righteousness. We come to final moments with Devon.”
“Too many questions.”
“Aye, there are problems enough without his questions. If one asks, then, inevitably, others will too. Thus is born chaos.” Micah slid the plastic cassette into the slot in the top of the machine. He punched a key and spoke into the grille: “Erase previous voice recording. Record and play back following message only beginning with words, ‘My wishes.’ Convert voice recording to machine voice. Add appropriate gene pool computer conclusion.” Micah paused, clearing his throat slightly. “My wishes have been spurned by the undevout Devon. His presence among the faithful is a blight and a danger. He must be driven out of the lands I have given you, into the hills, nevermore to engage in human congress. This I order in the name of the Creator.” Micah pressed a final key. The machine made a few desultory clicks and buzzes.
From his place of concealment, Devon watched with amazement this perversion of religion. Not that he had been particularly pious of late, but this confirmed and even justified all his rebellious noises. The Creator’s machine is manipulable by Micah, thought Devon. And Micah is clearly not the Creator. Therefore does it follow that the Creator must be dead? Or perhaps He never existed? Theology had never been Devon’s forte. Yet even he resisted taking the jumbled thoughts too far. On the lectern, the machine made
He carried the flat metal rod the small boy had used earlier to roll the hoop. The closely spaced cypress made an effective screen. Devon wedged the end of the rod into the crack below the combination lock and exerted his weight downward. Just as the pry rod began to bend, the lock snapped open with a flat crack. Devon looked around guiltily, but no voice was raised in question, no Elder appeared around the corner of the building. Still carrying the rod in one hand, Devon lifted the door and stepped quickly down into the darkness.
Light filtered dimly into the basement from shallow window-wells at either end. Devon paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust. Impedimenta choked the basement: storage pods, stacks of unusued pews, boxes of virgin hymnals.
At the far end of the room, a dusty staircase led to the upper floor. Devon climbed the steps carefully; one of the boards creaked and he stopped. Overhead the plank flooring squeaked as one or more persons moved about. No one approached the trapdoor at the top of the stairs. Devon cautiously continued.
He could hear voices, but the words were muffled by the intervening ceiling and floor. Devon set the pry bar carefully down on the top step. Then he slowly raised the trapdoor a few centimeters and peered out through the crack.
The Creator’s machine was visible, projecting out of the surface of the lectern. Elder Micah, his back to the trapdoor, attended the machine. A second man in funereal garb—Elder Jubal—emerged from beyond the platform.
Micah punched the same key that had been triggered when the decree against Devon was given. The machine spoke: “Gene pool orders original mating selection without variance. New factor, coded: Devon, unsuitable. Balance maintained. Answerrrr—”
Micah gave the device a quick, sharp blow with the side of his hand.
“—werrrr.” Click. “Answer: none.”
“Damnable thing,” said Micah. “Pray that this device will endure. We have not the knowledge to repair it.” He pushed another control and an oblong plastic object, the length of the Elder’s thumb, popped out of the Creator’s machine. Micah held it for a moment contemplatively. “I suspect the cassette is nearly worn out, as are the others. It must last for one final service.”
Jubal said, “How will you do this?”
“His final disposition?” said Micah. “Apparently shaming him before the congregation will not set him on the path of righteousness. We come to final moments with Devon.”
“Too many questions.”
“Aye, there are problems enough without his questions. If one asks, then, inevitably, others will too. Thus is born chaos.” Micah slid the plastic cassette into the slot in the top of the machine. He punched a key and spoke into the grille: “Erase previous voice recording. Record and play back following message only beginning with words, ‘My wishes.’ Convert voice recording to machine voice. Add appropriate gene pool computer conclusion.” Micah paused, clearing his throat slightly. “My wishes have been spurned by the undevout Devon. His presence among the faithful is a blight and a danger. He must be driven out of the lands I have given you, into the hills, nevermore to engage in human congress. This I order in the name of the Creator.” Micah pressed a final key. The machine made a few desultory clicks and buzzes.
From his place of concealment, Devon watched with amazement this perversion of religion. Not that he had been particularly pious of late, but this confirmed and even justified all his rebellious noises. The Creator’s machine is manipulable by Micah, thought Devon. And Micah is clearly not the Creator. Therefore does it follow that the Creator must be dead? Or perhaps He never existed? Theology had never been Devon’s forte. Yet even he resisted taking the jumbled thoughts too far. On the lectern, the machine made
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