planet. Carpentier, you’ve no way of knowing Big Juju can’t build even bigger. Worlds, stars, whole universes.
Natural laws? He suspends them at will. A world-sized funnel, as stable as a sphere would be in normal space. And—and he can raise the dead. Me! Corbett, who couldn’t possibly have been frozen. Jan Petri the health-food addict, cremated , Carpentier, burned to a pile of greasy ashes and a few chunks of bone, and now risen so that he can be tortured.
Big Juju can create. He can destroy. He can raise the dead and heal the sick. Was more ever claimed for Christ?
I looked back at the red-hot tombs. They still glowed with heat, but none of that reached us in these cool marble halls. “There are people in those tombs?”
Benito nodded. “Heretics.”
The word was frightening. Heretics . They believed in the wrong gods, or worshiped the right god in the wrong way. For that they were raised from the dead so they could be tortured in hotboxes.
Iago says it. “ Credo in un Dio crudel .” I believe in a cruel God. And that you must believe, Carpentier. The ability to make a universe does not presuppose moral superiority. We have seen no strong evidence that Big Juju’s moral judgments are better than our own. Would God torture people?
I half-remembered Sunday school lessons. No. But also, yes. It was one reason I was an agnostic. How could I worship a God who kept a private dungeon called Hell? That might be all right for Dante Alighieri, a Renaissance Italian! But Carpentier had higher standards than that!
A voice floated from within my mind, a tired voice whispering out of a mound of fat. We’re in the hands of infinite power and infinite sadism .
We were in the private museum park of Big Juju. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Too right,” said Corbett. He paused. “Music?”
I listened. There was music playing from somewhere within these marble corridors. Something chintzy-sweet, a minor work by a major composer, played for every melodramatic sweet note in it. Artificial good cheer in Hell. “It fits,” I said. “Granted we’re damned, how do we get out? Which way?”
Benito looked around him. “I have never been in this part before.”
“Not back there,” Corbett insisted. “Not unless we have to.”
“Right. We’ve got time,” I said. And I started laughing.
It was an awful sound. It bounced around in the maze and came back at me from all directions, transmuted to racking sobs. I tried to stop. Corbett and Benito were staring. I tried to tell them:
“I was right. Just once, I was right. All that time in the bottle, all that guessing, and I was right just once. Immortality! When they woke me up they had immortality.” Dammit, I was crying.
Corbett took my arm, “Come on, Allen.”
We went inward.
14
T
he corridors branched away, endless cross-corridors in an endless corridor, and every one of them the same, wall after wall of marble-sealed caskets, each with its empty bronze vases for flowers. Our footsteps echoed hollowly. Our sandals hadn’t been touched by the flames. The sprightly music continued, never getting louder, and the light never changed, neither gloomy nor bright. On and on, corridor after corridor. Finally we halted.
“We haven’t turned,” I said.
Corbett nodded. “Do a one-eighty and we can get out of here. Let’s.”
Half-facetiously I rapped on a bronze nameplate and read off the name and dates. A translucent human shape formed before me. I stared in horror, then shrugged. What was a ghost among ghosts?
“Pardon me,” I said. “Can you direct us toward the wall of Dis?”
The ghost’s voice was faint and reedy. “Wall? Dis?” Faint laughter. “They must have added more extensions in the Mausoleum. I don’t remember anything like that in Forest Lawn.”
“Very funny. This isn’t Forest Lawn.”
The ghost seemed vexed. “I was supposed to be buried in Forest Lawn. I paid for it before I died. It was in my will. Where am
Natural laws? He suspends them at will. A world-sized funnel, as stable as a sphere would be in normal space. And—and he can raise the dead. Me! Corbett, who couldn’t possibly have been frozen. Jan Petri the health-food addict, cremated , Carpentier, burned to a pile of greasy ashes and a few chunks of bone, and now risen so that he can be tortured.
Big Juju can create. He can destroy. He can raise the dead and heal the sick. Was more ever claimed for Christ?
I looked back at the red-hot tombs. They still glowed with heat, but none of that reached us in these cool marble halls. “There are people in those tombs?”
Benito nodded. “Heretics.”
The word was frightening. Heretics . They believed in the wrong gods, or worshiped the right god in the wrong way. For that they were raised from the dead so they could be tortured in hotboxes.
Iago says it. “ Credo in un Dio crudel .” I believe in a cruel God. And that you must believe, Carpentier. The ability to make a universe does not presuppose moral superiority. We have seen no strong evidence that Big Juju’s moral judgments are better than our own. Would God torture people?
I half-remembered Sunday school lessons. No. But also, yes. It was one reason I was an agnostic. How could I worship a God who kept a private dungeon called Hell? That might be all right for Dante Alighieri, a Renaissance Italian! But Carpentier had higher standards than that!
A voice floated from within my mind, a tired voice whispering out of a mound of fat. We’re in the hands of infinite power and infinite sadism .
We were in the private museum park of Big Juju. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Too right,” said Corbett. He paused. “Music?”
I listened. There was music playing from somewhere within these marble corridors. Something chintzy-sweet, a minor work by a major composer, played for every melodramatic sweet note in it. Artificial good cheer in Hell. “It fits,” I said. “Granted we’re damned, how do we get out? Which way?”
Benito looked around him. “I have never been in this part before.”
“Not back there,” Corbett insisted. “Not unless we have to.”
“Right. We’ve got time,” I said. And I started laughing.
It was an awful sound. It bounced around in the maze and came back at me from all directions, transmuted to racking sobs. I tried to stop. Corbett and Benito were staring. I tried to tell them:
“I was right. Just once, I was right. All that time in the bottle, all that guessing, and I was right just once. Immortality! When they woke me up they had immortality.” Dammit, I was crying.
Corbett took my arm, “Come on, Allen.”
We went inward.
14
T
he corridors branched away, endless cross-corridors in an endless corridor, and every one of them the same, wall after wall of marble-sealed caskets, each with its empty bronze vases for flowers. Our footsteps echoed hollowly. Our sandals hadn’t been touched by the flames. The sprightly music continued, never getting louder, and the light never changed, neither gloomy nor bright. On and on, corridor after corridor. Finally we halted.
“We haven’t turned,” I said.
Corbett nodded. “Do a one-eighty and we can get out of here. Let’s.”
Half-facetiously I rapped on a bronze nameplate and read off the name and dates. A translucent human shape formed before me. I stared in horror, then shrugged. What was a ghost among ghosts?
“Pardon me,” I said. “Can you direct us toward the wall of Dis?”
The ghost’s voice was faint and reedy. “Wall? Dis?” Faint laughter. “They must have added more extensions in the Mausoleum. I don’t remember anything like that in Forest Lawn.”
“Very funny. This isn’t Forest Lawn.”
The ghost seemed vexed. “I was supposed to be buried in Forest Lawn. I paid for it before I died. It was in my will. Where am
Similar Books
