Deus Irae by Dick Philip K. & Zelazny Roger

Author:Dick, Philip K. & Zelazny, Roger [Dick, Philip K. & Zelazny, Roger]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction & Fantasy, Philip K Dick, High Tech, Science Fiction, Dystopias, Fantasy, Religion
ISBN: 9781400030071
Amazon: 1400030072
Goodreads: 22594
Publisher: Vintage
Published: 1976-08-01T07:00:00+00:00

He could not remember how the rest of the old hymn went, so he tried another.

This is my father's world. The

rocks and trees, the wind and

breeze ...

That didn't sound right. So he tried the Old One Hundred, the doxology:

Praise him from whom all blessings

flow. Praise him ye creatures here

below. Praise him above, ye heavenly

host. Thank Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

Or however it was that the hymn went.

He felt better, now. And then all at once he realized that his wheel bearing had stopped complaining. He peered down, and saw the grim news: the wheel had entirely stopped turning. The bearings had seized up.

Well, thus it goes, he thought as he reined the cow to a halt. This is as far as we go, you and I. He sat listening to the sounds around him, noises from the trees and shrubbery, little animals at work, even smaller ones at play: the offspring of the world, maimed and grotesque as they might be, had the right to frolic about in the warm morning sun. The owls had retired; now came the red-tailed hawks. He heard a far-off bird, and was comforted.

The bird sang words, now. Brighten up the corner, it called. Again it sang the few words, and then trilled out, Praise him from whom the wing and trees, the rocks and thank you. Tweet, toodle. It started from the beginning again, tracing each previous outburst.

A meta-mutant bird, he realized. A teilhard de chardin: forward oddity. Does it understand what it sings? he wondered. Or is it like a parrot? He could not tell. He could not go that way; he could only sit. Damn that wheel bearing, he said savagely to himself. If I could converse with the meta-bird maybe I could learn something. Maybe it has seen the Deus Irae and would know where he is.

Something at his right lashed the bushes, something large. And now he saw—saw and did not believe.

A huge worm had begun to uncurl and move toward him. It thrust the bushes aside; it dragged itself on its own oily slime, and as it came toward him it began to scream, high-pitched, strident. Not knowing what to do, he sat frozen, waiting. The rivulets of slime splashed over tarnished gray and brown and green leaves, withering both them and their branches. Dead fruit fell from the rotting trees; there arose a cloud of dry soil particles as the worm snorted and swung its way toward him. “Hi there!” the worm shrieked. It had almost reached him. “I can kill you!” the worm declared, tossing spit and dust and slime in his direction. “Get away and leave me! I guard something very precious, something you want but cannot have. Do you understand? Do you hear me?”

Tibor said, “I can't leave.” His voice shook; with his trembling body he engineered a quick movement; he brought forth his derringer once more and aimed it at the cranium of the worm.

“I came out of garbage!” the worm cried. “I was spawned by the wastes of the field! I came from your war, inc.

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