Beneath the Planet of the Apes - Avallone Michael (бесплатные книги полный формат .txt) 📗

The commander leered and drew a heavy pistol from his uniformed middle, but Zaius, quickly reaching across, took the ugly muzzle in both his paws.

“Wait,” he urged. He turned on General Ursus. Their eyes dueled again. “We don’t want martyrs, do we?”

General Ursus said to the commander, “And do it quietly.”

The demonstrators had gone limp in the roadway, the usual weapon of advocates of non-violence. The commander rapped out some orders and soon, and swiftly, gorilla hands had lifted the demonstrators, carrying them by the arms and legs and piling them into the cage-wagons at the army’s disposal, closing out the incident. The army was able to advance again. Wheels rolled over the abandoned peace signs. Ursus smiled smugly at Dr. Zaius. The good doctor stared pointedly ahead, his eyes on some unseen calamity on the horizon. In the future. With the inscrutability that General Ursus was never able to connect with the seething anger that boiled inside Dr. Zaius’ intellectual breast. Something his ape mentality would never have understood. Or liked.

Dr. Zaius knew how to wait.

To bide his time.

Without giving up his ideals or his ethics to the code of Brute Force. To the ethos of Ape Logic and Ape Stupidity. Gorilla, that is.

General Ursus did not care.

So long as he had things his own way.

He would show the good doctor the efficacy of Power in due time.

All in due time.

Briskly, blindly, unknowingly, Ursus led his marching legions toward the horrors of the Forbidden Zone.

Where he thought the Fist would solve everything.

Where Dr. Zaius knew it would not.

In the great cathedral where the Bomb was lord and master of all it surveyed, a mass was in progress. The vaulted reaches of the dimly lit nave echoed with the chorus of voices raised in adoring harmony to the words of the hymn known as Psalm to Mendez II.

To Brent, forced to attend the weird ritual, the entire schema was a frightening mutation of the ancient Christian observance. All the singing and chanting seemed to have its origins in sacred songs of the twentieth century, now all cannibalized to match the coldness and cruel barrenness of this strange new cosmos into which he had blundered. He wondered how it all must sound to the mute Nova, at his side in the front pew, flanked by the fat man, Caspay, the beauteous Albina and the Negro, with four armed guards directly behind them.

At the high altar, now dark, Mendez stood facing a congregation of white-robed listeners. Brent was struck by the demeanor of the entire gathering. An inward spiritual serenity hovered about every face and figure. An outward gracefulness and gentility in mocking contrast with the reason for the radiance and exaltation of those faces and singing voices. The Bomb hung suspended above the altar, still invisible in the gloom of the ceiling.

Mendez was chanting sonorously, his purple robes dazzling as his arms and his voice rose in unison:

“The heavens declare the glory of the Bomb. And the firmament showeth his handiwork.”

To a man, woman and child, the congregation answered him. A full-throated, deep, reverent response. The gloomy cathedral echoed with the words:

“His sound is gone out unto all lands. And His light unto the ends of the world”

Now the hidden choir joined with Mendez in an invocation that soared up to the nave. The sound was spectral, ghostly:

“He descended from the outermost part of heaven. And there is nothing hid from the heat thereof. There is neither speech nor language. But His voice is heard among them.”

The congregation responded:

“Praise him. My strength and my redeemer.”

Mendez knelt at the prie-dieu; his white-gloved hand pressed a button on the bejeweled panel. The floodlight control was released and dramatically, illuminatingly, the Great Bomb, with its inscribed fins, filled the eye. ALPHA and OMEGA glowed like constellations in a sky of gun-metal silver.

Mendez and the choir sung aloud:

“Glory be to the Bomb and to the Holy Fallout—As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be; world without end. Amen.”

“Amen,” the congregation spoke as one.

Brent had a bad taste in his mouth. His ears ached with the awful, ridiculous, puling blasphemy of it all. Behind him, the four guards, their faces radiant and inspired, were singing with brilliant sincerity. The fat man, Caspay, Albina and the Negro were showing nothing of the revulsion that beat through Brent’s brain like a prairie fire. Only he and Nova, of all the souls in that damned cathedral, were remote and out of place and out of time. Their rags may have been covered at last with decent robes, but nothing had changed. Brent was still frightened and repulsed by all that he saw and heard.

The multitude of Amens fell away to a whisper. And still the Bomb gleamed down from its religious base. The main lights of the cathedral had all dimmed, leaving only the Bomb spotlit above the altar where no eye could miss it. Brent pulled his eyes away; the dread in his stomach was as tangible as a cancer in its most advanced stage.

Somewhere, the unseen organist struck a note.

From the prie-dieu, the kneeling Mendez’s voice rose once more:

“Almighty and everlasting Bomb, who came down among us to make Heaven under Earth, lighten our darkness. O instrument of God—Grant us Thy peace.”

The organ bleated a series of low, muted chords. All of them climactic, beseeching, uplifting, followed by a final hosannah.

Mendez stood up, back to the congregation, his purple robes a blazing field of color. He raised adoring arms to the Bomb suspended above him. His voice reached up, as if to touch it. To caress it with syllables, words.

The choir’s multiple voice rose in song:

“Almighty Bomb—who destroyed Devils—to create Angels! Behold His glory!”

Mendez chimed in with the choir:

“Behold the truth that abides in us, His handicraft!”

The choir stilled and Mendez’s chant rose on a single note of prayer and supplication:

“Reveal that truth unto that Maker!”

And now, incredibly, exaltedly, Albina, the fat man, Caspay and the Negro and all the leaders of this ghastly mass stood up as a body and chanted in a synchronized blend of many voices: “I reveal my Inmost Self unto my God!”

Brent blinked.

As if he had been struck between the eyes.

Nova shrank against him, mewing like a terrified kitten.

The topmost totem of unreality in this world of unrealities had been reached. Once more the universe had reeled and the mind boggled at what the eyes saw—had to believe—had to accept as Truth.

All about them, the leaders were unveiling. Albina, the Negro, Caspay, the fat man—everyone. Unmasking, as it were. Pulling and tugging at their heads and faces—taking off rubberized, plasticized masks which had concealed their inmost selves, their true appearance. Now Brent and the girl could see in all its blasphemous, unmatchable horror the true depths that their nightmare had bought for them when it set them down in this terrible city of lost souls.

Under each mask, each face now revealed to the awful light of the cathedral was a mockery of nature. A countenance repeated endlessly like some hideous joke at a costume party. A face devoid of all hair, all skin, all color and warmth. Centuries of postnuclear mutation had evolved all these faces into skinless horrors. Repulsively red and blue and pink, exposing all the ganglia of facial veins, arteries, tendons and muscles. As stripped and visible as any anatomical specimens in a medical class. The leaders, including the mighty Mendez, were totally horrible, totally and unbelievably hideous.

Brent and Nova held onto each other, shuddering.