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*Above disclaimer does not apply to UK Callers -LOW NO credit card rates are available for all UK callers.for direct billing, no credit card required Phone Sex chat for ANY FETISH or FANTASY! This is the dirtiest, uncensored and completely private 1 to 1 phone sex available without a credit card. And at the doorway of the sacristy Father Handy glanced against the morning sunlight from Wyoming to the north as if the sun came from that direction, saw the church’s employee, the limbless trunk with knobbed head lolling as if in trip-fantastic to a slow jig as the Holstein cow wallowed forward. For he had to declare bad news to Tibor Mc Masters. The smell of refuse was more powerful here, but there was space to sit down with his back to the wall, so he did. After a time, the pill began to take effect and hesighed. To distract himself from his plight he got out a much-creased, oil-soaked Richfield map, and consulted it with an idea that he might find something of use. Now it had become a lunar map, with craters: vast potholes scooped out of the earth, down to bedrock. ” But it was obvious; their unrestrained laughter and play proved. Again the wind moved through the great dead trees along the ridge. There, behind the altar, the miniscule part of thework which had been accomplished; five years it would take Tibor, but time did not matter in a subject of this sort: through eternity—no, Father Handy thought; not eternity, because this thing is man-made and hence cursed—but for ages, it will be here generations. You know the drawer where we keep the knives and forks and spoons? With his left hand he turned on the torch once more. I’ll need something before I make it back to the bunker! where it explains that if you cut off one of my heads—which is where the poison is—you must then slit open the ventral side and continue the cuts to extend the length of each leg. There came a terrible pain within his head and white flashes destroying his seeing. The smell of burning oil, the clouds of dust raised… He did not need anyone else; he could heap ridicule on himself single-handedly. Powered by the huge wet-cell battery of the cart, the bullhorn wheezed: his breath augmented. “I am Tibor Mc Masters, on an official Pilg for the Servants of Wrath, Incorporated. The cart bumped against the first fallen tree, going no farther. The cart, raised up, jutting its nose into the sky, whined and groaned, and a wisp of blue smoke trickled up from the engine. Fanners, some robot, some alive, worked the fields on all sides. That he manufactured you in order to put the world to fire? And that you invented the atoms and delivered them to the world, corrupting God’s original plan? “But we don’t know how.” “That is your first question? Tiber’s heart beat quickly, fluttering with nervous excitement. The remains of a building, sagging timbers and broken glass, a few ruined pieces of furniture strewn nearby. Some damp rags heaped over the rusty, bent bedroom springs. Tibor shuddered, bracing himself against it, pulling his log coat around him. ” The two shapes came up to the car and stood bathed in light. The other carried only his pants and the remains of a canvas shirt. No flesh—bones and hard angles and large, curious eyes, heavily lidded. ‘“You’re a human being.” “That’s right,” Tibor said. ” Tibor said cautiously, “One hundred and five.” He exaggerated, deliberately; the larger the camp, the greater the chance that they would not kill him. It would require a Pilg to get glasses for Tibor, if that became necessary; he blenched from that, because so often the church employee dragooned for a Pilg set off and never returned. Where you are bullied from.” “Oh no,” Father Handy protested. Just tell me this: Do I have to paint out anything I’ve already done? ” “With the final composition; what you’ve done is excellent. It’s “ ‘Man’s way,’ “ he finished, “ ‘is action.’ “ Tibor said, “You’re the one who’s chattering.” “But you,” Father Handy said, “must act. “I got a ram late yesterday,” he said, “from Theodore Benton. You know; it runs my ewes almost daily.” Interested now, the limbless man turned his head. The photo did not really catch the god-quality; it was the photo of a The god-quality; it could not be recorded by celluloid coated with a silver nitrate. See the greed for the food, the lust creating an unnatural expression? And then to Tibor he said the Great Verse of all the worlds, that which both men understood and yet did not grasp, could not, like Papagano with his net, entangle. But it was strange, depending on a poem whose meaning one did not actually grasp; he wondered, as he unfolded and searched through the old stained gas-station maps once given out free in prewar days, if this was not a stigma of degeneracy. not just that times were bad but that they themselves had become bad; the quality was lodged withinthem. The sun blazed down, hot as minnows skimming in the metallic surf, the tidal rise and fall of reality. She would eventually drag him inside, but he intended to hold off as long as possible. And they never even learned why; was it better elsewhere, or worse? That which had made the once-castigated “uniformity.” “ ‘You understand,’ “ Father Handy chanted, singsong, from And at once Tibor ceased drinking his coffee. Tibor said cautiously, “Well, you pay me.” “But I don’t compel you.” “I have to eat. “Sometime,” Tibor said, “when you have the generator reconnected to the electronic organ, I’ll play it for you; you’ll recognize it. “Oh yes,” Tibor said sardonically, and his pinched face withered with the abuse of his mis-emotion, his conviction. The color thirty-five-millimeter slides we sent on—they were delighted, those who looked at them; you know, the Church Eltern.” Reflecting, Tibor said, “Strange. But you can’t get a daily newspaper.” “Well, there’s the six-o’clock news on the radio,” Father Handy pointed out. There was no answer; the limbless man drank the coffee silently. “Did the ram—” .”Five times the dog approached the flock. I see pain, but he’s smiling.” His extensor abruptly returned the photo. “He was,” he said, “at the time this photo was taken, having a luau in Hawaii. He was relaxing on a Sunday afternoon before a speech before the faculty of some university; I forget which. But you—you’re my employer; you’re telling me to do, but how can I, from that one color shot? The Eltern of the Church say that if the photograph is inadequate—and it is, and we know it, all of us—then you must go on a Pilg until you find the Deus Irae, and they’ve sent documents pertaining to that.” Blinking in surprise, Tibor gaped, then protested, “But my metabattery! ” Father Handy said, “So you do blame your tools.” His voice was carefully controlled, quietly resounding. He spoke it aloud as a bond holding them together in what After he said that, Tibor nodded, picked up his coffee cup once more, that difficult, elaborate motion and problem; sipped. His conference now was with the Dominus Mc Comas, his superior in the hierarchy of the Servants of Wrath; the Dominus sat, large and tepid, with strangely cruel teeth, as if he tore things, not necessarily living, in fact much harder—as if he did a job, a profession, teethwise.

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so he loved the predators who fed on the chitinous crawlers, loved his flock of—amusing to think of—birds! But men arrived, at least on the Holy Day, Tuesday—to differentiate it (purposefully) from the archaic Christian Holy Day, Sunday. Father Handy said, “I won’t join you because I had pyloric spasms last night and when I got up this morning.” He felt irritable, physically. ” he called out, not knowing whether he had been heard. Then there came a blinding solar-corona blaze, which did not diminish but persisted for many minutes. At least, something within him was chuckling, some part of him. A trail of rough pebbles and dirt led off to one side, skirting the fallen trees; the trail, on the far side, led back to the road. but instead he rested on a large cart, much too cumbersome to navigate the trail. He stopped his cart, listened to the dull whistle of wind sighing through the broken trees. Somewhere far off, something barked, perhaps a dog, or if not that, then a large bird. He spat over the side of his cart and once more surveyed the trail. His wheels spun anxiously, a high-pitched whirring sound, and clouds of brown dust whistled up in a dry geyser into the sky. A sour taste rose up within him, and his chest and arms burned red with humiliation. Suppose someone saw him, here, caught in the dirt by the side of the collapsing road? Bent men and women watered their sickly crops with tin cans, old metal containers picked from the ruins. In another field, women weeded by hand; all moved slowly, stupidly, victims of hookworm from the soil. The children evidently hadn’t picked it up yet, but they soon would. Originally, I scanned mathematical questions visually. The wind surged against him without respite, whipping the foul-smelling mists into his nostrils and face. He coughed and urged the cow on; it stumbled on, over the rocks and clods of earth, trembling. For a long time he gazed at the withered old apple tree. The sight of the ancient tree—the only living one in the orchard—fascinated and repelled him. Stones and decayed heaps of older leaves in ragged clumps. A leaf blew past Tiber’s head; he tried to grasp it, but it escaped and disappeared. Lost here at sundown, at least thirty miles from home. There is nothing out here except what’s dead; it’s all dead. ” He listened to the radio, tuning it on to Father Handy’s beam. It looked black, now, but it was of course only red. “But I can’t leave the cart; I don’t have any arms or legs, just these grippers.” “Yeah,” Jackson said, nodding.

It could—or so he had decided from the utterances of the 6 P. radio—be that it consisted of both; it depended on the place. “ ‘I think I do,’ “ he wailed back, finishing the quotation. The coffee cup was set down, an elaborate rejection costing the use of many surge-gates opening and closing. Even I, if I felt it was right.” But he would never; he had long ago decided, and taken a secret binding oath on it. does.” Father Handy said, “We know this: you can find many jobs, at any place; you could be anywhere working. “Do you know,” Father Handy said, “what the oldest word in the English language is? Five times, moving very slowly, the ram walked toward the dog, leaving the flock behind. Those happy days in the sixties.” “If I can’t do my job,” Tibor said, “its your fault.” “ ‘A poor workman always blames—’ “ “You’re not a box of tools.” Both manual extensors slapped at the cart. At the stove, Ely said, “Fire him.” To her, Father Handy said, “I fire no one. The room became still and even Ely, the woman, did not chatter. We must have the mural; he must travel over a thousand miles, and ifhis cow dies or his battery gives out, then we expire with him; Neither man knew who had written the old poem, the medieval German words which could not be found in their Cassell’s dictionary; they together, the two of them, had imagined out, summoned, found, the meaning of the words; they were certain they were right and understood. “Carl Lufteufel,” the Dominus Mc Comas said, “was a son of a bitch.

“ ‘The rule,’ “ Father Handy said, “ ‘applies to everyone.’ “ Half to himself, with real bitterness, Tibor said, “ ‘To shirk the task.’ “ He turned his head, licked rapidly with his expert tongue, and gazed in deep, prolonged study at the priest. ” It is, Father Handy thought, the fact that I am linked; I am part of a network that whips and quivers with the whole chain, shivered from above. Despite your—handicap.” “The Dresden Amen,” Tibor said. The dog, of course, stopped and stood still when he saw the ram coming toward him, and so the ram halted and pretended; he cropped.” Father Handy smiled as he remembered. I had to.” “If it was me,” Tibor said, “if I was that ram, and I saw that, I saw the dog get by me and run the flock and all I could do was watch—” He hesitated. ’ You see my point.” Tibor said slowly, “If you can’t do your job, better to be dead. ” In your mural, Father Handy thought, you must create His face. “And as He actually is.” After a puzzled pause Tibor said, “You mean His exact physical appearance? To be shown to you.” Staring at him, Tibor said, “You mean you have a of the Deus Irae? Outdoors, the cow which pulled Tiber’s cart groaned huskily, shifted; perhaps, Father Handy thought, it is looking for, hoping for, food. As a man.” He added that because of course one did not speak of the god part of the god-man, the Deus Irae, like that.

In the hind yard, Tibor detached his cart from the cow. Ely Handy said dustily as she did not face the limbless man, “Good morning, Tibor. Hate, Father Handy thought, can take marvelous exceeding attenuated forms; he all at once yearned for it direct, open and ripe and directed properly. Like you, he thought, I am, although a Complete, having trouble with my body this morning: with glands and hormones. The rats fell back and there came another pain within his head. He gazed up at the clouded sky and gave thanks to the God of Wrath for sparing him this; trials of exceptional vividness lay on every hand. Extending his front right extensor, Tibor plucked a leaf from the tree and examined it. He felt all at once terribly tired, as well as frightened. “So we see.” He slapped the cow on its flank; the cow mooed and raised her head. “Fast enough.” In his front left gripper he held his single-shot pistol; if they tried to kill him he would get one of them.

Then, on battery power, the cart rolled up its special wood-plank ramp and into the church; Father Handy felt it within the building, the arrival of the man without limbs, who, retching, fought to control his abridged body so that he could resume work where he had left off at sunset yesterday. Right here.” He stood aside so that the cart, which was massive for an indoor construct, could roll on through the corridor and into the church’s kitchen. Pax be with you and with thy saintly spark.” “Pax or pox? He lit a cigarette, his first of the day, tasted the loose genuine tobacco, purled, and felt much better; one chemical checked the overproduction of another, and now he seated himself at the table as Tibor, smiling cheerfully still, drank the heated-over coffee without complaint. There was an especially violent throbbing in the vicinity of his left temple. These men and women were being tempered in a hot crucible; their souls were probably purified to an astonishing degree. ” Her tone was scathing, in an abstract sort of way. “We have bullets, but I don’t know if they still work.” “What is your name? I’m an incomplete; I have no arms or legs.” “A phocomelus,” the Great C said. I’m getting out of here, he said to himself, and nudged the cow into motion. Her tail, in the evening gloom, switched from side to side.


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