The priests had a standard answer: “God is good! God loves you!” That said nothing, of course: a cop-out! If you kept asking, they told you it was all a mystery, part of the Great Incomprehensible Plan. If you pestered them, they said that evil was only a test — or that evil existed so God could display His wondrous compassion, so that He could forgive you after you’d spent a lifetime suffering for something that wasn’t your fault in the first place. So babies could be napalmed in Damascus while killers, rapists, drug-peddlers, slum landlords, embezzlers, crooked lawyers, sleazy evangelists, and politicians could lead sumptuous lives, retire to California, and buy their mistresses pink sports cars on Rodeo Drive.
Long ago Lessing had decided that if evil is part of the Plan, then God was one lousy planner! Predestination implies that God wants it this way; free will says that whatever God wants. He gives us imperfect little creatures a chance to screw it up. Either way it stank: God was either the most inept designer since the dink who built the walls of Jericho, or else He had a very un-funny sense of humor! Six days to make the world — a primitive creation myth that wasn’t even as good as some the American Indians had! Evolution: what a laborious and inefficient way for an omnipotent Deity to produce the species He presumably wanted. Original sin? What a crock! Send His only son down to take humanity’s sins upon himself? Come on! For a Supreme Being, all of those were dumb ideas. It was Lessing’s considered opinion that a squad of drunken oran-gutans could’ve dreamed up a better fairy tale.
Now the world lay dying. Invisible, miasmic death stalked those who lived, and poor, old God was in heavy demand. The churches werepacked, the synagogues overflowing, the mosques and temples all red hot and throbbing. The God business throve on death.
The greatest catastrophe since the dinosaurs, and God didn’t do a thing about it. No miracles, no “only Son,” no tear-jerking, happy endings at Christmastime.
Was God Himself “evil” — by human definition anyhow?
Whenever Lessing had asked such questions, his parents, his teachers, his mother’s holier-than-Jesus ministers — the whole Bible-beating lot — had chorused that he was too immature, too sophomoric, too simplistic, too uneducated, too sceptical, too some-goddamned-thing — to understand.
The holy books of other religions had not helped, nor had the philosophers. They were easily refuted: they reeked of anthropomorphism, clever words but no answers. People believed because they needed a crutch — which wasn’t a new observation, certainly, but it struck Lessing as a lot truer than the stuff the theologians dished out.
Like the man said, two dimes and a nickel got you a quarter — but not a cup of coffee anymore. That cost a dollar and sixty cents now.
The med-van braked to a stop. The sun had come out, and the stone facades of the buildings lining the street glowed honey-gold, maroon, and rose-red in the weak December light. The trees were stark and bare, but bundles of what looked like dried leaves lay tumbled along the parking strip and in the gutters. Lessing knew what they were: bodies of men, women, and children; even a few pets, squirrels, and birds.
The two paramedics who had been riding in the rear of their van opened the door and climbed gingerly down to the littered paving. The captain, the driver, Lessing, and Wrench joined them. A black-and-white sign on the lawn said: U.S. Department of Defense, Restricted Entry.
“This it?” Wrench unlimbered a 40-mm, six-shot grenade launcher from their vehicle’s ready-rack. “Don’t worry. I know how to use this.”
“Yes ” The captain looked doubtful. “You really don’t need
that thing.” In his view only another Marine — preferably somebody from his own unit — was qualified to handle such a weapon.
“Let him keep it,” Lessing urged. Even if Wrench didn’t know a grenade from a horseapple, the sight of the big launcher would scare the shorts off most looters. The thing weighed fifteen pounds and looked like a tommygun for giants.
They entered through a double set of glass doors and found themselves in the sort of artsy-craftsy, impersonal foyer popular with American “institutional” architects. Slender, glass pillars soared up to narrow, slitted skylights near the top of a pyramidal reception hall. From the apex of the pyramid a mirrored mobile hung down to spatter the blank, white walls with prismatic light. The effect was dizzying: disco-night at the Starlight Ballroom!
The black naugahide desks and chairs were empty, the potted plants just beginning to wilt for lack of water. The lights worked — every installation of any importance had its own emergency generator — and if it had not been for the ringing silence and the emptiness it might have been just another Washington workday.
Two startled soldiers leaped up from behind the semicircular reception counter. They wore N.B.C. suits, but their helmets lay on the counter beside them. They had been sorting loot stripped from corpses: diamond rings, watches, a heap of money — the trivia of a world that was as dead as the Pharaohs.
The Marine captain strode forward, ignoring the bric-a-brac. “You!” he barked. “Unit? Authorization?”
One of the men, a gaunt Black youth, saluted and stammered a soft reply that Lessing could not hear.
The captain looked puzzled. “Golden? Major Golden? Who the fuck is he?”
The second soldier held out a piece of paper. “Uh… our orders, sir.”
The captain waggled a finger at the two paramedics. “Get back to the van, contact base, tell ‘em we’re here and we’ve got a 760. Go! Then stay out there. Watch for survivors, but don’t get too far from us.”
A “760” was militarese for a command screw-up: like when your artillery drops shit all over your own troops. Lessing’s combat senses had just gone on yellow alert. He unobtrusively fished for his pistol in the voluminous front pocket of his N.B.C. suit. They hadn’t issued him a holster, and drawing the weapon later might be awkward.
From the comer of his eye he saw that Wrench had sidled around to cover him and the captain from the flank. He couldn’t see their driver; the man must still be behind them.
“No problem corporal,” the captain said smoothly. “Here’s my clearance. These two come along. Private Harris… my driver… will stay with you. Oh, and get your fuckin’ helmets back on before I personally kick your asses up your backbones and out your shit-sniffin’ noses! You know that’s a breach of orders!”
Only when they were out of earshot of the two soldiers and into the hallway beyond did the captain beckon to Lessing. “It beats me. A Major James L. Golden from the Army Training and Doctrine Command at Fort Monroe? That’s in Virginia, but it’s a ways away, given the situation. From Fort Myer or Fort Belvoir I could understand. And training and doctrine? What the hell?”
Lessing gave a none-of-my-business grunt. He glanced over and saw that Wrench was missing nothing.
They encountered only one body: a woman in her fifties, a bottle of what looked like cough syrup beside her. The codeine in the stuff had not helped, judging by the agony on her face.
“Elevators,” the captain muttered. He withdrew a sheet of yellow paper from a belt pouch. Lessing edged over and saw that it contained a building plan and several rows of numerals: coded passwords.
The other put the document away. “Sorry. Security.”
“I understand. We going in, or do we wait for a backup?”
“No reason to wait. Major Golden, whoever the hell he is, can’t interfere with us. After all, we’ve got President Outram’s direct order to inspect and secure. The rest of our team’ll be here just as soon as we can get them together.”