Forge of god

393 Pages·2014·5.049 MB·English

by  Bear, Greg

EBOOKS BY GREG BEAR
Available from Open Road Media
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FIND US ON
THE FORGE
OF GOD

THE FORGE
OF GOD
GREG BEAR
NEW YORK
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any
portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or
hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
Th is is a work of fi ction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product
of the author’s imagination or are used fi ctitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1987 by Greg Bear
ISBN 978-1-4804-4464-5
Th is edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
For Alan Brennert,
who gave me hell on TV

INTROIT: KYRIE ELEISON
June 26, 1996
Arthur Gordon stood in the darkness by the bank of the Rogue
River, having walked a dozen yards away from his house and family
and guests, momentarily weary of company. He stood six feet two
inches in height, losing no more than an inch to a slight stoop. His
hair was a dusty brown color, his eyebrows a lighter shade of the
same. He had a well-proportioned frame and a sufficient amount
of muscle, but he lacked any trace of fat; his muscles showed clearly
beneath the skin, giving him an appearance of thinness.
The same leanness added intensity and, falsely, a hint of villainy
to his face. When he smiled, it seemed he might be thinking
something unpleasant or planning mischief. But when he spoke or
laughed, that impression was quickly dispelled. His voice was rich
and even and calm. He was and always had been—even in his year
and a half in Washington, D.C.—the gentlest of men.
The clothes Arthur Gordon owned tended to the professorial.
His favorite outfit was an old brown pair of corduroy pants—he
wore them now—a matching jacket, and a blue checked long-
sleeved shirt. His shoes were few and sturdy, running shoes for
wear around the house, and for work solid brown or black leather
wing tips.
His only ostentation was a wide rectangular belt buckle showing
a turquoise Saturn and silver stars set in rosewood above brass and
maple mountains. He had done little actual astronomy for five
years, but he kept that job-description close to his heart and quick
to his lips, still thinking it the noblest of professions.
Kneeling in the starshadow of ash and maple, he dug his fingers
into the rich, black leaf-crusted cake of humus. Closing his eyes,