The Forge of God
Contents
INTROIT: KYRIE ELEISON
QUID SOM, MISER! TUNC DICTCIRCIS?
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
GUARENS ME, SEDISTI LASSOS
Chapter 8
OFFERTORIUM
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
AGNUS DEI
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
LACRIMOSA DIES ILLA!
Chapter 61
HOSTIAS ET PRECES TIBI, LAODIS OFFERIMUS
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
DIES IRAE
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
AGNUS DEI
Acknowledgments
The Forge of God
Greg Bear
Copyright © 1987 by Greg Bear
Published by E-Reads. All rights reserved.
www.ereads.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, he sniffed the water and the tealike tang of rotting leaves and the clean soapy scent of moist dirt. To be alone was to reappraise. To be alone and know that he could go back, could return at any moment to Francine and their son, Marty, was an ecstasy he could hardly encompass.