"Bischoff, David - Night World" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bischoff David)

"Ignorance," Turner continued, his voice mounting in anger, "ignorance and stupid, irrational religion that's what's preventing Styx from becoming the world of greatness it was destined to be. If we can unite the provinces, perhaps we'll have a chance to battle the evil that holds this planet in thrall."

The words "religion" and "evil" caused Oliver to remember that he had promised himself to visit a minister. He felt obligated to defend his religion's views on Styx. "If we believe in God, Geoffrey, if we trust in Him, surely He will save us."

"Did God save you last night?"

"He brought you to me."

"Pah! If God is so concerned about his people, why doesn't he strike Satan down? Why must we all suffer in this beautiful, terrible, frustrating Hell?"

"But Styx is a testing ground," Oliver objected. "We won't survive in this existence. Whether we're destroyed by a Satanic creature or we die of old age, what's important is that our faith survives. For faith is the weapon that will defeat the legions of Hell."

Turner harrumphed mightily. "Did faith kill that werewolf last night? No. Science did. Technology. The product of knowledge, Oliver." He stabbed a forefinger westward. "Out there is the fallen ship, a product of the science that made this world, fellow. And in that spacecraft is our hope of ridding ourselves of the evil in this world, destroying the ignorance that darkens Styx just as much as Nightworld does. Here-you wanted to see the inside of my van. Well, let me tell you, much of its content was built ages ago. But I had enough knowledge to modify those old instruments into weapons and to use them effectively. They are products of a greater civilization, a peak in life that we can achieve again! Let's go down. I'll show them to you.

Maybe you'll think twice about this religious claptrap you've been mouthing so glibly."

He pivoted, then huffed and puffed excitedly down the winding stairway, trailing his cape and his indignation. Oliver had to hurry to catch up with the agitated man. Should he look inside the van? Perhaps he'd better have a talk with an elder, first, to prepare his spirit for what he might find there.

His curiosity got the better of his guilt. He followed the waddling man all the way to the stable where Turner's horses placidly munched Fernwold oats. Nearby his van was parked before a vacant stall. Grumbling, Turner flung open the back door, reached inside, and flipped a switch. The interior lit up. "There. How's that for starters?"

Oliver glanced around for a connection to the castle's power supply, but could see no electrical cord. Puzzled, he gazed up at the man.

"A very powerful battery," explained Turner. "Much bigger than the one I used to destroy that nightcreature last evening. Ever see anything like it?"

"No," conceded Oliver. He had not.

"That's just the beginning. Hop on in. Have a look."

After pulling himself up through the doorway. Turner held out a beefy hand to assist Oliver's entrance. Inside, Oliver's eyes opened wide with surprise. The interior was walled in metal. "I occasionally have to make a night of it here. Tempered steel, Oliver." He struck the shiny stuff with a knuckle. "Haven't found a nightcreature yet that can get through that!" Turner gestured toward the front of the van. "Scoot up there, lad. I want to show you something."

They skirted the rumpled cot and passed a panel filled with odd instruments and closed cabinets. Into the van Oliver noted a stronger version of the odor that clung about Geoffrey Turner's person: a combination of Cologne, alcohol, pipe tobacco and something indefinable. The atmosphere of the enclosure was one of shabby gentility. Directing Oliver to sit in a chair firmly welded to the metal floor. Turner pressed a button. There was a whir, a click. As Oliver sat in the cushioned seat, a black shutter buzzed open in front of him giving a broad view, through thick glass, of what lay before the van. "What's this for?" he asked, patting the spoked wheel before him.

"You'll note that there are numerous pedals and buttons placed about you. Controls. The wheel is one of the controls."

"Controls? For what?"

"If need be, this van can drive itself. Its battery is linked to a complicated drive unit. Should I lose my horses or find it necessary to have more speed, I simply drive the van by its own power. I don't like to do this, rather, I do it as seldom as possible. It makes people think I'm some sort of magician, and among primitives advanced science is usually mistaken for a manifestation of evil. But when I must travel some distance between duchies, when I know I'll have to travel by night or stop for rest at night, I abandon my horses, sell them at some community, you know, and strike out on my own. Quite a bit of power in one of these batteries. Which reminds me . . ." He tapped a dial-face with a fingernail. "I really should hook an extension to Fernwold's power supply. Not that I'm terribly low I just don't like to chance not being able to get more elsewhere for a while. Think your sire will mind? Oliver, are you listening to me?"

But Oliver was quite lost in his thoughts on the implications of a horseless carriage. "You mean you just get inside, and drive this thing without horses?"

"That's what I said, didn't I?"

"Yes, of course, but . . ."

Turner clapped a hand on the youth's shoulder. "A bit astonishing, what? You'll see more astonishing things, let me tell you. They're all applications of science and technology, Oliver. Faith doesn't run this thing.

Religion doesn't supply the power. It's a combination of mechanics and electricity, pure and simple. Much simpler than the level of technological sophistication obviously owned by Satan. But here, let me show you more." The fat man tugged Oliver, reluctant to leave the driver's chair, back toward the rear. "Here is the device I used to short circuit the werewolf-android," said Turner, tapping the weapon, racked on a wall. He showed Oliver larger versions for dealing with larger monsters. In addition, there were bombs and gases, acids and other corrosives. Turner demonstrated spring-loaded, steel-tipped wooden stakes that drove into the mechanical hearts of vampires. The push of a button would trigger enough explosive in the tip to blow their innards into so much slag and protoplasm.

Smiling at the impression he was making on the youth. Turner opened a wood-stained cabinet. "Here, Oliver. I've a gift for you. I do like you, and I only give these to people I care a great deal for." Inside the cabinet, perched on the top shelf, lay a pile of ten thick metal boxes about nine inches long, six wide. Turner reached up and slipped one out. "You know what this is?" he asked, leaning his chin somberly on his chest, scrunching up his dewlaps. He rapped the box slowly with a fingernail.