"James Morrow - Towing Jehovah" - читать интересную книгу автора (Morrow James)

"Of course I think you're an impostor."
"Watch."
The angel plucked a feather from his left wing and tossed it into the
pool. To Anthony's astonishment, a familiar human face appeared beneath
the waters, rendered in the sort of ersatz depth he associated with 3-D
comic books.
"Your father is a great sailor," said the angel. "Were he not in
retirement, we might have chosen him over you."
Anthony shuddered. Yes, it was truly he, Christopher Van Horne, the
handsome, dashing master of the Amoco Caracas, the Exxon Fairbanks,
and a dozen other classic shipsтАФthe soaring brow, lofty cheekbones, frothy
mane of pearl gray hair. JOHN VAN HORNE, his birth certificate read,
though on turning twenty-one he'd changed his name in homage to his
spiritual mentor, Christopher Columbus.
"He's a great sailor," Anthony agreed. He chucked a pebble into the
pool, transforming his father's face into a series of concentric circles. Was
this a dream? A migraine aura? "Chosen him for what?"
"For the most important voyage in human history."
As the waters grew calm, a second face appeared: lean, tense, and
hawklike, perched atop the stiff white collar of a Roman Catholic priest.
"Father Thomas Ockham," the angel explained. "He works over in the
Bronx, Fordham University, teaching particle physics and avant-garde
cosmology."
"What does he have to do with me?"
"Our mutual Creator has passed away," said Raphael with a sigh
compounded of pain, exhaustion, and grief.
"What?"
"God died."
Anthony took an involuntary step backward. "That's crazy."
 "Died and fell into the sea." Raphael clamped his cold fingers around
the tattooed mermaid on Anthony's naked forearm and abruptly drew him
closer. "Listen carefully, Captain Van Horne. You're going to get your ship
back."




There was a ship, a supertanker four football fields long, pride of the
fleet owned and operated by Caribbean Petroleum Company, Anthony Van
Horne in command. It should have been a routine trip for the Carpco
Valpara├нso, a midnight milk run from Port Lavaca, spigot of the
Trans-Texas Pipeline, across the Gulf and northward to the oil-thirsty
cities of the coast. The tide was ripe, the sky was clear, and the harbor
pilot, Rodrigo Lopez, had just guided them through the Nueces Narrows
without a scratch.
"You won't hit any icebergs tonight," Lopez had joked, "but look out for
the drug runnersтАФthey navigate worse than Greeks." The pilot jabbed his
index finger toward a vague smear on the twelve-mile radar scope. "That
might be one now."
As Lopez climbed into his launch and set out for Port Lavaca, a