It was Sunday night and the end of a bad week. There were few good weeks in the Joshua Redemption Center, but this one had been particularly awful. Early in the week, a gray, polluted overcast had descended on the camp and the swampland that surrounded it, accentuating the ever-present atmosphere of depression and hopelessness. Midweek, there had been the punishment. The grapevine said that the two women prisoners were already dead when they had been brought to the infirmary. They had died while still secured to the whipping post, maybe even before the flogging had run its course. A full-blown, ceremonial punishment, whether a flogging or a hanging, always left a lasting impression not unlike a grim emotional hangover on both inmates and guards. The prisoners adopted a hunched, glassy-eyed shuffle as if weighted down by a heightened awareness of their own fragile mortality. The hope that they might one day leave Joshua, other than in a blue plastic bodybag, diminished until it was all but invisible. The guards went to the opposite extreme, becoming viciously buoyant. Trivial infractions of the rules that they normally blind-eyed were penalized with considerable relish. The bosses seemed dedicated to making the prisoners' lives even more miserable than they already were. Kicks and blows were freely given, and the abuse was nonstop during the waking hours and salted with constant references to the two women who had been publicly beaten to death.

Sunday had arrived with a certain measure of relief. The inmates had been marched to the compulsory three hours of remedial prayer and Bible study. Once that was over they were, by camp tradition, returned to their cell blocks and their own devices. Even heretics were permitted a God-given day of rest. But this Sunday, in keeping with the rest of the week, proved to be the exception to the general rule. A tour party of Young Crusaders and their parents had come through to look at sinners and observe their fate. It seemed a thoroughly sick way to spend the weekend, but the prisoners had no say over who came to inspect them. "In this hell, Dante comes in a tour bus with his whole damned family," 1346597 Ravel had muttered to Stone as they had been paraded for an extra two hours of special religious services staged for the visitors.

"Except this is no divine comedy."

"That's a fact. What do you think these kids did to qualify for such a treat?"

"Who the hell knows? Probably turned in their teacher to the deacons."

A boss was looking in their direction, and they quickly shut up. Ravel was a convicted porno dealer and comparatively new to Joshua. He was still a little too fond of taking chances for his own good. Sooner or later, they would break him in the bunker.

Even when the Young Crusaders had gone and the inmates were finally returned to their blocks, they still were not left alone. The TV monitor was blaring, relaying the Alien Proverb rally from Madison Square Garden. There was no way either to shut it off or even to turn down the volume. At first, the prisoners in D block sat sullenly on their bunks staring at the raucous TV, taking minimal consolation in the fact that they were sitting down and not being marched anywhere or harangued by the guards. After a while, though, they started to sit up and take notice. Something weird was happening on the screen. Proverb was completely deviating from tike normal routine of the TV preacher. He actually seemed to be issuing a direct challenge to the Faithful establishment, as good as calling the president and his people crooks and charlatans and promising a cleansing of the temple. And then the screen went blank. Someone had decided that Proverb needed to be censored. The only question was whether that censorship was confined to the camp, or if the plugs had been pulled on him all across the country.

After five minutes of silence and a blank screen, the TV flickered and a Danny & Crank cartoon appeared. Under the cover of the noisy audio, Ravel ventured the first comment.

"Looks to me like the Reverend Proverb might be joining us all in the quite near future."

Carlisle

Harry Carlisle positioned himself near one of the exits. If anyone had been intending to kill Proverb, he would have done it by now. The show was winding toward its grand finale. All he wanted to do was to get out of this madhouse as soon as possible. Proverb was going for broke, and Carlisle did not want to be around when things started getting broken. His cop's instinct told him that something bad was going to happen. Bad invariably put the PD right in the line of fire. He had no clear idea of how it was going to go down, but however and whenever, he intended to stay out from under. He had been detailed to stop an assassin. The assassin had failed to show, and when Proverb's act was through, Carlisle would be signing off. He wanted no part of what might come later. He would not put it past the deacons to be stupid enough to try to bust Proverb on the spot. He had heard that most of the deke brass were up in the VIP lounge. On a much more mundane level, he would also prefer to be long gone when the true believers came streaming out and hit the streets around the Garden, loaded to the gills on A-wave and audivid.

He had plenty to think about. When that phrase had come up, it had completely thrown him. "There will be a cleansing of the temple." First Dreisler, and then Alien Proverb. His cop's instinct would not swallow coincidence. It was a sign, a signal, a code. It was a secret, maybe even a conspiracy. It went even deeper. He was certain that, whatever it was, Dreisler was trying to pull him into it. That on its own scared the hell out of him.

Mansard

They were coming up to the reprise of Revelations 9 and the final set piece. It was getting to be hard going. Despite the double glazing in the control booth, he could feel that the juiced waves from the stage were getting to him. He was having trouble maintaining control of the second eyes. The bright electronic landscape wavered and slid. At the periphery, it was breaking down into hilly undulations. He was becoming very much aware of the close promixity of the big audio net. He was even having trouble focusing his physical eyes. It was like being drunk but with none of the relaxation. He was well aware that he had, at a number of points in the show, pushed the effects much closer to the limits than he had intended. As far as he was concerned, Proverb had gone recklessly hog wild in his use of the hypnotics. Mansard, protected by two layers of armored glass, was being seriously hindered by them. Out in the auditorium, the crowd had to be plain crazy.

"Precue Rev nine reprise."

Mansard pulled what remained of his senses together. It was the final haul.

"On precue. Fading to black."

He pulled the hellfire to his fingertips. The monster shapes were parked in the mid-distance of the second eyes' landscape. He was ready. And as soon as this was over, he could throw on the Horsemen program and let it rip.

"Last set is down. Cue on my mark."

Mansard tensed.

"Three… two… one… mark!"

Speedboat

The bloodred fire was creeping down the wall. Purple flames leapt up behind the dark figure of Proverb. They were back in a rerun of the opening horror show. The ghosts were starting to crowd the aisles, and the hologram monsters stalked the artificial gloom. The wraparound electronic choir filled the air with its voices.

"Come not Lucifer!"

"Come not Lucifer!"

"Come not Lucifer!"

The crowd was beyond nuts. Some danced, loose-limbed, heads lolling, eyes unfocused, apparently unaware of the light and sound effects that swirled around them. Others sagged back in their seats, staring openmouthed, awed into limp submission. Still more went to the opposite extreme and lost themselves in deep-seated hellfear. They moaned and screamed. They wrung their hands and clutched for religious charms and tokens. For them, the special effects had become horribly real. A knot of Elvi held up their blue globes as if they believed that some inner magic would keep the devil at bay.