Plague of Pythons quotes

Because of the crowd they held Chandler’s trial in the all-purpose room of the high school.

It smelled of leather and stale sweat. He walked up the three steps to the stage, with the bailiff’s hand on his elbow, and took his place at the defendant’s table.

The bruises along his rib cage and left arm, though, he did not remember getting. Obviously the police had been mad enough to keep right on subduing him after he was already unconscious.

Chandler did not blame them⁠—exactly. He supposed he would have done the same thing.

The judge was having a long mumble with the court stenographer apparently about something which had happened in the Union House the night before. Chandler knew Judge Ellithorp slightly. He did not expect to get a fair trial.

Bailiff! I want you to clear this courtroom of all children under—” he hesitated, calculating voting blocks in his head—“all children under the age of six. Dr. Palmer, are you there? Well, you better go ahead with the—prayer.”

The judge could not make himself say “the exorcism.”

“I’m sorry, madam,” he added to the mother of the crying two-year-old. “If you have someone to leave the child with, I’ll instruct the attendants to save your place for you.” She was also a voter.

Dr. Palmer was a Unitarian.

Exorcisms had not been in the curriculum at the seminary and he had been forced to invent his own.

Chandler’s lawyer tapped him on the shoulder. “Last chance to change your mind,” he said.

The faces were still aimed at him, every one. He could not read them at all any more, could not tell if they were friendly or hating, there were too many and they all had eyes.

The jurors sat on their funeral-parlor chairs like cadavers, embalmed and propped, the dead witnessing a wake for the living.

Only the forewoman in the funny hat showed signs of life, looking alertly at Chandler, at the judge, at the man next to her, around the auditorium. Maybe it was a good sign.

No one seemed capable of any action. Slowly the plump youth who had presided moved over to the hunter bound in the dentist’s chair and began to fumble blindly at the knots. Ellen Braisted dropped her head into her hands and began to shake.

The cruelty of the moment was that they had all tasted hope.

Chandler writhed wildly against his ropes, his mind racing out of control. The world had become a hell for everyone, but a bearable hell until the promise of a chance to end it gave them a full sight of what their lives had been.

Chandler sighed and turned away.

Pain was not a sure defense after all.

Evidently it was only an annoyance to the possessors … whoever, or whatever, they might be. As soon as they had become suspicious they had exerted themselves and destroyed the Orphalese. He listened and looked about, but no one else moved.

His body stood motionless for a second, the lips moving, the larynx mumbling to itself. He could almost hear words.

Chandler felt like a fly in amber, prisoned in his own brainbox.

He was not surprised when his legs moved to carry him back toward the destroyed building, now a fakir’s bed of white-hot coals with brush fires spattered around it. He thought he knew why.

Hsi held up his hand. “Don’t ask me how to keep out of that Monument bunch, Chandler. I don’t know.

Do what you’re told and don’t do anything you aren’t told to do; that is the whole of the law.

Now do me a favor and get out of here so I can pack up these other orders.” He turned his back on Chandler.

if there had been only one he would not have dared to take it, for fear of stranding Koitska or some other exec who might easily blot him out in annoyance. He did not wish to join the wretches at the Monument.

It was astonishing how readily fear had become a part of his life.

The trouble with this position he had somehow secured—one of the troubles—was that there was no union delegate to settle employee grievances. Like no transportation. Like no clear idea of working hours, or duties. Like no mention at all—of course—of wages.

She hesitated, smiled and said modestly, “We’re gods.”

It took Chandler’s breath away⁠—not because it was untrue, but because it had never occurred to him that gods were aware of their deity.

“We’re gods, love, with the privilege of electing mortals to the club. Don’t judge us by anything that has gone before. Don’t judge us by anything. We are a New Thing. We don’t have to conform to precedent because we upset all precedents.

Not only the deluded men and women in the garden were worshippers trapped in a vile religion, he thought. It was worse.

The gods and goddesses worshipped at their own divinity as well!

He looked out at the redheaded man, sprawled across the foul line behind third base, and remembered what he had said. There weren’t any good execs or bad execs.

There were only execs.

Something had exploded there and caught them all as they turned to flee. There was a woman’s face, grained like oak and eyeless, visible between the fender of a truck and a crushed-in wall.

Like exhumed Pompeii, the tragedy was so ancient that it aroused only wonder.

The whole town had been blotted out.

“Love,” she said, “there are worse things in the world than keeping me amused when I’m not busy. We’ll go to the beach again one day soon, I promise.” And she was gone again.

Chandler was a concubine⁠—not even that; he was a male geisha, convenient to play gin rummy with, or for company on the surfboards, or to make a drink.

He did not quite know what to make of himself. In bad times one hopes for survival. He had hoped; and now he had survival, perfumed and cushioned, but on what mad terms! Rosalie was a pretty girl, and a good-humored one. She was right.