A river of people formally and informally attired under matched and mismatched Winter coats, flowed down a snow-cleared pathway into the Friendship Unitarian Church. Vince Costello flowed with it, feeling oddly out of place among so many black and white people. He had never been black, and he didn’t normally think of himself as white anymore than a Chinese-American would. He saw himself as an Italian-American. He saw no one in the crowd who looked like he or she might be a Costello.

Inside the church, if one could call it that with its Southern Baptist architecture but its absence of religious symbols, a mixed choir of black and white people in gold, silk robes sang "Rock of Ages." A black organist played the music. Vince followed the slow-moving procession down the center aisle to the open casket flanked by an old, black funeral director and a young black assistant. The Stars and Stripes draping the closed lower half of the casket was turned back like a bedspread.

In the pulpit stood Hector Clay in a dark green, Softglow business suit, occasionally picking individuals out of the crowd with his eyes and giving them a nod and a smile. Vince returned the nod and the smile he received, pleasantly surprised that the buck sergeant he barely knew in South America, would remember him, a second lieutenant in command of a different platoon. Looking at the doctor of theology and philosophy known to every opponent of the Party in North America as a towering intellectual hero, Vince felt a twinge of something ugly. He was not prepared to call it jealousy. He thanked God that the unnamed feeling passed quickly and prayed that it wouldn’t return.

Having reached the end of the aisle, Vince was forced, against his will, to look down at the thing in the oblong box before him which had once housed a man called Aaron McPhail. It looked like Aaron, but it also looked like a wax dummy—an exquisitely rendered facsimile of the real thing, but a facsimile non-the-less. The one good thing about it was the fact that it bore no resemblance to what Vince had imagined an electrocution victim’s body would look like. There wasn’t a burn mark on it.

Vince turned away from the casket to the teary-eyed daughter, stoic son-in-law and frightened-looking grandson. He said a few stock words of sympathy to all three, and moved on before his resentment toward Ken and Barbara for not contacting him made its way to the surface. Now was not the time for recriminations. Now was the time for everyone to honor the memory of a man who mattered.

Vince had no choice but to notice that the forty or fifty people occupying the front pews reserved for the family spanned the entire African-American color scale from the lightest shades of brown to the darkest. Few of them wore expensive, Softglow suits like his, which set the McPhail family, the Campbell family and the attending family members of Aaron’s late wife apart from the majority of mourners. Moreover, as near as Vince could tell, the dark-skinned exceptions to the Softglow rule invariably had blue or green eyes. He would have wagered his immortal soul that all of them spoke as white as he did if not whiter.

The visible correlation between class and race was so close that Vince didn’t see how anyone could ignore it. A marketing research service he subscribed to called, the National Demographic Survey Report had already shown him as much with the best graphics anyone could hope to see in a T-window. Seeing it in a live setting gave it a different feel since there were so few venues in which the races of all classes could mingle with equal access on equal terms.

Filing into the space between the pews near the entrance of the church, the Nordic-looking man in front of Vince turned his head enough for Vince to see that he had pail blue eyes. Vince wondered whether the man had been born with them. According to the NDSR, Brown-eyed black to blue-eyed blond was, by far, the most popular conversion choice for former Negroes. It was so popular that some naturally blue-eyed blondes were beginning to use hazel Iris Dye and chestnut hair color to avoid suspicion of having once been Negroes. But, as the natural blond-to-chestnut trend accelerated, the Negro race change preference of blue-eyed blond shifted proportionately to hazel-eyed chestnut.

When the line stopped moving, Vince turned and faced the pulpit with the others. Had the white, female in her early teens now on his right been anything other than a chestnut brunette, his thoughts might have taken a different turn. Peering past her to the older woman and man with the same identifying characteristics, he could not see the other white mourners without asking himself the question only bigots were supposed to ask: Which of these people used to be Negroes?

He looked from one white face to another asking himself the same question until he glimpsed one in the line moving past him toward the coffin that he knew. His hair was rat brown with streaks of gray, his eyes dark brown, and his inexpensive clothes a dark, sickly green. His stooped posture and deeply lined face, no longer in view, gave him the look of a man much older than his 37 years. It’s Cousins! thought Vince. Good soldier. Damn good soldier. I wondered what happened to him.

A uniformed African-American Army officer with barely enough hair for sideburns on his shiny, dark brown head, walked on the other side of the stooped man. Vince caught only a glimpse of his profile, but enough of a glimpse to see that it could have been only one person. Vince had known him almost 20 years before as Lieutenant Banks. The young lieutenant had predicted that he’d have four stars by now. Vince would have been impressed with one. He was very impressed with three.

The music changed to "Nearer My God to Thee."

It was too late to get the attention of Banks or Cousins, but seeing them prompted Vince to look back toward the door for more of the old Bravo Rangers from out of town. A minute or so into his search, he thought he saw one behind a tall, weeping black woman in a man’s dress coat. Craning his neck slightly, he got a good look at a handsome yellow face much younger in appearance than Vince knew that it had to be. Maybe the face is new, he thought with a smile, but the guy who’s wearin’ it sure as hell ain’t. Yu always was a vain son-of-a-bitch.

The man Vince identified as Yu jerked his head toward Vince as though Vince’s eyes had been sparks in the dark. Yu flashed a toothy grin and winked, whereupon Vince turned to see if he could pick up Cousins and Banks. He couldn’t. Turning back to Yu, his face radiant with child-like joy, he jabbed his thumb repeatedly in their direction—toward the cold, stiff remains of Aaron McPhail.

Vince’s enthusiastic gesture drew the incredulous attention of everyone with a line of sight to him. All gawked. Some frowned. Others gritted their teeth. A buzz of chatter beneath the swell of organ and choir music began to spread. More heads turned toward Vince who looked past six of them to Yu, who was now on line with him as he shuffled forward.

Even in his dark red, Softglow suit in place of Army dress blues with two sleeves full of stripes and a chest full of medals, he looked the part of the "Top Soldier" he’d been 20 years before. The confusion on his face took nothing away from his air of supreme confidence born of exceptional competence and accomplishments. He lifted his palms with splayed fingers and mouthed the word, "What?"

By then, he’d gone too far forward to continue the hand signal miscommunication instigated by his old platoon leader. Only when Yu disappeared in front of the standing mourners and the last five or six people walking behind him did Vince catch the look on the face of the man next to him and see the reason for it. His happy smile went away. He jerked his head farther to the left, then to the right, seeing the same low impression of him in face after face.

He wanted to pull his head through the neck of his shirt like a turtle retreating into his shell. My God! he thought ruefully. They thought I was pointing at Aaron!

Vince felt every bit as low as all the disapproving eyes on him said he was. He shook his head, knowing that he would never be able to explain to some of these people what had happened since they thought they had seen it with their own eyes. The few who kept staring at him after the others stopped, probably fell into that category. The girl on his right was undoubtedly one of them.

The only person in the building who could appreciate the humor in the situation was Hector Clay, who could hardly laugh about it. From his elevated vantage point and his familiarity with the people involved, he’d been able to discern what had happened and why the truth would have appeared so different to everyone else. It’s that way with everything, he thought. You can never tell what the truth is unless you’re in a position to see all of it. But knowing whether you’re in that position or not is another question.

The truth, in Hector's case, was simply that he was dying to sit down. His clumsy fall that morning on the snow-covered sidewalk in front of his house had seemed so trivial at the time that he’d underestimated his need for extended pain control. It hadn’t bothered him during the show he’d recorded with Leah Flores and Andrea Urlan shortly thereafter for the evening broadcast. Perhaps his emotional pain and his anger toward Jack Fleetwood for what had happened to both Aaron and Blue had blunted the physical pain. Now, without the anger, he was feeling it.

The host of God could see the man he knew as Lieutenant Costello trying to will himself to disappear as Banks and Cousins moved within arm’s reach of the flag-draped body box below him. He’d spotted the company’s highest ranking noncom before Costello had and he’d been just as happy to see him regardless of the occasion.

Yu, now looking up from the coffin saw Banks and Cousins heading up the far aisle and instantly put together what Costello had been trying to tell him. A few seconds later, Cousins spied Costello. His glum face burst into a smile. He elbowed Banks and pointed with his chin. The bald, thick-lipped, general had dark brown eyes which combined with his other features to give him the look of a high-ranking military man stars or no stars. His smile would not have looked like a smile at all to anyone who didn’t know him.

Vince Costello wasn’t about to point to Yu with the girl on his right still eyeing him as if he were a funeral crasher who should be shown the door.

He intended to do no more than mouth the words, "Yu is here," but enough sound came out for the girl to hear every word. She tugged his sleeve, making no attempt to hide the fact that she was fed-up with his boorish antics. Vince looked down at her.

The girl whispered, "Can’t you even talk like a civilized person. You’re supposed to say, ‘You are here.'"

She was, in her way, telling him not to mock the dead man by affecting the speech of lower class black people. Vince didn’t get it at first. When the message caught up with him, it made him too angry to restrain himself.

He leaned over and whispered in the girl’s ear, "Douglas Yu is a guy I knew it the Army. You, my child, are a dumb-shit."

Hector Clay didn’t know what Costello said to the young woman next to him to put so much red in her face. Whatever it was, he had no doubt that she’d asked for it. From the little Hector had seen of the former Army officer, and the unanimous opinion of those who knew him well, he was like the Army itself; hard but fair. On the other hand, he might have changed on the inside as much as Cousins had on the outside. A lot of things could happen to a guy in 20 years.

The organist, doubling as the choir master, bought the music to an end at the same time the last man in the procession stood before the last pew. Hector motioned for the mourners to be seated. He led them in the Lord’s Prayer, his voice rolling like distant thunder. His voice was the kind that was heard in the public arena once every 50 or 60 years; deep, melodic, mesmerizing. It was a voice that could be soothing, seductive or intimidating as the message required.

"...Amen," said Hector.

"Amen," repeated the mourners.

Hector looked down at the grief-stricken white family of the black man in the box. He saw Barbara, closest to the body, quake with emotional pain no less severe than the physical pain in his knee. He saw her husband trying bravely to be a comfort to her and their son with a loving arm around Barbara’s shoulder and a big, steady hand in Sam’s small, shaky one. Hector gave them all the most tinder of tinder expressions, which seemed to give them all more strength.

He then pulled a computerized 3x5 card from his breast pocket and read, "The family wishes to thank everyone for the many beautiful flowers, for the cards, the telegrams, the e-mail, and for all the kind words of sympathy." Even those caned words carried with them an arresting air of authority.

He paused for a long time, making eye contact with so many people that everyone felt touched by him. That was a good thing for a man, fighting pain and stalling for time. Hector Clay was not an ordained minister. He had never before spoken in front of a live audience much larger than the five member production team of "God." He was terrified.

"Our soloist," he said, "Mrs. Aquida Washington, will now sing the first verse of "His Eye is on the Sparrow."

All but one of the choir members sat down. Left standing in their midst was a squat, tan-skinned, middle aged woman with a dark mustache, gaudy jewelry, too much make-up, and too high a pile of yellow hair on top of her head. She stood proud and aloof.

The organist struck a cord in C sharp.

Aquida Washington inhaled slowly as if she were sucking the music out of the air. She spared no expansion or contraction of muscles in her face to achieve the optimum pose from which to begin. She closed her sapphire blue eyes. Her body tensed like a world-class sprinter at the starting line of a big race, then relaxed as the first soprano notes poured sweet and clear from her mouth.... "Why should I feel discouraged..."

Holy shit! thought Hector Clay, amazed that any human voice was capable of producing such a beautiful and moving sound. That woman can sing!

Three bars into the song, scores of men, women and children who’d stifled their tears began to break down. Barbara Campbell was, appropriately, the first to loose her composure altogether, shouting, "Daddy, Daddy, I love you!" as she slipped from her husband’s grasp and fell to the floor on her knees with arms thrust straight over hear head and hands folded into tight fists. "Daddy, Daddy!"

Little Sam, on the verge of panic, tried to go to his mother but his father held him back, letting the nurses converge on his mother. The woman next to Sam, who looked enough like Aaron to have been his twin sister, fainted. Other women shouted and fell in the aisle or over the people in front of them. Men wept and demonstrated as much as their idea of what men could do would let them.

The church nurses in their white uniforms rushed about like firefighters, going where needed to douse one emotional blaze only to have two more break out somewhere else.

It seemed to Hector that things were getting out of hand. One glance at Aquida Washington, told him beyond question that she was doing all in her considerable power to keep things rolling that way. The last time Hector saw a woman’s face twisted into such grotesque shapes was when he and Vivian Foski, were riding the climax of the best sex of their lives. If Aquida Washington wasn’t experiencing something similar to that, there was no such thing as being able to see when anyone was having a really good time.

"...For his eye is on the sparrow..."

The nurses seemed to be the only people in no danger of being washed away in the floodgates of emotion released by the magnificent singing performance of Aquida Washington. The more frantic things became, the more the nurses were needed. The more they were needed the more special they were. They more special they were, the more special they must have felt.

That’s how Hector saw it.

Oh yea, he thought, those sisters are having a great time. They’ll remember their hour of glory for the rest of their days. None of this crap is about the Captain. It’s about these folks in uniform wanting to be admired.

A moment of anger passed quickly for Hector as he brought his hands to his chest and lowered them on cue, according to the script he was given by the Campbells. That was when the funeral director and his assistant slowly lowered the lid on the casket and Aquida Washington took her performance to a higher level. "...And I know He watches...me-e-e-e-e...."

Aquida Washington milked the final note for all of the juicy evidence of her superior worth that she could wring out of it before the lid came all the way down. Before Aquida Washington was finished, Ken Campbell was practically wrestling with Barbara to keep her away from the coffin. The woman next to Sam, now fully revived, took the boy in her arms and nearly squeezed the life out of him. There was wailing everywhere. When the lid on Aaron McPhail’s coffin closed all the way, there was one name the people would remember; Aquida Washington.

Aquida Washington took her seat. The ear canals of 600 people rang with the exquisite after-tone of her voice. Only the solemnity of the occasion kept most people who hadn’t been completely overcome, from applauding wildly. It didn’t stop them from turning to their neighbors and exchanging excited words of praise for the woman’s extraordinary performance.

Hector Clay didn’t let the buzz of the crowd or the sights and sounds of people convulsing in the aisles distract him from his duty to keep things moving—so he could sit down sooner. Vince Costello was proud of him.

Although the singing of that scary-looking woman had squeezed its share of tears out of Vince, he knew how it had happened and why as well as Clay did. It was one thing for people to perform as well as they could out of love, respect or duty. It was another thing for one to perform for the greater glory of one’s self. What Vince had been witness to was one of the other things. The sooner forgotten, the better—as if that were possible.

Having arrived too late to receive one of the paper programs, Vince pulled an electronic notepad from his shirt pocket and unfolded the lid all the way back. On the top was a T-window. On the bottom was a miniature key pad and spike control with which he was able to tap into the order of service data base for Aaron’s funeral. He found the place after the solo by—Aquida Washington, and saw something he’d never seen before; a message from the deceased.

"That," said Hector Clay, pointing down at the closed casket being covered completely by the flag, "is not Aaron McPhail. It’s the body that used to be his."

Hector’s eyes strayed to his wristband for a fraction of a second, drawn there by a green flash of light in the window.

"We’re not here to talk about bodies" He said. We’re here to sum up as best we can the life that was his and to take from that what we can to make more of what’s left of our lives."

Hector paused, not for dramatic effect, but to think through what he wanted to say next. The effect on the people, however, was indeed dramatic. One could almost see a mass shift of focus from the superficial and the ceremonial to the fundamental issue at hand. The people who had come to put the final punctuation marks on Aaron McPhail’s existence were not only feeling his loss, but sharing it and giving it some real thought.

Hector looked to Barbara and Ken. "You knew him as Dad."

He shifted his eyes to Sam. "To you, he was Granddad."

To the woman next to Sam and the man next to her, he said, "He was your brother."

To the woman next to the man and all of the people in the next four rows, he said, "Aaron McPhail was your nephew, your uncle, your cousin." To everyone else he said, "He was our friend, our teacher, our comrade in arms, our leader. He was a man of importance to all of us. And now that we’re all together..."

The host of God turned and walked, with an awkward gate, five steps from the pulpit to his seat between two white-haired men in cleric’s collars. One man was black, the other white. Hector wondered, as he had the first time he saw the pair, how hard this church worked at maintaining racial symmetry.

He sat down, keeping his left leg as straight as possible until he was seated. The pain relief was immediate.

A wall-sized telewindow lit up between the choir and the men seated next to Hector Clay. In the window was a 3-D, stop-action close-up of a 20-year-old Aaron McPhail in the full flush of life. His was the face of a young man in total charge of a perilous situation. The program’s simulated camera zoomed back to show him in motion as a yellow-shirted cowboy with one arm in the air bursting out of a wooden gate on the back of a snorting, bucking, spinning Brahma Bull. The white patch of cloth pined to the back of his shirt was flipped up too high to read number.

With the movement came the sound of a cheering stadium crowd. The bull rider’s spurs glinted in the sun. His leather chaps and the unattached bottom of the numbered cloth on his back flapped with the jarring ups and downs of his ride. His white Stetson hat stayed stubbornly in place on his head.

The real-time action slipped gradually to slow-motion while the simulated camera panned back to show more of the ballpark-sized arena.

At the farthest point from the action, a pale horse leaped through a white hole in space with a skeleton riding bareback and galloped full tilt toward the man on the bull. Unlike the creatures of flesh and blood, the skeleton and his horse cast no shadow, nor did the horse’s hoofs quite touch the ground. Clearly, the laws governing matter and motion in this world did not apply to them.

As the pale rider closed the distance between himself and the cowboy, the window frames switched back and forth from close-ups of an ever aging Aaron McPhail to long shots of the skeleton rider. Everyone could see the inevitable conclusion of this rodeo event. No matter how good or how lucky the cowboy was, he couldn’t stay on the bull forever. Sooner or later, the pale rider would catch up with him and he’d have to dismount.

Sooner, rather than later, the animated bleached bones on the white horse did catch up with the bull rider who had aged 30 years. A long, bony arm reached out and pulled the cowboy from the back of the beast.

The voice of Aaron McPhail said, "My ride is over. I hope it was a good one."

As he spoke, the skeleton on horseback carried his body back into the hole in space from which it had emerged. Now, only the voice of Aaron McPhail remained.

"I hope," said the voice from a great void which filled the T-window, "that I set a good example and left behind something of value."

This was Ken Campbell’s first exposure to a funeral service in which the deceased was the main speaker. Ken hugged his wife and son, feeling the loss of his father-in-law more acutely than ever. Now that he was gone, it was easy to see what a remarkable man he’d been. Why had it been so hard to see when he was alive? Why hadn’t Ken even begun to think that the man had anything special going for him until the day of his death? What a shame. What a waste. Perhaps some of that waste would be made up for here, in his surprising last words.

Ken and Barbara had asked Hector Clay to be the main speaker at Aaron’s funeral. In a way, Hector was complying with their request—with the help of a computer program called Janus and the ELF-maker who was with Aaron in a VRS when he died. It was, after all, Hector Clay who was making the statement in the sense that it had been his idea to create the ELF of Aaron McPhail and to let Janus create the program. Ken didn’t know about that. For his own protection, he couldn’t be told, because their was no telling what Janus would do within the scope of simulating what Aaron would do if he could speak from the grave. Based on Hector’s knowledge of Janus and his experience with an ELF of himself created by Vivian, he had good reason to believe that his old company commander would have approved.

Everyone who knew Hector well agreed that Vivian’s ELF had captured not only his physical attributes, but his character. What Vivian had been able to do with her base of knowledge to recreate the persona of Hector Clay, Janus could do infinitely better to recreate the persona of Aaron McPhail. Janus had a base of knowledge equal to the sum of all that could be known and reasonably inferred from every observable event on Earth since the dawn of man.

Ordinarily, Hector would have felt obliged to identify the ELectronic Facsimile for what it was irrespective of the use to which it was being put. This time was different. The staff of God was spearheading a war of perception in which many brown-eyed people had suffered and died in the death camps called New Economic Zones. Whether it was Aaron McPhail or an ELF speaking in his place, the world was going to learn the secret that was keeping New Economic Zones in business. That was all he knew of what was to come. It was all he cared to know.

In the telewindow a brown, wrinkled, new-born infant appeared against a backdrop of nothingness. "Every seven years," said the Aaron ELF, "we die." As he spoke, the baby grew into a child, wearing different clothes to match the new roles he’d learned to play. The picture froze on a 7-year-old boy in a cowboy outfit complete with a toy six-shooter and a rubber hunting knife. "We are no longer what we were. Not a single sell we were born with continues to exist. We take what we can from our former selves. We find new toys to play with. We become someone else."

Another 7 years sped by in brief flashes that showed the growing boy in action as a horseman, a baseball player, a boy scout, a martial arts student, a swimmer, a slight-of hand practitioner and a dear hunter. "We find along the way that we have certain talents we hope will prove useful." The 14-year-old hunter flipped his steel knife in the air, forward, then backward. He caught it safely by the blade and hurled it with great force and impressive form toward an unseen target.

In another 7 years the boy had become a real, all-around cowboy, a martial arts champion, a college student, a weight-lifter, a computer jockey, a Reserve Officer Training Corps cadet and a second lieutenant in the United States Army. "At some point, we have to take responsibility for who and what we are. We have to care about other people and do what we know is right."

The second lieutenant turned into a bridegroom, the bridegroom became a hand-to-hand combat instructor. The instructor became a father. At the end of the next 7 years stood a U.S. Army Ranger in dress blues with the silver bars of a captain on his shoulders. He wore the red, white and blue "AA" patch of the "All American" 82^nd Airborne Division and enough badges and decorations to speak highly of his standing in the Army.

The Campbells watched with mounting discomfort, as the U.S. Army captain became a civilian graduate of a Canadian university. Discomfort bordered on dread when the university graduate became a time track engineer and the time track engineer became a widower with a beautiful, coffee-colored daughter to raise on his own.

The way things were shaping up, it was going to be tough to get to the last years of Aaron McPhail’s life without having to deal with the issue of race. Whether he said anything about it or not, the mere fact that his daughter had chosen to be white and to arrange that her child be born white required an explanation.

As if by some magic of thought transference from the living to the dead, the entire character of the T-window presentation changed. The spotlight was now on Aaron McPhail’s association with the Friendship Unitarian Church and his unauthorized work with time tracks of the Holy Land.

"If I had to sum up in three words the most important thing I learned during my stay on earth I would have to say this: God is truth. When I say ‘God,’ I don’t mean the telewindow show which can and does, in my opinion, only seek the truth. I mean God, the Creator and the ruler of all creation."

From one end of the church to the other, ears perked up and eyes strained ahead in rapt attention. Everyone knew that something big was coming, not because the new object nearly filling the telewindow was Earth, but because a time track engineer beyond the reach of the law was presenting it.

"You have all been given the impression that the great religious questions of the ages were unanswerable by science. That is not entirely true."

The program’s simulated camera zoomed in on the slowly revolving globe until the great land and sea masses were clearly distinguishable. It positioned itself in geosynchronous orbit over the Middle-East.

"We can’t tell you whether Abraham, the common ancestor of Jews, Christians and Moslems, really had conversations with God. We can tell you whether or not he was a real person. If he was, we can show you what he looked like. We can tell you when and where he lived and died and let you see and hear for yourselves anything that can be captured by a Temporal Observation Manipulator and transferred to flashback tape."

The frame filled with more and more details of Earth until mountains, deserts and a large body of water southeast of the Mediterranean sea filled the window.

"We can answer the same kinds of questions about Moses, Jesus and Mohammed. In the past, so-called ‘technical difficulties’ have prevented you from seeing what these men looked like and hearing what they had to say. You have been led to believe that a higher power was at work. As a time track engineer well acquainted with the politics of my profession in addition to the technology, I know better. I can assure you that such power rises no higher than the executive board rooms of the Tanaka building in Hamilton, Ontario and the Condor Tower in Aspen, Colorado."

Now, the eye of Aaron’s camera was below the clouds and zeroing in on a mountain.

"Time scans are complicated, expensive and full of surprises. They involve hundreds of specialists and 5 multi-billion-dollar TOM or FRED satellites owned by Condor Inc., Tanaka Inc., or one of three sovereign states. None of these governments or corporations is likely to authorize an open-ended search for the truth. They have too much political and economic capital invested in the status quo to take the risk."

The camera had moved close enough to the mountain to see that there was a figure in a tan robe standing on a plateau with arms stretched to the heavens.

"In the days to come, God will be showing you all the time tracks you need to learn the truth about the dominate religions of the Western world."

Now the camera was close enough to show that the tan-robed figure was a dark-skinned man with a shaggy black beard, long, black, woolly hair and a large, hooked nose. Though his face would have made a great, stereotypical ELF for the role of a late 20^th century Arab terrorist, he could have been a Gypsy or a Jew—or, perhaps, an Ethiopian or an Egyptian. In the brief time the camera stayed on his entire face, it was hard to tell. With no explanation as to who the man on the mountain was, the camera zoomed in on his eyes.