superman, a subtle blend of artists, whores, and highway robbers? There was a sort of wonderful logic to it. Take anything to its logical conclusion and you’re likely to end up with the grotesque and the absurd.
I realised I knew the answer. Man is not something to be overcome. Man is something to be kept firmly in its place.
* * *
“I know what you’re up to,” I said.
He was sitting at his desk in that ghastly shack, looking at the view. It was one of the good days. The mist had cleared and the sun was out, bathing the mountains in pale gold; you could almost believe that his men had been out there early, scraping off all the turf. The usual biting easterly wind had dropped, and from that angle you couldn’t see the hideous scars of the open-cast mines. Too beautiful to be blown up, I decided. Worth saving.
He put down the book he’d been reading; Amphitryon of Scona on the properties of materials. “Do you really?”
“Yes. And you can’t do it.”
He frowned. “You’re not supposed to tell me what I can and can’t do. It’s in the contract.”
“Damn the contract.”
He seemed to find that mildly amusing. “Go on, then,” he said. “What am I up to?”
I took a deep breath. “You’re going to raise an immortal army, besiege Heaven, and threaten to blow up the Earth.” He didn’t react. I went on; “It’s useless, of course. You can’t win.”
“Neither can you.”
Maybe some tiny part of me had still been hoping I’d been wrong. If so, it died. “Anything you destroy we can rebuild. In the blink of an eye.”
He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “If you’ve a mind to.”
I had nothing more to say, so I glared at him. He said, “There’s a legend about how your lot got so fed up with the iniquities of the world that they sent a great flood. The idea was to kill off everything and start again. In fact, you changed your mind and killed off nearly everything. Of course, it’s only a legend, though I find myself asking, was that the flood that trapped the giant lizards in the sandstone cliffs? Anyway, that’s beside the point. Would you rebuild it, if I blew it up? You don’t know. You can’t be sure. And you love the world. You love the human race, and its art and its literature. Considerably more, I guess, than I do.” He smiled at me. “And it’s your call.”
“Of course it’s not,” I said. (And I thought, so that’s what lying feels like. Overrated.) “Do you really think they’d leave the future of your species in my hands? But I am authorised to offer you a deal.”
Just for a split second—a split second in my timescale, so a very short time indeed—I thought I saw something in his eyes; the faintest reflection of a vast, unfathomable smugness. But it passed, and he said, “I don’t want a deal. I’ve already got one, thank you very much. I’ve got a contract.”
I nodded. “Of course,” I said. “A contract which you know you can cheat on. A contract which depends on your death, which we both know will never happen, once you’ve drunk that horrible potion.”
He raised one finger in tacit acknowledgement. I could’ve hit him.
“I know exactly what you’ve got in mind,” I said. “Immortal armies, laying siege to Heaven, threatening to blow up the world unless we abdicate and go away.” For a moment words failed me. “I thought better of you than that,” I said.
He frowned, almost as though what I’d said had had some effect on him. Wishful thinking on my part, I’m sure. “I don’t see that I have much choice,” he said. “It’s godhead or hellfire.”
“Then you shouldn’t have signed the contract in the first place.”
He paused before replying. “My life passed me by so fast,” he said. “And I realised, I’d spent it all lying and cheating, and nothing to show for it. All that talent, wasted. Really, the only person I’d cheated was myself. It was a gamble, sure. But I had nothing to lose. That’s being mortal for you. I
I realised I knew the answer. Man is not something to be overcome. Man is something to be kept firmly in its place.
* * *
“I know what you’re up to,” I said.
He was sitting at his desk in that ghastly shack, looking at the view. It was one of the good days. The mist had cleared and the sun was out, bathing the mountains in pale gold; you could almost believe that his men had been out there early, scraping off all the turf. The usual biting easterly wind had dropped, and from that angle you couldn’t see the hideous scars of the open-cast mines. Too beautiful to be blown up, I decided. Worth saving.
He put down the book he’d been reading; Amphitryon of Scona on the properties of materials. “Do you really?”
“Yes. And you can’t do it.”
He frowned. “You’re not supposed to tell me what I can and can’t do. It’s in the contract.”
“Damn the contract.”
He seemed to find that mildly amusing. “Go on, then,” he said. “What am I up to?”
I took a deep breath. “You’re going to raise an immortal army, besiege Heaven, and threaten to blow up the Earth.” He didn’t react. I went on; “It’s useless, of course. You can’t win.”
“Neither can you.”
Maybe some tiny part of me had still been hoping I’d been wrong. If so, it died. “Anything you destroy we can rebuild. In the blink of an eye.”
He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “If you’ve a mind to.”
I had nothing more to say, so I glared at him. He said, “There’s a legend about how your lot got so fed up with the iniquities of the world that they sent a great flood. The idea was to kill off everything and start again. In fact, you changed your mind and killed off nearly everything. Of course, it’s only a legend, though I find myself asking, was that the flood that trapped the giant lizards in the sandstone cliffs? Anyway, that’s beside the point. Would you rebuild it, if I blew it up? You don’t know. You can’t be sure. And you love the world. You love the human race, and its art and its literature. Considerably more, I guess, than I do.” He smiled at me. “And it’s your call.”
“Of course it’s not,” I said. (And I thought, so that’s what lying feels like. Overrated.) “Do you really think they’d leave the future of your species in my hands? But I am authorised to offer you a deal.”
Just for a split second—a split second in my timescale, so a very short time indeed—I thought I saw something in his eyes; the faintest reflection of a vast, unfathomable smugness. But it passed, and he said, “I don’t want a deal. I’ve already got one, thank you very much. I’ve got a contract.”
I nodded. “Of course,” I said. “A contract which you know you can cheat on. A contract which depends on your death, which we both know will never happen, once you’ve drunk that horrible potion.”
He raised one finger in tacit acknowledgement. I could’ve hit him.
“I know exactly what you’ve got in mind,” I said. “Immortal armies, laying siege to Heaven, threatening to blow up the world unless we abdicate and go away.” For a moment words failed me. “I thought better of you than that,” I said.
He frowned, almost as though what I’d said had had some effect on him. Wishful thinking on my part, I’m sure. “I don’t see that I have much choice,” he said. “It’s godhead or hellfire.”
“Then you shouldn’t have signed the contract in the first place.”
He paused before replying. “My life passed me by so fast,” he said. “And I realised, I’d spent it all lying and cheating, and nothing to show for it. All that talent, wasted. Really, the only person I’d cheated was myself. It was a gamble, sure. But I had nothing to lose. That’s being mortal for you. I
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