"Look, intelligence comes from the upward evolution of matter. That means-"
"Yes, yes, matter first, mind later.
"All the science we have-"
"Assumes that the universe is not a self-observing, self-organizing system."
"Sure, because-"
"Of bias, pure and simple."
"No, it's ..." Markham's voice trailed off. You ... you've thrown every basic proposition into doubt. If mind comes first, and organizes matter now ..."
"Note that the universe didn't have to start this way. You can have your Big Bang or this new Inflationary Universe scenario I've been hearing about.
Cherish whatever beginning cosmology you desire." Russell beamed happily.
"Clutch it to your bosom. But in this catch-all Hell, you must at least admit the possibility that somewhere in the last ten or twenty billion years- that is still a good value taken from the Hubble constant, isn't it?"
Markham nodded silently, drinking.
"In those billions of years, somehow mind, came to the fore, at least in our little neck of the universe."
"And it moved upon the waters and made Heaven and Hell."
"Well, Hell at least. We have no evidence of Heaven.
Markham blinked. "You ... dunk this might be all.
"Why not?"
"But there must be something better ...
Markham saw sourly that Russell could easily be right. This place might be a mild improvement on me "real" world, since you couldn't die, but nobody had said anything about any place better now that he thought about it. The best anyone could envision was a return to the old world itself.
"In a way," Russell said dreamily, "this is a philosopher's paradise."
"I think I'd prefer the Moslem one, with houris and infinite banquets."
"No no, that would be hopelessly boring."
"I could sure as hell use a stiff drink, right now."
Russell waved away such base pursuits. "Actually, this place reminds me in a way of why I took up mathematics, I wanted something that was not human and had nothing particular to do with the messy Earth, or with the whole accidental nature of the universe. I wanted something like Spinoza's God, which wouldn't love w in return.
"Ha! Here everything hates us. Very personally, too."
"I prefer to believe that in this place Mind rules, not brute Matter."
"Gee, that makes me feel better already."
"Sarcasm?"
"Demons chasing us, horrible deaths every time you look around, you can't screw or eat or drink with any pleasure, or even sleep-"
"Well, admittedly there -are some sensory details missing."
"Details? You call-" Markham was on his feet, fists balled into hard knots, feeling the frustration in him about to explode-when something made him freeze. The silence...
It had reached the nearby trees now, a ghostly enveloping deadness that clasped the air in clammy cold. A fine mist seemed to hang suspended on a crystalline inert nullity.
"Run!"
Russell dashed away as quickly as Markham, his spry step belying the generally thin and delicate look of the man. His absurd three-piece suit flapped as he ran, his tie streaming behind.
They crashed through brush and thickets, oblivious to stinging scratches and painful poking limbs. And abruptly stumbled into a meadow, where a figure in white coasted along above the ground.
"What?" Markham gasped.
"It doesn't appear to be a demon."
"But he's flying."
At the sound of their Voices the figure swerved and glided toward them.
Alabaster blades of light streamed from his flowing robes. He held up a hand, palm forward, and called, "I beseech you, which way did you come?"
"Back there." Markham gestured. There s some land of dead zone."
"That would be a timetrap the Beast has sent for Russell said piercingly, "A trap in time?" He stepped forward and deftly felt the hem of the man's flowing robe where it rippled lightly in the air.
The floating figure Said airily, "A place where- temporarily, though that is not only a bad pun, but a positive confusion-all space-time vectors are very nearly wholly spacelike."
"In other words," Markham said, time slows.
The being nodded. 'Time becomes as syrup. One swims through it with only muted, mudlike motions.
"Are you a poet?" From Russell's intent expression Markham gathered that the philosopher either disliked the alliteration or else drought this hovering creature was somehow important.
"No," the man said simply, "I am an angel called Altos."
"In Hell?" Russell demanded.
"We labor where we must."
Altos had begun drifting downhill, away from the direction of the timetrap.
Markham trotted to keep up and felt in the wake of the angel a breath of warm, tropical air. He breathed in a scent of sweet wildflowers and a rich, spicy aroma of meat turning on an open spit.
His stomach rumbled. An avalanche of images smothered him in sensual longing.
Pink-nippled breasts. Prime rib, marbled with fat. Ivory thighs slowly spreading in silent invitation. Incense burning in shrouded rooms where cries of pleasure drifted. Milkshakes. The grunting squeezed pleasure of a good,
full shit. Crisp lettuce. The heavy smoke of a Cuban cigar. Lunging shudders between a pair of high-heeled shoes. Musky lamb curry. Dozing in golden sunlight halfway through a winter's morning. A lingering moist kiss in a darkened hallway. Ripe olives-He felt a stirring, a building of lust long denied. All his senses collided and he could barely gasp,
"Heaven! Is there a Heaven?"
Altos looked with mild, distant curiosity at the two running men, as if they were a bothersome detail. He was gaining speed and they had begun to pant as they dashed in his wake across the green meadow, wet grass slipping and squeaking under their shoes.
Why, I believe so. I am not a framer of definitions."
"But, look! You must have been there," Markham shouted as the figure picked up velocity and began to rise at a steady angle to clear the trees ahead. "Who gives you your orders?"
"Oh," the receeding voice called out blandly, "I do not receive orders. I respond to the will of the world." Altos rose into the perpetually troubled sky, his robes trailing a last faint aroma of distant pleasures, and waved langorously.
"What the Hell did that mean?" Markham gasped, stopping.
"Bloody angel is just as big a fool as we all," Russell said sardonically.
"Well, at least he doesn't have to walk."
They tumbled into the ditch together, spattered with grime and wheezing for air. It had been only an hour since the angel lofted free and clean and serenely into the air, leaving them to pick their way through brambles.
"I wonder if we could've grabbed his legs, hung on, gone to Heaven."
"If he's like most archbishops I've known, he would ve shaken us free."
Russell hugged himself, his suit now shredded and stained almost beyond recognition.
"Wish this rain would let up."
"It keeps down the visibility. That's the only reason we eluded those fellows with rifles."
"They looked like Guevara's."
"Ah yes, baby Bolshies on the march." Russell shook his head in wonderment.
"How they can think simply potshotting at demons will topple a being who has been at this business for a billion years or more-"
"How do you know how long this has been here?"
"I assume it predates all religions."
"Maybe it caused them?"
"Perhaps religion is simply an early idea which has been found wanting. This place may be a faded experiment."
"So we're abandoned here?"
"Or waiting for further examination by a busy, distracted God."
Markham found this idea disquieting. He took refuge in physics. "The idea of time may not mean much in a place where it can be slowed down."