“AAAaaaaaaah!” he remarks.
As he hits the ground (at which point, his troubles are definitively over) the flask is jolted out of his hand and flies wide, landing on a rock and smashing to pieces. A tiny, tiny seed, no bigger than a grain of salt, falls on to the flat stone — WHUMP! — which explodes into gravel as the third and finest achievement of Operation Urban Renewal springs into instantaneous life. Its roots plough through the compacted sand like a torpedo through water as the single grotesque pod, the like of which hasn’t been seen on earth since Hieronymus Bosch’s window-box was destroyed by the Inquisition, splits and falls away, revealing a flower — You have to call it a flower, because botany is a naïve, trusting science which never for one moment imagined that anything like this could happen. A terrible, hideous flower, with jowls and warts and fangs and a big, purple lolling tongue — which tilts backwards towards the sun, and spits.
This is Viola Aeschrotata, the Hammerhead Pansy; proof, if any were needed, that the business of Creation is best left to the professionals. With a ghastly sucking noise, it ups roots and lurches at a terrific pace towards the other two flowers — who stop dead in their tracks, waggle their stamens and stare. A few seconds before, they had been marching grimly towards each other, with the express intention of puffing each other’s leaves off. Now they exchange frightened glances, corolla to corolla. Jesus Christ, they are saying, what the fuck is that?
Pull yourself together, for crying out loud, empathises the Primrose. So long as we stick together, the two of us can have it for breakfast. What are you, a flower or a mouse?
But the Forget-Me-Not is backing away, its blossoms peeping out from behind its leaves. The hell with that, it broadcasts, have you seen the hairs on that thing? You want to be a hero, chum, be my guest. I’m—
With a lightning flurry of roots, the Pansy springs; and the Forget-Me-Not discovers, rather too late, just how incredibly quickly it can cover the ground on its enormous scaffolding of roots. There is a sickening plopping noise as, by sheer bulk, it crushes the Forget-Me-Not into the ground. The flower cranes on its stem and darts forward; the petals close; the carcase of the Forget-Me-Not shudders convulsively, and slumps.
In the balloon, the girl nods her head in unbounded satisfaction; and then, just to be on the safe side, has a good long pull on the hot-air burner.
For the Primrose, the desert is suddenly a very big, very open, very lonely place. The Pansy rises to the tips of its roots, swaying slightly; there is sap all round the bell of its flower.
OK.
There is an infinity of magnificently pointless bravado in the vibes thrown out by the Primrose, as it rocks back on its roots and crouches, in a floral version of the classic knife-fighter’s stance. Come on, weed, make my day.
No responding vibes from the Pansy; nothing at all. It emanates a vast negative aura, like a lawn-mower or a watering-canful of DDT. Every hair on the Primrose’s leaves is standing on end.
Look. We can talk about this. The world’s big enough for the two of us.
We’re on the same side, you and me. Wildflowers united can never be uprooted.
Ilfaut cultiver notrejardin.
But from the Pansy, nothing. And now it has begun to move; slowly, rootlet by rootlet, dragging up vast moraines of sand and dust as it comes…
Sod you, then, the Primrose snarls, as its leaves pucker in horror. Go climb a trellis.
Ten or twelve seconds later, when it’s all over, the Pansy swivels its flower and looks around, until it is satisfied that there’s nothing else alive within the range of its senses. That, as far as it is concerned, is how things ought to be. It ups roots and begins to crawl.
Five hours later, the girl in the balloon watches its dehydrated form wilt into a heap, thrash a last moribund tendril, and die. This, after all, is the Mojave Desert; even the roots of the Hammerhead Pansy can’t dig deep enough here to strike water. Deserts have this aggravating knack of always having the last word.
Sow a few of those little white seeds somewhere where there’s water, however — in the middle of New York, say, or Moscow or Paris or London, where water either runs in rivers through the middle or swooshes about a few feet under the surface in easy-to-find ceramic arteries — and it would be a very different story. The term “flower power” would take on a whole new nexus of unpleasant meanings.
The girl smiles. The ultimate Green Bomb was now a reality. (And with friends like her, does the earth really need any enemies?) As the balloon drifts on its lazy course back home, she reflects contentedly on the progress of Operation Urban Renewal…
…Our environment is in deadly peril. The relentless spread of urbanisation threatens to poison and smother every last wild flower and blade of grass on the surface of the planet. Every pollutant, every waste product, every man-made toxin in the world originates in the Cities. The Cities, therefore, have got to go.
Blasting them off the face of the earth by conventional means, however, would create as many problems as it solves. It has been calculated that a bomb powerful enough to take out, say, Lisbon, would generate enough toxic matter to poison eighty-seven per cent of the lichens and ribbon-form seaweeds in the Iberian peninsula.
How can we solve this dilemma, brothers and sisters of the Green Dawn? How can we cauterise the cancer of urban civilisation without killing the patient in the process?
We believe that we have found a way…
It was regrettable, the girl mused, that the prototypes of the other two flowers should have been destroyed; not just because it would have been useful to be able to observe their progress but because it’s always a tragedy, on general principles, when a living plant perishes. Would it be excessively animist and sentimental, she wondered, if she returned to the spot a little later and held some sort of brief, modest funeral?
No humans, by request.
The back bar of Saheed’s was heaving. It was Karaoke Night.
Genies are, when the chips are down, simple creatures, as refined as the effluent from the Torrey Canyon, but with a strong instinctive sense of rhythm. There is nothing they enjoy more, after six or eight gallons of chilled goat’s milk with rennet chasers, than grabbing a microphone in a crowded room and miming to Elvis singing Heartbreak Hotel. Since turning himself into a carbon copy of Elvis, correct down to the last detail of the DNA pattern, is child’s play to a genie, the effect can be confusing to an uninformed bystander.
If this be offence, Kiss was a hardened recidivist, and on ninety-nine Karaoke Nights out of a hundred you could earn good money betting that he’d be up there, informing the Universe at large that ever since his baby left him he’d found a new place to dwell, if he had to jump queues and break bones to do it. Not, however, tonight.
Instead, Kiss was huddled in a corner with a half-empty plastic jerrycan of Capricorn Old Pasteurised on the surface of which icicles were forming, and a guest.
Of all the bars, he was thinking, in all the world, why did she have to come into mine?
“That one over there,” Jane was saying, “looks exactly like Elvis Presley. Or was he a—”
Kiss shook his head. Although there was no house rule prohibiting mortals, no genie had ever, in the long and illustrious history of the establishment, brought his employer there. The only reason there wasn’t a rule against it was that in Saheed’s there are no rules whatsoever.
Jane, however, had wanted to come. More than that; she had Wished to come, and accordingly here they were.
The agony had started, as far as Kiss was concerned, when Jane walked up to the bar, grabbed the menu and without looking at it ordered a bacon sandwich.
The barman had stared at her. “A what?” he demanded incredulously.