The Big Over Easy

Prometheus looked over at her. “Of course not. But you have to look at the big picture. I’ve seen the alternative. Eternal slavery under the gods. Believe me, this is a bed of roses in comparison. Think of this: If it weren’t for greed, intolerance, hate, passion and murder, you would have no works of art, no great buildings, no medical science, no Mozart, no van Gogh, no Muppets and no Louis Armstrong. The civilization that devises the infrastructure to allow these wonderful things to be created is essentially a product of war—death and suffering—and commerce—deceit and inequality. Even your liberty to discuss the shortcomings of your own species has its foundations in blood and hardship.”

“That’s a depressing thought,” murmured Madeleine.

The Titan shrugged again. “Not really. You should look at your own achievements more. When I created mankind, everyone thought of you as slaves, packhorses to do the dirty work. No one thought you’d amount to much. I and my fellow Titans and a few of the more sporting gods had a sweep going on how far you would develop. Clothes were even money, domesticating animals at three to one, grouping into civilization within a thousand years at seven to one, language with irregular verbs at thirty to one and nuclear fusion within four thousand years a thousand-to-one outsider—I won a tidy little profit, I can tell you.”

Jack, always on the lookout for some misdemeanor, said, “But you gave mankind all that knowledge. Wouldn’t that make the contest unfair?”

Prometheus appeared crestfallen and said, “It was only a bit of fun,” then lapsed into silence, leaving them all trying to guess which was “only a bit of fun,” the betting or the bequest of knowledge.

“Anyway,” said Prometheus so sharply they all jumped, “the point is that you have exceeded all my expectations.”

They ate for a moment in silence, with Jack’s thoughts drifting to other things, such as the Guild, whether Chymes was done trying to poach the investigation and, more important, whether he should sleep on the landing outside Pandora’s bedroom. Pandora, still unconvinced by Prometheus’ fatalist stance, spoke again.

“Your viewpoint is depressingly callous. Are you saying that there’s nothing we can do to improve ourselves?”

“Of course there is. There’s lots you can do.”

“Such as…?”

“Try to be pleasant to one another, get plenty of fresh air, read a good book now and then, depose your government when it suspends the free press, try to use the mechanism of the state to adjudicate fairly, and employ diplomatic means wherever possible to avoid armed conflict.”

“But there will still be wars!”

“Of course. There will always be wars. It has been in your nature ever since—”

Prometheus broke off suddenly, put up a hand to quiet everyone and sniffed the air. “Do you smell burning?”

They all inhaled. Prometheus was right—there was a faint smell of burning hair, or, as it turned out, fur.

“The cat!” yelled Madeleine. Ripvan had fallen asleep too close to the fire and had started to singe. Jack ran into the living room and snatched him out of harm’s way, tossing the half-cooked mog from hand to hand like a hot potato. He placed her on a chair and fanned her with a magazine. Ripvan thought it was a game and purred loudly, completely unaware of the excitement she had caused. Jack left Ripvan on the chair, collected up the plates and stacked them by the sink. When he turned back, Pandora was sitting in his place—next to Prometheus.

“I think I was sit—”

“What about coffee?” said Madeleine. “We can have it in the living room.”

She got up, and they all followed her, except Jack, who filled the kettle, and Ben, who went back to reading Conspiracy Theorist.

Prometheus sat next to Pandora on the sofa and stared into the fire with a look of deep distraction and loss.

“You were saying…?” she prompted.

Prometheus sighed deeply. “It wasn’t important.”

But Pandora liked answers and didn’t want to let it go. “You said it has been in our nature ever since…?”

Prometheus looked up into her intelligent face, and his eyes glistened as a sad and distant memory surfaced in his consciousness.

“There was a woman once—Careful, Jack!” A second later there was a crash from the kitchen as Jack tripped over a stool. “I had put those parts of the human id that I thought undesirable into a large jar and sealed it tightly. I hoped to keep intolerance, sickness, insanity, vice and greed away from mankind. But”—he paused—“there was this woman who opened it against my wishes and let them out to taint the race I had created.”

“Pandora?” asked Pandora, who knew a bit about her erstwhile namesake.