Dead Pan and Joe Progress
Andrew Starling
Available free at www.foxglove.co.uk




Chapter 1

Buddha calls me an ecowarrior, but then he has a dark sense of humour. Warrior implies action. I'm more of an ecowhiner, sitting on my hairy backside complaining about injuries to my habit but doing little about them. I make noises about the avocados with a walnut in their centre rather than a stone, though to be fair they taste very nice. And I grumble about the trout that jump from the river into any skillet placed in front of them, despite their convenience.
        Only in our battle with the woodcutters have I managed some action, and even that was merely organisational. I pointed out to the woodnymphs that they are beautiful, highly-sexual creatures and the woodcutters are strapping young men, and it shouldn't be too hard to send them home each day with big smiles and no timber. The woodnymphs have a strong incentive as they can't exist without trees.
        Right now I'm lying in my favourite clearing with the gorgeous woodnymph Echo reclining on my left, and Buddha on my right, in the lotus position as always. A few yards in front of us a stream crosses the open space, springing up at one side and disappearing mysteriously at the other. Although there's barely any gradient it runs fast and uneven, gurgling from end to end as the perfect stream should do. The insects are respectful too, never pestering us, just hovering above the grass like mist above a rain-soaked road. Even the breeze is selective, it blows cool across my brow like a caress, yet leaves Buddha's brow alone, as he has no need of it. Staying motionless for hours at a time, as he likes to do, can give the impression that he's furniture of a kind, and far from disliking this he feels that if he can give that impression then he's successfully removed the dualism between himself and his surroundings and has truly accomplished something. Personally I think this is a delusion too far, but we are good friends so I don't mention it.
        I'm feeling peckish. I turn on my side and within arm's reach a brazil nut scurries across the grass, but I'm not a fan of the ones with legs even though they come off easily. I spot the purple lantern of a fritillary growing out of the grass. Delicious, and very few calories.
        "I wish you wouldn't do that," says Buddha, evenly. His voice is rich and knowledgeable but always has a curious edge, some indefinable weirdness that steers it clear of bland. It's a voice that anybody can listen to for an hour, mesmerised and curious at the same time, always on the cusp of recognising where the weirdness comes from, but never quite getting there, and trapped by the imminent arrival.
        "Do what?"
        "Eat flowers. It's very… uncivilized."
        How does he do this? I swear his eyes were closed.
        "I didn't eat it!"
        "Then where is it now?"
        This is a question I can't answer. Instead I watch Echo as she snoozes peacefully. Really I should be careering through the forest on her trail, with her screeching and yelping ahead of me until I catch up with her and throw her to the ground and screw her to the point of exhaustion, as tradition demands. But this is a lazy afternoon and it would be rude to wake her. And to be honest I'm not as hot on the chase as I used to be, and the exhaustion is usually mine rather than hers, and often arrives before we've made a start on the screwing, which is not ideal. But then I am three and a half thousand years old. Echo refuses to accept my age as an excuse and says my problem is I'm too stressed-out trying to avoid Joe Progress, which is so far off the mark I won't even talk about it. But otherwise she's very accommodating and often takes a tumble on a tree root just a few minutes into the chase, which helps, as long as my ego doesn't fall with her.
        It wasn't long after I got the woodnymphs organised – and very effective it's been too – that I first heard Joe Progress wanted to see me. The lumberjacks are his and many of his building projects have been slowed by the shortage of lumber. The weird avocados and chocolate pomegranates and eager trout are his too, developed in his Workshop of All Invention and carelessly released into my favourite forest, and any reasonable god would surely have thought 'win some, lose some' and let the timber issue ride, but no, Joe Progress is president of heaven and thinks everything should go his way. 
        This is what I assume. I don't know for sure because I haven't taken up his invitation. Joe Progress may be keen to see me but I don't particularly want to see him. I've never been good with authority figures. Anyway, I doubt that he wants to pat me on the back and buy me a margarita.
        Avoiding him is getting increasingly difficult. I can't spend five minutes in a public place without some god sidling up and whispering "The Great God Progress wants to see you," like they're his closest confidant and the holder of privileged information. Brown-nosers. His true confidants, his agents, are also searching for me. Five days ago I was standing in the audience for St George and the Dragon, one of heaven's minor attractions, and a car pulled up on the opposite side of the plaza. There are relatively few cars in heaven and almost all of them belong to Joe Progress and his crew, so I was immediately on the defensive. Out popped his chief henchman and henchwoman, Mammon and Mercedes. I'd scuttled away even before they managed to close the doors.
        At least here in the forest I can let my guard down, especially when I'm with good friends. In my daydreaming mind I'm chasing Echo at this moment, and my eyes begin to close, my legs and hoofs start to twitch. In my dreams I often chase her for miles, until the dreams turn philosophical and inside them I begin to wonder if I'm more interested in running than in sex. But this time, for no reason I can fathom, suddenly I'm wide awake, and so is Echo.
        "What happened?" I ask.
        Buddha hasn't moved but his eyes are wide open. "Darkness," he says, enigmatically.
        I look around, though I don't know what I'm looking for. Then I spot Buddha's mystery darkness on the other side of the brook, moving quickly. It's a shadow, and way above it, just below the treetops, is the pig that's creating it, a flying pig gliding just inside the treeline, forcing us to crick our necks as we follow the circles of its descent. Its wings are bigger than a condor's and resemble those of a bat, with long and clearly visible fingers in the pink web of skin. It never flaps them, and to be frank it looks ill at ease with them, ungainly, too aware that they're large and the clearing is small.
        Finally it comes so close to the ground that it must land, but clearly it's no expert at this and as it turns for a diagonal approach a wing tip hits the ground. A kaleidoscope of pig and wings tumbles towards us, raising pollen and scraps of vegetation and finally water until it comes to rest on its backside in the stream, almost sitting upright, just leaning back slightly against the bank, front trotters out like a begging dog, one ear folded back, the other covering an eye.
        Instinctively I've finished up on top of Echo, shielding her body with mine.
        She grins up at me lewdly. "Thank you."
        But I've paid the price. One of the pig's wings hit me squarely across the shoulder.
        Buddha hasn't flinched or moved, and predictably the cascading pig missed him entirely.
        I roll on to my side and rub my shoulder. A cashew nut with a flipper tail hops across my vision and I reach out and pulverize it with my fist, which isn't polite but does give me some relief.
         "That's it," I tell the world in general. "That's the final straw. I've had enough of this unnatural nature - chocolate pomegranates, brazil nuts with legs, pigs with wings but no flying skills. I'm going to put a stop to all this nonsense."
        "Bugger," says the pig. "Crappy landing. You can talk to me direct, you know. I don't live in a wheelchair."
        We have unusual things here in heaven, but until now we've not had talking pigs. The fact that the pig can talk doesn't improve my mood. It's yet one more example of unnatural nature.
        "An apology would be nice," I suggest.
        "I'm very sorry, I didn't ask to have wings."
        "That's not much of an apology."
        "Pan!" says Buddha, with authority. He's one of a handful of gods who can say this and have any effect. I respect him too much to ignore him. He's telling me that despite my injury I'm being too aggressive, and he's right. I try to calm down a little. The fact that the pig can talk does have one clear advantage.
        "Where do you come from?" I ask the pig, in a gentler tone.
        "The Workshop of All Invention. I'm supposed to be flying back there right now."
        And there's the confirmation. One more piece of nonsense from the workshop of Joe Progress.
        "And why are you flying there?" asks Buddha.
        "Annual migration," answers the pig, without hesitation.
        "Isn't that a bit strange, migrating to a laboratory?"
        "Yes, I suppose it is, now you come to mention it. But it's my first time. I hadn't thought about it much."
        "Have you met other pigs who've migrated and come back?"
        "Er, no, I can't say I have."
        Buddha clears his throat noisily. "I don't wish to worry you unduly, but you've probably noticed that many of the forest fruits now have legs, the brazil nuts and mangoes and so on. I have to tell you they're all mobile for one purpose – self-harvesting."
        The pig's pink face slowly pales.  "You don't mean? Oh me. Oh my. That's dreadful. That's unthinkable. I thought I'd been fattening myself up for a long flight."
        "Unlikely. You can walk from anywhere in heaven to anywhere else in less than half an hour."
        While the pig mutters to itself, I turn to Buddha and wag a forefinger. "I tell you, I've had enough of this. Joe Progress has made a big mistake this time. I'm going to clear this woodland of all these abominations, you mark my words."
        "Don't forget that you're a lazy bastard," says Buddha, helpfully.
        "Yes, I know I am. But the key to being a lazy bastard is having somewhere nice to laze. If I don't put a stop to all this, our gorgeous stretch of woodland will be overrun by flying farmyard animals and mobile fruits with disturbing flavours, if there's any woodland left to be overrun. I can't live my life without forest to run through and glades to dance in. If I have to fight to protect that, then so be it."
        Buddha doesn't look convinced, but that's his approach to life in general, so not much of an indicator. 
        "And what about the poor woodnymphs?" I add. I should have mentioned this earlier, of course, so it didn't sound like an afterthought, but Echo smiles anyway.
        "I'm not sure I like being called an abomination," says the pig, on reflection. "Do you want to eradicate me too?"
        In my experience this is always the tricky part of any grand plan, the compromises brought about by emotion. My shoulder is recovering, the pig looks cute with its ears going this way and that, and the poor thing has been pre-programmed to fly to its death. Also Buddha and Echo are looking at me with big eyes. 
        "Well," I answer, "we have to be reasonable about this. Maybe it would be nice to have one or two er… reminders of the er… items in question. You know, just rooting around the forest looking for acorns and things."
        Smiles all round. I've said the right thing.
        "Om, there's one other item you might like to think about," Buddha tells me. "The small detail of power and ability to do battle – the fact that you're a wandering maverick with a set of pipes and Joe Progress is the elected president of heaven, the most powerful position anybody can hold."   
        Yes, this had occurred to me too. 
        "And politics," continues Buddha, in his same flat tone. "You'll be getting involved with politics and politicians, and you know what they say – don't fight with pigs: you both get covered in shit and the pig enjoys it."
        "Steady on," says the pig.
        "Sorry. It's just an expression."
        "Yes, but that's how stereotypes are formed, isn't it? We're actually very clean animals, one of the few beasts with complete control over our bowels."
        Buddha, Echo and I can't help it. In unison we look above our heads to see if there are any more flying pigs. There aren't.
        "But in this uneven battle I can count on my friends, right?" I ask Buddha.
        "Of course. If any meditation or chanting is called for, I'll be right with you."
        Very comforting. But I'm going to fight my battle anyway, though I haven't a clue where to start. Chasing nymphs and dancing and drinking for thousands of years hasn't given me a great knowledge of politics.
        "Hey," says Buddha, raising a forefinger. Clearly he's excited by something. "The next election is less than a month away, with Joe Progress standing for re-election. That's perfect timing. Leaders are always nervous in the run-up to an election. You could put your weight behind the opposition, maybe extract a few concessions from Progress, even if he goes on to win."
        This is exactly what I wanted to hear. I know that Joe Progress is far too powerful for me to challenge outright, but the idea of pressuring him into some kind of deal sounds perfect.
        "So who's he up against?" I ask.
        "Doctor Longlife. That's the only serious rival for Progress."
        "The Doc? Are you sure?" 
        I've met the Doc a couple of times and I can't imagine him as presidential material. He's plump and jolly with rosy cheeks that remind me of Uncle Bacchus. His thin balding hair is swept back straight against his skull and ends in rows of tiny hooks at the rear, like some kind of seed-pod burr. He wears a tweed jacket and cotton drill shirt with a plain tie. A stethoscope always peeks out from his side pocket. He's a most peculiar god, bumbling and distracted, surely not a strong contender for any kind of election. But when I think about it a little longer I realise that everybody in heaven likes him. He's self-deprecating and always happy. Nobody ever has a bad word to say about the Doc.
        "That sounds great. Thanks, Buddha."
        "Oh yes," says Buddha. "Doctor Longlife is the answer."
        "And how do these elections work? How do we vote? I don't think I've ever been asked to vote."
        The question causes Buddha some difficulty. Finally he says, "You won't like it."
        "Try me."
        "It's to do with the other world."
        Hmm. I try to be tolerant towards believers in the other world. As long as their faith doesn't affect me then it's none of my business. But I refuse to have my life influenced by this ancient myth when I don't believe in it myself.
        "You mean – you haven't a clue how the elections work."
        This is the way with believers. The other world is their way of rationalising the inexplicable. But I'm disappointed to hear it from Buddha.
        "No. I know how they work. There are billions of people in the other world. They vote with their beliefs. The post of president of heaven goes to the god who best represents the collective faith of the majority."
        "Oh, come on. Don't give me this nonsense. You're talking about the human world, and it's just a myth, something we invented to make ourselves feel more secure, to give ourselves a purpose in life. Full of mythical beings who worship us, so we can feel wanted and useful. There's no evidence that it really exists."
        Buddha takes time formulating his reply, knowing I'm unlikely to digest more nonsense. "We've never really talked about this before, because I know we have different views, but if you're going to fight Progress, you'll need to understand where his power-base comes from. The other world is very real. It's kind of similar to heaven but a lot more crowded, with more buildings and less predictable weather and millions of cars. They've got massive machines that can fly, and even hover, or go beneath the sea, and machines that can do incredible calculations, and others they watch for entertainment."
        "You've really built up a detailed fantasy here. Maybe you ought to ease off the meditation for a while. Have you any idea how ridiculous this sounds?"
        "And no woodnymphs."
        "No woodnymphs!"
        He has me there. I repeat this to myself a couple of times, then I realise how a fine touch of negative detail can help a mythical place sound more real.
        "I'm not fooled for a moment. It's still a myth."
        "The other world also accounts for which gods exist in heaven, and which gods… disappear. Your feeling of age, your lack of breath, these are consequences of how you're perceived in the other world."
        "Complete and utter crap!" I'm not pleased by the personal direction this is taking. My ageing, my lack of fitness, these are down to… to something else, something I don't yet understand, but not some mythical contrivance.
        "The other-worlders are great fans of Progress, which is why he won the last election. But they're keen on Doctor Longlife too. They don't live very long – seventy or eighty years – and they're obsessed with living longer. It's never clear whether they're more obsessed with progress and moving the whole species along or with living longer individual lives. I think Joe only made it by a whisker last time."
        For a moment there I thought we were getting somewhere. I can see why the Doc would be a popular candidate in heaven, but I can't assess his potential in a world that doesn't exist.
        "Buddha, listen, it's great to hear about the presidential elections and the candidates, but it doesn't help when you bring your personal faith into the discussion. Now can we please drop this other world thing? "
        "How am I going to tell you how to get there if you don't even believe the place exists?"
        "Well, obviously you can't, can you?"
        "No." 
        We are both agitated. It's not as if I'm asking him to change his beliefs, I just don't want to hear about them. There's no way forward with this discussion and we're both wise enough to stop it.
        I lie on the grass regaining my composure, and for some time I can hear Buddha doing his breathing exercises to calm himself down, until the sound stops.
        "Good grief!" yells the pig. "He's disappeared! He was there one moment and now he's gone."
        "Who's disappeared?"
        "Buddha."
        Panic over. I relax again. "Yes, he does that."
        "What do you mean, he does that?"
        "It's some aspect of extreme meditation, I think, or non-dualism, I can't remember which. He becomes so much at one with this surroundings that… no, I can't remember. Anyway, he disappears."
        "Well, I've seen some things in my time," says the flying pig, "but a disappearing Buddha. That really takes the biscuit."
        Echo hasn't moved. Both of us are used to Buddha's strange comings and goings, though I guess his disappearing act must seem strange when seen for the first time. I try to remember the explanation, but it won't come to me. And the more I think about it the more odd it seems to me too. How have I got used to somebody disappearing? Little by little, over time, through disappearance at a distance, then closer, more frequently. The same gradual erosion of reality that's happened with the cross-species fruits of the forest, leading to the flying pig, and whatever follows it.
        I'm off the grass and on my feet. "I'm going to see Joe Progress, right now."
        Echo looks up at me with admiring eyes. It's the same look she uses when I say something brave but foolhardy that ultimately I regret. 
        "I'm going to confront him and get all this cross-species nonsense stopped," I tell her. "I'll explain to him that unless he does what I say I'm going to support Doctor Longlife in the elections, however they work. Let's see what he says to that." 
        Echo and I hug, which is very pleasant and makes me realise how much I love the woodnymphs, Echo in particular, but all the others too. There's nothing wrong with collective love, especially if like me you're partly herd animal.
        "Are you going to disappear too?" asks the pig.
        "Kind of. But not suddenly. Just a gradual fading into the distance type of thing."
        "Oh." He sounds disappointed.
        When I've walked fifty metres down the track that leads out of the clearing I jump sideways behind some bushes, hoping that does the trick. It would be a shame to let him down.   




Chapter 2

As Buddha mentioned to the pig, it's possible to walk from anywhere in heaven to anywhere else in half an hour. All you have to do is think of who you want to see and start walking – in any direction. It's a personality-based system. You can be sure who you'll finish up with, but you can't be sure where. 
        After twenty minutes of passing through indeterminate woodland my path descends into a shallow valley and I groan as I realise I'm approaching the smouldering wreckage of Valhalla, where presumably Joe Progress must be. I am the guilty party revisiting the scene of a crime. Maybe I should come back later when he's at a less embarrassing location. But no, I'm in the mood for confrontation, and that's the kind of mood that can't wait.
        Joe Progress stands by the edge of the ruins wearing a suit and tie. On his head is a bright yellow hard hat, and the small amount of hair it leaves uncovered looks freshly trimmed. His girlfriend, Mercedes, the god of Private Motor Transport, stands next to him, overdressed in a white halter-neck number and matching strappy white sandals, cigarette in hand. In theory she's very attractive, but it's a beauty lost on me. I see a veneer of make-up and a perpetual chain-smoker. Give me a natural woodnymph any day.
        Joe Progress spies my approach and gives her the gangster's nod. Before she makes way for business she gives him a brief kiss of the body-contact kind, establishing partnership matters for the audience, which is me, I suppose.
        "Take a look at this place," Progress tells me, waving his hand across the debris. "It had a roof made of shields, with spears for rafters. How safe was that when the ceiling came down? Not very safe at all. First a rain of spears, then a rain of shields, not the ideal sequence. Had they never heard of building regulations?"
        "I don't think there was anybody inside when it came down." I would prefer to be somewhere else, but now I'm in this position I'll be honest. 
        "And that's not all," he says. "This was a huge building with five hundred and forty doors, and not one of them was suitable for disabled access." His movements are graceful and he has the habit of pausing before he speaks, to check the words he is about to publish are absolutely the correct ones, all things considered. He shakes his head and hands me a yellow hard hat to wear, then whistles under his breath. "We found two hundred empty mead barrels, four hundred vodka bottles, and eighty-nine bodies with sword wounds. Some party this must have been."
        He's not wrong. I can remember the singing, the dancing, the sex, and the drinking, vodka and mead, vodka and mead, and the call to arms and rushing out of the great hall, eight abreast through each massive door, but the rest of the night is only now beginning to return.  
        The morning after was one of the worst I've known. It was mid-afternoon before the internal refrain of 'never again' changed to 'not for a while' as it always does, eventually. And two days before I stopped smelling of woodsmoke. The great hall of Valhalla, once the most magnificent building in heaven, is reduced to ashes. All the great shields and banners, the hundred-foot tables sliced from single trees, the coats of arms, animal trophies, all gone. A few massive timbers continue to smoulder, still not quite burned through, even though Ragnarok had to be at least two weeks ago. Workmen move through the ruins with fire extinguishers. Others tune arc lamps on tall pylons to light up the devastation, as afternoon is turning into evening and the light is beginning to fade. In the background, a dozen generators hum.
        "You did a fine job," says Progress, and he seems genuine. "This is prime development land, yet we could never have got permission to knock down Valhalla. Look at it now. A day with the bulldozers and there won't be a trace remaining. Did you enjoy the party, Pan?"
        "The bits I remember, yes."
        Progress sketches out a vision with precise movements of his hands. "This flat area over here will be the parking lot, with space for over two thousand cars. And there in the centre we're going to build the largest shopping mall that heaven has ever seen, ten storeys high, with magnificent escalators, brass banisters, a clear roof bringing sunlight down to a garden café on the ground floor. Believe me, you won't have seen anything like it."
        Valhalla was my favourite building in the whole of heaven, so large and airy it hardly felt like you were indoors. I don't like buildings, generally, but this was an exception. Just the roof of shields and the spears that supported it were enough to entertain a drunk leaning back on his chair for an hour or more. And now it's about to be replaced by a shopping mall. I don't even know what a shopping mall is, and yet it's only through slow contemplation that I realise this. Progress is a charmer. He has none of the airs and graces that might belong to a president, and certainly belonged to my grandfather Zeus when he held the post thousands of years ago. I've not been criticised or commanded, I've been given a yellow hard hat to signify my membership of this club to which I don't belong. I've neglected my own values. In short, I've been charmed.
        I try to put on my token yellow hat but it doesn't have space for my horns. It sits on top of them at the front and I imagine it has the comical look of a partly open lid. As we move down into the ruins, I catch workmen turning away to hide their amusement. 
        Progress kicks over the timbers with his shiny black shoes. The red charcoal immediately bursts into flame. "You know what the biggest disaster is? All this valuable wood gone to waste. We have a desperate shortage of building timber. If they'd asked me, I'd have knocked the whole thing down and rebuilt it in concrete, no charge, just in exchange for the wood."
        Mercedes has joined Mammon at the edge of the destruction, and from there they watch us impassively. Progress is instantly likeable. I'm supposed to be set against him, but in his company it's difficult for me to remember that. Mammon, on the other hand, is a mean brute of a god, intense, powerful, far bigger than Hector. His suit is smarter than the one Progress wears – it's a statement of superiority. Also he's balding and has grown his hair long at the back in a ponytail, so the amount of hair is the same as it would be for a non-balding non-ponytail god, simply the distribution is different. I'm not sure if this philosophy works worse with a ponytail or a beard. And finally the ponytail is ginger. Need I say more? 
        "Do you think Valhalla could ever have looked the same in concrete?" I ask Progress, which is hardly an aggressive question but at least makes me feel I'm being argumentative. "Surely it would have lost its character?"
        "Oh no, we'd have put in polystyrene wooden beam facings, plastic shields and spear shapes in the roof space, nobody would have noticed the difference. Imagine a modern building with sealed windows and doors to get rid of all those nasty draughts, and lovely bone-dry air conditioning. Much better. With nylon carpets and metal banisters we could have had a real laugh with the static. And I was thinking about some of those fancy solar toadstools for the paths outside, you know, the ones that collect sunlight in the day and shine at night, so the drunks could find their way home. Maybe have a little strip of them leading into the well…"
        I'm about to protest that he must be joking, and then I realise this might be a foolish thing to say. I look at him closely. His skin is the freshly tanned image of health, and I suspect it looks that way every day. It looks too good, objectionably good. I suppose he's good-looking in a freshly-trimmed plastic kind of way. I begin to wonder if I admire him in some unaccountable fashion.  
        Maybe he works this out.
        "You couldn’t help with the shortage of wood, could you?" he asks, as one friend to another. "I've been trying to track you down for weeks to ask you this. Every day we send the lumberjacks out to the forest, and every evening they come back with big smiles and no timber. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"
        This is my second opportunity to put across my own point of view, and I grasp it. "I imagine that's the woodnymphs defending themselves. When you destroy woodland you're killing them, literally forcing them out of existence. Have you ever thought about that?"
        I say this gently, considering how I feel about it. The response takes me by surprise.
        "Oh, come on. Don't give me that nonsense. Woodnymphs are mythical beings, they don't really exist. We can hardly stop what we're doing for the sake of some flight of the imagination, can we?"
        "You've never seen a woodnymph?"
        "Of course not."
        "Ever been inside a wood?" 
        "Why would I want to? I prefer buildings and cars."
        "Let me take your there, introduce you to the woodnymphs. They're lovely. Come and meet Echo and her friends. You'll like them."
        "How can you introduce me to something that's mythical, to something that doesn't exist? That's ridiculous."
        I have no clue where to take this conversation. No wonder Progress is unable to find a solution to the empty-handed lumberjacks. But then he's hardly likely to make the best decisions about woodland management either. Maybe I should be pleased to find that my opponent has such a clear weakness, but I'm not.
        The heat is uncomfortable. I'm beginning to sweat, but Joe Progress shows no sign of perspiration. He's still kicking through the hot ashes with his smart shoes. From time to time he glances at my hooves, which might be more suitable for the job, but I'm not inclined to help. Of the shields that once formed the roof, nothing recognisable remains, the wood has burned and most of the metal has melted, just the occasional spearhead survives. Most are average in size, but now Progress unearths a massive metal head, around a foot and a half long, a reminder that the heroes of Valhalla were destined to do battle with giants, and that Ragnarok was supposed to be that final battle, not a debauched party.
        "Do you remember the days when Ragnarok was a weekly attraction?" he asks, while his feet toy with the hot spearhead. His smart shoes are ruined. He doesn't care.
        "Yes, I do."
        "All those giants. They were mean bastards, weren't they? I'm not sad to see the back of them."
        He has a point. The giants were thoroughly unpleasant and nobody misses them, with the possible exception of Odin and Thor, who saw the writing on the wall. If there are no giants, there is no need for the heroes who do battle with them.
        Progress half reads my mind. "End of an era," he says. "Things move on."
        "And how much did you help them move on?"
        "I supported the party, supplied the vodka, and the complementary matches. Glad you enjoyed it."
        It's not clear to me why he's so keen to have a good relationship with me, which he seems intent upon, but I've been careful not to reject the idea, because I have my own plans.
        "Listen, Joe, there's something important I'd like to talk to you about. In my neck of the woods we've been seeing a lot of strange items recently – citrus fruits that walk, pigs that fly, almonds with legs, that kind of thing. It's all getting very disturbing. I wonder if we could talk about it for a moment?"
        "Ah, yes. I thought that subject might come up. Genetic enhancements for self-harvesting. In the long run this should save us all a lot of bother with cutting fruits from trees and rounding up animals, such a waste of energy, so much more efficient if edible produce can present itself at a distribution centre."
         "Well, yes, but this new system is destroying the feel of the forest."
        "The what?"
        "The feel, the atmosphere, the beauty."
        "I don't see the problem. Some vague intangible is left by the wayside, and in return we get a more effective harvesting system that will save everybody immense amounts of effort. Don't you think that perhaps you're just an old fart who can't change his ways and refuses to recognise the advantages of new technology?"
        So much for a close relationship.
        "Perhaps we could have a sector of the forest dedicated to self-harvesting crops," I suggest. "And others dedicated to beauty and relaxation?"
        "What a waste!"
        "I'm prepared to fight you over this."
        Suddenly the smoke of the still-smouldering site overwhelms the throat of Joe Progress. He has a coughing fit that doubles him up. When he stands straight again his eyes are pink and wide open, but he's smiling
        "Really?" he says. "And how far are you prepared to go?"
        "You're campaigning for re-election. I'll try to stop you."
        "And what are you going to do? Prance around the other world showing off your goats legs and shouting 'Hey, look at me. I've got mixed genes and I'm a disaster. Don't vote for Joe Progress.'"
        He seems amused by the idea. 
        "But you can't do that," he adds, "Because you don't believe in the other world, do you?"
        He stares at my hoofs for so long that they begin to shuffle self-consciously, of their own accord. I prod a few metallic-looking bits amongst the embers, simply to disguise the movement.
        "Listen…" I begin.
        "Shhh."
        His face has turned serious. He continues to think for a while. Whatever he's thinking of pleases him. He runs a finger across his lips three times. "I'm going to take you up on your challenge. And if you win you can have your old-fashioned forest back. How does that sound?"
        It sounds terrible. "You're on."
        "But you're at a disadvantage. You don't believe in the other world and you don't know where to start. So let's even things up a bit. I'll give you a clue."
        He beckons to Mammon, who's there within seconds.
        "Show him the newspaper," says Progress.
        Mammon smiles, which isn't pleasant, and produces a fat newspaper that couldn't possibly have come from his pockets. This is a common trick in heaven. I can produce my Syrinx, my pipes, in exactly the same way, and I don't even wear clothes. 
        "Page sixteen," says Progress, handing me the News of the World.
        I flick through until I'm stalled by a tall picture almost from top to bottom of a page. It's of me, and as usual I'm nude. My private parts are obscured by a black circle, which could be larger.
        "Fame at last," says Progess. "I thought you'd find it interesting."
        I can't think of anything to say.
        I begin to read. 
        'I'm Just Like You,' Claims Half-Goat Man. 
        By our Science Correspondent.
        Peter Alan Nesmith has the legs of a goat. And that's no exaggeration, they're real goat's legs. He has massive white hairy thighs and strong fetlocks, and two-toed feet that look like hoofs. He also has two horns growing out of his forehead. Otherwise he's human. 
        Peter is a genetic experiment.
        There's more, but I'm too bewildered to take it in. The workmen have stopped what they were doing and are grinning at me inanely. Have they all read this?
        Progress writes something on the back of a business card and hands it to me. "I bet you'd like to meet whoever wrote this. Her name's Stephanie McVeigh, she's a publicity agent. Here's her address. She's holding a garden party tomorrow. You should go."





Chapter 3

Most of the next ten hours I spend searching for Buddha. The regular think-of-who-you-want-to-see system fails miserably. I try all his favourite haunts: Noah and his Flood Cruises, the Mahabharata, Epic of Gilgamesh, Legend of Hiawatha Canoe Tours, but no luck. Then I'm in Faerie Lane, close by the Iliad, and out of nowhere he appears next to me.
        "I hear you're looking for me."
        I can't help my tone. "Where've you been?"
        "I've been at work. Now I'm taking a nap on the sofa."
        I haven't time for this nonsense. I dig the newspaper into his belly. "Look at this."
        It's already open at my page, but he leafs through it to find the front. "Ah, News of the other World. Where did you get this?"
        "Progress gave it to me. Well, go on, read the article."
        He hands it back. "No, I might drop it while laughing. But you can read it to me if you like." 
        He gets my steeliest glare, which has no affect, so I begin to read aloud. "'I'm Just Like You,' Claims Half-Goat Man. By our Science Correspondent."
        "Oh, you're screwed," says Buddha. "Science Correspondent? That's the tea-lady's niece, whose friend did physics at school. Go on."
        "Peter Alan Nesmith has the legs of a goat," I read. "And that's no exaggeration, they're real goat's legs. He has massive white hairy thighs and strong fetlocks, and two-toed feet that look like hoofs. He also has two horns growing out of his forehead. Otherwise he's human.
        "Peter is a… genetic experiment."
        At this point Buddha guffaws and slaps his thigh, which I ignore.
        "This half-goat, half-human is a fine musician and very sure-footed on rocky slopes. But one thing he doesn't have is a birth certificate, because Peter wasn't born, he was created by the scientists of Foxglove Laboratories. 
        "They took genes from a goat and a human and combined them in an artificial womb. Eight months later, out popped Peter. Yet he talks and acts just like us. See him on the street fully dressed, with a hat to hide his horns, and you wouldn't know the difference. If you live in Cricklewood, where he shares a home with an estate agent friend, you might have met him already."
        Buddha stops smiling. "Hey, that's me! The cheeky so-and-so's." But soon he's back in jovial mode. "I didn't know you were born in a laboratory."
        "I wasn't! I'm sorry, I shouldn't shout. But this is complete rubbish, every word of it. It's completely made up. It's like they've written about somebody else and put my picture there."
        Buddha is sniggering. He stops for long enough to tell me, "That's fairly normal, though I'm sure it doesn't help. Please continue."
        I read out more. "'I don't feel any different to a normal human being,' says Peter. 'I eat the same kind of food, watch TV and go to work, just like anybody else. The only difference is that if I get something wrong with my legs, I can't go to the doctor, I have to find a vet.'
        This doubles Buddha up.
        "A vet? A vet?" I whine. "Where did they get this garbage from? I haven't said any of these things."
        "And your name's not Peter," points out Buddha.
        "The sad thing is," I read, "that Peter probably won't be around for long. Like most products of cloning technology, he has an ageing problem. Although it was just two years ago that he came out of the artificial womb, already he looks well over fifty. His body will be ready for a pension before his biological age makes him ready for school. And he won't be eligible for either.  
        "Bull-shit!"
        I must have read this article twenty times, and each time it feels like I'm being beaten up – or at least my persona is being beaten up – and left bleeding in the gutter. 
        Buddha is highly amused. "I'm sure I've known you for more than two years."
        "Oh, stop it. It's all nonsense. None of it's true."
        "Except that you've got goats legs and horns."
        "Except for the legs and horns."
        "And you say Joe Progress gave you this?"
        I explain about Progress taking up the challenge, even though that wasn't the outcome I'd hoped for, and about being given a clue, and I hand over the business card that Progress gave me.
        "Wow." That brings Buddha back to reality. "A garden party. Do you know where this place is?"
        "I haven't a… any idea. I was hoping you might help." 
        "Yes, I can. Do you want to go there?"
        "Well of course I want to go there. I want to meet the ignorant… wretch who wrote this item and tell her what I think of her."
        "Wretch?"
        "I'm too mad to think of a good insult. I'll work one out on the way."
        "Follow me."
        
        ***
        
At the bottom of Faerie Lane we go through the iron gate on to the promenade, a broad path with benches at the sides and flowerbeds and precisely planted trees. We pass the George and Dragon public house, with its half-timbered walls, thatched roof and smoking chimney. 
        We say hello to Ishtar as she hobbles past in the opposite direction, probably on her way for a drink. She's a sad case, forever pining for her lost consort, Tammuz – once famous, then obscure, now non-existent. She's much older and frailer than I remember. A few thousand years ago she was stunningly beautiful, but time has passed and so has her beauty. How old is she now? A few hundred years older than me. I get a brief glimpse of how I might be in a couple of hundred years, and don't like it.
        In contrast, the next god we pass is the youngest in heaven, the god of Fashionable Trainers, who's barely of shaving age. His bicycle is propped against the back of the bench directly behind him and his legs are crossed, enhancing the display of immaculate white footwear. He has his hoodie up and his shoulders hunched forward, lost in a world of his own, tapping at the bird-noise machine in his lap. It's a tiny thing and we rarely get sight of it. He presses buttons with his thumbs and from time to time it gives out noises like birdsong – though not quite. 
        Finally we arrive at a small building set back from the path. It's very dull looking – one storey, few windows, a flat roof with some kind of machinery on top – and a big surprise to me.
        "Is this it? Is this the place?" I ask.
        "Not exactly. No."
        "How come I've never seen it before? I must have walked down here thousands of times and it's new to me." Yet the building itself is clearly not new. "What's going on?"
        "You've never seen it before because you didn't believe in it. Welcome to the Axis Mundi. Step inside and we'll get you some clothes. The other-worlders are very keen on clothes."
        The walls inside are barely visible beneath layers of coats, hats, trousers ad shirts hung from pegs. There's no order to the arrangement, with pristine garments sharing hooks with rags.
        "We really must get the costume section sorted out," says Buddha. "Ah, here we are. These should work." He hands me a loose white blouson and sand-coloured chinos, along with a short stovepipe hat, slightly crushed. They're a passable fit, though I never feel comfortable in clothing.
        "You're telling me I'm going to the other world, this garden party is in the other world?"
        "Only ten miles or so from where I live. You'll enjoy it down there. Take my word."
        It's hard for me to deny the Axis Mundi exists when I'm standing inside it, so I say nothing.
        "You look fine," says Buddha, "as long as nobody spots your hoofs."
        "I like my hoofs."
        "I'm sure they'll be very popular. Everybody will want a pair."
        In the middle of the building is a doorway that leads into a separate room, small and entirely divorced from the surrounding chaos. Buddha ushers me in, but he stays outside. White light falls from the ceiling, one wall is mirrored and shows me sniffing around like a bear in a new cave, the others are coated with dark red carpet, divided at waist level by a shining brass rail. Above the rail is a small plaque holding a single red button. 
        "When you're ready, press the button," he tells me. "The doors will close and you'll feel yourself going down. It takes about half an hour."
        "Aren't you coming?"
        Buddha has made no effort to dress. He's still wearing is his favourite orange loincloth.
        "I can't. I'm already there."
        Most of his nonsense I can afford to dismiss, but this time it's important. "Buddha, you're standing in front of me. How can you already be in the other world?"
        "I've tried to explain this before. Thanks to years of practice and strong meditation, when I'm asleep in the other world I can dream myself into existence here. Why do you think I can't be found sometimes on weekdays? How do I suddenly disappear and reappear?"
        It's true. I've been told these things before, I just ignored them – until now.
        "Are you ready?" he asks.
        "I suppose so."
        "Good. I'm going to wake up and I'll see you at the bottom. Don't wander too far from the exit. It's very busy down there."
        He does his vanishing trick.
        I could stand here for a long time and wonder what I've got myself into, whether I really should be doing this. But would it make any difference? No. Anyway, I like mysterious red buttons.
        This one needs to be pressed.
        "Wauugggh!"
        
        ***
        
It's no surprise that I'm feeling nervous when the room comes to a halt and the doors open. I peek out like a fox through a hedge, but the coast is clear. There's nobody around. I'm in a narrow corridor with stairs at one end and an outside door at the other. Buddha said don't stray too far from the exit, but I'm sure I'm allowed to go through that door.
        The outside world takes my breath away. I'm on a busy street, and I mean busy, a hundred times busier than anything I've ever seen before. It's heaving with cars and buses, four lanes of them, moving forward in small shuffles from green lights to red, and so noisy. On the pavement, multitudes of other-worlders somehow manage to avoid bumping into each other as they walk this way and that. Oops, no they don't. The buildings are tall and elegant, with a shop on every ground floor. There's an Italian tailor on my left, a children's toy store almost opposite. Many of the other-worlders are carrying shopping bags.
        It's hard to think of a scene that could be more convincing, not just through its strangeness but through its sheer busy-ness. There's too much going on here for this to be heaven. And how fascinating the other-worlders are! Their clothes, their faces, their walks! They're all different and yet so much the same. Each face and locomotion has a story to tell. A mass of stories rushing past each other, streaming rivers of tales.
        I've stalled on the pavement directly outside the door, and now a man in a tweed jacket wants to get past me and go inside. He waits for me to move, yet at the same time he doesn't really see me. Strange.
        When I turn to let him pass I see the gold plaque on the wall next to the door. British Atheist Society, 296a Regent Street. Ha! How clever is that? What a perfect place for the Axis Mundi.
        I'm still in a daze when Buddha turns up, wearing a suit without a tie and a camel-coloured coat with a brown collar. He looks very much at home here.
        "Come on," he says. "We'd better get you in a taxi. You're already late."
        He steps into the street and flags down a black car. 
        "Richmond," Buddha tells the driver, and shows him the card that Progress gave me. Then he opens the door for me to climb in the back.
        "Here, you'll need money." He hands me a roll of notes.
        "What do I need money for?"
        "Absolutely everything, believe me." He gives me another card. "And this is my home address."
        I feel like a child being bundled off on their first lone journey. And I suppose it's true that my behaviour is childlike. As the cab sets off, I'm craning my neck to take in more of this fascinating world. 
        There are so many beings. There must be literally thousands of them here in this other world. I think about the election for the president of heaven, the election that I'm supposed to be influencing. What a silly idea. What possible mechanism could influence all these people?
        The cab driver sees me rubber-necking. "First time in London?" he asks.
        "First time in this world, actually."
        He frowns and puts the radio on.
        
        
        
        
Chapter 4
        
My destination, Slaters Cottage, is a mansion attempting to pass itself off as something smaller. It's dominated by two storeys of sweeping brown roof tiles, including many windows, with one storey of regular wall beneath. It's a big house hiding under the roof of a little one, and I like that. I think Buddha would approve too.
        In the rear garden, bordered by poplars and cypresses, at least a hundred people are enjoying the garden party. The weather is perfect. The sun hangs low in the sky, reluctant to go down. It's warm and there's barely a breeze. Half-way down the lawn, on the left, a trio in white tuxedos and dickie-bows play guitar, double-bass and drums. Their music isn't inspired, but at least it's live.
        I begin to wonder how I can track down Stephanie McVeigh without sounding like a gatecrasher, but clearly my arrival didn't go unnoticed. She's on me in an instant.
        "Peter! Peter! I'm so glad you're here. Joe wasn't sure you'd make it."
        How nice to be in control of one's own destiny.
        "Pan," I correct her, though I don't think the correction registers.
        "Come and sit with me. I'll introduce you to my mother."
        Stephanie has to be over fifty, but has the vitality and lively eyes of the ageless, which make her instantly attractive. Her hair is dark and loose to her shoulders and she wears a simple blue crossover dress. She is the very queen of charm, and all those scathing first lines I thought of in the Axis Mundi melt into oblivion. Not that I thought of anything brilliant, to be honest. It's not my style. Buddha is your man for excruciating put-downs.
        Just off-centre in the lawn is a large gazebo with octagonal sides, and in front of it is a white plastic table where Stephanie McVeigh's mother sits in her wheelchair.
        "This is my mother, Dorothy. Mother will be listening to everything we say and hearing very little. She's rather deaf."
        I make an exaggerated show of acknowledging Dorothy's presence, but I'm not sure if she sees me.
        Stephanie sits and waves a hand in the air like a puppeteer warming up, and within seconds a waiter appears. I suspect that nobody else in the garden could do this, and certainly not so quickly, but then this is her party. She doesn't ask me what I want to drink and orders me a glass of rosé wine, which is not what I would have ordered, yet when it arrives is truly delicious and a precise fit for the garden party and I would have been a fool to order anything else.
        We spend a minute on small talk about the party, exactly in line with the dramatic confrontation that I'd planned all along. Damn. Apparently this is a regular monthly get-together and most of the guests are either clients or have some business connection. They've already been here a while. I'm not sure I have much in common with them, apart from their clear love of alcohol.
        A young man, presumably one of Stephanie's employees, appears briefly and places a copy of the offending tabloid newspaper on the table, open at the page where my picture appears and somebody similar to me is described. 
        "So what did you dislike about the article?" asks Stephanie.
        That's very clever. I hadn't said I disliked anything, yet.
        "The fact that it's untrue, every word of it."
        "But Peter, I'm not in the truth business. I do public relations." 
        "The bit about being over fifty…"
        "And how old are you really?"
        Ok, I'm not going to push that one. 
        "And the idea of going to a vet…"
        "Would you expect a normal doctor to deal with your legs?"
        "But what about the quotes? I never said any of these words in my life."
        "Oh, I'm sure you did, just not necessarily in that order, or in the same sentence. It's quite normal to make up quotes, perfectly normal, and it saves everybody a lot of bother with interviews." 
        It strikes me that Stephanie's spectacles, which she touches every few seconds, and which have thick frames and thin lenses, may not be correcting her eyesight, just her image. She lights a cigarette and leaves it in the ashtray, picking it up twice as it burns to nothing.
        "But none of it is true, Stephanie."
        She gives me her best smile, which would melt a troll's heart and which I try to avoid. She looks down meaningfully at my hoofs.
        "Ok," I have to admit. "Tiny bits of it are true."
        "Millions of people have read that article," she explains, "and every one of them gained a positive impression. They feel empathy towards you and hope you do well. It doesn't really matter if any of it was untrue, what matters is that you've now got the world on your side."
        "Through lies."
        "Through meeting the entertainment needs of our audience. One small article and we're already there, way ahead of the game. Normally it would take years to create that amount of positive feeling."
        This is just a question of perspective, I'm sure. I can't exactly find a flaw with what she says, it just sounds wrong in some instinctive way. I begin to search through the paper, giving myself time to think.
        "Peter, don't worry about it. People never believe anything they read in the newspapers. Nor will they believe anything they've read about you. We're just aiming for a feeling. That article merely reassures readers that they're doing fine with their genetically unmodified bodies, that all is well with the natural status quo."
        I find this difficult to believe. I point to an earlier page, where the headline reads: 'Terrorist Leader Arrested'. 
        "Terrorist today, president of some vast African country tomorrow," says Stephanie. "Either way, very happy to be in the newspaper."
        I turn to page five, to the picture of the attractive young lady wearing bikini pants, heels, a baseball cap, and nothing else. I read out the caption, "Cloe Zeeting, 19, from Milton Keynes, is a keen Tottenham fan…"
        Stephanie shakes her head. "Probably from Barking, supports West Ham."
        "But at least she's called Cloe."
        "I doubt it."
        I look at the picture for a long time, perhaps too long.
        Stephanie adds, "And they're not real, either."
        I close the newspaper, mildly flustered. "Is there anything in here that's believable?"
        "Yesterday's weather, and the football scores - they're usually accurate. A tabloid newspaper isn't in the truth business any more than I am. If you don't know that, then you really do need my services."
        "What?" 
        "I was hoping the newspaper article would show you the value of my company," she tells me. "Perhaps I might persuade you to become a client."
        "Stephanie, I don't even know what you do."
        After a long and impassioned explanation, I'm not much wiser. I hear a lot of abstract expressions like "fulfil a role" and "public profile" and "exploit the medium", but very little of a concrete nature, and at the end of the explanation I'm still not sure if her company sells bananas or trains blacksmiths. 
        "I'm sorry, but that makes no sense to me," I tell her.
        "Then let me give you the abbreviated version. We make you famous and keep you famous."
        "Why would I want to be famous?"
        Stephanie rocks back in her chair and huffs like a tired but amused giant. "That's original. Nobody ever sat in my garden and said that before." 
        A young girl on the verge of her teens turns up at the table. Immediately I know this is Stephanie's daughter. There's some family resemblance, but more obvious is the overwhelming affection.
        "Jessica, you're covered in carpet hair again." Stephanie picks delicately at the girl's woollen top. "When are you going to learn what chairs are for? And look at your elbows. I do wish you'd come outside."
        "I'm on level seven," says Jessica, proudly.
        "Well done." But there's no enthusiasm in the praise. Stephanie turns to me. "It's a gorgeous evening. All the adults are playing outside, and the children are inside working on their computer games."
        Yet I'm not really listening and Stephanie isn't really talking to me. That was an aside for benefit of her daughter. I'm more interested in the three ageing musicians in their dickie-bows and white tuxedos. They're passable players but have entirely lost the enthusiasm of youth. Each tune they play – and some are quite pleasant – is de-clawed and de-sexed and house-trained. Occasionally they forget themselves and begin to enjoy their instruments, and naturally at that point everything improves, but most of the time they're earning a living filling space where otherwise silence would be, or nothing more than the chatter of guests. Their leader – the band's singer and guitarist – is most to blame. When he begins a new song I can tell how many times he's played it before. If the figure is in the hundreds then the song means nothing to him and he plays in a way that means nothing to the audience. He goes through the correct sequence of notes – I acknowledge that – but accomplishes nothing with them.
        Having briefly docked with the mother-ship, Jessica runs off to rejoin the virtual indoor world. Stephanie glances at me and sees I'm absorbed. She turns to her mother and with great feeling says, "Oh mum, I do wish they'd dance for you. I do. But we can only hire a band and hope for the best."
        The old woman doesn't acknowledge this any more than she acknowledged my presence earlier. Stephanie holds her mother's hand on the wheelchair's arm, and if my heart is touched, which it is, then perhaps this is down to the contrast with the coldness on display in the rest of the garden.  
        Because of the music I can't easily hear the conversations between the scores of guests drinking punch or white wine (I suspect the rosé is held in reserve), and maybe that's a good thing, so I'm assessing them by body language. I read the angles of their chins, the way they hold their wine glasses, their interest in who is busy elsewhere and in whom they are talking to, and my assessment isn't complimentary.
        There are very few children around. Perhaps because this is a work-related party, or because they're all indoors at their computer screens. The one child making an impact is in full bawling mode, slung against his mother's chest with his head over her shoulder, features red and contorted from the effort of crying. I think I can hear his words above the music, but what I hear is so surreal that I can't be sure.
        "Gonna die, gonna die," he wails. "Don't live long."
        "There there," comforts mother, patting him on the back as she carries him towards the deserted rear of the garden. "It's all right. Don't worry, it'll be OK."
        "Gonna die. Seventy years. Don't live long."
        This strange experience blasts me out of my daydream. Surely I've been hallucinating? Buddha told me that the other-worlders don't live very long, but I doubt their children grasp this at an early age and are upset by it.
        I look across at Stephanie and see the puzzlement on her face. No, perhaps I've not been hallucinating. But the experience is too strange for either of us to acknowledge it.   
        "I'm so glad I took the time to have Jessica," says Stephanie.
        I follow her lead and behave as if nothing bizarre has happened. "Do you have more?"
        "No, just the one. And that's unusual in our circles. Half the guests here don't have any children at all. The most intelligent members of our society have lost the urge to procreate. In evolutionary terms, we're going backwards. How about that? I call it Devolution. I like to think it's our method of giving the planet a chance. Let's leave populating the planet to the poor and uneducated, keep everybody alive at whatever cost, vote dumb people into power and follow their dumb policies, and with any luck our species will be out of the way quickly and the planet can get back to some kind of reasonable balance." Stephanie holds her hand in front of her mouth. "Sorry. I don't usually do politics."
        "That's OK."
        I'm now sure Stephanie had the same strange experience as me. That's why she's talking nonsense.
        "It's just…" she says, "I get the feeling you might be pro-nature yourself."
        "You're right. I am."
        Stephanie looks relieved. "Rationally, we should all stop having children for twenty years and let things settle down. But I adore mine, and I expect I'll adore my grandchildren. I'm sure everybody else feels the same. We're emotionally programmed to populate."
        "That's true."
        "Maybe it's a good thing that so few of the guests here have children. Most of them are famous or want to be famous, so they're unbalanced in some way. Strange, isn't it, how we idolise the unbalanced, because the balanced are too boring to follow?"
        Stephanie laughs. Either she's laughing at herself or this is still the relief of passing off a weird experience. I've taken a liking to her. She's in a profession that has no regard for accuracy, and I suspect has little connection with morality or humanity, yet scratch the surface and a thoughtful person still lurks there. I can't imagine this is easy.
        "And that's my less-than-expert way of persuading you to join my client list – telling you how unbalanced my clients are." This time her smile is shy. "I've booked you on TV, on the Gary Triumph Show. We need to move quickly, while people remember you, while you're still hot."
        "Me? On a TV show? Why?"
        "Why? To raise your profile, of course. And for the money. After my cut you'd probably clear forty thousand from your first sponsorship deal. More from the ones that follow. How does that sound?"
        It's quite meaningless to me. "No. Stephanie, I've already been badly misrepresented once, why would I want to go through the same nonsense a second time?"
        But the word No doesn't count for much in Stephanie McVeigh's line of business, or perhaps she hears in my tone that I don't mean it. Certainly I can see I've been unconvincing.
        "Stephanie, where did you get my photograph?"
        "Joe gave it to me."
        This silences me for a minute. 
        "Didn't he tell you he'd asked me to write the article?" asks Stephanie.
        I'm too confused to lie, so I say nothing. Why would Progress want me in a newspaper? Even before he took up my so-called challenge. 
        There's probably a clue there, something I'm supposed to pick up that will help me do battle with him, but it's lost on me. There might be others.
        "Did he also make up this nonsense about me being a genetic experiment from Foxglove Laboratories."
        Stephanie loses her smile. "Oh dear, I thought that was one of the truthful bits. Which company are you really from?"
        "I'm not from a company at all. I'm from heaven."
        Stephanie shakes her head. "No, we can't use that. People will think you're mad. Better stick with the Foxglove story. Everybody's used to weird stuff coming out of laboratories, stories about pomegranates with lizard legs and brazil nuts scurrying around like ants." 
        "Uh? Say that again?"
        Stephanie says it again. I heard it right the first time.
        "And pigs with wings?" I suggest.
        "Don't be silly. Pigs can't fly."
        So, I'm supposed to have been created by Foxglove Laboratories, and so are the unnatural products I'm trying to do battle against in heaven. Many of them, if not all. This is a curious turn of events.
        I say my thoughts out loud. "I think I should visit Foxglove Laboratories."
        "It's a secretive company." Stephanie holds her hand against her chin and contemplates this. "You could pretend to be an investor. They do investor tours. But they'll check your credentials. Are you stinking rich?"  
        "Odourless. I don't have a bean."
        "Then you really must go on the Gary Triumph Show."
        While I'm briefly lost in jigsaw thoughts, Stephanie holds her mother's hand again. "Oh mum, I'm so sorry they're not dancing."
        "Does she like dancing?" I ask. The lack of dancing seems to be an important issue. Even if Stephanie did write all that nonsense about me she's been very helpful. I might be able to do something in return.
        "Just to watch, it's all she can do these days. When she was younger she was a beautiful dancer. I mean truly beautiful, the Ginger Rogers of her day. Now she can barely move. It's the one thing that gives her joy, to watch, I mean. I pay a lot of money for the band, they're all session musicians, very talented, and they do their best, but I can't force people to dance."
        "No, indeed you can't."
        I get up off my seat and walk towards the band on their tiny podium. This is slightly rude of me, leaving Stephanie without a word, but I think she'll forgive me. As I reach the podium I produce my Syrinx, my pipes, which always appear in my hand when I have need of them, and without waiting for an invitation I step right in amongst the players.
        They grind to a halt in mid-number. The band leader gives me his get-lost glare, which is feeble and easily shrugged-off, then I see him glance at Stephanie, who will be paying the band's bill, to see how he should react if he wants the bill to go through with ease. I've not been on Earth very long, but I'm learning the significance of bills and the people who sign them. Apparently I get the nod.
        "What key is that?" asks the band-leader, resignedly, cocking his head at my Syrinx.
        "It's not a key, it's a musical instrument."
        Now he looks heavenward. Has he worked out where I'm from? I doubt it.
        "Can you give us a middle C?" he asks. He speaks very slowly, like I'm an idiot.
        "I don't think so."
        "Good Lord. Just play a note. Any note will do."
        I play a note.
        "Ok, let's try C flat," he says, struggling to keep a straight face. The other two musicians appear to find this funny.
        They begin to play, in a very contorted way that clearly they find difficult, and happily I play along, adjusting the tone of the Syrinx to match the weird background they're struggling with. After a minute the leader nods his head and the background music changes, and a while later it changes again. This looks hopeful. They're better than I thought. On each occasion I change the tone of my instrument to match them. On the Syrinx I can play any note that exists. Some notes are tricky, but they're all there, every one of them.
        This is a surprise to the band. As we continue, the leader's jaw begins to drop and I get a clear view of his tongue. Perhaps in the other world a set of seven reed pipes only produce seven notes. I suppose this is a possibility. And now I remember where I've heard the expression 'key' before. In heaven. John Lennon used it when we were jamming together in The Three Johns. "Pan," he said, "you know it would be wonderful if you could keep to one key for five or six notes at a time, then the rest of us musical morons might be able to keep up." About the only person in heaven who feels happy to accompany me is Mozart, who, I have to admit, is pretty good, and when we reach the end of a piece where we've flown all over the musical skies and covered every note in the spectrum he insists on stepping over and giving me a palm-smacking high-five, and has a grin that begins at each ear, like we've just accomplished something extraordinary. He's a strange fish, and no mistake.
        Back in Stephanie's garden, when we get to the end of the peculiar ballad the band-leader is looking at me like I'm the creature from the black lagoon and he's the virgin tied to the post. His skin is as pale as his jacket and I don't think he's prepared to take the lead again, and so I begin with a hornpipe. We have the attention of the audience, let's make the most of it. The band follow me, sometimes at a distance. The drummer is cool, he doesn't have key problems. The tall guy with silver hair on double-bass changes up a gear, and then another gear, and finally begins to enjoy himself. He's hooting and gurgling in a way he probably last did in his twenties. After a few minutes the band-leader gives up, and I admire him for this. He's wise enough to know his limitations.
        We go way beyond them. I can trill a set of reeds, I can add three notes to the trill and fit ten trills in a second. Any ear that's connected to any set of feet is obliged to dance. It's not optional. By the time we're half-way through our tune we have our audience prancing around on the grass like pagans at Saturnalia. Some of them have thrown their wine glasses into the Cypress hedgerows, others have hung on to them and have the stains on the clothes to prove it. A handful of children come out of their computerised indoor sanctuary and dance like puppets. Their parents huff and puff and jump up and down as if their feet are escaping hot embers. We are a hundred mad people tamping down the lawn, throwing our arms in the air and feeling completely and utterly connected to our ears. We are dancing.
        Stephanie too has found the sound irresistible. Her daughter Jessica bounces up and down in front of her. Dorothy can't manage the miracle of leaving her wheelchair, yet her feet tap on the footrests, even though she doesn't hear well.
        But I'm not looking at her feet, I'm seeing her smile, and it's the most beautiful smile I've seen for a long time. 
        
        
        
        
Chapter 5

Buddha's home is a small semi-detached house deep in the suburbs of Cricklewood, and very modest compared to Stephanie's. I've been here a couple of days now and I spend as much time as I can in the rear garden, where the plants and bushes grow wild, the grass is waist-high and there are butterflies and a family of foxes. I keep hoping to see a woodnymph posing beneath one of the sycamores. No luck so far.
        Buddha once waded out into the middle of the grass to meditate, but spends most of his evenings on the sofa catnapping and watching TV, which he claims is pretty much the same thing. In heaven, I can't recall ever seeing him sitting with his legs out of the lotus position, yet here in his lounge he comes back from work and shakes his shoes on to the carpet and spreads his legs along the sofa, props a cushion behind his back and sighs, clearly content.
        "Ah, this is the life," he says, leaning forward from the quicksand sofa for another slice of pizza. "TV on, fast food delivered to the door, nice comfortable sofa."
        My easy chair has its own quicksand habits – it's easier to enter than to leave – yet I'm not so easily seduced by the rest of suburban life. I admit I've taken a liking to Pepperoni pizza and I'm beginning to follow Eastenders, but I still have a way to go. 
        "There's a meditative quality to evenings like these," continues Buddha. "Here we are in a pleasant semi out in the backwaters, with no traffic noise, nobody at the door, the front garden acting as a buffer zone, plenty of shops conveniently close yet far enough away not to be a nuisance. It's a semi-detached life in all kinds of ways. I just love curling up on the sofa and watching something mindless on the box. It's as close as you can get to meditation with no mental effort. And the fantastic thing is, there are millions of people on this same longitude doing exactly the same thing. I love the collective mindlessness of the evenings. It's simply beautiful. Pan! Stop clicking your hoofs together."
        "I can't help it," I protest. "I'm feeling restless. I don't think semi-detached life is for me. I want to be out there doing things, chasing nymphs, dancing, finding out what Joe Progress is up to and how to get into Foxglove." I wave a sheet of paper at him. "Stephanie managed to get me an application for an investors' tour, but the only people they let inside are fund managers and multi-millionaires."
        When I've finished protesting I do as I'm told and stop clicking my hoofs, as I'm still mildly in the doghouse for eating the aspidistra in the hallway. I love the idea of snack plants spread around a house, yet apparently that's not why they're there. In heaven I tend to sleep in caves or under bushes, so houseplants, paintings and ornaments are all a mystery to me. There are dozens of shelves in Buiddha's lounge and every one if them is taken up by ceramic cats playing ceramic violins. 
        I've brought up the issue of ceramic violin-playing cats with Buddha, and he tells me he finds them useful for the purpose of personal centering. If by some chance he begins to feel that everything in the universe makes sense and that life has some ultimate and definable purpose, he has only to glance at his collection of ceramic cats to recognise that this is merely a passing illusion. Apparently, many other-worlders hoard ridiculous ornaments for this same purpose, and even pay large amounts of money for them to ensure that the realisation hits with full force.
        We're currently watching The World's Wildest Police Chases on TV, which, as Buddha has already stated, is fairly mindless, consisting mainly of footage of fast moving vee-hicles squeezing between and around slower moving vee-hicles, often viewed from a helicopter, while a breathless commentator compliments the chasing police on the quality of their work, even when they're clearing fouling up. On these occasions, when two unmarked police cruisers collide with each other, when eight burly cops pounce on a driver who's already surrendered, and when the driver of a station wagon simply gets away, Buddha slaps his sides and guffaws, though I don't think the programme intends to be funny.
        This is the first real TV I've ever seen. I heard of them in heaven as mythical objects belonging to the other world, along with planes and helicopters and anti-wrinkle creams, but I've never seen one before. Just as the myth says, it's very much like a window into another world, or a theatre, or multiple theatres. The myth also says they're water-powered, and from looking at the pipes plugged into the back I can see this is a possibility.
        Our suburban idyll is broken by the sound of the doorbell.
        "Do you mind getting that?" says Buddha.
        I can hear mischief in his voice. When I open the front door, I understand why.
        "John!"
        "Pan! Hey, fella, nice to see you down here."
        John Frum gives me one of his rib-crushing bear-hugs. It's a few seconds before I can speak. "I thought you'd…"
        "Faded away? No, I just like it down here. Came down the Axis Mundi, saw my first mail-order catalogue, never went back."
        I haven't seen John for years. He's a god of the Cargo Cult. Many times in heaven John and I would flatten grass into smooth strips called runways and  sit together in the tiny wooden control towers he built and press buttons made of gourds and acorn caps and say thing like 'This is Bay Area Control calling A-Six-One-Niner on final approach' into freshly-picked bulrush heads. I never really expected an aircraft to land and discharge its cargo, as to me they were just mythical items from the other world, but sometimes I think John was genuinely disappointed. Anyway, it was a great deal of fun and I developed a soft spot for him. 
        "What are you doing in London?" I ask. "Aren't you supposed to be in New…er…"
        "New Caledonia, Papua New Guinea, Melanesia? Nice places, sure, but if you want cargo you need to be here in London, where the action is." He clicks his fingers. "Or New York, Tokyo, but no way out in the sticks. Whew! No cargo."
        John is tall and athletic, though not especially broad. Muscles on his chest and upper arms are enhanced by the contrast of his black skin and stand out like foothills beneath a rising moon. His hair is close-cropped yet still densely curled. He wears plain green combat trousers cut to mid-calf, and no shirt. He likes to go around bare-chested, and if I ever saw him wearing a top in heaven it was only ever a white teeshirt. For all I know, it might have been the same one every time. 
        We go through to the lounge. Buddha isn't there, but soon comes in from the kitchen with a selection of bottled beers, even though he doesn't drink alcohol. It's at times like this when I thank myself for my choice of friends.
        "I thought you two might like to catch up," he tells me." You know, there are six or seven gods living in London alone, leading quiet lives in the suburbs." 
        "I'm in Muswell Hill," says John, which means nothing to me. He inspects the beer bottle labels. "This one makes you witty," he says, pointing. "This one turns you into a good musician, this one makes you attractive to women, and here's one that makes your penis grow."
        "That seems so unlikely," I say, more loudly than I intended.
        "Oh, I'm sorry," Buddha says to John. "I thought at least one of them might make you feel refreshed and light-headed."
        John takes this statement at face value and is puzzled by it.
        "I'm willing to give it a try," I say, intending to move things on, though I notice I've unintentionally picked the last beer that John mentioned.
        "John takes TV advertising more literally than the rest of us," explains Buddha. "You should see his house. You can barely move for crates and boxes. Washing machines, tumble dryers, multigyms, dartboards, golf sets, paint strippers, cordless drills, horse grooming sets…"
        "Have you got a horse, John?" I ask.
        "No."
        "But it can't just be cargo that keeps you here," I say. "You can have any material item you want in heaven. You'd only have to think of them, just imagine them, and they'd be there."
        "Hey, half this stuff I couldn't dream up. How about a combination kettle/radio? When the music stops you know the water's boiled. Smart, eh? There's one in the hall, though I don't use it. Or a hostess trolley that doubles as a painter's gantry. Try the front bedroom. A door that's also a six-inch wide aquarium? Can't lift it, but it looks great, even in the box. The best thing about being here is you don't even have to think about what you want." He points at the TV. "You see that? It tells me what I want to buy, and why I need it. They've got the whole system totally sorted, from beginning to end."
        I recall Buiddha's comment about needing money for everything. "And where do you get the money for all this?"
        "Ah," says John, "I use a slightly different system. It's called credit. You'll see it advertised."
        Buddha shakes his head despairingly.
        "Buddha doesn't approve," says John. "Even though he's in the sharky business himself."
        "I'm not in the sharky business. I'm an estate agent," protests Buddha, "at Ratcliffe's, on Cricklewood High Street. Very respectable." He's drinking bottled water. I notice that as this is a special occasion he's cracked open a bottle of sparkling.
        I'm lost. "A what?"
        "A realtor," says John, equally mysteriously.
        "I buy and sell homes," explains Buddha. 
        I must still be looking puzzled, because he adds, "You can buy and sell anything here."
        "But surely not homes?"
        "Especially homes. Everything in this world has a monetary value - your home, your kidneys, an accident, a death, a baby, a finished marriage. It takes some getting used to."
        The conversation moves on to the subject of why I've come down the Axis Mundi to Earth, and I tell John about the mixed species items in my favourite forest, about Joe Progress and the forthcoming election, about Stephanie McVeigh and Foxglove Laboratories. 
        John puts his finger to his lips. "Shhhh," he says. "The shopping instructions are on."
        A TV ad introduces us to a car that's good for the environment. 
        "I'd better get one of those," says John. "All my cars make the air dirty. I should get one that cleans it."
        "Om! That's not really what the advert means, John," says Buddha.
        "'Course it does."
        "They mean it's a car that's less damaging for the environment than other cars."
        "That's not what they said."
        Buddha raises his eyes. He directs his explanation at me, though I suspect it's for John's benefit. "Adverts don't tell you much about products, they tell you what people want. If an advert tells you a car is good for the environment, it doesn't mean the car is good for environment, it means that people want cars to be good for the environment. You have to interpret, you have to filter."
        "Ok, so a face cream ad teaches me that people like to look young," I suggest.
        "Exactly."
        "What about burger ads?"
        For a few moments Buddha looks less comfortable on the sofa than usual, until he thinks of the answer. "People get hungry."
        "I see."
        Against John's protests, Buddha flicks through the channels until he comes across a program with the subtitle 'Aliens abducted my grandmother's brain'.
        "Ah," he says, with satisfaction. "Reality TV."
        Proud teenagers parade their grandparents and compete over whose is the most senile. Right now the TV competition is down to the final two oldies and is getting tricky to judge as neither of them speaks or responds to external stimuli.
        "Isn't this in bad taste?" I suggest.
        "Compared to what?" says John, who seems very happy with Buddha's choice of programme. "Compared to 'My wife is a slag' or 'My children are so stupid I've cooked cleverer chickens'?" 
         We're watching a carefully-monitored blinking contest. First oldie to blink loses. They've now managed four minutes and the presenter is beginning to wonder if he made a mistake. We're poised on the precipice, waiting for an ancient blink, and when it finally arrives we're all eternally grateful.
        The host of the show interviews the winner – the grandson of the non-speaking, unblinking grandmother – who is ten and a computer expert, and whose current ambition in life is to own a Burger King franchise, so he can eat as many burgers as he wishes.
        Buddha grimaces. I get the impression his theories on filtering and Zen TV have suffered a setback.
        "I used to work in one," he says, "when I first arrived here in the other world. I worked in a Burger King on Charing Cross Road."
        "Was it bad?"
        "Very good for the humility, not for the bank balance."
        "So you became an estate agent."
        "Not straight away. I enrolled at a Buddhist monastery, but I got kicked out. The head monk said I was misinterpreting the teachings."
        "Didn't you tell him you're the teacher?"
        "What would be the point, if he didn't already know?"
        This brings a smile to my face. Buddha may be slightly different here in the other world, but he's still reassuringly perverse.
        "Anyway, there was no money in it," he adds. "They have a very fair method of distributing money in this world. If you're doing something worthwhile, they don't give you much. But if you do something fairly pointless then by way of compensation they give you shedloads. So teachers and nurses earn next to nothing, but footballers and rock stars earn millions."
        "Otherwise everybody would want to do something worthwhile," I suggest.
        "Exactly. My boss, for example, Paul Ratcliffe, the guy who owns the estate agency, he earns a fortune, and all he does is sell other people's houses."
        "Poor sod."
        "Actually, it's worse than that. Nowadays he just employs other people to sell houses for him, while he sits on a yacht in the Caribbean. A completely worthless life, so he's paid handsomely for it."
        "That's Progress," says John. "Can I have another beer?"
        "Sure," says Buddha. "Which one would you like this time?"
        "One that helps me play football. I've got a game tomorrow."
        Buddha carefully selects the correct brand.
        We say nothing for some time. Buddha changes channels again and we watch a programme on fad diet plans. We learn about the cabbage soup diet, the Atkins diet, and the latest contender based around a mild dose of typhoid. My media filter mechanism is working well, indeed it's hyperactive, as I notice all that every participant in the programme is still overweight, apart from the typhoid dieters, who weigh no more than seven stone but are a disconcerting shade of yellow. 
        That's not the only thing that occurs to me.
        "Your boss, does he come back to this country often?"
        "Paul? Hardly ever. It's a peculiar system. Most over-paid people are kept out of this country by their accountants. I can barely remember what he looks like."
        "So it's unlikely that anybody else would recognise him. He might happen to have wide feet and always wear a hat, for all anybody knows, and be very keen to invest in Foxglove Laboratories."
        Buddha smiles and strokes his chin, thoughtfully. "Yes, I see what you mean."
        
        
        
        
Chapter 6
        
Foxglove headquarters is a white building three storeys high, with long dividers in its white painted metal window frames, Art Deco style, and peculiar circular towers at each corner. Directly to its left is a distribution centre with concrete ramps and loading bays, which I'm sure would charm John Frum, but is ugly to my eyes. The overall set-up looks very appropriate for a genetics company, a hybrid combining the worst of a variety of styles, a ship's bridge, a medieval castle and a concrete railway station.
        We're in Bedfordshire, so the driver tells me, with Bedford away to our right and Milton Keynes somewhere to our left. A tall perimeter fence heads off towards both towns, fading into invisibility in the distance and sunken into a shallow trench to disguise its height. There are no houses nearby and it's a long time since we passed one. I would guess the isolation isn't accidental. 
        I climb out of my hired limousine. The driver believes I'm Paul Ratcliffe, and happily the Ratcliffe empire will be paying his bill. Our ruse was taken up so eagerly that Buddha and I ought to have been suspicious, but weren't. That's the nature of glee. Less than 24 hours after I posted off my application for an investor's tour, I got my invite for a tour the following day, and here I am. 
        Within seconds of announcing myself grandly at the reception desk I've been given my lapel badge, or at least Paul Ratcliffe's lapel badge, and ushered through into a corridor where I'm able to catch up with the rest of the delegates, who've already started their tour. Buddha is to blame for this slight mistiming. According to Buddha, Paul Ratcliffe is always late, and my impersonation would have been unconvincing if I'd arrived on time. Being late is a habit of rich and important people, but I fear we didn't take into account the sum of Paul Ratcliffe's wealth compared to the sum of Foxglove's, the second being a few thousand times greater than the first. We should have been dancing to the tune of the fattest wallet, and in that respect we've failed.
        There are fourteen other delegates in the pack. It definitely has a pack feel. We're all male and we're all dressed in dark suits and white shirts and elaborate silk ties. For a moment I get the feeling we're a group of schoolboys from a single sex school, grown up forty years but still in uniform. This feeling must be something I'm picking up from my companions because I've never been to school and rarely wear clothes.
        Our leader is female. She's shorter than any of us and wears her own version of our uniform, with a white blouse and a skirt instead of trousers. This is her territory and she walks with confidence. Her sex is an advantage with this all-male group and she waggles her backside as she walks to make the most of it, which I'm not slow to notice.
        After a few corridors we walk half-outside into a conservatory area where the plants are very tall, almost reaching the glass above them. Our leader steps on to a small platform. "For late-comers," she begins, "my name is Sherry Terrence, I'm Head of Public Relations here at Foxglove. So glad you could join us." 
        Sherry has an accent similar to John Frum. Her tone doesn't sound especially glad, but I've been warned by Buddha that my tour is likely to be the live equivalent of a TV advert. What I hear and what is meant are unlikely to be the same.
        "This room is basic science," she says. "Pest-resistance maize over to this side. We add a gene from a bacterium, and the gene produces a protein that kills pests like the corn-borer. This is great news for the environment. It means far less chemicals are needed and yields are higher…" Sherry stops and shuffles through her notes. "Excuse me…"
        My companions are patient. While I inspect them they have no eyes for anybody but Sherry. They look perfectly comfortable in their ultra-smart clothes, but I'm less happy inside Buddha's.
        Buddha's best suit is a passable fit. He's a lot larger around the waist than I am, but happily the looseness disguises my legs. We even managed to split a pair of black patent shoes and force them around my hoofs, though anybody who looks in detail will notice they're excessively wide. They're strange to walk in, but add an essential finishing touch. 
        I'm less keen on the tie, which has all the characteristics of a noose. It strikes me that the resemblance is intentional. To wear one is to display a physical weakness, a vulnerability, and so show an extra level of civilization and departure from the primitive ways of violence.
        But it's the cuffs I find strangest of all. They're very elaborate and fold back on themselves to be held together with an ornament called a cufflink. This all seems very contrived and artificial, yet Buddha tells me it's an essential part of my disguise. Apparently folded back cuffs with cufflinks are a symbol of my estate agent profession, a warning sign telling ordinary punters that I'm fond of sending out excessive bills, way beyond the value of my services. I find it touching that lawyers, estate agents and traders in financial services are all kind enough to wear these cuffs that send out warning signals to their fellow citizens. What a considerate world this is!
        "Apologies," says Sherry. "Those were my notes for the corporate social responsibility seminar. I thought they didn't sound right. Here we are… kills pests like the corn-borer. This is great news for profits. We have the patent on the seed and we have the patent on the fully-grown plant. If seed from a GM crop blows over into a neighbouring farm we can prosecute for abuse of patent, even if it's accidental. Once a few farmers plant our crops, everybody in the same district has to follow suit or risk court action."
        My fellow delegates applaud. I have no clue why, but I do the same so I don't look out of place. 
        "And over there we have non-softening tomatoes, sometimes inaccurately called hard tomatoes. They've had their softening gene removed, which means they stay on the vine and mature forever. They're used for tomato paste in the US and Canada."
        "Why not here?" asks a delegate in the front row.
        "In Europe we have to write on the packaging if food contains genetically modified ingredients, which means nobody buys it. North America is a lot more company-friendly."
        There's a murmur of agreement amongst the delegates and a nodding of heads, then we're on the move again, back into the building and into a regular laboratory, where scores of lab assistants are doing the lab assistant thing, wearing white coats and looking into microscopes while squeezing pipettes and twiddling knobs that might adjust the position of the continents or the speed that sound travels, for all I know.
        "Here we inject the human gene for producing insulin into E Coli bacteria," says Sherry. "And that way we can manufacturer insulin for diabetics without removing the pancreas from thousands of pigs… oops, wrong script. And that means we can squeeze large amounts of money out of diabetics who will die if they don't pay. That's the most secure kind of business you're ever going to find."
        Again there's a slight ripple of applause. I get the feeling my companions intend to invest.
        We make our way through the laboratory and at the far end we enter a second garden, again beneath glass, but this time with the glass reaching up to the top of the building and sloping down, like we are inside half a giant teardrop. I'm expecting agricultural crops, so I'm unprepared for the beautiful orchids.
        "Wow!" 
        Orchids are my favourites, even beyond fritillaries and aspidistra and daffodils. And these are amazing orchids in electric blues and reds and colours I'm not sure I've ever seen before. Not mere moth orchids and lady's-slippers, but parishii and rothschilds, Truly delicious!
        "This is one side of genetic engineering that few people are against," says Sherry. "Pretty flowers. Some of the specimens in this room are worth thousands of dollars. Commercially we grow them in countries with the lowest labour costs, through holding companies registered in countries with the lowest taxation, ensuring that you, the shareholder, gains maximum financial advantage." 
        A murmur of approval all round. But I'm barely listening, I'm attempting to casually move sideways towards the biggest, bluest paphiopedilum I've ever seen.
        "Do you hold the patent on the flowers too?" asks a delegate.
        "Indeed we do. And if anybody cross-breeds with one of our plants, we'll also own the result of the breeding program."
        I feign a slight coughing fit and it works perfectly, allowing me to turn and bring my hand to my mouth. Oh, my…is that paph wonderful. It's all I can do not to groan in delight.
        "While we're in such pleasant surroundings," says Sherry, "Let's also consider our most profitable product, the Lifespan Extension program. I believe most of you are already on the program. The few who aren't, please note the 15% shareholder discount. This is very worthwhile as the program is ridiculously expensive. Extension of life is something that customers will pay through the nose for, and we really abuse that lack of price insensitivity as much as we can." 
        I'm moving sideways around the greenery again, with my hands behind my back, where they make contact with a bright red dendrobium. I'm drooling with anticipation. 
         "The program requires customers to take one injection per year," explains Sherry. "This contains a benign virus, a vector, that carries the enzyme telomerase into their body cells. The enzyme allows cells to replicate beyond the usual fifty or so divisions. End result, your body doesn't get old. But here's the best news. We estimate the cost of collecting and distributing the enzyme is only around one percent of the price we charge. How would you like a piece of that action?"  
        The response is the strongest applause yet. I'm sure some of the delegates are already reaching for their chequebooks. Personally, I'm more interested in the red dendrobium, which is going down even better than the paphiopedilum. Truly yummy!
        Momentarily, Sherry looks unsure of herself. Following her gaze I watch a new arrival step into the tall conservatory. He's in his late thirties and wears a pale linen suit and tan jersey. His hair is fair and shoulder-length. He ought to look out of place, but is so sure of himself and has such presence that it's the rest of us who seem false-footed.
        "We are very privileged today," announces Sherry, "to be in the company of Elliot Harmon, founder of Foxglove Laboratories and CEO."
        I'm beginning to be bugged by this applause thing. Did I miss something? Did Elliot perform a trick on his way in? Does he have a special walk? I watched yet noticed nothing. Elliot raises his hand in appreciation. He makes his way through the small crowd until he's closer to me than to any other investment tourist. It's my hat that attracted him. I saw him glance around the room and make straight for my hat. And now he's checking out my feet.
        Should I be nervous? It's not every day I pretend to be a millionaire estate agent with a string of properties across north London. It is not every day the CEO of the company I'm trying to fool enters the same physical space and stands next to me.
        I suspect the plant behind me is still quivering from the pick, though fortunately I've stopped chewing. I open my hands to show my empty palms, which is probably a foolish gesture but I feel mild relief doing it.
        "I'll come back to the Lifespan Extension program in a moment," says Sherry. "But now Elliot's here, let's have some fun." She looks up towards the top of the conservatory, at a high window in the one solid wall, close to the top of the teardrop, where a man looks down. 
        "Are you ready?" 
        "Yes," he shouts.
        "Then let's go."
        I imagine nobody is expecting what happens next, except for Sherry and possibly Elliot. What happens next is that the man throws a live pig into the conservatory. I know the pig is alive because it's squealing like somebody's just thrown it from of a third storey window. At the bottom, we're all ducking and covering our heads with our hands, as if they might protect us from the impact of a two hundred kilogram pig.
        But the pig doesn't land, at least not yet, and when we get the courage to look up we can see why. It has fifteen foot wings, the size of a condor's, and though it's not very skilled at using them it manages to circle around inside the conservatory without much in the way of downward speed. It even flaps the wings once or twice, though without enthusiasm.
        Unlike everybody else, I have a good idea what will happen next, and I move out of the way. Sure enough, the pig doesn't have much in the way of landing skills and its return to terra-firma is more of a crash than a landing. It takes out a row of orchids and finishes up on its back, squealing and looking thoroughly pissed off but physically unharmed.
        When the inevitable applause has died down, Sherry says, "Early days yet, but we're in the process of developing self-harvesting plants and animals. We have pomegranates that can walk, pigs that can fly…"
        I can't help myself. "But can it talk?"
        This brings the house down. The investment candidates slap their thighs and crease their cheeks and point in my direction.
        "Oh me oh my," says one, between convulsions. "If pigs could talk…" 
        Yet when I said it, I noticed the pig's eyes turned in my direction.
        Elliot leans towards me. "Certainly we should talk," he suggests, quietly, so nobody else can hear. He's smiling, but it's not an especially inviting smile.
        He's rather imposing, Elliot. I can't say exactly why I find him imposing, but I do. He's thin, almost scrawny, a little taller than me and has wild blue eyes. Inside those eyes are crackling lava flows, songbirds in flight, leopard-seals patrolling beneath ice crusts. They're definitely not empty eyes. He has a voice, too, of the kind that could charm wolves. 
        "In my office," he says, indicating with his hand that we should make a move.
        Perhaps the others believe I'm getting privileged treatment and are jealous, for they grow quiet as the pair of us make our way to the doorway.
        "Ahem," begins Sherry, now behind me. "Can I interest anybody in a few more details about the Lifespan Extension program?"
        There's a murmur of consent. 
        "I'm going to miss hearing the details," I say to Elliot as we exit through the conservatory door. 
        His hair flaps as he walks down the corridor on the other side, with his hands in his pockets. I've never seen him in heaven, yet I feel he'd belong there. He has an almost spiritual presence, like Buddha or Vishnu, and it's spirituality without effort.
        "Well, we can't have that," he says. "Can I borrow one of your shoelaces?"
        "I'd prefer you didn't." I say, too quickly. 
        Elliot gives me his unnerving smile again. He says nothing but bends down and unlaces one of his shoes. He walks slower afterwards, but the shoe stays on. As he walks he picks with his fingernail at the end of the shoelace, which is brown. "When the cells in our body divide, the DNA strings get slightly ragged at the end. Eventually they get so ragged they can't divide any more and we're left with crappy old cells that can't regenerate. It's called growing old. A shoelace has the same problem. If these little plastic bits at the end wear away, the shoelace falls apart."
         Here he sticks the end of the shoelace in front of my nose, in case I've never seen one before. And in a way he's right, because I've never really looked at one in detail, or thought about the plastic bits at the ends.
        "Our DNA has plastic ends too," he tells me, "called telomeres, and there's an enzyme that looks after them, called telomerase. Unfortunately, it's not very active, so the ends of our DNA strings become too frayed after about 50 replications, which is why our bodies wear out and eventually fail. Under the Life Extension program, we collect the active enzyme and transfer it to a virus. We inject you with the virus, which then transfers the enzyme to your cells. Hey presto, your body stays young and virile."
        "Fascinating," I say, because I feel I ought to say something.
        "There's every chance you could live for 200 years."
        "Really?"
        "Or at least that Paul Ratcliffe might. He's on the program."
        I don't know what to say to that, so I say nothing.
        "Can I take your hat?" he asks, as we enter what I assume is his office. I make this assumption because even though the room is the size of a gymnasium it contains a desk.
        "No, thank you." 
        Of course he can't take my hat. Beneath it are my horns. Buddha advised me that my wonderful stovepipe hat wouldn't go with the suit, so today I'm wearing a black fedora.
        "Are you sure?"
        "Yes, I'm quite sure, thank you."
        "I hear the government is contemplating raising stamp duty," says Elliot "Tell me, Paul, how do you feel that will affect the housing market?"
        Fortunately, Buddha has primed me for this kind of question. "Property will always be a good investment, whatever the policy of government."
        Elliot sniggers. "Sorry, I couldn't resist." He motions for me to take a seat.
        He sits at his desk, with his foot on the broad leather top while he re-threads the shoelace. "And we have the patent on the gene that produces telomerase, which we never use or license, it just sits in a filing cabinet somewhere, otherwise we'd only be able to overcharge our customers once, rather than every year. We have the market cornered. Life is good. You'll enjoy it here."
        I'm not sure what this means, but I'm bothered by it. I try to remember that I'm a very rich person and I have my own company, I shouldn't be intimidated by my peers. This is much harder than I imagined, trying to be somebody else, trying to have their reactions, their emotions - that's the tricky part.
        "And what are the social consequences of the Life Extension program?" I ask, which might be a question that the real Paul would ask, though I can't be sure, as I've never met him.
        "The social consequences?" It seems to be a good question, as it makes Elliot think. "The social consequences?" he repeats, quizzically. "We're a commercial organisation, we're not concerned with social consequences."
        "Oh, ok." Maybe it was a bad question after all, one that the real Paul Ratcliffe would never dream of asking.
        "No, no, it's a good question. I've never thought about it before, that's all. Telomerase doesn't work so well on brain cells, unfortunately, so I suppose we'll finish up with a lot more stupid old people knocking about - driving, collecting commemorative pottery, getting in the way, drinking flasks of tea in cars parked with a view. All the viewpoint car parks will be full. There you are – there's a social consequence."
        "You're not very polite, are you?"
        "I don't have to be. I'm selling longer life. I could punch my customers on the nose and they'd still buy."
        He's finished lacing his shoes and is now fiddling with an empty envelope, a used envelope, tapping its edge on the desk and rotating it through his fingers while looking at me with those full eyes. "It's yours," he tells me. "This is the envelope that held your request to go on the investors' tour."
        "I'm flattered."
        "There's enough saliva on a licked envelope for us to test the DNA. And out of interest, we always do. At first we thought somebody was taking the piss. A goat in the mail room? Then we looked closer and found the same DNA contained both goat and human characteristics, also an abundance of telomerase, and a possible cellular history of more than 2000 years. We couldn't wait to invite you. Where the hell do you come from?" 
        "The other place."
        "Monsanto?"
        "No, no, no. The other place to hell."
        He thinks about this for a moment and casts the thought aside. "Only, we're way ahead of everybody on the animal front. We even looked through our records to see if you'd escaped from one of our own labs, but we don't have any records of you. We can fix that, of course, but it's a puzzle."
        I say nothing. I don't like the direction this conversation is heading. I haven't liked it for some time.
        "You see," says Elliot, with his forced smile. "Foxglove has the patent on human genes mixed with goat. We have the patent on your DNA."
        "I think it's time I left. If you'll excuse me."
        He doesn't try to stop me, and I don't try to leave. This is what happens when you say you're leaving when really you mean something else, like, you're not enjoying what you're hearing, and you resent the fact that perverse curiosity will oblige you to hear it through. 
        "I don't know where you come from," he says, "but I know exactly where you're going, and that's here."
        "I don't intend to stay."
        I still haven't moved, but I will soon.
        "Well, I thought there was a chance you'd feel that way, so I took the precaution…" He touches me on the shoulder with a brown envelope, which I reluctantly take from him. 
        "What is it? Your DNA?"
        "An invitation to a court appearance. A writ."
        "For what?"
        "Claim of title"
        "What does that mean? "
        "We're claiming ownership."
        "Of what?"
        "Of you."
        
        
        
        
Chapter 7

Buddha gets home from work and he's far more energetic than usual. Rather than slobbing in front of the TV he quickly tidies up the house and when he's finished he rubs his hands together and stands in front of me.
        "Are you coming, then?"
        "Where?"
        "Back to heaven. It's Friday, and I'm a weekend commuter. It's quite common here."
        Before I get chance to apply intellect to the question, a certain part of my body points out that we haven't seen a woodnymph for five days, let alone chased one.
        "Let's go."
        
        ***
        
John drives us to the Axis Mundi in his best white van. He has three comfortable cars parked in his driveway, another in Buddha's and a second van behind it, but this vehicle, he says, is the only one with road tax and insurance. It's also ideal for three people sitting side by side.
        This is my fifth time on the crowded highways and I'm beginning to get an idea how the system works. From the outside, vehicles seem loud and intimidating, even in small numbers, but the solution is clearly to be inside one. From inside this large vehicle we are in control of the universe, with the exception of larger vehicles. We dodge and dive through traffic, pipping our horn and moving on at a pace, while all the time John steers and changes gear with one hand. Apparently this is an ex builder's van, and the engine will cut out if John brings in his right arm, which he's obliged to dangle uselessly out of the window. The tabloid newspaper on the dashboard is also essential and I've been warned not to touch it.
        I'm fascinated by the world outside the windscreen: the mish-mash of old and new buildings, the strange materialistic artistry of shopfronts, and more than anything else the glorious mix of people – from babes in arms to weathered deadbeats, proud businessmen, strutting secretaries, couples hand in hand, families in easy-care fabrics, sullen youths in oversize jeans.
        "What are those?" I point. "The buildings with the spiked roofs? We don't get them in heaven. We've passed a few and they've all been beautiful."
        "Churches," says Buddha. "For the worship of Christ. The spires are supposed to connect them to heaven."
        Foolishly I lean forward and look up to view the connection, then I recall that Buddha said 'supposed to'. Still, it's nice to hear that Christ is revered. He's a thoroughly nice god, even if he does have a thing about my hoofs and horns.
        "In other countries there are thousands of temples for Buddha," says John.
        Buddha, of course, is too modest to have mentioned this.
        "Why don't you live where you're worshipped?" I ask him.
        "Can you imagine what that would be like, living where I'm famous? There'd be…" He thinks of something that amuses him, then discards it. "Imagine how hard it would be to practice humility?"
        "Maybe you could try for president yourself," I suggest. "Or Christ could try. He looks popular enough."
        Buddha shakes his head. "We do fine, but ours are old faiths. It's the new gods who get the votes these days, gods like Mammon and Progress, gods who appeal across all religions. You see those spires? When those were built, they were the tallest structures on the skyline. Now look what's tallest."
        I look around. "I see a giant dildo."
        "A dildo or a gherkin, depending on your point of view. Either way, it's owned by a bank. And that tall square item next to it is owned by another bank, same for that tall one there, at least three of those in the distance, all dedicated to the great god Mammon, and each one separated from its neighbours by avenues dedicated to Mercedes, the god of Private Motor Transport. It's the same everywhere."
        "What about Doctor Longlife?" I ask. "Where are his tall buildings?"
        Buddha gives me a condescending look. "Don't be silly. You can only take a building analogy so far."
        "The Doc's got buildings too," says John. "Plenty of hospitals, and they're big, but kind of tucked away, not so obvious."
        John pulls up next to the British Atheist Society on Regent Street, where Buddha and I outrage the motorists behind by taking the time to open the door and step out on to the pavement. We wave goodbye to John, who isn't tempted to return even for a day, and enter through the familiar outside door.
        "Will the Axis take both of us together?" I ask.
        "Yes, easily."
        I feel like an excited child. 
        "Wherever it is," adds Buddha.
        He's looking at a blank wall. So am I. There were steel doors here a few days ago. Now they've gone. We check the wall thoroughly, and perhaps pointlessly, for any sign that the Axis Mundi ever existed. The wall is perfect and looks like it's always been there.
        "Oh dear," says Buddha.
        "Oh dear? What do you mean – oh dear? What do we do now?"
        "Can I help you?" asks a young woman, watching us from the stairs at the end of the corridor.
        "Er, we were looking for the lift," explains Buddha.
        "Really? I don't think we've ever had a lift. I've been working here for three years. If we had a lift, I think I would have noticed it. Reception is on the first floor. You're atheists, are you?"
        "Not exactly," replies Buddha.
        But she's far more interested in me than in Buddha. She doesn't take her eyes off me as she approaches. "You're… are you the goat man from the newspapers?"
        "I am."
        "Can I get your autograph? It's not for me, you understand. It's for my sister. She thinks you're… sexy. I mean, not that I don't think you're sexy, but she's mad about you. Here…"
        She scrabbles nervously in her handbag and produces a pen and paper.
        "For Becky," she says.
        I look at Buddha for guidance.
        "Write 'For Becky' and then your name," says Buddha, quietly.
        I'm about to write Pan when he adds, "Peter Alan Nesmith."
        "It's not his real name," he tells the woman.
        "Oh." She sounds disappointed.
        I can't remember whether I'm supposed to be Alan or Allen, but I get the feeling it probably doesn't matter.
        The woman thanks me, snatches her trophy and rushes back up the stairs, clearly excited.
        "We'd better go, before she gathers a posse," says Buddha.
        "Go where?"
        "Back to Cricklewood."
        "You're joking! We've got to find the Axis Mundi."
        As we reach the outside door, Buddha calmly explains. "This is no accident, Pan. The Axis Mundi has been here for decades, and the week you arrive, it moves. This has been done to stop you going back. We won't be able to undo it in five minutes." 
        "We can try." 
        "Let's wander around London checking every lift door we can find. Then we can start on Paris and New York, maybe finish with Ulaanbaatar and the more developed towns of Mongolia. Shouldn't take more than a few thousand years."
        I'm about to come out with an equally caustic response, possibly, though I haven't thought of it yet, when we step out on to the pavement and are immediately distracted by the sound of screeching tyres, followed by a dull thud, like a sack of flour landing in a wheelbarrow.
        Twenty yards away, one of our fellow pedestrians lies in the road, a pool or rich red blood growing beneath his ear. A handful of other-worlders rush to help, some are on their mobile phones, most stand still on the pavement and watch.
        "Hmmm. A sacrifice to the god of Private Motor Transport," observes Buddha, without emotion.
        "Are you saying Mercedes moved the Axis Mundi?"
        He shrugs. "Maybe. Or it could be coincidence. She gets a sacrifice every thirty seconds somewhere in this world."
        "They must really like her."
        "They do. And Mammon gets even more." 
        
        
        
        
        
Chapter 8

I'm in the green room waiting for my turn on the Gary Triumph Show. When I told Stephanie I had no intention of going on the show, she didn't believe me, and it turns out she was right and I was wrong. Apart from anything else, I need the money.
         Buddha has been very generous, yet I can't live off him indefinitely, I need to pull my own weight, and the figures Stephanie talks about for product endorsement are more than Buddha earns in a year, assuming the show goes well. It would be churlish of me not to give it a try. Anyway, it might be fun.
        I'm waiting in the green room with my minder, a beautiful research assistant called Jacqueline, whose hair is held back by a ponytail band – a scrunchy I think she calls it – and explodes from behind the band in a mass of waves and ripples like clay-fashioned flames. She's not too heavy up top and has the most magnificent derriere I've ever seen, though I'm getting to see it less now she's noticed how my eyes follow it around the room. Jacqueline has two tasks in life. One is to make sure I've been to the toilet, the other is to make sure I don't go to the bar – that I don't do an Oliver Reed, as she calls it. She's succeeded in both.
        I was very happy to be led by that derriere towards the bathroom, and I'm not greatly worried by the bar ban because Stephanie McVeigh anticipated this and I've brought with me a small plastic bottle of Coca Cola with four added shots of vodka. Jacqueline is suspicious of the bottle and watches it like a mother watches scissors in the hands of a young child, but either she doesn't have the courage to question it or it's an acceptable ploy. Anyway, I'm not sure I'll finish it, as I'm not especially nervous.
        She's already offered me a fresh Coca Cola from the hospitality table, which is a meagre thing holding soft and hot drinks only. There are three packets of crisps and two of peanuts, and to brighten up the offering, which looks distinctly miserly and unappealing, there's a vase of daffodils in the centre, which I much appreciate – especially when Jacqueline isn't looking.
        It's Stephanie who advised me that four units of alcohol are ideal for removing pre-appearance nerves without removing dignity. She also instructed me in other aspects of the dark art of television appearance, though I suspect I'll finish up ignoring much of her advice. For example I'm supposed to wave my hands around like a lunatic, or at least an Italian, because viewers find it boring to watch somebody talking without movement. I should try not to put on a smile for long periods, even for more than a few seconds, as it can easily become more strenuous than lifting a sack of cement, and there are few things so ugly as a decomposing smile. Also I shouldn't worry too much what I say, as long as I say it with the right tone of voice, and if I don't like a question then I should answer a different one or use wit and charm when failing to answer.
        It is of course also Stephanie who placed me on the programme in the first place. I'm not sure who managed to place the guest I'm about to follow, the woman who's now talking to Gary as Jacqueline and I watch the monitor in the green room. Her name is Mandy and she's a hairdresser from Sheffield. This is her most memorable feature. From the clips mixed in to the interview I get the impression she originally featured in a programme about the holiday excesses of young people, where she was a hoot and a half. Unfortunately, now she's back in her homeland and sober she's a thoroughly straightforward and pleasant person. For ten minutes Gary's been trying to make something of her, putting in all the effort required to manufacture entertainment from wet cardboard, and now he's all worn out has given up and sent her centre-stage to sing a song.
        "Be good to him," Jacqueline tells me. "He really had to work for that."
        Strangely, I do feel some sympathy for Mr Triumph. His camp presentation and double-entendres I find mildly tedious, but watching him do a difficult interview has given me some idea why he earns a million a year. Many people are capable of negotiating choppy waters, but it takes a special individual to keep things moving through a windless calm.
        Also I recognise that he'll be very much on my side, that he's desperate to build somebody up if only they'll provide the building material. He has every incentive to make his guests appear wonderful and worthwhile, for if they don't then he'll soon be out of a living.
        Mandy begins to sing, and her singing is exciting, though perhaps not in the way she intends. Frequently she picks a note and does battle with it, always coming out on the winning side but leaving that delicious possibility that next time things will work out differently and not so well. Jacqueline is watching and listening with her mouth open, also surely waiting for that same moment, and the studio audience is spellbound, for this is singing on the edge.
        "Fantastic," says Jacqueline. "That makes up for it. This is great TV." It's at this moment that Jacqueline notices the headless daffodil stalks in the vase. She puzzles over them for a second and decides there's no point in asking the question as she wouldn't be able to do anything with the answer. Instead she looks at her watch. "Shit! He put her on early. Come on, let's go."
        Indeed this is great TV and I'm reluctant to leave Mandy before she reaches the end of her adventure. I want to know if she gets to her destination without falling down the musical crevasse, but there's a derriere to follow and I have a natural duty towards it and so I follow its owner out of the green room and along a short corridor to an entrance with a green curtain, whether by accident or design. Now I can hear the singing real-time, through the doorway, and this is an odd sensation. What was once merely television is now real. Jacqueline places her arm across the doorway, in the manner of a starting gate.
        When the applause for Mandy begins to subside, the gate lifts and Jacqueline ushers me inside. I arrive at a much higher level than I anticipated and I'm applauded for walking down the steps towards Gary Triumph, and here's the first thing I'm not expecting - the stage area is tiny. So is the audience area, together they take up a quarter of some vast space that's a production studio. It's also three times as high as it needs to be. Massive lamps light up the stage area and a small proportion of the audience, lamps strung from a ceiling so high it can't be seen. I'm walking into a universe with stars in the firmament and a small solar system in the middle, with Gary Triumph at its centre, now rising to meet me.
        "The goat-man!"
        "That's me."
        I doubt that we're going to win awards for this fascinating opening, yet the audience seems happy. I've been very fortunate to have Mandy prepare the ground ahead of me, and I take back all those things that ran through my mind about the depth of her personality and her singing.
        The steps on the way down are so well lit that I can barely make out one from another, but there aren't too many and I make it to the stage in one piece. We're bathed in so much light that it takes on its own mass and weight, in the same way that heat can do. There's plenty of heat too, and now I have a better idea why my face and brow were dusted with dull powder while I waited in the green room.
        With a flourish Gary indicates where I should park my backside. When I sit down the applause begins to subside, and I'm inclined to stand up again and see if the volume returns. Perhaps it's a reckless inclination, but I follow it. As I suspected, there's a slight increase in volume, which diminishes when I sit once again. I wonder how many times I could go up and down before we all get bored, but I can see from the look on Gary's face that his heart would give out first, and so I'm a gentleman and innocently adjust my waistband as if this was my only reason for getting up again in the first place, and I'm dead cool, and there's no risk of my being a real awkward bastard in front of cameras. 
        "Ladies and Gentlemen, Peter Alan Nesmith," says Gary, looking relieved. 
        It's a pleasant enough name and I've no objection to using it. The audience like it too. 
        "Good to be here, Gary." I've been watching Michael Caine and Sean Connery on Parkinson and similar, so I have some idea what to say.
        "I've always wanted to ask you this," says Gary, as if we've met each other a dozen times at parties and in celebrity restaurants and the opportunity was always close but never quite arrived. "Can I feel your horns?"
        There are a few titters from the audience. I lean forward and doff my hat, which is the stovepipe today. Stephanie circled around the subject of what I should be wearing on the show with such persistence that I gave in easily when she eventually landed for the attack. I'm wearing the stovepipe, the white blouson shirt that I adore, trousers that are slightly too tight, and underwear. So my getting up and down from the sofa might have an alternative explanation, inspired by a complaint from my genitals – I hadn't even thought of that myself until now. I'm barely used to clothes, never mind tight clothes, and this is the first time I've ever worn underwear. At Stephanie's insistence I'm wearing a thong-type affair of black satin, which I assume is what all the other-world males wear. It's not entirely comfortable. Perhaps she intends me to squirm about on the interview sofa from time to time, just to add movement.
        Gary's fondling of my horns is also tempting me to squirm. They're not especially sensitive, but how much would I want a male to caress any other insensitive part of my body, for example my hair? There's always the fallback position that I'm about twice as heavy as Gary and three times as strong. 
        The moment I think this thought, he stops fondling. 
        "Oooooh," he says. "Just like velvet!"
        I suppose he has a point. They do feel velvety. I too like fondling them, and when there's nobody else around I might hold on to one for ten minutes or more, which may not be natural, but then I have no base-level to measure from.
        "Do you get mistaken for the other fellow with horns?" asks Gary.
        It takes me a moment to work out what he means. "Oh, no, never. He's got bull's horns, entirely different." I'm about to expand on this when I recall that Stephanie advised me to steer clear of the issue of religion and not to pursue it with any vigour if it came up.
        "Is there one particular side of you that's goat?" asks Gary. "Your mother's side? Your father's side?"
        "My mother's side, I think. I knew my father and he looked fairly normal. But I've never known who my mother was."
        Stephanie has assured me I won't have to answer many questions about my background, and none about my age, because they'll make bad TV. Everybody wants to believe I popped out of the lab a couple of weeks ago, already aged, and Gary won't ask anything too pointed that bursts this bubble. It's an extension of what Stephanie calls the Alone In The Desert Syndrome, where one person speaks to camera about how it feels to be alone in the desert with a few litres of water, and viewers ignore the fact that there's a cameraman, sound-recordist, second grip, tealady and a truck full of equipment somewhere just out of shot, because that would only spoil the excitement.
        "Oooh," says Gary, inviting the audience to feel sympathy for me. "And your legs are entirely goat-like. Is that right?"
        "Yes, with hoofs." Proudly I display my hoofs. It's a pleasant change to show them off to the other-worlders rather than hide them. I've always been fond of my hoofs and the masquerade of pretending to have feet hasn't come easily.
        "Good for running, jumping, climbing mountainsides?" suggests Gary.
        "They certainly are. I can outrun and outjump anybody with the standard spindly affairs and five toes."
        "We should have you in our Olympic team," says Gary. He strokes his chin while he thinks of something. "Do you know why Mexico gets so few medals at the Olympics?"
        "No."
        "Because any Mexican who can run, jump or swim is already in America."
        Some members of the audience find this funny. Personally I find it misses the mark. Maybe it was the timing.
        "But seriously," asks Gary, "would they allow you to run in the games, I wonder? We could finish up with winged ski-jumpers, swimmers with fish tails, yachtsmen with four arms…"
        Gary decides the genetically-modified Olympics is too challenging for a lightweight chat-show and moves on. "What about eating?" he asks. "Do you have two stomachs or however many a goat has?"
        "Four stomachs. I'm not sure, to be honest. But I do like my greens."
        "How can you not know how many stomachs you have?"
        "Are you sure you only have one? Have you looked?"
        Our conversation continues in this lazy manner for many minutes. I wonder if Mandy is now in the green room looking at the screen and thinking to herself that I'm a boring old fart and they would have been better off with a second hairdresser from Sheffield. Even my own attention is beginning to drift. I'm looking beyond the bright lights into the surrounding darkness of this cavernous studio, beyond the audience on its terraces, and thinking to myself how much this is artifice. On the screen it looks like we're in a room with a ceiling and walls, but this isn't the case, or rather they're so distant we could fit another three audiences and stages inside, maybe another eleven we decked them one on top of the other. We're pushing the Alone In The Desert Syndrome to the extent that the desert itself isn't real. There ma