Ye Gods!

by Tom Holt

  That was why it was a Betamax world, after all.

  Unlike most Betamax worlds, however, this one survived the inevitable ensuing possibility crisis and remained extant. This was because of what can only be described as a spatio-temporal cock-up, involving the arrival of a team of interplanetary missionaries from the neighbouring Betamax world, where interstellar travel had been developed before the discovery of printing.7 Soon after the mass conversion of the Betamax-human race to Methodism, however, the severe possibility problems caused thereby were all solved at a stroke by the timely intervention of a huge meteor, which smashed the planet into rubble.

  The reason why possibility errors are treated so seriously by the authorities, however, is because once they start they tend to continue. It therefore came as no surprise to the Incident Room staff at Possibility Police HQ when particles of incandescent matter released by the destruction of Betamax 9567432 burst into the atmosphere of the world which originally sent out the missionaries, landed on the roofs of all the churches and burned them all down. The embarrassing result of this was that the majority of the population at once abandoned Christianity (thus cancelling the projected nuclear religious war against the Eastern Heretics which should have ended the planet) and set about persuading the remaining faithful of the error of their ways, inventing printing as a necessary method of information dissemination. The world thus created was so perilously close to the Absolutely Possible that the police were compelled to intervene, in the interests of Possibility Preservation, by planting a few absolute impossibilities in rarely-visited areas of the planet and then coming back next day and atomising the entire planetary system under Article 47(1) of the Sirius Convention.

  Even then, however, their problems were far from over, since the force of the explosion of Betamax 5609765 was so violent that Planet VHS - our planet - was temporarily rocked on its axis, with the result that at a crucial moment a buckshee Thursday was suddenly introduced into the week; the Thursday, in fact, when Jason Derry went down to the Underground to find Gelos. More important, it meant that an extra day had been introduced which had not been foreseen when the Order of Play was drawn up at the very start of the Game. As a result, at the vital point of the story which follows, it was nobody’s go at all.

  ‘You mean to tell me,’ Jupiter said, ‘that all this time we’ve had a mole?’

  Apollo wondered whether it was worth pointing out that it had been an eagle rather than a mole, but decided no, probably not.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘I see.’ Jupiter had this knack of asking questions he already knew the answers to; a common mannerism among the omniscient, but aggravating nevertheless. ‘And this mole has been collaborating with . . . with That Person all this time?’

  ‘Yes.’ Why is it, Apollo asked himself, that just because I’m the one who tells him, it’s suddenly all my fault? There, I’m doing it now; I know exactly why. Because I’m a mug, that’s why.

  ‘And nobody noticed, is that it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you lot,’ Jupiter went on, ‘call yourself gods, do you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jupiter laughed, and black clouds scurried guiltily across the skies of Earth to the positions they should have been in ten minutes ago. It can be tough, being a cloud.

  ‘And now,’ Jupiter said, ‘that you have at last found out, may I ask what you’re proposing to do about it?’

  Apollo recognised that this was a question that couldn’t be answered with Yes, and searched his divine mind for an answer. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘The old brain a bit slow today, is it?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘GET IT SORTED OUT,’ said Jupiter - when you’re the Great Sky God it’s no problem at all to shout in capital letters. In fact, when he was really upset, he could shout in bold face, italics and pitch ten.

  ‘Yes,’ said Apollo, ‘we . . .’

  ‘NOW.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ Apollo said, ‘But . . .’

  For all his omniscience, Jupiter didn’t seem to understand the implications of But. He just frowned, with the result that race meetings on four continents were washed out. Apollo backed away, tripped over a self-propelled foot-stool (which apologised in Latin) and ran.

  Not long after leaving the presence of the Father of Gods and Men, he bumped into Mars. To be exact, he trod on his foot.

  ‘Watch it,’ said the ex-God of War, ‘I’ve had enough of it today with Claymore mines without you as well.’

  Apollo apologised - he had often reflected on the aptness of his name - and stopped running. Mars looked at him.

  ‘What’s up, Pol?’ he asked. ‘You seem a bit flustered.’

  ‘Flustered.’ Apollo turned the adjective over in his mind. A bit on the weak side perhaps, but it was in the right ball park, so to speak. ‘Yes,’ he added, from sheer habit.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s been a bit of a cock-up,’ said Apollo - everyone else was having a go at understatement, he said to himself, why not me too? - ‘and I’ve got to sort it out, apparently.’

  ‘Hard luck,’ Mars said sympathetically. ‘Now what’s happened?’

  ‘You know Prometheus’s eagle?’

  Mars nodded, making the shrapnel-shredded plume of his helmet nod.

  ‘Well,’ Apollo went on, ‘apparently it turns out that that bloody fowl’s gone and changed sides on us. It’s been working for You-Know-Who all along.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mars thought for a moment. ‘I wouldn’t call ripping someone’s liver out for him every morning and evening working for him exactly,’ he said. ‘Cheaper than a dialysis machine, I suppose, but . . .’

  ‘It’s not that,’ said Apollo. ‘It seems that that dratted eagle’s been running errands for him. Subverting Heroes. Spying on us.’

  ‘Spying?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Apollo grunted. ‘Been dressing up as a human and passing itself off as the apprentice Pythoness of Delphi.’ Apollo reflected briefly on his brief infatuation with the feathered temptress, and shuddered. ‘Which means that the Big P has known every move we make. Vexing, isn’t it?’

  Mars rubbed his chin, ‘You mean like a sort of mole?’ he asked. Apollo smiled. He could say it now.

  ‘No, Ma,’ he said, ‘an eagle can’t be a mole. Biologically impossible.’

  Mars frowned impatiently. ‘You know what I mean,’ he said. ‘Bit of a problem, that. You have my sympathy.’

  ‘Also,’ Apollo went on, ‘though I’m pleased to say the Old Sod hasn’t found out yet, he’s also got Cerberus on his side.’

  ‘Cerberus?’

  ‘That’s right. Bit poor, isn’t it? Pluto’s going to be in for a nasty shock any minute now, I can tell you.’

  ‘He’s down there?’

  ‘At this very minute,’ said Apollo, with just a hint of less than charitable feeling, ‘looking for Jason Derry. He’s the Hero who’s been subverted . . .’

  Just then, Minerva came in. She was somewhat red in the face and not in the best of moods. This was understandable, since she’d just had to tell Jupiter about a certain dog.

  ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘You are a pair of idiots, aren’t you?’

  Mars opened his mouth to protest but Minerva ignored him. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘here’s your orders from the Boss. Pol, you get down to Earth and deal with Prometheus. Nail that eagle and get a replacement, right?’

  ‘All right,’ Apollo sighed.

  ‘And you, Ma,’ Minerva said, ‘you’d better pop down and see that Pluto’s all right. And deal with the Derry boy while you’re at it. He’s getting out of hand and . . .’

  ‘You’re joking,’ Mars said. ‘I was listening to the Commentary just now, and it said he’s armed with the Sword of . . .’

  ‘Don’t be such a baby,’ Minerva replied. ‘You are supposed to be the Driver of the Spoil, Ma, or had you forgotten?’

  ‘Driv
ing the Spoil I can handle,’ Mars said rebelliously. ‘Driving the Spoil is what I’m good at. Getting snipped up into tagliatelli by muscular youths with magic swords doesn’t feature in my job description. Sorry, but . . .’

  ‘Mars.’ Minerva looked at him sternly. ‘You don’t want me to tell Pa about your trip to Greenham Common, do you?’

  Mars sagged like a tent with no pole. ‘You wouldn’t,’ he said weakly.

  ‘He wouldn’t like it, would he?’ she said. ‘A son of his climbing over the wire and daubing No Nukes Here in green paint on the missile silos. I think you’d better do as you’re told for once, don’t you?’

  Mars inflated his lungs to speak.

  ‘Language,’ said Minerva pre-emptively.

  ‘Anyway,’ said the ex-God of War, ‘what does he mean by Deal With? You might at least tell me . . .’

  ‘Jupiter thinks,’ said Minerva with an iceberg smile, ‘that the constellation of Cassiopeia looks a bit lop-sided. Could do with an extra star somewhere in the middle. See to it, will you?’

  Minerva turned, adjusted her owl, and walked serenely out. Mars drew in a deep breath, sighed and jerked his head at the space Minerva had just occupied.

  ‘Daddy’s girl,’ he said.

  ‘So,’ said Gelos, ‘that’s more or less it, I think. Is there anything you’d like to ask me?’

  Jason leaned forward in his chair until his elbows touched his knees and struggled for breath. When he had got some semblance of control over his body back, he removed the handkerchief from his mouth and gasped greedily for air. He hadn’t laughed so much since the time the Nine-Headed Serpent of the Sun had tried to bite him.

  Not, it should be stated, that Gelos had been in any way outstandingly witty, amusing or novel; it was, as far as Jason could make out, all in the way he told them. Otherwise, why had he nearly had a cerebral haemorrhage when the old gentleman had asked him if he wanted a scone?

  ‘No,’ he croaked, ‘thank you, I think I’ve got all that.’

  ‘The thing to remember . . .’ Gelos paused politely while Jason rolled on the floor kicking his legs helplessly and making little wheezing noises. ‘The thing to remember is that . . . Look, are you feeling quite all right? Would you like a glass of water or something?’

  ‘No,’ Jason shrieked, ‘I’m fine, really.’ He dabbed ineffectually at the tears in his eyes and rose unsteadily to his knees. ‘Please do go on . . . I’m sorry, I’m not usually like this . . . I . . .’ He collapsed into a private hell of giggles. Cerberus gave him a look. Three looks.

  ‘This really only goes to prove,’ said the old man equably, ‘what I was saying. There’s nothing in the world stronger than laughter. If it can have this sort of effect on someone like you, a Hero, son of Jupiter himself, just think what it could do to the ordinary man in the street, if only he came into contact with a strong enough dose. I could take over the world and be the One True God with no trouble at all. But I wouldn’t want that.’

  He paused while Jason ironed out the spasmodic convulsions in his chest and dragged air into his lungs. Sometimes, the old man was thinking, I don’t seem to know my own strength. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘perhaps it would be better if I changed back into the other shape - you know, the threatening statue stuff. Would that help?’

  Jason managed to find just enough strength to nod his head, and immediately the cosy little room vanished and Jason found himself lying on nothing again, looking at a pair of talons.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Much,’ Jason said. ‘Go on with what you were saying.’

  ‘I can cut out the hissing snakes if you like.’

  ‘No,’ said Jason, ‘that’s fine. Just so long as you lay off the jokes, that’s all.’

  ‘I don’t make jokes, actually,’ said Gelos wistfully. ‘In fact, sometimes I wonder what a sense of humour is like. I’m disqualified from having one, you see.’

  Jason nodded weakly. The risk of internal combustion, he supposed. Nasty.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to rule the world exactly,’ Gelos was saying, ‘not the world the way it is, you see. It’s too - well, completely and utterly and irrevocably fucked up for my liking. All I could do would be take people’s minds off it all, and I suppose that’s better than nothing. It’s what I do now, more or less. But that wouldn’t be right, would it?’

  ‘Wouldn’t it?’

  ‘No,’ Gelos said. ‘You see, I’d be making people forget about all the horrible things in the world, and that would mean they’d never do anything about them. And then, of course, something terrible would happen - a plague or a disaster at a power station, that sort of thing - and everybody would be so busy laughing about it that they wouldn’t get around to actually doing anything to put it right, and then where would we be? In fact,’ he added, ‘that’s exactly the possibility curve that I’ve calculated. You know about possibility physics and all that, do you?’

  ‘A bit,’ Jason said. ‘But let’s not get bogged down in all that theory stuff. What you’re saying is that you want the world set right before you take over.’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘And in the meanwhile, you just want to stay where you are and not be bothered by anyone?’

  ‘That’s it, yes,’ said Gelos. ‘People think I came down here, where it doesn’t actually exist - you know, not as such - to hide from old Jupiter. Not a bit of it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. You see, I’m a bit like radiation. I leak. If I was anywhere else in the world but down here, where it isn’t actually possible to be, then great excess doses of laughter would sort of seep up through the ground and get into everything, and that would cause absolute chaos. As it is, enough of the stuff gets out to keep the world ticking over more or less, but it never reaches a critical level. And I think that’s how it should stay, for now.’

  ‘I see,’ said Jason, nodding. ‘So where’s the problem?’

  ‘Jupiter,’ said Gelos. ‘And all those other idiots too, of course. They want to kidnap me. Now they don’t scare me, not one bit; if they were to come down here and try throwing their weight about, I could make them laugh so much they’d bust their heavenly guts. The trouble is, I’d have to release so much laughter it’d be bound to get out into the Topside and mess things up for people. That’s why it’s essential that things are kept under control, do you see?’

  ‘I think so,’ Jason said. ‘You need someone to keep the gods off your back for the time being.’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Gelos, nodding. ‘Really, it’s a case of making sure they don’t get to me. That would have been all right, except that they’ve been looking for me a lot lately - I think the Betamax world where I don’t exist is reaching critical level - and it was only a matter of time before they did their calculations and found out I was here. That’s why I got Prometheus to bring you here.’

  Jason raised his eyebrows. ‘What can I do?’ he said.

  ‘Diversion,’ said Gelos. ‘You can fight the gods for me.’

  Jason stared. ‘Me?’ he said. ‘You must be kidding.’

  ‘I’m deadly serious,’ said Gelos, ‘if that’s not a contradiction in terms. I want them to think you’ve rescued me or abducted me, and you’ve somehow got hold of me and want to take over the universe. Then they attack you, and you give them a good hiding, and . . .’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Jason, ‘but is that certain? Likely even?’

  ‘Absolute certainty,’ said Gelos. ‘You see, I shall give you a secret weapon.’

  ‘Oh good,’ said Jason. ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’

  ‘Well,’ Gelos added, ‘more sort of lend, really. I was thinking of lending you one of the Three Jokes.’

  ‘Three Jokes?’ Jason’s face must have fallen slightly, as if he had been expecting something a bit more tangible, like a tank. Gelos smiled.

  ‘Let me explain,’ he said. ‘As any comedian will tell you, there are only Three Jokes. All other jokes are minor variants on the Three, they
have to be diluted right down before people can take them, otherwise - well, they’d be fatal.’

  ‘That funny, huh?’

  ‘Oh yes. Now the first Joke, the strongest of them all, is called the Great Primordial. If you were to tell the first Joke, you would make the sun laugh so much it would trip and fall onto the Earth, which would be so cracked up with laughing it would fall into the sea.’

  Jason nodded. ‘Would that be the one about the three Scotsmen and the reel of cotton?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Gelos, ‘though I know the one you mean. That’s actually one of the Lesser Arcana of the Triple-Bodied Zephyr, and if properly told it can crumple up sheet steel like paper. The Great Primordial is rather better.’

  ‘Wow,’ Jason said.

  ‘The second Joke,’ said Gelos, ‘is called the Celestial Labarum and involves an Englishman, a Pole, and a Goth. You’ve heard of the eruption of Krakatoa?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My fault,’ confessed Gelos. ‘I have this habit of talking in my sleep sometimes, and one night the punch line - just the punch line, you understand - must just have slipped out. By the time it got out past all this nothingness and found its way through the magma layer to the South Seas there wasn’t much left of it, I can tell you, but . . .’

  Jason shuddered. ‘Hot stuff, eh?’

  ‘You could say that,’ said Gelos. ‘The third Joke,’ he went on, ‘is the weakest of the three. It’s known as the Mighty Cloud Spirit Joke, and it’s more of an anti-personnel joke, really. Knocks out people, leaves buildings standing, that sort of thing. And that’s the one I’m going to lend you.’

  ‘Um . . .’

  ‘I know what you’re going to say,’ said Gelos. ‘Too risky, you were going to say. You’re quite right. That’s why we needed the dog.’

  Jason looked blank. ‘The dog?’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Gelos. ‘You see, what I propose to do is tell half the joke to you, and then send you out of the room. I shall then put two of the dog’s brains to sleep while I tell one-sixth of the Joke to the remaining brain. And so on, until each of the dog’s brains knows one sixth, and you know all the rest. It’s a sort of failsafe system, really.’