The Book of the Die. Luke Rhinehart
‘He evaporates!’ laughed Effect, and cheers and applause reverberated through the universe.
Nevertheless, after three months of this sort of thing everyone was bored, including Cause and Effect, so they began presenting statistics, graphs and computer printouts to demonstrate the steady progress they had made in men’s minds since the last report, giving detailed descriptions of some of their new acts: the great advances of Einstein and Gates, of nuclear bombs and missiles and spacecraft and websites, and new germs and poisons and cures – the advances of all those who had discovered new ways of joining together the separated.
The Lord Chance listened with great patience and interest. ‘You certainly seem to be doing your work,’ he finally said, stifling a yawn.
‘Naturally,’ replied Cause. ‘Human beings are learning to look for Me everywhere.’
‘They see an unending link of Us through all creation,’ added Effect with his usual smirk.
‘And seek Me as the Ultimate Truth,’ continued Cause.
‘Fine,’ said the Lord Chance, and this time he did yawn, the yawn lasting six days, during which all stood respectfully.
But when the yawn was finished the Only Begotten Divine Son of Chance, Our Beloved Whim, He of Many Chances, who in two hundred thousand years had never before dared to speak when his Father was holding one of his sporadic formal hearings, for the first time spoke.
‘Father?’ He asked timidly.
‘Mmmm?’ said Lord Chance. He was never surprised at anything and looked down at His young Son with a vague smile.
‘It seems from these reports that everyone’s forgetting all about You,’ Whim went on with shy determination. ‘No one acknowledges your Presence. The universes are filled with unbelievers. Everyone’s slobbering after Cause and Effect.’
‘Really?’ replied the Lord Chance indifferently.
‘It’s called becoming civilized,’ commented Effect snidely.
‘Whenever humans try to introduce You into their lives,’ Whim went on, ignoring the interruption, ‘by consulting yarrow stalks, cracks in a turtle’s back, the stars, Tarot cards, dice, coins, random numbers, astrological predictions, or stockbrokers, Cause and Effect come up with some new act which makes humans think that, if just looked at closely enough, You aren’t really important at all.’
‘I know, I know,’ said the Lord Chance. ‘But it’s just an Accident, Son.’
‘You ought to break up Cause and Effect, Father. They’ve made your whole Creation seem a big mechanical bore.’
‘I resent that,’ said Effect.
‘Inferiority complex,’ commented Cause, ‘because You always have to come after Me.’ Waves of laughter spilled briefly through space.
‘Break them up, huh?’ said the Lord Chance. ‘Could be, Son. But, remember, as a matter of principle I’m not fond of doing anything for a purpose.’
‘But I want to do something,’ exclaimed Whim.
‘Oh, well, that’s a different matter. I don’t like to meddle with any sort of purpose into the affairs of the universe – smacks of favouritism – but if You want to do something, well, I’m sure that there’d be nothing very purposive about that.’
‘Thank you, Father,’ said Whim, looking up at the Lord Chance with a shy smile.
‘But first it’s about time I had a good God-to-God talk with you.’
The Lord Chance then made a dignified gesture with His little finger, and Cause and Effect and their numerous minor Gods bowed and began leaving the hall.
‘See you next millennium, Honoured Lord,’ said Cause, bowing in an exaggerated fashion.
‘And in the meantime,’ added Effect with a smirk, ‘don’t do anything We wouldn’t do!’ And they both exited with a little four-step and a long echoing laugh.
The Lord Chance smiled benevolently after them and then turned back to His Son.
‘Where was I?’ He began. ‘Oh, yes. My Son, you’re young. It’s only been in the last hundred thousand years or so that I’ve really noticed you. It’s time for me to let you know the facts of the Universe.’
‘Yes, Father.’
The Lord Chance cleared His throat. ‘As you may know, the Universe is based on the free enterprise system: every God for Himself. I work my Random Way, Cause and Effect work their Boring Way; Purpose works His; Illusion does his magic tricks; Good and Evil fight their ridiculous fights; and old Ultimate Truth sits around and feels important. In addition, of course, there are the two hundred thousand or so lesser Gods who support –’
‘Oh, please, Father,’ Whim said. ‘I learned all this in the ten-thousandth grade.’
‘There, there, be patient,’ said the Lord Chance, placing His Hand gently on Our Beloved Whim’s shoulder. ‘What you don’t know is that each of the Gods – I mean the Eight Great Gods – Each One thinks that He, and He alone, is the Lord of Creation and the Sustainer of the Universe.’
‘But, Father –’
‘Thus, Cause and Effect believe they control everything; Illusion feels everything is Him; Good and Evil think their petty squabbles are the ultimate events; and Purpose –’
‘But, Father, just a few months ago Cause and Effect were here at your Court reporting to you. And before that I can remember Good coming here and –’
‘I know, I know,’ said Lord Chance, nodding his head and smiling softly. ‘But every few thousand years or so I have to report to Their Royal Courts.’
‘Oh, Father …’
‘I know, Son. It’s degrading. But I’m afraid that’s the way the Universe is. And I also have to visit the courts of Purpose, Illusion and Evil. And worst of all, every two or three millennia I find myself standing for at least a year or two in front of the Court of Ultimate Truth, pretending to be respectful, even though He’s the one God who has never been known to say a single word to any of us Others.’
‘But you control all those Phonies!’
‘Well, maybe. I think I control all those Phonies. But they seem to think, by Chance I assume, that They control Me. For Illusion I’m just another illusion; for Cause and Effect only a hidden cause; for Purpose I’m just a necessary antagonist or else an occasional servant of his boy Evolution. For some of the minor Gods like Didat, Littlebee and Jehova, I’m called miracle, and so on. I, of course, believe that each of them acts only under my own haphazard way.’
‘But it’s true, isn’t it?’ Whim asked, looking up hopefully at his Father.
‘Damned if I know,’ the Lord Chance replied with a puzzled frown. ‘The fact is that none of Us in here is too sure of Himself these days.’
‘But can’t we find out for sure?’
The Lord Chance frowned again and scratched his bald head.
‘Fact is, maybe there is a way.’
‘What is it, Father? I’ll do anything.’
‘Well, the only thing any of us Gods knows for certain is that the only One who knows for sure is Ultimate Truth.’
Whim looked bewildered.
‘But … but –’
‘I know, Son. Most of us Big Gods think old U.T. is the biggest Phony of Us all. He never does a damn thing except sit inside that big junky Palace of His and imply that He’s superior to the rest of Us. Purpose calls him old “Know-It-All” and Illusion calls