disintegrating, despite the efforts of His keepers and their Lockheed 7000. Jerusalemâs walls are crumbling, Edenâs trees are dying, the Euphrates has become a sewer, the maggots shall inherit His meat. Luckily, our Creator constructed reality with an eye to His ultimate departure. He filled the universe with self-sustaining miracles. Long after He and I are gone, the great geophysical processes will continue yielding earthquakes and volcanoes, the vicissitudes of biology will bring forth multiple sclerosis and cancer, and the perversities of human nature will keep rape and murder in the headlines.
The one person to whom I have difficulty lying is myself, and in all candor I must admit I became obsolete long before I became mortal. Oh, how I long for that era when my Creator wasnât comatose and people consulted me as frequently as they now see psychiatrists, Mafia godfathers, and other members of the helping professions; that golden age when Madame de Montespan, Louis XIVâs mistress, implored me to render the queen sterile so the kingâs attentions might be wholly fixed on her; that bygone time when the nuns of Loudon hired me to help them release their pent-up sexual frustrations. I donât want your sympathy, friends. I donât want your understanding. I merely want to be taken as seriously by you as Santa Claus is taken by your children.
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âStation three: the Cooling Chamber,â said Kimberly as the tram reached the end of the Corridor of the Cured. âPlease watch your step.â
The tour guide led Group C through a terminal decorated with a facsimile of Donatelloâs bronze
David
and a reproduction of Leonardoâs
Last Supper
, then into a passenger elevator so roomy it accommodated the entire party, wheelchairs and all.
âTwo thousand and eighty-four feet from here to the top,â said Kimberly, pushing a button. The door whooshed closed. Vibrating gently, the car shot heavenward. Three minutes later, it stopped. âAll out, please.â
Disembarking, Martin found himself atop a transparent Lucite plain. A larger-than-life facsimile of Michelangeloâs marble
PietÃ
loomed over the pilgrims. Beyond the
PietÃ
stretched a meandering footpath bordered by flower boxes abloom with daffodils and hyacinths. Every six feet, a neon arrow lay embedded in the polymer, blinking bright red as it pointed the visitor toward the next checkpoint on his trek across the Main Attraction.
âAs befits a journey so intimate, your meeting with the Godform will be entirely self-directed,â said Kimberly. âAllow forty minutes for the complete circuit. Seven private chapels, three rest rooms, and a dozen snapshot opportunities are located along the way.â She glanced at her Twelve Disciples wristwatch. âIâll expect you back at this statue no later than five-thirty.â
Sneaking up behind him, Corinne seized Martinâs hand, entwining their fingers in a fleshy knot. âYouâd better follow this path alone, darling,â she said. âA paganâs presence might annoy Him.â
âYou think so?â he asked, reverently brushing the marble Madonnaâs left knee.
âLetâs not take any chances. You never know.â
âYou never know.â
He started away, walking west across the Main Attractionâs left nipple, then north along His sternum. There wasnât much to see. Pausing atop the frosted polymer, he directed his gaze through a hundred feet of sub-zero air and focused on the divine chest, a hairy landscape rolling a thousand yards in all directions: compelling vistas, but their therapeutic value seemed nil. He kept moving north. Reaching the mouth, he discovered to his astonishment that God, like everyone else on the staff of Celestial City USA, was smiling. The fifty-yard rictus stretched ear to ear, pulpy lips pulled back to reveal teeth as white as Ivory soap, each the size of a refrigerator
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