THE GREAT PLAN

LEROY KETTLE

Most sensible people do not have enough time to be bored. Most sensible people would think to pack more than one wine-bird. But, as Leroy Kettle (revere) who is noted for the cunning quality of his humour, here points out, boredom, the work ethic and sense are inextricably mixed. Perhaps the True Tragedie was that tor Burgundal and his cronies, meaning itself had lost meaning ...

* * * *

BURGUNDAL laughed in the light, wide way which indicated extreme delight. It was luze-whispering time, as always when the year was so far through, and he had just formulated the Great Plan, which gave all appearances of being a splendid diversion. Because of these things there was more goodness in the soft, warm air than usual. Burgundal, not necessarily a person to whom goodness meant anything special, was actually savouring the experience and storing it for possible future recollection. His cheeks, below their amusing gold whorls, flushed with what should perhaps be called ecstasy while the ancient sign affixed to his high forehead flashed COKE in wild, red abandon. Even his hair seemed to be more restless than usual.

The days passed quickly as he sat on the realistically gnarled branches mumbling happily to the fruit; but, eventually, the slight tension in the brain he used most often, caused by his thoughts of the Great Plan, forced him to relinquish the primitive though exhilarating company of the luze, and act.

When he judged the moment to be appropriate and the tone-winds were strong, he yelled good and loud within his mind. Somewhere, and in other places, people heard him. He waited just a short time to ensure they were the right people, as tradition decreed (though there were only right people to hear), then, no longer tense, and with a mild excitement in his secondary voice, he whispered to the luze and learned a little, taught a little.

Some while later those same right people gathered together in their hundreds at the great desk of Burgundal within the largest, most comfortable, most hard to leave room, not only in his Tuesday Palace but probably above, below, and upon the whole of that particular land area. The caller himself was not yet present and speculation was rife as to the reason for the calling.

Undlum, a Man of unreasonable height, young enough to assume iridescent bones and kaleidoscope eyes, but old enough to be listened to (or, at least, heard) suggested it was from pure joy that Burgundal had shouted.

'For are his eccentricities not well-known? And what is more eccentric, and thus to him more pleasurable, in these times than a call?' Greatly satisfied with his contribution to the discussion, Undlum ate of the grapes which briefly grew by him.

However, Callastop, that erstwhile student of Human deviousness, too old to be other than wry and cynical, said: 'Burgundal is rarely capable of performing anything merely joyously and certainly not with purity. He has, and always will have, himself solely as the centre of whatever thoughts spin between his brains. Not precisely a fit subject for one day's contemplation, let alone an eternity. His mind butterflies around and he thinks all should stop to admire its pretty colours. But the intellectual capacity of a peacock is not noticeably increased when it spreads its tail.'

Callastop had undertaken her primary establishment during a period of fashionable austerity and it showed in her drabness of dress and appreciation, her long, plain-silver hair, and her meagre anatomical embellishments. She also failed to notice, or respond to, Undlum's obvious dismay made most apparent by his dimmed skeletal structure.

She continued, 'He has probably called for no reason, or perhaps to demonstrate his latest fazm. Silly, dry, little thing.'

There were loud murmurs of 'Never' and 'Could well be', until the oldest, and wisest when all went well, of those gathered, shifted on his velvet and warm-ice couch, and said: 'Pooh.'

Magrib was renowned for his perception and so all were quiet, though the sag could detect some uncompliments about Burgundal drifting by. Once, even, though he felt too slowly to tell from where, the tone-wind carried the description of a surgically strenuous operation which would enable Burgundal to return to the more horizontal orders of the animal kingdom from whence he had undoubtably arrived in error. The small, wrinkled appearance adopted by the philosopher became more small and wrinkled as his annoyance increased but that soon departed as it was one of the more base feelings. If some other chose to interest himself in rudeness, that was really no concern of Magrib's. Everyone was free. He had thought, in his unusual fit of pique, to leave and return to study the rather ancient mountain he had recently found existed in his favourite retreat; but, as these trifling upsets should not control him, he remained.

At last, and with no apologies, Burgundal arrived. One second he was not there and the next he was only just there and the next he had some substance, until, after many such seconds, he appeared solidly and actually before them. There was a little disappointment, even from his detractors, that he had not descended upon them in an inventively pyrotechnical manner, and without luze leaves and cobwebs on his immaculately reconstructed, old-time, green smock.

He stood there, tall and broad, before the vast expanse of intricately carved desk, and looked around between the towering, pure-white pillars which supported the recently added flicker-beam roof. There sat, lay or aired the whole of True Humanity, friends and unfriends. He knew their disappointment and regretted his rather arrogant dismissal of the need for a grand entry, until he spoke. They were not disappointed then.

'I,' he announced in a fine, powerful voice, 'have formulated the Great Plan."

Gasps of amazement came from all parts of the room in a fashion exceeding ritual demand.

'The Great Plan,' echoed some of the True Humans, tasting the words, sucking their significance dry.

The words shone upon Burgundal's lips and dripped like the very best honey from his tongue. They resounded from the ivory walls as had Vaffly's Horn of Triumph in the days of the First Separation, but were also as soft as the cry of a silarg. It was a glorious moment.

Finally, well-satisfied with the reaction despite his feeling that some present had only registered token astonishment, Burgundal raised a jewel-encrusted hand.

'Cease,' he commanded, exercising temporary ascendancy by virtue of the call. Gradually the mutterings and tonings came to a halt.

'We, True Humanity, are met together at my request so that we may all share in the glory of my Great Plan. I trust you will be so kind as to allow me the honour of describing its workings.'

Callastop looked at her friends and they nodded among themselves. Perong's undemonstrative, self-aware faction also nodded. Other groups, and individuals with no usual desire or ability to join in shared amusements (perhaps it was their quiet time), also nodded, with the exception of Magrib, who may or may not have inclined his head. There did indeed seem to be a general concensus that Burgundal should continue.

He reached for the crystal goblet which forever floated at his side, and filled it from a passing wine-bird. He drank deeply of the nectar, spilling a little which dissolved in the ingeniously tidy air. The others emulated him depending on their proximity to a wine-bird; the poor creatures were always at a loss when uncommon interest was shown in their produce. Burgundal let the fire of the drink burn along his veins. He waved his goblet in an all-inclusive, though somewhat dampening, gesture.

'Here we have everything we may wish for,' he said in as serious a voice as he possessed. 'We live easily on this, our home planet. Our long ago and good Ancestors (revere their names) provided us with the means to live with scarcely the need for a thought let alone a physical action unless we ourselves are desirous of such. We have separated from the mundane galaxy over which we once held sway, and we exist solely for ourselves, to be the centre of our own galaxies of thought.'

Here Callastop had the grace to blush a very little, though she felt she ought to be outraged.

'The castles of our minds,' (Burgundal's metaphors were not the most consistent), 'have for their walls stupendous talents. Some of us choose to lie in the shadows of these walls, others attempt to climb them. Perhaps too many are not among the strugglers to the summit.'

He looked around darkly. Most of the True Humans found they could not meet his gaze. It was mostly a small trick he performed with concealed mirrors.

'There seems to be nothing we lack. Or is there?'

He paused, and in that pause Magrib said something very quietly.

'Ah, Magrib, ancient delver into reason,' (for Burgundal had heard, not being so totally involved in his own mind as some might suggest) 'has age deadened your voice?'

Magrib, openly derisive of attention-attracting effects, merely spoke in reply, making no attempt at physical or mental gaudiness. 'Don't be too clever there, Burgundal. Not too clever.'

* * * *

He sipped his wine from an ebony chalice, allowing time to rush on without him, demonstrating his disregard for haste. His old, grey lips smacked with pleasure as he wiped blatantly at his green-streaked beard.

'I will tell you what you wish to hear. We lack purpose.'

Burgundal immediately resumed his speech having become impatient with the aged Human's slightly hypocritical stage-stealing, and he missed (or did he choose to ignore?) Magrib's final words. 'But do we need it?'

Burgundal shouted, 'Exactly. Purpose. We lack purpose.'

He surveyed the audience quickly and discreetly, assessing their mostly silent response to his utterance. He seemed to have them, including Callastop and friends. There was no hostility, nothing even so tenuous as a raised eyebrow.

'If we could do something which was great and good and always remembered, would not that make it all worthwhile?'

'What is there to make worthwhile?' inquired Callastop, uncertain as to the intended destination of Burgundal's line of logic but not wishing him to have any easy route there.

Burgundal frowned. He thought for a moment while he set his face in a look of contemptuous superiority. Not wishing his diversion to be concluded so soon, he found the right defence to Callastop's unexpectedly direct inquiry.

'How can you, of all True Humanity, ask such a question? Surely it is you who are the most vocal critic whenever we appear to be more self-indulgent than normal. I cannot believe that when I offer you a chance to make your life, and help in making all our lives, worthy of the great trust placed there by our Ancestors (revere) you would spurn me.

'We have lived selfish, wastrel existences long enough. If we are to continue in this fashion we must perform an act of unparalleled generosity in order that we may keep faith with the past. Then we can live once more as we choose, but in the knowledge that we have left a mark on the galaxy, that we are not a meaningless few, that the Great Human who created all will not despise us.

'Is this not so?'

'Yes,' said some, dubiously. And, after a moment, 'YES,' said many as the fire from the speech and the wine touched them and Burgundal played ever so gently with their minds. Even Callastop said: 'Yes,' but she was not sure why. Magrib shook his head.

Burgundal flashed his decorative COKE sign. 'Here is what I plan,' he said.

Every Human leaned forward, or at least lounged less freely. They had not experienced such group anticipation since awaiting the ironic climax of Trippolino's Hundred Year Suicide at some distant time past.

'We are the last on Earth,' said Burgundal, his hands flashing in demonstrative gestures, as he was more intoxicated with his rhetoric than with the wine. 'We are the direct descendants of the first, True Humanity. Those lower forms of man, also descended from our Ancestor's (revere, revere) ancestors, but by a devious, far from pure, route, have spread throughout the galaxy. They were not among the elite whose intellects were thought worth improving, pampering, eternalizing. However, somewhere deep inside, I am sure you realize, they are our brothers and sisters.'

Many were the sounds of amazement at this effrontery. Why, everyone knew that only True Humans had been saved at the First Separation, and then undertook self-isolation when the barbaric hordes elsewhere in the galaxy would not leave them alone. The hoi-polloi were rather agitated, it appeared, that so much in the way of their raw materials had been utilized to create a 'pleasure-dome' for the very people who should have been ruling and guiding and building the galaxy. Well, ruling is a tiresome business, so, after the Isolation Webs had been established around Earth, cutting her off for the Second Separation, no one thought to bother about the rest of the galaxy. Or if they did, they kept it to themselves. Comparing True Humanity with them, indeed!

'What in Floth is he talking about?' asked Undlum, baffled by this reference to brothers and sisters when he knew he was an only child.

'He is talking heresy,' whispered Fovverer, but loud enough to be heard by a few in case it was a clever thing to say.

'No,' said Magrib, being fair for reasons known only to him. (Fovverer coughed and drank some wine.) 'Burgundal is correct. We are closer to them than perhaps we think.'

Burgundal smiled at Magrib and his audience settled once more.

'I have looked out upon mankind. I have discussed with nature herself. I have pondered the future of all. I have discovered that the galaxy is dying of a foul and almost incurable disease.'

Once more he paused for effect, during which time Magrib, repossessing his short-lasted gift of fairness, released a small amount of unwanted gas from his lower intestine which somewhat spoiled the effect of the next word.

'Apathy,' said Burgundal, firmly, his hair still with suppressed rage. He glared at the old, mischevious Human and utilized his mirrors so none other saw that look. However, all the True Humans once more seemed to be with Burgundal.

'That is the illness,' he concluded, a little weakly.

Callastop, reluctant to allow her most-maligned fellow Human such unanimity of support, despite her own apparent concurrence, said dryly, 'And how did you discover that amazing fact?'

Once more Burgundal was unsure of his approach to this. What had started as a mere diversion was now becoming slightly complicated in its effectuation. As most were following his lead with their usual complacency, he could not stop now and surrender to the most annoying Magrib and the obstinate Callastop.

'Well, my good friend Callastop,' he said, in the hope of irritating her sufficiently to quieten her, 'as you surely know, our Ancestors (revere) chose themselves as the optimum humans, the True Humans, and eventually isolated themselves on Earth leaving the remainder of the galaxy to, well, to get on with it alone.

'I have seen the results of mankind's efforts in this direction. Without the pool of genius which our Ancestors represented (my apologies, revere revere) they were as nothing. No progress was made. A genetic decline took place. They live, but without any hope. They have intelligence, but not enough to raise themselves. Or, perhaps, they now have enough, there must be sufficient somewhere, but the apathy has become not merely a symptom, but the actual disease.'

He laid great emphasis on his closing words and was applauded for the speech which may well, as far as he knew, have had a certain truth about it.

'Look,' he said. He raised a finger with the appropriate device upon it cunningly disguised as a knuckle-cap. Before each Human there appeared a moving picture of a workman leaning on his hoe. They could tell it was moving because of the clouds scudding past in the background. The workman's face seemed tired. Not from overwork but some other, indefinable thing. It was not a physical fatigue.

'He does not look so different,' said Fovverer, glancing out from beneath his petal cloak. He was eager to compensate for his earlier gaffe.

No one saw Magrib smile.

Burgundal nodded. 'His family, also, are afflicted with this complaint. See how the fields are badly tended. Look at the ramshackle house. Their apathy must be almost total. Can we stand by and watch mankind, our relations, however distant, die?'

As he said this, the workman, who seemed not quite as thin as the hoe (though this was no surprise as affected narrowness had only recently been a Human fad) fell from his support, and collapsed to the ground. He remained still. Another workman, further away, ignored him, sitting on the weedy earth until he too fell over.

The speeded picture disappeared.

Burgundal could see that the placid deaths of the two men had a sobering effect on the Humans. There seemed to be no possibility other than that they would all be in favour of his plan. He did not touch their minds again, even in the secretive way he had perfected. He saw Magrib smiling, but

Burgundal knew who had won. He felt just a little disturbed at that knowing smile.

He continued: 'What did those men need to make them work; to save their lives and those of their families? They needed something to strive for. Something above money or physical comfort, other than family or fame. They needed a light in the sky to look at and say, 'That is what humanity can do. Mankind can outshine the stars. And I am part of mankind. I will do my share." '

Burgundal's voice had risen as he spoke until, finally, he was shouting. Having put aside a portion of his deviousness, he was showing a certain oblique sincerity.

There was a quiet among the True Humans. The wine went untasted for a short time. The wine-birds perched happily on the firefly chandeliers. Tendrils of blue smoke curled from the few resurrected hookahs.

Eventually, Callastop asked, 'You do not, of course, mean a literal light in the sky?'

Burgundal smiled his smile. 'But I do, Callastop.'

* * * *

After True Humanity agreed to the Great Plan there was much to-ing and fro-ing. Events moved with an urgency long unknown on Earth. And the True Humans, caught (quite often at any rate) in the spirit of the mighty endeavour, worked as one for the first time, perhaps ever. They derived frequent and intense pleasure from their tasks, also, in some perverse way.

In the depths of the planet, those huge machines which had long been employed in retaining such delightful conditions on the surface, now laboured to construct more and different machines, which in turn undertook the activities entrusted to them.

Brainless amoeboid creatures, of frightening enormity but satisfactorily encapsuled, gave freely of their strange secretions, fissioning as never before to produce the maximum in the shortest time. They were soon spent by this but a sufficient quantity of their incandescent fluids had been obtained and stored by then.

Small, thin forces, guided with increasing expertise, sculptured the sub-sub-atomic particles themselves. Mountains (even Magrib's) fell as they were disembowelled for the raw materials within. The sea frothed and steamed while semi-tangible automechs burned goodness from it.

Those were awesome years; rending, fiery, shattering years. The True Humans scarred their mother planet and they felt sure that some of those same scars were cut into them also; but still they toiled on, spending whole hours a month at cushioned computer consoles, expending minute after minute of their invaluable time to ensure that whatever was being done automatically continued to be done automatically.

And they did not labour in vain, for all at once, they were finished.

* * * *

Burgundal quenched his thirst as a wine-bird fluttered wearily past. He noted that the wine was of poor quality, but what else could be expected after the momentous happenings of late? All would be well after they had built a new home on some suitable world and lived there with justifiable pride and in well-earned solitude.

'We,' he said, after he had once more gathered the right people in the right place which was an easier task than previously, there being only one place remaining, 'have finished. We have changed our home, our Earth,' he noted tears, or their equivalent, in not a few eyes, 'into what will become the brightest, most permanent light in the galaxy. Even far into the centre of the great galactic wheel our burning Earth will be seen and wondered at. We have altered the very structure of matter, robbed ourselves of our birthright, used part of our lives for the sake of mankind. We should feel proud.'

'I offer you an Endless Toast to ourselves.'

'To ourselves,' echoed round with feeling.

Burgundal felt pleased. His diversion had lasted far longer than he had expected and proved reasonably amusing into the bargain. Now it would culminate in something he had not really envisaged when he had begun. A memorial in his own lifetime to himself - and, of course, to True Humanity.

'I have announced to the galaxy my Great Plan. Communications networks have been set up everywhere to broadcast our leaving Earth and firing her. Our vessel, Mother Earth, is at the ready. Shall we now depart?'

The True Humans looked about them for one final time. They were all displaying their favourite individual fineries, or whatever decorative accoutrements they felt were suitable. Many sighed at this last view, however changed, of their home planet. It was, except for Burgundal's Tuesday Palace where they and the ship were, mess of extraordinary tubing; strangely filled holes of impressive depth; untidy mounds; vast elaborate, menacing explosive structures; and seemingly inexplicable, though necessary, constructions of surrealistic appearance. But, though they sighed, this was no time for misgivings, thought Burgundal. Leave those to Magrib who had rarely gone a year without some disparaging remark or another.

He glanced at the withered man who smiled and nodded in response. Burgundal hastened everyone aboard the colossal ship, resplendently adorned with each family's crest and, he now noticed too late, some almost offensive remarks about himself on his own crest. Ignoring this he hurried on, not giving anyone time to become maudlin. He heard Magrib saying that there was no need for a purpose, that True Humanity was no longer capable of great things, then he contrived to shut the old one in a small compartment, accidentally, until the ceremony.

Mother Earth departed, through the Isolation Webs, for a point far outside the solar system. There, with the eyes of the galaxy upon them, the True Humans themselves watched as Burgundal prepared to press the hand-carved button. He had awarded himself this honour.

'For mankind, and all who sail in her,' he said glibly, having thought of the words earlier. His smile, too, contained its little sadness in a well-rehearsed way.

They all looked at the specially dimmed viewers. They smiled with satisfaction, and Burgundal illuminated his forehead sign, as the huge, violent fires started to spread, and the Earth began to glow. They cheered and passed around the only wine-bird they had remembered to bring.

But then they quietened as, on the viewers, they saw the burning stop. Only a few temporary sparks lit up the dead world. Those meagre flashes soon ceased and all that was left was an enormous, charred mass.

The True Humans looked at each other.

They looked at Burgundal.

Their leader in the mighty deed frowned. 'Our Great Plan,' he said generously, 'would appear to have failed. I feel we should not stay,'

Magrib smiled. 'We are not, in fact, so perfect ourselves, Burgundal,' he said.

Burgundal scowled at him.

Mother Earth fled the galaxy just ahead of a wave of laughter, and was hardly ever seen again.

* * * *

However, the galaxy itself lived on, as did the people in it, long-despised (if thought of at all) by the True Humans though they were.

There was one planet, for instance, where a workman stood leaning on his hoe. The workman was not unlike his father who had died in the same field, but he was of a slightly better build.

Clouds moved slowly in the background. All else was still.

Suddenly, the man sniggered. Then he chuckled, chortled and downright belly-laughed. He looked upwards in the general direction of the lump of ash known as Earth and shook his head, remembering the fiasco called the Great Plan. He began laughing again, and laughed until he had to stop because bits of him hurt.

After that he felt so good he got down to doing some more work.