The genie dipped his head.
“As part of our programme,” Number Two went on, “we intend to destroy all cities with a population in excess of one hundred thousand. The reasons…”
With a slight crease of the lips, the genie waved the reasons aside. Number Two swallowed hard, and went on.
“In order to do this in an ecologically friendly way,” he said, finding the words strangely hard to expel from his throat, “we have developed several new strains of… of—”
“Wildflowers,” interrupted the Chair. “Pansies, forget-me-nots, that sort of thing.”
The genie grinned. “I know,” he said. “I’ll admit, I was impressed. For puny, stunted, pig-ignorant mortals, not bad.”
“Well.” The Chair, too, found that her throat was suddenly dry. “We need someone to sow the seeds. From the air.”
“Over all the cities simultaneously,” added Number Three, “so as to create the maximum effect. If all targets are engaged at the same time, they can’t come to each other’s assistance.”
The genie nodded; a token of respect, the gesture implied, from one thoroughly nasty piece of work to another.
All three committee members suddenly began to wish they were somewhere else.
“And you want me,” drawled the genie, “to do this little job for you, is that it?”
The Chair nodded. She had a splitting headache, and she felt sick. “If you’d like to, of course.”
“I’d love to.”
“Ah.”
“It would mean,” the genie went on, “the deaths of countless millions of innocent people. Deaths by the most bizarrely hideous means imaginable. Wanton, barbaric genocide.” The genie smiled pleasantly. “Sounds like a bit of all right to me.”
Number Two cleared his throat. “A certain inevitable level of casualties…” he began, and found that he couldn’t continue. The genie’s eyes seemed to push him back into his chair.
“Smashed into pulp by the petals of a giant primrose,” he said, slowly, with relish. “Horrific, bizarre, and with that ultimately humiliating soupçon of frivolity that marks the true evil genius. I like it.”
Sweat was pouring down the Chair’s cheeks like condensation down an office window. “It’s them or us,” she gasped. “People or plants. We’re talking about the future of the planet. You do see that, don’t you?”
The genie frowned thoughtfully. “I see that you’re a bunch of raving lunatics,” he said calmly, “but so what?” He beamed. “That makes you my kind of people. Glad to be on the team.”
Number Two tried to stand up, ineffectually. “Of course,” he said, “the whole project is still subject to review. We aren’t actually committed to anything yet…”
“You are now.”
For a fraction of a second, a very small fraction indeed, Number Two had a vision of what it would be like. For some reason, the city he visualised was Oslo. He vomited.
“These,” the genie went on, holding up a cloth bag the size of a large onion, “are the seeds of the flowers you so thoughtfully made possible. Anything possible, I’m allowed to do.” The image shimmered and glowed, like the heart of the fire. “Thanks,” he said, and turned his eyes on the Chair. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t quite catch your name.”
“Fuselli,” croaked the Chair. “Mary Fuselli.”
The genie grew, filling the room. “Apt,” he said, as the glass in the windows began to creak with the pressure. “Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?” The windows exploded and the Chair, Number Two and Number Three blacked out. Two seconds later, the pressure inside the room squashed them as flat as paper.
Philly Nine smiled, wiped human off his sleeve, and soared away into the upper air.
Faster than a thought he flew, breaching the Earth’s atmosphere in a shower of sparks and soaring in a wide, lazy orbit around the Equator. As he went he amused himself by catching satellites and crumpling them in his fist like foil jam-tart cups. The further away from the planet’s gravitational field he flew, the larger he became. A tail of fire flickered behind him, and dry ice knotted his hair.
From this altitude, the planet was mostly white and blue. The genie considered it impassively. It had, he felt, a sort of glazed, ceramic look, like a spun-glass Christmas tree ornament.
Or a very old bottle.
And, like all his kind, he had this problem with bottles. Bottles, in his opinion, were there to be broken.
And if one blue bottle should accidentally fall…
Kiss, genie-handling a huge roll of beige Wilton across the enormous expanse of the living-room floor, hesitated and glanced up through the window.
He swore.
Jane looked up. “Problem?” she asked.
“Yes.” Kiss nodded. “At least, there might be. Look,” he said, “sorry to run out on you in the middle of the job, but could you see your way to managing without me for half an hour? There’s something I’ve got to see to.”
“Can’t it wait?”
Kiss shook his head. With a crack the roll of carpet snapped open, flattened itself, hung for a moment six inches above floor level, and started to rise.
“I promise I’ll be back as soon as I possibly can,” Kiss shouted. “Sorry about this,” he added and vaulted into the middle of the carpet which bucked like an unbroken horse, pawed at the windows with its front corners, smashed the glass and shot out into the air with Kiss sitting cross-legged on its back.
Philly Nine tutted. He was having trouble with the fiddly little knot the seed-sack was tied up with.
“Hey,” said a voice directly below him. He glanced down, and saw a flat brown rectangle. The slight quivering of its outer seams reminded him of a stingray floating in clear water. He frowned.
“Is that you, Kiss?” he queried.
“Philly!” replied the voice. “Long time no see! And how’s the world been treating you?”
The carpet closed in, drawing level with the hovering figure of Philly Nine, standing in the empty blackness trying to bite through a single strand of cord with teeth the size of office blocks.
“Not so bad,” Philly replied. “What brings you here, my old mate?”
Kiss shrugged. “Thought I’d catch a few spacewinds on my new rug. Like her?”
“Not bad,” Philly replied. “Not bad at all. Like the stabilisers. You any good at knots?”
“I have my moments. Bung it over, whatever it is, and let me have a go.”
Philly Nine hefted the bag, and then checked himself. Coincidence, he thought; there are only seven Force Twelve genies in the whole Universe, and at this crucial moment here’s two of them sharing one small, remote postage-stamp of empty space. “It’s OK,” he replied. “I think I can probably manage. So,” he added nonchalantly, “where’ve you been hiding yourself lately?”
Kiss twitched his features into a rueful grin. “In an aspirin bottle,” he replied, “of all places. And me, of all people. Well, you know how brown glass gives me a headache.”
“Been out long?”
“Not very. And you?”
Philly Nine shrugged. “I’ve been hanging out,” he replied.
“You know, ducking and diving, puffing a few scams. Made a film, would you believe. Boy, that was some experience.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Spooky stuff to be around, film. You hold it up to the light and you’re ready to swear blind there’s guys trapped inside the stuff.”
Kiss shook his head. “I think it’s just science, Philly,” he said. “You know, mortal stuff.”
“I suppose so.” Philly Nine folded his hands over the cloth bag. “Well,” he said, “nice to see you again, don’t let me keep you.”
The carpet continued to hover. “What’ve you got in the bag there, Philly?”