(…and I was sort of hoping that if you somehow might find you feel sort of the same way about me then we might sort of…)
And then the penny dropped. The shock was so great that for a few moments Kiss was suddenly taken stone-cold sober, and he stopped in mid-sentence and stared.
“The bastard!” he said. “The complete and utter bastard!”
Jane looked up sharply. “I beg your pardon?”
“Sorry.” The tide of slush, temporarily checked, started to flow again. “I was miles away. As I was saying…”
Let’s do everyone a favour and fade out on Kiss for the moment
(…Make me the happiest man, well, genie, in the whole wide world…)
And just consider the situation, calmly and without getting carried away. Ready? Good.
What do you get if you cross a genie with a human being? Answer, you don’t, because you can’t. It’s a simple matter of chemistry; or physics; or, when you come right down to it, mythology.
Genies do not, of course, exist. This doesn’t mean that there aren’t any. There are, as should be now be only too obvious, rather more of them than the universe can comfortably accommodate. Any cosmos that contains fragile, breakable things, such as planets, is better off with a ratio of as near to zero genies per cubic kilometre as possible.
Genies exist at a tangent to reality. They intrude into the continuum we inhabit, in much the same way as an iceberg intrudes into a major shipping lane. Only a tiny proportion of the huge complex of forces that go to make up a genie is ever present on this side of the thin blue line at any given time. Of the genie known as Kiss, for example, 87 per cent is sprawled across the Past and the Future like a cat sitting on the Sunday paper.
Let your imagination do its worst, and then you will agree that any sort of lasting relationship between a genie and a human being is out of the question. And if that wasn’t bad enough, please also bear in mind that regardless of the physical shape it chooses to adopt, a genie always weighs a minimum of 72 tons and has a normal skin temperature of 700 degrees Celsius. It takes as much effort for a genie just to shake hands with a human without crushing him to pulp or shrivelling him up into ash as it would have to expend on juggling with the Pyrenees while standing on one leg on the head of a pin. And relationships are hard enough as it is without any added complications.
There is, however, an escape clause. It’s totally irreversible and unbearably romantic, and its consequences to the genie are so horrendous that it has never been used; but it does exist.
A genie can become a human.
Think about it. Never to be able to fly again; never to uproot mountains or conjure up storms, change shape, travel through time, work magic. To forswear eternal life, and accept the inevitably of old age and death. To throw away divinity and embrace mortality, and all for love.
A hiding to nothing, in fact.
But the option exists; and it’s a basic rule of life in an infinite universe that if something is possible, no matter how dangerous, unpleasant or downright idiotic it might be, sooner or later some fool will do it. Because it’s there.
Or because they have no choice.
While we’re on the subject of genies, consider this. Given that genies are by temperament cruel, arbitrary, uncaring, destructive and deeply interested in wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, isn’t it inevitable that at least some of them should end up in the legal profession?
The offices of Messrs Fretten and Swindall are on the fifth floor of a large Chianti bottle with a hole drilled in the side and a bulb stuck in the neck, somewhere in the fashionable suburbs of Baghdad. This is no dog-and-stick operation over a chemist’s shop in the High Street; even the receptionist is a Force Nine genie, with the power to harness the winds, raise the dead from their graves and convince callers that Mr Fretten really is on the other line and will call them back as soon as he’s free.
(A staggering achievement, considering that Mr Fretten has been imprisoned in an empty gin bottle on a back shelf of the golf-club bar ever since Jesus Christ was a teenager; but there it is. There are at least two callers who have been holding for six hundred years.)
Hoping very much that wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice meant just that, Kiss made an appointment and took a strong easterly trade wind to Baghdad. Having given his coat to the receptionist, handed over a bottomless purse by way of a payment on account and read the March 1453 edition of the National Geographic from cover to cover, he was ushered into Mr Swindall’s office and permitted to sit down.
“It’s like this,” he said. He explained.
“You’re stuffed,” said Mr Swindall, a big, fat bald Force Twelve with six chins. “Completely shafted. He’s got you on the sharp end of a very long pointy stick and there’s bog all you can do about it. Forty thousand years in a Tizer bottle will seem like paradise compared to what you’re about to go through.”
“Oh.”
Mr Swindall grinned. “As neat a piece of buggeration as I’ve ever been privileged to hear about,” he went on. “You’ve got to hand it to this friend of yours, he really knows how to insert the red-hot poker. If he came in here tomorrow I’d offer him a job like a shot.”
“I see.” Kiss frowned. “I thought you’re supposed to be on my side,” he said.
Mr Swindall nodded. “Oh, I am,” he said. “One hundred and twelve per cent. But face facts, you’re dead in the water this time. Won’t do yourself any favours by burying your head in the sand.” Mr Swindall rubbed his hands together. “Now then, first things first. You’d better make a will.”
“Had I?”
“Absolutely.” The lawyer nodded, setting his chins swinging. “After all, now that you’re going to snuff it — pretty damn soon by our standards — it’s imperative that you set your affairs in order. In fact, you’re going to need some pretty high-level tax planning advice while you’re at it, because there’ll be none of this beyond-the-dreams-of-avarice stuff once you’re one of Them.” A slight cloud of worry crossed Mr Swindall’s shiny face. “You did pay in advance, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all right, then. Next you’ll be needing somewhere to live, so I’ll just give you a copy of our house buyer’s special offer package; and it’ll be some time before you get used to not being invulnerable any more, so we’ll put your name down for a couple of personal injury actions in advance. It’s a good scheme, this one; it means you can start paying for the lawyers’ fees before you have the accident. Ah, yes,” said Mr Swindall, rubbing his hands together and grinning like a hyena, “we’ll be able to provide you with a full range of legal services before you’re very much older, you mark my words.”
“I see. Thank you very much.”
“Don’t mention it. Oh yes, and of course there’ll be the divorce as well…”
“The div…”
Mr Swindall smiled sadly. “You don’t think it’ll last, do you? Be realistic, please. Ninety-nine-point-seven per cent of marriages between supernaturals and mortals don’t last out the year, so if I were you I’d put a deposit down now while you’ve still got a few bob in your pocket. Much easier that way.”
Kiss raised his hand. “Just a minute,” he said. “Before we get completely carried away…”
“We are also,” Mr Swindall interrupted quickly, “authorised by the Divine Law Society to conduct investment business, so if you’ll just fill in this simple questionnaire…”
“Before,” Kiss insisted, “we get completely carried away, what’s the procedure for doing this…?”
“The renunciation of eternal life?” Mr Swindall opened a drawer and pulled out a thick sheaf of forms. “Piece of cake. You just fill these out, in quadruplicate, and take them with the prescribed fee to the offices of the Supreme Court between 9.15 and 9.25 on the first Wednesday in any month, and six months later you’ll have to attend a short hearing in front of the District Seraph…”