What a fantastic dream I have! Could it be the sci-fi novel I’ve just finished reading that brings it on? Is it the fault of Tau Zero? Is it because a starship makes it to the end of space and time and matter and energy? To the end of the universe? Yes, it makes it to the end of the universe.

It’s an accident, of course. They can’t stop the craft from accelerating. So velocity approaches the speed of light, stretching time for the crew. Endlessly. They make it beyond the far reaches of the universe, the farthermost galaxies. And as they do, matter begins to turn in upon itself and crowd together. The universe is collapsing. The crew, because of their velocity, have survived billion-year cycles that were experienced as mere moments. It’s the end of creation. And they witness it. A new universe is about to be born…

Or maybe not. Pa says the universe, our universe, will go on expanding forever. I believe it’s the parade that prepares me for this dream, as it really gets my neurons and synapses to snap, crackle and pop. I’m right behind the Professor in the big march. He’s a white apparition in that bedsheet, a spirit with long black hair and a swinging, golden clarion.

Today we do some serious strutting, Glock and I. Right up University Avenue. It used to be University Avenue. Now Pa has renamed it Grand Alley of the Relentless Furies of Retribution. Years ago we marked it as the main triumphal thoroughfare of our revolution.

The Professor and I are first to arrive at Queen’s Park, and so we get to watch the arrival of each contingent. Pappy is first in, leading the Upholders’ Clarion Corps, all of them in their snow-white military dress with the red steering-wheel logo. Behind them come the Heroes of the Revolution, a fine crowd of adolescent goons. A raving, idolatrous mob follows us into the park. Only the pikes and bayonets of Special Detail keep them from crushing us in their crazed determination to touch. Many fall on the ground where we walk, eat the grass in our footprints or lick up the sandy soil with their tongues. Such is the nature of their devotion.

A kiddie corps of drums and trumpets swings into the park, looking business-like and fanatical. They blow and beat like furies from hell, savagely, with faces grim. Behind them comes the League of Newfies in Exile, wearing red and white shirts and carrying sealing clubs. Next is the feared Gee-Gee or Grey Guard, the savage shock troops of the Seniors’ Coalition. The League Against Addictive Advertising and Other Toxic Pap arrives, a thoroughly sour and vindictive bunch, whose stormy faces testify to the wounds of twentieth-century business ethics. They carry signs saying, “Crucify the Corporate Bastards!”

Behind them come several thousand homeless and street people, all of them armed with hammers and nails and a thirst for blood. A ragamuffin bevy of bad drivers stumble into the park, dragging their chains. They fall on the grass and beg for mercy. Their only purpose is, like ancient Rome’s marching remnant of a conquered army, to amuse the crowd. Each of them has the care of an old tire, one of the last he or she has ridden on. They have a choice of either rolling the tire along as they go or wearing it around the neck. Anyone who loses a tire gets a bath in squirrel dung. Jeers and a shower of sticks and stones follow them. And yet I doubt they are much different from many of their tormentors.

Right on their heels, and a great worry for them, a strange object advances in fits and starts. It’s Doctor Abedni’s car. Driving it is a guy with a lethal record. He’s having a wonderful time. In any other car he’d be leaving a trail of misery. But in this one he can’t, because the car won’t let him.Still, the bad drivers fear for their lives. Not only are they chained and managing their tires, but they are also worried by the idiot in the strange-looking vehicle behind them.

More bands, and then a thousand vintage motorcycles. And out in front it’s Jake the Rake. And-Gloria! Yes, it’s Gloria. She’s holding on to him with tight arms too. What a nerve! The bike’s a mess—customized to death. I know it’s all going straight to my head, making me heady. All this adulation—what is one supposed to do with it? No wonder Caligula and Nero, and the pop and hockey stars of today, allow themselves to be persuaded of their divinity.

We hail the people from a dais. The Professor, white, messianic, a fire-tongued visitation from on high, puts all of them under his spell. And when he has them there, he asks them what they think they are worth.

“Nothing!” they cry, all in one voice. “We’re worth nothing!”

“Wonderful, my dear friends! Now, I would like you to tell me, please, what should be done with those who are worth nothing?”

Again the crowd responds in one voice: “Crucify them!”

And at that very moment in the sky a cloud appears, which takes the form of a cross, and all who see it marvel and say, “Here is a sign!” And all Toronto falls to its knees and prostrates itself. Some pray, others wail or moan. But they all feel sorry for themselves for having become worthless nothings, deserving only to be nailed to crosses.

And the crowd all cry woe. “What are we to do next?” they ask, as they are not quite willing to ask to be crucified. “Tell us what to do, Great Guru Abedni.”

The Professor has been waiting patiently for this moment. He is ready with his answer. “A Sacrifice is called for. A terrible atonement. I shall be first to do it. No, no, none of that, dear people. I do not mean death. No, I am not suggesting collective suicide. Nothing like it. Have no misapprehensions. Calm yourselves. Calm yourselves.”

The Professor waits. The tension builds.“This then is my sacrifice, dear people. I promise you, and swear by all things holy, never again to drive. Yes, that is right, I will not drive again. Never again. I will never again get behind a steering wheel. All privileges of the road I hereby renounce and relinquish. That is my awful, my terrible sacrifice to the god of Reason.”

The crowd is struck dumb with disbelief. They gasp and look around at their neighbours. Can it be he said what I thought he said? Then someone cries in a voice of agony, “No!” And the whole assembly cries,“No!” Someone yells, “You can’t do it!”. And another one, “You’re crazy!”

The Professor gestures for calm. “All right, my friends. It is all right.” When it’s quiet enough to hear a pin drop, the Professor says, “It is logical, you see. I have no aptitude for driving. To speak very plainly, I cannot drive for beans, heh-heh-heh. I cannot even do a simple curb park—I never know where the wheels are. I bang the curb. I ride up over it. I could seriously injure someone at any time. Therefore, I have no moral right to a licence.”

The crowd is still crying no, don’t do it. A fire is going now. A roaring, heathen, fire-festival fire, a bone-fire fire, a sacred fire to leap over with a maiden, a fire to take ashes from and put under your bed to protect against lightning, a fire to burn a straw- or wickerman in, or even a guy, a witch, or a heretic.

Something comes out of the Professor’s wallet. Something blue with a picture on it. It’s the Professor’s driving licence. It’s real. It’s a bona fide Government of Ontario corn-pops permit to jackass on four wheels. He holds it up for the crowd to see.“Garbage!” the crowd roars in unison. “Garbage-garbage-garbage!”

Some in the crowd are hurling less civilized epithets. Others betray their true loyalties by giving the Triffid salute, the infamous Finger Sign, or by baring their bottoms and yelling, “Ass wipe!”. Triffids abound. We know that. But it will not hinder the agenda. On the contrary, as the Professor solemnly commits his worthless document to the sacred fire of Balder, evoking amazement and delight in this mixed crowd, we see an opportunity to strike at the Triffids. And so we challenge the multitude to throw their own dirty papers into the fire, which many of them instantly do.

The rest trickle forward toward the fire under our encouragement. We praise them lavishly, giving many of those who come forward a delicious, juicy hamburger, though a practically meatless one. That’s what they want—the great taste of beef, but no meat. That’s the way a Triffid wants everything.

And so they throw the pretend papers into the flames. And at each toss, a little red devil with horns escapes into the air over Queen’s Park, giving a wee wail like the squeak of an unoiled door hinge. And all the while the mood is building. Hallowed is the glow this night from our Balder’s fire. Many are giving the steering-wheel salute, raising their arms to form a circle. The multitude begins to sing one of the great songs of the Revolution, “We Will Teach the World to Drive”.

During this eerie ritual, the Doctor grabs my arm, gives me the look of a wounded beast, and cries, “You see, Mr. Rufus. See how easy it is.” Then he laughs demonically. Is he in his right mind, I wonder? What kind of strange bird have we gotten in bed with? But oddly enough, after he touches me I feel in my bones that the gods have something to say to me. I jerk loose from his vulture claw. “Keep your space,” I say. “Stay out of my bubble.” He doesn't even appear to hear me. But the truth is, I can’t wait to get home and have my dream.

******

Lo and behold, I no sooner hit the sack than I find myself crawling around in some far-flung kingdom of the Great Beyond. In fact, I’m eavesdropping. I’m hiding behind a great ball of cotton and I see these two guys strolling in the fluff. One has a golden clarion and looks like Pa, except his hair is also golden, and on the back of his corduroy jacket is crudely sewn the name, “Gabe”. He also has a huge pair of white wings coming out at his shoulders. The other one is like the turkey effigy of Abedni the Triffids burned at Queen’s Park, and he’s wearing a T-shirt that says, “Number One”. I have a feeling this guy is really big in the scheme of things.

From what I glean, they appear to be talking about big bangs and basic principles. Turkey Feathers has a big clock. It’s on Divine Time and it’s set to zero. Hasn’t even started yet. By heaven, they appear to be planning the universe!

“Let it be a place where all living things must eat,” says Number One, grinning hugely.“And let them desire to eat each other.”

The other fellow-Gabriel, judging by the name and the horn-is obviously shocked. “Eat each udder!” I hear him retort. “My God, forgive me, but that would be a cruel waste o' critters. Gives me de ditties to tink of it.”

“Heh-heh-heh, dear me, I do believe you are correct. But you know what we agreed on, Gabriel. Each universe has to be fundamentally different. The fact is, we have run out of options. But look on the bright side of things. This will not be one of those dull clusters where all the life forms cooperate and dine together on silica. This will not be just another paradise where every creature evolves toward everlasting life. Dear me, this one will be far more lively. Now it is time we had some fun, you and I. Nothing says we have to be dour and perfect all the time, you know. Picture it, Trumpeter. In this new scheme of things every creature will want a plant or an animal on the table. They will always be hungry because most of the plants are fibrous, poisonous or prickly, and most of the animals can run like hell, and sometimes bite or sting as well. Can you picture that, Angelpuss? Every creature has some other creature at its back. Sniffing, stalking, waiting for a chance. Oh, I tell you, if any good can come out of such a creation, you and I are true magicians.”

Gabriel gives a couple of lazy toots on his horn at this divine plan, a sort of angelic throat-clearing. “My God, I hears de knell of a danger bell. It were a dung sink yer after creatin’.”

That grin on the face of Number One-sure looks like Peter Sellers. Number One fans his turkey feathers. “It is, rather,” he says. “Dear me, good thing I am not answerable to anybody, what? Now get that clock and let us get on with our big bang.”

The two of them go off in a hurry, but return immediately. Divine Time, it’s only been a moment. But on Earth, billions of years have gone by. Gabriel is not happy. “I told thee this ting wouldn’t work,” he rails. “’Tis a Mesozoic house of horrors. Those dinosaurs wit their big maws and cruel claws is disgustin’. They got no brains. Look how they picks on those poor little crackies hidin’ in de undergrowth. It looks to be anudder dead end, High-and-Mighty.”

“Yes, quite. I see your point, Hornblower. Without brains that place is going nowhere. I wonder…”

Gabriel gives a little toot of his horn, obviously a note of optimism. “Yes?” he says hopefully.

“Some of those cute little mammals you mention, cowering in the shrubbery—given enough time they might evolve into half-intelligent bipeds. What do you think? I mean, providing we find a way to neutralize those terrible tyrant kings with their over-sized choppers?”

“My God, yes! Anyting but those loathsome reptilians!” Gabriel gives a few triumphal blasts of his horn that seem to say, “I told you so!” Then, after a moment’s reflexion, he says, “What about de Prime Directive, Chief? Override again?”

“You got it. Hit the buggers with an asteroid. Just be sure to cover your tracks.”

Gabriel winces. I imagine he’s trying not to think of all the suffering he’s about to unleash. “Ya know, Number One,” he says, “those frightened little mammals really is quite cute. Too bad they hides in their cubbies and eats only blueberries. Once de big guys are outta de way, I tinks dey’ll be more curious and covetous. A race of tinkin’ malcontents just might spring from ’em.”

“Goodness, I cannot wait to see. Well, let us hurry up the process, shall we? Get those mammals moving. Send them dreams to spur them on. Once they get up on their hinder legs, some of them will settle down where the fishing is good and the sweet corn grows. Then they will have time to sit and think, play tiddly and make beer. Before you know it, they will be civilized, have priests, sacrifices, sports, animal shows, snacks and loud music. Ha! That is when the real misery begins. I tell you, Gabe, it is always the same old process, no matter how we throw the dice.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel says listlessly, polishing his horn in his huge wing feathers, as if angels ever left dirt or a fingerprint on anything. “That be right, Number One. Once they’re up on de old hinders, in a slew of yer eye they’s inventin’ some kinda contraption wit foot pedals. It always gets away on ’em, ’cause they puts ’em up to great speed while their minds be still in neutral.”

“Dear me, do not worry, Buglepuss. They will screw up, believe me. But they will have just enough grey matter to get off the ground, so to speak. And sooner or later they will make a machine that is smarter than they are. The androids take over and, of course, the real progress begins. Nine times out of ten that is what happens.”

From my hiding spot behind the cotton ball, I plainly comprehend that the archangel is not convinced. “Are ya sartin, Number One? Suppose our bipedal hopefuls wind up like de reptilians, all hormone and a brain de size of a dumbledore’s. They may be cute, but they got teeth and claws, and a bad temper. Suppose they kills each udder off afore it be time for de androids?”

A not-very-becoming sneer crosses the visage of Number One. “My, my, dear me! Do I always have to get bogged down in the details? Okay, okay, make sure a few of them get an extra dose of sense and sensibility. A little more grey matter than the others. One in ten, shall we say? Just as a little insurance against such a development.” Having said that, Number One floats off and disappears.

Gabriel sighs and looks wistfully out over the eternal stretches which are soft as cotton and white as new-fallen snow: “We be a ragged-arsed bunch, we deities, but our work be ticklesome.” He gives his horn a few low toots and starts to sing:

When I was out walkin’
me sea stock to buy,
got tricked in de liquor
an’ bought bung-yer-eye.

Oddly, though I remain hidden behind a pile of cotton, I have the feeling this fisherman’s ditty is being performed for my benefit. I try to shake it and plan to wander off and do some exploring. The sameness of the landscape presents an overwhelming impression of sterility, as if they’ve suffered some major environmental catastrophe. But my thoughts are interrupted by a horrible blast all in my right ear. It completely destroys my hearing. It’s that infernal archangel with his trumpet!

“Oh, you bastard!” I cry. “Only dorks go around blowing horns in folks’ ears like that!” But then I look at him and, except for the wings, he looks just like Pa.

“Sorry,” says Gabriel. He gives a little toot that drives away the pain.“That any better?”

“Yeah.” If he didn’t look like Pa, I swear I’d break his bloody trumpet.

“Ah-ah. None of those thoughts around here, chummy.”

I guess they knew I was here all the time. Stupid of me to think I could fool Number One and his trumpeter. “Sorry,” I say meekly.

“Ya don't need to spy on us, Rufus bye. We wants ya to come back tomorrow night as our guest. And ah, bring de old man’s Chevy.”

Chevy? I’m about to reply to that when I find myself lying in my bed on Gascap Bend with a mild sting in my right ear.

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