The flesh in the furnace

the brink of the viewplate, head thrown back as she laughed. Her golden hair was very golden, her eyes very bright indeed. Even as she turned and looked at him, brandishing the spiders and taunting him, he could not help but think how beautiful she was. Lovely, lovely child-woman. He was glad, now, that he could snake her happy by raising her companions from the dead.

----

    January
        
        Saint Eclesian, in the Vonopoen Book of Wisdom, warns us against a chauvanistic-jineoistic view of man's final war with God. He tells us: "There does not necessarily always have to be a hero and a villain in a conflict. Indeed, most times, there is no hero at all. And when one considers the ways of God and the attitudes of men, there can be little doubt that both factions would share in the villainy. When the war comes, it will be every man's duty, however, to make his own decision whether man or God is the least villainous. This may not be a noble manner in which to choose sides, but it is surely a fair one."
        Later, in one of his letters to the citizens of the city of Pocadion, the Rogue Saint expands this warning: "You have heard me say that neither man nor God will be the hero in such a conflict. Yet, if man should win, he must reject the memory of his villainy and proclaim his virtue. Otherwise, victory will be hollow. No one raises huzzahs when evil overcomes good. If man wins, there must be parties and singing, awards and medals and eulogies. This can best be insured if men make certain that God dies in a most unnoble way, debased and groveling. We all know that a true hero dies proudly, and our self-confidence will be bolstered by watching God expire without dignity and without hope."
        
        In the cargo hold of the truck, the walls and the floor had not been well soundproofed against the incessant clatter of the rotars suspended in the vehicle's under-carriage, for the designer had never intended for anyone to ride back there. Even so, grown men would have found it only slightly annoying. The puppets, on the other hand, were forced to sit closely and to shout if they wished to be heard as the truck resumed its journey northwest. And, being volatile, hyperactive creatures, they could not be satisfied with sitting alone or reading.
        
        Besides, they were busy plotting Sebastian's death, and they wanted to give the problem every consideration they could. When the time came, it must be one long entertainment. He must not die quickly. If they were to plot, it was necessary that they be away from the idiot. Though they had little respect for his mental capacities, they did not kid themselves that he could not understand them. Too, he was a formidable physical antagonist, even if he might not be quick. Each day, they broke the ten hours of driving into two-hour shifts, and each of them took turns riding in the cab as a guard against the idiot's whirrs and plans. The bottle of spiders was given to the guard and remained in the cab with Sebastian at all times. That left most of them free to put together some enjoyable sort of murder scheme.
        "But when?" the prince asked, his small voice rather shrill as he raised it to compete with the shuttle system under them.
        "When the time comes, we'll know," Bitty Belina said. For some reason her whispered sensuality seemed to carry better than their shouts.
        "That's easy enough to say," the prince said. "But we've been planning now for three days. We have all sorts of good ideas. Why not take him out tonight? If we wait, hard to tell what might happen."
        "Nothing will happen," Belina said.
        "The spiders might die," the prince said.
        "We feed them well enough."
        "But who knows about the needs of wild creatures like that?"
        "They aren't wild creatures, just spiders," Wissa said.
        "You're agreeing with her, then?"
        "Yes," Wissa told him.
        "Look," the first suitor said, running small fingers through his bright red hair, "we need him to drive. So why fight about it? We can't get rid of him until we get someplace."
        "Your answer to that?" Belina asked the prince.
        "I'll drive!" the prince said.
        The others broke into cackling laughter, like a batch of chicks, pleased with the hatchery.
        
        "I mean it!" the prince said. His handsome face was furiously strained, red and lined and angry. "I can handle the wheel myself. I know I