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 BENTLEY'S RECIPE
   by Matthew MacDonald
 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-



 Dialogue between God and man:


 Man: So that was it, then. You made the Earth out of a dull old ball
      of clay and stuck Adam and Eve on it. I can understand that. Not
      very glamorous for an omnipotent being, though.

 God (slightly hurt): I tried.

 Man: Oh, quite all right. Don't work yourself up over it. A ball of
      clay and Adam and Eve, hmm? That isn't so bad when you get right
      down to it, you know. It's not what most of us think, but I can
      understand it: clay and some people.

 God: Er, actually, I hadn't counted on that bit.

 Man: What bit?

 God: The people.

 Man: Well, what did you expect?

 God pauses, slightly embarrassed.

 God: Bunny rabbits. I did expect bunny rabbits.

                                *  *  *

   "You have a lot of explaining to do, Bentley. Thirty thousand
 metric tonnes of methane, just dumped on foreign soil. With all the
 ammonia and hydrogen to boot! I mean, to start, you knew you shouldn't
 go around casting our garbage all over other people's planets!"

   "There was no one there at the time." Bentley sounded remarkably
 miserable. "I was under a lot of pressure at the time. Finish the
 experiments, Bentley. Test the atmosphere, Bentley. Compile the
 radiation spectrographs, Bentley. Make us a spot of tea, would you
 Bentley, always Bentley! Did anyone else want to help dispose of some
 organic waste? No-o-o. No one understands."

   "Disgraceful, it is. Just disgraceful!"

   "Your point being?"

   "My point is that you've made quite a mess of the place. You're
 going to fix it up one of these days. How long has it been now? Five,
 six billion years? And look what's happened in the meantime!"

   "Look, I've been back before and things didn't quite turn out so
 well. All this fuss and commotion! I couldn't even make myself a glass
 of wine without confusing the natives, far less clean the place up.
 Maybe when I'm a little less busy."

   "And what are you going to tell them?"

   There was a long and awkward pause.

   "Come again?"

   "I said what are you going to tell them!"

   "You mean "

   "Of course!"

   "You needn't become cross about it. I don't think I need to tell
 them anything. Look at what they've done in the meantime. Savage wars!
 Unbridled malice! The whole universe is ashamed of this affair."

   "Well, it's your affair. If you don't do something soon, Bentley,
 I'll bring you before the Galactic Court. I'll give you a few more
 years to fix this up, that's all!"

   "The Galactic Court!" He sputtered his words in disbelief. "On
 what charge?"

   "Negligence causing creation."

   And Algernon stormed out, not looking back with a single one of
 his twelve-odd eyestalks.

   Bentley reflected. Algernon, he decided, was right. It was time
 for him to come again. He had been twice so far (yes, Algernon didn't
 know about the first time, but it looked like they needed a little help
 figuring out those beastly pyramids). Now, what exactly had been the
 problem the second time? He had been so proud of the simulacrum he had
 brought down to the surface it looked so much like their odd forms! But
 he seemed to remember some Judas fellow . . . .

   Things had not improved much, since then. Oh, there had been the
 geniuses Newton, Einstein, Milton, Keats, to name a few. The curious
 works of Chopin still delighted some of the eavesdroppers from quite
 a few of the races of the Galactic Conglomerate, and the spacecrafts
 these humans laboured to build were really a marvel, though they might
 save a little effort if they had a better understanding of elementary
 quanta.

   Since his last visit, though, there were spiteful wars, rulers
 speaking hate, air seeded with venoms, forests ravaged . . . . He was
 sure this would clear up before it was too late; they seemed to be a
 remarkably adaptable race. Maybe they just needed to see where they
 came from; maybe they needed a few more great men and women to lead
 them on. Or a story. Maybe they . . .

   Maybe . . . .

   Maybe they just need to be told.

                                *  *  *

 Man: I have one last question.

 God: Go ahead then. What am I supposed to do, guess?

 Man (sheepishly): Well, our bible does say you created everything.

 God: Yes....

 Man: So I was thinking.... Well, to start did you create the stars?

 God: I did.

 Man: How about the Earth?

 God: That was me.

 Man: And the oceans, and the mountains, and the forests?

 God: Evolution gave me a little help, but I started it off. Are you
      going to ask me if I created Jerry Lewis, like everyone else?
      You know, these accidents happen; it's no different than slipping
      down a staircase or dropping your pen.

 Man: Actually, I was wondering about quantum mechanics.

 God: Oh. I don't expect I can help you there. Can't say I understand
      the darned stuff myself.

                                {DREAM}

 Copyright 1995 Matthew MacDonald, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
 ----------------------------------------------------------------------
 Matthew MacDonald has managed to pursue his craving for creative
 writing despite being raised by two English teachers. In his spare
 time he dabbles rather dangerously in music composition and assorted
 dark, supernatural, and long-forbidden magical practices and worships
 his girlfriend (where time permits). He also immerses himself in the
 classics of every genre, his reading endeavours spanning from Cyrano
 de Bergerac to How to Win Friends and Influence People.
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