"Tell me you're joking," Joby groaned.

"Nope," Swami chuckled, "We can't wait to read it, but Hawk doesn't know a lot of the story yet, so your help is gonna be kind of crucial."

"I was told my suffering was over," Joby sighed, though, of course, he was very pleased. "Well, let's not just sit here on this shoulder gabbing. Which way do I go?"

"Just drive." Swami grinned. "You're already headed in the right direction."

EPILOGUE.

( Have a Little Faith ).

It was late September, and the Creator had invited Gabe to come catch the end of the baseball season at a sports bar in Tucson, Arizona. They sat at a small table on the upper deck, just two more cowboys throwing down a beer or three before the game.

At the moment, all the bar's TV screens were still tuned to the last few moments of a weekly magazine show devoted, this week, to the sensational earthquake that had recently demolished California's premier resort town of Taubolt. Gabe and his boss had watched spectacular footage of the devastation narrated by a stream of experts explaining the event's geological origins, many unpleasant consequences, and, of course, the rather bizarre stories told by more than a few survivors. Gabe had listened with interest as several still traumatized tourists and ex-residents described monsters throwing fire-balls at buildings and pushing down walls without ever touching them. At present, a nationally renowned psychiatrist was explaining the concept of mass hysteria.

"During a particularly traumatic event of this kind," the doctor said excitedly, "entire crowds of people can, by unconscious consensus and amplified power of suggestion, all project the same meaning onto what they're undergoing. They literally share a hallucination."

"Fascinatin'," the Creator murmured. "It'd only work on Californians though."

"This phenomenon has been amply documented on numerous occasions," the psychiatrist continued, "during natural disasters like this one, and also during large, emotionally charged religious gatherings, such as mass sightings of the Virgin Mary in Europe, for instance, though some of those may be traceable to the poisoning of communal grain supplies by molds such as ergot."

"Don't think she'd like the sound of that," mused Gabriel.

"No way," the Creator agreed. "Mary keeps a spotless kitchen."

"Think she's watchin' somewhere?" Gabe asked.

"For that guy's sake, I hope not," the Creator said, tipping back his hat. "You know how she gets when she's chafed."

While they'd been talking, the program had moved on to an interview with one last quake survivor. She was an elderly woman with long disheveled hair piled in a disorderly bun. It had been dyed, but not recently enough to hide the white roots showing at every part. Her makeup seemed hastily applied, and her whole demeanor mildly hysterical, as if she were a very old Ophelia. The screen caption read, "Agnes Hamilton: prominent former resident of Taubolt."

"Well, of course I plan to fight the ruling!" she snapped. "Never allowed to rebuild anything again? That's ridiculous! Everything I had was invested in that town! Don't they understand that? If things are a little bit unstable, reinforce them, but they can't just shut me out that way. I was a very wealthy woman! That town was my life!"

The camera zoomed in on her distraught expression just as she wiped a fleck of spittle from the corner of her mouth, smearing her lipstick.

"Poor woman," the Creator sighed.

As the credits ended and they rolled a beer commercial, Gabe turned to the Creator and said, "I've been wonderin' about somethin'. May I ask?"

"Whadda you think?" The Creator smiled, still gazing at the commercial.

"Right," Gabe said, embarrassed. "Okay, well, I'm happy as anyone, of course, about how everything came out, but . . ." He really wasn't sure he should be asking this.

"Spit it out, compadre," the Creator growled.

"Well, what if You had lost? You could have lost, couldn't You?"

"I can do anything." The Creator grinned.

"Then, what would You have done?" Gabe said.

The Creator shrugged and took another pull at His beer. "I'd have ponied up, I guess, just like I promised. I'm no cheater. You know that."

"You'd have just wiped everything out?" Gabe said. "Even me?"

"Yup," the Creator said grimly. "Sorry, pardner, but a promise is a promise."

"And made everything over according to his instructions?"

"Well, now, that's the problem, ain't it?" the Creator said. "Seems like old Lucy kinda overlooked the fact he's a part of creation too. He does that a lot. You noticed?"

Gabe was too dumbstruck to answer.

"Soon as I'd wiped every last thing out," the Creator continued, scratching the back of His head, "I'd have asked for his instructions, of course, but if he wasn't there to give 'em . . . well, a plain old post 'n' hole man like Me oughtn't presume to guess what a brilliant mind like his would've wanted. I s'pose I'd just have had to make it all up again without him." He grinned. "You think?"

Gabe was shocked, not just at the plan's simplicity, but also at its callousness. "With all due respect, My Lord, what about all the good and loyal beings . . . well, like myself?" he said, daring to express a little of the umbrage he was feeling. "It wouldn't have bothered You to wipe us all out just to get my brother off Your back?"

The Creator tipped His hat so far back it nearly fell off, looked surprised, and said, "Well, I'd have brought you all right back, of course. 'Cept for old Lucy, maybe. Who said I wouldn't? There's no rule says I can't bring You back, is there? I sure never wrote one." He gazed at the ceiling and murmured, "Why does everybody seem to have such trouble gettin' that?" He looked back at Gabe, and said, "Have a little faith, for cryin' out loud."

Gabe felt a total fool. "I should have known, My Lord. I apologize for-"

Before he could finish, the Creator had His hat off and was slapping Gabe on the head with it. "Now cut that out!" his Master growled. "Just when you finally start showin' a little spirit? What you wanna start apologizin' for?" He donned His hat again, grinning at Gabe's amazed expression. "I'm gettin' us another beer," he said. "Oh look. The game is . . . Awww hell," he groaned, gazing toward the door. "Look who's here."

Gabe turned to see Lucifer all duded up like an oil baron on some TV show.

"What's he want now?" Gabe asked unhappily. He looked at the Creator and said, "You don't think . . ."

"Hell, no." The Creator frowned. "He'd never try again this soon. It's prob'ly just the weather brought him down here. Hot as hell out there today."

"Yeah, but why this bar?" said Gabe. "He has to know we're here."

"Good thinkin', Gabe." The Creator frowned again. "Could be right. Let's skedaddle."

"Where to?" Gabe asked as they stood up to go.

"How 'bout Seattle? Lucy hates the weather there. We could get some coffee, and still catch the game."

"Yes," Gabe said, still hesitant to question his Lord's suggestions, "but if it is us he's looking for, and not just the weather, will that be far enough?"

"Damn." The Creator grinned. "Got yourself another point, Gabe." He dropped way too much money on the table and tugged His hat down real low to hide His face. "Remember that little discotheque in Prague?" He smiled. "That might be far enough. Let's just go. The team I'm rootin' for is gonna lose this game anyway."

end.