Page 69 - The Myth and the Moment
P. 69

Evening

        and all media. You need financial advice? I know who’s good in this
        town: tax accountants, estate planners, financial advisors, you name
        it. It can all be done if you know the right people. My own will is a
        beautiful document, eighteen pages double-spaced; I can’t understand
        half of it, but I trust my attorney, and he wrote it.”
          Honor among thieves. Time for Phil’s shock therapy.
          “Your will is no good, Phil. I can tell you that without seeing it.”
          “Eh?”
          That got his attention.
          “Yes, null and void. And the same goes for every human being on
        this planet. After a few thousand nuclear bombs have exploded, there
        will be no heirs and no property to distribute.”
          “What? Are you serious?”
          “Melodramatic,  perhaps,  but  yes:  dead  serious.  Forget  your  will.
        Unless you die in the very near future, it’s pointless.”
          “So  that’s  it.  You’ve  got  nothing  to  live  for,  so  you  take  some
        perverted pleasure in thinking the world is about to blow up. Sour
        grapes, that’s your problem. And why the hell are you so concerned
        about your last will and testament, if it’s going to be vaporized along
        with everything else?”
          “It’s not.”
          “Oh, come on! You tell me I’m not rational, and then you give me
        all this crap. Maybe Aestheria’s right. What a story: you really had me
        going there for a minute, Evangelino.”
          “Don’t  stop  now,  Phil.  I  haven’t  finished.  And  I’m  still  serious.
        And I’m still rational. The property I have to dispose of is not cash
        or bonds or real estate; it’s an attempt to describe what went wrong
        with  our  civilization,  why  it  came  to  such  a  sticky  end.  My  heirs
        haven’t been born yet, may never exist; my testament may not survive
        the holocaust, or it may never be found. That is out of my control,
        limited by human mortality in a very extreme manifestation.”
          “Wait a minute. You’re still not making sense. You didn’t answer
        my question: why do you suppose your precious papers are going to
        be saved from the aftermath of World War III?”
          “Because  they  won’t  be  on  paper.  I  am  going  to  transfer  my
        message to a metal plate which will be sealed inside a container made
        of  weather-proof  material.  I  will  bury  it  in  a  locale  likely  to  be
        searched by archaeologists of the future.”

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