proffered hand extended towards him, which I realized belatedly made me
appear oafish, but he took it good-naturedly, and with his pleasantness
eliminated my unease at shaking the hand of one half my size. He then
beckoned for me to follow him, and turned and walked to the center of
the platform, where he unexpectedly laid down on his back, facing the
muraled dome. I did the same, somewhat hesitantly, though I found it to
be quite comfortable once I was down. He saw my sluggishness and by way
of explanation said to me:

"Do not be troubled, my dear Jehu, for we lie on our backs to bring
about clarity of mind."

Then he continued speaking, calling my attention to the sculptured dome:


"That is history," he said.

"What do you mean," I asked, "I've always viewed history as an organic
being, constantly growing as it devours the present."

"It is an organic being," he replied, "A monstrous beast of sorts. But
that (meaning the mural on the dome), my friend, is the genetics of
history, its code that dictates what it is and what it will become, the
master plan."

Allow me to take a moment to describe the mural for you. Firstly, its
form: it was spread out across the dome like the painted ceiling of the
Sistine Chapel, its whole being a broad, harmonious picture that
complimented itself, telling a story throughout its united branches. It
was much more than a painting, though, because it stood out from the