They have wings, he would tell
us, and are eternal, immortal, everlasting."
"I see," said Brady, "you're going to say next that faulty concerns like
this particular world are the work of minor intelligences. What rot you can
talk at times, old man!"
"Yet is it an honor to God Almighty that we attribute the contents of this
poor pill of a planet to Him? I think it would be an insult if you ask me.
Out of respect to the Everlasting, I would rather suppose that the earth,
being by chance a concern too small for His present purposes, He tosses it,
as we toss a dog a bone, to some ingenious archangel with a theory. Then
you enjoy the spectacle of that seraph about as busy over this notable
world as a child with a mud pie. The winged one sets to work with a will. A
little pinch of life; develops under his skillful manipulation; evolution
takes its remorseless course through the wastes of Time until--behold! the
apotheosis of the ape at last. Picture that well-meaning but muddle-headed
archangel's dismay at such a conclusion! All his theories and conceits--his
splendid scheme of evolution and the rest--end in a mean but obstinate
creature with conscious intelligence and an absolute contempt and disregard
for Nature. This poor Frankenstein of a cherub watches the worm he has
produced defy him and refuse absolutely to obey his most fundamental
postulates or accept his axioms. The fittest survive no more; these
gregarious, new-born things presently form themselves into a pestilential
society, they breed rubbish, they--"
"By God! stop it, John," said Murdoch.
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