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And how could they be so different? It had never happened to him before, good fortune and doom mixed together in the oracle's prophecy; what a weird fate, as if the oracle had scraped the bottom of the barrel, tossed up every sort of rag, bone, and turd of the dark, then reversed itself and poured in the light like a cook gone barmy. I must have pressed two buttons at once, he decided; jammed the works and got this schlimazl's eye view of reality. Just for a second -- fortunately. Didn't last.
Hell, he thought, it has to be one or the other; it can't be both. You can't have good fortune and doom simultaneously.
Or. . . can you?
The jewelry business will bring good fortune; the judgment refers to that. But the line, the goddam line; it refers to something deeper, some future catastrophe probably not even connected with the jewelry business. Some evil fate that's in store for me anyhow. . .
War! he thought. Third World War! All frigging two billion of us killed, our civilization wiped out. Hydrogen bombs falling like hail.
Oy gewalt! he thought. What's happening? Did I start it in motion? Or is someone else tinkering, someone I don't even know? Or -- the whole lot of us. It's the fault of those physicists and that synchronicity theory, every particle being connected with every other; you can't fart without changing the balance in the universe. It makes living a funny joke with nobody around to laugh. I open a book and get a report on future events that even God would like to file and forgetAndroid 2.2 4GB Tablet HDMI
cell phones android 2.2. And who am I? The wrong person; I can tell you that.
I should take my tools, get my motors from McCarthy, open my shop, start my piddling business, go on despite the horrible line. Be working, creating in my own way right up to the end, living as best I can, as actively as possible, until the wall falls back into the moat for all of us, all mankind. That's what the oracle is telling me. Fate will poleax us eventually anyhow, but I have my job in the meantime; I must use my mind, my hands.
The judgment was for me alone, for my work. But the line; it was for us all.
I'm too small, he thought, I can only read what's written, glance up and then lower my head and plod along where I left off as if I hadn't seen; the oracle doesn't expect me to start running up and down the streets, squalling and yammering for public attention.
Can anyone alter it? he wondered. All of us combined. . . or one great figure. .