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read.”
    “Poetry,” I informed him. He looked shocked. “No, seriously. I mean, what would he want with adventure stories? With
his
life? And philosophy is mostly crap when you live forever. No, he likes great poetry.”
    “You see?” Houbert cried. “What is life without poetry?” Latif ignored him, but I could tell he was thinking about it. I looked at the Mayan waiters.
    “What do you think, guys?” I inquired. It was their turn to look shocked. After a moment’s hesitation, the one with the most green plumes in his headdress spoke.
    “Well—we think the Son of Heaven must, in every respect, agree with the Father of Heaven.”
    “Oh, I do. But what do
you
think? You think all this pleasure chasing and show business and incense is a good idea?”
    “Of course. You’re gods. These things are fitting for You.”
    Boy, if the front-office mortals in the twenty-fourth century could hear this.
    “You think maybe we ought to tone down our style a little? Live more like you do?”
    “Why would You want to, Son of Heaven?” The Mayan looked appalled. “Look how pleasant it is here. Can You imagine any of us wanting to go back and live in the world of men? We were made to live in blood and flames and shit. We have escaped these things because we were Your chosen ones, and we would very much prefer to stay here with You. But if You were to go down to that other world and suffer as men do … what kind of god would do a thing like that? It’s not appropriate behavior, You see.”
    “But a god might have work to do there,” pointed out Latif. “Important work, like running things. Anyway, you don’t really believe we’re your old gods, do you?”
    “Certainly.” The Mayan looked faintly offended. “You may not resemble the gods we were led to expect, but You neither age nor die, You reside in the ancient places of our fathers, and You work miracles on a daily basis. That is quite close enough for us. Miserable wretches that we are, we take pride in knowing that we serve such splendid masters. The Father of Heaven always takes great care to behave in a suitably godly way, and I could only wish some of His children would follow His example a little more.”
    “Thank you, best of slaves.” Houbert sighed happily and clasped his hands together on his stomach. “You see, child?
They
understand. We require pomp and circumstance. We require pageantry and ritual. There is a certain touching beauty in the way mortals instinctively grasp this about us when we ourselves deny it.”
    Latif’s response was brief, explicit, and to the point. I looked brightly from one to the other; I hadn’t enjoyed brunch like this in a long time. Houbert winced profoundly. He turned to me, pointedly ignoring his apprentice.
    “Well, here’s a perquisite of divinity you won’t turn down, I daresay.” He gestured hypnotically, and a drop-dead gorgeous Mayanette came gliding into the room, bearing a golden tray of jade vessels. I thought he was talking about the girl, but as soon as she was close enough, I caught a scent that grabbed hold of my nose and yanked me to my feet.
    “Jesus, what IS that?” I yelped. It was all I could do to keep from grabbing the tray from her. She dimpled and leaned low to place it before us, giving me a spectacular view of cleavage I had absolutely no interest in at that moment. A blue mystery of aroma was coiling from the spout of an urn, a smell of every sweet deal in life, every sure thing, and every winning ticket. Latif clenched his little fists and looked away. Houbert’s smile was like the sun in splendor.
    “Theobromos, my friend. A little more complex than the formula to which you are accustomed, however. This, you see, is the original recipe. This is the sacred beverage our dear Mayans reserved for the incarnation of God on Earth Himself alone.
And
for grownups.” He turned and blew Latif a Bronx cheer.
    “I hope your teeth rot,” said Latif gamely, and poured himself another shot of