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thrilling in theory, were a disappointment from where he stood. Seen from the outside, even the fine distinctions he hoped to make between one kind of cloud and another – cirrus, altostratus, cumulonimbus and so on – were often impossible, as one kind shrouded another, layer upon layer. It was all fog, really, like a haze of tiredness over God’s eyes. As for hurricanes, tornadoes, lightning, hail, falling snow, even rain: these were phenomena he would never see, no matter how intently he squinted. For, when there were clouds in the sky, they hid these spectacular sights from him; when there were no clouds, these sights did not exist to be seen.
    The first time God realised this, perched on his wobbly chair in the middle of the room, he was sickened by how perfectly he was excluded, and hung his head.
    His planet was so small, and he so big. Whole oceans were scarcely bigger than his hand, few countries as large as the eyes with which he strained to see them. Of course he delighted in being able to see the whole picture, in the round, but at the same time he longed for the details. Through a clear patch of sky, he could just about see the wood, providing the wood went on forever, but he saw no trees. Sometimes the frustration provoked him to fantasise unreasonably: to see not just a single tree but an infant sapling – no, better still: a tiny, tight-furled bud edging out, like a frog paw from charred forest cinders.
    Yet, what he could see was so good that his dissatisfaction never lasted, and often he would stand staring at his planet for so long that his neck ached and his eyes stung and hisbare feet went numb. He would watch clouds go ripple-shaped when they passed over mountain ridges, or turn into white banners around the tip of a peak. He would watch glaciers edging away from the poles like bubbles of fat around the white of a frying egg; he would note that the colour of an entire subcontinent had changed from parched brown to lush green, as if it had just decided it was bored with infertility.
    He became familiar with the unique shape of each landmass, even small islands which were lost in the blue of the oceans if he so much as blinked. The largest continent, some of which merged with the globe’s icy top, was the most various in smell. Every millimetre of it produced a different aroma, subtly mingled like an exotic ratatouille. The earthy scent of agriculture would murmur under a pall of incinerated carbons; a sweet whiff of monsoon would swirl around the stink of fleshly decay; an intriguing hint of fresh strawberries could be traced travelling across vast landscapes pungent with diesel and sodium. At its southern extremes, the largest continent hung down in two points like the collar of a shirt; its bulge of mountains poked up over the collar like an ugly face. Two of the other land-masses reminded him of faces, too: they were of almost the same massive size, very similar in shape, separated by an ocean, but both old men in profile – disappointed, long-faced old men, enduring stoically. The larger of the two smelled of blood, fresh blood, as if it were perspiring it constantly.
    Of course God knew about all the people on his planet. Millions of them, too many millions for a child to count. Their cities studded every solid part of the globe except the ice-floes, and even these he examined from time to time, just in case. Though there was no way of being sure, God guessed that it was from the largest continent, with its collar full of humankind, that he first began to hear the voices.
    For ages he took these voices to be from his own dreams, for they came to him as he was hesitating in the doorway of sleep, already wrapped in his blankets and the dark. In time, he realised they had nothing to do with his dreaming, but were spiralling down to his bed through the black space between him and his little planet, like motes of sonic pollen.
    The voices were at first so faint that they meant no more to God than the