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tree.’
    Atlas was puzzled. He had seen the tree laden with fruit, just as it was laden now, but while he had been picking the apples, there had seemed to be only three, the three he had to choose.
    ‘There was no enchantment, Atlas. You could not see the tree as it is. You could not see the changefulness of the world. All these pasts are yours, all these futures, all these presents. You could have chosen differently. You did not.’
    * * *
    Atlas said, ‘Must my future be so heavy?’
    Hera said ‘That is your present, Atlas. Your future hardens every day, but it is not fixed.’
    ‘How can I escape my fate?’
    ‘You must choose your destiny.’
       
    Dark-minded Hera vanished and Atlas was alone. He held the apples lightly in his hand. He had no idea what Hera had been telling him, he hardly knew whether he cared. He had to go back to Heracles now, and his only plan was to persuade the hero to hold up the world for a little longer.

No Way Out …
     

    Heracles was asleep.
    He dreamed he was a single moment in a single day. A note struck and sounded. Gone. He was the chime of Ladon’s scales. He was the whistling hiss of the Hydra. He was the hoof-beat of Artemis’s hind. He was a cattle bell, he was the bottom G of the boar, he was the singing sound of Diomedes’s mares, he was the operatic shriek of the Stymphalides, he was the bass of the Nemean lion, the bellow of the Cretan bull. He was the noise of running water through the Augean stables, he was the whimper of a dog, he was the sigh of a dying woman.
    Then he was himself, and he was tearing at his flesh as though it were a shirt he could pull off. He was the sound of his own agony.
    He woke in a sweat. He couldn’t even wipe his brow. He stared unfocussed into the serene starry- ness of the universe and wondered if he shouted loud enough would he get a reply?
    There was no noise. There was a noise and he hated it. The buzz, buzz, buzz outside his head.
    ‘ATLAS’ he yelled ‘ATLAS’ and on earth there was thunder in the mountains.
    ‘There’s no need to shout,’ said Atlas. ‘I can hear you.’
       
    There he was, tall, smiling, standing in front of Heracles, blissfully free of any burden. Heracles felt his skin burning with jealousy.
    ‘Did you get the apples?’ he said, trying to sound cool.
    Atlas reached into his pouch pocket and brought them out, still shining with their strange light. Then he said,
    ‘Heracles, I’ll take these to Eurystheus for you.’
    ‘Wouldn’t hear of it mate,’ said Heracles. ‘You’ve done enough already.’
    ‘It’s no trouble,’ said Atlas.
    ‘You don’t want to go all that way just to deliver a few bits of fruit.’
    ‘I thought I might visit my daughters too,’ said Atlas.
    (‘Bloody hell’, thought Heracles, ‘those girls will keep him forever.’)
    ‘You aren’t getting tired are you?’ Said Atlas.
    ‘Tired? No mate, I love it here, makes a change, no problem.’
    ‘Well then’, said Atlas, ‘do you want anything before I go?’
       
    Heracles was nervous. If he made a fuss, Atlas could just walk away. Heracles couldn’t put the world down without help. Atlas could trap him here forever.
    * * *
    ‘Since you ask, I’d like a pad for my head – take the weight off. Bloody Switzerland.’
    ‘What’s wrong with Switzerland?’ Said Atlas.
    ‘The mountains mate. They’re sticking in the back of my neck.’
    Atlas was kind hearted and he did not want to see Heracles suffer, so he searched through his bag of belongings and found a thick fleece that he could fold into a cushion. He bent over Heracles and tried to fit it behind his neck.
    ‘Matterhorn mate …’
    ‘What?’ said Atlas.
    ‘You’ll never get it under the Matterhorn. Look, just take the world for a second, and I’ll fit the pad on my shoulders, and then we’ll be straight. Oh and don’t squash the apples will you?’
    Unsuspecting Atlas nodded and bent down to put the apples on the floor of the universe.