The celestial blueprint

By Philip José Farmer
The great Vincelleo liked being an artist. It gave him an excuse to turn the universe topsy turvy.
Apocalyptical flights of fancy are not unusual in science fiction. But when a writer with Philip José Farmer's gift of laughter embarks on one the outcome may be impossible to predict. He may turn your comfortable world of breakfast, lunch and dinner into some incredible rabbit warren in space, where you'll be served vitamin pills by March hares which would have made Alice blush. Or you may simply meet the great Vincelleo himself.
The arrogance with which B. T. Revanche strode through the outer office of Bioid Electronic was enough to convince anyone that he was a V.V.I.P. His weasel eyes straying neither to left nor right, long fat cigar stabbed straight ahead, quill-like hair bristling in all directions, he was a stout little porcupine of a man. And like that spear-backed creature, he knew that no one would stop him. If they did, they'd regret it—so help them!
Very few people ever paced so fearlessly through the waiting rooms of Bioid. Most persons sat a long time on the heel-cooling chairs, and when they were summoned to enter the Sanctum Sanctorum, they were seldom escorted by a Bioid treacher.
But B. T. Revanche—contrary to rumor, the initials did not stand for Blood Thirsty—walked into the skyscraper that overlooked the free city of Messina, and did not bother to announce himself. Taking it for granted that he'd be recognized wherever he went, he did not even switch off his personal anti-espionage field.
Such a gesture of simple courtesy would have seemed to him an affront to his prestige.
He brushed aside those who looked as if they might get in his way, stepped into an anti-gravity elevator, and was whisked up fifty stories to the immense suit of Bioid's GHQ. There a gold-plated treacher picked him up and preceded him, barking out his name with flattering precision.
Make way for Signor Revanche! One side or a leg off, please! Lo, he cometh!