Jerry sighed. "You're getting into a meaningless argument. It could be answered that destiny brought the operation into the realm of actuality to save him because it wasn't his time to die. There's a lot of evidence to support predestination. Some of the oldest of philosophies and religions are based on it. It is written is a concept as old as man."
"And maybe as mistaken as the ancient belief in a god of thunder," Lin scoffed.
"And maybe not," Jerry said. "You read a book. Unless you cheat and look at the ending first it's like life. Unpredictable. But you can skip to the end and see how it will come out, and then start in at the beginning and read with that knowledge. And when you again reach the end it's still the same, because it was already written and unchangeable when you began reading the first page. Sometimes I think real life is like that."
Phil and Lin winked at each other. Then Phil said, "Let's suppose that's true for the moment. Who does the writing?"
Jerry shrugged. "What difference would that make? There's the old tale of the Fates as weavers, weaving a cloth that becomes the events of men's lives as it is woven. And there's another one I heard once, or read someplace...."
"What's that?" Lin prodded.
"I was trying to remember where I got it," Jerry said. "It doesn't matter. The way it goes, Fate is an old man with sightless eyes, sitting at a typewriter, pecking out the events that will happen. Beside him is a wastebasket affair with an eternal flame in it. When the sightless old man finishes one page he yanks it out and drops it in the wastebasket. The flame consumes it, and as it is consumed it becomes the reality of life."
"Say!" Phil said. "That's a darned cute idea. Writing on paper, burning, and in the process of burning it transforms into reality by some strange alchemy. I hope you can remember where you read that."
Lin snorted. "Maybe he wrote it himself and burned the pages as they were finished," he suggested. He glanced at the clock on the wall. His eyes widened in surprise. "I didn't know it was that late," he said, rising. "I've got to get to the city before the bank closes. Have to really step on it."
"Take it easy," Phil called after him. "Don't get killed."