CUP AND TABLETim PrattSigmund stepped over the New Doctor dropping a subway token onto herdevastated body. He stepped around the spreading shadow of his best friendCarlsbad who had died as hed lived: inconclusively and without fanfare. Hestepped over the brutalized remains of Ray up the steps and kept his eyesfocused on the shrine inside. This room in the temple at the top of themountain at the top of the world was large and cold and peer as he might backthrough the layers of time—visible to Sigmund as layers of gauze translucentas sautéed onions decade after decade peeling away under his gaze—he couldnot see a time when this room had not existed on this spot bare but potentas if only recently vacated by the God whod created and abandoned the world.Sigmund approached the shrine and there it was. The cup. The prize and goaland purpose of a hundred generations of the Table. The other members of theTable were dead the whole world was dead except for Sigmund.He did not reach for the cup. Instead he walked to the arched window andlooked out. Peering back in time he saw mountains and clouds and the passingof goats. But in the present he saw only fire twisting and writhingconsuming rock as easily as trees with a few mountain peaks rising as yetuntouched from the flames. Sigmund had not loved the world much—hed enjoyedthe music of Bach violent movies and vast quantities of cocaine—and by andlarge he could have taken or left civilization. Still knowing the world wasconsumed in fire made him profoundly sad.Sigmund returned to the shrine and seized the cup—heavy stone more bluntobject than drinking vessel—and prepared to sip.But then at the last moment Sigmund didnt drink. He did something elseinstead.But first:Or arguably later:Sigmund slumped in the back