After a dark and stormy night, it was a drear and painful morning on Olympus. The demis and Jot had a pre-Goldfest party which, in the cause of internationalism, featured single malt from Celtia, meade from Germania, wines from Hellas, Rome, and Mesopotamia, barley-beer from Egypt, pulque from Americas, and concluded with sake from the Orient. Jot had withdrawn early in the evening, but Cornellia, as the Designated Demi (they’d flipped a priceless Augustan aureas to see who had to stay sober), gloomily imbibed fresh spring water from Delphi. As always, the sun dawned golden clear on the mountain, and Cornellia was consoling herself by reading the latest installment in Kallistos’ Alexandros mammoth sex novel, “The Bacchic Rites: A True Story,” looking for names of those she knew. Heraklia was snoring in one corner; Jojo had gone to sleep with a Panda in another; Julilla, ever ladylike, had nested on a purple silk couch; while Bryce was lying in a kiva pit with a friendly python. Hell would freeze over when they awoke with demi-size hangovers. Suddenly, there was a whirr in the corner of her eye, and Mercury, in his usual outfit including a pale pink tutu, was hanging in mid-air, his wee sandals twinkling. With a sympathetic look, he handed over a solid-gold-leaf scroll with AW’s logo flame on one side. “The boss needs youse guys right away,” he said. Cornellia looked at the chaos around her. “He picked a bad day for it!” Mercury nodded, but insisted. “Sorry. If I were you, I’d drop by and you can make explanations later. He’s got that look again. You know – the one where his big brown eyes get all moisty in the corners.” Cornellia nodded, yelled “Accio Firebolt!” and hopped aboard her broom, whizzing over the stark frozen tip of Olympus and down the other side, where Jot-Jupiter kept his studio and sauna. Typically divine, here it never rained until after sundown and the fall leaves blew into tidy little piles. However, the countless cherubs who did duty as staff, secretariat, cleaning ladies, dog-handlers (Cerberus came for visits) and wranglers (the Sacred Horses of the Sun were renters) were whizzing around the Sauna looking overworked and underpaid. The place looked seedy, probably because Jot’s studies were driving everyone nuts. As Cornellia parked the Firebolt and came through the entrance hallway, her impression was that the Studio was turning into a divine version of a flea market – piles of potshards, ancient scrolls, Babylonian Bull friezes, and some of Hephaustus’ work on weaponry, littered the walls and teetered on high piles everywhere. There was one pile marked “Meaning of life – query?”, another devoted to “eternal wealth” and a box half-filled with gold and silver-tipped scrolls with the notation “Stone Stuff.” Instantly Wilfred, the maitre d’cherub, appeared; he was looking haggard and, flying gently just beside her right ear, wafted her into Jot’s library. Inside, Jot was, as usual, stretched out on his favorite couch – a 12’ fluffy Phoenix feather that hung restfully in mid-air, carried by wee, pink, harassed cherubs. Today it was actually listing to starboard, so many scrolls and boxes flowed from one side to the another and hung precariously from the sides. Today was his Egyptian day, so he was dressed like Osiris before partition, with the addition of a small bright-green bowler hat with the gold notation “A Gift from Tir Na Nog.” The air shimmered around him, as flying cherubs were bringing cups of wine, scrolls, tax forms, research papers, so fast, they looked like a mob of pastel-tinted hummingbirds. He grinned hugely at Cornellia. Jot: Welcome, Cornellia! Where are the others? Cornellia: Er . . . they were all resting, Boss, so I thought I’d best get here and find out what you need. Jot *gloomily* I TOLD Heraklia not to spike that Aztec chocolate with Irish whiskey, but would she listen? Cornellia: So, what’s up? Here Jot looked demure and mildly embarrassed at the same time. He fidgeted, which caused the south half of the Phoenix feather to undulate, the southeast Cherub hanging on for dear life. Jot: Well, it’s a bit of a rush, Cornellia. You know all those owls that the cives are sending, all about fixing bugs and new programs and a face-lift for the home page? Well, I’ve been giving it serious thought. As you know, I’m still in the midst of studies, and I’m up to my ears – the programming time has gone down the bog. But it occurred to me – if I could get my hands on ONE thing, all would be well – I can finish my coursework, revamp the whole site, and even offer extra perks to our patrons! I just need a little help in getting it organized, so – well, I guess you’ve volunteered! Cornellia: (sighing, remembering when she got sucked into counting the Kraken’s teeth for Jot once) - What can I do?

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