Over time the cats develop a culture of leisured aristocrats. They rule, preen, confabulate about the nature of the universe as they lie about in the shelters their creatures build for them. They develop their minds, and their aim is always to do less work than the generation before them. The most successful communities are those where not only the cats but also the parasites have evolved, bringing more species into the fold to queue up their throats for the knife, or settle at the cats’ feet to make and serve and work. The cats eventually become aware of their invisible ally as their vicarious technology advances. At the height of their sophistication, perhaps half a million years ago, the cats held sway over a global empire, countless small polities getting on because wars are too much like hard work. Meanwhile, feline scholars earn their credentials through the extended erudition of their scurrying packs of monkey minions. Their microbial science is exceptional, and they work hard at honing the efficiency of the little passenger—engineering it through trial and error until it an leap to just about any species they choose and stay ahead of any resistance it might encounter. Rather indolently, the great cats secure their hold on the world by having all of nature love and worship them. In ten million years they pass from being at the mercy of the elements to inhabiting a genuine Eden, where every beast is placed on the Earth for their convenience.

They are there still, unchallenged rulers of everything they survey. There are no scientists as such any more, though some still while away lazy hours in idle speculation. They make nothing, because anything they might conceive of is made for them. And at the first presentiment of privation there is a world of species ready to give up comfort, time and life so the cats can continue to prosper. Not a world you’d want to visit, in case you ended up at their feet, grooming their luxurious coats and hoping you were too small a morsel to prove appetizing.

13.

I