The two men had been friends for eighty years.
They shared the same birthday.
Today they both turned one hundred years old.
Their wives were long deceased.
Their cities were long at peace.
Now what?
To celebrate they sat upon a hover platform no wider than a dining room table and stared, each of them, at their cities in the distance.
"It's all so boring now," The Playboy said. "Fifty years ago it had character."
The Farmer nodded agreement. "You never knew when a super-villain was going to turn your day into an adventure."
"Now it's all settled," The Playboy said. "Fought for. Won. Sterile. Complacent."
"Almost makes you wish for a bad guy," The Farmer sighed. "Just to shake things up."
The Playboy was nowhere near as forgiving as his friend. "Let them all rot," he said. "They never meant anything but harm to our worlds."
The Farmer found his friend's use of the term "worlds" very telling — for they both thought of their cities that way: as individual planets, unique environments, outside of which neither of them had ever been able to accomplish very much. But within those city limits... oh, there they were gods!
"How much longer do you think we'll live?" The Farmer asked his friend.
"I'm only mortal," The Playboy replied. "I'll probably go first."
But neither of them expected to die any time soon.
That gave them years, perhaps decades, to fill up.
What with?
"Is anyone from those days still around?" The Farmer asked.
"No one I can think of," The Playboy replied.
"We've outlived them all," The Farmer said.
"And our own usefulness, too," The Playboy said.
"What we need," The Farmer said, "is a retirement plan."
"I'll entertain the notion," The Playboy replied.
So they sat and exercised their vast intellects to that end. Long moments passed. Twilight appeared.
"I can't think of a thing," The Playboy said.
"Neither can I," The Farmer said.
"Maybe we should go back to our secret identities," The Playboy said, "and live them for real."
The Farmer shook his head. "I don't think either of us would find that very amusing."
Silence came again between them.
"We could go look for other cities," The Farmer said. "Start over again with a new life."
"I have enough trouble," The Playboy said, "sustaining the old one."
The Farmer knew his friend to be nowhere near as fragile as The Playboy purported to be. They were, after all, sharing their centennial celebration.
"Maybe crime-fighting kept me young," The Playboy offered, as if reading The Farmer's thoughts.
"There is no more crime," The Farmer said, almost wistfully.
The lights of the two cities came on, one at a time, by the millions.
"How long do you figure," The Farmer said, "we should sit up here like this?"
"A while longer," The Playboy said.
And so the two men sat, companions in accomplishment. Friends for eighty years. Crime-fighters long since retired.
And without any plans.
They shared the same birthday.
Today they both turned one hundred years old.
Their wives were long deceased.
Their cities were long at peace.
Now what?
To celebrate they sat upon a hover platform no wider than a dining room table and stared, each of them, at their cities in the distance.
"It's all so boring now," The Playboy said. "Fifty years ago it had character."
The Farmer nodded agreement. "You never knew when a super-villain was going to turn your day into an adventure."
"Now it's all settled," The Playboy said. "Fought for. Won. Sterile. Complacent."
"Almost makes you wish for a bad guy," The Farmer sighed. "Just to shake things up."
The Playboy was nowhere near as forgiving as his friend. "Let them all rot," he said. "They never meant anything but harm to our worlds."
The Farmer found his friend's use of the term "worlds" very telling — for they both thought of their cities that way: as individual planets, unique environments, outside of which neither of them had ever been able to accomplish very much. But within those city limits... oh, there they were gods!
"How much longer do you think we'll live?" The Farmer asked his friend.
"I'm only mortal," The Playboy replied. "I'll probably go first."
But neither of them expected to die any time soon.
That gave them years, perhaps decades, to fill up.
What with?
"Is anyone from those days still around?" The Farmer asked.
"No one I can think of," The Playboy replied.
"We've outlived them all," The Farmer said.
"And our own usefulness, too," The Playboy said.
"What we need," The Farmer said, "is a retirement plan."
"I'll entertain the notion," The Playboy replied.
So they sat and exercised their vast intellects to that end. Long moments passed. Twilight appeared.
"I can't think of a thing," The Playboy said.
"Neither can I," The Farmer said.
"Maybe we should go back to our secret identities," The Playboy said, "and live them for real."
The Farmer shook his head. "I don't think either of us would find that very amusing."
Silence came again between them.
"We could go look for other cities," The Farmer said. "Start over again with a new life."
"I have enough trouble," The Playboy said, "sustaining the old one."
The Farmer knew his friend to be nowhere near as fragile as The Playboy purported to be. They were, after all, sharing their centennial celebration.
"Maybe crime-fighting kept me young," The Playboy offered, as if reading The Farmer's thoughts.
"There is no more crime," The Farmer said, almost wistfully.
The lights of the two cities came on, one at a time, by the millions.
"How long do you figure," The Farmer said, "we should sit up here like this?"
"A while longer," The Playboy said.
And so the two men sat, companions in accomplishment. Friends for eighty years. Crime-fighters long since retired.
And without any plans.
