The Philosophical Strangler

by Eric Flint

  Abbess or not, I was starting to take exception to her attitude. But she cut off my exception before I got a chance to express it. Started right in lecturing again, just like a schoolmarm in a class for the mentally handicapped.

  "Devils, you see, are independent creatures of the Darkness. Same with demons, daemons, imps—that whole wretched bunch that dwells in the infernal regions. Fallen angels are something else entirely. They're figments of the Lord's imagination, which He created and brought to divine life for no good reason except that He's such an Egotist that He doesn't really want to talk to anyone except Himself. So the Old Geister created angels in His image, so He could carry on a conversation with Himself. Kept them within limits, of course. He didn't want any backtalk, you understand, just an audience who'd listen to His every word like it was Holy Writ and say 'Yes, God' and 'You're absolutely right, God' and so forth. The problem, naturally, is that, like every egotist you've ever known, the Old Geister's as vain as a Peacock. Sooner or later one of the angels doesn't fawn over Him as quick as He likes, so—off you go, bum! It's to the netherworld with you! Eventually, He lets them back upstairs, but the fallen angels hate the whole thing. It's not that it hurts them any, you understand. It'd do them some good, actually, a stint in the netherworld, if they'd learn anything from the experience. But since the angels are created in His image, naturally they never learn anything, since they think they already know it all. But while they're down there they become quite frightful. It offends their self-esteem, you see, being snickered at by devils and such. They become exceedingly nasty, after a while. Very hard to tell them from proper devils, if you just happen to run into them without knowing the trick of it."

  "Which is what?" I asked.

  Hildegard got a very prim look at her face. "I don't believe there's any need to get into that subject. It wouldn't be proper for me to talk about it."

  Greyboar was back to scratching his head. "I think I see where you're going. We have to descend to the netherworld, somehow—"

  "Goodness, no!" gasped Hildegard, clutching her throat. "Why, the very idea! My good man, I am the Abbess of the Sisters of Tranquility! It's a shocking idea, positively shocking! You should be ashamed of yourself! A devout woman like myself, consorting with devils and demons. Shocking!"

  "But then, how are—"

  "We shall summon the fallen angel here, of course!" exclaimed Hildegard. "It's the only proper way to proceed."

  Like I said, it was impossible to follow the woman's logic. Just keep foot soldiering. Greyboar apparently felt the same way.

  "Fine, fine," he said hurriedly. "No problem—we'll bring the character up here. I assume you know how to do that? I certainly don't." Seeing the frown gathering on Hildegard's brow, he hastened on: "Yeah, yeah, of course you know how to do it! After all, you are the Abbess of the Sisters of Tranquility! So, anyway, the idea is you haul the bum up here and I choke the answer out of him."

  The strangler looked down at his huge hands. Cracked his knuckles. The snarl raised her head, gave him a speculative look—sort of, Hmmm, this guy might make for an interesting little set-to, not like those squealing soldiers what just jump into your maw like rabbits.

  "I've never tried to put the squeeze on a fallen angel," mused Greyboar. "What the hell, why not? It'll be an interesting challenge."

  Hildegard had that look on her face again. The one I was beginning to detest heartily. The one that expressed the idea: How does this guy manage to feed himself, anyway, with a brain like a cabbage?

  "My dear man," she explained in that patient tone, "how in the world do you propose to strangle an angel? Didn't I just get through explaining that an angel is nothing but a figment of the Old Geister's imagination? They're utterly immaterial, angels are—fallen or not."

  Greyboar threw up his hands with exasperation. "Then what am I doing here? I'm a damned strangler, not a theologian! I do manual labor, lady, I'm not a philosopher!"

  I couldn't help it—I giggled. Greyboar glared at me.

  "Well, of course you're a strangler, my dear man. That's why I engaged your services. I'm not one of those silly people who thinks they can substitute their amateur fumbling for the trained skills of a craftsman. In fact, for the task in front of me, I not only need a professional, I need the best in the field. It won't be easy, I can assure you. If I may be so immodest, I believe you'll find this the most difficult choke in your career."

  "Is that right?" demanded Greyboar. He's normally quite cool-headed, the big guy is, but I could tell the Abbess was starting to get his goat. "So who am I supposed to strangle?"

  "Why—me, of course," replied Hildegard. "Who else?"

  * * *

  At that point, my brain went on strike. Total walkout, picket lines up, the whole shot. Greyboar gaped.

  Of course, Hildegard just kept chugging along with her lesson in Remedial Theology.

  "Since they're immaterial figments of the Old Geister's imagination," she explained, "the only way you can force an angel—fallen or risen, by the way, the principle's the same, it's just that you can't summon a risen angel down to earth—to do anything is to squeeze their spirit. And the way you do that is by demonstrating your utter indifference to their existence. Hate that, angels. It tortures them no end, the idea that someone not only isn't overawed by their presence but would just as soon die to get away from them. It's an ancient trick, first perfected by the swamis of the Sundjhab. Great austerities. Does it every time."

  She pursed her lips. "Of course, the trick's gotten more difficult over the millennia. In the old days, you could coerce a fallen angel just by practicing the traditional austerities: fasting, scourging, suchlike. But I'm afraid that just won't do, anymore. The Old Geister's gotten tougher as time goes by. Like old Shoe Leather, He is now. His angels just laugh at fasting, today. Scourging will still make them wince, of course. But to force a fallen angel to cough up the score of the Harmony of the Spheres, well, for that I'll need to practice a truly great austerity. I considered the problem at some length, let me tell you, trying to figure out what would be the greatest austerity I could come up with. And then—like a bolt out of the blue!—it came to me: I'll have myself strangled by the world's greatest chokester. If that doesn't do the trick, nothing will."

  She smiled. "Is it clear now?"

  I had my own opinion as to who in the room suffered from mental deficiency, but I kept it to myself. Didn't need to say anything, anyway. I knew Greyboar would turn the job down flat.

  "Not a chance," he growled. "I don't choke girls. Abbess of the Sisters of Tranquility or not, you're still a girl as far as squeezing's concerned. You'll have to get another chokester. Even if he isn't the best in the world."

  Hildegard nodded her head. "Yes, yes. Gwendolyn told me you'd be stubborn on this point. So I had her give me a note. I have it right here." She rummaged around in a drawer, brought out a letter.

  "It's for you," she said, walking around the desk and handing it to Greyboar.

  The strangler opened the letter and read it. After reading it twice, he handed it to me. Here's what it said:

  Dear brother:

  I don't have time now to write a long letter. Things are getting sticky here, and I have to go underground again. Hildegard explained her problem to me, and I told her to hire you. I hate the fact of it, but there's no question you're the world's best professional strangler. And if she's to do what she needs to do, she'll need the best help she can get. I know you've always kept the promise you made me about not choking women. I'm not going to say I'm proud of you for that. You're still nothing but a damned thug. But I am pleased. Sort of. Anyway, you have my permission—this one time—to break the promise. In fact, I'm telling you to do it. Mind your sister! Go ahead and choke Hildegard.

  Gwendolyn

  It was her letter, all right. I recognized her handwriting, and besides, you couldn't mistake the sentiments—talk about self-righteous!

  "Well, I guess it's all right, then," said Greyboar.
>
  "It's not all right!" I exclaimed. "I've said it once, I'll say it again—no Joe business! And this job has Joe business written all over it."

  Greyboar shook his head. "Doesn't matter, Ignace. Normally, I'd agree with you. But you saw what it said in the letter. Gwendolyn didn't just give me permission to do the job, she told me to do it. That means it's important to her, for whatever reason. I've disappointed her once in her life, I'm not going to do it again. Not for something like this, anyway. What the hell—we've already gotten mixed up with Joe business."

  It'd always been a sore point with me, as an agent, the way Greyboar stuck his nose into deciding which assignments we took. That was my job, dammit! He provides the thumbs, I provide the managerial skills. I admit, he was usually pretty good about it. But, I swear, the man was an absolute pawn in the hands of women. I ask you—what's the point of being the world's greatest strangler if you're going to let every Tina, Diane and Harriet push you around?

  Chapter 14.

  Great Austerities

  After that, things moved pretty quickly. Hildegard rose and

  ushered us out of her study and down to the music salon. There, we found that all the great composers were already set up at tables scattered against the various walls, pens in hand and blank composers' sheets spread out in front of them. It suddenly dawned on me why they had all come to the Abbey.

  There was a single chair sitting in the middle of the big room, with a small side table next to it. The only thing on the side table was a little bell. The kind that looks like a cow bell only it's smaller. Hildegard marched up to the chair and took a seat, her head lifted high and her back ramrod straight. She motioned Greyboar to come around and stand behind her.

  Jenny and Angela and I stayed off to one side, near the table where the Big Banjo was sitting. Despite my better judgment, I found myself getting interested in the affair. Never been part of such an operation before. I'd made it a point, in fact, to keep my distance from angels—fallen or otherwise.

  The main thing that surprised me was how simple and straightforward it all was. I'd rather expected a much more elaborate affair. Drawing of pentacles, guttering torches, bell, book and candle, long incantations in an unknown tongue, naked witches leaping about. (The only part I'd been looking forward to, that last. Except I was a little nervous that Jenny and Angela would insist on participating.)

  Instead, Hildegard stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled. Very loudly. When my ears stopped ringing, there was the fallen angel. Squatting in the middle of the floor.

  "What took you so long?" demanded Hildegard.

  The fallen angel sneered. "For you, I should hurry?"

  Horrid ugly thing, it was. If this creature was an angel, I definitely didn't want to meet a devil, I'll tell you that. Colored a kind of nauseating yellow. A twisted face like a giant bat. Horns, cloven hooves, barbed tail, the works. Actually, I found out later that fallen angels take on the appearance of devils. Part of the punishment. Only difference, actually, is that fallen angels don't have—well, bit delicate, this—but let's just say that the Old Geister, being as He is a righteous God, doesn't believe it's proper for His angels (even fallen ones) to have, you know, sexual organs. Real devils have them, of course—that's why they're called devils, don't you know? Hung like moose, your real devils. Which is probably why they get into so much trouble.

  Other than that, however, this fallen angel was the spitting image of a devil. All the way down to his temperament.

  "Which one are you?" demanded Hildegard.

  "Ralph," responded the angel, looking like his feelings were hurt.

  "I can never tell," said Hildegard. "Angels all look the same to me. It's ridiculous, anyway, giving you names. You're all just figments of the Old Geister's imagination." She shook her head regretfully. "And He's got such a limited imagination."

  The angel snarled. "You better watch your mouth, lady! You're already on the Boss'—well, you know what."

  "I'll not stand for vulgarity from the likes of you!" snapped Hildegard.

  "Is that so?" sneered Ralph. But he did seemed a bit cowed. Don't blame him, actually. When she's in the mood—which she was—Hildegard could be called The Schoolmistress From Hell.

  "I don't have to take any guff from you, lady," he whined. "You've been excommunicated by the Popes."

  Hildegard snorted. "And so what? I'm still the Abbess of the Sisters of Tranquility. Who cares what those shriveled-up old geezers think?"

  "They're God's chosen authorities on Earth!" shrilled Ralph.

  "And so what? Is that my fault? I told Him to get rid of the Popes. Dozens of times, in fact. The Popes are going to infuriate Joe when he gets back, leave aside everything else."

  "Joe's dead and gone!" shrieked the angel. But he couldn't meet Hildegard's gaze. Like a bar of iron, that gaze.

  "The Boss says you've been excommunicated," groused Ralph. "So that's that."

  "What cheek!" exclaimed Hildegard. "It's just like Him to make a mess of things and then blame me for it. No better than a six-year-old Brat trying to stick His little sister with the punishment."

  "You can't talk about the Boss that way!" protested Ralph. "I won't stand for it!"

  Hildegard laughed. It was a beautiful clear laugh, like a chime, except that no chime you've ever heard could produce that sound of total contempt.

  "And how do you propose to stop me?" she demanded. The fallen angel glared at her, but said nothing. I'm no expert on the fine points of theology, but even I could figure out that if the Lord Almighty couldn't shut the woman up, His stooge sure as hell wasn't up to the job.

  "What d'you want?" growled Ralph. "You didn't summon me here to chat. Not that I mind, of course"—here he ogled Jenny and Angela—"the view's nice."

  Angela blew him a raspberry. Jenny sneered: "Dream on, dickless."

  "I summoned you here in order to obtain the score for the Harmony of the Spheres," said Hildegard.

  The fallen angel collapsed to the floor, howling with laughter.

  "What a chump!" hooted Ralph. "What a silly old biddy!" Hildegard kept quiet, but she bestowed upon him the look which all schoolmarms bestow upon their least favorite pupil.

  Eventually, Ralph composed himself enough to sit back up. Wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, he said: "And just how do you propose to get that out of me? Going to practice great austerities, are we? Oh, how wonderful! How was I so blessed, to be allowed to watch while the great Abbess Hildegard starves and beats herself?"

  He convulsed to the floor again. "Be still my trembling heart!"

  "Impudent rascal!" snapped Hildegard. Then she turned to Greyboar. "Are you ready?" she asked. Greyboar shrugged.

  Hildegard plucked the bell off the side table. "I will remain seated here at my desk. You will stand behind me to apply the choke. Whenever I ring the bell, you will tighten the choke. Is that clear?"

  Greyboar scratched his head. "Well, sure, except for one thing. How will I know when you want me to let go? You won't be able to say anything. Believe me, you won't."

  Hildegard looked at him, once again, as if he were a moron. "But, my dear man, it's obvious! You will release the choke when Ralph coughs up the Harmony of the Spheres." She frowned briefly, then added: "Actually, to be on the safe side, you'd best wait until he repeats it. Even the world's greatest composers will have difficulty recording this harmony, and it's essential that we get every note down properly."

  Greyboar was still frowning.

  "Oh, stop worrying, young man!" snapped Hildegard. "You'll have no difficulty recognizing the score of the Harmony of the Spheres! You've never heard it before, of course. No mortal has. But it's quite unmistakable, really it is. And besides, we've all agreed that the Big Banjo will announce when the score is completely recorded."

  Greyboar threw up his hands in frustration. "You are the most impossible woman!" he bellowed. "I'm not worried about that! How will I know when you want me to let up because you're about to die? That
's the problem!"

  Hildegard's look now conveyed the certainty that Greyboar was dumber than a moron.

  "My dear man, the question simply won't arise. I intend to have the score, and that's that. Now, please! I'm a tolerant woman, but you are, after all, my employee. Do as you're told!" The Schoolmistress From Hell, like I said.

  Greyboar exhaled a deep breath. Then, stepped up and stood just behind Hildegard. Meanwhile, Ralph had been following the exchange with a look of growing confusion on his bat's face.

  "What's going on here?" he demanded. "And who's this big gorilla?"

  "Name's Greyboar," rumbled the strangler.

  The fallen angel looked suddenly interested. "Is that so? Well, I'll be damned. Never knew what you looked like—although I should have guessed. Know who you are, of course, even though you don't send much business our way."

  He paused, pondered, then: "Actually, I don't think you've ever sent any business our way. But the devils are tickled pink with you. Talk about you all the time. 'Best supplier in the business,' they say."

  "Glad to hear it," said Greyboar pleasantly. He placed his hands around Hildegard's throat. As huge as they are, his hands barely went all the way around. She was such a feminine woman, Hildegard, that it was easy to forget what a giantess she was. Most people's necks, even on great muscular bruisers, look like pipe-stems in Greyboar's hands.

  Ralph was now totally confused. "Hey, what gives? What's the—"

  The ringing of the bell cut him off. Greyboar started squeezing. Well, not really. I know what a real Greyboar squeeze looks like, and this was just a faint imitation.

  Hildegard began ringing the bell impatiently, like she was a ranch woman summoning shepherds to the dinner table. And kept ringing. And kept ringing.

  Greyboar's shoulders slumped. He really wasn't enthusiastic about the job, I could tell. Then he shrugged, took a deep breath, and really went to work.