The Devils & Demons MEGAPACK ®: 25 Modern and Classic Tales

by Mack Reynolds

  “Massa’s time up,” he whispered, coming close to me. “Time quite up, and him berry much ’fraid. Massa Lucraft want servant? Boule-de-neige berry good servant. Cook lubly dinner; make massa rich, like Massa Grumbelow.”

  “I’d rather hire the devil!” I exclaimed.

  “Cluck—cluck—cluck!” grinned the creature; and really he looked at the moment as much like the devil as one could wish. “Cluck! dat massa can do if massa like.”

  I rushed away, too much excited by the recovery of my freedom to regard what he said.

  I was free! What next?

  First the restoration of my shattered nerves.

  There was no permanent injury done to my constitution, because, after all, the drink had not actually gone down my throat, nor was it I who had consumed the gallons of turtle soup, the tons of fish, the shiploads of cattle with which he had punished me for that woeful signature of mine.

  The contract, in some inexplicable manner, affected me with the punishment of my purchaser’s excesses by a kind of sympathy. I remained a strictly temperate man for a month. I recovered gradually the tone of my system; my features lost their bloated look. I became myself again.

  And then I sought the injured Kerrans.

  It was no use trying to tell him a story which he never would have believed. I simply told him that I was taken suddenly and hopelessly ill on that fatal night. I asked him to remember, which is quite true, how I began the piece with a fire and animation quite impossible in a man who had been drinking; how I had certainly nothing between the scenes, during which intervals I was talking with him, and how the thing came upon me without any warning. If you try, you know, you can make yourself quite drunk with brandy in two minutes. This is just what Mr. Grumbelow did to me.

  Kerrans, good fellow, outraged in his best feelings, was difficult to smooth down.

  He had asked me to act with Juliet in the hope of restoring to the girl her lost good spirits. I came; the misfortune happened, and she was worse than ever. But he forgave me at last, and allowed me another chance. This time it was not Juliet who threw her arms around me; it was I who implored her forgiveness, and the renewal of her love. I was cold no longer. I left off remembering, and lived again in the present. I was a lover, and my girl was trembling and blushing, with her hand in mine.

  It all happened more than fifty years ago. The only record which remains of the events I have described are on the tablet to the memory of Ebenezer Grumbelow in St. Rhadegunda’s Church, City: and the little faded scrap from the Morning Chronicle, which I always carry in my pocket-book, and which tells the tale of my shame.

  Juliet never believed my story, and I left off insisting on its truth.

  She lies in Norwood Cemetery now, but we kept our golden wedding ere she died; and children and grandchildren live to bless her name.

  WHO SUPS WITH THE DEVIL, by S.M. Tenneshaw

  Originally published in Fantastic Adventures, April 1948.

  Very carefully he inserted a .38 cartridge into the cylinder of the revolver. Then with as great care he snapped the cylinder shut and stared down at the weapon.

  His hand wasn’t shaking. He was glad to see that. But then, he thought, why should it? Wasn’t this what he wanted? Wasn’t this the way out—the final release? All he had to do was raise it to his head and pull the trigger. Then the pain and pounding would stop. He could feel it now, that pressure in his head, and the dull, steady, monotonous pounding of pain that never left him. Yes, it would stop—and he would be free.

  Free.

  He smiled a little at that. After nearly three hundred years he would be free. And there was nothing the devil could do to stop him. He had made up his mind.

  Slowly he raised the gun. What was that game that had come out of the last world war? Oh, yes, they called it Russian Roulette. He smiled again. Maybe even the devil would wince at the game.

  He twirled the cylinder.

  The muzzle felt cool against his temple. It almost seemed to soothe the ache and pressure that throbbed within his head. Very slowly his finger tightened on the trigger.

  There was a sharp click.

  He smiled to himself. He had hit an empty cylinder. Then, once more his finger tightened. Another sharp click.

  Slowly he lowered his hand. He stared at the gun with a sort of curious interest. The smile was still on his thin dark lips. Two gone, and four to go.

  He put the muzzle at his forehead this time. He could see his finger tightening, see the whiteness of the flesh around his knuckle as the hammer of the gun was forced back. Another click.

  He pulled the trigger again. A click. Two more. One out of two.

  He pulled the trigger. Click.

  One… The smile was broad on his face now. And then a stab of pain shot through his head. A merciless pounding, a throb and a roar of agony.

  He pulled the trigger for the last time.

  Click.

  His hand was shaking. He knew it.

  He lowered the gun from his head and stared at it, and for an instant felt a fear sweep through him. Was it possible—

  He snapped open the cylinder and looked at the single cartridge in the gun. In the center of the cap was a neat puncture. A puncture that only a firing pin could make.

  His breath came faster as he stared at it. It couldn’t be true…

  His hand reached across the desk to a box of cartridges. Swiftly he loaded the gun with five more shells. Then he snapped back the cylinder and raised the gun to his head again. This time the muzzle felt hot against his skin. And it didn’t soothe the ache and roaring pain that swept through his head. He pulled the trigger. Click. Again.

  Click. Again, again, and again. Click—click—click.

  “No!” His voice was hoarse and tinged with fear. “No! I won’t let you! You can’t stop me!”

  His hand shook as he pointed the gun at the baseboards in the far wall of the room. He pulled the trigger.

  There was a dull, flat roar. The gun jumped in his hand, and across the room, splinters of wood flew as the bullet imbedded itself into the wall molding.

  He pulled the trigger again. Another roar.

  He put the gun to his head. He pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  The gun slipped from his fingers and fell with a clatter on the top of the desk. Dimly he heard a pounding at the door. Then he saw the door open and a small, wizened man stare into the room with fearful blinking eyes.

  “Boss! What’s wrong? I heard shooting—”

  He didn’t say anything. He sat, unmoving in his chair.

  “Boss—are you hurt?”

  Slowly his breath seemed to come back. And from somewhere, deep within his head, deep amid the roar and stab of the pain, he thought he heard a single soulless peal of laughter. Then he shook his head.

  “Nothing’s the matter, Blinky. I was just testing my gun.”

  Blinky looked down at the gun on the desk top, and his eyes twitched rapidly as he looked around the room and finally saw the bullet holes in the wall baseboard.

  “Gosh, boss, you oughtn’t to shoot the place up like this. Look what you done to the wall—”

  “Shut up!”

  Blinky took a step backward and then stopped. He stared at the man behind the desk, saw the sudden twisting of pained features, and then hurried around the desk.

  “It’s your head again, ain’t it, boss? You got the pains again—maybe I should call the doc!”

  He laughed loudly. “You fool! What good can he do me! What good can any of them do me! ”

  “But Boss,” Blinky protested, “the doc knows what to give you for that tumor! And you can’t be sick for the job tonight!”

  Slowly he turned in his chair behind the desk. He looked at the twitching eyes of the
little man before him. Then he smiled. “No, you’re right, Blinky, I can’t be sick for the job… Get my car for me.”

  Blinky frowned. “You going out, boss? You want I should come along?”

  He shook his head. “No, Blinky, I want to take a drive, alone. Get the car.”

  The little man hesitated. “How long you gonna be gone, boss? The boys always get nervous before a job, and—”

  “I won’t be gone long, Blinky. Get the car!”

  “Yes, boss.”

  With a shrugging of his small shoulders, Blinky sidled quickly out of the room.

  Behind the desk, the man sat and looked down at the gun. Then his eyes traveled across the room to the baseboards. He looked at the holes in the wood. A tremor swept through him as his voice whispered hoarsely: “Long may you live, George Bollata. For a thousand years with the compliments of Satan. A thousand years…”

  He laughed then, a short, hysterical laughter. A thousand years of hell. A thousand years of pain and misery. Oh, yes, the devil had been very shrewd. He had made the bargain, knowing all along what would happen. The devil had been very smart.

  He straightened in his chair. But was the devil so smart? Could he force him to hold the pact? He looked at the gun on the desk, and again, amid the roaring in his head he seemed to hear that evil laughter.

  He shook his head again. It always seemed to help. It drove away the laughter, anyway.

  Well, he would see. The gun had failed. But there were other ways. He smiled again as he thought about that. And the pain eased a little…

  The door opened and the little man came back into the room. “I got the car outside, boss. Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you? If you’re sick—”

  “I’ll drive myself, Blinky. I’ll be back in a little while. Take care of things while I’m gone.”

  Blinky nodded, his eyes twitching. “Sure, boss, sure. Everything’s set. The bank will be a pushover.”

  George Bollata didn’t say anything. He just walked past Blinky and out of the room.

  * * * *

  His hands gripped the wheel of the car and his eyes switched from the speedometer back to the road. Sixty-five, and the needle was crawling higher.

  He saw the scattered buildings at the outskirts of the city flash past. They were nothing but a dim blur to his eyes. And far ahead, he saw the underpass of the railroad crossing. He gripped the wheel tighter and pressed his foot to the floorboards.

  The roar of the motor grew louder as the car spurted ahead. He watched the distance shorten between the car and the concrete pillared underpass ahead. He glanced down at the speedometer. Ninety, and going higher.

  This was it. The moment he had been waiting for. The gun had failed. But this! It would be impossible to live through it. Ninety-five.… Three hundred years. Three hundred years of hell. But it would end. It would end.

  The underpass shot closer, closer. One hundred miles an hour.

  He held grimly to the wheel. His eyes stared in fascination at the solid pillar of concrete looming in front of him. Closer—closer—closer—

  There was a roar of sound too vast for his ears. There was a twisting, tearing, shrieking impact of metal too loud to be heard. There was what seemed to be an instant of blinding, shocking pain. And then…

  The round fat face was smiling at him. Seated behind a large teakwood desk, the face seemed to sit quite at ease upon the round, lumpy body beneath it.

  “Well, George Bollata. We meet again.”

  Slowly, he focused his eyes on the fat, smiling face. Slowly then, slower still, he glanced from the fat face to the room around him.

  “I still have the same offices, Bollata, as you can see.”

  Yes, he saw. He saw the old-fashioned furniture, the deep rug with the woven serpent in it staring up at him with red-threaded eyes. The same block of wood in the center of the desk with the burnt letters: A. Mephisto, Counselor.

  Yes, he saw. He saw them all too clearly. Just as he had seen them that day three hundred years previous when he had walked into these very same premises in the heart of London.

  “How—how did I get here?” his voice came hoarsely. “I was in Chicago, and—”

  He remembered the car, the concrete underpass, the crash! An exultant shout leaped to his lips but was stilled before it could be uttered as the fat face laughed at him.

  “Don’t jump to any conclusions, Bollata. Yes, I know you are thinking about the automobile accident. That is why I brought you here.”

  “You brought me?” Bollata asked hoarsely.

  “Exactly. It would seem that you are trying to break your part of the bargain we made. I’ve had my eye on you for quite some time.”

  “Bargain!” Bollata got to his feet and leaned across the desk. “What kind of a bargain do you think I got? A thousand years of life in exchange for my soul. A thousand years of hell with a brain tumor that’s driving me mad!”

  The fat face smiled. “Sit down, Bollata. …There, that’s better. And what may I ask have I done to back down on my part of the bargain? Nothing. I took your case when you were in the shadow of the hangman. I offered you one wish in exchange for your soul, there being some doubt of its fate at the time. You agreed to my terms and asked for a thousand years of life. I granted it and saw that you were set free.”

  The fat man picked up a sheaf of papers from the desk and looked at them. “Your life has been a full one, Bollata. You’ve taken advantage of your pact with me to commit every crime known to man—and I must say, with a great deal of success. The law has never caught up with you. You went to America a hundred years ago and set yourself up as the Caesar of the underworld. You’ve profited very well. You’ve also taken your own freedom in your hands many times, but that has been your own risk. I’ve saved you from death times too numerous to count. My part of the bargain has been kept. But now you are trying to back out of your end.”

  Bollata gripped the sides of the chair he was sitting in and stared hatefully at the fat smiling face across from him.

  “You haven’t kept your part of the bargain! This brain tumor—for over a hundred years I’ve suffered with it—”

  “Yes, I know,” the fat man shrugged. “And I’ve seen that you came through six brain operations successfully.”

  “But it always comes back! And each time it gets worse! I can’t stand it!”

  The fat face hardened and the eyes set deep within it grew cold. “That is quite lamentable, I’m sure, but is no part of our bargain. You had your chance to wish for long health, but you chose long life. My duty is only to your life. And must I remind you that your duty is to protect it for me?”

  Bollata glared at the fat man. Then suddenly a crafty smile spread over his thin lips. “If I’m still alive, how did I get here? I hit that underpass at a hundred miles an hour!”

  Mephisto laughed. “You cannot die by your own hand, George Bollata. Just as your gun failed, so did your automobile wreck. I only brought you here to straighten out the matter. I want no more of these attempts. They will avail you nothing. You will live for the thousand years you requested, and then…

  The voice of the fat smiling man seemed to grow dimmer, as did the room around him. The light wavered, the room started to whirl, and it seemed as if he were speeding into a stygian well.

  “Farewell, George Bollata. And remember, you cannot die by your own hand. I will see you at the completion of our bargain.”

  The darkness whirled faster around him, and the voice faded into a booming peal of laughter. Then, nothing…

  * * * *

  He was aware of hands pulling at him.

  “Boss! My God, boss!”

  Slowly his eyes opened. He was laying on a sloping stretch of grass. Kneeling beside him, Blinky was anxiously pulling at his arms.
Slowly he sat up. He stared dumbly at the wizened little man for a moment. Then his eyes glanced at the concrete underpass a short distance away. He saw a twisted mass of metal wrapped around one of the huge pillars, a twisted mass of metal that was all that remained of the car he had smashed into it.

  “I saw the whole thing, boss! I followed you because I knew you was feeling bad! I saw you hit that concrete, and boss, it was a miracle! Just as the car smashed into it you was thrown clear and up here on the grass. My God, boss, what happened?”

  George Bollata ran a hand wearily across his forehead. If it hadn’t been so tragic he would have laughed in Blinky’s face. What had happened? Could he tell him that the devil had thrown him clear of the car just as it hit? Could he tell him that he had been taken across time to a small law office in a cheap, rundown section of old London? Could he tell him that he had sat there and talked to the devil himself?

  “It was an accident, Blinky. I got a pain and couldn’t see where I was driving.”

  “Gosh, boss, you sure had a narrow one that time. It’s like I said, it was a miracle. Look at the car, why there ain’t a nut or bolt left of it! ”

  Bollata nodded. “Yes, Blinky, it must have been a miracle.”

  Blinky nodded, his eyes twitching. “We better get out of here, boss. The cops’ll be along any minute and we don’t want to have to answer a lot of questions. …Are you sure you’re o.k.? Maybe we better head for Doc Gorson’s.”

  Bollata shook his head, getting to his feet. “I don’t need the doc. Let’s get out of here.”

  Blinky shrugged and led the way to his car.

  * * * *

  He sat behind his desk again. He stared at the top of it and ran his finger along the smooth surface. He had been sitting there for over an hour, staring at the top of the desk, and not seeing it. His mind was on other things. On the pains in his head. On the pressure that made him want to scream. On the interview he had had a few hours ago with the devil. Especially on that. He had been doing a lot of thinking about that interview. There was something about it that he wanted desperately to remember. Something that had been said. Something that he knew he should remember. But he couldn’t. Maybe it was because of the pain in his head.