by Bob Leman
"This is really appalling," Jones said. "I can't imagine what you people have been doing. It is the responsibility of this section to keep an account of our contractual obligations to mortal beings and to devise methods of keeping within the letter of the law without actually giving anything away. My audit shows that for five thousand years or so this office has simply been pushing the tough problems to the back of the drawer. But they all remain as charges on the books, and they've had a visible effect on the bottom line. The Chief himself has been asking about it. He was not pleased."
Smith turned pale, and sweat appeared on his face. "I — we don't have enough help," he said. "Every demon in the place has been working his tail off. Look at the time sheets. There's not a demon that doesn't log a century of overtime every millennium."
"Time sheets indeed," Jones said. "I'll tell you what the time sheets show. They show that the contact force has been hanging around headquarters keeping warm most of the time, instead of getting out in the field and taking care of our problems. Laxity, that's what it is. Inexcusable laxity. Now listen carefully. Smith. This thing has got to be cleared up without delay. If it isn't, somebody will have a few millennia on the griddle, and I promise you it won't be me. You have one century to clear your books, and not a day more. Do I make myself clear?"
"But — " said the hapless Smith. "But — "
"One century," Jones said with finality.
There almost immediately ensued a considerable stir in the Fulfillment Section, followed by a phenomenon much resembling a cloud of bats emerging from a cave at nighfall; it was a general exodus of demons on their way to undertake cleanup operations in the material worlds. A few thousand of them had, however, been kept at headquarters for individual admonishment. These were special offenders, demons whose logs showed extraordinary numbers of lapses. One by one they were brought before Smith, were questioned, lectured, and subjected to horrible punishments; they were then sent forth to rectify their errors. It was the kind of work that Smith usually enjoyed, but on this occasion he could take no pleasure in it; the threat that hung over him was too awful.
Name? he said to the trembling miscreant on the carpet.
"Robinson, sir," said the demon.
Robinson, yes. Here we are. Current assignment, Earth, so-and-so galaxy, so-and-so sector — yes. B.C. 3,000 to A.D. 3,000 — what's that mean, Robinson?"
"Local years before and after the granting of The Opportunity, sir."
"Humph. Now, let's see. What's this? What's this? Do you know how many delinquencies you have, Robinson? As the sands of the shore. Disgraceful. Inexcusable. I suppose you know the consequences."
Robinson did. He groveled and pled, but of course without result; he was subjected on the spot to the most abominable tortures. At their conclusion Smith said, "All right. Now get out there and straighten out your accounts. Otherwise, what you'll get will make what you just had seem like a delightful diversion. Understood?"
It was understood very well indeed, and Robinson departed without ceremony, disappearing from Smith's presence and instantly appearing in human form on earth. His delinquencies were, as Smith had pointed out, enormous in number, and he quailed at the thought of the work ahead. He was by nature indolent and slothful, and he remembered well the restful years he had spent in the hole before the officious woodchopper pulled him out. The memory of those years served to remind him that one of the items on his list was the woodchopper's third wish, and he caused himself to materialize in the city where Garft Johnson lived on skid row.
He popped into material existence on the sidewalk in front of Doyle's Shamrock Inn. Despite the establishment's name, the eponymous Doyle had been in his grave for more than forty years, and any Irish ambience his bar may have possessed was as dead as Doyle. Now it was the very paradigm of skid-row saloon, shabby and soiled, a place where grimy defeated men (and a few women, who were in every way equal to the men, although they did not think of themselves as liberated) protracted the drinking of a beer or a glass of popskull wine for as long as the bartender would permit, because they had no other warm place to go.
At a table at the back of the room Garft Johnson was sitting with his friend, Billy. "Friend" is perhaps not the precise word to describe their relationship, but Garft and Billy had on a number of occasions combined their dimes and quarters to raise the price of a bottle, and that would do for friendship on Bastable Street. On this day Billy was standing treat. His wife had sent word that she was on her way down to see him, and Billy found himself in need of moral support. He was weak and his wife was strong, and she was resolutely determined that Billy was going to return to a respectable life, a prospect that filled him with terror.
"I stuck it out for thirty years," he told Garft. "Thirty years of everything her way. Move to town so's we could have plumbing. Then move up here so's I could work in the tire factory. Then nags at me to try and make foreman. Thirty years. I ain't ambitious, Garfty. I would of been happy back there in Goster County, huntin’ a mite, fishin' a mite, work once in a while at the canning factory if I needed a little cash money. Hell, I could of got on welfare with no sweat. But that there woman give me no peace, Garfty, no peace at all. So when I got my pension I says, 'I got to get me some peace, Lurlene. Let me take a hundert dollars a month,' I says, 'and you take the rest.’ And I come down here, and it's peaceable. Except when she comes down to rescue me."
"Ah, screw her, Billy," Garft said. "Let's have another drink."
"Yeah, sure, Garfty," Billy said. "Hold my seat, I'll get 'em." He took the glasses to the bar for refills. Billy was not an alcoholic. He lived on skid row because he liked it. For thirty years he had hated almost every moment of his life; he disliked respectability, he resented keeping up appearances, he loathed responsibility. Here on Bastable Street, there were none of these. His hundred a month paid for his room and he worked as a casual from time to time for food and wine money. He drank the wine not out of need, but to be companionable. He was happy — or at any rate contented.
“Except for that damn woman,” he said. “Keeps cornin' down here, ever six months or so, hollers at me to come on home. Why, Lordamercy, Garfty, I can't live in that house no more. She's turned neat in her old age, keeps house like a demon. You drop anything on the floor, she screeches like a sireen. She's a witch, y'know.”
"Yeah," Garft said. "They all are."
"No, I mean a real witch, knows spells and words of power. She's a Poecock, and all the women's witches in that tribe. Mother to daughter, ever since fur back."
"You believe that crap, Billy?"
"Can't say I believe it all, but there's something to it, all right. I seen her take off many a wart, and dry up cows, when we still lived up the valley. Them Poecocks been unto themselves on that ridge of theirn for anyhow two hundert years, moonshinin' and marryin' each other. They know some things. She's got a spell on me right now, tryin' to toll me home."
"Aw, come on, Billy," Garft said.
"It's a fact. It ain't much of a spell, Lord knows, for I've no intent of goin'. But I can feel the pull. Here she is, now."
Like a dumpy tugboat puffing through garbage-laden waters, Lurlene was advancing toward them, utterly oblivious of the disgruntled winos who muttered darkly in her wake. Wheezing, she sat down at the table. "Lordamercy," she said. "This street looks worse ever time I see it. Billy, get me a beer."
"This here's my friend, Garft," Billy said.
"Hoddy. Billy, get me that beer, will you?"
Billy went to the bar. Lurlene said to Garft, "He brought you to argue on his side, did he?"
Argument was the last thing Garft wanted. He was at the pleasantest point of the day's drinking, with his nerves calm and an easeful euphoria settling in. If nothing disturbing occurred, he might maintain this desirable state for several hours; but if strife or discord impinged upon his woolly contentment, he would instantly be plunged into quite another state of mind, a touchy, resentful irritation that was likely at any moment to tur
n to noisy, impotent rage. This would be followed by a deep depression, which ended only when he had drunk himself unconscious. These latter stages were not pleasant, and he liked to delay them for as long as possible. He by no means wanted an argument.
"Nah, Lurlene," he said. "I'm on your side. You're right. Billy don't belong down here." Only a few minutes previously he had been telling Billy that it was unreasonable of Lurlene to insist that he go home.
Billy came back with Lurlene's beer. "How about you drink this before we start, Lurlene," he said. "Let's be restful for a little." They sat and drank in a surprisingly companionable silence.
It was at this point that Robinson entered, creating something of a stir among the winos. He had not chosen wisely in selecting a model for his human appearance and costume. It is well known that demons have certain deficiencies in taste and intelligence, and it must be admitted that he was badly out of touch with twentieth-century Earth. So his error is perhaps understandable; but if his guise had been deliberately calculated to arouse suspicion and distrust in the human heart, it could not have been more successful. He was sharp, he was sleek; he was padded at the shoulders and pinched at the waist, he wore a tight vest and no tie, his shoes were square at the toe and lifted at the heel. Large gems flashed on his fingers, chains clinked on his wrists. The gaudy trendiness of the costume was, however, belied by his grooming: in an era of Pancho Villa mustaches and fluffy hair sprayed with fixative, he wore a thin black line on his upper lip, and his hair was greased down to a black shine. He carried himself with a sort of furtive jauntiness; he reeked fraudulence as an athlete reeks sweat.
The type was not unknown on Bastable Street, and the winos watched him with a mixture of disdain and fear. There was a faint collective sigh of relief when they saw that his destination was Billy's table, that he had no interest in them. They returned their attention to their glasses.
Robinson pulled a chair up to the table and sat down. "Hi, there, Garft," he said. "Lurlene. Billy."
"Oh, hi," Garft said. Billy said, suspiciously, "You know him, Garft?"
Garft made a vague noise. Robinson said, "He don't know me yet, but I got something for him."
No one in Doyle’s had ever heard the caveat concerning Greeks bearing gifts, but every denizen of Bastable Street knew its meaning instinctively. All three pairs of eyes fixed themselves upon Robinson in deepest suspicion. He said,"Now I got to explain this like in detail. It's the law. I got to make you understand that this is for real. 'Cause it's going to seem like, you know, magic. And it is. Magic. But it's real."
If he had said that fire is hot or water is wet, he would have been unpersuasive. Garft said, "Look, buddy, we don’t want any. We got things to talk about here. Private."
Lurlene sniffed at the air. She said, "There's something — I smell something."
"Well, sure," Billy said. "Naturally. You’re in Doyle's."
"No, not that. Something wicked. Brimstone. I smell evil."
"Ah, witch stuff," Billy said.
Robinson shot a swift, covert glance at Lurlene. Something very ugly stared out of his eyes for a moment and then was gone. He said to Garft, "Listen, Garft, you got something coming to you. I brought it."
"Let's see it, then."
"Why, it ain't something I can lay on the table. What it is, is a wish."
"Brimstone!" cried Lurlene. "Garft, be careful!"
"What you talking about, Lurlene?" Billy said.
"I smell hellfire. Garft, don't talk to him!"
"Oh, stop it, Lurlene," Billy said, and then, to Robinson: "What you mean, a wish?"
"Just what I said. He gets one wish to come true. I can do that."
"Wow, great!" Garft said. "I wish I had the whole bottle here on the table, instead of doing this one drink at a time."
"That's what I mean," Robinson said. "You got to understand that it's all real when you make your wish, or it don't work. You got to know what you're doing."
"Ah, come on," Garft said. "What's the scam?" He could feel cracks developing in his carapace of well-being, could feel acid drops of irritation dripping in through the cracks.
"No scam," Robinson said. "Your forty-times-great grandfather was granted three wishes, and only took two. You get the other one."
"Yeah, sure. Who the hell are you, anyhow?"
"I know him for sure, Garft," Lurlene said. "An imp of Satan. Lord Jesus, save us!"
"Shut up, old woman!" Robinson said, viciously.
Billy stirred uneasily. "Hey!" he said with weak indignation. "Watch how you talk, there."
Robinson ignored him. He said, "Okay, Garft. Watch right here." He pointed with his finger. In front of Garft on the table there was sudenly a snifter glass of delicate crystal, holding an inch of fluid.
Garft gave a startled twitch. "What—? How'd you do that?" he said. His voice was strained. His euphoria had wholly evaporated now, and his nerves were tuning themselves up for a bravura performance.
"I'm showing you I can do what I say," Robinson said. "Something you'll appreciate. Go ahead, drink it. You look like you could use it."
Garft shakily lifted the snifter. It contained three ounces of century-old fine champagne, a Cognac of such perfection and grandeur that it might have been the Platonic ideal of brandy. It was the distillation into amber droplets of a splendid summer long ago, so great and noble a Cognac that a connoisseur might have wept in gratitude upon inhaling its bouquet. Garft knocked it back in a single greedy swallow.
A second later he made a strangled sound, snatched up Lurlene's beer, and gulped noisily. "Whoo!" he said. "It's booze. I thought it was wine. What the hell is that stuff?" He looked suspiciously at Robinson. "You trying to poison me or something?"
Demons are not known for patience. For a moment the sulfurous smell became very strong. Lurlene made signs with her fingers and began to mumble. Robinson said, "You believe now I got the power to do it?"
"It's a good trick. Where was it, up your sleeve?"
"Up my sleeve, you lousy halfwit? Up my sleeve? It's magic, you putrid lump, magic. Can you understand that7 You will understand that. You'll understand that, all right."
"Hey," said Garft. "I mean, hey, don't go calling no names. Nobody ast you to sit down here." He was by this time fully into stage two, full of resentment at the whole world and ripe for a quarrel. He was considerably intimidated by Robinson, but prepared to be belligerent until the altercation showed signs of graduating to a physical level. "Why don't you just get out of here?" he said. "We had about enough of you. Calling names. Goddamn street sharpy."
Robinson lost his temper entirely. It was not pleasant. Those traits which we hold to be most discreditable in a human being constitute a demon's entire personality, and the essential nastiness is in him never diluted by a decent impulse or a moral qualm. His is no proud and majestic wickedness; there is no Miltonic grandeur in him. It is not he, but his master who directs those enormous engines of evil that periodically afflict mortal beings; it is not he, but Milton's Satan (or something very like him) who inspires the great monsters, the Stalins and Maos and Hitlers. Robinson and his peers are otherwise. Theirs is a soiled and greasy wickedness, a wickedness of sly small peculations and furtive perversions, of gratuitous cruelties to the innocent, of moral cowardice and petulant selfishness, of willful squalor and mindless cynicism.
Such a being in a fit of rage evokes in bystanders approximately equal proportions of fear and disgust. It seemed to the three at the table that the atmosphere had suddenly taken on a dead, iron chill and an appalling fecal stench; a dreary sense of hopelessness and despair washed over them. They became aware that somewhere behind Robinson's ferretty sharpster's face was something toothed and purplish that squirmed and heaved.
Garft's belligerence vanished instantly. "Take it easy, buddy," he said, apprehensively. "Take it easy. No need to get mad. That's just the way I talk, y'know?"
Lurlene was made of sterner stuff. Terror and nausea chased each other across her f
ace, and then there was a firming of her jaw. She took a deep breath and began to chant:
"By Beevil and Ashkob and Gnul:
Git back in yer hole, beast.
Back whur ye come from.
Stay thar till doomsday.
Or some one sends rescue."
All parties, including Robinson, gaped at her. Garft recovered first. "Goddamnit, Lurlene," he said, "don't get his goat any worse!"
Lurlene did not answer. She was staring at Robinson, the hopeful expression she had worn for a moment slowly fading from her face. Robinson smirked. "Whatta you know," he said. "The old girl thought she knew a spell. Make you feel better, grandma?"
Billy said, nervously, "What in blazes was you doing, Lurlene?"
"What he said. Casting a spell. I didn't really reckon it would work, but we got to do something."
"Now where'd you of got a spell for a creature like this, anyhow? Course it didn't work. What the world was it?"
Lurlene looked embarrassed. "Well," she said, "it's for mice, really. Or rats or snakes. Maybe as big as groundhogs. Things in holes. It's all I could think of."
Robinson let out a bray of laughter. "Yeah, mice are about your speed, grandma. And it wouldn't even have worked with mice. You got the names all wrong." His expression became menacing again, and he turned to Garft. "All right, you slob," he said. "I've wasted about enough time here. Now you make your lousy wish."
There was something monstrously offensive in his manner, something that went even beyond the offensiveness of the words. He was a bully, and a rather stupid one, but his power over his present company was an undeniable fact, and there was, behind the bullying, a cold, sneering arrogance. Only someone of saintly disposition could have remained unaffected. There were no saints in Doyle's.