…five, six, seven, eight…
One more hour, Crendon thought with a spasm of dread. Just one more hour to live.
…nine, ten, eleven.
Sweet as a breath of old melody, the last note of the chimes faded. Once again dominated the fitful crackling of the smoldering logs in the fireplace and the murmuring patter of the rain which fell in the night, outside.
Crendon remained motionless a moment longer, frozen in the act of typing, gazing fixedly on the clock. Then slowly he relaxed, as if the influence of the chimes were only now leaving him. His hands slid from the keys of the typewriter to the edge of the desk on which it stood. He slumped back in his chair, his long gaunt face bitter with the knowledge of his approaching end.
He didn’t want to go. There was still so much to live for. It wasn’t fair that existence should end now, like a flower out before full bloom, like a song broken off in mid-chorus. Rebellion stirred dully within him.
How much of his feelings were inspired by fear, Crendon dared not guess.. He knew his end wouldn’t be one in the literal sense. It would be only the end of the beginning. The curtain would rise on another scene. A new life would begin, compared to which his present existence would be a moment’s glimpse of paradise.
A convulsive shudder swept Crendon’s spare form. An eternal sojourn in Hell was not a pleasant thing to look forward to.
With an effort of will, he rallied his waning courage. He had to face the inevitable. A bargain had been made. It would have to be kept.
After all, he realized, so many things would have remained forever impossible if he hadn’t made the compact with Satan. Incurably ill, he could never have finished his book. There had been a mortgage on the house. There had been doctor’s bills, and more still to come with Ellen about to give birth to Dick, the second and youngest of the two children.
It had all at the time looked so hopeless. Satan’s offer had been the only way out. Crendon thought wryly of how eagerly he had accepted. He glanced at the scar on his wrist, source of the blood in which be had signed to the terms of the exchange.
The price had been high, but he bad been freed from the shackles of his illness. He had been able to continue with his book. The publishers had made generous advances. All the bills had been paid. There was now a comfortable sum in the bank, and in addition Ellen and the two children would always be well provided for by future royalties from his book. He wouldn’t have to worry about them.
He had no regrets except where he himself was concerned. The seven years which he had been granted were almost over. At twelve, Satan would come for payment—Crendon’s soul.
On the mantel, the dock ticked away the seconds incessantly, inexorably. The rain pattered against the study windows like watery fingers tapping for admittance. In the fireplace, the glowing logs sputtered fretfully.
Crendon stirred with returning purpose. There was still much to do. The closing chapter of the last volume of his book had yet to be finished. He thought with satisfaction of what had already been done. The book, a study in six volumes on the evolution of literary expression from earliest recorded times to the present, was going to be a fine thing to leave behind. It ought to be. He had worked hard on it, giving it everything he had.
He rose from the desk and went to the fireplace. With a poker, he prodded the logs back into flaming activity. As he straightened to return to his typewriter, a knock sounded at the door.
It was Ellen, bearing a tray upon which were a pot of black coffee and a cup and saucer. She placed her burden on the desk and turned to smile at Crendon.
“I thought a little coffee would help, since you’re staying up so late.”
Crendon smiled back at her. Tenderness and longing swept him like a pain.
“I could use some coffee,” he said, striving to keep his voice casual. He held her tightly a moment, then turned her gently toward the door. “Now go to bed, Ellen, and don’t worry about me. I’ve stayed up late before.”
She laughed guiltily. “I have been worried, but not about you staying up late. You’ve been acting so strangely the past few days. Tell me, is there anything wrong?”
“How could there be? I’m just excited, I guess, about finishing my book.”
“But the way you’ve been driving yourself. You haven’t been eating enough, and you’ve lost so much weight, just look at you. All bones. It’s as though you’ve been putting yourself into your work ounce by ounce.”
“I’m just in a hurry to be through. It’s nothing to worry about.”
“Well, I’ll be glad when you’re done. It will be a relief after more than seven years of seeing you slave over that book of yours.” Ellen’s-voice became eager. “We’ll take, that trip I’ve always been talking about. You need a rest.”
Crendon nodded, “Guess I do.”
“And we’ll take the children.”
“Of course. The kids will enjoy it immensely. How are they, Ellen? Sleeping?”
“Like logs. That’s what I’m going to be doing in a few minutes. Good-night.”
“Good-night, Ellen.” Only he knew it was good-bye. He watched achingly as she went to the door, knowing he would never see her again. He had an overwhelming desire to call her back, to have her spend a few more of these last minutes with him, but he realized despairingly that could not be. There was still that last chapter to do. He could only watch mutely as her slender form, girlish in a long green robe, moved forever beyond recall.
The door closed softly. Crendon was alone. He glanced in sudden apprehension at the dock. It was 11:15.
He hurried back to his desk. He poured a cup of coffee, lighted his pipe, and feverishly resumed work.
The ticking of the clock, the tapping of the rain, the crackling of the logs, all faded beyond notice. There was just that last chapter, just his fingers flying over the keys. The words came to him more easily than they had ever done. Everything he had to say seemed to be there inside him, vibrant and alive, impatient for expression. The sentences seemed to leap from his dancing fingertips to their birth on paper. Crendon wrote as he had never written before.
Finally Crendon sat back, exhausted but content. It was done. And somehow, in spite of what lay ahead, he felt a deep happiness. Though life as he knew it now would soon be over, a part of himself would continue to live on. He could not wish for a better memorial.
Crendon looked at the clock. Five minutes before twelve. He gathered together the pages of his last manuscript and laid them in a neat pile on one corner of the desk, placing a weight over them so that no chance breeze would blow them away. He tidied his desk a little, sliding its clutter of notes, notebooks, and pencils into various drawers. Then he refilled and lighted his pipe and sat back to wait.
He felt no terror at what was shortly to take place. It was as though in the fire of his final creative labors he had purged himself of fear. His being seemed pervaded by a great calm.
On the mantel, the clock ticked busily, a metal heart pumping the blood of seconds through the arteries of time. It was raining more heavily. Occasional flashes of lightning brightened the dark streaming rectangle of the study windows. The logs in the fireplace were reduced to a few glowing embers, sullen amid the desolation of gray-white ashes.
The clock began to strike twelve. Crendon put aside his pipe and straightened.
From outside there came an unusually large flash of lightning, followed by a great roll of thunder. It seemed to Crendon almost like a signal. He felt what might have been a cold wind sweep through the room. The fire on the hearth leaped in sudden brightness.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” Crendon said quietly.
Satan strode briskly into the study, flicking rain from his trench coat with a sodden brown hat. He stopped before the desk and looked down at Crendon. He nodded gravely.
“Your contract has
expired, Edward Crendon, and you are now expected to fulfill its terms.”
Crendon moved his head in reluctant acknowledgment. He was careful to keep his gaze on Satan’s conservative red tie showing above the V made by the rain-spattered lapels of tan gabardine. He’d already had one glimpse of Satan’s eyes and didn’t relish another. Except for his terrible eyes, Satan might have been any slight dark man on a mission in the rain.
Crendon said, “It is useless, of course, to ask for a little more time?”
“Quite useless. According to our contract, Edward Crendon, you are to surrender to me your soul promptly at midnight—and not a moment longer.”
“Of course,” Crendon said. He smiled humorlessly. “I suppose you often receive such requests from those—from those who are to—go.”
“Quite often.”
“It’s understandable, no doubt. It isn’t easy for a debtor to give up the first real happiness he has ever known for eternal imprisonment in Hell.”
“Imprisonment?” Satan laughed softly. “You choose a mild term, Edward Crendon. I assure you there will be more to your sojourn in my domain than mere imprisonment.”
“Torment?” Crendon lifted his spare shoulders. “If that’s the price, I have nothing to regret. My wife and children are well provided for. My book is finished. You will pardon me, I’m sure, if I say it’s a good book. I gave it everything I had. I poured my heart and soul into it.”
“Your soul?” Satan echoed in sudden sharpness. Then, he gave a low chuckle and relaxed. “You are speaking figuratively, of course, not literally.
Crendon turned his eyes to the clock. It was almost through striking the hour. He had been listening to it more or less subconsciously all the time.
…ten, eleven, twelve.
With an abrupt, tigerish movement, Satan leaned over the desk, and his awful eyes blazed down into Crendon’s. His voice sounded in a harsh whisper of command.
“Come, Edward Crendon, come to me!”
There was eagerness on Satan’s face, confidence, anticipated triumph. Then in a flash all vanished to be replaced by a vast dismay. In another whirl of movement, Satan leaped back from the desk. His terrible eyes stared in raging perplexity.
“Where is the rest of it?” Satan snarled. “Speak; Edward Crendon, where is the rest of it? Have you tricked me?”
“Wh-what—?”
“Your soul! It is not all there, I’ve got to have all of it.”
Remnants of a horrible blade fog cleared from before Crendon’s eyes. Understanding of what was wrong slowly came to him. He laughed in exultation.
“You want the rest of my soul?” Crendon pointed abruptly at the thick manuscript lying on one corner of the desk. “It is there. I wasn’t speaking figuratively after all, it seems, but literally, when I told you I’d poured my heart and soul into my book.”
Frustration twisted Satan’s face in a burst of supreme fury. “Paper and type do not obey my will. The missing part of you is forever beyond my reach. And I must have all of you—or nothing.”
“Then it must be nothing,” Crendon said. “This manuscript is the last of six volumes. My publishers have already given me advances on the other five. The money has already been spent, and so that part—the largest and most important part—is beyond my reach also. You can’t have me, Satan. I have been bought and paid for under another contract—one you can’t hope to break. I have been set in type and run off the presses, locked away safely in five volumes, each running into thousands of copies. The essential part of me lies beyond danger, in a vault of print on paper, which has neither lock nor keys.”
Satan had grown calm, though traces of chagrin still lingered on his face. He moved his slight shoulders in a shrug.
“It is not often that I lose out on a contract, Edward Crendon. When I do, however, I concede defeat gracefully.” Satan reached into a pocket of his suit and produced a square of folded paper. He looked at it, and it blazed suddenly in his hand. He dropped the ashes into the fireplace.
“The contract is no more, Edward Crendon. You are free, and all that you have gained is yours to keep.” With a nod of grave farewell, Satan replaced his hat and walked to the door. It closed softly behind him.
Crendon remained quietly seated, contemplating a great discovery. In all great creations, he reflected, men put a part of themselves. It was because of this that some books and paintings lived on, while all others were forgotten. It was because of this that famous works possessed the quality called genius. To do his best, a man must give generously of himself, a portion of his heart and a large piece of his soul.
The clock ticked in its place on the mantel.
The fire in the hearth had died. Outside, the rain had stopped. The Moon hung bright in a star-flecked sky.
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