Mack and Mephistopheles were in a little office perched in Limbo. Limbo was wide and expansive in that part, and the office was the only thing in sight. It was the sort of place Mephistopheles often used for late-night paperwork. Quite simple; a wooden frame structure about ten feet to a side (you can build as large as you'd like in Limbo, at no extra cost, but Mephistopheles had wanted to keep a homey look). A
few oil paintings of pastoral subjects on the walls. A small sofa covered in green satin on which he sat, and a straight-backed wooden chair on the edge of which Mack perched. Mephistopheles had given Mack a glass of barley wine to buck him up after his close call. But he had been anxious to get on with the contest. "All right, then," Mephistopheles said at last. And so, with barely a chance to catch his breath, Mack knew he was to be off again. To a place with an odd name.
"What's a Renaissance?" Mack asked.
"I forgot," Mephistopheles chuckled, "the term 'Renaissance' didn't enter usage until long after the Renaissance was over. It refers to a period in history, my dear Faust."
"What am I supposed to do about this Renaissance?" Mack asked.
"Why, nothing, directly. The Renaissance isn't anything you can do anything about. No, I was merely making conversation, pointing out to you how important this time is in history, and how your choices here could make a big difference." "What am I supposed to do? Are there choices?"
"Yes, of course there are choices," Mephistopheles said. "We're going to put you into Florence at the time of the Bonfire of Vanities." "What was that?"
"A great burning of objects of vanity, such as looking glasses, amusing pictures, light novels, precious manuscripts, comfits, and the like. All these and many other things were heaped into a pile in the great courtyard of the Piazza della Signoria, and put to fire."
"Sounds a little extreme," Mack said. "You want me to stop this bonfire?"
"No, not at all," Mephistopheles said.
"Then what am I supposed to do?"
"A deed," Mephistopheles said. "That is why we put our Faust into these contests. So that he may perform a deed that will redound either to Good or to Bad, and so be judged by Ananke."
"Who?"
"Ananke is the Greek name for the ancient primordial force of Necessity, that which must be. All things must finally be judged by Ananke."
"Where is this Ananke?"
"She is ever-present," Mephistopheles said. "But immaterial and elusive, since Necessity is that final force that binds things together, but has no substance itself. When the time comes, however, Ananke will take on bodily form and tell us her judgment." It was getting a little deep for Mack. "What, specifically, am I to do?"
"That I cannot tell you," Mephistopheles said. "This particular episode has been structured differently from the others. In this one, it's up to you to find something to do." "But how am I to judge what's to be done?"
Mephistopheles shrugged. "There are many ways. You might see a person in peril, and choose to save his life. Then the judgment would depend on whose life you saved, and what he did with his life in the years left him."
"You just have to take your best guess," Mephistopheles said. "Niccolo Machiavelli is in Florence at this time. You might advise him not to write his masterpiece, The Prince, that caused such a stir in celestial circles." Mephistopheles hesitated and examined his fingernails, then said, "Or you might look around for a Botticelli for me, if you can't think of anything else to do."
"That would be good?"
Mephistopheles hesitated. There'd be hell to pay if anyone found out about it. But he knew just the spot on the west hall wall of his palace in Hell where he'd hang the painting. The other archdemons would be sick with envy when they saw it.
"Oh yes," he said, "getting a Botticelli wouldn't be bad at all."
"The trouble is," Mack said, "I wouldn't know a Botticelli from a Durer. Painting is all Greek to me. In fact, I know more Greek than painting."
"Well, that's not right," Mephistopheles said. "I'm sure no one would object if I improve your knowledge of art. It might be necessary in order for you to carry out your assignment."
He made a gesture. And Mack's knees buckled for a moment as his memory was suddenly burdened with the knowledge of comparative art values from the Hellenic period to some centuries after his own time.
"Get you a painting by Botticelli? Is that what you want me to do?"
"It is not for me to tell you," Mephistopheles said. "I merely give some background so you'll have some feeling for conditions." He hesitated, then added, "Of course, if, during your time in this construct, you should happen to come across a Botticelli, I'd be happy to buy it from you at a very good price."
"If I don't come across the painting," Mack said, "what else ought I to do?"
"I can't tell you. My dear Faust, there are no simple choices in this game. It is not a matter of just finding out which is the 'best' move in terms of some preestablished criterion. There's no morality involved in this.
This is pure nuts and bolts. It gives you, a mere man, a chance to make the sort of decision usually reserved to spiritual beings. We are going to see how well a human being does at this sort of thing."
"All right," Mack said dubiously. "But I'm still not sure that I get it."
"My dear fellow, it is exactly like a quiz show."
"Beg pardon?"
"I forgot, those haven't been invented yet. Think of it as a man standing before an audience and answering questions for money, and being paid for each one he gets right. Now, for ten thousand louis d'or… You are at the Bonfire of Vanities in Florence in 1492. In front of you is a huge bonfire. Being thrown on it are all sorts of vanities. Among them is a priceless Botticelli. It is in your power to rescue it.
What do you do?"
"I get the idea," Mack said. "And if you like the answer, I get the money?"
"That's the general idea," Mephistopheles said. "To go on. Next we say to you, all right, same situation.
Now you are at the palace of Lorenzo de' Medici. He is a great and terrible tyrant, but also a great and inspired patron of the arts. He is dying. Here. Take this." He handed Mack a small glass vial filled with a green liquid. "You now have in your hand a medicine that will give him another ten years of life. Do you give it to him or not?"
"Sorry, these are the only clues I can give you. The essence of this matter is speed. We're testing the quickness of your understanding, and looking into depths you didn't even know you had. Get in there, Dr. Faust, and do a job for the human race! Are you ready?"
"I guess so," Mack said. "Oh. What about Marguerite?"
"I've sent her ahead to meet you in Florence. You'll find her at the silk market. She says she wants to do some shopping while there's time."
CHAPTER 2
Meanwhile, in another part of the universe, a soppy, dismal evening had come down over west Downtown Hell. Big black birds squawked disconsolately as they flew overhead to no-one-knew-where. The squalid streets were wet, the garbage cans were overflowing, and there were cries of torment from the boarded-up windows of the tenements on either side, where spirits newly released from the Pit lived in perpetual peonage. The only cheerful spot was Maladroit's Ichor Club, in the middle of the block. Inside the club, all was lively, fast, trendy—the good side of Hell.
In that Ichor Club, in a private booth off to one side, sat Azzie Elbub. He had a date that evening with Etta Giber, a young lady who had been elected Miss Sycophant of the year 1122 at her witches' coven, and had received as her prize a date with a top-drawer, upwardly mobile young demon of handsome aspect. She had been a little surprised when she got Azzie, because she hadn't been prepared for an orange-headed, fox-faced demon, but had adjusted quickly with the adaptability that had won her the sycophant contest. Azzie had set up the scheme several years back, as a surefire way of getting dates with Earth girls.
It was a moment to be tucked away in the memory file that holds sleazy acquisitions. The lights were low.
A disc
reet spotlight lit up Miss Sycophant's creamy decolletage. The jukebox was playing "Earth Angel," because in Hell they get all the hits sooner or later, though never on time. Everything was perfect. But somehow Azzie couldn't get into the spirit of fun.
In Hell, fun is a religion, but Azzie was in a rebellious mood. He had serious work to do. He had to decide how to ensure his own best position in the contest between Light and Dark, and that necessitated doing something about Faust.
Faust was proving very difficult to tempt. Azzie had had no luck so far. He wondered if he was offering the right things. But after you come up with fame, riches, and Helen of Troy, what else is there?
Faust was a difficult customer, there could be no doubt about that. Spiritually, he was a wild man. There was no telling what he would do next. In actual fact, the forces of Dark were better off not having him in the contest. Faust might not be a good man, but he was a long way from being bad. Whereas Mack, his stand-in, was altogether simpler and so could be expected to produce a more predictable and hence satisfactory result.
"Listen," he said to Miss Sycophant, "it's been fun and I've really enjoyed meeting you. But I have to be going now. Don't worry, the bill's paid for."
And so saying he set out at once, stepping into a handy conjuring booth that the club had put aside for those fastidious members who didn't like to conjure in public. He directed himself toward the past of the Earth, because he had gotten somewhat ahead of himself. The spell kicked in and years flipped backwards like leaves off a calendar in some future age when such things exist. Moving faster than the speed of recollection, Azzie saw the panorama of time coiling back on itself, swallowing its own tail. Old men grew young, volcanoes receded and returned to their caps, icebergs flowed north and south, and the race of man shrank and dwindled.
At last he passed entirely out of human territory and came into the lands of legend that Homer and others had caused to come into being. There was Lethe ahead, and then the great cavern of Avernus was in sight, and he streaked into it, following its winding and turning as it descended into the depths of Hell and joined up with the Styx. It was like traveling through the intestines of a snake. The whole thing was lit in pale and ghastly colors by towering phosphorescent crags, and sometimes Azzie could see men standing on those rocks, heroic naked men draped in sheets like refugees from a Dore etching. But now he was at the place he had conjured himself to, where the territory of Hell began.
Azzie turned and flew over the Styx itself, until finally he came upon Charon's houseboat, nestled close to the muddy bank. In the back of the craft, Faust and Helen sat and watched the black rippling water and made small talk.
Azzie swooped down and made a neat landing on the houseboat. The boat barely rocked when he set down, so lightly did he step, though Charon did look up to see who had alighted on his boat. Azzie paid him no mind.
"How now!" Azzie cried. "Dr. Faust! Good day to you!"
"Hail to thee, foul spirit," Faust said. "What brings you to these parts?"
"I just thought I'd look you up." Azzie sat down on a folding chair that was propped against the rail.
"How are things going?"
"Well enough," Faust said. "Charon is not so easy to get along with, but I think I have convinced him enough so that he will cooperate with me."
"Convince Charon? How did you manage to do that?"
"I pointed out to him that I was giving him an opportunity to be in on the very beginning of a brave new myth."
"What myth is that?" Azzie asked.
"Why, it is the story of the great meeting between Faust and Charon; of how, with Charon's cooperation, Faust traveled to places unheard-of before, bringing with him the beautiful Helen."
Azzie ignored her. He said to Faust, "I've got another proposition for you."
"I told you before. I will not obey you."
"That's not what I'm asking," Azzie said. "Look. The game for the rulership of the Millennium is running.
This guy Mack is doing it, playing your role. It's not the way I would have done it, but that's what's happened. He's already gone through two episodes. Whether he did well or badly is beside the point.
What's done is done, and there's nothing either you or I can do about it. So I say, let it alone. Stop trying to take over Mack's part. Drop out of the drama. And I'll make it worth your while, Doctor."
"How do you propose to do that?"
"I'm going to pick a period in history that's just tailor-made for your talents. You will be rich, and acclaimed by everyone."
"Is it just me doing this?" Faust asked. "Or will I have a suitable consort along with me?"
There was Faust, bargaining again! Azzie said, "All this will be with Helen at your side, for she goes along with the bargain. Johann, you'll be the envy of all mankind. And you'll be rich, Doctor, rich beyond even your dreams of wealth."
"With your talent for trickery," Faust said, "you'll give me all that but have me brainstruck or paralyzed so that I can't enjoy it. I know your way, demon!"
"You think I would do something like that?" Azzie said. "I may be evil, but I'm not bad. But I'll tell you what, to make it all even better, I'll throw in the full rejuvenation treatment. It'll make you look, feel, be, a new man, intellectually and physically. You'll have many many years of vigorous life ahead of you. And it will be good, Doctor, oh, my, it will be so good!"
So much did Azzie get carried away with his selling job that he kissed his hand in a florid gesture that was not his typical style. But Faust was unmoved.
"No," Faust said, "I'm sorry, I understand your feelings. But I just can't do it."
"But why not?" Azzie wailed.
"It would not be Faustian, you see. I know you have to think about your contest. But I have to think about the greatness of Faust, and, if there's any time left over, to think about the future of mankind in general. I'm sorry, foul fiend, but I cannot oblige you."
"Well, it was worth a try," Azzie said. "What will you do now?"
"I propose to take my rightful place in the contest. I don't know if I have time to get to Florence. But after that, the next act is to begin in London. I have already proposed to Charon that he take me there. It would be a pleasant change for him, to spend a day boating on the Thames."
Charon had been listening. Now he shuffled over, and, laughing his uncanny laugh, said, "Yes, Faust, it was agreed upon, but only on condition that you give me a Traveling Spell that will provide the motive power to take us there. The ship of the dead doesn't run through space and time on oars alone, you know."
Spell. My own is considerably depleted. Do you think you could spare me a spell recharge? Or better yet, give me a whole new Traveling Spell and Charon and I will be on our way."
"Certainly," Azzie said, and took a small spell out of his pouch, surreptitiously tore away the defective—don't use label the Board of Spell Standards had given to it, and handed it to Faust. "Best of luck," he said, and then conjured himself away.
He was very pleased with himself. He didn't have to worry about Faust. The fellow was going to neutralize himself, with a little help from a sly, fox-faced, spell-giving, egg-sucking demon.
CHAPTER 3
"Earlier," Faust asked Helen, while Charon was preparing the boat for a new destination, "what did you mean by 'hah?"
Helen, beautiful and unapproachable, stood at the rail, watching the time fish gulp up odd moments. The dark water turned and roiled, and reflections of the deeds of men and gods played dimly on its surfaces.
Without turning she replied, "It is an expression of contempt, which is the emotion I feel for you and your sexist ways."
"Sexist? Me? But I'm Faust!"
"Good for you! But what about me? You may have a great intellect in some matters, but you still consider a woman an object to be fought over and won as a trophy in the ridiculous wars you men fight to prove such things."
"This line of argument doesn't sound like the Helen we've come to expect," Faust said. "You're talking like an
intellectual rather than the pretty piece of puff pastry men have always taken you for. History doesn't record your views on the subject of men."
"That's because History is sexist," Helen said. "The winners get to tell their version of things. And why should it be otherwise? Might makes right and we become what you say we are. Talk about unfair typecasting!"
"What do you have to complain about?" Faust asked. "You're beautiful and famous!"
"But they've got me in an eternal ingenue role. My friends laugh at me. And why? Because fools like you keep on mooning about me and think they're hot stuff because they can enslave me."
Faust said, "Me, enslave thee? Say nay, fair Helen! For rather am I slave to thee, and stand obedient to your slightest whim."
"Yeah? Then how about taking me back to Hades where the demon stole me from?"
"Oh, well, that's out of the question," Faust said. "Come now, I'm trying to be gallant. You have to try, too."
"Hmm," Faust said, eyeing her with salacious eye. "A wise man might think your body good enough reward."
"You don't get the body, either," Helen said. "You'll have to kill me first."
Faust found himself thinking it might come to that. But he gritted his teeth. The funny thing was, he didn't even desire this woman very much. To own her, possess her, dominate her, yes, sure. But to make love to her? Faust found her formidable even when she was silent, and a virago when she was vocal. He marveled that the ancient world had never commented on Helen's conversational style.
"Look," Faust said, "let's be reasonable. There are only a few roles to play in this world of ours. I'm playing the role of possessor, though I can assure you it doesn't entirely suit me. I'm not at my best with imperious women. I like goosegirls, to tell the truth. But having you is the big time of aspiration, even if I don't go for it much personally. So I play my part. Now then, Fate, or Necessity, or Chance, or whoever it was, cast you in the role of the ultimate desired woman. You're supposed to be a paragon of seductiveness. It does no good for you to wish yourself something else. You've got your role and it's a good one. A lot of women would give anything to change places with you. And it's not bad, as roles go.
If at Faust You Don't Succeed Page 14
