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

by Mack Reynolds

  Now that was more like it, and perhaps he had even misjudged Alexander. Work was something Phineas hadn’t expected, but—yes, that would be nice, if it could be arranged here. “I felt once I was called” he suggested.

  “Minister, you mean? Now that’s fine. Never get too many of them, Mr. Potts. Wonderful men, do wonderful work here. They really add enormously to the happiness of our Hereafter, you know. Let me see, what experience have you had?” He beamed at Potts, who thawed under it; then he turned to a bookshelf, selected a heavy volume and consulted it. Slowly the beam vanished, and worry took its place.

  “Ah, yes, Phineas Theophilus Potts. Yes, entered training 1903. Hmmm. Dismissed after two years of study, due to a feeling he might…might not be quite temperamentally suited to the work and that he was somewhat too fana…ahem!…overly zealous in his criticism of others. Then transferred to his uncle’s shop and took up drafting, which was thereafter his life’s work. Umm. Really, that’s too bad.” Alexander turned back to Phineas. “Then, Mr. Potts, I take it you never had any actual experience at this sort of work?”

  Phineas squirmed. “No, but—”

  “Too bad.” Alexander sighed. “Really, I’d like to make things more to your satisfaction, but after all, no experience—afraid it wouldn’t do. Tell you what, we don’t like to be hasty in our judgments; if you’ll just picture exactly the life you want—no need to describe it, I’ll get it if you merely think it—maybe we can adjust things. Try hard now.”

  With faint hope, Phineas tried. Alexander’s voice droned out at him. “A little harder. No, that’s only a negative picture of what you’d like not to do. Ah…um, no. I thought for a minute you had something, but it’s gone. I think you’re trying to picture abstractions, Mr. Potts, and you know one can’t do that; I get something very vague, but it makes no sense. There! That’s better.”

  He seemed to listen for a few seconds longer, and Phineas was convinced now it was all sham; he’d given up trying. What was the use? Vague jumbled thoughts were all he had left, and now Alexander’s voice broke, in on them.

  “Really, Mr. Potts, I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do for you. I get a very clear picture now, but it’s exactly the life we’d arranged for you, you see. Same room, same work. Apparently that’s the only life you know. Of course, if you want to improve we have a great many very fine schools located throughout the city.”

  Phineas jerked upright, the control over his temper barely on. “You mean—you mean, I’ve got to go on like that?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “But you distinctly said this was heaven.”

  “It is.”

  “And I tell you,” Phineas cried, forgetting all about controlling his temper, “that this is hell!”

  “Quite so, I never denied it. Now, Mr. Potts, I’d like to discuss this further; but others are waiting, so I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

  Alexander looked up from his papers, and as he looked, Phineas found himself outside the door, shaken and sick. The door remained open as the girl called Katy came up, looked at him in surprise, and went in. Then it closed, but still he stood there, unable to move, leaning against the wooden frame for support.

  There was a mutter of voices within, and his whirling thoughts seized on them for anchor. Katy’s voice first. “—seems to take it terribly hard, Mr. Alexander. Isn’t there something we can do?”

  Then the low voice of Alexander. “Nothing, Katy. It’s up to him now. I suggested the schools, but I’m afraid he’s another unfortunate. Probably even now he’s out there convincing himself that all this is merely illusion, made to try his soul and test his ability to remain unchanged. If that’s the case, well, poor devil, there isn’t much we can do, you know.”

  But Phineas wasn’t listening then. He clutched the words he’d heard savagely to his bosom and went stiffly out and back toward the office of G.R. Sloane across from the little room, No. 408. Of course he should have known. All this was merely illusion, made to try his soul. Illusion and test, no more.

  Let them try him, they would find him humble in his sufferings as always, not complaining, resisting firmly their temptations. Even though Sloane denied him the right to fast, still he would find some other way to do proper penance for his sins; though Callahan broke his back, though a thousand bees attacked him at once, still he would prevail.

  “Forgive and guide me to sin no more, but preserve me in righteousness all the days of my life,” he repeated, and turned into the building where there was more work and misery waiting for him. Sometime he’d be rewarded. Sometime.

  Back in his head a small shred of doubt sniggered gleefully.

  NIGHTMARE ON THE NOSE, by Evelyn E. Smith

  Originally published in Fantastic Universe, Oct.-Nov. 1953.

  Every time he lost money at the track, Phil Watson had a nightmare. They grew increasingly frequent as his bankroll dwindled and his hopes of getting rich dwindled accordingly.

  The night after he had dropped two hundred dollars at Jamaica, the nightmare grew particularly oppressive. In the darkness he could see her red eyes glowing at him as she sat on his chest.

  “Would you mind not turning over so much?” she asked, seeing that he was awake. “It makes me uncomfortable.”

  “It makes you uncomfortable!” he moaned. “How would you like to have a couple of tons of horse sitting on you?”

  “I do not weigh a couple of tons!” she snapped. “And furthermore, I assure you I’m sitting on your chest out of duty, certainly not out of pleasure. If you don’t think I have lots better things to do with my nights than go around sitting on people… Her large white teeth gleamed in a significant leer.

  He sighed and squirmed again. A sharp hoof kicked him in the side. “That’ll learn you not to wiggle, Watson. Since you’re not sleeping,” she added, “how about a couple of games of Canasta?”

  “I’ve been losing enough on the races—I’m not going to start gambling with a supernatural card shark.”

  “Listen here,” the nightmare bristled. “I can beat you at any game without the use of supernatural powers. You’re known as the number-one sucker at all the tracks.”

  “That’s right. That’s right. Kick a man when he’s down.”

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t mean to be unsporting. But you get me so mad!”

  “Unsporting… he mused—then sat up as a terrific idea hit him.

  “Watch your step, Watson,” the nightmare warned when the sudden movement nearly threw her off the bed. “I’ve been standing for a lot from you but—”

  “Listen, can you run?”

  “Run? Whaddya mean run?”

  “How fast can you go?”

  “Well, I’ll be honest with you. Down—where I come from—I’m known as ‘Old Slow Poke.’ I can’t move much faster than speed of sound while all the other girls have the velocity of light. But that’s the way it is—some are born with brains and some with speed.”

  “The velocity of sound is good enough,” Watson decided. “Look here, Nightmare, how’d you like to run in a race?”

  “A race?” Then the nightmare chuckled evilly to herself. “Oho, I see what you mean! But that wouldn’t be cricket, would it?”

  “Cricket and horse-racing are two distinct sports!” Watson stated. Then, alluringly, “How’d you like to run down the track five lengths ahead of all the other horses, with the band playing and the crowd cheering? You’d be led into the winner’s circle and they’d drape flowers all over you. People would yell ‘Nightmare, Nightmare!’ You’d be a popular figure, a celebrity. This way nobody knows you. You work at night, alone—unappreciated and unsung…

  “That’s so true,” the nightmare murmured. “I really haven’t received the adulation I deserve. Here I’ve done my job faithfully for years,
scared thousands of people into fits—and what thanks do I get? None!” She sobbed. “Other people get all the credit and glory. I just work, work, work like a horse.”

  “If you work for me,” Watson said, “you’ll only run a mile or so two or three times a week, get the finest of care, and”—he pointed out significantly— “your nights will be your own.”

  “Watson,” the nightmare assured him, “I’m sold. When do we start?”

  “It isn’t as easy as all that.” Watson rose and paced up and down the room. “First of all, you’re not in the stud book. We’ll have to forge some papers and pass you off as an Argentinian horse.”

  “Si, si, senor,” said the nightmare, wriggling with pleasure. “Hablo muy bien el espanol. El estrivo de mi padre es en el establo de mi madre. Yo soy del Rcmcho Grande. Olé!”

  “It isn’t necessary for you to speak Spanish. As a matter of fact you won’t get to do any talking at all. Horses don’t talk.”

  “But I do,” she said, wounded. “Where I come from I am known as a witty and distinguished raconteur. You know the one about the two geldings?”

  “Never you mind,” he told her. “From now on you don’t talk— except to me. Get it?”

  “Yeah,” the nightmare agreed. “All right, Watson, I’ll give it a whirl. I’ve always wanted to be in the public eye.”

  * * * *

  For the sake of expediency, Watson decided to give the nightmare, now officially registered as Incubus, her preliminary workouts himself—although he was no trainer. But then Incubus really needed no workouts. It merely looked well to take her around the track a few times.

  “Remember, Inky,” he whispered, “not too fast. We want to give ’em a big surprise at the meet.”

  “I dig you,” she whispered back. Reuben Goldlove, the well-known trainer, sauntered past and looked at Incubus. “My God,” he told Watson, “what kind of a monster are you running! She’s got a face like a gargoyle and a rear like a hippopotamus.”

  “You want I should clout him in the crupper?” Incubus whispered.

  “No, no!” he whispered back. “I’m glad he doesn’t take to you, because if he thought you were any good he might claim you.”

  “Claim me? Whaddya mean?”

  “Well, you see,” he explained, “since you’re unknown and have no record, I’ve had to enter you in a claiming race. That means anybody who’s running another horse in the same race can put in a claim for you before the race, for the price I set on you, and become your owner.”

  “What’s the price you set on me?”

  Watson hemmed and hawed. “Three thousand dollars,” he admitted.

  Incubus cocked an eye at him. “You selling me down the river for a mess of pottage, Watson?”

  “No, no,” he assured her, “I can’t help it—this is some goddamn silly racing rule. You have no reputation, so I’ve got to enter you in a maiden claimer.”

  Incubus raised an eyebrow. “A maiden claimer?”

  “A maiden horse,” he explained austerely, “is one which has never won a race.”

  “Oh-h-h-h,” she said. “Sorry.”

  “Now, if the worst comes to the worst and you do get claimed, we can figure out ways and means of getting you back. Can’t we, Inky?”

  Incubus laughed richly. “Clout him in the crupper!” she chortled. “Oh, man!”

  * * * *

  The day dawned when Incubus was to make her debut at Belmont. The odds on her were a hundred to one. Laughing softly to himself, Watson put five hundred dollars on her nose.

  “You crazy, fella?” the seller said to him. “The horse to bet on is Godlove’s Pamplemousse. He’s a natural to win.”

  “Incubus is my own horse,” Watson explained patiently.

  “Oh, I guess it’s like my kid. He plays the pianner and stinks but I gotta clap for him all the same,”

  “Why didn’t you give her some hip reducing exercises,” Godlove sneered, as the jockey led Incubus out into the paddock. “She’ll never get through the starting gate with that spread.”

  “Take it easy,” Watson told her, as she reared. “Now, listen,” he said to the jockey, a sullen young apprentice—all he could get—“she responds to direction very well. Talk to her. She practically understands.”

  “Oh, sure,” the jockey jeered. “Is snookums gonna win the race for daddykins?”

  “Ess,” replied Incubus.

  The jockey stared at her and at Watson. Watson laughed, a trifle too hard. “I’m a great ventriloquist,” he explained. “Can’t break myself of the habit.”

  “Well, you better begin now,” the jockey said, “because I’m temperamental, and when I’m emotionally disturbed the horse senses it.”

  “The horses,” the announcer declaimed through the loudspeaker, “are at the post.… They’re off!… All of them, that is, except Incubus. She can’t get through the starting gate. Shes stuck.”

  “Yah, wear a girdle!” the crowd called derisively.

  With a wrench of sheer rage Incubus pulled herself through the gate and dashed after the other horses.

  “In the backstretch it’s Pamplemousse in the lead with Disesta-blishmentarianism and Epigram running half a length behind and… But who’s this coming up from the rear? It’s Incubus! She’s ahead by a length… By two lengths… By three lengths! What a horse! What a jockey! He’s giving her the whip!… Oh, oh, something’s wrong. Incubus has lost her rider! Too bad, Incubus.”

  The horses raced up the stretch, with Incubus keeping five lengths ahead of Pamplemousse as per direction. She was much annoyed to discover that he had won the race.

  “But I won it!” she kept whispering to Watson as he led her off. “I was first. This is a frame-up. I’m going right to the judges and raise an objection.”

  “It doesn’t count if you don’t have the jockey on you,” he told her. “That’s the rule.”

  “Flap the rules!” she said. “You mean without that pee-wee it doesn’t count? A fine thing! I hate the rules, I hate the rules, I hate the rules!” She stamped her foot. “He hit me with a whip, the little bastard, so I gave him the old heave-ho.”

  “Aw, come on now, Incubus, well get another jockey who won’t whip you. You see how easy you can win a race?”

  She tossed her head. “I’m not so sure I want to run again.”

  “You know you want to run, Incubus. You’ve made a big impression, I could see that.”

  “Who cares what people think?”

  “I saw Pamplemousse giving you the eye,” Watson murmured. “Good-looking horse, isn’t he? Any filly’d be glad to have him interested in her,”

  “Oh, I dunno,” Incubus said. “He’s all right, I guess, if you like them tail and dark. But, okay, I’ll try it again for you, Watson.”

  Godlove accosted them again as Watson led Incubus into her stall. “I take back what I said about your horse, Watson,” he apologized. “She looks like a fiend, but she runs like one too. With the proper handling, she might be a stake horse.” He looked speculatively at Incubus. “Give you five thousand for her, big rump and all”

  “Not on your life.”

  Godlove shrugged. “Suit yourself. But she’ll have to run in another claimer, you know.” He left, laughing softly.

  * * * *

  After two weeks of steady diet and vigorous massage, during which her hip measurements were considerably reduced, Incubus was entered in a four-thousand-dollar claimer. Even though she was still a maiden, she was favored next to Pamplemousse by the players, for her unusual first start had not passed unnoticed. Watson bet another five hundred, to obtain which he had mortgaged the old homestead. But this time he could get only even money.

  “Remember, Incubus,” he instructed her as he buckled her saddle, “if Godlove clai
ms you, you know what to do.”

  “Sure do. Shall I let him live afterward?”

  “Yeah, let him live. Just make it uncomfortable for him… Now look here, sonny.” This to the new jockey. “She doesn’t like the whip. You saw what she did to her last boy?”

  The jockey nodded and gulped.

  “All you have to do is sit on her and let her go where she wants. Then you’ll be all right.”

  “I wouldn’t even get near her,” the boy said, “if I didn’t have an aged mother to support.”

  * * * *

  The starter waved the yellow flag, and the horses were off. Incubus raced neck and neck with Pamplemousse until they were a furlong from the finish line. Then she surged ahead to win by five lengths. When she rode into the winner’s circle, the crowd booed, as is their pleasant custom with winning horses and jockeys.

  “A popular figure, eh?” Incubus sneered. “Tcha!”

  “Y’know, Mr. Watson,” the jockey said as he was assisted from the horse with a dazed but beatific smile on his face, “I’m so steamed up over this win I even thought Incubus was talking to me.”

  The men standing around laughed. “You’ve let excitement go to your head,” Godlove remarked. “Personally, I would never hire a jockey who has no emotional equilibrium.” The jockey reached a tentative finger toward Incubus’s nose. “Good horse,” he said. “Good Incubus.”

  “I think you’re pretty nice yourself,” Incubus murmured out of the side of her mouth. There was a stricken silence.

  Reuben Godlove s eyes narrowed.

  “That jockey who rode her the other day told me about your ventriloquism, he informed Watson. “Seems like a pretty cheap trick, if you ask me.” The others murmured agreement, color flowing back into their faces.

  “Anyhow, now that she’s my horse,” Godlove went on, taking possession of Incubus’ bridle. “She’s going to be trained serious.”