Jedson grasped my arm; I checked my tongue.
“I’ll stay where I am,” answered Amanda in a voice crisp with contempt. “As for your compact, you know better.”
“Then why are you here? And why such odd companions.” He looked down at us from the vantage of his throne, slapped his hairy thigh and laughed immoderately. Royce stirred and muttered; his grandfather’s head chattered in wrath. Seraphin spat.
Jedson and Amanda put their heads together for a moment, then she answered, “By the treaty with Adam, I claim the right to examine.”
He chuckled, and the little devils around him covered their ears. “You claim privileges here? With no compact?”
“Your customs,” she answered sharply.
“Ah yes, the customs! Since you invoke them, so let it be. And whom would you examine?”
“I do not know his name. He is one of your demons who has taken improper liberties outside your sphere.”
“One of my demons, and you know not his name? I have seven million demons, my pretty. Will you examine them one by one, or all together?” His sarcasm was almost the match of her contempt.
“All together.”
“Never let it be said that I would not oblige a guest. If you will go forward—let me see—exactly five months and three days, you will find my gentlemen drawn up for inspection.”
I do not recollect how we got there. There was a great, brown plain, and no sky. Drawn up in military order for review by their evil lord were all the fiends of the Half World, legion on legion, wave after wave. The Old One was attended by his cabinet; Jedson pointed them out to me—Lucifugé, the prime minister; Sataniacha, field marshal; Beelzebub and Leviathan, wing commanders; Ashtoreth, Abaddon, Mammon, Theutus, Asmodeus, and Incubus, the Fallen Thrones. The seventy princes each commanded a division, and each remained with his command, leaving only the dukes and the thrones to attend their lord, Satan Mekratrig.
He himself still appeared as the Goat, but his staff took every detestable shape they fancied. Asmodeus sported three heads, each evil and each different, rising out of the hind quarters of a swollen dragon. Mammon resembled, very roughly, a particularly repulsive tarantula. Ashtoreth I cannot describe at all. Only the Incubus affected a semblance of human form, as the only vessel adequate to display his lecherousness.
The Goat glanced our way. “Be quick about it,” he demanded. “We are not here for your amusement.”
Amanda ignored him, but led us toward the leading squadron. “Come back!” he bellowed. And indeed we were back; our steps had led us no place. “You ignore the customs. Hostages first!”
Amanda bit her lip. “Admitted,” she retorted, and consulted briefly with Royce and Jedson. I caught Royce’s answer to some argument.
“Since I am to go,” he said, “it is best that I choose my companion, for reasons that are sufficient to me. My grandfather advises me to take the youngest. That one, of course, is Fraser.”
“What’s that?” I said when my name was mentioned. I had been rather pointedly left out of all the discussions, but this was surely my business.
“Royce wants you to go with him to smell out Ditworth,” explained Jedson.
“And leave Amanda here with these fiends? I don’t like it.”
“I can look out for myself, Archie,” she said quietly. “If Dr. Worthington wants you, you can help me most by going with him.”
“What is this hostage stuff?”
“Having demanded the right of examination,” she explained, “you must bring back Ditworth—or the hostages are forfeit.”
Jedson spoke up before I could protest. “Don’t be a hero, son. This is serious. You can serve us all best by going. If you two don’t come back, you can bet that they’ll have a fight on their hands before they claim their forfeit!”
I went. Worthington and I had hardly left them before I realized acutely that what little peace of mind I had come from the nearness of Amanda. Once out of her immediate influence the whole mind-twisting horror of the place and its grisly denizens hit me. I felt something rub against my ankles and nearly jumped out of my shoes. But when I looked down I saw that Seraphin, Amanda’s cat, had chosen to follow me. After that things were better with me.
Royce assumed his dog pose when we came to the first rank of demons. He first handed me his grandfather’s head. Once I would have found that mummified head repulsive to touch; it seemed a friendly, homey thing here. Then he was down on all fours, scalloping in and out of the ranks of infernal warriors. Seraphin scampered after him, paired up and hunted with him. The hound seemed quite content to let the cat do half the work, and I have no doubt he was justified. I walked as rapidly as possible down the aisles between adjacent squadrons while the animals cast out from side to side.
It seems to me that this went on for many hours, certainly so long that fatigue changed to a wooden automatism and horror died down to a dull unease. I learned not to look at the eyes of the demons, and was no longer surprised at any outré shape.
Squadron by squadron, division by division, we combed them, until at last, coming up the left wing, we reached the end. The animals had been growing increasingly nervous. When they had completed the front rank of the leading squadron, the hound trotted up to me and whined. I suppose he sought his grandfather, but I reached down and patted his head.
“Don’t despair, old friend,” I said, “we have still these.” I motioned toward the generals, princess all, who were posted before their divisions. Coming up from the rear as we had, we had yet to examine the generals of the leading divisions on the left wing. But despair already claimed me; what were half a dozen possibilities against an eliminated seven million?
The dog trotted away to the post of the nearest general, the cat close beside him, while I followed as rapidly as possible. He commenced to yelp before he was fairly up to the demon, and I broke into a run. The demon stirred and commenced to metamorphose. But even in this strange shape there was something familiar about it. “Ditworth!” I yelled, and dived for him.
I felt myself buffeted by leather wings, raked by claws. Royce came to my aid, a dog no longer, but two hundred pounds of fighting Negro. The cat was a ball of fury, teeth and claws. Nevertheless, we would have been lost, done in completely, had not an amazing thing happened. A demon broke ranks and shot toward us. I sensed him rather than saw him, and thought that he had come to succor his master, though I had been assured that their customs did not permit it. But he helped us—us, his natural enemies—and attacked with such vindictive violence that the gage was turned to our favor.
Suddenly it was all over. I found myself on the ground, clutching at not a demon prince but Ditworth in his pseudo-human form—a little mild businessman, dressed with restrained elegance, complete to brief case, spectacles, and thinning hair.
“Take that thing off me,” he said testily. “That thing” was grandfather, who was clinging doggedly with toothless gums to his neck.
Royce spared a hand from the task of holding Ditworth and resumed possession of his grandfather. Seraphin stayed where he was, claws dug into our prisoner’s leg.
The demon who had rescued us was still with us. He had Ditworth by the shoulders, talons dug into their bases. I cleared my throat and said, “I believe we owe this to you—” I had not the slightest notion of the proper thing to say. I think the situation was utterly without precedent.
The demon made a grimace that may have been intended to be friendly, but which I found frightening. “Let me introduce myself,” he said in English. “I’m Federal Agent William Kane, Bureau of Investigation.”
I think that was what made me faint.
I came to, lying on my back. Someone had smeared a salve on my wounds and they were hardly stiff, and not painful in the least, but I was mortally tired. There was talking going on somewhere near me. I turned my head and saw all the members of my party gathered together. Worthington and the friendly demon who claimed to be a G-man held Ditworth between them, facing Satan. Of
all the mighty infernal army I saw no trace.
“So it was my nephew Nebiros,” mused the Goat, shaking his head and clucking. “Nebiros, you are a bad lad and I’m proud of you, but I’m afraid you will have to try your strength against their champion now that they have caught you.” He addressed Amanda. “Who is your champion, my dear?”
The friendly demon spoke up. “That sounds like my job.”
“I think not,” countered Amanda. She drew him to one side and whispered intently. Finally he shrugged his wings and gave in.
Amanda rejoined the group. I struggled to my feet and came up to them. “A trial to the death, I think,” she was saying. “Are you ready, Nebiros?” I was stretched between heart-stopping fear for Amanda and a calm belief that she could do anything she attempted. Jedson saw my face and shook his head. I was not to interrupt.
But Nebiros had no stomach for it. Still in his Ditworth form and looking ridiculously human, he turned to the Old One. “I dare not, Uncle. The outcome is certain. Intercede for me.”
“Certainly, Nephew. I had rather hoped she would destroy you. You’ll trouble me someday.” Then to Amanda, “Shall we say…ah…ten thousand thousand years?”
Amanda gathered our votes with her eyes, including me, to my proud pleasure, and answered, “So be it.” It was not a stiff sentence as such things go, I’m told—about equal to six months in jail in the real world—but he had not offended their customs; he had simply been defeated by white magic.
Old Nick brought down one arm in an emphatic gesture. There was a crashing roar and a burst of light and Ditworth-Nebiros was spread-eagled before us on a mighty boulder, his limbs bound with massive iron chains. He was again in demon form. Amanda and Worthington examined the bonds. She pressed a seal ring against each hasp and nodded to the Goat. At once the boulder receded with great speed into the distance until it was gone from sight.
“That seems to be about all, and I suppose you will be going now,” announced the Goat. “All except this one—” He smiled at the demon G-man. “I have plans for him.”
“No.” Amanda’s tone was flat.
“What’s that, my little one? He has not the protection of your party, and he has offended our customs.”
“No!”
“Really, I must insist.”
“Satan Mekratrig,” she said slowly, “do you wish to try your strength with me?”
“With you, madame?” He looked at her carefully, as if inspecting her for the first time. “Well, it’s been a trying day, hasn’t it? Suppose we say no more about it. Till another time, then—”
He was gone.
The demon faced her. “Thanks,” he said simply. “I wish I had a hat to take off.” He added anxiously, “Do you know your way out of here?”
“Don’t you?”
“No, that’s the trouble. Perhaps I should explain myself. I’m assigned to the antimonopoly division; we got a line on this chap Ditworth, or Nebiros. I followed him in here, thinking he was simply a black wizard and that I could use his portal to get back. By the time I knew better it was too late, and I was trapped. I had about resigned myself to an eternity as a fake demon.”
I was very much interested in his story. I knew, of course, that all G-men are either lawyers, magicians, or accountants, but all that I had ever met were accountants. This calm assumption of incredible dangers impressed me and increased my already high opinion of Federal agents.
“You may use our portal to return,” Amanda said. “Stick close to us.” Then to the rest of us, “Shall we go now?”
Jack Bodie was still intoning the lines from the book when we landed. “Eight and a half minutes,” he announced, looking at his wrist watch. “Nice work. Did you turn the trick?”
“Yes, we did,” acknowledged Jedson, his voice muffled by the throes of his remetamorphosis. “Everything that—”
But Bodie interrupted. “Bill Kane—you old scoundrel!” he shouted. “How did you get in on this party?” Our demon had shucked his transformation on the way and landed in his natural form—lean, young, and hard-bitten, in a quiet gray suit and snap-brim hat.
“Hi, Jack,” he acknowledged. “I’ll look you up tomorrow and tell you all about it. Got to report in now.” With which he vanished.
Ellen was out of her trance, and Joe was bending solicitously over her to see how she had stood up under it. I looked around for Amanda.
Then I heard her out in the kitchen and hurried out there. She looked up and smiled at me, her lovely face serene and coolly beautiful. “Amanda,” I said, “Amanda—”
I suppose I had the subconscious intention of kissing her, making love to her. But it is very difficult to start anything of that sort unless the woman in the case in some fashion indicates her willingness. She did not. She was warmly friendly, but there was a barrier of reserve I could not cross. Instead, I followed her around the kitchen, talking inconsequentially, while she made hot cocoa and toast for all of us.
When we rejoined the others I sat and let my coca get cold, staring at her with vague frustration in my heart while Jedson told Ellen and Jack about our experiences. He took Ellen home shortly thereafter, and Jack followed them out.
When Amanda came back from telling them good night at the door, Dr. Royce was stretched out on his back on the hearthrug, with Seraphin curled up on his broad chest. They were both snoring softly. I realized suddenly that I was wretchedly tired. Amanda saw it, too, and said, “Lie down on the couch for a little and nap if you can.”
I needed no urging. She came over and spread a shawl over me and kissed me tenderly. I heard her going upstairs as I fell asleep.
I was awakened by sunlight striking my face. Seraphin was sitting in the window, cleaning himself. Dr. Worthington was gone, but must have just left, for the nap on the hearthrug had not yet straightened up. The house seemed deserted. Then I heard her light footsteps in the kitchen. I was up at once and quickly out there.
She had her back toward me and was reaching up to the old-fashioned pendulum clock that hung on her kitchen wall. She turned as I came in—tiny, incredibly aged, her thin white hair brushed neatly into a bun.
It was suddenly clear to me why a motherly good-night kiss was all that I had received the night before; she had had enough sense for two of us, and had refused to permit me to make a fool of myself.
She looked up at me and said in a calm, matter-of-fact voice, “See, Archie, my old clock stopped yesterday”—she reached up and touched the pendulum—“but it is running again this morning.”
THERE IS NOT ANYTHING MORE to tell. With Ditworth gone, and Kane’s report, Magic, Incorporated, folded up almost overnight. The new licensing laws were an unenforced dead letter even before they were repealed.
We all hang around Mrs. Jennings’s place just as much as she will let us. I’m really grateful that she did not let me get involved with her younger self, for our present relationship is something solid, something to tie to. Just the same, if I had been born sixty years sooner, Mr. Jennings would have had some rivalry to contend with.
I helped Ellen and Joe organize their new business, then put Bodie in as manager, for I decided that I did not want to give up my old line. I’ve built the new wing and bought those two trucks, just as Mrs. Jennings predicted. Business is good.
“—AND HE BUILT A CROOKED HOUSE”
Americans are considered crazy anywhere in the world.
They will usually concede a basis for the accusation but point to California as the focus of the infection. Californians stoutly maintain that their bad reputation is derived solely from the acts of the inhabitants of Los Angeles County. Angelenos will, when pressed, admit the charge but explain hastily, “It’s Hollywood. It’s not our fault—we didn’t ask for it; Hollywood just grew.”
The people in Hollywood don’t care; they glory in it. If you are interested, they will drive you up Laurel Canyon “—where we keep the violent cases.” The Canyonites—the brown-legged women, the trunks-clad men constantly busy b
uilding and rebuilding their slap-happy unfinished houses—regard with faint contempt the dull creatures who live down in the flats, and treasure in their hearts the secret knowledge that they, and only they, know how to live.
Lookout Mountain Avenue is the name of a side canyon which twists up from Laurel Canyon. The other Canyonites don’t like to have it mentioned; after all, one must draw the line somewhere!
High up on Lookout Mountain at number 8775, across the street from the Hermit—the original Hermit of Hollywood—lived Quintus Teal, graduate architect.
Even the architecture of southern California is different. Hot dogs are sold from a structure built like and designated “The Pup.” Ice cream cones come from a giant stucco ice cream cone, and neon proclaims “Get the Chili Bowl Habit!” from the roofs of buildings which are indisputably chili bowls. Gasoline, oil, and free road maps are dispensed beneath the wings of tri-motored transport planes, while the certified rest rooms, inspected hourly for your comfort, are located in the cabin of the plane itself. These things may surprise, or amuse, the tourist, but the local residents, who walk bareheaded in the famous California noonday sun, take them as a matter of course.
Quintus Teal regarded the efforts of his colleagues in architecture as faint-hearted, fumbling, and timid.
“WHAT IS A HOUSE?” TEAL demanded of his friend, Homer Bailey.
“Well—” Bailey admitted cautiously, “speaking in broad terms, I’ve always regarded a house as a gadget to keep off the rain.”
“Nuts! You’re as bad as the rest of them.”
“I didn’t say the definition was complete—”
“Complete! It isn’t even in the right direction. From that point of view we might just as well be squatting in caves. But I don’t blame you,” Teal went on magnanimously, “you’re no worse than the lugs you find practicing architecture. Even the Moderns—all they’ve done is to abandon the Wedding Cake School in favor of the Service Station School, chucked away the gingerbread and slapped on some chromium, but at heart they are as conservative and traditional as a county courthouse. Neutra! Schindler! What have those bums got? What’s Frank Lloyd Wright got that I haven’t got?”
The Fantasies of Robert A. Heinlein Page 11
