And the Devil Will Drag You Under

by Jack L. Chalker

  Main Line + 2076

  MOGART WAS EASY TO LOCATE IN THE BAR.

  "I went down to the Saint James Infirmary," he was bawling, horribly out of tune, "to see my poor bay-be there!"

  "Mogart!" Jill McCulloch yelled to him. "Sober up!"

  Mogart clutched a drink uncertainly, spilling a little. He didn't seem to hear her. "Damn, can never 'mem­ber the rest of it." He swigged on the glass, then looked up, seemed to brighten. "Oh, yeah." He mumbled to himself, then started, "Come to me my melancholy baby!"

  "Asmodeus Mogart!" she practically screamed at him. "It's me! Jill McCulloch! I have the jewel!"

  He halted in midword, seemed to realize that he was not alone in this time frame, and looked around to see her standing there. He grinned stupidly.

  "Hi, there, girlie! Have a drink and siddown!"

  She had not left the chalk pentagram on the floor the last time, and decided not to leave it this time, either. She suspected that to do so would require set­ting up another, and Mogart was in no condition for that.

  She held up the jewel, which burned no longer, for she was now in her own body and holding an alien jewel. "Look, Mogart! See what I've got!" she invited. He looked, couldn't seem to focus, then looked again and seemed to see it. He grinned drunkenly, got up from the stool, and started making his way to her with extreme difficulty.

  "A jewel!" he exclaimed, amazed, then stopped and stood unsteadily a few feet from her. "It-it is one, isn't it?"

  "It is," she affirmed, then glanced at the clock. It was almost midnight. Mogart had been wrong about the time differential.

  The drunken demon reached for the jewel, missed it, finally grabbed it on the second try, and looked at it in bleary amazement. "Bedamned," he mumbled. "Lemme shee, now." He reached into his pocket, missed it three times, finally found it and got into it by using his other hand to steady the coat, and brought out the other jewels.

  Jill McCulloch's heart leaped. Four! He had four! That meant that the man, Mac whatever his name was, had gotten one! Two to go, and almost five hours on the clock. They could make it!

  Mogart seemed to be just staring at the jewels, and she suddenly realized that he'd gone to sleep like that, standing up and holding the glowing orbs.

  "Mogart!" she yelled at the top of her lungs.

  He started. "Umh? Huh?" he managed, and shook his head for a moment, then looked up at her. "Yesh?"

  "Send me after the next jewel! We have a chance to get all six!"

  He seemed to struggle with himself, to bring himself together. It was a losing proposition, but he did manage to pocket the jewels on the first try.

  "Shorry," he mumbled apologetically. "I-I drink, y'know. I-I don' think I can go with you thish time, you'll have to go yourself," he added. "I'd just screw things up."

  "But you've got to!" she pleaded. "How will I know whose body to use or what the rules are?"

  He shrugged. "Itsh a counterpart world," he told her. "Same short of shtuff as this one. Alternate ideas -controls and all that sort of rot. Magic works, machines don't, otherwisch the same. You don' need no body 'cause you're already there!" he explained mys­teriously.

  She wasn't sure she liked this, but she had no choice. "Walters!" she shouted at him, suddenly remembering the man's last name. "If Walters gets back, send him to me!"

  Mogart nodded. "Why not?" he said. "Sho go-got lotsa time there. One hour, one week. Lotsa time. But Theritus, he loves the good life but he's dangerous, like me." He drew himself up straight, but the figure was more ludicrous than terrifying.

  "Asmodeus, King of the Demons!" he proclaimed, and fell flat on his face. The drink and glass shattered and splattered everywhere.

  He looked up at her drunkenly. "Before you go, can you please help me?"

  "I don't think I should get out of the pentagram," she responded dubiously.

  "Oh, no, no, don't get out," he murmured. "Just tell me one thing-do you know the next four lines to Saint James Infirmary?"

  She sighed, exasperated. "Yes, sure I do," she told him.

  "Excellent!" he cried triumphantly. "Now go!" There was blackness.

  Main Line +2000

  Training Ground #4

  1

  "I DARE NOT EVEN ENTER THIS PLANE," MOGART HAD told him as they'd traveled. "Of all the problems, this is the one that I fear the most. It is a training area for adepts in the Probabilities Department-not very large as universes go, and tremendously malleable. Unlike most of the planes, this one has no fixed rules. It is designed to respond to the willpower of the utilizer. Thus, you're going to encounter not an old sot or a nut case but someone fully in good with the powers that be."

  Mac was nervous about that. "Then with the jewel and no weaknesses, I'll be a sitting duck for him," he'd objected.

  "Not at all," the demon had responded. "The jewel is of no consequence here except to get you in or out. Nor did I say that brother Abaddon had no weak­nesses. He has a great many that might well be his undoing in the future, but the one most prominent and the one you can make the most use of is that he is a compulsive gambler. It's only because he is that we are risking this one. And he is honorable, as things go. If you wager with him he will play by the rules and will honor the terms of the wager. Beware, though -he loves loopholes, and he will take advantage of any you leave him."

  Mac Walters had smiled bitterly, thinking of the rules of the fight back in that other, primitive world. "I'll take care on that score. But what am I to expect? What sort of rules apply here?"

  "No rules at all, except what is made by willpower. All that you will see and hear is created in another's mind. You will find that you, too, will be able to do the same thing if you can concentrate and place your requirements in clear terms in your own mind. Don't try a contest of wills, though. Abaddon has the advantage in mental training and experience. First look over the place and test yourself out. There are a lot of leftovers from other training exercises, and more than likely he'll just consider you one of those. Then, when you think you are ready, seek him out-chal­lenge him, appeal to his sporting interests. A contest under clearly defined rules for the jewel. He'll leap at it. The rest, though-winning it, I mean-that's up to you.”

  There had been more, of course. These training levels were used between testing out new jobs and concepts as refresher courses for active experimenters. That was what Abaddon was doing now. It was, in many ways, a sophisticated equivalent of target practice for a marksman. Now Mac entered the plane, not in anyone else's body but as himself, for the train­ing ground was open.

  If there was a hell, he decided, this might be it-the real thing. A gray nothingness spread from horizon to horizon; the ground was featureless as well, with the appearance of dull gray tile but with the feel and consistency of hard-packed dirt. There was no moon, no stars, no sun, although an eerie bright twilight permeated everything. There was no problem seeing where you were going, but there didn't seem anyplace to go.

  Yet, somehow, even the stagnant and heavy air around him seemed to be charged with some sort of energy, some kind of electricity he sensed but could not otherwise identify. There was nothing to see, hear, smell, taste, or touch-yet it was there, all the same, and could be felt by some inner part of his brain.

  The line "and the Earth was without form or void" came unbidden into his mind, and Mac realized that this must be what it had been like. He resisted the temptation to proclaim "Let there be light!" For all the evidence to the contrary, Mogart had told him he was not alone here, and he was almost afraid that if he said something like that, the living energy all around him would obey and give him away.

  He stopped and considered what Mogart had said. The energy would be obedient to him if he learned how to use it. You only had to be specific in your mind as to what you wanted; great computers of some sort, filled with every bit of knowledge necessary to creation, were here, or could be tapped from here. If you wanted a tree you need only have a clear idea of the tree you wanted-the physiology, che
mistry, all the other material necessary to that tree would be provided. You could change that formula, of course, but only if you so directed.

  He considered that. It might do to experiment on some scale before going any further. He held out his hand, looked at it, and said commandingly, "Let there be an apple in my hand!"

  Nothing happened.

  For a moment he was thrown for a loss. Mogart had made the process sound so simple and basic. He thought furiously, trying to see the flaw. He held out his hand again, concentrated all his attention on it, and ordered, "Let there be a large, juicy red McIntosh apple in my hand!"

  Still nothing. He began to worry. Maybe Mogart had been wrong, it wouldn't work for himself or anybody but demons. Maybe there was some magic formula or something.

  He relaxed, began some deep-breathing exercises, tried to clear his mind of everything. He closed his eyes and tried to think only of a big, juicy red apple, nothing else. An apple. An apple in his hand.

  He started to feel some kind of disturbance in the energy flow, touching him, flowing through him and concentrating in his right hand. It trickled down his arm like warm water; the sensation was not un­pleasant, and he did not resist it.

  And then he felt something in his hand. He opened his eyes and looked down. He held an apple exactly like the one he'd visualized. Even though he had not only tried for it but hoped for it, he still was amazed. It felt like an apple, it looked like an apple-and all he'd done was dream it up. He put it to his mouth and bit into it.

  Well, if there was one thing for certain, he wouldn't starve in this plane. The trouble, he decided, was con­centration. You had to be able to visualize the thing you wanted, which certainly limited you to your own experiences and sensations-and also took a little time. Under some sort of pressure doing so might not be possible.

  This concept explained a lot of so-called "magic" and sorcery through the ages, though. Anyone could do it if he were attuned to it. All the magical spells and formulae and paraphernalia associated with magic might be thought of as aids to concentration. It would not be easy to reach beyond the artificially set natural laws of a universe to circumvent them. One might even disrupt things enough to call attention to oneself and notify a repairman, so to speak, to stop you.

  Such a repairman might well be one of Mogart's own race-a demon. Somehow, he felt, he'd stumbled on the basic explanation for the supernatural in his own world and perhaps many others. A subconscious at­tunement, for example, might bring about poltergeist phenomena, anything you wanted. It was a fascinating and potentially useful concept.

  Here, on the testing ground, where no natural laws were imposed, the way was open.

  He spent some time practicing. Getting the knack was neither easy nor automatic. It might become so if he had a lot of time-but, after a while, he got enough of the hang of it to create the things he thought of. Small things, to be sure, but elaborate nonethe­less, in that a fir tree, for example, was something complex, living, and yet there because he willed it. He was not satisfied, but his small successes would have to do. Mogart hadn't indicated the time rate for this place, and he couldn't wait forever in any event. Somewhere in this vast expanse of nothingness was a demon with a jewel he had to have.

  He decided to start walking, but stopped short as he scanned the place from horizon to horizon and saw nothing to aim for. Last time Mogart had led him almost to the exact spot. And then he saw it.

  It wasn't much, just a dull glow on the horizon to his left. For a moment he wasn't positive that his imagination wasn't playing tricks on him. But he had nothing else to aim at, anyway, so he started walking toward the glow. It took him over an hour to close in on it. But the closer he came, the more certain he was that this had to be the place, and he became wary.

  It was a town, that was for sure. It looked a little like something out of an old western movie-a couple or three blocks square with a main street of rutted dirt lined with storefronts and watering troughs and hitching posts. From a large building that had to be the saloon came the sound of a piano and with it the sound of human activity, of people being merry.

  He wished now that he had a gun, some sort of protection. No telling who or what was in the town -perhaps a "leftover" of somebody else's practice session, perhaps even Abaddon himself. He stood still, visualizing a pistol and holster with gunbelt, and felt the energy flow and the proper form take place around his waist. The gun was wrong, though, he decided, too much in the western period suggested by the town. But what kind of pistol did he want? One that was accurate, wouldn't easily run out of ammunition, and would be light and easy to use without kicking like the .45 caliber thing he held. He tried again, retaining the shape if possible but otherwise wishing for the properties of a laser-based pistol he'd seen once in a science-fiction movie. He had no idea if such a thing actually existed, but that made no difference if he could get his idea across.

  The pistol changed. Outwardly it still looked like a .45 circa 1880, but its barrel was solidly plugged with a screenlike seal, and inside he could see some sort of rod. It also felt a lot lighter, almost like a plastic toy.

  He was still a way from the town. He looked over to his right, materialized a wooden stake, then took aim and fired. There was a whine and a beam of ruby-colored light reached out. He missed the stake but managed to use the beam to bring it quickly to bear. The stake shimmered and vanished.

  He released the trigger and looked again at the pistol. Pretty good. He added a small lever on it that allowed him to stun if it were up and disintegrate if it were down, and then holstered the weapon. He was beginning to enjoy this magic stuff. Satisfied, he walked into the town.

  There were torchlights and kerosene lanterns all about; the place was pretty well lit up in the perma­nent twilight. It sounded busy, too-the sounds of an active and living town were all around him. And yet there were no people on the street, no animals-al­though he heard the occasional sound of a horse or dog-nothing. Feeling like a character in an old movie, he headed for the brightly lit saloon from which the sounds of laughter and lots of people milling about emanated. As he approached the swinging double doors, though, he could see nothing but light inside. When he stepped through, all sound stopped, and not because everyone had turned to see a stranger.

  There was no one in the hall. No one at all. Card tables had hands dealt and money lay on the tables; cigarettes and cigars smoldered in ashtrays as if put down just a moment before, and half-touched drinks were lining the bar. A roulette wheel was still turning to his left, and he heard it slow and the ball drop into its slot.

  Now what the hell? he thought anxiously, looking around.

  He walked around the large room looking for someone, anyone. He walked upstairs and checked the rooms-more still-lit smokes and the appearance that people had been there only moments earlier, but not a living thing to be seen.

  He walked back down to the deserted bar, confused. Either a deserted or an active town he could have taken, but one in which there was the semblance of life without the living was unnerving indeed.

  He returned to the street, and ten steps from the saloon door he heard the sounds of furious yet normal activity resume there. He was tempted to go back but decided not to.

  There was a sign saying CAFE across the street, and he went over to it and opened the door. Again there were no people. Yet on the counter were mugs of coffee and other beverages that were still hot, and glasses of cooler stuff still felt cold. Two steaks were sizzling on the open-pit grill; they were not burned to a crisp but cooking rather nicely, as if someone had just flipped them over. Blood and juice still oozed from the fork holes.

  A sudden whistle startled him. He whirled and drew his gun, but saw that the noise came from a tea-pot that had just reached the boiling point.

  Wait a minute, he told himself nervously. Just reached the boiling point?

  He heard some noise coming from a back room, like water being pumped, and rushed to it. It stopped just as he pushed through
the door. There was a well pump there, and it was still dripping with the runoff into a bucket hung on the spout that was now half full. There were no exits from the back room except a small window that obviously hadn't been opened in a long time.

  He walked back into the cafe, shaking his head and trying to get a grip on himself when he stopped short.

  The steaks were on a plate next to the pit now, still sizzling but done. The water was off the flame and no longer boiling.

  Behind him he heard the pump start again.

  He walked quickly out into the street once more. He felt more comfortable there, at least-he could see a greater distance on all sides. He didn't have the feeling that anyone was watching him, just a sense of isolation from human contact. It was as if this town lived all around him but not where he was.

  He saw a little church at the end of the street, away from the other buildings a bit, and he walked toward it. It sounded as if some sort of service were going on, except that instead of hymns, the sound of the choir reminded him of a Gregorian chant.

  Or witchcraft ritual, perhaps?

  He reached the church, which, he noticed, had no cross on it. As he expected, when he opened the massive doors there was no chanting, no people inside at all.

  He turned, pistol still in hand, and walked around to the side of the building. The service, naturally, started up again and sounded very, very real, if a bit eerie.

  To one side was a small graveyard. He approached it and tried to make out the inscriptions on the crude wooden slabs. Again no sign of crosses or of Stars of David or of any other known religion adorned them.

  He cursed under his breath. Naturally the inscrip­tions were in a language he couldn't read, even an alphabet that looked very odd indeed.

  He sighed and was about to return to town when he thought he heard movement off to his left, further inside the cemetery. That perked his interest and put him more on guard. For the first time he had the sensation of something living, something physically present, lurking there somewhere between the tombstones, watching him.