"Ego . . ." mused the voice. "That is something which, alas, none of us can understand. Nowhere in all the knowable cosmos is it to be found but on your planet, Mr. Braugh. It is a frightening thing and convinces me at times that yours is the race that will—" the voice broke off abruptly.
"That will. . . ?" Braugh prompted.
"Come," said the Thing briskly, "there is less owing you than the others, and I shall give you the benefit of my experience. Let me help you select a reality."
Braugh pounced on the word. "Less?"
And again he was brushed aside. "Will you choose another reality in your own cosmos, or are you content with what you already have? I can offer you vast worlds, tiny worlds; great creatures that shake space and fill the voids with their thunder; tiny creatures of charm and perfection that barely touch perception with the sensitive timbre of their thoughts. Do you care for terror? I can give you a reality of shudders. Beauty? I can show you realities of infinite ecstasy. Pain? Torture? Any sensation. Name one, several, all. I will shape you a reality to outdo even the giant concepts that are assuredly yours."
"No," Braugh answered at length. "The senses are only senses at best—and in time they tire of everything. You cannot satisfy the imagination with whipped cream in new forms and flavors."
"Then I can send you to worlds of extra dimensions that will stun your imagination. There is a system I know that will entertain you forever with its incongruity—where, if you sorrow you scratch your ear, or its equivalent, where, if you love you eat a squash, where, if you die you burst out laughing . . . There is a dimension I have seen where one can assuredly perform the impossible; where wits daily compete in the composition of animate paradox, and where the mere feat of turning oneself mentally inside out is called 'chrythna,' which is to say, 'corny' in the American jargon.
"Do you want to probe the emotions in classical order? I can take you to a world of n-dimensions where, one by one, you may exhaust the intricate nuances of the twenty-seven primary emotions—always taking notes, of course—and thence go on to combinations and permutations to the amount of twenty-seven raised to the power of twenty-seven. Mathematicians would say: 27 x 1027. Come, which will you enjoy?
"None," Braugh said impatiently. "It's obvious, my friend, that you do not understand the ego of man. The ego is not a childish thing to be entertained with toys, and yet it is a childish thing in that it yearns for the unattainable."
"Yours seems to be an animal thing in that it does not laugh, Mr. Braugh. It has been said that man is the only laughing animal on earth. Take away the humor and only the animal is left. You have no sense of humor, Mr. Braugh."
"The ego," Braugh continued intently, "desires only what it cannot hope to attain. Once a thing can be possessed, it is no longer desired. Can you grant me a reality in which I may possess some thing which I desire because I cannot possibly attain it, and by that same possession not break the qualifications of my desire? Can you do this?"
"I'm afraid," the voice answered with slight amusement, "that your imagination reasons too deviously for me."
"Ah," Braugh muttered, half to himself. "I was afraid of that. Why does creation seem to be run by second-rate individuals not half so clever as myself? Why this mediocrity?"
"You seek to attain the unattainable," the voice argued in reasonable tones, "and by that act not to attain it. The contradiction is within yourself. Would you be changed?"
"No . . . not not changed." Braugh shook his head. He stood deep in thought, then sighed and tamped out his cigarette. "There's only one solution for my problem."
"And that is?"
"Erasure—If you cannot satisfy a desire, you must explain it away. If a man cannot find love, he writes a psychological treatise on passion. I shall do much the same thing . . ."
He shrugged and moved toward the veil. There was a chuckle behind him and the voice asked, "Where does that ego of yours take you, O man?"
"To the truth of things," Braugh called. "If I can't slake my yearning, at least I shall find out why I yearn."
"You'll find the truth only in hell or limbo, Mr. Braugh."
"How so?"
"Because truth is always hell."
"And hell is truth, no doubt. Nevertheless I'm going there—to hell or limbo, or wherever truth is to be found."
"May you find the answers pleasant, O man."
"Thank you."
"And may you learn to laugh."
But Braugh no longer heard, for he had passed the veil.
He found himself standing before a high desk—a judge's bench, almost as high as the top of his head. Around him was nothing else. A sulfurous fog filled wherever he was, concealing everything but this awesome bench. Braugh tilted his head back and peered up. Staring down at him from the other side was a tiny face, ancient as sin, whiskered and cockeyed. It was on a shriveled little head that was covered with a pointed hat. Like a sorcerer's cap.
Or a dunce cap, Braugh thought.
Dimly, behind the head, he made out towering shelves of books and files labeled: A-AB, AC-AD, and so on. Some were curiously labeled: #-, &-1/4, *-c. Incomprehensible. There was also a gleaming black pot of ink and a rack of quill pens. An enormous hourglass completed the picture. Inside the hourglass a spider had spun a web and was crawling shakily along the strands.
The little man croaked: "A-mazing! AS-tounding! IN-credible!"
Braugh was annoyed.
The little man hunched forward like Quasimodo and got his clown face as close as possible to Braugh's. He reached down a knobby finger and poked Braugh gingerly. He was astonished. He threw himself back and bawled: "THAMMuz! DA-gon! RIMM-on!"
There was an invisible bustle and three more little men bounced up behind the bench and gaped at Braugh. The inspection went on for minutes. Braugh was irritated.
"All right," he said. "That's enough. Say something. Do something."
"It speaks!" they shouted incredulously. "It's alive!" They pressed noses together and gabbled swiftly: "Mostamazing-thingDagonhespeaksRimmoncoulditbealiveandhumanBelial-therehastobesomereasonforitThammuzifyouthinksobutIcan't-say."
Then it stopped.
Further inspection.
One said, "Find out how it got here."
"Not at all. Find out what it is. Animal? Vegetable? Mineral?"
A third said, "Find out where it's from."
"Have to be cautious with aliens, you know."
"Why? We're absolutely invulnerable."
"You think so? What about the Angle Azrael's visit?"
"You mean ang—"
"Don't say it! Don't say it!"
A fierce argument broke out while Braugh tapped his toe impatiently. Apparently they came to a decision. The No. 1 warlock aimed an accusing finger at Braugh and said, "What are you doing here?"
"The point is, where am I?" Braugh snapped.
The little man turned to brothers Thammuz, Dagon, and Rimmon. "It wants to know where it is," he smirked.
"Then tell it, Belial."
"Get on, Belial. Can't take forever."
"You!" Belial turned on Braugh. "This is Central Administration, Universal Control Center; Belial, Rimmon, Dagon, and Thammuz, acting for His Supremity."
"That would be Satan?"
"Don't be familiar."
"I came here to see Satan."
"It wants to see the Lord Lucifer!" They were appalled. Then Dagon jabbed the others with his sharp little elbows and placed a finger alongside his nose with a shrewd look.
"Spy," he said. To elaborate, he gestured significantly upward.
"Don't say it, Dagon! Don't say it!"
"Been known to happen," Belial said, flipping the pages of a giant ledger. "It certainly don't belong here. No deliveries scheduled for—" He turned over the hourglass, infuriating the spider, "—for six hours. It's not dead because it don't stink. It's not alive because only the dead are called. Question still is: What is it and what do we do with it?"
Thammuz said, "Divination. Abso
lutely infallible."
"Right you are, Thammuz."
Belial eyed Braugh. "Name?"
"Christian Braugh."
"He said it! We didn't."
"Let's try Onomancy," Dagon said. "C, third letter. H, eighth letter, R, eighteenth letter, and so on. It's all right, Belial; spelling isn't the same as saying. Take total sum. Double it and add ten. Divide by two and a half, then subtract original total."
They counted, added, divided and subtracted. Quills scratched on parchment; a buzzing noise sounded. At last Belial held up his scrap and scrutinized it dubiously. They all scrutinized theirs. As one man, they shrugged and tore the ciphering up.
"I can't understand it," Rimmon complained. "We always get five."
"Never mind." Belial fixed Braugh with a stern look. "You! When born?"
"December eighteenth, nineteen hundred and thirteen."
"Time?"
"Twelve-fifteen A.M."
"Star charts!" Thammuz shouted. "Genethliacs never fail!"
Clouds of dust choked Braugh as they ransacked the shelves behind them and pulled out huge parchment sheets that unrolled like window shades. This time it took them fifteen minutes to produce their results which they again examined carefully and again tore up.
Rimmon said, "It is odd."
Dagon said, "Why do they always turn out to be born under the Sign of Porpoise?"
"Maybe it is a porpoise. That would explain everything."
"We'd better take it into the laboratory for a check. Himself will be plenty peeved if we muff this one."
They leaned over the bench and beckoned. Braugh snorted and obeyed. He walked around the side of the bench and found himself before a small door framed in books. The four little Central Administrators bounced down from the desk and crowded him through. He had to double over; they just about came up to his waist.
Braugh entered the infernal laboratory. It was a circular room with a low ceiling, tile floor and walls, cupboards, and shelves, crammed with dusty glassware, alchemist's gadgets, books, bones and bottles, none labeled. In the center was a large, flat millstone. The axle hole had a charred look, but there wasn't any chimney above it.
Belial rooted in a comer, tossed umbrellas and branding irons, and came out with an armful of dry sticks. "Altar fire," he said and tripped. The sticks went flying. Braugh solemnly bent to pick up the pieces of wood.
"Sortilege!" Rimmon squawked. He yanked a glittering lizard out of a box and began scribbling on its back with a piece of charcoal, noting the order in which Braugh picked up the altar fire makings.
"Which way is east?" Rimmon asked, crawling after the lizard which seemed bent on business of its own. Thammuz pointed down. Rimmon nodded curt thanks and began an involved computation on the lizard's back. Gradually his hand moved more slowly. By the time Braugh had heaped the wood on the altar, Rimmon was holding the lizard by the tail, wondering at his notations. At last he gave up and shoved the lizard under the wood. It caught fire instantly.
"Salamander," Rimmon said. "Not bad, eh?"
Dagon was inspired. "Pyromancy!" He ran to the flames, poked his nose within an inch of the fire and chanted.
"Aleph, beth, gimel, daleth, he, vau, zayin, cheth. . ." Belial fidgeted uneasily and muttered to Thammuz, "Last time he tried that, he fell asleep."
"It's the Hebrew," Thammuz said as though he were explaining.
The chant faded and Dagon, eyes blissfully shut, slid forward into the crackling flames.
"Did it again," Belial snapped.
They dragged Dagon out of the fire and slapped his face until his whiskers stopped burning. Thammuz sniffed the stench of burning hair, then pointed to the smoke drifting overhead. "Capnomancy!" he said. "It can't fail. We'll find out what this thing is yet."
All four joined hands and skipped around the smoke cloud, puffing at it with pursed lips. Eventually the smoke disappeared. Thammuz looked sour. "It failed."
"Only because it didn't join in."
They glared angrily at Braugh. "You it! Deceitful it!"
"Not at all," Braugh said. "I'm not hiding anything. Of course I don't believe a particle of what's happening here, but that doesn't matter. I have all the time in the world."
"Doesn't matter? What d'you mean, you don't believe?"
"Why, you can't make me believe that you clowns have to do with truth—much less His Majesty, Father Satan."
"Why, you ass, we're Satan."
Then they lowered their voices and added for unseen ears, "So to speak. No offense. Merely referring to power of attorney." Their indignation revived. "But we have the power to ferret you out, it. We'll track you down. We'll tear the veil, break the seal, remove the mask, make all known with Sideromancy. Bring on the iron!"
Dagon trundled out a little wheelbarrow filled with lumps of iron, all roughly shaped like fish. To Braugh he said: "This divination never fails. Pick a carp . . . any carp." Braugh selected an iron fish at random and Dagon snatched it from him irritably and plunked it into a tiny crucible. He set on the fire and Thammuz pumped a hand-bellows until the iron was white-hot. "It can't fail," he puffed. "Sideromancy never fails." The four waited and waited; Braugh didn't know for what. At last they sighed.
"It failed," Braugh said.
"Let's try Molybdomancy," Belial suggested.
They nodded and dropped the iron into a pot of solid lead. It hissed and fumed as though it had been dropped into water. Presently the lead melted. Belial tipped the pot over and the silvery liquid crept across the floor. Braugh got his feet out of the way. Belial sounded his "A": "Me-me-me-me-me-me Meeeeeeeee!" but before he could begin the incantation there was a pistol-shot crack. One of the floor tiles had shattered. The molten lead disappeared with a sizzling, and the next instant a fountain of water spurted up through the hole.
Belial said: "Busted the pipes again."
"Pegomancy!" Dagon cried eagerly. He approached the fountain with a reverent look, knelt, before it and began to drone: "Alif, ba', ta', tha',jim, ha', kha', dal..." In thirty seconds his eyes closed rapturously and he fell forward into the water.
"It's the Arabic," Tbammuz said. "Got to get him dry or he'll catch his death."
Thammuz and Belial took Dagon by the arms and dragged him to the altar fire. They circled the bright blaze several times and were about to stop when Dagon choked: "Keep me moving. Gyromancy."
"But you've run out of alphabets," Thammuz said.
"No. There's still Greek. Make circles. Alpha, beta, gamma, delta, oi!"
"No, epsilon next," Thammuz said. Then, "Oi!"
Braugh turned to see what they were staring and oiing at.
A girl had just entered the laboratory. She was short, redheaded and delightfully the right side of plump. Her coppery hair was drawn back in a Greek knot. She wore an expression of exasperation and fury, and nothing else. Braugh muttered: "Oi!"
"So!" she rapped. "At it again. How many times—" she broke off, ran to a wall, seized a prodigious glass retort, and hurled it straight and true. When the pieces stopped clattering, she said, "How many times have I told you to stop this nonsense or I'd report you!"
Belial tried to stanch his bleeding cuts and attempted an innocent smile. "Why, Astarte, you wouldn't tell Himself, would you?"
"I will not have you smashing my ceiling and dripping things down on my office. First molten lead; then water; four weeks' work ruined. My Sheraton desk ruined." She twisted her torso and exhibited a red scar that ran down from a shoulder. "Twelve inches of skin ruined!"
"We'll pay for the replacement, Astarte."
"And who'll pay for the pain?"
"Tannic acid is best," Braugh said seriously. "You brew extra strong tea and make a poultice. Numbs the pain."
The red head turned, and Astarte lanced Braugh with level green eyes. "Who's this?"
"We don't know," Belial stammered. "It just walked up to my desk and—That's why we were—It might be a porpoise. . . ."
Braugh stepped forward and took th
e girl's hand. "I'm a human. Alive. Sent here by one of your colleagues; name unknown. My name is Braugh. Christian Braugh."
Her hand was cool and firm. "It might have been—No matter. The name is Astarte. I, too, am a Christian."
Central Administration clapped palms over ears to block the dirty words.
"Satan's crew Christians?" Braugh was surprised.
"Some of us. Why not? We all were before The Fall."
There was no answer to that. He said, "Is there some place where we can get away from these maladroits?"
"There's always my office."
"I like offices."
He also liked Astarte; much more than liked. She led him into her office on the floor below, very large, most impressive, swept a pile of paperwork off a chair and invited him to sit down. She sprawled before the ruin of her desk and, after one malevolent glance at the ceiling, asked for his story. She listened.
"Unusual," she said. "You're looking for Satan, Lord of the Counterworld. Well, this is the only hell there is, and Himself is the only Satan there is. You're in the right place."
Braugh was perplexed. "Hell? Dante's Inferno? Fire, brimstone and so forth?"
She shook her head. "Just another poet using his imagination. The real torments are Freudian. You can discuss it with Alighieri when you meet him." She smiled at Braugh's solemn expression. "All this brings us to something vital. Sure you're not dead? Sometimes they forget."
Braugh nodded.
"Hmmm . . ." She made an interested survey. "You'll bear looking into. I've never had anything to do with the live ones. Sure you're alive?"
"Quite sure."
"And what's your business with Father Satan?"
"The truth," Braugh said. "I wanted to learn the truth about all, and I was sent here by that nameless Thing. Why Father Satan should be the official purveyor of the truth rather than—" He hesitated.
"You can say it, Christian."
"Rather than God in Heaven, I don't know. But to me the truth is worth any price to put to rest this damned yearning that tortures me. So I should like very much to have an interview."
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