by J F Bone
“Yes. Ideal gravity, adequate oxygen, but too cold.”
“And with no intelligent life,” Ven added. “That’s an advantage—and we can beat the cold. It wouldn’t be too hard to build domes. We have plenty of power metal, and a matricizer. We could hatch our clutch there. With the mammals to help us, we should be able to make a comfortable enough life for the forty years it’ll take to bring our offspring to maturity. We should be able to do this easily, and still get home before we’re strangers.”
“Hmm,” I said. “It’s possible. And we can use this world for a supply base. But would you care to live on that cold barren planet?”
“There are worse places,” she said matter-of-factly. “And we’d be close to everything we’d need.”
It did have possibilities. And the mammals could be adapted. They were a more advanced evolutionary form than we, but lower on the adaptive scale—nonspecialized—more so than any other intelligent race I had encountered.
Ven said, “We would actually be doing their race a favor, if the computation of this world’s future is correct. Some of them would still survive if this planet commits suicide. And if the prediction is wrong, we would have done no harm. If they reach space, they’ll merely find that they’ve already arrived when they reach the fourth planet.”
“Which might be something of a surprise to their explorers,” I said with a chuckle. “All right. We’ll play it your way.”
I was pretty sure how Donald would take this. He was going to be furious, but after all one doesn’t make a pet of a wolf and then turn it loose. It’s too hard on the livestock. But I didn’t think he’d be too unhappy. He’d be the principal human on Mars; and after we left he’d be ruler of a world. And in the meantime he could be a domestic tyrant.
It was fortunate, I thought with a smile, that mammals were essentially polygamous. Donald would make some nasty comments about being a herd sire—but I didn’t think his comments would be too sincere. After all, it’s not every man that has a chance to become a founding father.
I was still smiling as I turned the dials on the controller and flipped the switch. Founding father—the title was as much mine as his!
1963
FOR SERVICE RENDERED
Are you dissatisfied with the programs that come through your television set? Don’t complain too much. Look what came through Miss Twilley’s!
TELEVISION made Miss Enid Twilley’s life endurable by providing the romance which life had withheld. So when the picture tube in her old-fashioned set blew out, it was a major crisis. But Ed Jacklin’s phone didn’t ring. The spare twenty eight inch tube in Jacklin’s T.V. shop remained undisturbed on the shelf. And the drawn shades of Miss Twilley’s living room gave no hint of what was happening behind them. The town of Ellenburg went its suburban way unaware of the crisis in its residential district.
Which was probably just as well.
Frozen with terror, Miss Twilley sat in spastic rigidity, her horrified eyes riveted on the thing in front of her. One moment she had been suffering emphatic pangs of unrequited love with a bosomy T.V. blonde, the next she was staring into a rectangular hole of Cimmerian blackness that writhed, twisted and disgorged a shape that made her tongue cleave to the roof of her mouth and her throat constrict against the scream that fought for release.
It wasn’t a large shape but it was enormously impressive despite the lime green shorts and cloak that partially covered it. It was obviously reptilian. The red skin with its faint reticulated pattern of ancestral scales, the horns, the lidless eyes, the tapering flexible tail, the sinuous grace and Mephistophelean face were enough to identify it beyond doubt.
Her television set had disgorged the devil!
Silence draped the room in smothering folds as Miss Twilley’s frozen eyeballs were caught and held for a moment by the devil’s limpid green eyes whose depths swirled for an instant with uncontrolled surprise. The devil looked around the room, at the closed drapes, the dim lights, the shabby furniture and the plate of cookies and the teapot on the tray beside Miss Twilley’s chair. He shook his head.
“No pentacle, no candles or incense, no altar, no sacrifice. Not even a crystal ball,” he murmured in an impeccable Savile Row accent. “My dear young woman—just how in Eblis’ name did you do it? There isn’t a single sixth order focus in this room.”
“Do what?” Miss Twilley managed to croak.
“Construct a gateway,” the devil said impatiently. “A bridge between your world and mine.”
“I didn’t,” Miss Twilley said. “You came crawling out of the picture tube of my T.V. set—or what was the picture tube,” she amended as her eyes strayed to the rectangle of darkness.
The devil turned and eyed the T.V. curiously, giving Miss Twilley an excellent view of his tail which protruded through a slit in his cloak. She eyed it with apprehension and distaste.
“Ah—I see,” the devil murmured, “a third order electronic communicator transformed to a sixth order generator by an accidental short circuit. Most interesting. The statistical chances of this happening are about 1.75 to the 25th power, give or take a couple of hundred thousand. You are an extremely fortunate human.”
“That’s not what I would call it,” Miss Twilley said.
THE devil smiled, an act that made him look oddly like Krishna Menon. “You are disturbed,” he said, “but you really needn’t keep projecting such raw fear. I have no intention of harming you. Quite the contrary in fact.”
Miss Twilley wasn’t reassured. Devils with British accents were probably untrustworthy. “Why don’t you go back to hell where you came from?” she asked pettishly.
“I wish,” the devil said with a shade of annoyance in his beautifully modulated voice, “that you would stop using those terminal “l’s”, I’m a Devi, not a devil—and my homeworld is Hel, not hell. One “1”, not two. I’m a species, not a spirit.”
“It makes no difference,” Miss Twilley said. “Either way you’re disconcerting, particularly when you come slithering out of my T.V. set”.
“It might give your television industry a bad name,” the Devi agreed. “But there are many of your race who claim the device is an invention of mine.”
“I don’t enjoy being frightened,” Miss Twilley said coldly.
She was rapidly recovering her normal self-possession. “And I would have felt much better if you had stayed where you belonged and minded your own business,” she finished.
“But my dear young lady,” the Devi protested. “I never dreamed that I would frighten you, and besides you are my business.” He smiled gently at the suddenly refrozen Miss Twilley.
I must be dreaming, Miss Twilley thought wildly. This has to be a nightmare. After all, this is the Twentieth Century and there are no such things as devils.
“Of course there aren’t,” the Devi said.
“I only hope I wake up before I go stark raving mad!” Miss Twilley murmured. “Now he’s answering before I say anything.”
“You’re not asleep,” he said unreassuringly. “I merely read your mind.” He grimaced distastefully. “And what a mass of fears, inhibitions, repressions, conventions and attitudes it is! Ugh! It’s a good thing for your race that minds like yours are not in the majority. It would be disastrous. Or do you realize you’re teetering on the verge of paranoia. You are badly in need of adjustment.”
“I’m not! You’re lying! You’re the Father of Lies,” she snapped.
“And liars (he made it sound like “lawyers”) so I’m told. Nevertheless I’m telling you the truth. I don’t care to be confused with some anthropomorphic figment of your superstitious imagination. I’m as real as you are. I have a name—Lyf—just as yours is Enid Twilley. I’m the mardak of Gnoth, an important entity in my enclave. And I have no intention of seizing you and carrying you off to Hel. The Council would take an extremely dim view of such an action. Passing a human permanently across the hyper-spatial gap that separates our worlds is a crime—unless consent in writi
ng is obtained prior to such passage.”
“I’ll bet!”
“Are you calling me a liar?” Lyf asked softly.
“That’s the general idea.”
“There’s a limit to human insolence,” Lyf said icily. “No wonder some of my colleagues occasionally incinerate members of your race.”
Miss Twilley choked back the crudity that fluttered on her lips.
“That’s better,” Lyf said approvingly. “You really should practice self control. It’s good for you. And you shouldn’t make assumptions based upon incomplete data. Your books that deal with my race are notoriously onesided. I came through that gateway because you needed my help. And yet you’d chase me off without really knowing whether you want my services or not.”
“I don’t want any part of you,” Miss Twilley said sincerely. “I don’t need a thing you can give me. I’m healthy, fairly well off and—she was about to say “happy” but changed it quickly to “satisfied with things as they are.” It wasn’t quite a lie.
LYF looked at her critically.
“Permit me to disagree,” he said smoothly. “But you are wrong on every count. You are neither satisfied, wealthy nor happy. Frankly, Miss Twilley, you could use a great deal of help. In fact, you need it desperately.”
“I am thirty eight years old,” Miss Twilley said. “That’s old enough to recognize a high pressure sales pitch. And you needn’t be so insulting about my appearance. After all, I don’t have my makeup on.”
Lyf flinched. “I almost hate to do this,” he murmured. “But you have doubted my honesty. Perhaps it is compensation to hide a feeling of inferiority. Primitive egos are notorious for such acts. But the truth is probably less harmful than permitting you to lie to yourself.”
Miss Twilley jumped angrily to her feet. “How dare you call me a liar!” she snapped. She towered over the Devi, her tall bony body a knobby statue of wrath.
Lyf’s eyes locked with hers. “Sit down,” he said coldly.
And to her surprised consternation, she did. A physical force seemed to flow from him and force her back into the chair. She sat rigidly, seething with a mixture of fear and indignation as Lyf picked up his discourse where he had dropped it.
“You are not satisfied,” he said quietly “because you are undernourished, ungainly, and ugly. You would like to be attractive. You wish to be admired. You long to be loved. Yet you are not.”
“That’s enough!” Miss Twilley snapped. “Neither man nor Devi has the right to insult me in my own house.”
“I am not insulting you,” Lyf said patiently. “I am telling you the truth. Now as for this business of being well-off, which I infer, means moderately wealthy—you are not. There was a small inheritance from your father, but through mismanagement and inept investments it is today lees than fifteen thousand dollars, although it was fifty thousand when you received it a few years ago.”
“You are the devil!” she gasped.
“I told you I could read your mind. I’m a telepath.”
“I don’t believe you. You found out somehow.”
“You’re not thinking,” he said. “How could I? Now, as for your health, you will be dead in six months without my help. You have adenocarcinoma of the pancreas which has already begun to metastasize. You cannot possibly survive with the present state of medicine your race possesses. Of course, your doctors do have ingenious ways of alleviating the pain,” he added comfortingly, “like chordotomy and neurectomy”.
Miss Twilley didn’t recognize the last two words, but they sounded unpleasant. She had been worried about her health, but to hear this quiet-voiced death sentence paralyzed her with a cold crawling terror. “It’s not true!” she gasped. Yet she knew it was.
“I could make a fortune as a diagnostician for your sham—your doctors,” Lyf said. “It’s as true as the fact that I’m a Devi from Hel. Actually, my dear Miss Twilley, I had no intention of coming here even though your gateway appeared in my library. But I was intrigued enough to scan through it. And when I saw you at the other end, frightened, diseased, and friendless, I could not help feeling pity for you. You needed my help badly.” He sighed “Empathy is a Devi’s weak point. Naturally I couldn’t refuse your appeal.” He shrugged. “At least I have offered to help, and my conscience is clear if you refuse.” He wrapped his cloak around him with a movement of his lithe body that was symbolic. The case had been stated. His part was done.
I HAVE nothing more to say,” Lyf added. “If you do not wish me to stay I shall leave.” He turned toward the T.V. set. “After I have vanished,” he said over his shoulder “you may turn the set off. The gateway will disappear.” He shrugged. “Next time I’ll look for a sabbat or some other normal focal point before I enter a gateway. This has been thoroughly unsatisfying.”
“Wait!” Miss Twilley gasped. He paused. “Have you changed your mind?”
“Maybe.”
“For a human female, that’s quite a concession,” he said, “but I’m a Devi. I need a more devinate-er-definite answer.”
“Would you give me twenty four hours?” Miss Twilley said.
“So you can check my diagnosis?”
She nodded.
Lyf shrugged. “Why not. If your T.V. holds out that long, I’ll give you that much time. Longer if necessary. You can’t really be blamed for being a product of your culture—and your culture has rejected the Snake. It would be easier if you were a Taoist or a Yezidee.
“But I’m not,” Miss Twilley said miserably. “And I can’t help thinking of you as the Enemy.”
“We Devi get blamed for a lot of things,” Lyf admitted, “and taken collectively there’s some truth in them. We gave you basic knowledge of a number of things such as medicine, writing, law, and the scientific method. But we can’t be blamed for the uses to which you have put them.”
“Are you sure I have cancer?” she interrupted.
“Of the pancreas,” he said.
“And you can cure it?”
“Easily. Anyone with a knowledge of fifth order techniques can manipulate cellular structures. There’s very little I can’t do, and with proper equipment about the only thing that can’t be defeated is death. You’ve heard, I suppose, of tumors that have disappeared spontaneously.” Miss Twilley nodded.
“Most of them are Devian work. Desperate humans sometimes use good sense, find a medium and generate a sixth order focus. And occasionally one of us will hear and come.”
“And the others?”
“I don’t know,” Lyf said. “I could guess that some of you can crudely manipulate fifth order forces, but that would only be a guess.” He spread his hands in a gesture of incomprehension incongruously Gallic. “I don’t know why I’m taking all this trouble with you, but I will make a concession to your conditioning. See your doctors. And then, if you want my help, call through the gateway. I’ll probably hear you, but if I don’t, keep calling.”
The darkness where the picture tube had been writhed and swirled as he dove into it and vanished.
“Whew!” Miss Twilley said shakily. “That was an experience!”
She walked unsteadily toward the T.V. set. “I’d better turn this off just in case he gets an idea of coming back. Trust a devil! Hardly!” Her hand touched the switch and hesitated. “But perhaps he was telling the truth,” she murmured doubtfully. “Maybe I’d better leave it on.” She smiled wryly. “Anyway—it’s insurance.”
* * *
“MISS TWILLEY,” the doctor said slowly “can you take a shock?”
“I’ve done it before. What’s the matter? Don’t tell me that I have an adenocarcinoma of the pancreas that’ll kill me in six months.”
The doctor eyed her with startled surprise. “We haven’t pinpointed the primary site, but the tests are positive. You do have an adenocarcinoma, and it has involved so many organs that we cannot operate. You have about six months left to live.”
“My God!” Miss Twilley gasped. “He was telling the truth!”
* * *
Panting with fear, Enid Twilley unlocked the door of her house and dashed into the living room. Thank G—thank goodness! she thought with relief. The set was still working. The black tunnel was still there.
“Help!” she screamed. “Lyf! Please! come back!”
The blackness writhed and the Devi appeared. He was wearing an orange and purple striped outfit this time. Miss Twilley shuddered.
“Well?” Lyf asked.
“You were right,” she said faintly. “The doctor says it’s cancer. Will you cure me?”
“For a price,” Lyf said.
“But you said—”
“I said nothing except that I felt sorry for you and that I could cure you. Even your own doctors charge a fee.”
“There had to be a catch in it,” Miss Twilley said bitterly.
“It will be a fair price. It won’t be excessive.”
“My soul?” Miss Twilley whispered.
“Your soul? Ha! Just what would I do with your soul? It would be no use to me—assuming that you have one. No—I don’t want your soul.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Your body.”
“So that’s it!” Miss Twilley blushed a bright scarlet.
“Hmm’-with that color you’re not bad looking.” Lyf said.
“Would you want my body right away?”
“Of course not. That wouldn’t be a fair contract. You should have use of it for a reasonable time on your homeworld. Say about ten years. After that it becomes mine.”
“How long?”
“For the rest of your life.”
“That doesn’t seem quite fair. I’m thirty eight now. Ten years from now I’ll be forty eight. I’ll live perhaps to eighty. That gives you over thirty years.”
