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Chapter 26
I am a brother to dragons, and a companion to owls.
Job 30:29
I STARTED up the steps leading to the throne. Again, the lifts were too high, the treads too wide, and
now I had no one to steady me. I was reduced to crawling up those confounded steps while Satan
looked down at me with a sardonic smile. From all around came music from an unseen source, death
music, vaguely Wagnerian but nothing I could identify. I think it was laced with that below-sonic
frequency that makes dogs howl, horses run away, and causes men to think of flight or suicide.
That staircase kept stretching.
I didn't count the number of steps when I started up, but the flight looked to be about thirty steps, no
more. When I had been crawling up it for several minutes, I realized that it looked as high as ever. The
Prince of Lies!
So I stopped and waited.
Presently that rumbling voice said, 'Something wrong,' Saint Alexander?'
'Nothing wrong,' I answered, 'because You planned it this way. If You really want me to approach You,
You will turn off the joke circuit. In the meantime there is no point in my trying to climb a treadmill.'
'You think I am doing that to you?'
'I know that You are. A game. Cat and mouse.'
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'You are trying to make a fool of Me, in front of My gentlemen.'
'No, Your Majesty, I cannot make a fool of You. Only You can do that.'
`Ah so. Do you realize that I can blast you where you stand?'
'Your Majesty, I have been totally in Your power since I entered Your realm. What do You wish of
me? Shall I continue trying to climb Your treadmill?'
'Yes.'
'So I did, and the staircase stopped stretching and the treads reduced to a comfortable seven inches. In
seconds I reached the same level as Satan - the level of His cloven feet, that is. Which put me much too
close to Him. Not only was His Presence terrifying - I had to keep a close grip on myself - but also He
stank! Of filthy garbage cans, of rotting meat, of civet and skunk, of brimstone, of closed rooms and gas
from diseased gut - all that and worse. I said to myself, Alex Hergensheimer, if you let Him prod you into
throwing up and thereby kill any chance of getting you and Marga back together - just don't do it!
Control yourself!
'The stool is for you,' said Satan. 'Be seated.'
Near the throne was a backless stool, low enough to destroy the dignity of anyone who sat on it. I sat.
Satan picked up a manuscript with a hand so big that the business-size sheets were like a deck of cards
in His hand. 'I've read it. Not bad. A bit wordy but My editors will cut it - better that way than too brief.
We will need an ending for it... from you or by a ghost. Probably the latter; it needs more impact than
you give it. Tell me, have you ever thought of writing for a living? Rather than preaching?'
'I don't think I have the talent.'
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'Talent shmalent. You should see the stuff that gets published. But you must hike up those sex scenes;
today's cash customers demand such scenes wet. Never mind that now; I didn't call you here to discuss
your literary style and its shortcomings. I called you in to
make you an offer.'
I waited. So did He. After a bit He said, 'Aren't curious about the offer?'
'Your Majesty, certainly I am. But, if my race has learned one lesson, concerning You, it is that a human
should be extremely cautious in bargaining with You.´
He I chuckled and the foundations shook. 'Poor 'little human, did you really think that I wanted to your
scrawny soul?'
'I don't know what You want. But I'm not as smart as Dr Faust, and not nearly as smart as Daniel
Webster. It behooves me to be cautious.'
'Oh, come! I don't want your soul. There's no for souls today; there are far too many of them and
quality, is way down. I can pick them up at a nickel a bunch, like radishes. But I don't; I'm overstocked.
No, Saint Alexander, I wish to retain your services. Your professional services.'
(I was suddenly alarmed. What's the catch? Alex, this is loaded! Look behind you! What's He after?)
'You need a dishwasher?'
He chuckled again, about 4.2 on the Richter scale. 'No, no, Saint Alexander! Your vocation - not the
exigency to which you were temporarily reduced. I want to hire you as a gospel-shouter, a
Bible-thumper. I want you to work the Jesus business, just as you were trained to. You won't have to
raise money or pass the collection plate; the salary will be ample and the duties light. What do you say?'
'I say You are trying to trick me.'
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'Now that's not very kind. No tricks, Saint Alexander. You will be free to preach exactly as you please,
no restrictions. Your title will be personal chaplain to Me', and Primate of Hell. You can devote the rest
of your time as little or as much as you wish - to saving lost souls... and there are plenty of those here.
Salary to be negotiated but not less than the incumbent, Pope Alexander the Sixth, a notoriously greedy
soul. You*won't be pinched, I promise you. Well? How say you?'
`(Who's crazy? The Devil, or me? Or am I having another of those nightmares that have been dogging
me lately?) 'Your Majesty, You have not mentioned anything I want.´
'Ah so? Everybody needs money. You're broke; you can´t stay in that fancy suite another day without
finding a job.´ He tapped the manuscript. 'This may bring in something, some day. Not soon. I'm not
going to advance you anything on it; it might not sell. There, are too many
I-Was-a-Prisoner-of-the-Evil-King extravaganzas on the market already these days.'
'Your Majesty, You have read my memoir; You know what I want.'
'Eh? Name it.'
'You know. My beloved. Margrethe Svensdatter Gunderson.'
He looked surprised. 'Didn't I send you a memo about that? She's not in Hell.'
I felt like a patient who has kept his chin up right up to the minute the biopsy comes back... and then
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