Astarte rapped polished nails on the desk and smiled. "This," she said, "is going to be delicious." She arose, opened the office door and pointed down the sulfur-fogged corridor. "Straight ahead," she told Braugh. "Then take the first left. Keep on and you can't miss."
"I'll see you again?" he asked as he set off.
"You'll see me again," Astarte laughed.
This, Braugh thought as he inched through the yellow mist, is all too ridiculous. You pass a veil seeking the Citadel of Truth. You are entertained by four absurd sorcerers and by a redheaded divinity. Then off you go down a foggy corridor, turn left and straight ahead for an interview with the Knower of All Things.
And what of my yearning for the unattainable? What of the truths that will explain it all away? Is there no solemnity, no dignity, no authority one can respect? Why all this low comedy; this saturnalian slapstick that pervades Hell?
He turned the corner to the left and kept on. The short hall ended in a pair of green baize doors. Almost timidly, Braugh pushed them open and to his great relief found himself merely stepping onto a stone bridge—rather like the Bridge of Sighs, he thought. Behind him was the enormous facade of the building he had just left; a wall of brimstone blocks stretching left and right and upward and downward until it was lost from sight. Before him was a smallish building shaped like a globe.
He stepped quickly across the bridge, for these mists around him made him queasy. He paused only a moment to gather his courage before a second pair of baize doors, then tried to mount a debonair manner and pushed them in. You do not, he told himself, come before Satan nonchalantly, but there's such a quality of insanity in hell that it's rubbed off on me.
It was a gigantic room, a sort of file room, and again Braugh was relieved at having the awesome interview put a little farther into the future. The office was round as a planetarium and was crammed with a vast adding machine so enormous that Braugh could not believe his eyes. There were five levels of scaffolding before the keyboard and one little dried-out clerk, wearing spectacles the size of binoculars, rushed back and forth, climbing up and down, punching keys with lightning speed.
More as an excuse for delaying the rather threatening interview with Father Satan, Braugh watched the wheezing clerk scurry before those keys, punching them so rapidly that they chattered like a hundred outboard motors. This little old chap, Braugh thought, has put in an eternity computing sin totals and death totals and all sorts of statistical totals. He looks like a total himself.
Aloud, Braugh said: "Hello there!"
Without faltering the clerk said, "What is it?" His voice was drier than his skin.
"Those figures can wait a moment, can't they?"
"Sorry. They can't."
"Will you stop a moment!" Braugh shouted. "I want to see your boss."
The clerk came to a dead stop and turned, removing the binocular spectacles very slowly.
"Thank you," Braugh said. "Now, look, my man, I'd like to see His Black Majesty, Father Satan. Astarte said—"
"That's me," said the little old man.
The wind was knocked out of Braugh.
For a fleeting instant a smile flickered across the dried-out face. "Yes, that's me, son. I'm Satan."
And despite all his vivid imagination, Braugh had to believe. He slumped down on the lowermost tread of the steps that led up to the scaffolding. Satan chuckled faintly and touched a clutch on the gigantic adding machine. There was a meshing of gears and with the sound of freewheeling, the machine began to cluck softly while the keys clacked automatically.
His Diabolic Majesty came creaking down the stairs and seated himself alongside Braugh. He took out a tattered silk handkerchief and began polishing his glasses. He was just a nice little old man sitting friendly-like alongside a stranger, ready, for a back-fence gossip. At last he said, "What's on your mind, son?"
"W-well, your Highness—" Braugh began.
"You can call me Father, my boy."
"But why should I? I mean—" Braugh broke off in embarrassment.
"Well now, I guess you're a little worried about that heaven-and-hell business, eh?"
Braugh nodded.
Satan sighed and shook his head. "Don't know what to do about that," he said. "Fact is, son, it's all the same thing. Naturally I let it get around in certain quarters that there's two places. Got to keep certain folks on their toes. But the truth is, it's not really so. I'm all there is, son; God or Satan or Siva or Official Coordinator or Nature—anything you want to call it."
With a rush of good feeling toward this friendly old man, Braugh said, "I call you a fine old man. I'll be happy to call you Father."
"Well, that's nice of you, son. Glad you feel that way. You understand, of course, that we couldn't let just anyone see me this way. Might instill disrespect. But you're different. Special."
Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
"Got to have efficiency—Tsk! Got to frighten folks now and then. Got to have respect, you understand. Can't run things without respect."
"I understand, sir."
"Got to have efficiency. Can't be running life all day long, all year long, all eternity long without efficiency. Can't have efficiency without respect.
Braugh said, "Absolutely, sir," while within him a hideous uncertainty grew. This was a nice old man, but this was also a garrulous, maundering old man. His Satanic Majesty was a dull creature not nearly so clever as Christian Braugh.
"What I always say," the old man went on, rubbing his knee reflectively, "Is that love and worship and all that—you can have 'em. They're nice, but I'll take efficiency anytime . . . leastways for a body in my position. Now then son, what was on your mind?"
Mediocrity, Braugh thought bitterly. He said, "The truth, Father Satan. I came seeking the truth."
"And what do you want with the truth, Christian?"
"I just want to know it, Father Satan. I came seeking it. I want to know why we are, why we live, why we yearn. I want to know all that."
"Well, now . . ." the old man chuckled. "That's quite an order, son. Yes, sir, quite an order indeed."
"Can you tell me, Father Satan?"
"A little, Christian. Just a little. What was it you wanted to know, mostly?"
"What there is inside us that makes us seek the unattainable. What are those forces that pull and tug and surge within us? What is this ego of mine that gives me no rest, that seeks no rest, that frets at doubts, and yet when they're resolved, searches for new ones. What is all this?"
"Why," Father Satan said, pointing to his adding machine. "It's that gadget there. It runs everything."
"That?"
"That."
"Runs everything?"
"Everything that I run, and I run everything there is." The old man chuckled again, then held out the binoculars. "You're an unusual boy, Christian. First person that ever had the decency to pay old Father Satan a visit. . . alive, that is. I'll return the favor. Here."
Wondering, Braugh accepted the spectacles.
"Put 'em on," the old man said. "See for yourself."
And then the wonder was compounded, for as Braugh slipped the glasses over his head he found himself peering with the eyes of the universe at all the universe. And the adding contraption was no longer a machine for summing up totals with additions and subtractions; it was a vastly complex marionetteer's crossbar from which an infinity of shimmering silver threads descended.
And with his all-seeing eyes, through the spectacles of Father Satan, Braugh saw how each thread was attached to the nape of the neck of a creature, and how each living entity danced the dance of life as directed by Satan's efficient machine. Braugh crept up to the first-level scaffold and reached toward the lower bank of keys. One he pressed at random and on a pale planet something hungered and killed. A second, and it felt remorse. A third, and it forgot. A fourth, and half a continent away another something awoke five minutes early and so began a chain of events that culminated in discovery and hideous punishment for the k
iller.
Braugh backed away from the adding machine and slipped the glasses up to his brow. The machine went on clucking. Almost absently, without surprise, Braugh noted that the meticulous chronometer which filled the top of the dome had ticked away a space of three months' time.
"This," he thought, "is a ghastly answer, a cruel answer, and Mr. Thing in the shelter was right. Truth is hell. We're puppets. We're little better than dead things hung from a string, simulating life. Up here an old man, nice but not overly intelligent, clicks a few keys and down there we take it for free will, fate, karma, evolution, nature, a thousand false things. This is a sour discovery. Why must the truth be shoddy?"
He glanced down. Old Father Satan was stiff seated on the steps, but his head slumped a little to one side, his eyes were half-closed, and he mumbled indistinctly about work and rest and not enough of it.
"Father Satan . . ."
"Yes, my boy?" The old man roused himself slightly.
"This is true? We all dance to your key-tapping?"
"All of you, my boy. All of you." He yawned prodigiously "You all think yourselves free, Christian, but you all dance to my playing."
"Then, Father, grant me one thing . . . One very small thing. There is, in a small corner of your celestial empire, a very tiny planet, an insignificant speck we call Earth."
"Earth? Earth? Can't say I recollect it offhand, son, but I can look it up."
"No, don't bother, sir. It's there. I know because I come from there. Grant me this favor: break the cords that bind it. Let Earth go free."
"You're a good boy, Christian, but a foolish boy. You ought to know I can't do that."
"In all your kingdom," Braugh pleaded, "there are souls too numerous to count. There are suns and planets too many to measure. Surely this one tiny bit of dust—You who own so much can surely part with so little."
"No, my boy, couldn't do it. Sorry."
"You who alone know freedom . . . Would you deny it to just a few others?"
But the Coordinator of All slumbered.
Braugh pulled the glasses back before his eyes. Let him sleep then, while Braugh, Satan pro tem, takes over. Oh, we'll be repaid for this disappointment. We'll have giddy time writing novels in flesh and blood. And perhaps, if we can find the cord attached to my neck and search out the correct key, we may do something to free Christian Braugh. Yes, here is a challenging unattainable which may be attained and lead to fresh challenges.
He looked over his shoulder guiltily to see whether Father Satan was aware of his meddling. There might be condign punishment. As his eyes inspected the frail Ruler of All, he was stunned, transfixed. He gazed up, then down, then up again. His hands trembled, then his arms, and at last his whole body shook uncontrollably. For the first time in his life, he began to laugh. It was genuine laughter, not the token laughter he had so often been forced to fake in the past. The gusts and bursts rang through the domed room and reverberated.
Father Satan awoke with a start and cried, "Christian! What is it, my boy?"
Laughter of frustration? Laughter of relief? Laughter of hell or limbo? He could not tell as he shook at the sight of the silver thread that stretched from the nape of Satan's neck and turned him, too, into a marionette . . . a tendril that stretched up and up and up into lost heights toward some other vaster machine operated by some other vaster marionette hidden in the still-unknowable reaches of the cosmos—
The blessedly unknowable cosmos.
V
Now in the beginning all was darkness, There was neither land nor sea nor sky nor the circling stars. There was nothing. Then came Yaldabaoth and rent the light from the darkness. And the darkness He gathered up and formed into the night and the skies. And the light He gathered up and formed the Sun and the stars. Then from the flesh of His flesh and the blood of His blood did Yaldabaoth form the earth and all things upon it.
But the children of Yaldabaoth were new and green to living and unlearned and the race did not bear fruit. And as the children of Yaldabaoth diminished in numbers, they cried out unto their Lord: "Grant us a sign, Great God, that we may know how to increase and multiply! Grant us a sign, O Lord that Thy good and mighty race may not perish from Thine earth!"
And lo! Yaldabaoth withdrew Himself from the face of His importunate people and they were sore at heart and sinful, thinking their Lord had forsaken them. And their paths were paths of evil until a prophet arose whose name was Maart, Then did Maart gather the children of Yaldabaoth around him and spoke to them, saying: 'Evil are thy ways, o people of Yaldabaoth, to doubt thy God. For He has given a sign of faith unto you."
Then gave they answer, saying: "Where is this sign?"
And Maart went into the high mountains and with him was a vast concourse of people. Nine days and nine nights did they travel even unto the peak of Mount Sinar. And at the crest of Mount Sinar all were struck with wonder and fell on their knees, crying: "Great is God! Great are His works!"
For lo! Before them blazed a mighty curtain of fire.
BOOK OF MAART; XIII: 29-37
Pass the veil toward what reality? There's no sense trying to make up my mind. I can't. God knows, that's been the agony of living for me—trying to make up my mind. How I've felt nothing—when nothing's touched me—ever! Take this or that. Take coffee or tea. Buy the black gown or the silver. Marry Lord Buckley or live with Freddy Witherton. Let Finchley make love to me or stop posing for him. No—there's no sense even trying.
How that veil burns in the doorway! Like rainbow moire. There goes Sidra. Passes through as though nothing was there. Doesn't seem to hurt. That's good. God knows, I could stand anything except being hurt. No one left but Bob and myself—and he doesn't seem to be in any hurry. No, there's Chris, sort of hiding in the organ alcove. My turn now, I suppose. I wish it wasn't, but I can't stay here forever. Where to?
To nowhere?
Yes, that's it. Nowhere.
In this world I'm leaving there's never been any place for me; the real me. The world wanted nothing from me but my beauty; not what was inside me. I want to be useful. I want to belong. Perhaps if I belonged—if living had some purpose for me, this lump of ice in my heart might melt. I could learn to do things, to feel things, enjoy things. Even learn to fall in love.
Yes, I'm going to nowhere.
Let the new reality that needs me, that wants me, that can use me . . . Let that reality make the decision and call me to itself. For if I must choose, I know I'll choose wrong again.
And if I'm not needed anywhere; if I go through that burning to wander forever in blank space. Still I'm better off. What else have I been doing all my life?
Take me, you who want and need me!
How cool the veil . . . like scented sprays on the skin.
And even as the multitude knelt in prayer, Maart cried aloud: "Rise, ye children of Yaldabaoth, and behold!"
Then they did arise and were struck dumb and trembled. For through the curtain of fire stepped a beast that chilled the hearts of all. To the height of eight cubits it towered and its skin was pink and white. The hair of its head was yellow and its body was long and curving like unto a sickly tree. And all was covered with loose folds of white fur.
BOOK OF MAART; XIII: 38-39
God in Heaven!
Is this the reality that called me? This the reality that needs me?
That sun . . . so high . . . with its blue-white evil eye, like that Italian artist. . . mountain tops. They look like heaps of slime and garbage . . . The valleys down there . . . festering wounds. The sickroom smell. All rot and ruin.
And those hideous creatures crowding around . . . like apes made of coal. Not animal—Not human. As though man made beasts not too well—or beasts made men still worse. They have a familiar look. The landscape looks familiar. Somewhere I've seen all this before. Somehow I've been here before. In dreams of death, maybe . . . maybe.
This is a reality of death, and it wanted me? Needed me?
Again the multitude cried
out: "Glory be to Yaldabaoth!" and at the sound of the sacred name the beast turned toward the curtain of flames whence it had come, and behold! The curtain was gone.
BOOK OF MAART; XIII: 40
No retreat?
No way out?
No return to sanity?
But it was behind me a moment ago, the veil. No escape. Listen to the sounds they make. The swilling of swine. Do they think they're worshiping me? No. This can't be real. No reality was ever so horrid. A ghastly trick. . . like the one we played on Lady Sutton. I'm in the shelter now. Bob Peel's played a trick and given us some new kind of drug. Secretly. I'm lying on the divan, dreaming and groaning. I'll wake up soon. Or faithful Dig will wake me . . . before these frights come any closer.
I must wake up!
With a loud cry, the beast of the fire ran through the multitude. Through all the host it ran and thundered down the mountainside. And the shrill sounds of its cries struck fear like unto the fear of the sound of beaten brazen shields.
And as it passed under the low boughs of the mountain trees, the children of Yaldabaoth cried again in alarm, for the beast shed its white furred hide in a manner horrible to behold. And the skin remained clinging to the trees. And the beast ran farther, a hideous pink-and-white warning to all transgressors.
BOOK OF MAART; XIII: 41-43
Quick! Quick! Run through them before they touch me with their filthy hands. If this is a nightmare, running will wake me. If this is real—but it can't be. That such a cruel thing should happen to me! No. Were the gods jealous of my beauty? No. The gods are never jealous. They are men.
My dressing gown—
Gone.
No time to go back for it. Run naked, then. Listen to them howl at me—rave at me. Down! Down! Quickly and down the mountain. This rotten earth. Sucking. Clinging.
Oh, God! They're following.
Not to worship.
Why can't I wake up?
My breath—like knives.
Close. I hear them. Closer and closer and close!
WHY CAN'T I WAKE UP?
And Maart cried aloud. "Take ye this beast for an offering to our Lord Yaldabaoth!"