Tim Pratt - Sympathy for the Devil

“Why?”

“Because if we hadn’t radium we should have to dress the souls in some other material; then, of course, they would burn up and get out of trouble. They would not last an hour. You know that?”

“Why-yes, now that you mention it. But I supposed they were dressed in their natural flesh; they look so in the pictures-in the Sistine Chapel and in the illustrated books, you know.”

“Yes, our damned look as they looked in the world, but it isn’t flesh; flesh could not survive any longer than that copying press survived-it would explode and turn to a fog of sparks, and the result desired in sending it there would be defeated. Believe me, radium is the only wear.”

“I see it now,” I said, with prophetic discomfort, “I know that you are right, Majesty.”

“I am. I speak from experience. You shall see, when you get there.”

He said this as if he thought I was eaten up with curiosity, but it was because he did not know me. He sat reflecting a minute, then he said:

“I will make your fortune.”

It cheered me up and I felt better. I thanked him and was all eagerness and attention.

“Do you know,” he continued, “where they find the bones of the extinct moa, in New Zealand? All in a pile-thousands and thousands of them banked together in a mass twenty feet deep. And do you know where they find the tusks of the extinct mastodon of the Pleistocene? Banked together in acres off the mouth of the Lena-an ivory mine which has furnished freight for Chinese caravans for 500 years. Do you know the phosphate beds of our South? They are miles in extent, a limitless mass and jumble of bones of vast animals whose like exists no longer in the earth-a cemetery, a mighty cemetery, that is what it is. All over the earth there are such cemeteries. Whence came the instinct that made those families of creatures go to a chosen and particular spot to die when sickness came upon them and they perceived that their end was near? It is a mystery; not even science has been able to uncover the secret of it. But there stands the fact. Listen, then. For a million years there has been a firefly cemetery.”

Hopefully, appealingly, I opened my mouth-he motioned me to close it, and went on:

“It is in a scooped-out bowl half as big as this room on top of a snow summit in the Cordilleras. That bowl is level full-of what? Pure firefly radium and the glow and heat of hell! For countless ages myriads of fireflies have daily flown thither and died in that bowl and been burned to vapor in an instant, each fly leaving as its contribution its only indestructible particle, its single electron of pure radium. There is energy enough there to light the whole world, heat the whole world’s machinery, supply the whole world’s transportation power from now till the end of eternity. The massed riches of the planet could not furnish its value in money. You are mine, it is yours; when Madam Curie isolates polonium, clothe yourself in a skin of it and go and take possession!”

Then he vanished and left me in the dark when I was just in the act of thanking him. I can find the bowl by the light it will cast upon the sky; I can get the polonium presently, when that illustrious lady in France isolates it from the bismuth. Stock is for sale. Apply to Mark Twain.

You’d think the upper east side of Manhattan was an easy place to find sinners, if only because of the population density, but after 9/11, common decency had spread through New York like a catchy commercial jingle. Not that Merchari minded a challenge, but he was behind quota, and he hated taking the subway. It stank and was hot year-round, and that just made him homesick.

Still, Second Avenue was high-traffic, with restaurant after restaurant in a city where apartment kitchens were often smaller than the bathrooms. He loitered a while, invisible and insubstantial, letting several groups pass; he was behind quota, but not so desperate as to nab vapid Human Resources bippies and their Marketing Department boyfriends.

He strolled along, sniffing at the doors of the restaurants as he passed. O’Donnell’s Pub held good-natured drunks cheering St. John’s to a crushing victory over Syracuse (too elated to appreciate the terrors of Hell). Il Piccolo hosted a wedding reception (wild joy, flaring tempers-it would all end in tears of familial love and sentiment, more than Merchari could stand). Maybe a bit farther south, nearer to Sloan-Kettering? He might get lucky and find a couple of researchers slipped out of their labs for a quick meal.

Six blocks later, when he was beginning to fear he might make it all the way to the bridge without luck, his patience was rewarded. A likely-looking pair, a man and a woman, were just exiting King’s Dumpling House with brown bags of take-out dim sum. He took solid form and sidled up to them. “Pardon me, do you have a match?”

“Yes, I think so…” The man fumbled in his pockets and offered a matchbook.

“Thank you,” Merchari said. That seminar on the tactical use of politeness had been worth every dram of quicksilver. Merchari reached as if to take the matchbook, then seized the man’s wrist.

“Hey!” The man tried to pull away. He lashed out and knocked off the shadowing hat, revealing Merchari’s gold-gleaming eyes and vermilion complexion. “Oh my God.”

“Other side, I’m afraid.” Merchari loved this bit, when they realized what he was. Their brains seized up-free will indeed!-and they reverted to the monkeys they’d been based on. Those idiots in the Nightmares Department of the sixth ring thought they had it good, a nice creative job. But real experience-this was entertainment!

The man’s mouth worked in silent shock for a moment. He groped at his neck and came up with a crucifix on a gold chain. “Back! Get back, I say!”

“Do I look like a vampire?” Merchari snorted small blue flames. “Look, pal, just come along quietly, OK? I’ll see that you get a nice assignment in the bioweapons division.”

The man kept tugging. He pounded his other fist on Merchari’s wrist. It was all useless, and the wind off the river suddenly blew warmer-the first twinges of the Gate opening. The fellow dropped to his knees and found his voice. “Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum…”

Ach! Merchari released the man and recoiled, his palm scorched and smoking. “Sir! Sir! That’s enough! English will do the trick. No need for the high octane.” Latin! That was the risk of the scientific enclaves-you might run into a Jesuit education.

The man continued his prayer, but the woman, who had remained scientifically calm, tugged on his sleeve. “Dennis, I think it’s okay. You hurt him.”

Dennis surged to his feet. “Then go away!”

“In a moment, in a moment.” Merchari regarded the woman. Dennis was off limits because he had prayed, and he believed in what he was saying. But the woman hadn’t done the same. Merchari leaned toward her and sniffed. Yep, that definite metallic scent. “You’re an atheist, aren’t you?”

“Don’t answer him, Christine,” the man said, putting his arm around her shoulders. “I can keep him away from you.”

“Only if she believes what you’re saying.” Merchari returned his attention to the woman. “Well?”

Christine cocked her head to one side. “Yes, I’m an atheist. Is that a problem? I guess you can’t take me if I don’t believe in you or your supposed origin.”

“That’s a bit of a contradiction, isn’t it? I’m standing right here.”

“I’d say so, but there was incense burning in the restaurant. And all these people”-she gestured at the moderate crowds passing them on the sidewalk-“don’t seem to see you. I’d say hallucinations are a high likelihood.”