Roger Zelazny - If at Faust You Don't Succeed

He looked around, saw that no one was looking at him, and pulled the painting out before the flames had reached it. It looked as good as new. He put it to one side and looked around for others. There was a Giotto, but the surface had already begun bubbling in the heat. He sought hungrily after others. If saving one Botticelli was good, saving two ought to be excellent. And lucrative as well! And surely it was not wrong to serve Art! Especially when it was just lying around waiting to be burned! Those other choices Mephistopheles had given him had just sounded too weird. He was sure no one could object to a man who rescued great art.

Then there was a hand on his shoulder. A thin, splendidly dressed man with a short beard was staring at him severely.

"Sir, what are you doing?"

"Me?" Mack said. "I'm just watching the fun like everyone else."

"I saw you' take a painting off the bonfire."

"A painting? Oh, you mean this." Mack gestured at the Botticelli and grinned. "The servant put it out by mistake. We had taken it down to have it cleaned. It's a Botticelli. You just don't burn Botticellis in bonfires, not even vanity bonfires."

"And who might you be, sir?" the man demanded.

"I'm just a local nobleman," Mack said.

"Strange I haven't seen you before."

"I've been out of town. Who are you?"

"I," the man said, "am Niccolo Machiavelli. I work for the commune of Florence."

"That's a coincidence," Mack said. "I've been told to tell you not to write that book you're planning, the one you call The Prince."

"I have written no such book," Machiavelli said. "But it is a catchy title. I just might try it out."

"Do what you please," Mack said. "But remember, you've been warned."

"And who is the warning from?" Machiavelli demanded.

"I can't disclose the name," Mack said. "But I can assure you he's a devil of a good fellow."

Machiavelli stared at him, then turned and walked away, shaking his head. Mack picked up the painting, preparing to get out while the getting was good. But just then Pico della Mirandola came back.

"I've been checking with certain infernal powers," he said. "What have you done with the real Faust?"

Pico advanced threateningly. Mack cowered back. Pico raised one of those newfangled firearms that fired a ball large enough to tear a man apart. Mack looked for a place to hide. Nothing was immediately forthcoming. Pico's finger tightened on the trigger.

At that moment, Faust appeared. "Don't do it, Pico!" he cried. "Why not? The man is trying to pass himself as you!"

"But we are not allowed to kill him. He is impersonating me. But it is necessary for him to stay alive as long as he occupies my role." "What role is that, Johann?" "All will be revealed later. For now, old friend, desist." "You are a wise man, Faust!" "I may call upon you later, Pico. I have a plan!" "Count on me!" Faust vanished. Then Mephistopheles appeared. "Ready?" he said to Mack. "Let's go. What's everybody gawking at?"

Mack decided not to tell him about Faust. "You know how people are. They'll stare at anything." He got a tight grip on the painting and Mephistopheles conjured them both away.

Mack and Mephistopheles arrived in Limbo, conjuring themselves into existence at the entrance to a small building on a hill close to where the judgments for the Millennial contest were to be held. "What's this place?" Mack asked.

"This is the Waiting Room of Limbo. I've got a storage facility here where you can store your Botticelli.

Unless you want to sell it to me immediately?" "I think I'd like to hold on to it for a while," Mack said. "So how did I do?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"On the contest, in Florence."

Mephistopheles didn't answer until they were inside. He indicated a room that Mack might use to store his painting. "You didn't get anywhere with trying to get Medici and Savonarola to patch up their quarrel. You get a zero for your ineffectuality."

"But I told Machiavelli not to write The Prince. That was a good thing, wasn't it?"

Mephistopheles shrugged. "We don't know. It's up to Necessity to judge these matters. Good and Bad must remain subservient to What Must Be. By the way, who was that man? He seemed to know you."

"What man?"

"The one who kept Pico della Mirandola from killing you."

"Some nut," Mack said, deciding not to mention Faust. "I have no idea who he was. The painting's nice, isn't it?" Mephistopheles held the painting at arms' length and gazed at it for a while. "Yes, it's very nice. I'll be happy to take it off your hands."

"Not just yet," Mack said. "I'd like to see what the market is worth, that sort of thing."

"A good idea," Mephistopheles admitted. "Here's a spell to get you to London. Don't dawdle, though. We need you for the next appearance."

"Don't worry, I won't be late," Mack said.

Mephistopheles nodded and vanished. Mack looked around the room and found a large metal box with a key in its keyhole. He unlocked it and was about to put in the painting. As he lifted it, he heard a scratching sound under his feet. He stepped hastily out of the way. The floor cracked, a small pick poked through the hole, then was replaced by a shovel. The hole was rapidly enlarged. Soon a diminutive shape clambered out. It was Rognir. "Hi," said Mack, remembering the dwarf from the Sabbat.

"Nice painting," said Rognir. "Where'd you get it?"

"Oh? What were you doing there?"

"I'm in a contest," Mack said. "It's to decide the destiny of mankind for the next thousand years."

"Is that what they sent you to the Renaissance for, to get a painting?"

"I don't really know what they sent me for. I did some other stuff. Bat I gat the painting because Mephistopheles said he'd like one, and he'd pay me a pretty price for it. But I haven't sold it yet. I decided to see what the market's worth."

"He wanted you to get a painting, did he?"

"Sure he did. Since I was going to be there anyway. Sorry, gotta go. I'm due in London next. It's a big one."

"Good luck," Rognir said. "Maybe I'll see you there."

"I look forward to it," Mack said. He hesitated, looking at the hole in the floor. "You're going to clean that up before you leave, aren't you?"

Rognir told him not to worry, his painting was safe. He left musing about just what kind of stupid jerk this guy Mack was. He didn't even know he was being manipulated. The idea of making up his own mind had never occurred to him. He was still trying to please other people. As he'd probably been doing all his life.

And yet, there was something about him that roused an odd bit of sympathy.

In the meantime, there were consequences that emanated from Azzie's taking of Helen of Troy from her place in Hades, where, together with her husband, Achilles, she reigned over the social aspects of the underworld. Azzie had conjured Helen away rather casually, not stopping to wonder why this sort of thing was usually not done and what the consequences might be. A moment's thought would have reminded him that the dead have some powers and it is not good to run afoul of them.

Achilles really didn't take it well when he returned one evening from hunting ghost deer in the mist-covered meadows that lay just past the Slough of Despond, and found that Helen was missing. That was unlike her. At first he thought she was off visiting neighbors. He enquired, but no one had seen her.

Still, people just don't go missing from Hades. Someone has to take them out. Achilles went at once to his old friend and neighbor, Odysseus, for help.

Odysseus had fared pretty well in the battle of the archetypal ratings. He had his own problems, of course. Although he was a pretty tricky fellow, it was hard to think up any new stunts that would deserve the term Odyssean wiliness. The spirits behind archetypes can reach their prime and fade away, but they have to continue trying to surpass themselves anyway. You know what they say about teaching old gods new tricks. Odysseus' later schemes tended to be pretty obvious. And sometimes a little nasty. There was a mean streak in Odysseus. He liked to win, and he'd do anything to achieve victory.