Roger Zelazny - If at Faust You Don't Succeed

The audience, driven into a superstitious mania by the trip-hammer succession of downright weird events with sinister overtones, began to panic. Grown men flung ladies' hampers filled with the most delicate hams, roast beefs, sides of pork, and the like out of their way to get to the nearest exit. In vain the band struck up a galhard. The rest was triple time.

While this was going on, Rognir the dwarf sat in a dwarf public area and planned mischief. He was trying to decide on the most mischief he could do to Azzie. This was only in part because he hated the fox-faced demon. It was also because Rognir took a keen intellectual pleasure in bringing any proud demon down a step or two. Rognir didn't like demons, and he especially disliked fox-faced demons, and he liked this one least of all.

To discomfit a demon! Rognir was merely doing what any ichor-blooded dwarf would have done once he saw the opportunity. Anything that would put a demon into disgrace was to be welcomed. If it could also turn a profit for the dwarf, so much the better.

Trouble was, he hadn't been too sure what the information he'd overheard meant. It was obvious to him that Azzie was working behind the back of another demon, Mephistopheles. But how? What was he doing? What were the two of them up to? What was this Millennial contest, anyway? (For dwarves rarely are informed on the great events of their day.) Rognir, having told Mephistopheles of what was going on, now came up with a new scheme. He was sitting on a toadstool when this thought came to him, a very large orange toadstool with bright yellow spots, the sort that only a dwarf can eat without instantly perishing. Rognir was not eating, however, even though his jaws were working continually. A witness leaning close could have noticed that the dwarfs back teeth were grinding and he was evidently in the throes of inspiration.

"Having told Faust about matters, and then Mephistopheles, I have been genuinely mischievous. But it seems to me that I can think of yet another contrivance. So I'll hie me away to those regions in or near the Empyrean where the spirits of light are said to dwell…"

But before he had finished his speech, his dwarvish conjure power kicked in and he was on his way.

Where are we now?" Mack asked.

"This is a tavern in the Latin Quarter of Paris," Mephistopheles said. "I feel at home with students. They have always had a lively regard for the devil. And Paris, of course, is the devil's own city. I thought it would be an appropriate place to begin the last act in our contest."

Mack looked around. He and Mephistopheles were seated at a long rough-hewn wooden table. There were others at the table, all young men, students by the look of them. They were immersed in their own conversations, which were carried on in loud voices and with elaborate gestures and much shrugging. The tavern was dark, extensive, and low-ceilinged. Waiters hurried back and forth carrying trays crowded with tumblers of wine, with plates of mussels in a red sauce, and with wedges of bread on the side. There were loud guffaws of laughter, catcalls, bursts of song. These students were young and had the whole world ahead of them, and they were studying in Paris, already the most notable city in Europe and therefore in the world.

"What's happening this time?" Mack asked.

"This is the year 1789," Mephistopheles said. "Paris, indeed, all France, is in an uproar. Spurred on by the recent American Revolution, the common people are ready to rise and throw out the ineffective royal court and the corrupt nobles. It is the dawn of a new age for the masses, and sunset for the privileged few. In the palace of the Tuileries, the desperate Louis the Sixteenth and his wife, Marie Antoinette, frightened by the threats and insults heaped on them by an increasingly unmanageable populace, are preparing to flee this very night, taking a coach to Belgium, where they will meet up with royalist armies burning to avenge the insult to the royal family."

"Sounds exciting," Mack said. "Do they make it?"

"Alas, it is not to be. History tells us that at crucial moments, things go wrong. At the end, the royal family is brought back to Paris by the Republican Guard. Soon after, they will lose their heads to the guillotine."

"Are they very evil, this king and queen?" Mack asked.

Mephistopheles smiled sadly. "Not evil at all. Merely creatures of their time and place. Their deaths will solve nothing, and the act of destroying them will revolt the world. There will be battles and massacres, and France will stand alone with the armies of Europe against her."

"I suppose you want me to save the king and queen."

"What you do is entirely up to you, of course," Mephistopheles said. "But it would be a notable deed."

"What should I do?"

"There are other key points?"

"Several others," Mephistopheles said. "Once the flight is underway, a certain Drouet will recognize the king as his coach passes through the village of Saint-Menehould. Drouet gives the alarm that leads to His Majesty's capture. His seeing the king is a matter of pure luck. If Drouet could be diverted…"

"I'm beginning to get the idea," Mack said.

"Or, failing that, the king and queen might still be saved if the bridge at Varennes were open rather than blocked. The blocked bridge prevents the royal coach from crossing to the Belgian frontier and safety.

So there are three chances; Marie Antoinette's delay, Drouet's recognition, and the blocked bridge at Varennes. Change any of these and you change history. Are. you ready, Faust?"

"I think so," Mack said. "As ready as I'll ever be."

"Excellent. And please, Johann, try to make this a good one. It is the last, you know. I'll look in on you from time to time and see how you're getting on. Maybe even lend a hand." He winked. 'Till later!" And with that, Mephistopheles vanished.

By asking a passing fishwife, Mack learned that Marie Antoinette was at Versailles, some leagues outside of Paris. In the Place Saint-Michel he found a public coach and paid a centime for a place on it. The streetcar, as it was called, drawn by four horses, clanged through Paris, stopping here and there to take on and discharge passengers, until it passed beyond the city limits into a country lane that meandered through green fields and tasteful clumps of trees.

Mack got off at the palace of Versailles and walked up to the main entrance. The armed guard at the door, resplendent in the crimson and white of the queen's livery, raised his pike to the ready. "You, there!

What do you want?"

"I crave an audience with the queen," Mack said.

"She's not seeing anyone today," the guard said.

"Yes, I know. But this is urgent."

"I told you, she's not seeing anyone."

"Tell her Dr. Faust is here," Mack said. "She'll reward you. And I have something for you myself." He handed the guard a gold piece.

"Thanks, citizen," the guard said, pocketing the coin. "Now get out of here or I'll have you arrested for bribery."

The Archangel Michael's house was set on an elevated half-acre lot in an exclusive suburb of Heaven.

Michael was in the front yard working on his roses. He looked up to see Ylith, the student angel and former witch, coming up the marble steps.

"Ah, there, Ylith, how nice to see you." He put down his trowel and wiped his hands. "Can I get you some lemonade? It's quite a hot day, though dry, a typical heavenly or good sort of day."

"No, thanks," Ylith said. "I came because there's something I'm perplexed about."

"Well then," Michael said, "you must tell me all about it. What seems to be the matter?"

Ylith said, "I've found evidence that Mephistopheles is cheating."