Mack Reynolds: What the Vintners Buy

“To sum up your point?”

“I merely indicate that perhaps the war of angels might not have been quite what has come down to you. Tell me, Matt Williams, in what language were the Ten Commandments written when Moses brought them down from the mountain top?”

“How would I know? Hebrew?”

“Written Hebrew was not only unknown at the time, but as yet the alphabet had not been devised by the Phoenecians. Hieroglyphics, utilized by the Egyptians, were familiar only to the priesthood. I was bringing home to you the fact that such knowledge as you possess about the so-called war of angels was handed down by word of month for long millenia before man got around to written records. Can you realize that even the terminology you use is largely nonsense? That you have no capacity to understand the issues involved, the motivations … and needs?”

Matt Williams capitulated. “All right. I’ll accept that you have resources beyond my comprehension. But I want to make it clear I am not interested in some hobblydygook, or having palmed off on me something like true love, whatever that is, or sacrifice for others, or fame, or…”

“Obviously, Matt Williams,” Azazel nodded in understanding. “You have emptied to the dregs the goblet of ordinary pleasures. Now you seek the ultimate, and for it, connoisseur that you are, you are willing to give all.”

“But for nothing short of the ultimate,” Williams insisted.

“You realize, of course, your immortal psyche is involved.”

Williams grunted.

“I am not impowered to make our… our deal, unless that is clear to you.”

“I told you my philosophy. There is no yesterday, there is no tomorrow. I ask that I be allowed to enjoy this ultimate pleasure, then live out my normal life span, whatever it would have been, had I never come here. What happens then, I couldn’t care less.”

“Contrary to popular superstition, Matt Williams, we do not cheat. We could not, even if we so desired.”

There was the slightest of twitches at the side of the mouth, of hesitation in the eyes, but Williams said, “So far as I am concerned, the deal is made — if you deliver.”

“So that all is clear, Matt Williams, our pact is that we exchange the ultimate pleasure for what is known as your psyche.”

“Right.”

“Very well.”

Azazel extended his hand. Cupped it it was a… a something.

Matt Williams squinted. He frowned in unhappy perplexity. The object, if it could be called an object, was not exactly visible. It shimmered, but had no exact size or shape. It had a mother-of-pearl quality, a simplicity of beauty. “What is it?”

“The ultimate pleasure.”

“But… well, what do I do with it? Take it like a pill, or what?” He was scowling.

“You may take it that way, if you wish. It is now yours, to take when and as you will. The deal is consumated, Matt. Williams.”

“But what is it?”

“It is one moment of the Ultimate Pleasure.”

“One moment?”

“Duration had no part of our agreement, Matt Williams. Besides, it is all I can possibly give.”

“One moment of what ?”

“Paradise.”