Arthur Porges - The Devil & Simon Flagg

The Devil is a great one for riddle games. Sometimes he will appear and, without even making a decent offer for your soul, he will start asking you questions, and if you cannot answer them he will carry you off.

One of the earliest British ballads is “The False Knight on the Road,” which is a question and answer dialogue that begins:

Folklorists tell us that the false knight is the Devil, but the steadfast wee boy bests him. In many Scandinavian and Baltic legends the Devil buys a soul, but agrees to let him off if he can answer certain questions, for example, “How far is it from heaven to earth?” There are two answers given to that one, “You ought to know, for you fell the distance,” a reply which apparently satisfies the Devil, and the other, “One step, for my grandfather has one foot in the grave and one in heaven.”

Another situation is the converse of this: the mortal is let off if he can ask the Devil a question he cannot answer, or set him a task he cannot perform.

After several months of the most arduous research, involving the study of countless faded manuscripts, Simon Flagg succeeded - in summoning the devil. As a competent medievalist, his wife had proved invaluable. A mere mathematician himself, he was hardly equipped to decipher Latin holographs, particularly when complicated by rare terms from tenth-century demonology, so it was fortunate that she had a flair for such documents.

The preliminary skirmishing over, Simon and the devil settled down to bargain in earnest. The devil was sulky, for Simon had scornfully declined several of his most dependable gambits, easily spotting the deadly barb concealed in each tempting bait.

“Suppose you listen to a proposition from me for a change,” Simon suggested finally. “At least, it’s a straightforward one.”

The devil irritably twirled his tail-tip with one hand, much as a man might toy with his key chain. Obviously, he felt injured.

“All right,” he agreed, in a grumpy voice. “It can’t do any harm. Let’s hear your proposal.”

“I will pose a certain question,” Simon began, and the devil brightened, “to be answered within twenty-four hours. If you cannot do so, you must pay me $I00,000. That’s a modest request compared to most you get.

No billions, no Helen of Troy on a tiger skin. Naturally there must be no reprisals of any kind if I win.”

“Indeed!” the devil snorted. “And what are your stakes?”

“If I lose, I will be your slave for any short period. No torment, no loss of soul - not for a mere $100,000.

Neither will I harm relatives or friends. Although,” he amended thoughtfully, “there are exceptions.”

The devil scowled, pulling his forked tail petulantly. Finally, a savage tug having brought a grimace of pain, he desisted.

“Sorry,” he said flatly. “I deal only in souls. There is no shortage of slaves. The amount of free, wholehearted service I receive from humans would amaze you. However, here’s what I’ll do. If I can’t answer your question in the given time, you will receive not a paltry $100,000, but any sum within reason. In addition, I offer health and happiness as long as you live. If I do answer it - well, you know the consequences. That’s the very best I can offer.” He pulled a lighted cigar from the air and puffed in watchful silence.

Simon stared without seeing. Little moist patches sprang out upon his forehead. Deep in his heart he had known what the devil’s only terms would be. Then his jaw muscles knotted. He would stake his soul that nobody-man, beast, or devil-could answer this question in twenty-four hours.

“Include my life in that health and happiness provision, and it’s a deal,” he said. “Let’s get on with it.”

The devil nodded. He removed the cigar stub from his mouth, eyed it distastefully, and touched it with a taloned forefinger. Instantly it became a large pink mint, which he sucked with noisy relish.

“About your question,” he said, “it must have an answer, or our contract becomes void. In the Middle Ages, people were fond of proposing riddles. A few came to me with paradoxes, such as that one about a village with one barber who shaves all those, and only those, who don’t shave themselves. ‘Who shaves the barber?’

they asked. Now, as Russell has noted, the ‘all’ makes such a question meaningless and so unanswerable.”

“My question is just that - not a paradox,” Simon assured him.

“Very well. I’ll answer it. What are you smirking about?”

“Nothing,” Simon replied, composing his face.

“You have very good nerves,” the devil said, grimly approving, as he pulled a parchment from the air. “If I had chosen to appear as a certain monster which combines the best features of your gorilla with those of the Venusian Greater Kleep, an animal - I suppose one could call it that of unique eye appeal, I wonder if your aplomb-“

“You needn’t make any tests,” Simon said hastily. He took the proffered contract, and satisfied that all was in order, opened his pocket-knife.

“Just a moment,” the devil protested. “Let me sterilize that; you might get infected.” He held the blade to his lips, blew gently, and the steel glowed cherry red., “There you are. Now a touch of the point to some-ah-ink, and we’re all set. Second line from the bottom, ‘please; the last one’s mine.”

Simon hesitated, staring at the moist red tip.

“Sign,” urged the devil, and squaring his shoulders, Simon did so.

When his own signature had been added with a flourish, the devil rubbed his palms together, gave Simon a frankly proprietary glance, and said jovially: “Let’s have the question. As soon as I answer it, we’ll hurry off.

I’ve just time for another client tonight.”

“All right,” said Simon. He took a deep breath. “My question is this: Is Fermat’s Last Theorem correct?”

The devil gulped. For the first time his air of assurance weakened.

“Whose last what?” he asked in a hollow voice.

“Fermat’s Last Theorem. It’s a mathematical proposition which Fermat, a seventeenth-century French mathematician, claimed to have proved. However, his proof was never written down, and to this day nobody knows if the theorem is true or false.” His lips twitched briefly as he saw the devil’s expression. “Well, there you are-go to it!”

“Mathematics!” the devil exclaimed, horrified. “Do you think I’ve had time to waste learning such stuff? I’ve studied the Trivium and Quadrivium but as for algebra-say,” he added resentfully, “what kind of a question is that to ask me?”

Simon’s face was strangely wooden, but his eyes shone. “You’d rather run 75,000 miles and bring back some object the size of Boulder Dam, I suppose!” he jeered. “Time and space are easy for you, aren’t they? Well, sorry. I prefer this. It’s a simple matter,” he added, in a bland voice. “Just a question of positive integers.”

“What’s a positive integer?” the devil flared. “Or an integer, for that matter?”

“To put it more formally,” Simon said, ignoring the devil’s question, “Fermat’s Theorem states that there are no nontrivial, rational solutions of the equation Xn + Yn = Zn for n a positive integer greater than two.”

“What’s the meaning of -“

“You supply the answers, remember.”

“And who’s to judge -- you?”

“No,” Simon replied sweetly. ‘I doubt if I’m qualified, even after studying the problem for years. If you come up with a solution, we’ll submit it to any good mathematical journal, and their referee will decide. And you can’t back out - the problem obviously is soluble: either the theorem is true, or it is false. No nonsense about multivalued logic, mind. Merely determine which, and prove it in twenty-four hours. After all, a man-excuse me-demon, of your intelligence and vast experience surely can pick up a little math in that time.”