Charles Beaumont: Selected Stories (29 page)

Introduction to

Unpublished Stories

The following stories were left unpublished at the time of Beaumont's death. Three-"Appointment With Eddie," "The Man With the Crooked Nose" and "The Carnival"-were to have been included in a fourth Beaumont collection, A Touch of the Creature. The book, to have been released in 1964, was dropped after lengthly negotiations with Bantam Books fell through in late-i 963.
"The Crime of Willie Washington" is an early work, and, according to one of Beaumont's letters, one for which he had a "great fondness." It reflects a young writer's obvious talents.
"To Hell with Claude" was to have been the last in a string of "Claude" stories ("The Last Word," "I, Claude," "The Guests of Chance;" "The Rest of Science Fiction') which Beaumont had written in collaboration with Chad Oliver. "The series," explains Oliver-which appeared in F&SF magazine-was the result of"a mutual dislike for all of the cliches that had crept into science fiction. We decided to just take all of them we could possibly cram into one story and just get rid of them. Forever. And, of course, we used an Adam and Eve frame, which was about as trite as you could possibly get…"

Introduction to

TO HELL WITH CLAUDE
by Chad Oliver

January 10, 1987

Dear Chuck:

A lot of years, as Claude might say. You'll remember. We roughed out this story in 1955, rolling around on the floor and howling like maniacs. You wrote your part and sent it to me in April, 1956. 1 wrote the rest and finished it up last night. Who knows, maybe we have set some kind of record for procrastination. In any event, what with one thing and another, it came out about half Beaumont and half Oliver, as usual. We'll leave it to the Claude scholars to figure out who wrote what.
There are probably a few things I forgot to tell you the last time we talked. You know how it is. Did I mention how much I treasured your friendship? Did I mention how much I admired your magic with words? Did I tell you how proud of you I was? I suppose we were always too busy having fun to speak what was in our hearts.
Writing this was pure joy for me. It brought you back for a few days. Chuck, I can hear you laughing, and that is as it should be. That's how I remember you.
If there is a sadness-a fly in the old ointment, so to speak-it is because there can never be another Claude story in this world. That's all she wrote Claude, dear Claude, whatever he was, belonged to both of us. Where else could Tony Boucher, who bought the first Claude stories, appear as a character in the final epic? (Yes, and Mick McComas too, offstage but present in spirit.)
I am a little older now. Beje and I think of you often. I have looked a short distance down that last road you travelled. Not far, and a different bug, but I understand what you faced. Cheers, Chuck.
Hey, I'm not in any hurry. I'll hold the fort here for another decade or two. But when I see you again, what think you? Wouldn't it be great to do it all again, one last time?
Old friend, Claude awaits. He won't let go of us.
With love,
Chad

TO HELL WITH CLAUDE

by Charles Beaumont and Chad Oliver

There was a breeze, sun-warmed and gentle; the smell of magnolia blossoms; and, from the work fields, happy voices raised in song. To another, the day might have spelled Peace. But to Claude Adams, thrice father of the Earth's population, old now and tired, tired, but still possessed of a mind sharper than any razor, there was little to cheer about. He fingered the bulky object in his lap for a fleeting moment and then sent it hurtling across the room.
"Books!" he snorted.
"Now, Dad," his wife said.
"Books!" he repeated. "Confound it, Woola, it is not fair. It is lacking in justice. I get a civilization ticking, tune it finally to perfection, and what happens? The seeds of decay are planted. The rumblings of revolution. By all the Gods, woman, am Ito have no rest?"
Woola wheeled herself to her husband's side and ran desiccated, though cool, fingers through his stone-white hair. "I know, I know," she wheezed in what she fondly imagined to be a soothing manner. "You've worked so hard. But isn't it possible that you're getting your dander up over nothing?"
"Be damned to dander!" Claude had his blood up. "Nothing? Do you call those nothing?" He gestured toward the stack of ill-bound volumes in the corner and trembled like a wind-whipped sapling.
Woola could not reply.
"Here's the thing," Claude said, aware that he had startled the old lady. "We've got a pretty neat little lifeway working now. Nothing fancy, mind you, but it clicks right along, one-two, one-two, and. .
Ah, but what was the use? The former Sarboomian princess had a doll's face and, he had to admit, a mind to match: how could he expect her to grasp the true complexities of the problem? Poor, frightened little bird, there was no way for her to understand that it was books of the imagination, not armies, not diseases, but books-these innocent-looking, silent volumes-that destroyed worlds .
"Go to your room," he commanded. "I must think. Wait!" He grasped her arm. "What are you hiding?"
Woola's eyes widened in terror. "Hiding?" she quavered. "Why, n-nothing. Claude, I implore you. You're hurting your Woola."
"No secrets, woman. Give it to me."
Woola went limp. Listlessly she reached into her literally voluminous bodice.
Claude reeled back as though struck by a crowbar. "What's this, what's this?" he cried.
"It's called," his wife said, softly, "Alice in Wonderland."
"Under my own roof! My own wife…"
"Oh, Claude, I'm so sorry. But I didn't see where it would do any harm. Just a little light reading before I went to bed-"
Claude tossed the book onto the pile. "Depart," he said, crisply.
Then, when the crash of crineline and tattoo of sobs had diminished down the hall, he moved to the bell-cord and gave it a stiff yank.
Everything, he mused dispiritedly, had been going so well. He should have known. It was ever thus when the serpent slithered into Eden.
Recalling the errors of advanced technological civilizations, Claude had built this new world along simple, almost spartan lines. Medieval-Virginian, he had dubbed it, allowing the whimsical part of his nature some small leeway. It combined the severe serious-mindedness of the Thirteenth Century with the graceful joie d'vivre of the pre-bellum Southern states. It worked so perfectly. Everyone had slaves and yet were slaves themselves: an aristocratic bourgeoisie, so to speak. And Claude, from whose remarkable loins all these teeming millions had come, was alone the government, the ministry, and The King; he ruled, benignly, mercifully, but strictly, from Redolent Pines, the grandest plantation of them all and Seat of World Government; and he was revered.
It was a happy, prosperous world. No television, no motion pictures, in fact, no entertainment of any sort whatever: the people had plenty to do with their hands, and you didn't find them slouching about imagining things or dreaming. If they were inclined to be a trifle sluggish, well, Claude reasoned, that was a small price to pay for harmony.
And now it was ending. He thought he had destroyed the menace, fantasy, for good in the Forest of Darkness on far Sarboom; but he had not. The growth still flourished, and, if not checked, would cause another revolution, sure as shooting.
"You rang, Colonel?"
Claude turned to face Ezra, his faithful retainer. Ezra seemed even paler than usual. In fact, Claude thought, the man looked like a ghost, much as Claude detested the expression.
"Ezra," he said, "the way I have doped it out, one man is responsible for these treasonable machinations. Knock him out and you have wiped out the trouble. Well?"
"You are probably right, Colonel."
Claude permitted himself a smile. He had a weakness for yes-men. "Dammit, I know I'm right," he advised, with some acerbity. "Oh, he's clever, I'll give him that. But I did not just fall off the turnip truck myself. I have, if I may say so, been around the barn a few times. I shall flush him out no matter what the cost!" He flipped his black string tie. "You know, of course, that the greatest concentration of fantasy books has been in Plainville in one of the states of the effete east. You are perhaps aware that the town has secretly changed its name to Arkham. You doubtless are cognizant of the fact that at Miskatonic University there is a veritable hotbed of fantasy activity."
"All news to me, Colonel. I didn't know."
"Well, Ezra, I make it my business to know. That is why I am Claude and you are Ezra. Between you and me and the old gatepost, I'd say our man is lurking in Plainville. But he is a shrewd firebrand or I miss my guess. If he thinks we're after him, he'll belt. So we must be foxy, eh? Ezra, summon the Royal Atom-Arranger: I believe the time has come for action!"
The retainer, ever faithful, bowed silently and shuffled away.
Claude's ancient brow furrowed as his plan took form. Devilish clever it was, but dangerous.
Very dangerous.
Still, he thought, thumbing down a goblet of damp shag and lighting his aged briar with a wooden stick match, this will not be the first tight squeak I've seen; and-one might as well confess it-there is a certain sameness to plantation life. Of all men, he knew that perfection had its flaws.
He stepped from his wheelchair and clapped his hands. Action! That was the ticket.
Ezra shambled back, not too fast. "You called, Colonel?"
"Yes," Claude snapped. "I will need a bit of equipment. Specifically, I want a mirror, a sprig of garlic, a wooden stake-no, make it two-a crossroads, seven silver bullets, and a stream of running water. Get on it, man!"
Ezra paled almost to transparency.
"And Ezra?"
"Yes, My Lord?"
"Tell the Royal Atom-Arranger to make it snappy!"
The hansom jounced and squealed and strained, uttering its weary song of the road. Claude held to the seat. From time to time he would turn his gaze to the passing countryside, and moan, gently: it was a long way to travel.
When at last he saw the sign marked PLAINVILLE, and the shadowed little twisting road, he put his discomfort aside and rapped sharply with his cane. "Turn off here, driver!"
The hansom shrilled to a halt, throwing up plumes of oddly-shaped dust. The driver pulled open the door, his seamed face a study in fear. "Sorry I be," he said, "but that there is a road I'll not be traveling, Lord and Master."
"But," observed Claude, "there is no other way to Plainville."
"Plainville!" The driver laughed mirthlessly, spat, shook his head, grimaced, blenched, and trembled. "Look here," he said, glancing nervously over his shoulder. "I'm not what you would call, now, a coward. But, say, there's no power on this Earth of yours that'd get me to go into that ancient, time-snubbed Abode of Evil!"
"You seem to have strong feelings on the subject."
"Indeed, Lord and Master." The driver climbed back up to the cab. He was shaking horribly. Somewhere, an owl laughed. "I beg you to reconsider. Why not give Harvard a try? There's a nice, friendly, respectable school."
Claude was about to answer, when the horse-which had been frantically pawing the ground and whinnying-rose, suddenly, eyes red as flame, flailed the fetid air with its hoofs, and galloped perempterially away, the hansom clattering behind.
In moments, Claude was alone.
"Superstitious peasants," he muttered. Confound it, he had lost his equipment. He adjusted his beanie at a jaunty angle and set forth down the road. Precisely as planned, the touch of the beanie triggered a transformation that bordered on the awesome. To the untrained eye, Claude had become a typical college freshman, smooth of cheek and innocent of guile, a lad in his teens. The Royal Atom-Arranger had done his job well.
Yet, Claude knew, for all the plan's cunning, it was well not to count one's chickens before they were hatched. He was pleased with the turn of phrase.
He proceeded cautiously, noting that the sun had tucked itself behind a dreary clump of clouds, and that the trees were increasingly gnarled: naked reptilian shapes against the sulphurous sky. "Like fingers," Claude observed, admiring his simile.
He pressed on. The air turned into thick fog and the signposts now read: ARKHAM. Did the fools think that because they were a small village, off the beaten track as it were, they could escape notice?
A sound caused him to stop, abruptly. He listened: it came from the shrouded moor to his immediate left, the sinister side. It was a sing-song sort of chant:
"Ia ia shub niggurath…"
Claude blinked. "Cthulhu," he sneezed. The fog was so heavy that he could hardly see the road. He walked carefully in the direction of the chanting.
The scene before him became momentarily clear.
In an unspeakable grave there were five nameless beings. All were reading the Bible backwards. Across the damp sward lay five couples engaged in abominations. There was a hideous stone idol, barnacled with age, infinitely evil, and a man dressed entirely in black. The man was doing something vile to a sheep.
Claude surmised instantly that he was on the right trail.
But now was not the time for decisive action. Patience!
"I beg your pardon," he said, when the man had finished the act he had begun, "but I seem to have lost my way. Would you be so kind as to direct me to Arkham?"
"Ia, ia," the man said, advancing in what might be construed as an unfriendly manner.
"How's that?"
"Dia ad aghaidh's ad aodaun. Agus bas dunach ort! Ungl, ungl. Rrlh chchch…"
"Speak up, can't you? Don't mumble. My name is, ah, Smada, and I'm on my way to the University."
"Ia, ia. Smerk ygdrsll yanter!"
"Oh, let it pass, let it pass." Claude snapped his fingers with disdain, turned from the black-robed figure, and found the road again. "Pesky Foreigners," he stated to nobody in particular.
At last the trail became cobbled, and, topping a rise, Claude saw it.
The town was sunken in fog, of course, but one could discern gray chimneys, rotting towers, flickering gas lamps, scurrying figures, and time-lost streets.
Plainville? Claude shook his head, suffused with sadness. No, indeed.
Arkham. Why, he could smell the legends.
He stopped a hooded citizen whose face was deathly white, and inquired, in what he trusted was a callow fashion, "Where, pray tell, might I find Miskatonic U.?"
The creature pointed with a shaking finger to a wavering gray stone mansion, eaten by moss and consumed by years. It stank of decay. "Go half a mile down Providence Road, turn off at Lonely Yew Lane, go past Hangman's Corner, take thirteen steps and take a left at Sorcerer's Nook. You can't miss it."
"Clear as crystal," Claude said. "It is good to hear plain English again, and I offer my thanks."
The pale citizen pulled his hood across his face.
Claude shifted his satchel of school books, sighed with both excitement and resignation, and made his way down the cobble-stoned hill.
The game, he knew, was now afoot.
The Dean of Admissions was having trouble with his ice cream. The bats hanging in the rafters kept dropping ghastly pods into it. He stroked his lantern jaw and wiped his wig with a soiled cloth.
"Ah, Smada," he intoned. "No need for transcripts here. We rather pride ouselves on a certain informality."
Claude could hardly approve of that, but he held his tongue. Haste, as he had often observed, made waste.
The Dean picked up a quill pen, dipped it in some dark fluid, and scratched his initials on an official-looking parchment sheet: HPL. "Take this document to my assistant, whom you will find in the next chamber. He will be overjoyed to show you about. We receive few fresh students these cheerless days. Besides, it is his job."
Claude bowed. It would not do to push this informality craze too far. He made his exit.
It was then, in the ominous silence, that he first heard the Noise. It was a tap-taptapping, distant and vague. As of someone rapping? No, it was more of a clicking sound…
The man in the next room proved to be a bit of an enigma. He was as big as an ox, barrel-chested and wire-haired, and he had the massive leathery hands of a wrestler. However, his voice was astoundingly pleasant and cultured, enhanced by a slight lisp. "You are the Dean's assistant?" Claude asked.
The man nodded. "To be more exact," he said, conspiratorially, "I'm a good deal more than that. The old boy loves his craft, but he wouldn't be where he is today, in fact, without yours truly."
"You are Dr.-"
"Nameless," the man said, scanning the parchment. "A new student?" He grinned toothily. "Why, we haven't had one for over a year! Perhaps you would like to examine a course schedule?"
"I would," Claude said. One must play the role. "But first I would be grateful to learn about that Noise I hear. It seems to be coming from below."

The giant man frowned. "You mean a sort of tap-tap-tapping?"
"Yes, that's it."
"I hear nothing." Dr. Nameless picked Claude up by the shirt and held him a bare inch from his, Nameless's, face. "There is no Noise," he said, not without meaning.
"But," Claude swallowed. "But-well, come to think of it, you're right."
Dr. Nameless put Claude down. "Now, just you take a gander at the course schedule. Then I think we ought to visit the stadium." He winked. "I know about you lads. All is not dry scholarly book work here at Miskatonic U., you may be sure. We have our share of hearty outdoor activities."
"Hearty, eh?" Claude responded with feigned enthusiasm.
He studied the course schedule. It was not without a certain fascination. It listed all of the courses offered at Miskatonic, and named all the department chairmen.
His keen eye was caught by the title of a biology class, Serological Genetics. It was taught by a count, no less. He was also intrigued by the copy concerning the Student Health Center. It read: "Dr. Jekyll, MWF. Mr. Hyde, TT."
And then there was Professor Monk Lewis, of the Department of Anthropology. A chap named Hodgson, Associate Professor of Marine Fungi. A mathematics class restricted to very young girls, taught by a Professor Carroll. A course in monstrous electrodes, of all things, offered by an assistant professor with the curious name of Dr. Frank N. Stein.
Claude's attention strayed. He had but scant interest in academics. "Onward to the stadium!" he cried with youthful vigor.
"Yes, indeed," said Dr. Nameless agreeably. "Boys will be boys, and all that. I believe that Cleve will join us about now. Can't get enough of it."
"Cleve?"
"You will share a room with Cleve. Lots of fun. Been with us several semesters, you know."
Sure enough, Cleve appeared on cue. Cleve was completely cloaked in a rather garish robe adorned with purple tassels. A sophomore, at least.
"Pleasedtameetcha," Cleve intoned.
"Likewise, I'm sure," Claude said.
Cleve? The diminutive of Cleveland, no doubt. Well, no matter.
They strolled to a large, though rickety, grandstand at the far end of the weedchoked campus. It was jammed with students, most of them bearing waxen expressions.
Claude could no longer hear the tap-tap-tapping. Somehow, he was glad.
"Nice turnout," he ventured, slapping at a low-flying bat with his beanie. "I confess that I like school spirit."
"We have them," Cleve said.
Claude edged along a slat and sat down next to a sallow youth who was munching candy skulls.
On the greensward there were four spindle-shanked men, all well advanced in years. They held olive branches. Otherwise, the gridiron was deserted.
"Are we early," Claude asked of his increasingly taciturn guides, "or are we late?"
"Neither," said Dr. Nameless. He was slowly crushing a cloth effigy with his thumbs. "The game is about to begin."
"Yay," said Cleve. "Hoo, boy."
There was a surging wail from the assembled multitude.
"The mascots!" Dr. Nameles screamed.
From a manger at one end of the field an immense number of kids appeared. They were led by a maternal looking nanny.
"Don't tell me," Claude sighed. "The Goat with a Thousand Young."
"Ygdrsll! Ia, ia, ia!" cried Dr. Nameless, losing control. "Now look!"
Claude looked. A cloud of diaphanous girls drifted out and took their stations. They gyrated.
"Virgins," Dr. Nameless hissed. "We require them for our matriculation ceremonies."
"Cheerleaders," Cleve explained.
"Watch!" yelled the giant Dr. Nameless. He shook Claude until his, Claude's, teeth rattled. Really, the man was positively beside himself.
Claude watched. The four old men clutched one another, fanning the air with their olive branches. Then, through an arch at one end of the stadium, four more figures charged onto the field.
They were dressed all in black. They had hoods. They also had battle-axes in their hands.
A red fire truck roared across the arena, bells clanging.
"What's that?" Claude whispered.
Dr. Nameless put a sausage finger to his lips. "It's symbolic," he said. The figures in black overwhelmed the old men, trampling the olive branches. The goats bleated.
The virgins ripped off their gowns and grabbed megaphones. "Now!" shrilled Dr. Nameless. He was hysterical with school pride. "Give 'em the ax," the megaphones implored.
The crowd took up the chant. "Give 'em the ax, the ax, the ax! Give 'em the ax, the ax, the ax!"
Claude closed his eyes. He had never been what you might call the queasy type, but- The figures in black had given the old men the ax.
"I do believe," Claude said to his escorts, "that I would like to be shown to my room."
While the candle flames fluttered and the dank wind banged against the shutters, Claude abandoned his pose of innocence. He assumed Command.
"Cleve," he snapped, "there will be no sleep this night. Do you hear the tap-taptapping? Do you hear the Noise?"
Cleve twirled the tassels on the robe. "What Noise, Smada? Many are the freshman who have imagined what you call a tap-tap-tapping. From the basement vaults, so the tale is told…"
Claude had no time to waste. He boxed Cleve one on the ear. "Now do you hear it?"
"I hear it, I hear it!" Cleve admitted. "But I like it where we are, in our cozy room. Observe the elegant chamber pots-"
"Thunder mugs be damned!" Claude barked. "Fire the tapers, unleash the hounds!"
"We have no pigs," Cleve quavered. "We have no dogs."
"Not tapirs, tapers!" Torches! Don't they teach you anything in this place?"
"I know much," Cleve insisted. "You will see."
"Come, then! To the catacombs!"
Down the winding, moss-covered steps they went. Their shadows danced behind them, mournful arabesques…
That infernal tap-tap-tapping. It beat a tattoo in Claude's brain. He would get to the bottom of this. And when he did-.
They passed the bent-backed man who tended the furnaces. His name was lettered on his coveralls: Bram Stoker.
With torches guttering, they swept by a beautiful scientist and his mad daughter. Some barbarous experiment was in progress.
They burst through a massive creaking door, older than time, and there it was.
Seated at a heavy desk enclosed in a scarlet pentagram was a bearded man. He was tap-tap-tapping on a toy typer. The echoes in the cavernous vault magnified the Noise.
"Kapital!" the bearded man chorted. "Kapital!"
"Your name?" Claude demanded imperiously.
"I belong to the family of Marx," the man said with some asperity. "Not one of those pitiful louts whose given names terminate with a vowel, but-"
"Karl," stated Claude knowingly.
"The same," Karl Marx admitted proudly. "Whoever you may be, I implore you not to touch that edifice." He gestured toward a precariously tilted structure that was bent over his desk. The thing seemed to be constructed of triangular slices of Italian cuisine. On top of it rested a balding head that fairly reeked of formaldehyde. "If it should collapse and come into contact with the pentagram, there will be Hell to pay."
"What is it?" Claude asked despite himself.
"It is the famous Lenin Tower of Pizza," Karl Marx explained. "A monument to my works."
"Balderdash," Claude commented.
"The word of an exploiter," Marx snorted. "The propertied classes are smug in their layers of lard. What do the downtrodden peasants know? I am the only one to divine the formula that will save them from their misery. By unleasing the plague of fantasy in the pitiless halls of the money changers, I have driven a wedge-"
"I did not come here," Claude said shortly, "to savor the rehashed fragments of a dreary lecture."
It was not simply that sociology bored him. The instant that Marx had opened his beard-stuffed mouth, Claude had realized that this was not the quarry he sought. To reach the true source of trouble, he must dig deeper.
Much deeper.
With Claude, to think was to act.
Grabbing Cleve's shrouded arm, he delivered a stout kick to the Lenin Tower with his right sneaker.
As the Tower fell, Marx screamed and clutched his toy typer to his bosom. The bowels of the Earth rumbled. Tongues of flame spat up from below. There was a distinct odor of brimstone, not unpleasant…
Holding tightly to Cleve, Claude leaped into the pentagram. While chaos sparked around him, he had a sensation of falling.
"Down, please," Claude murmured.
Claude found himself shoving a considerable boulder up an immense hill.
Momentarily curious, and ignoring the fearful means of Cleve, Claude turned companionably to a fellow worker. "Tedious business," he observed. "How far to the top?"
The wretch could barely get enough room to speak. It was very crowded on the mountain. The heated rock was slippery with sweat.
"There is no top," the doomed soul lamented. "There is no bottom."
Claude was not without pity but he had never admired a quitter. He summoned a fork-tailed fiend. "There has been a slight miscalculation," he informed him.
"That's what they all say," the fiend said mildly.
"My companion and I," Claude went on, undaunted, "wish to be taken to Mr. Big."
The fiend shrugged. "Why not? We have an eternity before us. Go, come, stay. It is all the same to me."
"Get some starch in your ridgepole," Claude chided him. "It is not, I assure you, all the same to me. If you are a true fiend-a fiend in need, so to speak-you will transport us to Mr. Big."
"Nobody hurries here, lad," the fiend said. "Time, we have. However, who am Ito add to your torment? In the final analysis, it can be neither better nor worse."
Sensing a growing impatience on Claude's part, the fiend escorted them to Mr. Big at something a tad faster than a snail's pace. The fiend then withdrew. He could wait. He could wait a long, long time.
Claude faced Mr. Big at last. Finally, an adversary worthy of his skills! "I am Claude Adams," he announced, "and this is my friend. Not fiend. Friend." The Devil had no horns. He was a short, fashionably-dressed man with thick glasses. He was quite busy. "Call me Tony," he said in a friendly, somewhat husky voice. "Be with you in a moment. Time! There is never enough time, even here."
Tony was awash in debris. He was surrounded by books, magazines, expense vouchers, comics, manuscripts, and opera records. He was writing a review. Claude peeked at the book's title: The Corpse's Delight, by S. Orbital Ridges. Tony didn't like it. Feeling that he had been too harsh in his criticism, he concluded: "Excellent sidelights on croquet playing in Wales."
"There," he sighed. "Not always easy to be fair, you know? Taste is such a personal matter. Now, what can I do for you?"
"We have come to make a deal," Claude stated.
"Flatly incredible!" Tony groaned. His voice seemed to emerge from the depths of his chest. "I had hoped for something more original. McComas and I-"
"Who is McComas?" Claude interjected.
Tony waved his manicured hand. "I always begin sentences that way. Pay it no mind. Your proposition?"
Claude did not hesitate. He who hesitated, as he had often, observed, was lost. "Do not mistake me for the callow youth I appear to be," he warned. "I am a man of no little experience.
"McComas and I understand that. Get on with it. I know you of old, Claude Adams."
Claude felt a pardonable pride. His reputation, then, had preceded him. "The essence of a good bargain," he said, "is that both sides profit from it."
"I agree with that. It is, indeed a platitude."
Claude was stung. "I will keep it simple. You are too clever for tricky clauses. I will state my case in plain terms, man to Devil. You will then have no choice."
"McComas and I," Tony said shiftily, "have many choices."
Claude seized the horns, as it were. "Try this one on for size. You are overworked and you are overcrowded. The commies are coming. They will try to organize everything, make you write reviews for the State-"
"McComas won't stand for it!"
"Perhaps, perhaps. But why face the problem at all? If you permit my companion and Ito leave, I will eliminate the difficulty! I am no slouch at population control, as you know, and I can manipulate culture patterns. It will be like old times. No fuss, no bother, you in your kerchief and me in my cap-"
Tony's face flushed. "By gad, sir, you interest me! When McComas and I deal, we deal!"
Claude smiled slyly. "There is-uh-a way out of here?"
"There is a way," Tony assured him. "A bargain, as you say, is a bargain. But it will not be easy."
"It never is," Claude observed. He managed to contain his elation. He knew what was coming. "I am, I assure you, all ears."
"Oh my," said Tony in that distinctive deep voice of his. The Devil told Claude what he had to do. "There is one teensy condition," he concluded.
"Which is?"
"You must not look behind you on the journey. Remember that! Do not look back."
"I will not forget," Claude promised.
With his robed and hooded companion in tow, Claude took his leave.
The side-wheeler splashed through the miasmic murk of the River Styx. The river, of course, was full of stones.
A bewhiskered sailor leaned over the bow-rail, casting a long knotted line. "Ma-a-a-rk Twai-i-i-in!" he bellowed.
At exactly the proper moment, neither too early nor too late, Claude rolled the dice of destiny.
He looked back.
There was a shudder of silence, a skip in the heartbeat of eternity. Then came a blinding flash. Thunder boomed. It was like all the thunder there ever was, or ever could be, all wrapped up in the fireflies of an Illinois summer's twilight.
It rained strawberries.
Claude found the results quite gratifying. He stepped ashore on an Earth of desolation. He was up to his armpits in corpses and rotting strawberries.
"Unhappy world," he mused. "The paradox of the Solor System. For rebirth, we require abortion. To live in glory, it is necessary to become one with the worm."