A Matter of Perspective, part one.

It was a bright, serene sort of Thursday morning and John Edward Grey had just gotten up to enjoy a light breakfast.

It was also a beautiful morning, Grey mused as he sipped vanilla tea and enjoyed his toast over todays paper. The birds were singing outside, the sun was shining, and he could even tolerate the music on the morning radio. He was sitting in his well-maintained, wood-coloured kitchen in his bathrobe and, well, taking it easy. It was such a nice morning he didn't want to waste it. He wouldn't have to be at work until ten o'clock, and he could fix those darn English essays some other day. He disliked rating essays. One the one hand it seemed like putting a mark on someone's thoughts, which went against Grey's principles, and on the other hand he absolutely hated reading page after page of stupidities half-arranged in a mockery of an essay.

The doorbell rang ominously. Grey rose up, taking the piece of toast and the morning paper with him as he tottered to the door, thinking about whether the Dean of Admissions would want to talk about the department budget today.

He opened the door.

Outside on the porch stood the dread Demon Lord Beliagor, Pit-Lord of the Hell of Ice, Commander of the Infinite Legions of Sorrow, Devourer of Souls, and Master of the Anguished Infernal City of Haleros. His form, which towered full two meters over Grey's head, was clad in dark blue fire and radiated a chill so terrible no mortal could bear its full strength; his eyes gleamed with a malicious red flame and he was surrounded by an aura of palpable darkness, meant to strike fear into the hearts of the devout. His wings, massive and leathery, spread like two colossal shadows from his back, and in his hands were the weapons of the Endless Winter, the great mace and the two-edged sword.

Grey thought about this for a moment. He was vaguely aware that he was supposed to say something, but 'How can I help you?' seemed sort of unsatisfactory.

'Err,' he said.

'YOU WILL ACCOMPANY ME, MORTAL,' the Demon Lord bellowed, its voice like the rumbling of distant thunder and deep like the ocean.

'Eh?' said Grey.

'TO HELL. I AM TO TAKE YOU... TO HELL,' it croaked. Flames burst out of its nostrils. It flapped its wings and the echo of that sound reverbated in the air like a corrupt wind, just below the range of human senses.

'Um. Yes. Well, about that... can I get dressed first? I'm in my bathrobe and all,' the professor explained and very carefully put down the toast and the paper, 'so you see how that could be a bit of a bother.'

The Demon Lord seemed to think about this. The shadow it cast seemed to strech over all the living things in Grey's garden and suck the life out of them.

'YOU MAY. I WILL WAIT,' it said.

Grey nodded, closed the door very gently and walked to the drawers in his bedroom. He got dressed, very quietly and very slowly, in his every day work clothes (a pair of conservative grey trousers, a white formal shirt and a cardigan). Then he threw on his old, dusty trenchcoat, dug up all the amulets, talismans and magical artifacts he could muster, concealed them inside his pockets, and slipped out of the bedroom window. He landed on the petunias in the backyard (and actually felt a small pang of regret over the fact).

'Hi, Grey,' said somebody as he was about to stealthily make his way to his car.

Grey turned around in the way that people caught in the act always turn around, with a kind of an embarrased, not-quite-succesfully-casual look on his face.

'Er. Umm. Hello there, Imp,' he said, an undercurrent of irritation in his voice.

'I thought you might try and slip out of the back window.' Imp said. She was leaning on a tree not far from the fence, and was examining what looked like a football with the fascination of somebody who doesn't get out much and is trying to figure out all kinds of esoteric uses to something they found on the side of the road.

'You're standing on my flowers, Imp,' Grey sighed.

'Oh. Sorry about that. Instinct. Can't help it,' the girl explained and backed away.

'Think nothing of it. Er. Hm. Aren't you supposed to be hanging out with St. Germain?'

'We're taking a break. And anyway, I'm here on business,' Imp said, sounding exceptionally formal and important. 'Official evil business.'

'I see.'

'Listen, Grey, uh,' Imp said and seemed a bit embarrased. 'We're here to sort of pick you up and drop you off at the City of Dis. You know? Hell? Sixth Level? Heretics and unbelievers? Nasty place, but not unsurvivable, so we've picked that, and there's some...'

'Wait, wait, wait. Isn't this against the rules?' Grey asked, peevishly. 'I mean... I might not be bloody St. Thomas Aquinas, and I admit to not having given to charity this year, but fundamentally I cheer for the other team, yes? You're not supposed to just swoop down and pick me up and whatever it is that you things do to people. It's against the rules. The arrangement. The scheme of things. At least that's what John Dee told me and he should know.'

Imp seemed to go over this for a long, torturous moment. Then the light of realization hit her eyes and she smiled. 'Oh, cheer for the other team is, like, you're with God's crew and not our crew?' she asked, playing with the football.

'Well, not exactly, but yes. That would be the general idea. I'm with the good guys, to the degree I'm with anybody in this whole mess. So may I ask... has the Morningstar gone insane and thrown away the rulebook, or is this a misunderstanding of some sort? I mean... it's not like you'd need to hire a time-travelling magician or anything. And I wouldn't work for you anyway. It would be bad for my record. Karmic and professional.'

'Um, look, Grey. I'm perfectly willing to admit that this is all a wee bit unorthodox...'

'You don't say?'

'... and quite suspicious if you're a mortal like you are, and that if a demon suddenly appeared on my porch and told me I was going to go to Hell I'd be a tiny bit spooked too. But this is all good. You see, we just want you to go to Hell for a little while. Not permanently. It might even be a good career move.'

A car rolled by. It was Mr. Beedley who lived two buildings down from Grey's house. He was an insurance inspector and a bore, and Grey secretly hated him with gusto. The professor smiled and waved his hand cheerfully at the man has he drove past, and then turned back to face Imp. He cast a glum look at her. 'Go on... and spare me the puns, please.'

'Right, our job... ahem, well...' Imp said and prepared herself for a preplanned speech. She waved her hand dramatically and intoned, in a very reverent tone of voice 'Know, o mortal...'

'Imp, please. Can we dispense with the formalities?' the professor pleaded. 'I'd just really, really like to know why I'm going to the Sixth Level of Hell.'

'Okay, okay. Cripes. You're crouchy, Grey. You should stop eating red meat. It makes people aggressive and... okay, okay. Well, the thing is, there is a disagreement over Heaven and Hell over a soul, and there seems to be something like a bet involved, and we need a neutral party to moderate for us. Since we couldn't get anybody else...'

'Oh, joy.'

'... we sort of decided on you. Listen, why don't you come with me and talk to the other party and get this entire thing sorted out. There's going to be a few angles there to corroborate this story. No strings attached. You know we'd get our butts kicked if we tricked you in something like this. Raphael and Michael would be on the warpath. There'd be negotiations. Strife. Nobody wants another pointless conflict between the two big departments of the afterlife. And the Morningstar is a gentleman, right?'

Grey spent a few minutes digging up a cigarette from the pocket of his trenchcoat and very, very slowly lighting it. He didn't smoke. Not as such. He didn't believe in smoking. But he needed a few minutes to think and what the heck, this was something like a stress situation. He was convinced, for some vague reason, that it would be excusable for an English teacher to smoke at least one cigarette if demons came up and wanted to take him to the Underworld.

'Oh, allright,' he finally said, sighing. He really, really had hoped to avoid acknowledging the facts, but facts always got to him. It was in his nature. 'Okay then. Take me to Hell. It's not like I can do anything about it, with that godawful... thing sitting on my porch and you sitting there. I can't run. But if I won't find an angel in the City of Dis who can prove the veracity of your story, I'm going to file a complaint.'

'Cool!' said Imp, and snapped her fingers.

The world melted away.

It was a bright, serene sort of morning in Hell, Satan thought as he listened to Tchaikovsky. They were waiting for the chosen mortal in one of the many lounges of the Palace of Sorrow.

He could hear the screaming and wailing of the lost souls in the gentle morning wind. The sound mixed with the music and soothed him. The stench of rot, death and decay festered in the air like a heavy, suffocating cloud. Occasionally some fire and bits of brimstone fell from the bleak, black skies upon the charred earth. Just to keep everybody on their toes. It was indeed a pretty nice day on Dis, the Sixth Level of Hell.

He drew on his joint and let the smoke penetrate him. Man, this was pretty good stuff. Better even than the stuff the hashishim used to have during the Crusades. And that was saying a lot.

Satan didn’t look like the Prince of Hell, as such. There were no horns, no pitchfork, and no trace of a goatee. He wasn’t red and black. Instead, he was a very pleasant-looking, even handsome sort of fellow who favoured neat but casual clothing. He liked to make a good impression on people. After all, when one was a former angel one liked to keep up certain standards. He had, admittedly, terminated that particular business relationship in a less-than-polite manner. And then, metaphysically speaking, grabbed a piña colada and Rock & Rolled straight down to Perdition, never looking back. But one liked to keep certain standards. Tchaikovsky in the air, good bourbon, a few good, interesting people to hang around with, and European cotton suits were all part of a certain je-ne-sais-quoi which Satan felt was absolutely necessary in life.

Still, even in Hell, he could occasionally sample pleasures from Heaven which outdid these earthly distractions. Satan reminded himself not to get used to it, however. He had taken a lot of angels with him when he began The Serious Disagreement and God, he could swear, had the memory of an elephant. He wouldn’t be getting many visitors from Upside any time soon.

‘This is some pretty fine weed you have here, Jophiel,’ Satan said and chuckled.

‘Best weed in all Creation. Trust me,’ the Archangel said smiling. He was stoned out of his skull.

Jophiel was a large man with long grey hair, and looked something like a punk rocker or a retired hippie. He wore wide, scruffy trousers, a khaki shirt and something like a tweed jacket. He had a raspy voice and wore sunglasses for some reason or other. He, like Satan, was smoking Weed from Heaven and sat in a relaxed way, slumped in one of the comfortable chairs Satan liked to keep in case he had visitors. He didn’t like the music or the general flavour of Hell. Still, it was a welcome change from all those hymns. Jophiel didn’t know if he especially liked hymns. They tended to get old real quick.

‘We’re here!’ said Imp cheerfully and waved her hand.

‘Oh,’ said Satan and turned to face Imp and a very befuddled looking Grey. ‘Welcome to Hell, Dr. Grey. I’ll be your Prince of Darkness for the evening. I understand you wanted an angel to be present to corroborate our story. He is present, as you can see. I hope the trip wasn’t too rough.’

Grey looked around, shot a suspicious glance at smiling Satan, and said something polite but incoherent. He had been to Hell once before, and was grateful that this time they were all nicely indoors. The local weather was, Grey had found out, fairly unpleasant if you happened to be mortal and not much into dying in terrible agony.

‘Hi, Grey,’ said Jophiel and waved his hand at the doctor.

‘Archangel Jophiel,’ Grey said and nodded formally. It paid to be polite to angels. You never knew when you needed an Archangel, Spirit of the Sign of Mercury and a Messenger of the Eight Choir of Angels on your side.

Satan and the Archangel giggled and snorted.

Grey raised an eyebrow and noticed the joints.

‘Oh, for the love of…’ he began.

‘Sorry doc,’ the angel said, ‘it’s the Weed from Heaven. Shall we sober up, Sam?’ he continued, glancing at Satan.

‘Sam?’ Satan said and chuckled, ‘Come on. Manners, Jophiel, manners! Call me Lucifer or something a bit more appropriate. And yes, I guess we should sober up for the sake of our guest.’

‘Agreed,’ the larger man said and stored his joint in the pocket of his khaki shirt.

Then they sobered up.

‘Well,’ said a now much-more-sober Satan, ‘Now that that’s over with… Professor Grey, I understand Imp here told you why you have been summoned to Hell?’

‘She…’ Grey began, and glanced around again trying to get his bearings. He was all composed and calm, but to be honest this didn’t happen just every day. ‘She… told me that there has been another bet between Heaven and Hell and I’m supposed to be a neutral moderator.’

Imp beamed. Another job well done.

‘Indeed,’ said Jophiel, ‘The Almighty has sent me here as a representative. Consider me a spectator. I’m also the guarantee that everything Satan tells you is true and that you won’t be harmed – and of course, that old Sammy here won’t try to fix the cards on his favour.’

‘So what’s the bet?’ the Professor said.

‘A living human soul,’ Satan said. ‘I want you to measure and evaluate the worthiness of somebody.’

‘Well… who is he? What’s his name?’

‘A man named Fawst. Johannes Fawst.’

‘Oh, that’s real subtle,’ Grey said apprehensively and glanced at Imp and Jophiel who were politely standing in the margins and looking on amiably if a bit formally, giving the impression that they were not to blame and that if Grey would just co-operate this would go fairly smoothly and painlessly and he could get back to his toast real soon.

‘Yup,’ said Jophiel, after a small, uncomfortable silence. ‘That’s about it. The guy Sam... well, Lucifer here talks about sold his soul in exchange for power, but was later pardoned from all his sins by a cleric theoretically within his rights to do so. Now, said cleric was ignorant of the devil-pact, and now there's some confusion with where he should actually go.'

'Oh, joy,' Grey said and dug up another cigarette from his trenchcoat pocket. One of these days, he mused, he should really, really learn not to open the door for these people.

‘I’m not the right person for this job,’ Grey complained to Jophiel as they were preparing for Fawst’s trial at the Infernal Court Chamber. It was a large, threatening sort of room which frightened him on some level. There were chains, stone tables and grotesque furniture all over. It was all very Hellish, really, if a bit clichéd. It probably dated back to the Medieval Ages. People had had very definite conceptions of what a proper Hell should look like back then, and lots of Dis’s architecture had been inherited from that period.

‘I’m afraid this is how it is. You were picked,’ Jophiel said and patted him on the back. He was as informal as ever, and smelled faintly of marihuana. Somehow Grey wasn’t reassured by the fact that the Archangel didn’t mind Hell as much as most of the other celestials he had come across. On the other hand, he didn’t mind anything unless it was a sin of some sort.

‘Well, you could’ve picked someone else,’ Grey said.

‘It was clean out of my hands.’

‘Isn’t that what Pilate said?’

‘You’re being mean, John. I mean… it’s not as if I wanted this job. But I got it, and now I’m here to sit through this thing and try and sort it out. Thing is, even we don’t really know where we want this guy to go – he should basically remain here in Hell, but on the other hand, we try to get as many people as we can just on principle. The Big Man Himself… well, He didn’t give me much in the way of instructions so I’m assuming I am to claim Fawst’s soul for the side of light. But in the end, it’s you they picked. So you decide.’

‘They?’

‘Well, yeah,’ Jophiel said, looking somehow guilty.

They were spared of an uncomfortable silence by the opening of the great twin doors which led out into the City of Dis. The entire chamber bathed in the red light of Hell, and a booming voice (Beliagor’s, Grey thought) announced the arrival of Satan.

He sauntered in like a good infernal C.E.O, Imp and an unknown toad-like demon in his wake, and slumped into the largest of the horned stone thrones. A faint scent of sulphur permeated the room.

‘Hello, Satan,’ Grey said.

‘Hello, Dr. Grey. Are we ready to begin the argument?’ Satan asked politely.

Grey glanced at the angel, who shrugged. ‘We’re ready,’ they said.

‘Excellent,’ Satan exclaimed and clapped his hands. ‘Assistant, if you please?’

The toad-like demon walked to a small table (which looked like an unholy sacrificial altar) where lay a large office projector device, the kind which Grey knew well and had a love-hate relationship with. The monster unceremoniously struggled with the device for a moment, finally turning and shrugging at the assembled crowd. It obviously wasn’t working.

‘Oh, for the love of Evil,’ said Imp and snapped her fingers. The projector was suddenly consumed by a gout of fire, instantly turning into a laptop-operated electronic model, complete with a famous window-based operating system.

The toad-demon smiled and turned it on. It worked flawlessly. Grey arched an eyebrow.

‘What?’ said Imp and looked at Grey quizzically.

‘Are we ready?’ Satan asked from the sidelines, obviously displeased at the delay, ‘I’m trying to damn somebody here.’

‘We’re ready,’ Imp said, smiling. ‘Right. Subject is Johannes Fawst. He is an infernalist, hedonist, evil-doer and a general abomination in the eyes of the Lord. Perfect lost soul. In exchange for his immortal soul, he mostly wanted cash, power, adoration of his fellow human beings, and lots of naughtiness with pretty office girls. And he was really pleased to sign said soul away for afore-mentioned articles. Fairly standard damnation, I’d say…’

Images and photographs flickered on the screen as Imp pushed the button on a small remote operator. They showed a middle-aged, round gentleman with pleasant features and thin hair. Not somebody you’d think of as an evil-doer or an abomination, sure, but Grey had never put too much stock in appearances. Besides, many pictures showed him in an expensive suit. The professor didn’t trust anybody who wore more money on his back than he earned in a month.

‘… but he’s also something like an Evil Lite,’ Imp continued professionally. ‘Never killed anybody. Never lusted overmuch and in general tended to shy away from Mortal Sins. A bit boring, really. Preferred small animal sacrifice instead of human sacrifice. Cats, dogs, budgies…’

Grey frowned. He detested people who tortured small animals. Maybe this person would like an infinity in Hell.

‘You guys take budgies?’ Jophiel asked incredulously and lighted a cigarette. He had a Walkman in his pocket, its earphones around his neck and Grey could distantly hear the psalms being sung.

‘Please, Jophiel, you’ll get your turn,’ Satan said.

‘Fair enough. Can I smoke here?’

‘Knock yourself out. As I was saying…’ the demoness continued, ‘This guy isn’t all that bad as such. So we’d be lenient if – and I say if – he hadn’t sold us his soul. We’ve got the contract here. Could you display it to them, sir? There. And this here…’ – click – ‘… is a magnification of that contract, signed in blood by Johannes Fawst five years before his death. I myself handled the preliminary phase of the negotiations, being summoned in a pentagram and all that.’

‘And I, naturally, accepted and ratified the treaty. It’s all there in black and white. Well, red and pale brown, at the very least,’ Satan added.

It was an impressive contract, meticulously written on ancient parchment with what appeared to be (now dried) blood. It had twirly letters and all. There was also a large coffee stain, and somebody had written their phone number on one of the corners. There were some meeting notes next to it in blue ball-point pen ink, and a smiley.

‘Wait, wait, wait. He’s entitled to see all the upcoming blockbuster movie trilogies before they’re actually complete?’ Grey asked, eying the legions of provisions on the contract. ‘How is that possible?’

‘This is Hell. We can basically do anything. And who do you think is responsible for the concept in the first place?’ Imp said and beamed. ‘We’re very proud, actually.’

‘I bet. So, this person is dead?’

‘Yes. That actually brings us to the point of contention…’ said Jophiel and arranged his papers. He rose up and walked beside the projector.

‘Can I have that? Thank you,’ the Archangel said, clicking the button. ‘Now, this man here is Reverend Utopia Jones, member of the One True Holy Television Congregation of Immaculate Jesus Christ the Savior in South Bedford County, Utah…’

The photograph of Reverend Utopia Jones was old and colourless, and Grey wondered for a while if it was in fact the right photograph. Rev. Jones did not look very… Reverend-like. He had wild hair and a decidedly American white suit, with a massive cross pendant hanging on his neck.

‘… and while he’s not a representative of the correct, one true Christian denomination we in Heaven are pretty ecumenical, so we can’t dismiss him. In fact, he’s crucial to our case because of the death-bed confession. It would appear that… John? Is there something bothering you?’

‘Could you tell me again, which one is the one true denomination?’

The Archangel told him.

Grey thought it over for a second or two.

‘That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,’ he told the angel.

‘Hey, I don’t make up the rules,’ Jophiel said irritably and drew from his cigarette, turning back to the projector. ‘Well anyway, on with the case…’

This is going to be a long, long trial, Grey thought and slumped back on his chair.

Grey was beginning to feel claustrophobic. It was the architecture. He secretly blamed Dante. As for the case itself… it went on and on.

Evidence was put forth on both sides. Imp spoke about the Old Testament, traditional procedure and methodically went through all kinds of sins, large and small, Fawst had committed during his life. She spent hours elaborating on some little evil or oversight and turning it into a point of grave metaphysical importance. Or at least that was the term she used. Grey wasn’t exactly sure. The Devil’s case was legalistic and based on contract and precedent.

Jophiel turned the entire thing into a sermon. Not entirely surprising, considering that he was an archangel and archangels on average tended to be obsessed about morals, especially proper morals. Occasionally the celestial would pause to light another joint, sip some of Satan’s bourbon, or shift through his papers. The Heavenly case appeared to be moral. Jophiel was sorry about the small animals and, at least in theory, didn’t condone extramarital relations unless there was virginal birth and an angelic visitation involved, especially if he himself got to do the, uh, visitation. But Heaven was going to let little things slide, because God was a merciful sort of person.

It all boiled down to a very small handful of things, really. Fawst had apparently been an average office schmuck, going to work every day and watching football on the sports channel every evening. Boredom had eaten his brain, day after day, until one day he had succumbed to temptation and promised his soul to Satan. Imp had duly appeared inside a flaming pentagram and offered Fawst the world. Fawst had settled for wealth, fame and lots and lots of female attention. Then he had repented, and croaked.

‘All right, all right,’ Grey said and rubbed his temples. This was way harder than correcting English exams. Almost as stressful, too. ‘Could you… perhaps try and summarize your positions before I talk to the spirit? I mean… I assume I can speak with him before I retire to make a decision?’

‘Of course, Doctor Grey,’ said Satan and leaned back on his spiked throne, ‘We have him In-Between. Summoning him down here should be easily arranged. Let us try to keep it brief, however. Fawst is still technically not ours so we can’t keep him here indefinitely. But I’m sure we’ll have a few minutes for him to defend himself.’

‘When he contacted Utopia Jones,’ Imp explained, ‘Fawst had already committed his soul to us. I don’t see why Heaven should get him. It’s expressly stated in the rules. Signing a pact with our people damns your soul. No exceptions. It can’t be done. Rule of relativism, set down by the Big Man Himself – you can’t jeopardize religious epistemology by chickening out like this and playing the Everybody Gets Saved card. It’s simply bad deitying and we can’t have that.’

‘He committed no sins grave enough to keep him out of Purgatory,’ Jophiel protested and shrugged. ‘The process was clean. Even your people should see that. He signed the contract, knew he was dying, and then sought out a priest with the power to release him from that bond. We take the Buddhists and the Neo-Pagans and you don’t complain, and some of them have done more or less the exact same thing…’

‘No!’ said Imp. ‘The Buddhists are nothing like this guy here. We’re talking Christian here. We need to go by the book here. And that’s our case. Right, sir?’

Satan nodded.

‘Fact remains, however, that no such sins as would…’ Jophiel began.

‘Greed? Lust? Fawst had some sadistic tendencies,’ Imp said and raised two fingers.

‘Come on. Give the guy a break. Those are fundamentally built-in qualities,’ Jophiel rasped and spread his hands apologetically. ‘He got pardoned by the head of a church, for Christ’s sake…’ said Jophiel, then realized he had inadvertently blasphemed, and made the sign of the cross, as a kind of contrition even as he continued ‘…regardless of the fact that said Church isn’t much more than a trailer and a public access TV studio, with about three hundred snake-loving adherents with bad haircuts.’

‘Wrath? Envy? You saw how he underhandedly discredited his boss,’ the demoness continued, raising two more fingers. While Imp was normally an upbeat and cheerful person, she took her chosen trade seriously and, Grey thought, was handling all this pretty professionally. Satan was looking on from the margins, absent-mindedly chewing on a small red pencil (the letters on the side spelled ‘Hell, Serving All Your Damnation Needs – 6HB’)

‘Don’t you have that guy here?’ Jophiel said and pointed to a pile of papers on the table where he had, among other things, a file on Fawst’s boss.

‘Yes. We also have Wagner. What’s your point?’ Imp riposted.

There was a small silence. The archangel coughed.

‘All I have to say is that while Reverend Jones might not have had the official authorization from Up High, he had the necessary faith and the blessing of his…’ Jophiel hesitated, ‘…uh, church-type-thing to back up his pardon. Faith should be quite enough, and in the end I think Mr. Fawst has both. He genuinely repents. He’s a bit low on the works department, but we can theoretically let that slide this one time. It’s not like we have no sympathy for humanity. Heaven has gotten a lot of criticism for being too orthodox on its policy, but as you can see we’re not above bending the rules for a good cause. I mean, that’s what it’s all about. Just ask Jesus. He’ll tell you about working on the Sabbath and stuff like that. I mean… half the world dresses in clothes made of both wool and linen, and there’s virtually no smiting! So… so that’s our case.’

‘Just to reiterate,’ Imp said and sat down on her chair, ‘you can’t change some things. Otherwise you risk making the whole thing irrelevant. Good and evil isn’t a question of point of view, or at least thus goes Heaven’s argument, and I think we should all stick by that. What’s done is done and Fawst clearly lacks the works and the perquisite righteousness to qualify for Heaven. In fact, his sins and the fact that he, you know, sold his soul to us should put him squarely in our camp. God set these rules down, and He shouldn’t try to go around them just to cheat and take away a soul that’s clearly ours. We get dibs on him. Religious precedent. That’s our case.’

Then they turned, expectantly, toward Grey who was just recovering from a long, zombie-like stupor, of the kind you get from listening to a long, boring economics lectures about the Laffer curve or disequilibrium mathematics. His back ached and he hadn’t eaten any proper food all day. Who would’ve guessed Hell was such an uncomfortable place? The stone seat was killing him.

‘Um, thank you, Imp and Jophiel. You make very compelling cases. Now, could we talk to Fawst himself?’ he said in a very tired voice. ‘I think we should listen to the man now. His testimonial is, after all, what matters most, I think.’

‘All right, Dr. Grey. If every would care to step back and make some room…’ Satan said and snapped his fingers.

A great fiery pentagram manifested on the floor. From it a shadow-like thing slowly rose up, as if it was clawing its way up from a bottomless pit. Grey could vaguely recognize Fawst – he was dressed in remnants of a black suit, probably the one they had buried him in. The ex-infernalist looked frightened, even terrified.

‘Please don’t let them take me! I’ll do anything! Save me, save me from Hell!’ he cried with a broken voice.

‘Err,’ Grey said.

‘Um, Mr. Fawst, Professor Grey here is an outside specialist. He has been given the task of settling your case,’ Satan said very politely and formally. ‘I must ask you to calm yourself so you can…’

‘Save me! Save me from Hell! Save me from eternal torment!’ screamed the ghost.

‘Umm,’ Grey began.

‘I didn’t mean it! It wasn’t even fun! I swear, I never got kicks out of all that stuff I got kicks from!’ the shade bellowed. ‘Save me from the demons! It was just my name, just my name! I never gave them my social security number…’

Jophiel grimaced. Imp looked faintly nauseous.

‘Err.. Mr. Fawst?’ Grey tried again.

‘I didn’t mean it when I killed those animals! They were just puppies and kittens! You gotta believe me, man! I was just an office rat trying to make it in a bad world and now it’s all gone and I don’t know if I can… oh, man, you have to save me, I beg you! Save me from the demons! They’re going to make me listen to eighties pop music! And then they’re going to lock me up in a box and burn me alive!’ the shade rambled on.

‘Umm,’ Grey said.

Slowly the ghost fell down through the floor, and the burning pentagram disappeared. Fawst’s ghost was gone, banished back into Limbo.

‘It would appear that Mr. Fawst’s testimony wasn’t as… coherent… as we would’ve wanted,’ Satan said, raising an eyebrow. He didn’t seem especially pleased, and was twiddling the pencil in a manner that suggested mild irritation. ‘I’m so sorry, doctor. These things happen.’

‘I understand. He, uh, must be going through a lot, I’d imagine,’ Grey said, clearing his throat, and shot a glance at Jophiel, who just shrugged.

‘Well, yes, he’s dead and possibly going to Hell,’ Satan acceded. ‘I think we can forgive him. Doctor Grey… I must now ask you to prepare your decision. We’ve arranged a room for you to contemplate all the facets of the case in private. I understand this isn’t something one takes lightly, so you should feel free to think as long as you want. We can wait.’

‘I understand. Er. Where is this…?’ the doctor began, but the toad-like servitor demon had already opened a side door and was gesturing for Grey to enter. It was a very polite gesture from something which looked like a crossbreed between a toad and a decomposed goblin. Grey glanced at Imp (who gave him an encouraging nod), the Archangel Jophiel, and finally Satan. Then he walked through the door into emptiness.

The doors closed behind him with a loud bang.

What a day, he thought. What a day.

Grey was smoking a cigarette, standing in a vast, empty darkness. Shadows arched above and below him like living… uh, shadows. The only solid, concrete object here was the door which led back into the trial chamber. The doctor wasn’t entirely sure how long it had been – minutes, hours?

His first instinct had been a low-key revulsion of sorts, a reaction at having have had to witness all of Fawst’s sins in excruciating detail. Yet, Imp had been right – Fawst was a light sort of evil. He wasn’t a Hitler, a Pol Pot or a Ronald McDonald figure. His sins in the grand scheme of things seemed to Grey petty and, well, banal. After all, when you had traveled through time and had seen, first hand, the Holocaust, Manifest Destiny, the savagery of the Aztecs, marauding British football fans… you developed a sense of proportion, and a thoroughly cynical sort of conception about humanity. Grey usually didn’t let that interfere with his rational faculties unless Mr. Beedley the insurance inspector was involved.

To his mild discomfort, Grey eventually found that he was internally more concerned about the cats and dogs and budgies than about whether Fawst had cheated on somebody, or ruined a career, or extorted his co-worker, or sold his soul to Satan in exchange for power and glory.

‘It must be all the time travel. It’s numbing my moral compass,’ Grey said to nobody in particular and lighted another cigarette. He was getting old, perhaps a bit too old to be a neutral moderator between Heaven and Hell. It was an awfully stressing job and the architecture of Hell, he could almost bet, had been engineered in the beginning of time solely for the purpose of discomforting him personally.

The doctor began pacing around the hollow darkness of Hell’s waiting room. Or maybe it was an infernal broom closet. It sort of smelled like it could’ve been one.

Hell. Here he was, back in Hell. Maybe he’d just go and let Fawst go to Heaven and be done with it. That’s what Jophiel seemed to want, anyway, and in the end one tended to lean in favour of light and eternal life than unending torment in a badly-furnished inferno. I mean… one wouldn’t even want to spend an eternity in Whitechapel, and Hell was at least twice as bad. Almost as bad. And besides, Grey was vaguely aware of the possibility that somebody might be called in to judge his worthiness one day and he was very particular about his karmic balance book.

On the other hand, that might’ve been exactly what Satan wanted. Like Imp had said, the Case of Evil was that some things just had to be done by the book. The Case of Good was that one could bend the rules once in a while. But if one did that, where would it end? Would good and evil become meaningless? A matter of perspective? Was that what Satan wanted to happen – indeed, was that what Satan was out to prove? Grey had been duped by supernatural beings in the past and liked to keep on guard. Especially with Satan. Satan was a tricky bastard. Perhaps this bet was about proving God wrong. Maybe if he let Fawst go to Heaven, Satan could point to one of God’s countless decrees and say that He was breaking his own…

Rules.

The thought stopped the professor fast on his tracks. There were rules to these things.

We just want you to go to Hell… we sort of decided on you.

A terrible sense of danger flushed over Grey like a tidal wave.

There were rules to these things. Very strict rules. Very old rules. His thoughts began to race furiously around his head, and he found that he had to grasp the cigarette better just in order not to drop it. A slight nausea overtook him.

There has been another bet between Heaven and Hell… a living soul… another bet between Heaven and Hell… deathbed confession… it’s you they picked… so Fawst is dead?...they?... a living soul…want you to judge the worthiness of somebody…another bet…we sort of decided on you….a spectator…a spectator…

That was it. But no. It could not be. Unless of course it was. This line of reasoning seemed logical. All things considered. The professor turned to the door, slowly, carefully, as if expecting something to come through at any moment. Probably with very sharp, nasty, long, pointy, heavy-damage-inflicting teeth and horns. Things always crashed in through doors at the point of revelation in horror movies. It’s as if the murderers or monsters felt better killing people who know who or what they were being killed by.

Nothing happened. There was a long, fundamentally silent sort of silence. Soundless, it was. Grey’s heart pounded and he the nausea began slowly settling down.

‘Archangel or not, if I’m right about this I’m going to give him a piece of my mind,’ Grey said angrily and stormed through the twin doors.

---

The immortals were all in the courtroom. Nothing much had changed – the projector had been taken away, probably by the servitor demon, and Satan was going through his papers. Imp and Jophiel were chatting about the weather, politics and the rising price of souls these days. The scent of sulphur still lingered in the air.

“Ahem,” Grey said as the doors swung close behind him. All eyes turned to him, and Satan even stopped chewing on his pencil. They all regarded him politely but intensely expectantly.

Grey said nothing, throwing an accusatory glance toward Jophiel, who blushed.

“Er. Doctor Grey, have you reached some sort of verdict?” Satan asked.

“Yes. Yes I have. Err. I’m not doing it,” Grey said, rather more indignantly than he would’ve wanted to. “I refuse to judge Fawst’s worthiness.”

The immortals glanced at each other, unsure of what to do.

“Grey… uh,” Jophiel began, looking terribly embarrassed.

“Doctor Grey... this is highly unorthodox,” said Satan, “and while this would generally be a positive thing, I must say I don’t quite follow you right at this moment. I understand if you feel discomfort at having to make such an important decision. It’s a lot. I can see that. It’s unfair to even ask you but this is kind of important. Perhaps if we were to give you more time, or provide some more information you could…”

“No,” said Grey, “I couldn’t possibly.”

There was a pause.

“Err. Tempt me not, Satan,” Grey added, just because it seemed appropriate.

“Doctor Grey, if you’d just tell me what...” Satan began, scratching his hair quizzically. There was a degree of polite uncertainty in his voice.

Grey sighed. When he spoke, he spoke as from a grocery list, reciting flatly from rote memory. “Vengeance is mine, says the Lord, and all that. Furthermore, it is written: Do not tempt the Lord your God. Again, it is written: I am the light and the way and the life. And also: None shall pass into Heaven except through me. Do you want me to continue? Because, you see, I have loads of these quotes. So I give up. This is God’s territory. He’s the only one who can actually do this.”

There was yet another embarrassed type of silence.

“Give it up, Sam. He’s got it. Game over,” said Jophiel. On the margins, Imp groaned and shrugged, looking at Satan imploringly. She had no idea what was going on.

“Dang,” said Satan, rolling his eyes and sagging back on his chair. “Alright, you win. Can’t win them all, I suppose, although I did come pretty close. Now, can I just ask…What was it that gave the game away, professor?”

Grey smiled faintly, and paced into the middle of the room. Now was his chance to relate something complex. As an English professor, Grey was naturally inclined toward expounding on things and he liked the attention. It didn’t really matter that his audience consisted of immortals instead of students. In some respects, immortals were better. They had more patience and he was sure even Satan had more upstanding morals than your average English major.

“The first thing which aroused my suspicion was the fact that only devils were sent to fetch me,” Grey began. He had an animated way of explaining things.

“I’m an imp,” Imp remarked.

“Oh, sorry, Imp. Denizens of this here Hell, in any case. My second clue was that this trial was to be held in Hell, not in-between. To your credit, you had a very strong case. It would’ve been logical for Fawst to reside here until his judgment, and therefore for the trial to be held here as well. But Fawst wasn’t here. He was in-between, in Limbo. So why pick the City of Dis if the man’s soul was contested?”

The Archangel nodded, making faces like a small kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Satan smiled and gestured for Grey to continue. Imp looked vaguely embarrassed. She was beginning to catch on.

“This city is where heretics and unbelievers go. It was necessary because it wasn’t Fawst who was on trial here. It was me. You wanted to see if I’d do it, if I’d really usurp the position of God and make a moral judgment about the fate of a soul. Tell me, Satan, am I right?”

“You are mistaken, Dr. Grey!” said Satan, shocked.

“He’s lying,” said Jophiel flatly.

“Oh. Sorry. Instinct. Well alright, you’re entirely correct, Dr. Grey,” Satan corrected himself. “But the fate of your soul was only peripheral. This thing between God and me is ancient, old as time itself. As you are all well aware, my position in the grand scheme of things is rather like that of the Devil’s Advocate, if you pardon the wry humour. My primary preoccupation since the Great Disagreement has been to try and prove that God’s position on a great many things is… unsustainable. One of the questions involved is that of moral relativism. You, Dr. Grey, were a person of sufficient moral and ethical conviction, and yet educated enough in the Holy Writ, that both sides could settle on you without too much difficulty. You were to serve as a… surrogate Job. You were somebody whom we could test. We wanted to see if you’d make independent judgments, and therefore commit heresy, or if you’d rely on God’s omnibenevolent omniscient whatchamacallit.”

Grey nodded slowly. He and Satan just stood there, looking at each other politely but reservedly for a while. It was like watching soldiers come out of the trenches to greet the other side, just after the war has ended: uncomfortable but polite.

“And to set up the charade you had to get Fawst into signing your contract,” Grey said.

“That was elementary. We have more customers than you’d imagine. It was more like a matter of picking somebody with whom you’d have genuine trouble with.”

“Grey? Uhm. Just for the record, I had no idea,” said Imp in the voice of somebody who has just accidentally run over your cat.

“I know, Imp. But you, Jophiel…”

“I had my orders, John. No telling. Keep myself out of the situation. This was Hell’s operation right from the beginning. I was not to interfere except to make sure Sam here won’t tell you lies which would invalidate the…”

“… experiment. I understand. You were a spectator,” Grey said and nodded. “I can’t say I blame you just for obeying orders. And besides, you gave me all the hints you could. Don’t worry about it, Jophiel.”

“Thanks, John,” said the Archangel, visibly relieved.

There was a small silence. “So what happens now?” asked Grey and lighted another cigarette.

Satan shrugged and chuckled. It was the soft, polite laugh of a businessman, somebody who has learned to cope with disappointment a long, long time ago.

“Now you go home, Dr. Grey,” he said.

They were standing in Grey’s garden, enjoying the warmth of the morning sun. Not much time had passed since he had been so rudely teleported into Hell. What in the underworld had seemed like hours, even days, had been about sixty seconds on earth. We can’t have you being late from work, Dr Grey. That’s what Satan had said.

‘No hard feelings?’ asked Jophiel. He and Imp were standing next to him and smoking Weed From Heaven. Its sweet scent permeated the morning air and made Grey think about his youth.

‘No. After all, you were only… doing what you’re supposed to. Being an archangel. Archangeling. Whatever it is that you call it,’ Grey mused. ‘It’s your job and I don’t think you could do otherwise even if you wanted.’

‘So we’re cool,’ said Jophiel. ‘Thanks.’

They walked about the garden for a moment.

‘I really didn’t know what was going on until the end,’ Imp said apologetically, playing with the football again. She was leaning on Grey’s garden fence and accidentally destroying what remained of his petunias.

‘The flowers, Imp?’

‘Oh, sorry.’

‘And don’t worry about it. I’m not a cross man, Imp.’

‘So I’ll see you later, then?’

‘Later, Imp.’

‘Later, foul devil,’ said Jophiel cheerfully and waved his joint at her. She smiled at them sweetly and disappeared, football and all, in a raging fiery inferno, leaving no trace of her presence except for a slight, lingering scent of white cinnabar. Somewhere far away, birds sang. A soft cloud cover was slowly edging across the serene sky. Grey and Jophiel stood in the garden for a time, looking at it.

‘I need to go to work,’ said Grey. ‘The admissions people will want to talk about the department budget.’

‘Well. It is getting kind of late. It’ll be noon soon and I have some sinners to smite,’ Jophiel concurred. ‘So we’ll see each other later?’

‘Later, Jophiel,’ Grey said and nodded, smiling.

‘Later, mortal,’ Jophiel grinned and put out his joint. For a moment, it seemed, the world was alight with a strange fire and in Jophiel’s place stood a shining, powerful creature, tall and featureless, with six magnificent wings of light and bright colour. Then, suddenly, the illusion had passed and Grey was all alone in the garden. He stood there, just for a few moments more, thinking about God and fate and the great Disagreement. Truly, more things existed on this earth than any earthly philosophy could reveal.

Eventually he went inside to prepare for a day of teaching. Outside, his petunias were alive again, as if brought back to life by the very Hand of God.

It proved out to be a bright, serene sort of day.

---

Satan stood upon a black hilltop, overlooking the devastation which was the Sixth Level of Hell. He was alone. It was expected.

A silence fell, slowly, choking the voices of suffering souls. Right on time, Lucifer thought. Best make this little aftermath as brief as possible.

His wings had once been iridescent and majestic, made of light and colour and the bright gossamer of the world-dream. Those had been cut; ripped away when he had fallen down into the Abyss. But he was the Prince of This World. He had… replaced them. The colossal, massive things which broke out of his back were as if they had been made, with delicate care, out of bright and luminous steel. They spread soundlessly and gracefully, and Satan breathed freely once more.

Illusions had been ripped away. Darkness surrounded him like an aura. The outside world seemed suddenly dull, somehow muted. Satan himself had become a creature of living shadow, androgynous and unearthly in the manner of angels, both beautiful and terrible to behold. He – it – could be nothing else. Satan had once again assumed the visage of Samael, the aspect of the Fallen Archangel of Light. This was proper, in the presence of God.

There was a voice which human ears cannot hear or comprehend; it was like the rustling of a thousand leaves or the blowing of a strange, cold wind, icy and merciless. Its passing seemed to transform and move the world itself.

‘Here and there, up and down, wandering the world as usual,’ Lucifer said silently. There was a silence.

‘You know, if you had allowed me to use all the tricks I used with Job, I would’ve won,’ Satan mused and shrugged. ‘But then again… it was not a very good bet. This round was played on your terms. As always. You foresaw it all and forbade your angel to lie. And that’s how I lost the game. It was inevitable if you think about it. We need to pick somebody less knowledgeable next time.’

Again the strange voice came, and a wind brushed through and over Lucifer.

‘True enough. And I concede defeat. But it was still your idea. Not mine. What did you have to prove, I wonder? Nothing escapes you. Doing this on a regular basis is really stupid if I have no chance of actually winning. This… this little debate here was an exercise in futility. Evil is… a matter of perspective. You made it so when you created us. You ensured it when you dropped us here. Job… this was exactly like Job. You know as well as I do that we were never particularly interested in the suffering itself. That was secondary. The point was to get Job to curse you. That was the catch. I wanted to show you that Job could conceive of moral dimensions outside your little book. But no. You had to bring in the Three Stooges and ruin the whole thing. Same thing here. Grey was this close to making a decision. This close. And – boom – the constraints of the experiment, which you yourself defined, give the entire game away.’

There was another silence.

‘You know I still have to ask you this… this thing that I’m about to ask, don’t you? Like I always do? It’s implied. It’s almost… tradition,’ Lucifer said and looked up. There was sadness in his voice now. ‘No matter that I lost this time.’

God did not reply.

Lucifer spread his arms and his artificial metallic wings uncoiled, bathing in the crimson light of the morning sun. The Prince of This World looked up at the sky for a long time, wondering if there was some hope that… no. There wasn’t. But he needed to ask.

‘Father, would you… will you consider…?’ he began. There was no reply, no wind, nothing. Lucifer sighed.

‘Let my people go,’ he said.

But God did not answer him; He was gone from this place. There was only Hell, and its red morning dawn, and the creeping sound of a thousand lost souls in the wind.

Lucifer looked at the sky for a long time, wondering.