If at Faust You Don`t Succeed

CHAPTER 7

Mack and Mephistopheles arrived in Limbo, conjuring themselves into existence at the entrance to a small building on a hill close to where the judgments for the Millennial contest were to be held. "What's this place?" Mack asked.

"This is the Waiting Room of Limbo. I've got a storage facility here where you can store your Botticelli.

Unless you want to sell it to me immediately?" "I think I'd like to hold on to it for a while," Mack said. "So how did I do?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"On the contest, in Florence."

Mephistopheles didn't answer until they were inside. He indicated a room that Mack might use to store his painting. "You didn't get anywhere with trying to get Medici and Savonarola to patch up their quarrel. You get a zero for your ineffectuality."

"But I told Machiavelli not to write The Prince. That was a good thing, wasn't it?"

Mephistopheles shrugged. "We don't know. It's up to Necessity to judge these matters. Good and Bad must remain subservient to What Must Be. By the way, who was that man? He seemed to know you."

"What man?"

"The one who kept Pico della Mirandola from killing you."

"Some nut," Mack said, deciding not to mention Faust. "I have no idea who he was. The painting's nice, isn't it?" Mephistopheles held the painting at arms' length and gazed at it for a while. "Yes, it's very nice. I'll be happy to take it off your hands."

"Not just yet," Mack said. "I'd like to see what the market is worth, that sort of thing."

"A good idea," Mephistopheles admitted. "Here's a spell to get you to London. Don't dawdle, though. We need you for the next appearance."

"Don't worry, I won't be late," Mack said.

Mephistopheles nodded and vanished. Mack looked around the room and found a large metal box with a key in its keyhole. He unlocked it and was about to put in the painting. As he lifted it, he heard a scratching sound under his feet. He stepped hastily out of the way. The floor cracked, a small pick poked through the hole, then was replaced by a shovel. The hole was rapidly enlarged. Soon a diminutive shape clambered out. It was Rognir. "Hi," said Mack, remembering the dwarf from the Sabbat.

"Nice painting," said Rognir. "Where'd you get it?"

"Oh? What were you doing there?"

"I'm in a contest," Mack said. "It's to decide the destiny of mankind for the next thousand years."

"Is that what they sent you to the Renaissance for, to get a painting?"

"I don't really know what they sent me for. I did some other stuff. Bat I gat the painting because Mephistopheles said he'd like one, and he'd pay me a pretty price for it. But I haven't sold it yet. I decided to see what the market's worth."

"He wanted you to get a painting, did he?"

"Sure he did. Since I was going to be there anyway. Sorry, gotta go. I'm due in London next. It's a big one."

"Good luck," Rognir said. "Maybe I'll see you there."

"I look forward to it," Mack said. He hesitated, looking at the hole in the floor. "You're going to clean that up before you leave, aren't you?"

Rognir told him not to worry, his painting was safe. He left musing about just what kind of stupid jerk this guy Mack was. He didn't even know he was being manipulated. The idea of making up his own mind had never occurred to him. He was still trying to please other people. As he'd probably been doing all his life.

And yet, there was something about him that roused an odd bit of sympathy.