None But Lucifer

Chapter VIII

Success, Hale rationalized, when it comes so suddenly and brings so much, needs time and thought to be appreciated. He was happy, without question. There was no reason why he shouldn't be.

First he ordered his landlord to knock out two walls of the gymnasium to make a thirty-by-fifty swimming pool.

Then he had himself measured for a complete wardrobe. That should have given him a kick. It did. He found it exhilarating to be able to choose patterns indiscriminately, knowing that if he disliked any of the finished garments, they could be immediately replaced. He could have gone on buying indefinitely, but it had to end somewhere. By the time he had twenty-five suits, ten hats, a dozen pairs of shoes, and other items in proportion, the process was becoming tedious.

Selecting the first of each article gave him almost the same pleasure he used to get when buying on a forty-a-week budget. Almost, but not quite. He had never at one time owned more than three suits, an overcoat, a topcoat, three hats, and two pairs of shoes. Each additional item had to be chosen with great care, and was very intimate to him in consequence. He knew just which skirts, ties, and socks to wear with each suit.

Now he could let his valet choose his outfits, knowing that the precise Hamilton would never let him wear the same combination oftener than once in three weeks. It was inevitable — and Hale vaguely regretted it — that dressing should no longer be the daily adventure it had been. But Hale was able to rationalize that. It was significant that he could think in no strong terms of enjoyment. He merely thought the enormous wardrobe and the valet to manage it were nice.

The apartment house allowed him basement garage space for four more cars. He bought them. He bought a box at the opera, and a mansion on Long Island, and a hunting preserve in Maine, and a saddle horse. The ability to do those things, he felt rather unemotionally, was nice. But he had to make himself gloat over his new possessions; otherwise he was apt to accept them prosaically.

For a while he resisted the idea of hiring a private orchestra. But then, he thought, that was no attitude for Lucifer's partner. Knowing he would probably tire of the novelty fairly soon, and hampered by a vestigial sense of economy, he hired a conductor and let him assemble an orchestra on a day-to-day basis.

His staff had no doubt been much relieved when he reappeared at the apartment after his forty-eight-hour disappearance, though they were too well trained to show it. They worked into their routine without apparent effort.

Of course he was happy. The only thing he needed was a yacht, and that, Johnson told him one night, was just a matter of time.

The papers, as Johnson had predicted, came out screaming one day against the sale of aircraft to friendly nations. It was a vicious foreign entanglement and a violation of the isolation policy. Aircraft stocks dropped drastically. Then the government explained everything, and up went the stock prices. But Titus, Farnsworth and Quinn refused to sell.

Johnson explained that strategy. They had listened to the orchestra playing a program of Hale's selection: Sibelius' "Violin Concerto," Beethoven's "Seventh," and De Falla's "Nights in the Gardens of Spain," and they were sitting in a hitherto useless room that Hale had converted — by having the walls painted black with mirrors set into them and strong white lights to shine on the smoke — into a smoking room.

"This manipulator we cleaned," said Johnson complacently, "paid over a million for his yacht. But he made the mistake of selling short. You know we cornered the market, don't you? That means the only place he can buy aircraft stocks is from us, and he has to pay any price we ask. Get the idea? Well, you want a yacht, and he wants aircraft stocks.

"So I offer him, say, a hundred thousand in cash for his boat. He refuses. I offer a hundred and fifty thousand. He knows he can't get that at auction, so he sells. He still needs shares to cover his short sales. Therefore, Titus, Farnsworth and Quinn offer him a hundred and fifty thousand dollars' worth of stocks — or at least whatever we choose to give him for that much money; very little, I assure you. With the profit on your stocks, your yacht should cost you, at the most, fifty thousand dollars."

Hale lit a cigarette — a personal blend, with his initials on the paper. "That's pretty cold-blooded."

"Yes, I suppose so. However, to operate efficiently as Lucifer's partner, you must understand the philosophy of Hell: Obviously its inhabitants are here to suffer. This manipulator served his purpose often in the past, to strip other speculators. Now his role is merely reversed.

"But you must remember," he said, tapping Hale's chest, "except in unusual cases, I never concentrate on tormenting a single person. That would be inefficient. I explained my strategy in forcing this manipulator into bankruptcy: my policy of isolation needed emphasis; the manipulator had to be stripped eventually; and you needed a fortune. If you have been reading the newspapers, you must have seen the consequences of this simple transaction.

"The chronic state of crisis, never quite reaching war, which I have labored incessantly to create, is kept simmering. The world was growing apathetic, but now there is a very gratifying turmoil. Millions of people have been made afraid and unhappy. Others have had their hopes raised. At the proper moment those hopes will be dashed, and they, too, will be unhappy. Thus this small financial operation lays the groundwork of a plan to make an unbelievable number of people suffer — which is our purpose.

"The philosophy of Hell, my boy — and don't forget this — is that all its inhabitants are here for the purpose of suffering. They deserve to be here, or they'd be elsewhere. Our function is to cause suffering as all-inclusively and with as low a cost per unit as possible.

"That, William, is our business. A tremendous responsibility, I grant you, but we must never let its scope dismay us. We must have our shoulders to the wheel every minute, and never lose sight of our goal, no matter what the setbacks and disappointments. When we realize a huge, intricate plan, we must not let ourselves grow smug. That success must be the incentive for us to push onward, ever onward and upward."

Hale stared at him in amazement.

He soon lost his astonishment, though, and furtively took to avoiding Johnson whenever he could. Sentiment had nothing to do with this. He loved his sense of power too much. He had accepted the philosophy of Hell, and wasted no sympathy on the souls he would be called upon to torment.

In his social moments, Alexander P. Johnson, despite his professional good humor, was fairly likable. But Hale couldn't stomach his habit of bursting into pompous orations at the slightest excuse or none at all.

Hale was happy, undoubtedly. He thoroughly enjoyed having everybody cater to his whims. The feudal lord that lurks in all of us, no matter how highly our social consciences are developed, bloomed to vast proportions in his highly egocentric nature. The ability to buy anything the moment he wanted it would unbalance any man. Hale was no exception. He gave orders recklessly; and, like anybody else in that position, loved the feel of power.

Naturally, there were certain duties, and it wasn't always possible to avoid Johnson. One night Johnson made him join a businessman's club. Hale, with the ordinary man's dislike of booster organizations, joined unwillingly, and only because his partner explained that it was one of his principal sources of information.

Johnson's actions were suspicious. He got an incredible amount of fun out of putting Hale through a ridiculous initiation, which included filling his unfortunate partner's hair with flour paste. By the time Hale had gotten this goo washed out and had returned to his seat, Johnson was getting even more pleasure out of an impassioned, windy, two-hour speech. His short, gross figure strutted about the rostrum, gesturing elaborately. He looked like a radical cartoonist's conception of Capital. In fact, if dollar signs had been stenciled on his clothes, not only would they have seemed fitting; he would probably have been very proud of them.

Hale discovered that he preferred even a slinking, melodramatic Lucifer to this chubby, jovial Satan who perpetually orated on none but the largest and dullest issues. Superficially there was little difference between Johnson and his fellow club members, who used the meetings for rhetoric inviting everybody to get together and push, because nothing could stop us if all worked together instead of against each other.

When Hale was exceptionally unlucky, Johnson tagged along to plays and concerts. He was lousy company. At any moment he ignored stares and hushings to address Hale in a clear, round voice about social, political or economic movements here and abroad. It was maddeningly boring, and Hale stared straight ahead, raging silently, whenever Johnson spoke.

But Johnson had to be used. So, although Hale dreaded being alone with him for so long, he let him invite himself along on the first cruise when title to the yacht was cleared.