“I fear so. Anyway, I began to realize that I’d never get anywhere in the academic world with a Folklore degree—just isn’t recognized by enough schools. The logical thing was to get into a parallel but more respected field. And, with a few good articles, I might be able to swing a professorship.” Webley finished his drink and shuffled, ponderously, over to the sink, where he began fixing another. “Trouble is, Robert, I hate writing—especially scholarly writing. Consequently, I thought I’d try invoking a demon to do it for me.” He settled back in his chair, smiling, and began sipping the drink. “I think it’s going to work out very well.”

The demon smiled engagingly. “I hope so,” he said. “I’ll go check with the legal department—about a contract.” He blinked his eyes and vanished….

When Robert returned, after more than an hour, he had with him an estimate on the value of Webley’s immortal soul. They haggled for a good while before agreeing on the terms, but Webley was quite pleased with them; he had done better than he had expected to. The young demon seemed to bluff very easily.

Webley would, of course, go to Hell upon his death; but he would have a suite there, a mistress—to be changed yearly—air conditioning—Robert tried to explain to him that Hell was not in the least bit hot; but Webley stuck to his guns on this point—weekly valet service, and ready access to his landlord should any inconvenience develop. He would be roasted over the coals for one day out of every month; but he was guaranteed that there would be no harmful aftereffects from this. “In fact,” Robert said, “some of our clients look forward to that part of the life in Hell, since the possibilities for pain among the dead are so few, and the senses are so dulled by the extraordinary amount of pleasure we have to offer.”

“Then why do you have this roasting business at all, if Hell is such a pleasant place?” Webley asked, pouring himself a drink.

“Well, we are under orders from the opposition. We can’t make Him out to be a liar, you know. And then those coals are rather unpleasant.”

“I see. But what, then, do they do in Heaven?”

Robert thought a moment. “It’s been a long time since I was there, of course. They sing, mostly, I think. And do exercises or something.”

In return for his agreeing to the damnation Webley would receive the services of Robert for one year, in which time an acceptable dissertation must be written, as well as at least ten publishable scholarly articles. Webley had with him a razor blade to open a vein for signing the contract; he was mildly piqued when the demon brought out a ball point pen, even though the ink was bright red. It dried brown, however.