Robert’s face showed doubt, although Webley could tell that he was pleased with the idea. “I don’t know, sir,” he said, “I do have my other duties; and my supervisor doesn’t generally like to alter a contract. People are always accusing him of coercion when he does something like that. He’s very scrupulous, you know.”

“Well, see what you can do,” Webley said. “And remember, you can write the book any way you want to.”

“Well…”

“You can name your own subject.”

The demon smiled sheepishly, “I’ll see what I can do,” he said, and vanished in a puff of perfumed smoke.

It was three days later that Robert returned with the new contract. The terms were fairly hard, but this time Webley was unable to talk them down. Robert said that this was the least his legal department would allow. There would now be three days per month on the coals, together with one day of boils, from sole to crown. Also he would have to share the bath in his suite, and his choice of mistresses would be limited to brunettes. But, in return, Robert promised to produce the finest, most significant and monumental work of English literary criticism ever written.

After four hours of bickering, Webley finally threw his hands in the air, “All right,” he said, “I’ll sign. After all, a man ought to produce one good book in a lifetime. And Miss Hopkins is growing impatient.”

Robert smiled. “I’m certain you won’t be disappointed in the book, sir.” He blushed slightly. “Nor in Miss Hopkins either. I took the liberty of checking on her file, and found her… promising.”

“That’s interesting…” Webley said, smiling thoughtfully and taking the ball point pen from the demon’s outstretched hand.

As before, there came the little voice, saying, “Agreed….”

***

Miss Hopkins was not disappointing, not in the least. Nor was Acapulco, nor spear fishing, nor tequila. But especially not Miss Hopkins. When the year ended and Robert appeared, Webley was lying in bed in a small adobe hut, with a mild headache and with Miss Hopkins, who was fortunately sound asleep. The demon, appearing from Hell with a very thick book under his arm, found him there.

During the past year Webley’s face had taken on a certain bloated haughtiness; and his tone now with Robert was patronizing. “What’s the title, Robert?” he said, making no move to get up from the bed.

“The English Literary Tradition: A Re-evaluation.” There was a tiny hint of pride in Robert’s voice.

Webley frowned. “That’s a little general, Robert,” he said. “But I suppose it’ll do. How long is it?”

“Seventeen hundred pages, sir.”