“I’m . . . I’m sorry, Ma’am,” he said in a voice so deep Curlene imagined she could feel it through the soles of her feet. “I, uh . . . I thought maybe you didn’t hear the bell.” He stopped and blushed.
“Why, that’s perfectly charming,” Curlene said. “I mean, that’s perfectly all right.”
“Uh . . . I . . . came to, um, fix the lights.”
“Golly, I didn’t even know they were out.” She stepped back and as he hesitated, she said, “Come on in. The fuse box is in the basement.”
The big young man edged inside.
“Is, ah, is Professor Dimpleby here?” he asked doubtfully.
“He’s still in class. Anyway, he wouldn’t be much help. Johnny’s pretty dumb about anything simple. But he’s a whiz at quantum theory . . . ” Curlene was looking at his empty hands.
“Possibly I’d better come back later?” he said.
“I notice,” Curlene said reproachfully, “you don’t have any tools.”
“Oh—” This time the blush was of the furious variety. “Well, I think I’ll just—”
“You got in under false pretenses,” she said softly. “Gee, a nice looking fella like you. I should think you could get plenty of girls.”
“Well, I—”
“Sit down,” Curlene said gently. “Want a cup of coffee?”
“Thanks, I never tr—I don’t care for . . . I mean, I’d better go.”
“Do you smoke?” She offered a box from the coffee table.
He raised his arms and looked down at himself with a startled expression. Curlene laughed.
“Oh, sit down and tell me all about it.”
The large young man swallowed.
“You’re not a student, Mr. . . . ?” Curlene urged.
“No—not exactly.” He sat gingerly on the edge of a Danish chair. “Of course, one is always learning.”
“I mean, did you ever think about going up to a coed and just asking her for a date?”
“Well, not exactly—”
“She’d probably jump at the chance. It’s just that you’re too shy, Mr . . . .?”
“Well, I suppose I am rather retiring, Ma’am. But after all—”
“It’s this crazy culture we live in. It puts some awful pressures on people. And all so needlessly. I mean, what could be more natural—”
“Ah—when are you expecting Professor Dimpleby?” the young man cut in. He was blushing from neat white collar to widow’s peak now.
“Oh, I’m embarrassing you. Sorry. I think I will get some coffee. Johnny’s due back any time.”
The coffee maker was plugged in and snorting gently to itself. Curlene hummed as she poured two cups, put them on a Japanese silver tray with creamer and sugar bowl. The young man jumped up as she came in.
“Oh, keep your seat.” She put the tray on the ankle-high coffee table. “Cream and sugar?” She leaned to put his cup before him.
“Yes, with strawberries,” the young man murmured. He seemed to be looking at her chin. “Or possibly rosebuds. Pink ones.”
“They are nice, aren’t they?” a booming male voice called from the arched entry to the hall. A tall man with tousled gray hair and a ruddy face was pulling off a scarf.
“Johnny, hi; home already?” Curlene smiled at her husband.
“The robe, Curl,” Professor Dimpleby said. He gave the young man an apologetic grin. “Curl was raised in Samoa; her folks were missionaries, you know. She never quite grasped the concept that the female bosom is a secret.”
Curlene tucked the robe up around her neck. “Golly,” she said. “I’m sorry if I offended, Mr . . . .?”
“On the contrary,” the young man said, rising and giving his host a slight bow. “Professor Dimpleby, my name is, er, Lucifer.”
Dimpleby put out his hand. “Lucifer, hey? Nothing wrong with that. Means ‘Light-bearer.’ But it’s not a name you run into very often. It takes some gumption to flaunt the old taboos.”
“Mr. Lucifer came to fix the lights,” Curlene said.
“Ah—not really,” the young man said quickly. “Actually, I came to, er, ask for help, Professor. Your help.”
“Oh, really?” Dimpleby seated himself and stirred sugar into Curlene’s cup and took a noisy sip. “Well, how can I be of service?”
“But first, before I impose on you any further, I need to be sure you understand that I really am Lucifer. I mean I don’t want to get by on false pretenses.” He looked at Curlene anxiously. “I would have told you I wasn’t really an electrician, er, Mrs.—”
“Just call me Curl. Sure you would have.”
“If you say your name’s Lucifer, why should I doubt it?” Dimpleby asked with a smile.
“Well, the point is—I’m the Lucifer. You know. The, er, the Devil.”
Dimpleby raised his eyebrows. Curlene made a sound of distressed sympathy.
“Of course the latter designation has all sorts of negative connotations,” Lucifer hurried on. “But I assure you that most of what you’ve heard is grossly exaggerated. That is to say, I’m not really as bad as all that. I mean, there are different kinds of, er, badness. There’s the real evil, and then there’s sin. I’m, ah, associated with sin.”
“The distinction seems a subtle one, Mr., ah, Lucifer—”
“Not really, Professor. We all sense instinctively what true evil is. Sin is merely statutory evil—things that are regarded as wrong simply because there’s a rule against them. Like, ah, smoking cigarettes and drinking liquor and going to movies on Sunday, or wearing lipstick and silk hose, or eating pork, or swatting flies—depending on which set of rules you’re going by. They’re corollaries to ritual virtues such as lighting candles or spinning prayer wheels or wearing out-of-date styles.”
Dimpleby leaned back and steepled his fingers. “Hmmm. Whereas genuine evil . . . ?”
“Murder, violence, lying, cheating, theft,” Lucifer enumerated. “Sin, on the other hand, essentially includes anything that looks like it might be fun.”
“Come to think of it, I’ve never heard anything in praise of fun from the anti-sin people,” Curl said thoughtfully.
“Nor from any ecclesiastic with a good head for fund-raising,” Dimpleby conceded.
“It’s all due to human laziness, I’m afraid,” Lucifer said sadly. “It seems so much easier and more convenient to observe a few ritual prohibitions than to actually give up normal business practices.”
“Hey,” Curlene said. “Let’s not wander off into one of those academic discussions. What about you being,” she smiled, “the Devil?”
“It’s quite true.”
“Prove it,” Curlene said promptly.
“What? I mean, er, how?” Lucifer inquired.
“Do something. You know, summon up a demon; or transform pebbles into jewels; or give me three wishes; or—”
“Gosh, Mrs. Dimpleby—”
“Curl.”
“Curl. You’ve got some erroneous preconceptions—”
“When they start using four-syllable words, I always know they’re stalling,” Curl said blandly.
Lucifer swallowed. “This isn’t a good idea,” he said. “Suppose somebody walked in?”
“They won’t.”
“Now, Curl, you’re embarrassing our guest again,” Dimpleby said mildly.
“No, it’s all right, Professor,” Lucifer said worriedly. “She’s quite right. After all, I’m supposed to be a sort of, ahem, mythic figure. Why should she believe in me without proof?”
“Especially when you blush so easily,” Curl said.
“Well . . . ” Lucifer looked around the room. His eye fell on the aquarium tank which occupied several square feet of wall space under a bookcase. He nodded almost imperceptibly. Something flickered at the bottom of the tank. Curl jumped up and went over. Lucifer followed.
“The gravel,” she gasped. “It looks different!”
“Diamond, ruby, emerald, and macaroni,” Lucifer said. “Sorry about the macaroni. I’m out of practice.”
“Do something else!” Curl smiled in eager expectation.
Lucifer frowned in concentration. He snapped his fingers and with a soft blop! a small, dark purple, bulbous-bellied, wrinkle-skinned creature appeared in the center of the rug. He was some forty inches in height, totally naked, extravagantly male, with immense feet.
“Hey, for crying out loud, you could give a guy a little warning! I’m just getting ready to climb in the tub, yet!” the small being’s bulging red eye fell on Lucifer. He grinned, showing a large crescent of teeth. “Oh, it’s you, Nick! Howza boy? Long time no see. Anything I can do for ya?”
“Oops, sorry, Freddy.” Lucifer snapped his fingers and the imp disappeared with a sharp plop!
“So that’s a demon,” Curl said. “How come his name is Freddy?”
“My apologies, Curl. He’s usually most tastefully clad. Freddy is short for something longer.”
“Know any more?”
“Er . . . ” He pointed at Curl and made a quick flick of the wrist. In her place stood a tall, wide, huge-eyed coal-black woman in swirls of coarse, unevenly dyed cloth under which bare feet showed. Cheap-looking jewelry hung thick on her wrists, draped her vast bosom, winked on her tapered fingers and in her ears.
Lucifer flicked his fingers again, and a slim, olive-skinned girl with blue-black hair and a hooked nose replaced the buxom Sheban queen. She wore a skirt apparently made from an old gauze curtain and an ornate off-the-bosom vest of colored beads. A golden snake encircled her forehead.