Juniper Pen [said George] was a wide-eyed sophomore at col- lege when the tale I tell you opened–an innocent, sweet girl fascinated by the basketball team, one and all of whom were tall, handsome young men. The one of the team upon whom her girlish fancies seemed most fixed was Leander Thomson, tall, rangy, with large hands that wrapped themselves about a basketball, or anything else that was the size and shape of a basketball, which somehow brings Juniper in mind. He was the undoubted focus of her screaming when she sat in the audience at one of the games. She would speak to me of her sweet little dreams, for like all young women, even those who were not my goddaughters, she had the impulse to confide in me. My warm but dignified de- meanor invited confidence. “Oh, Uncle George,” she would say,”surely it isn’t wrong of me to dream of a future with Leander. I see him now as the greatest basketball player in the world, as the pick and cream of the great professionals, as the owner of a long-term, large-sized contract. It’s not as if I ask for much. All I want out of life is a little vine-covered mansion, a small garden stretching out as far as the eye can see, a simple staff of servants organized into squads, all my clothing arranged alphabetically for each day of the week, and each month of the year, and–” I was forced to interrupt her charming prattle. “Little one,” I said,”there is a tiny flaw in your scheme. Leander is not a very good basketball player and it is unlikely that he will be signed up for enormous sums in the salary.” “That’s so unfair,” she said, pouting. “Why isn’t he a very good basketball player?” “Because that is the way the universe works. Why do you not pin your young affections on someone who is a good basketball player? Or, for that matter, on some honest young Wall Street broker who happens to have access to inside information?” “Actually, I’ve thought of that myself, Uncle George, but I like Leander all by himself. There are times when I think of him and say to myself, Is money really all that important?” “Hush, little one,” I said, shocked. Women these days are incredibly outspoken. “But why can’t I have the money too? Is that so much to ask?” Actually, was it? After all, I had a demon all my own. It was a little demon, to be sure, but his heart was big. Surely he would want to help out the course of true love, in order to bring sweet- ness and light to two souls whose two hearts beat as one at the thought of mutual kisses and mutual funds. Azazel did listen when I summoned him with the appropriate name of power.–No, I can’t tell you what it is. Have you no sense of elementary ethics? — As I say, he did listen but with what I felt to be a lack of that true sympathy one would expect. I admit I had dragged him into our own continuum from what was an indulgence in something like a Turkish bath, for he was wrapped in a tiny towel and he was shivering. His voice seemed higher and squeakier than ever. (Actually, I don’t think it was truly his voice. I think he communicated by telepathy of some sort, but the result was that I heard, or imagined I heard, a squeaky voice.) “What is basket ball?” he said. “A ball shaped like a basket? Because if it is, what is a basket?” I tried to explain but, for a demon, he can be very dense. He kept staring at me as though I were not explaining every bit of the game with luminous clarity. He said, finally, “Is it possible for me to see a game of basket- ball?” “Certainly,” I said. “There will be a game tonight. I have a ticket which Leander gave me and you can come in my pocket.” “Fine,” said Azazel. “Call me back when you are ready to leave for the game. Right now, I must finish my zymjig,” by which I suppose he meant his Turkish bath–and he disap- peared. I must admit that I find it most irritating to have someone place his puny and parochial affairs ahead of the matters of great moment in which I am engaged–which reminds me, old man, that the waiter seems to be trying to attract your attention. I think he has your check for you. Please take it from him and let me get ahead with my story. I went to the basketball game that night and Azazel was with me in my pocket. He kept poking his head above the edge of the pockt in order to watch the game and he would have made a questionable sight if anyone had been watching. His skin is a bright red and on his forehead are two nubbins of horns. It is fortunate, of course, that he didn’t come out altogether, for his centimeter-long, muscular tail is both his most prominent and his most nauseating feature. I am not a great basketball aficionado myself and I rather left it to Azazel to make sense out of what was happening. His intel- ligence, although dmonic rather than human, is intense. After the game he said to me,”It seems to me, as nearly as I could make out from the strenuous action of the bulky, clumsy and totally uninteresting individuals in the arena, that there was excitement every time that peculiar ball passed through a hoop.” “That’s it,” I said. “You score a basket, you see.” “Then this protege of yours would become a heroic player of this stupid game if he could throw the ball through the hoop every time?” “Exactly.” Azazel twirled his tail thoughtfully. “That should not be diffi- cult. I need only adjust his reflexes in order to make him judge the angle, height, force–” He fell into a ruminative silence for a moment, then said,”Let’s see, I noted and recorded his personal coordinate complex during the game. . . Yes, it can be done. –In fact, it is done. Your Leander will have no trouble in get- ting the ball through the hoop.” I felt a certain excitement as I waited for the next scheduled game. I did not say a word to little Juniper because I had never made use of Azazel’s demonic powers before and I wasn’t en- tirely sure that his deeds would match his words. Besides, I wanted her to be surprised. (As it turned out, she was very surprised, as was I.) The day of the game came at last, and it was the game. Our local college, Nerdsville Tech, of whose basketball team Leander was so dim a luminary, was playing the lanky bruisers of the A1 Capone College Reformatory and it was expected to be an epic combat. How epic, no one expected. The Capone Five swept into an early lead, and I watched Leander keenly. He seemed to have trouble in deciding what to do and at first his hands seemed to miss the ball when he tried to dribble. His reflexes, I guessed, had been so altered that at first he could not control his muscles at all. But then it was as though he grew accustomed to hsi new body. He seized the ball and it seemed to slip from his hands– but what a slip! It arced high into the air and through the center of the hoop. A wild cheer shook the stands while Leander stared thought- fully up at the hoop as though wondering what had happened. Whatever had happened, happened again–and again. As soon as Leander touched the ball, it arced. As soon as it arced it curved into the basket. It would happen so suddenly that no one ever saw Leander aim, or make any effort at all. Interpreting this as sheer expertise, the crowd grew the more hysterical. But then, of course, the inevitable happened and the game descended into total chaos. Catcalls erupted fromt the stands; the scarred and broken-nosed alumni who were rooting for Capone Reformatory made violent remarks of a derogatory nature and fistfights blossomed in every corner of the audience. What I had failed to tell Azazel, you see, thinking it to be self- evident, and waht Azazel had failed to realize was that the two baskets on the court were not identical; that one was the home basket and the other the visitors’ basket, and that each player aimed for the appropriate basket. The basketball, with all the lamentable ignorance of an inanimate object, arced for which- ever basket was nearer once Leander seized it. The result was that time and again Leander would manage to put the ball into the wrong basket. He persisted in doing so despiet the kindly remonstrances of Nerdsville coach, Claws (“Pop”) McFang, which he shrieked through the foam that covered his lips. Pop McFang bared his teech in a sigh of sadness at having to eject Leander from the game, and wept openly when they removed his fingers from Le- ander’s throat so that the ejection could be carried through. My friend, Leander was never the same again. I had thought, naturally, that he would find escape in drink, and become a stern and thoughtful wino. I would have understood that. He sank lower than that, however. He turned to his studies. Under the contemptuous, and even sometimes pitying, eyes of his schoolmates, he slunk from lecture to lecture, buried his head in books, and receded into the dank depths of scholarship. Yet through it all, Juniper clunk to him. “He needs me,” she said, her eyes misting with unshed tears. Sacrificing all, she mar- ried him after they graduated. She then clunk to him even while he sank to the lowest depth of all, being stigmatized with a Ph.D. in physics. He and Juniper live now in a small co-op on the upper west side somewhere. He teaches physics and does research in cos- mogony, I understand. He earns $60,000 a year and is spoken of in shocked whispers, by those who knew him when he was a respectable jock, as a possible candidate for the Nobel Prize. Juniper never complains, but remains faithful to her fallen idol. Neither by word nor deed does she ever express any sense of loss, but she cannot fool her old godfather. I know very well that, on occasion, she thinks wistfully of the vine-covered man- sion she’ll never have, and of the rolling hills and distant hori- zons of her small dream estate.