"I had no intention of sneaking around you," Faust said with dignity. "But I'm sure we can make a deal."

"What makes you so sure?" Charon asked. . "Because I have something you want."

"Hah! I can't imagine what that would be!"

"Listen," Faust said. "You noticed the person I came here with?"

Charon glanced at Marguerite. "The woman? Yes, I see her. So what?"

"Pretty cute, isn't she?"

"I see plenty of cute ones go by here," Charon said.

"Ah," Faust said. "But not Jive cute ones."

Charon stared at him. Faust said, "You do detect the difference between live ones and dead ones, don't you?" "Just because you're alive," Charon said, "don't go putting on airs. I'm just as good as you and just as real, even if I haven't ever existed in the mundane sense."

"That's not the point," Faust said. "I'm offering you a live lady."

"Hey, wait a minute!" Marguerite said.

Faust said to Charon, "Just one moment. Trust me." He took Marguerite aside and said to her in an urgent whisper, "My dear, you mustn't believe I'm intending any impropriety when I offered you to Charon. That's not my way at all. But I thought that he might like to have dinner with you and perhaps go morris dancing after that. It would be a change of routine for him and harmless enough for you."

"What made you think I wanted a change of routine?" Charon asked. He had been listening in.

"Men, both alive and dead, desire a change of routine," Faust said. "It is the essence of being."

"Well, I could probably do with a little something different at that. I could use—What is that newfangled word for it?"

"A vacation," Faust said.

"Yeah, a vacation. We didn't have those in the ancient world."

"You have to get used to newfangled notions," Faust said. "It's the essence of keeping up an appearance in this universe. Why don't you set this boat for Constantinople, 1210, and have a nice dinner and dance with Marguerite on the way?"

"And what would you be doing?" Charon said.

"I'll just pop into your cabin and catch up on some back sleep," Faust said. "It's been a busy day."

Mephistopheles seemed to have transported them to a wooded cove. Looking around, Mack saw that large trees grew thereabouts, and they were not trees he knew from Europe. Not even the grass underfoot was familiar, but seemed coarser and more robust than the stuff that greened the byways of home. More he could not tell, for large, drooping willows blocked the view, though he believed, from a certain saltiness in the air, that they were near the sea.

He said to Mephistopheles, "I need to sit down and work on my wish list. You did say you'd grant my wishes, did you not?"

"Yes, of course," Mephistopheles said. "But that's the least of it."

The least of it? For you, maybe, but not for me!

Could I get a little something in advance? What I'd like right away is an ermine-lined cloak, of the sort kings wear, and a silver cup out of which to drink my wine. That pewter stuff is not fit for someone in the high position I have fallen into."

"Pull yourself together," Mephistopheles said sternly. "Forget about the rewards. They will come in due course. For now, your work in this contest is to begin."

"Oh, dear," said Mack. "I'm really not feeling on top of my form. How about a day off first, and then we'll get serious?"

"We are serious now," Mephistopheles said. "You are renowned among men for your great intellect and powers of self-control. I took the occasion to read your dossier while you were carousing among the witches."

"My dossier?"

"In the Record Halls of Darkness there are dossiers on everyone living."

"I didn't know that."

"You were a swot at school, mastering the various disciplines of the lower form with a perseverance that some of your teachers found almost divine."

Mack gaped at him, for he had been an indifferent scholar during his brief years of education. Then he realized that Mephistopheles was talking about the real Faust, not him.

"Show some of that spirit now," Mephistopheles said, "for your time of testing is upon you."

"Yes, yes," Mack said. "I'll be all right." Despite his words, self-doubt seeped through his mind like an ink-leaking squid thrown into a crystalline pond. My God, what was he doing here? It had seemed the veriest madcap of a prank, to deceive this dark and splendid spirit into thinking he was the learned Dr.

Faust. But now he was stuck with the consequences of his action. No longer could he be Mack, the bright but not brilliant student at the monastery school, the unruly and fun-loving lad who had spent but a year among the learned priests, learning the rudiments of scrivening, reading, and reckoning, studying little, getting by on charm and his glib tongue, until, due to a madcap adventure involving several young ladies from the nearby convent and a hogshead of potent German brew, he had found himself turned out to make his way in an inclement world. That was who he was, but who he could no longer be. The chance had been given him to become one of the great ones, to take his place among the famous archetypes, the intellectual movers and shakers of the world. It was also a chance to prove that he was as good a man as Faust, and what he lacked in learning could be put right by asking questions and applying quick-wittedness.

He felt a modest infusion of self-confidence. This was no time to think about his rewards. Mack forced his aching head to attend to present matters. "Where are we?" he asked. "On the shore outside Constantinople," said Mephistopheles, "close to the Frankish encampment. This is where I will leave you. Are you ready for your instructions?"

"That I am," Mack said, trying to put a good face on it but wishing that he had a cup of wine to buck him up. "What do you want me to do?"

"You have three choices," Mephistopheles said. "We require you to pick one."

"And what are these choices?"

"One, to kill Henry Dandolo. Two, to kidnap Alexius the Pretender. Three, to rescue the sacred icon of St. Basil."

Mack thought it was unfair, having to face so many choices before breakfast. But he knew he'd get no sympathy from the now stern-faced Mephistopheles, and so he said, "Which of those would you like me to perform?"

"My likes and dislikes have nothing to do with this matter," Mephistopheles said. "You must use your own judgment."

"But on what basis am I to decide?"

"You must come up with your own criteria, for this is an exercise in human judgment and free will."

"Dandolo? Alexius? But I don't know those people!"

"Obviously, you must acquaint yourself with them."

"And to kill a man—that was one of my choices, was it not?"

"It was indeed."

"Well, surely the forces of Good would take exception to that."

"I think I can speak for my friend Archangel Michael," Mephistopheles said, "when I tell you that you give Good too little credit if you think it never recognizes any grounds for killing. Good knows that there are worse things than that. Not that they condone killing in general; nor do we, for that matter, for intelligence and selection are the essence of both Good and Evil. But none of us gets too worked up over it, being immortals as we are, and used to the long view. We know that killing is a matter of very great importance to men, and so we include its possibility in our contest. And I will also tell you this: In killing, the motive is everything, and the ends are to be considered as well as the means." "But how can I know the ends? How can I tell what the killing of this Dandolo will do in terms of future outcomes?"