“The key,” cried the tiny voice. “The key is under his pillow!” It was the work of an instant to find it, to unlock the box, and—what did my eyes behold?

Inside, cradled in velvet, was a globular crystal bottle, from which the blue radiance flooded the room. I lifted it, and it appeared to be filled with a mesh of deep golden threads. But as I gazed, there peeped through the golden wire, as I took it to be, a tiny face, like a piece of exquisitely carved old ivory. Its expression was imploring, and close to it two pretty little hands were clasped in anguish.

All prudence cried Watch your step! But all curiosity said Uncork him! So I did.

There was a rushing as of a mighty wind. A blue radiance shot upward to the ceiling, and there, on the desk before me appeared a little man, no bigger than a child of two, and I saw that the golden threads were a superb golden beard, that hung to his waist.

“A thousand thanks!” he cried. “And of course, the usual reward. What’s your will?”

“Great Scot,” I exclaimed. (I was, of course, invoking the spirit of Michael Scot, the medieval expert on magic and the occult, whose works are my favourite bedside reading). “Are you a genie?”

An expression of absurd vanity overspread the mannikin’s face, and he combed his fingers through the luxuriant beard. “Indeed,” said he; “I am the Genie With the Light Brown Hair. My name is Asmodeus.”

“The Devil on Two Sticks,” I cried, in amazement, for he was not a person I had ever expected to see in Massey College.

“As you may observe, I am slightly lame,” he said, ruefully, displaying two little ivory crutches which he had kept hidden beneath his robe. “Now, dear friend, how may I reward you?”

My senses swam. Should I then and there deliver the College from all future care by asking for a generous addition to our endowment fund—something in the order of a few million lakhs of rupees, or perhaps a conveniently located emerald mine? But I knew my Michael Scot, and I knew what tricky fellows these genies could be. Caution, caution, I whispered to myself.

“Before we talk of that, may I not have the inestimable boon of a few minutes’ conversation?” I asked. “We are quite accustomed to distinguished visitors here, but the Never-Too-Highly-To-Be-Esteemed Asmodeus, the Devil on Two Sticks himself, is a catch even for us. Now I know you won’t be offended if I ask for some identification?”

“Ask what you please,” said he. “I know you academics; you love oral examinations. Fire away.”

“Well then,” said I, “just as a starter, tell me the precise number of angels in the Heavenly Host.”

“The figure is 301,655,722,” said he, with satisfaction.

“You mean, that was the figure in the fourteenth century,” said I.

“I am essentially a fourteenth century genie,” said he. “Have I passed?”

“Not so fast,” I countered. “Suppose you tell me the interpretation and origin of the word Abracadabra.”

“It is from the Hebrew,” said he, “and it is a corruption of abreq ad habra. It means Hurl your thunderbolt even unto death. Have I passed?”

“Not yet,” said I. “I am devoted to the old Three Question Formula, so familiar in folklore and magic. But you are doing well, and it is our humane custom in this university to give the examinee a short break at half time. Perhaps you would like a drink?”

I had perceived that the absent Hall Don had left an Italian wine bottle on one of his shelves, in which, through some oversight, a few drops remained. I was about to offer it to my guest, but he murmured, “No, no; allow me,” and produced from the air a very fancy bottle of something purple, and two richly chased golden goblets. So I accepted some of that, and although it had a typically Oriental sweetness, it wasn’t at all bad.

“I am wondering what your next question will be,” said Asmodeus, smiling with a corresponding Oriental sweetness as he filled our glasses for the second time.

“So am I,” I said frankly. “It is rarely that I have a chance to ask questions of someone so well informed as I am sure you must be. You devils know everything, and I want to know everything, so where am I to begin?”

He laughed, and, presumably because of the wine, it was like the sound of little silver bells heard through some mucilaginous substance, like molasses—charming but gummy. “Oh, I assure you we devils don’t know everything,” said he. “We have to confine ourselves very much to our own departments, which are growing all the time.”

“You mean you have departments of evil,” said I.

“I wish you wouldn’t call it evil, in that narrow, ignorant way,” said he. “You people of this world would be very badly off without what you speak of as evil. But of course Hell is heavily departmentalized, and no single devil—except, naturally, our Great Master, Ahriman—can know everything. We have an elaborate and rapidly growing Uncivil Service, composed of departments and sub-departments, and bureaux and special committees of investigation, and all the apparatus of government. We are very busy. Now I give my attention to the Law. Indeed, all legal knowledge is summed up in me.” His eyes darted around our Hall Don’s room, and they were dark with fear. “That is how I was so foolish as to fall under the power of—him.”

“He argued you to a standstill?” I asked.

Asmodeus lowered his eyes in shame. “You have heard of arguing the hind leg off a donkey? Something of the sort happened to me. Hence these crutches, and my pitiful imprisonment.”

I was overwhelmed by vulgar curiosity. I have always wanted to know more about Hell. “Do you, yourself, do much tormenting?” I asked.

“Tormenting?” said he, apparently at a loss.

“Of the damned souls,” I said. “Do you spend much time prodding them with pitchforks, or snatching glasses of ice-water from their burning lips? Do you do much in that line?”

He seemed to recover his spirits, and laughed the silvery, but gummy laugh. “What a baby you are,” he said. “Haven’t I told you we have an Uncivil Service? The damned are kept busy, toiling away in rooms where there is only artificial light, and the only ventilation is entirely with conditioned air, doing all sorts of dismal jobs which permit them to pay the taxes that maintain the Uncivil Service. And—this is the cream of it—they are quite unable to strike.”

“But have you no lake of burning pitch?” said I. “And how about the Conqueror Worm That Dieth Not?”

“That is very old-fashioned thinking,” said he. “The lake of burning pitch gave place long ago to a system of committees; every damned soul is a member of several interlocking committees, and the worst of them have what they call working lunches, where they are made to devour bad food and drink disgusting coffee while discussing projects from which all hope has been drained away. As for the Conqueror Worm That Dieth Not, we have banquets at which people make speeches that have no foreseeable end, about ideas that have no foreseeable application.”

“It sounds horribly familiar,” said I, in wonderment.

“It is,” said he. “We in Hell are always ready to learn—”

“Stop,” I cried. “You needn’t go on—I know what you are going to say. You also have Study Groups, Symposiums, and Weekend Seminars, don’t you?”

“Of course,” said he; “where would Hell learn more than from the universities? And we are splendidly thorough. We learn all there is to be learned. For instance, I am sure I know more about this College than you do.”

“I should not be in the least surprised,” said I. “It has never been one of my delusions that I knew much about this place. I am sure all sorts of things go on here that never reach my ears.”

“You underestimate yourself,” said he. “They reach your ears, but you don’t know how to interpret them. And that may be just as well, for if you did, sleep would become a stranger to your pillow. For instance, you know that Junior Fellow of whom you have been tempted to think well, because he appears in Chapel whenever Communion is celebrated.”