By Roger Zelazny, Robert Sheckley
The final Millennial contest--between the forces of reliable and Evil for keep an eye on of the universe--didn't determine rather so good for Evil and its rooters. But it's time for the following around, and this time the demon Mephistopheles is sporting the ball for the forces of Darkness. yet all isn't really because it seems. The harried archdemon mistakenly indicators up a medieval cutpurse names Mack the membership, considering him the learned Dr. Faust. The demon Azzie, still stinging from the Evil's final defeat (and now not being chosen to go the present effort), takes occasions into his personal claws. And the pious angel Michael--well, let's simply say a few of his strategies within the titanic struggle to return aren't fairly cricket . . . .
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Additional info for If at Faust You Don't Succeed
Special delivery. He opened it. Inside, a slip of paper. It said: POT-HEALER, I NEED YOU. AND I WILL PAY. No signature. No address except his, as destination. My god, he thought, this is something real and big. I know it. He carefully moved his chair around so that he faced the red warning light of the mail tube. And prepared to wait. Until it comes, he said to himself. Unless I physically starve to death first. I will not voluntarily die, now, he thought harshly. I want to stay alive. And wait.
Dialing his phone, he obtained a satellite relay to Japan; he raised Tokyo and gave the digits for the Tokyo translating computer. With the skill of long habit he obtained a direct line to the great, clanking, booming construct; he bypassed its host of attendants. “Oral transmission,” he informed it. The hulking GX9 computer clicked over to oral, rather than visual, reception. “The Corn Is Green,” Joe said. He turned on the recording unit of his phone. At once the computer answered, giving the Japanese equivalent.
I’m depressed. I can’t stand this much longer. Do you know what I mean? ” He waited. A faceless moment poured past in which neither of them spoke. “I’m ringing off,” Joe said, and began to hang up. “Wait,” Gauk said rapidly. ” He hung up, sat emptily staring. On his unfolded sheet of paper he had several more, but—It’s gone, he said to himself, bitterly. The energy, the capacity to fiddle away a lifetime without dignified work, and, in its place, the performance of the trivial, even the voluntarily trivial, as we have constructed here in The Game.
If at Faust You Don't Succeed by Roger Zelazny, Robert Sheckley