"I can't find the anomaly that powers the fence. It was supposed to be right here."
"This is just too much," Azzie said. "I'm going to Ananke."
Chapter 12
Ananke had invited her old friends the Three Fates over for tea. Lachesis had baked a cake for the occasion, Clotho had hunted through the souvenir shops of Babylon until she found just the right gift, and Atropos had brought a small book of poems.
Ananke generally didn't let herself appear in human form. "Just call me an old iconoclast," she was fond of saying. "I don't believe that anything really important should be capable of being pictured." But today, just to be social, and because she liked the Three Fates, she had gotten herself up as a rather large middle-aged German woman in a tailored suit and with her hair in a bun.
Ananke and the Fates were having their picnic on the slopes of Mt. Icon. Thyme and rosemary perfumed the air of the upland meadows. The sky was a deep blue, and occasional little clouds gamboled by like albino rats.
Ananke was pouring tea when Lachesis noticed a dot in the sky. It was coming toward them.
"Look!" she cried. "Someone is coming!"
"I left word I was not to be disturbed," Ananke grumbled. Who had dared disobey her? As supreme principle in the world, or at least very close to that, Ananke was accustomed to people cowering at her name. She liked to think of herself as She Who Must Be Obeyed, although that was a little grandiose.
The dot resolved itself into a figure, and the figure, in turn, could soon be seen as a flying demon.
Azzie made a graceful landing close to the picnic area. "Greetings!" he cried, bowing. "Sorry to disturb you. I hope you are all well?"
"Tell me what this is about," Ananke said sternly. "It had better be good."
"That it is," Azzie said. "I have decided to mount a new kind of play in the world, an immorality play, to act as partial counter to the many morality plays which my opponents unleashed upon the world and whose propaganda value is as insensate as it is senseless."
"You've disturbed my picnic to bring me news of your play? I know you of old, you scamp, and I am not interested in your little games. What does this play have to do with me?"
"My opponents are interfering with my production," Azzie said. "And you are preferring their side to mine."
"Well, Good's nice," Ananke said, somewhat defensively.
"Granted. But I am still allowed to oppose it, am I not? And you are here to make sure I can make my point."
"Well, that's all true," Ananke admitted.
"Then you'll stop Michael and his angels from interfering with me?"
"I suppose so. Now leave us to get on with our picnic."
And with that, Azzie had to be content.
PART SEVEN
Chapter 1
Michael was in his office, relaxing in Plato's original Ideal Form of an Armchair—the archetype of all armchairs, and by definition the best ever conceived. All he lacked now was a cigar. But smoking was a vice he had given up long ago, so he really didn't lack anything.
Contentment is as hard for an archangel to find as it is for a man, so Michael was by no means taking this moment for granted. He was enjoying it to the fullest even while wondering, somewhere at the back of his mind, how long this bliss would last.
There was a knock at the door.
Michael had a sense that whatever came through was not going to please him. He considered not answering. Or saying, "Go away." But he decided against that. When you're an archangel, the buck stops at your office door.
"Come in," he said.
The door opened and a messenger entered.
The messenger was small, a child with golden curly locks, clad in nightclothes, with a package in one hand and a bunch of spells in the other. It was Quentin, who was getting on with his messenger business with a vengeance.
"Got a package for the Archangel Michael."
"That's me," Michael said.
"Sign here," Quentin said.
Michael scribbled his signature on the gold-leaf bill of lading Quentin handed him. The boy folded it and put it away, and gave the heavy package to Michael.
"You aren't an angel, are you?" Michael asked.
"No, sir."
"You're a little human boy, aren't you?"
"I believe I am," Quentin said.
"Then why are you working in a supernatural messenger service?"
"I don't really know," Quentin said. "But it's loads of fun. Is there anything else?"
"I suppose not," Michael said.
Quentin turned on his spell and was gone.
Michael scratched his head, then turned to his package. It was wrapped in plain gray paper. He tore it open and removed a large brick made of brass. Turning the brick over, he saw writing. Holding the thing up to the light so he could make out the letters, he read: "Michael! Stop interfering at once with the demon Azzie's play. Go put on your own play if you want, but stop being swinish about Azzie's. Yours faithfully, Ananke."
Michael put down the brick, his mood entirely ruined. Who did Ananke think she was, giving orders to an archangel? He had never really accepted the notion that Necessity, Ananke, ruled both Good and Bad. Who said it had to be that way? Sloppy planning, that's what it was. He wished God hadn't gone away. He was the only one who could really arbitrate this mess. But He had gone away, and somehow this Ananke person had been left in charge. And now here she was trying to tell Michael what to do.
"She can't make laws against me like that," Michael said. "Maybe she's Destiny, but she isn't God."
He decided he'd better do something about it.
A little checking by Research showed him there were several ways of doing something about Azzie's play. Simple delay might be enough.
Chapter 2
Try again," Hephaestus said. "I am trying!" Ganymede said. "I tell you, I can't get through."
All the gods were clustered around their side of the interface, the other side of which was Pandora's box in Westfall's chambers on Earth. This was the route Zeus had taken to free himself, and now all of the gods and goddesses wanted out, but the interface refused to allow them through. Hephaestus, the craftsman of the gods, had tried various tricks to enlarge the passage. He had never worked on interfaces before, though.
It suddenly gave off a faint humming sound, and they all stepped back. A moment later Zeus walked through and stood before them in all his strength and glory.
"So the great man returns!" Hera said. She always had had a bitter tongue in her mouth.
"Peace, woman," Zeus said.
"Easy enough for you to say," Hera said. "You get to play your dirty little games out in the world while we stay imprisoned here in this hateful place. What kind of a chief god do you think you are?"
"The very best," Zeus replied. "I have not been idle. I have a plan. But you must do what I say, for your very freedom depends on it, and upon your cooperating rather than squabbling as you usually do. I understand Michael the Archangel is coming here soon."
"Hah! The enemy!" cried Phoebus Apollo.
"No," said Zeus, "a potential ally. He is going to come here and ask for something. We must speak to him reasonably and do what he requires."
"And then?"
"And then, children, it will be our chance to take over the world again."
"Ah, it's the new fellow!" Zeus said when Michael finally arrived.
The archangel found it hateful, the way Zeus referred to him as the new fellow — as if he were some recently jumped-up deity, rather than a spiritual being of a power equal to Zeus'.
"Mind your manners," he said to Zeus. "We still have powers capable of blasting you and your half-naked crew of sybarites to the deepest Hell."
"We just came from there," Zeus said. "Once the worst has happened, it doesn't have quite the same power over you as before. Anyhow, what did you want to see me about?"