A Blink of the Screen

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    The storm raged. For the last month the Northern Hemisphere had been beset by thunderstorms unequalled in the records of mankind. The weather-men spent all their working days testing their corns, seaweed, and other oracles but had to confess themselves at a loss.
    In the large study of his new country house, Crucible threw another log on the fire and settled himself deeper into his armchair. The storm continued.
    His conscience, perforce the most robust and untroubled in Europe, was troubling him. Something was wrong with this Hades business. Certainly not on the monetary side, for his commission over the last three weeks had been exceedingly generous, as his country house, two cars, five race-horses, and one yacht plainly stated.
    Hell had been a great success. The Top people were going to flock there and it had had the approval of the Establishment.
    But something was wrong. Something to do with those heavy storms.
    Somewhere in his mind, the inner Crucible, equipped with wings, halo, and harp, was bouncing up and down on Crucible’s conscience. The thunder murmured.
    Poomb!
    The Devil appeared, looking very agitated, and ran to Crucible’s cocktail cabinet. He poured himself a Belladonna, and whirled round to Crucible.
    ‘I can’t stand any more of it!’ he screamed. His hand was shaking.
    ‘More of what?’
    ‘Your lot! They’ve turned my home into Bedlam! Noise! Noise! Noise! I can’t get a good night’s rest! Do you realize I haven’t slept for over two weeks? Nothing but yelling teen—!’
    ‘One moment. You say they disturb you?’
    ‘Very funny!’
    ‘Why not close Hell for a while and take a holiday?’
    ‘I’ve tried. Heaven knows—!’
    Rumble!
    ‘I’ve tried! Will they leave? No! A bunch of thugs threatened to “get” me if I tried to close their noisy, blaring paradise—’
    RUMBLE!
    ‘I can’t move without being mobbed by savage hordes of autograph hunters! I’m famous! I can’t get a bit of peace! It’s Hell down there!’ The Devil was now kneeling on the floor, tears streaming down his face. ‘You’ve got to help me! Hide me! Do something! Oh God, I wish—’
    The thunder split the Heavens in twain. The sky echoed and re-echoed with the sound. Crucible slumped in his chair, his hands clapped over his bursting eardrums.
    Then there was silence.
    The Devil lay in the middle of the floor, surrounded by light. Then the thunder spoke.
    ‘DO YOU WISH TO RETURN?’
    ‘Oh, yes sir! Please! I’m sorry! I apologize for everything! I’m sorry about that apple, truly I am!’
    On the bookshelf, a bust of Charles Darwin shattered to fragments.
    ‘I’m sorry! Please take me back, please –’
    ‘COME.’
    The Devil vanished. Outside, the storm subsided.
    Crucible rose, shaken, from the chair. Staggering over to the window, he looked into the fast-clearing evening sky.
    Then out of the sunset came a Hand and Arm of light, raised in salute.
    Crucible smiled.
    ‘Don’t mention it, sir. It was a pleasure.’
    He closed the window.

SOLUTION

    T ECHNICAL C YGNET
, 1:10 , J ULY 1964
    I really can’t remember this one. There was a period, a long, long time ago, when I was dashing out ideas and concepts and half-baked bits of dialogue to see if, magically, they would catch fire and become a decent short story or novel. Those that didn’t make it were dumped in the bit bucket, and if you can remember what that means then you have been around computers for as long as me. I must have written it and then danced away to try something else
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    ‘Gold? or is it diamonds this time?’
    Pyecraft swung round. ‘What the—!’
    The Inspector stepped through the tiny hatchway into the cockpit, and pointed vaguely towards the small rear cabin.
    ‘There is a very large parachute compartment back there. I had to throw out your parachute though, so it’s in your own interest that you watch the controls.’
    Pyecraft eased the joystick back. ‘I’ll have your hide for this,’ he muttered . ‘After the indignity of a search at Lemay, you stow away on my private plane—!’
    ‘Why don’t you shut up?’ suggested the Inspector sweetly. ‘There are just the two of us here, so we’ll have less of the “outraged citizen” act. It doesn’t suit you.’ He lit a cigarette and carefully refrained from offering one to Pyecraft. ‘Johan Pyecraft, I arrest you in—’
    ‘What for? You can’t prove a thing.’
    ‘Smuggling.’
    ‘Smuggling what? His arm slid