This afternoon, while his parents celebrated their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, Richard Houseman was not celebrating at all. Midway through his third year he knew there would be no job on Wall Street waiting for him. No prestigious firm would be offering him fabulous sums of money to join their stable of eager young lawyers, braced by expensive three piece suits with suspenders and vests, ready to take on corporate giants and make millions through leveraged buyouts, requiring reams of contracts indemnifying the parties of the first part to the parties of the second part, etc. etc. etc. Richard Houseman was at the bottom of his class in law school. The door to riches and security had slammed shut. He would be lucky to chase ambulances.

At wits end, Richard languished pool side in gloomy discontent, vowing he would give anything, even his soul, to be in a top East Coast firm, brandishing a legal pad like some 18th century buccaneer. Morosely, he considered his chances of making a deal with the Devil to be slim. Then he heard his name pronounced with a distinctly Australian accent. "Eh Richard," the disembodied voice called out to him. His eyes fluttered open and Richard was about to warn the voice to leave him in his misery, when his eyes focused enough through their beery veil to identify a dark man with pointed ears and sly grin and two very distinct knobs on either side of his head.

The dark man reclined into a deck chair next to Richard's. He looked at the law student and said, "G'day mate. Mind if I join you here? You have a ripper spot-- far enough away from the board so as not to get splashed and not too near the shallow end to avoid the kids."

Richard, suddenly sober, came bolt upright out of his chair and stared openly at the man beside him. The dark man looked back at him knowingly and winked. "You noticed. Not many do, you know."

"You're the Devil!" Richard blurted out loud. Other guests turned to look at the two of them and Richard ducked his head, lowering his voice in a conspiratorial whisper. "You're the Devil," he repeated.

"Too right, mate. Mephistopheles at your service."

"You're here to trade for my soul?" Richard asked incredulously and suddenly nervous.

"Have at ya, cobber. That's just a figure of speech. Actually, I don't do much anymore, service that is. I haven't done much for ... oh... about two thousand years. And these days I certainly don't take on any personal cases. So you can relax, Richard; and call me Mick." The Devil extended his hand.

Awed and a little terrified, Richard Houseman leaned across the low table between the two chairs and shook hands with Satan. His own palm was moist and shaking while the Devil's was cool and not the least bit callused or horny as he had expected. The flesh was smooth and soft like chamois leather. Sinking ruefully back into his lounge chair, Richard furtively counted his fingers and wondered if his hand would suddenly sprout hair and masturbate him furiously. Consciously keeping his hand above his waist, he peeked at the dark man who sat unconcerned reading a paperback book, Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. On the table lay The Seven Habits Organizer.

Richard fidgeted. The Devil had arrived without fanfare and was now lounging next to him oblivious of the law student's presence. If the Devil was after Richard's soul, he wasn't doing a very good job of it. Richard had expected smoke and fire and brimstone. Black magic. Misshapened servants sneering maleficently and serving their master fawningly with breathless affirmations. At the very least there should have been a thunderclap and eerie lighting and a smoldering contract for his soul to be signed with blood oaths. Richard could have argued the contract, read the fine print, inserted new clauses and then had the whole thing thrown out of court on a technicality of illegal interstate commerce. After he got his position in the law firm, of course. But there was no contract and no Halloween special effects, and such a tepid appearance by the Devil disappointed him.

Disillusioned at the Devil's lack of effort, Richard wondered briefly if he could force Satan to trade his soul for a partnership in a wealthy and powerful law firm. Trying to get his foot in the door, Richard said, "I guess you read my mind to learn my name."

"Nah. It's monogrammed on your Croakies," the Devil drawled indicating the turquoise band attached to his glasses. "Hey, want a beer?"

Richard, wishing to keep his mind clear in case of negotiations, shook his head and the Devil returned to his book.

When the Devil obviously wasn't going to make a pitch for his soul, Richard's disillusionment gave way to indignation, and he asked with a smirk, "So, what brings you to Palm Beach if you're not buying souls? Cocaine? Murder? Vice?"

The Devil laughed, the sound mellifluous like soft waves on a sand beach at sunset. "You American blokes are so funny. I'm here just visiting. I haven't been in Florida since the Cuban boat lift."

"Ah, last year," Richard said helpfully.

"Spanish-American War," the Devil corrected him. "Now that was a real corker. If you looked Spanish, the Floridians would have remembered the Maine right up your arsehole." He laughed heartily this time. "But that's all behind now. Palm Beach is a quiet, peaceful little town. A nice place to relax, eh mate." He tipped a cold Fosters lager, which Richard had not noticed before, and took a long pull. "Ahh, that feels grand," the Devil said delightedly.

Richard was dumbfounded. South Florida was a Mecca of vice and corruption and the Devil was merely sitting pool side with a cold beer and not even leering at the semi-nude women wearing butt thongs tanning themselves. "That's it!" he exclaimed angrily. "I'm willing to sell my soul, but you can't be bothered because you're on vacation!" His voice carried loudly above the sounds of fun in the pool. Guests slewed around in their chairs again and glared at him. A well muscled hotel waiter in a starched white shirt, black bow tie and vest, and wearing a skimpy bathing suit for pants appeared suddenly and said to the Devil, "Mick, is this guy bothering you?"

"Nah. He's a good bloke, really."

"Just call if you want us to remove him." The waiter warned Richard to quit bothering the other guests or he would have to leave and then walked away.

Subdued, Richard pointed at the waiter's retreating back and said, "He didn't even notice your... your..." He was suddenly embarrassed to point out the Devil's horns.

"Horns," the Devil said wearily. "They aren't abhorrent, you know. They're warm and even a bit soothing to the touch and covered with a soft down like a deer's in the spring. They are made from the same keratinous material that makes up your hair and nails, or antlers and hooves."

"You mean you have..."

"No, I don't have cloven hooves!" the Devil interrupted testily. "Nor do I sport a tail either. These," he said, indicating the Pan-like protuberances that rose out of his scalp just above the ears, "are mostly ornamental." He calmed down and observed, "They give me a sort of rakish appearance. Don't you think?"

Richard ignored the question and said awe struck, "But the waiter didn't even see them."

"I told you, not many people do. It's a trick of the light and besides most people don't have the talent for it. Frankly I'm surprised you did. What are you? A lawyer or something?"

Richard turned pale. A shaft of ice stabbed through his testicles into his stomach. "What do you mean?" he asked scared to death. "I am a lawyer. Or almost. I'm a student. My third year."

"It's just a joke, Richard. Relax," Mick said soothingly.

Richard sighed loudly, clearly relieved. "I... I thought being a lawyer made me specially able to see you or something."

"Nah. Billy Graham can see me just fine. Jerry Falwell wouldn't recognize me if walked into his church in a red suit breathing fire. In fact, I gave him a thousand dollars once and told him he should start a 'Spank a Gay for Jesus' campaign. He thought that was a grand idea." The Devil laughed loudly and no one paid him any attention.

He drained his Fosters. He set the can down and signaled one of the pool side waiters for another. "Sure you won't join me, Richard?"

"No!"

"Suit yourself." A waiter appeared magically at his elbow with a frosted can, no glass. He had an elfin face with ears just slightly pointed. His smile revealed incisors, tapered to sharp points. The Devil flipped him a Kruggerand which vanished into thin air and left a dull outline in the waiter's vest pocket even before he turned away.

The law student stared fearfully at the attendant as he walked off. "Is he one of your minions?" Richard murmured.

"Minions? Who? Marvin?" The Devil asked and then snorted in disgust. "He worked for me once but he discovered he could make more money working the hotel circuit so he quit a few years back. It's hard to keep good help now-a-days."

Richard shook his head. Maybe he should have that beer. It seemed inconceivable that the Devil was sitting next to him and no one else in the place even suspected. Waiters treated him like some big shot tycoon on vacation. The whole scenario seemed unfair... un-American... perhaps even illegal.

Richard's law training took over. There might be some kind of case here. Maybe he could force the Devil into giving him a spot in that law firm, full partner even, through legalistic maneuvering. "So you're here just a for a little vacation," he said probing for some kind of angle.

"Right."

"But, but... you're the Devil. Beelzebub, Satan, the Tempter, Evil one, Shaitan, the Thief of Souls..."

"Call me Mick."

Richard shuddered. "You have an image to uphold. Shouldn't you be about the world tempting good people, fanning fires, fomenting rebellions, stealing babies. Buying souls, like mine, I might add."

"Nah. I'm retired. I made a killing during the Crusades and invested it with some eager Italian bankers. Later I switched to the Rothschilds. In the Nineteenth century I backed Disraeli and in this century the U.S. I've done all right. Must be worth at least a half a trillion or so by now."

"So you don't trade souls for anything anymore," Richard asked deflated.

"Don't need to. Don't want to," the Devil answered with finality. Mick saw the frustrated look in the law student's eyes and relented, "Well, occasionally I trade immortality for souls just to keep my hand in. Never know when you're going to have fall back on sales to make ends meet. But I only do it every once in a while." He sipped his Fosters appreciatively.

"How long?" asked Richard.

"How's that, mate?"

"How long since you traded a soul for immortality?" Richard asked.

The Devil sat stiffly back in his chair and studiously read his book.

"C'mon. How long?"

"I really don't wish to discuss it," the Devil said tightly.

Richard pressed him. "One year... a decade."

"It's none of your business."

"Why? Are you afraid," Richard sneered. "Don't think you could make a good deal any more?"

The Devil sat up and stared directly into Richard's face. His dark eyes turned freakishly violet and anger sent lurid sparks flashing deeply within the pupils. He made a face like a Hindu at a steer roast. And then he was Satan, ready to steal a human soul and send it shrieking into the fires of hell. Richard, terrified by the Devil's glare, recoiled. Yet at the same time he strangely felt himself drawn into those violent orbs and knew that if he fell into them, he would drown there and never come out again. He said a silent prayer and thought he could feel the heat of hell's kitchen already. Then a loud whoop of laughter near the diving board distracted the Devil and Richard was able to tear his eyes away. He glanced toward the deep end of the pool where several of the tanning beauties were gathered near one man. Beside Richard the Devil let out a long suffering sigh and he gave the law student a resigned look. His terrible eyes were normally black again.

"Take the bloke over there with all the sheilas," the Devil said at last. "I traded him immortality for his soul, oh around 1212 a.d. Right after Magna Carta.

"That's impossible," Richard said amazed. "Why he'd be almost eight hundred years old and he looks only thirty-five to forty."

"Spot on, mate," the Devil answered gloomily.

"How long does he have?"

"Eh?"

"When will he die?"

The Lord of Darkness nearly choked on his Fosters. "Never if I can help it," he sputtered angrily.

"What do you mean?"

"That black-hearted, Irish Bastard tricked me and inserted into the fine print that when he died I would give up my life on Earth and go to hell with him for friendship."

"For friendship?" Richard asked, stunned that the Devil would follow anyone for friendship.

"It sounds a lot more majestic and lofty in Gaelic," the Devil explained. "Like striding into a Dublin pub and exhorting your fellow Irish to take up arms against the Black and Tans, freeing Ireland forever from the bloody English."

Richard nodded understandingly. "But, going to hell shouldn't bother you so much," he said. "I mean, you are Lord of the Underworld after all."

"It's a title only," the Devil said wearily. "Listen Mate, nobody wants to go to hell." The Devil made the sign of the cross and kissed his thumb. "It's a foul and nasty place. A prison planet. It's worse than reading a Kafka novel in a Bergman movie, listening to a TV evangelist." The Devil shuddered and took a long pull from his Fosters. "That bloke is going to live as long as possible, if I have to tie him down to keep him out of mischief."

The man the Devil had indicated left the bathing beauties heading toward Mick and the young law student. He was short with curly hair and a hail-fellow-well-met expression. The hair on his chest was reddish gold and tight and curly. His name was Geoffrey Fitzpercy, the Earl of Essex and Justiciar of England under King John. A lucky man, he had married into the aristocracy.

"Hi Milt." He greeted the Devil grinning. "Wonderful weather we're having. Don't you just love Palm Beach-- the food, the women, the sand."

The Devil looked at him sourly. "My name isn't Milt and stay out of the sun you might get melanoma or something."

"Aw Milt, you're such a comedian." The short man laughed and sauntered off.

Richard was surprised by the exchange. "I don't understand why you're worried. After all, you gave him immortality. He can't die can he?"

"Well mate, first of all, if it were just a simple sword thrust or a pistol bullet or draught of poison or hangman's noose-- you get the picture-- it would be easy to patch him up. Hell, even if a tank ran over him, I could help him. But say some of the really nasty characters in this town decide to burn him and spread his ashes to the four winds, there wouldn't be enough left to piece back together."

"But... shouldn't he be indestructible?"

"What about entropy, you ninny," the Devil practically shouted. "Didn't you ever study physics and the natural laws of the universe?"

"Not really, I guess," answered the law student suddenly feeling uneducated despite four years of college and three years of law school.

"Well take my word for it, nothing lasts forever. What kind of education are they teaching kids now-a-days anyway?" Mick demanded.

Richard sat up straight and answered huffily, "A pretty good one I think. Computers, business. Everything to make a good living at."

The Devil scoffed. "Kid stuff. You wouldn't last a day where I went to school."

Piqued by the Devil's attitude Richard said heatedly, "Well, at least we no longer believe the earth is flat, or that God took a rib from Adam and created Eve and all the rest of that Biblical nonsense." And then as if he had just realized who he was talking to, Richard asked worriedly, "I mean... He didn't do that... did He?"

"Do what?"

"Create Eve from Adam's rib"

"Who?"

"God!"

"Of course not. That's all evolutionary hocus pocus. It's happened on a million planets."

Richard sighed deeply, greatly relieved.

"He did create the earth though," Mick said casually.

"He did?" Richard asked uneasily. He was both comforted and terrified that Genesis was correct. He had long ago discarded 'Creationism'. Even so, the idea of an intelligent creator, a sort of custodian like a zoo keeper, who looked over the earth, gave him a secure feeling about his place in the universe's scheme of things. Mankind couldn't be forgotten or destroyed as long as the creator was in charge.

From the corner of his eye, the Devil could see that he had hooked the law student. "Of course," Mick said reflectively, "he had a little help... from me."

"From you!" Richard gasped.

"Too right. You see, mate," explained the Devil, ignoring Richard's outcry, "we decided to have a contest. See who could do the longest, the loudest... fart. College prank... that sort of thing." Richard could only stare dumbfounded as the Devil described the big contest. "Look, we were pretty young at the time and Elihu, that's who you call God, had stoked up pretty well and let fly with a cannonade that split the heavens and sent shards out into the void of the Milky Way. Christ, it was dangerous in this part of the Galaxy, what with the sun and the moon and the asteroids swirling around."

The Devil took a sip of beer and Richard listened aghast as he continued.

"Well, that was quite a blast Elihu let thunder and so not to be out done I stepped up and let loose with a big bang of my own. It lasted a bit longer than his and when I had finished, the Earth and the rest of the planets had been brought into orbit about the sun."

With a sick feeling deep in his stomach, Richard asked, "What happened next?"

The Devil shrugged. "We declared a draw and went on drinking."

"I mean what happened to the earth then?"

"Not much. A couple of billion years went by and here you are, the product of evolution. True story."

"Mankind is the result of a farting contest between adolescents!" Richard cried out horrified.

The Devil winked. "Just kidding," he said and laughed so long and hard that Richard thought he was going to choke. When he had regained control, the Devil said between chuckles, "Had you going on that one, didn't I?"

Disgusted, Richard nodded weakly and sank deeper into his lounge chair. Never in the tangles of his mind had he even glimpsed a conversation like this one. He looked bleakly at the Devil and said angrily, "Are you really Satan?"

The Devil stared at him, his dark eyes turning strangely violet once more. "Want me to give you the evil eye again?" Satan asked darkly.

"No!" Richard said quickly, his distrust abandoned. "It's just that I don't understand."

"What's to understand?"

"Well, everything. For instance, I wouldn't mind selling my soul for a job with a prestigious East coast law firm and you aren't even interested. Can you imagine what that does for my self esteem?"

The Devil shrugged.

"And now I suppose you're going to tell me that you and God aren't even at war?"

"Over what?" The Devil sounded surprised.

"For the souls of men."

Satan shook his head. "Elihu and I aren't rivals, Richard. We're partners. We went to the same business school. Afterwards, we set up the Elite World Development Company. We weren't doing too badly either. Made enough to live on and see the Galaxy. But then we found the Earth and things started to take off. We knew it had potential despite the fact that it's off the beaten track. We decided to incorporate and divided the company into two branches. Elihu took on resort development and I ran the minerals and timber division. Even so we weren't really prepared for the bonanza from the spinoff business."

"What spinoff business?" Richard asked, interested in spite of himself.

"Souls." the Devil answered shaking his head sadly. Richard stared at him blankly. "Look mate," the Devil said as if he were explaining business to a child, "Earth's the only planet in the Universe whose inhabitants have natural souls. Within a year mining, timber and resort development were all but forgotten. The rush for souls had taken over everything. We couldn't get anyone to work on anything else. As soon as we hired someone and brought them out to Sol System, I thought of that one, by the by. Sort of a play on words," the Devil winked at the law student. "Any way," he continued, "they would jump ship and go prospecting for souls. After a while, we had to interdict the entire planet except to specially bonded contract workers. Soon we became rich beyond our wildest dreams."

"From what?" asked Richard.

"From the sale of souls, of course," the Devil said, exasperated that Richard couldn't understand even the simplest economic theories of supply and demand.

"I guess, souls are pretty special," Richard said trying to sound suitably amazed.

"Have you ever seen one?" Satan asked.

The law student shook his head. "No one has," he said. "I mean no human has."

"Too bad. They are beautiful." The Devil's face softened. "Souls are transparent, pulsating blue, white and amber gems of first water quality. Elihu and I marketed them as SoulStones. It was my idea again,", Mick added proudly. "I always had a knack for marketing.

"Amber are the most beautiful and superior. Mostly they are used for healing. Blue SoulStones have the most juice and are used for powering flitters and other modes of ground transportation. Most souls, though, are whites and are only good for indoor and outdoor lighting. Last nearly forever, though." The Devil sighed.

"For a while we made a killing." He winked at Richard who cringed at the thought.

"What happened?"

"The market became glutted. On earth there must be, I mean the ones that are left, fifteen billion or so just lying around waiting for anyone to pick 'em up or step on them. It's no longer feasible economically to deal in them anymore." The Devil drained his Fosters. He set the can down and signaled Marvin for another. The elfin waiter replaced the can instantly with a full one and the outline of a second Krugerrand appeared beside the first one in his vest pocket.

"So you don't buy and sell souls at all?" Richard asked feeling let down.

The Devil shook his head and smiled at him. "Really, it's not like it used to be. Souls were pretty rare six thousand years ago, and the competition was stiff. Even though we had clear title to the property, Elihu and I were always defending against law suits and claim jumpers.

"And then humans got pretty smart too. Somehow, people learned the worth of souls and took pains to have them hidden away after they passed on. To steal a soul in those days was a real art form." The Devil took a sip of beer. "Ah mate, but were we rich then. Work was interesting and fun. It was grand." The Devil sighed.

"I remember once when one of our agents stumbled upon the Babylonian Well of Souls. Did we have a doo. It was heaps of fun. Antarean Brandy, Sirian JuJu dancers." He sat back in his chair and smiled, pleased with the memories of trading.

Richard interrupted his thoughts. "What happened to the souls... I mean to the buying them or stealing them."

"Well, like I said, the bottom dropped out of the market. A glut sort of like. Elihu got this big idea that he should set himself up as God and I'd be the Devil. People would then commend their souls to him for safe keeping. It was a great marketing ploy at first. Souls started appearing right and left; no one hiding them anymore. And what with the religious wars that followed, nobody was at a loss after that for a soul. Anyone could come to Earth and gather a handful overnight easy like. Soon there were just too many for the market.

"Elihu and I fought the trend for a while. Tried to get laws enacted. We had a dozen suits going at once. The bottom dropped out for real when some Altarian one-eyed stuffed monkey of a scientist found a way to manufacture them." The Devil sneered at the idea of a synthetic soul.

"We claimed copyright and patent infringement, but it didn't do any good. A bunch of bleeding heart liberal politicians passed a law guaranteeing everyone the right to health, power and happiness. Elihu and I held on to our investment. There are a few elite clientele who demand natural SoulStones. But with all the souls lying around, it's not the same. It's hardly worth the effort to fill an order."

The Devil was glum. He drank his Fosters moodily and looked at the law student wistfully. Inwardly, Richard shuddered at the covetous longing lying within the Devil's eyes and he was relieved that economic forces had rendered the Devil's wily schemes obsolete. Most of all, he was grateful he had not bargained with the Devil for his soul. Outwardly, Richard nodded his head understandingly and decided it was time to leave.

Richard rose and not wishing to turn his back on the Evil One, he walked backwards gingerly, waving goodbye shyly. "I guess I ought to find my parents. It's their anniversary... today, that is," he explained awkwardly.

He started to turn, but his feet became entangled in his beach towel and he tripped. Unable to regain his balance, he flailed wildly. His head angled toward the sharp edge of a brick lined planter. Paralyzed, he closed his eyes, expecting to be killed instantly. Suddenly he felt his body slow and then stop. He opened his eyes and his forehead was inches from the planter's brick edge. Slowly he felt his body tip upright. As he regained his footing, he saw the Devil grinning. His head was inclined toward Richard.

"Mostly ornamental," the Devil said.

"Th...th.. thanks," Richard stammered.

"You're welcome," the Devil replied.

Richard smiled wanly. "I guess I... I owe you for that."

"Nah. This one's on the house."

"Thanks.. uhhh..."

"Call me Mick."

"Mick," Richard said shakily.

The Devil raised his Fosters in salute. "G'day mate."