Chapter 2: Slugthorn's disgrace

Slugthorn’s hand trembled as he put the receiver down. He knew what to expect. There was only one punishment for failure.

He had failed to notice his client’s growing conscience until it was too late. In a moment of inattention, months of planning had gone down the drain. The still, small voice of the Enemy had grown stronger in the human’s ear, drowning out Slugthorn’s carefully implanted programming. The client reported the impending drug operation to the authorities, even though it meant a prison sentence for him. Now, the worm was even reading the Enemy’s Book, and attending chapel at the prison. It gave Slugthorn a sick feeling in his stomach. Slugthorn had not seen what was happening, or did not want to see. And now he would pay.

Thoughts raced round and round in Slugthorn's brain like mice in a treadmill. Escape. Flee. Flee. But there was no escape. The talons of the Lower Empire were long. He could feel them clawing at his back even now. In a daze, he wandered out of his office, not even stopping to clean out his desk. His former underlings lowered their heads and withdrew when he passed, stealing stealthy glances at his receding figure. They retreated, as if mere contact with him would drag them down, too. They knew. His failure was thick in the air. No one needed the words to be uttered. He felt as if he were wearing a huge sign on his back, marking him as utterly damned.

Slugthorn had seen a lot of changes in the South since becoming district chief. He slipped into nostalgic reminiscing during the trip to the airport. How he had relished the misery of the black humans! A warm glow came over Slugthorn as he remembered their screams, the tears, the wailing and gnashing of teeth; babies torn from mothers, families ripped asunder! Ah yes, those were the good old days! Slugthorn had enjoyed the best of both worlds. On the one hand, he could watch the humans suffer, while reaping in souls with the other hand. And how they flocked to him in those days, the souls of the white humans! There seemed hardly enough room in Hell to hold them all. Plenty of black souls, too, yes.

Of course, there were blemishes. Large numbers of the perverse black humans inexplicably took up the Enemy’s hated religion, and slipped smilingly out of Slugthorn's claws. Imagine that! He would never understand humans. The Hebrews in Egypt had driven him to distraction, and now this! ... Perhaps it was just as well that he was finished. ... Giving thanks when they had nothing to be thankful for! Slugthorn had worried for his safety even then. But some small failures can be forgiven, when things are going so well for the Empire.

And things had been going very well, indeed, for Slugthorn in the South in the 19th century. Even now, the same old engine that drove so many souls through the Empire's wide, welcoming gates, was still claiming its share, despite a disturbing trend toward racial tolerance. Slugthorn had tried to deemphasize its importance in his annual reports.

Yes, he had seen a lot of changes. And each change brought new challenges; had tested his powers of innovation. Well, all that was over now.

He was airborne now, flying in a commercial jet to his meeting with Screwtape. He was looking down on the battlefields; the scenes of Slugthorn's triumphs and mistakes. Was it all a matter of luck? Could a lower demon really affect the outcome? Maybe it was this nagging thought that had dulled Slugthorn's aggressiveness and led to his downfall.

Far down below, they were like insignificant ants, invisible inside their miniature automobiles. This was the proper perspective to take of the humans. So tiny. So insignificant. So utterly contemptible. And yet -- why then was the Enemy so interested in them? The thought irritated Slugthorn.

He considered making the plane crash, just for a lark. It would be fun, hearing their screams, seeing the look of terror in their eyes, feeling his superiority over them one last time, his immortality... his immortality...would soon be coming to a horrifying, painful end. Or would it? Maybe, just maybe, he could still hope for a pardon. 

Slugthorn laughed a harsh laugh. From Screwtape? That implacable, horrible devil? But maybe, maybe Screwtape could be convinced that Slugthorn could still be of service. There was still much to be done; things that only Slugthorn could accomplish. That was his only hope. Certainly to hope for mercy would be absurd; ludicrous in the extreme; a contradiction in terms.

Slugthorn became bored. He began brain browsing. It was a pastime that he had once, as a young demon, found exciting -- listening in on the thoughts of his intended victims, hearing what they were thinking, hoping, planning. The instructor had explained how to make use of every scrap of information, every half-forgotten whim; to use it against the client. But it quickly became drudgery. The humans were so predictable, so banal, so unimaginative. Slugthorn tried to alleviate the boredom by searching for glimmers of intelligence; something to offer a little challenge. 

He found it seldom. Searching for a spark of intelligence in a human brain was like trying to find one particular grain of sand in the Sahara.

But now he was so bored, that even brain browsing was a relief. He skimmed the plane lightly, picking up random thoughts. It was as boring as he had expected. Here was a businessman, trying to figure out how to “cook” the figures, to make his proposal look more attractive. Over there was another one trying to find loopholes in his income tax returns. A young girl was thinking about -- what else -- young boys. Slugthorn was about to give up.

Then he focused on a child sitting with his grandmother, about three seats in front of Slugthorn on the other side of the aisle. Nothing new here, either. The child was thinking about toys that he wanted to get for his birthday. Slugthorn switched his attention to the grandmother. She was widowed, and was worrying about trying to make ends meet on Social Security. Her daughter couldn't help, because she was recently divorced, with no job; that was why she was picking up her grandson to come live with her. The added expense would put a real strain on her fixed income.

That piqued Slugthorn's interest. Human suffering always did that for him. He switched back to the boy. The boy was still daydreaming of toys that he hoped to get. But Slugthorn sensed no fear, no sadness in the boy over his mother's divorce and his separation from her.

Slugthorn was totally unprepared for the next thoughts he intercepted. The boy was thinking about his grandmother, and how he could ease her burden. He was feeling pain for her! Now, the young whelp was even rejecting his earlier thoughts of toys!

It was coming in too clearly now. [“Grandma can't afford toys. I was selfish to think about that. I have to think of a way to help her get more money...”]

Slugthorn recoiled, and switched off his brain browsing. His mind automatically started trying to think of ways to save him from Screwtape's wrath. He couldn't help it. It was hopeless, but his brain wouldn't listen to reason. It kept charging around like a computer gone berserk, picking up random bits of data, discarding them, then returning to the same place again and again. It was torture. A foretaste of Lower Hell.

Nothing could save him now. The rules were brutally simple: succeed and live, fail and die. Slugthorn had failed. Slugthorn needed success, and a lot of it. But success was something you couldn't fake. Anyway, it was too late. But if... if... If he could come up with a plan, a strategy ... maybe he could sell it to Screwtape in return for his life. But what? It would have to be good; a master stroke. Nothing short of total victory over the humans could abate Screwtape's fury. And there was no time. If all the lower devils through all the ages could not find a way, how could he do it in the few hours remaining on his flight to Los Angeles?

Useless to think of running; it wouldn't even buy him an instant of time -- and the Empire had eons. The talons of the Lower Empire were long and terrifyingly swift. His appointment with Screwtape was at 2:30. If he did not appear punctually, they would find him at the appointed instant, and carry out the sentence. No. Escape was not the answer.

What then? It would have to be good. Better than all the wars. Better than sex. Better than drugs. Better than divorce. Better even than the torture of little children. Something really epoch-making; breaking new ground; radical, innovative, ingenious, truly, truly diabolical. Slugthorn needed a miracle. Hah! a miracle! Slugthorn snorted at the idea; borrowing a term from the Enemy to describe his predicament.

Could he switch sides, at least long enough to escape Screwtape's wrath? No. The Enemy would see through that dodge. Slugthorn's brain was still racing when the jet's tires squealed and squeeked. His meeting with Screwtape was drawing near.