Screwtape was having a bad day. Jewel counts were running well below quota. Domestic violence was down. Charitable giving was up. So was church membership (a sometimes meaningless statistic, but still...). Even the international news, usually so refreshing, was bad: long-held animosities cooling; a final, cataclysmic war that offered untold human misery, the fondest of Screwtape's dreams, was fading. Peace and justice were breaking out everywhere; it was sickening.
The phone rang, jangling Screwtape's train of thought.
“Mr. Screwtape?” (It was that idiot Glubwart again. He was turning out to be a big disappointment; couldn't tie his own shoe without instructions from the head office. Screwtape had built up Glubwart to the Chief; promised results after the Slugthorn fiasco; now, if Glubwart couldn't produce, guess whose tail would be on the line?)
“What is it, Glubwart?”
“Mr. Screwtape, sir -- I'm having a small problem...one of my clients, a Miss Hazel Norton of --” “Age?” Screwtape interrupted, impatiently.
“Seventy-five. She's--”
“Seventy-five?” Screwtape fairly shouted. “Glubwart -- what in Hell's name are you doing wasting your time with such an old one? If we haven't turned them by 40, forget it; the Enemy has his hooks buried too deep. No, Glubwart; get 'em young. They're so easy, the little darlings; just dangle sex or drugs, and they're yours. They're so totally at the mercy of their bodies, Glubwart; a veritable 'me' machine flooded with raging hormones, and that torrent drowning out the Enemy's 'small, quiet voice.' They practically leap into your boat, Glubwart -- victims of their own body chemistry. All you have to do is put 'em on the stringer.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Screwtape.”
“Very well. Goodbye, Glub--”
“Excuse me, Mr. Screwtape, there's something else I need to talk to you about...”
“Well?” “I have a tricky situation. My client--”
“Age?”
“Thirty-five.”
“Sex?”
“Yes. Ha ha. Just a little joke there, Mr. Screwtape.” Then, after an awkward silence when Screwtape didn't laugh, Glubwart mumbled, “Male.”
“What's the situation?”
“He's thinking about embezzling some money from the company where he works.”
“Chance of success?”
“Good. He's the only one who looks at the books.”
Screwtape yawned. “It's pretty straightforward, Glubwart. Go back to Seduction 101. All you have to do is complicate the situation; throw in a little added incentive, motivation. Married?”
“Single.”
“Does he have a girl?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. Get to her. She's got to have a car. She's got to have a diamond. He's got to get it for her, get the picture?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“If it takes anything more than that, whisper to him that it's so easy, no chance of getting caught; it's only this once; he can pay it back later; basic stuff -- you help him rationalize it.” Why is he wasting my time with this simple stuff? Screwtape wondered.
“Yes, sir. One -- or two more things.”
“Yes?” Screwtape sighed wearily.
“There's another client; twenty-one, male. I think he's ready to come over, but he needs a little push.”
“Be careful. If you push too hard, it could backfire. Take your time; let things develop. Time is on your side, Glubwart; never forget that.”
“Just one more item, sir.”
“Let's have it.”
“Female, age sixteen. A runaway. Couldn't get along with her mother. Now she's in a strange town and--”
“Glubwart, do you expect me to do all your work for you?”
“No sir, it's just--”
“Don't waste my time with trivia. If you can't handle a simple runaway, you're in the wrong position. Maybe I made a wrong decision putting you in charge of the Southeastern district.”
“No, sir. I can handle it, sir. It's just that -- I've got a feeling that she's -- that this is a unique case...” A buzzing on the line told Glubwart he was talking into empty ether. Screwtape had hung up on him.
The girl. He couldn't stop thinking about the girl. Something about her...something familiar. It didn't feel good. Whatever it was, it wasn't good. Wait. That was it. Something WAS good -- but in the way the Enemy meant the word, not in the Lower Empire parlance.
Glubwart humphed; a sound that in humans would pass for a chuckle. The meanings of words. Words that mean nothing, or anything. So many words. On TV. Radio. Newspapers. Neverending streams; the air choked with them like legible, audible sargasso weed, emptied of all meaning.
That human entertainer. His song popularized a new meaning for the word “bad.” Now, it meant “good.” But still, not “good,” not the way the Enemy understands the word; more like “capable;” “physically attractive;” or “powerful.” Glubwart liked the new meaning of “bad.” His intuition told him the Boss liked it, too.
But he was wandering. Back to the girl. The girl. Something was wrong there; something right. Was she too good? That could be bad -- very bad -- for Glubwart.
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