Epilogue

A harsh, terrible, long, long, brass-blasting, trumpeting sound startled Screwtape. A thousand Siberian winters chased through his hot, pumping arteries. He froze. All hot, fluid activity within his steaming body ceased. An Arctic chill penetrated to the marrow. He was transfixed with horror.
   The sound was unmistakable. He had never heard it, but he had been prepared for it through all the ages. He knew one day it would come, and that he could not fail to recognize it when it came. It was a clarion call to arms -- a challenge to the death. The ultimate struggle for survival against the Great Enemy.
   Desolated, Screwtape fixed upon the telephone for his salvation. An electronic blip on his computer modem might still come to his rescue.
   “Chief,” he croaked. “Where are you?”
   There was no answer. Screwtape's final battle had begun.