"Swell, Bill," said Montague Stark; then, voice changing a little toward puzzlement: "But— where'd you get the costume?"
"Costume?"
There was an uncomfortable silence with the realization that the voice was not Averoff's after all.
Alice Woodson, who was nearest to the light switch, snapped the top light on. She waited a good twenty seconds before screaming.
The visitor was not only not a New York hacky, but was rather evidently not human at all, though its shape and size were those of a man. It cast no shadow and wore no garments, unless what appeared to be its skin was actually a tight one-piece green rubber coverall. No zipper, however, could be discerned. The pupils of its eyes, instead of pits of blackness as with people, were apertures through which inner light winked out into the room.
"Well?"
"You're—not—Bill—Averoff," said Stark at last in a small, still voice.
"No, I regret. Why should I be? I am Bechard. You called me, did you not, gentleman?"
"I—suppose I did."
"Then," said the apparition stiffly, "I am yours to com— No, wait!" It slowly turned its head this way and that, surveying the room and the various props that Stark had set out: the altar, Gus and Godiva, and so forth.
Its regard came to rest on the pentacle on which it stood. As it looked down it apparently realized its lack of shadow, for a shadow appeared at once."Regret," it muttered.
Then it glared back at Stark, and said in a new, harsh tone:."Did you not know, gentleman, that we of the Gothic Sept are not commanded by the pentagram?"
"N-n-no."
"It is so, I regret. We are not commanded by it, though we must respect it. Demons of the Apollinian Sept are commanded by the pentagram, as those of the Magian Sept are by the hexagram and those of the Sinic by the diskelion."
Prosper Nash had held his breath as long as he could. He now let it out with a whoof and broke in: "What are you commanded by, then?"
The thing's rubbery mouth widened into a black slit wherein no teeth were visible."Ha-ha," it, growled earnestly."For me to tell you would be funny, would it not, gentlemen? Almost as funny as invoking Bechard the Hail-maker to perform buffooneries for your frivolous amusement. I regret, but we Bechards are demons of intelligence. Let us settle our business before any of you mundane souls conceive more clevernesses. You, sir, the sorcerer who does not know his pentacles— what are your name and station?"
"What d'you wanna know for?" asked Stark quickly, a drop of sweat glistening on his forehead.
"To determine," replied Bechard blandly, "whose mundane body I shall possess."
"You mean we're gonna be possessed by devils?"
"Demons, not devils. And only one. Come now, gentleman, your profession?"
"Teacher," gulped Stark."But look here—"
"You?" the demon turned to Lanby.
"I... I'm a clerk at the Y. M. C. A. —"
"Exorcism! You are a regular churchgoer?"
"Well... yes—"
"I do not want you. Regret the strain of leading your regular life would be too severe. You with the mustache and glasses?"
"Accountant," said Prosper Nash."Say, don't you think you ought to tell us more? What's it like to be possessed? Do you go nuts?"
"Not at all," said Bechard."What an idea! You must be thinking of the crude old days before we were organized. Today we demons know how to handle a mundane body so that even its best friends never guess. Probably at least one of your friends is possessed without your knowing it. The young lady?"
"I take care of my mother," said Alice.
Bechard was silent, then said: "I choose the teacher—"
"But," cried Nash, "if you take Monty's body, what happens to him?"
Bechard smiled his toothless facial gesture."His mundane soul, displaced from his mundane body, will naturally be forced up to the astral plane, where it will inhabit his astral body."
"His what?"
"If you will cease your interruptions I shall explain. He will learn what the astral plane is when he arrives. On that plane is the Shamir, which will transport both his mundane soul and his astral body back to this plane—"
"What the devil is the Shamir?" Nash interrupted again.
"Oh, ignorant generation! The Shamir is the Stone of Sages; the Star of Truth. In plain language, it is a gem once owned by Solomon son of David, on whom be peace." Bechard stepped toward Stark.
Montague shrank back, crying: "You can't do this to me!"
"Oh, yes I can, my esteemed Monty."
"What's the idea?"
"The idea, gentleman, is that the demoniac plane is a very dull place. Since we have been organized, those of each Sept are all exactly alike. It is in its way perfect; we consume neither food nor drink. We have no sex. When a Bechard or a Baphomet is afforded an opportunity to inhabit a mundane body and experience its joys and sorrows, he seizes the chance with avidity. But I am not selfish. The Shamir will return you body and soul to the mundane plane, at which time I will give you back your mundane body in exchange for the astral one. Now, esteemed sir, close your eyes and relax—"
"Begone!" yelled Stark, holding his sword out hilt up to make a cross, and fingering the Star of David."By Jakin and Boaz, the Wheel of Ezekiel, the Pentacle of Pythagoras—"
Bechard glided swiftly toward the terrified sorcerer, but recoiled as Stark defiantly thrust the symbols at him. After three tries, Bechard changed his tactics."Come, sir," he wheedled, "the astral plane is a very interesting place. And you will be allowed to return as soon as—"
"Nor on your life!" shrieked Stark.
"Regret that you are so stubborn," said Bechard, raising his voice above Bob Lanby's prayers."I shall have to take the young gentlewoman's mundane body, then, though I fear her astral self will prove a less effective means of finding the Shamir' than would yours. But—"
Prosper Nash did the quickest thinking of which he was capable. He jumped up and skidded across the floor, snatched up the sheet of artist's board—sending the tripod clattering to the floor— and bounded back to where Alice shrank against the wall. He thrust the pentacle into her hands.
"No you don't!" he told Bechard."You said yourself you had to respect the pentagram!"
"You are an interfering young gentleman!" rasped Bechard."I regret. I think you will find the Shamir—"
"Hey! Wait! Let's talk this over. You can't steal my body just because I protected a girl—"
"Can and will. Relax, my good sir, and the process will be less painful. You must return in ten days with Solomon's Stone, or I shall be forced to chastise your delinquency."
"But how am I to find this damned rock? And how—"
"There are those on the astral plane who can tell you more than I. Here we go!"
Nash tensed every muscle and felt frantically in his pockets for something bearing a symbol wherewith to thwart the demon. A star—something with a star—hell, the pentagram appeared on the flags of a dozen nations, not to mention States of the Union, societies, political parties—
Bechard was right in front of him, gliding now without moving his green legs, between Nash and the "trap." Nash remembered the bills in his wallet; they almost certainly bore stars—
Too late!
Prosper Nash felt a tremendous shock, as if a destroyer had dropped a depth bomb on him. While his mind strove to keep a grip on his body, he could feel that body being pulled out of his mental clutches—going—going—gone!
He was moving with great speed—or falling; it was like an express-elevator plunge, only more so.
Then he fetched up against something, or into something; shot home into place with an almost audible clank, like a key into the right lock, or a sword into its scabbard—