


1

TO BUY A STONE

"Death," the proprietor said clearly, showing the stone.
It was a bright red ruby, multifaceted, set in a plain gold
ring. It was a full carat—large for this quality.

Zane shook his head, experiencing a chill. "I don't
want that one!"

The man smiled, an obviously perfunctory and prac-
ticed expression reserved for wavering marks. He was
well dressed, but somewhat sallow, in the manner of those
who remained in the shade too long. "You misunderstand,
sir. This fine gem does not bring you death. It does the
opposite."

Zane was hardly reassured. "Then why call it—?"

"The Deathstone." Again that annoyingly patronizing
shaping of the face, as the proprietor eased the ignorant
concern of the balky customer. "It merely advises the
wearer of the proximity of termination, by darkening. The
speed and intensity of the change notifies you of the po-
tential circumstance of your demise—in plenty of time for
you to avoid it."

"But isn't that paradox?" Zane had seen such stones
advertised, usually at prohibitive prices, but discounted
the claims as marketing hyperbole. "A prophecy isn't valid,
if—"

"No paradox," the proprietor said with professional
certainty. "Merely adequate warning. You could hardly

2              On A Pale Horse

obtain a better service, sir. After all, what is more pre-
cious than life?"

"That presumes a person's life is worth living," Zane
said sourly. He was a young man of no particular stature
or distinction of feature, with acne scars that neither med-
ication nor spot-spell had been able to eradicate entirely.
His hair was dishwater brown and somewhat unkempt,
and his teeth were unfashionably irregular. He was ob-
viously a depressive type. "So it darkens, and you change
your course, and you don't die. You figure the warning
saved you. But it could be a random turning of the stone.
Color-spells are a dime a dozen. No way to prove the
prophecy was valid. On the other hand, if it fails to darken,
and you die, how can you complain? You'll be dead\" He
scratched distractedly at a scar. "If it's wrong, how do
you get a refund?"

"You don't believe?" the proprietor asked, frowning
expertly. Apart from his complexion, he was a moderately
handsome man of early middle age whose hair was en-
chanted to carry a permanent chestnut wave. "I run a
respectable shop. I assure you, all my spellstones are
genuine."

"According to the Apocalypse, Death rides a pale
horse," Zane said, warming to his melancholy. He evi-
dently had some education in this area. "I question whether
an inanimate object, a chunk of colored corundum, can
stay that dread horseman so simply. Given the uncer-
tainties of the situation, such a stone is of no practical
use to the owner. He can only test it by seeing it turn,
then refusing to change his course. If it is a valid proph-
ecy, he is doomed. If it is not, he has been cheated. It's
a no-win game. I have played enough of that type."

"I will provide you a demonstration," the proprietor
said, perceiving a morbid streak that could make this cus-
tomer vulnerable to an aggressive and properly slanted
sales pitch. "Skepticism is healthy, sir, and you are ob-
viously too intelligent to be deceived by defective mer-
chandise. The value of the stone can be proved."

Zane shrugged, affecting indifference. "A free dem-
onstration? Can it be worth more than I pay for it?"

The proprietor smiled more genuinely, knowing that

OnA Pale Horse               3

his fish, despite evasive maneuverings, was halfway
hooked. Truly uninterested persons did not linger to ar-
gue cases. He took the stone from the magically theft-
proofed glass display case and proffered it.

Zane smiled quirkily and accepted the ring, putting it
on the tip of his thumb. "Unless there's some immediate
and obvious threat for the stone to point out—"

Then he was silent, for already the ring was turning.
The bright red deepened to dark red, and then to opaque.

Zane's mind began to numb around the edges. Death—
he had a deep guilt there. He looked at his left arm, feeling
a spot of blood burning into the skin. He pictured the face
of his mother as she died. How could he ever exonerate
that memory?

"Death—within hours, suddenly!" the proprietor said,
aghast. "The stone is absolutely black! I've never seen it
turn so fast!"

Zane shook off his private specter. No, he could not
afford to believe in this! "If I am to die within hours, I'll
have no need of this stone."

"Buy you do need it, sir!" the proprietor insisted. "With
the Deathstone you can change your fate. Hold it and
decide on a new course, and if the color returns, you
know it's right. You can save your life! But you have to
have this fine magical ruby to guide you. To steer you
away from death. Otherwise you will surely perish before
the day is out. That warning is emphatic!"

Zane hesitated. The Deathstone was an impressive item
now. It had, as it were, not minced words. But he had
been thinking about death while holding the stone, and
that could have made the color turn. Emotion-indicator
spells were simple and cheap, hardly deserving the name
of magic. There could be many things like that to give
false readings. Still—

"How much?" he asked.

"How much is life worth?" the proprietor asked in
return, with a certain predatory gleam in his eyes.

"About two cents, if this stone is right," Zane said
grimly. Yet his heart was beating with nervous power.

"Two cents—per minute," the proprietor said, going
into the closing spiel. "But this phenomenal and beautiful




4             On APaU Horse

stone is available presently at a discount of fifty percent.
I will sell it to you for a mere one cent per minute, in-
cluding principal, interest, servicing, insurance—"

"How much per month?" Zane demanded, seeing him-
self getting reeled in.

The proprietor brought out a pocket calculator and
punched buttons dexterously. "Four hundred and thirty-
two dollars."

Zane stiffened. He had anticipated a high price, but
this was impossible. A family could buy a good house for
a similar figure! "How long?"

"Only fifteen years or less."

"Or less?"

"In case the gem should miscarry, the insurance will
pay off the balance owing, of course."

"Of course," Zane agreed with a wry quirk of his mouth.
A miscarriage meant death, which meant a bum enchant-
ment. They planned to collect their money regardless of
the effectiveness of the Deathstone in protecting its owner.
He performed a quick mental calculation and concluded
he was being charged a little over seventy-five thousand
in total. About two-thirds of that would be interest and
other peripherals; still, it was a lot of money. A great lot!
More, probably, than his life was worth. Literally.

He handed back the ruby. Its color returned rapidly
as the proprietor took it. In moments its special, deep
shade of red glowed beautifully in the lighting of the shop.
A ruby was indeed a lovely gemstone, even when it wasn't
magic.

"What else?" Zane asked. He was shaken, but still
wanted to find something that would help him.

"Love," the proprietor said immediately, bringing out
a cloudy blue sapphire mounted on another gold ring.

Zane looked at the stone. "Love, as in romance? A
woman? Marriage?"

"Or whatever." The proprietor's smile was not quite
as warm as it had been, perhaps because of the misstep
on the prior stone. He did not enjoy seeing fish slip the
hook. This gem was probably less expensive, meaning a
smaller profit. "This fine stone brightens at the prospect
of romance of any kind. Sapphire, as you know, is chem-

0» A Pale Horse               5

ically the same stone as ruby; both are corundum, but
because the colors of sapphire are not as rare as those of
ruby, the value is less. This is therefore a bargain. It will
tune in to your romance; all you have to do is follow its
signal until you score."

Zane remained skeptical. "You can't find romance by
zeroing in as if it's a target! There are social aspects,
complex nuances of compatibility—"

"The Lovestone takes account of all that, sir. It orients
on the right one, taking all factors into consideration. Left
to your own devices, you are very likely to make a mis-
take, and suffer an unfortunate liaison, perhaps one that
will become a grief to you. With this stone, that will never
happen."

"But there could be many excellent combinations,"
Zane protested. "Many right women. How can a mere
gem select among them?"

"Circumstances alter cases, sir. Some women are ideal
for any man, with qualities of beauty, talent, and loyalty
that make them highly desirable regardless of the varia-
tions in the males. But most of them are already married,
as these qualities are readily perceived by the boy next
door, lucky fellow. Others may be destined for some de-
valuing development, like a disfiguring illness or serious
problems among their relatives. The Lovestone knows;

it orients on the most suitable, most reliable, most avail-
able individual. It is unerring. Simply turn it to obtain the
brightest glow and follow where it leads. You will not be
disappointed." He held forth the blue sapphire. "One
demonstration trial, sir."

"I don't know. If it's like the last one—"

"This is romance! How can you lose?"

Zane sighed and took the stone. It was certainly pretty
and twice the size of the Deathstone, and its theoretical
power intrigued him strongly. A really good romance—
what more could a man ask for?

As the ring touched his hand, the stone brightened,
turning a lighter blue, becoming translucent. Again his
mind faded to memory. Love—it was a second leg of his
guilt. There had been a woman, nice enough, pretty
enough, and she had wanted to marry him. But she had




6              OnA Pale Horse

lacked the one thing he had to have. He had liked her,
perhaps loved her, and she had certainly loved him—too
much.

"The perfect romance—within the hour!" the propri-
etor exclaimed, seeming genuinely amazed. His voice
snapped Zane out of his reverie. "You are a remarkably
fortunate man, sir! I have never seen the Lovestone so
bright! So clearly directional!"

The perfect romance. He had, really, had that before.
How could the stone know his particular needs? He re-
turned it to the proprietor. "I can't afford it."

"You can't afford love within the hour?" the man af-
fected astonishment.

"Romance won't pay my rent."

The proprietor nodded with sudden understanding.
Something unscrupulous passed fleetingly through his
expression. "So it is finance you lack!"

Zane took a deep breath. "Yes. I suppose I've been
wasting my time here—and yours." He turned to go.

The proprietor grabbed his arm, in his eagerness for-
getting his savoir-faire. "Wait, sir! I do have a stone for
you!"

"How can I pay for it?" Zane demanded sourly.

"You can pay for it, sir!"

Zane shrugged him off. "You know why the Death-
stone turned black for me? Because I'll soon starve to
death! I have no money. I don't know why I came in here;

it was a completely irrational act. I can't afford the least
of your magic gems. I apologize for deceiving you."

"On the contrary, sir! I have a Salestone set above my
door; it glowed when you entered. You will purchase
something here!" He snatched a stone from the display.
"This is the one you want."

"Don't you understand? I'm broke!"

"This is a Wealthstone!"

Zane paused. "A what?"

The proprietor held it out. "It brings money! Try it!"

"But—" Zane's protest was cut off by the thrust of the
stone into his hand. This one was not set into a ring. It
was an enormous star sapphire, well over a hundred car-
ats, but of very poor quality. The color varied from cloudy

On A Pale Horse               7

gray to muddy brown, and there were concentric rings
crossing the material and several black inclusions or im-
perfections. But the star was impressive; its six rays
reached right around the polished hemisphere, and their
intersection floated just above the surface. Zane blinked,
but the effect remained; the star was not in, but above
the stone. There was magic here, certainly!

"Not pretty, I admit, but my stones aren't marketed
primarily for their appearance," the proprietor said. "They
are valued for their magic. This is as potent a spellstone
as the others, but of a different nature. This is the one
you want. It is virtually priceless."

"I keep trying to tell you! I can't—"

"Priceless, I said. You can not purchase this jewel for
money."

"Not if it generates wealth!" Zane agreed, intrigued.

"That's right, sir. It produces wealth—all you'll ever
need. Potentially thousands of dollars at a time."

"But this is paradox again! How can you afford to sell
such a stone? You should keep it for yourself!"

The proprietor frowned. "I confess the temptation. But
there would be a prohibitive penalty. If I were to use any
of these fine spellstones myself, none of the other stones
would work for me. Not reliably. Their enchantments
tend to cancel one another out. So I use very little of the
magic, apart from the Salestone, which actually facilitates
business. I earn my living on commissions, using no other
magic gems myself."

Zane considered. The man could be concealing the fact
that his stones were enchanted by black magic, helping
to damn the person who used them. Drug dealers often
did not use the drugs themselves, lest they be destroyed
by their own product, and black magic was more insidious
than drugs. Still, it was an answer. There were sellers,
and there were users. "Then, what price?"

"Note the clarity of the star," the proprietor said. "When
you invoke the magic, the star floats right off the stone
and does not return until the spell is complete. That way
you know exactly when it is operating."

This person was being evasive. "Assuming that it
works," Zane said.




8              OwA Pale Horse

"A demonstration!" the proprietor said, sensing a sale
that would hold. "Gaze on the Wealthstone and concen-
trate on money. That is all it takes to invoke it."

Zane held the stone and looked and concentrated. In
a moment the star floated right off the stone, its rays
dangling like legs, and cruised slowly through the air. It
was working!

Then Zane's awareness faded to a dismal memory—
the gaming table, compulsive gambling, the losses mount-
ing—he had been such a fool with money! No wonder he
was broke! If only it had stopped there...

The star dropped low, going toward Zane's foot. He
stepped back, but it followed as if pursuing him. "Watch
wherever it leads," the proprietor said.

"Suppose it leads me to someone else's wallet? To a

bank vault?"

"No, it only discovers legitimate, available wealth.
Never anything illegal. That's part of the spell. There are
laws about enchantment, after all. The Federal Bureau of
Enchantment investigates complaints about abuse."

"Complaints about the practice of black magic?" Zane

asked alertly.

The proprietor affected shock. "Sir, I would not handle
black magic! All my spells are genuine white magic."

"Black magic knows no law except its own," Zane

muttered.

"White magic!" the proprietor insisted. "My wares are

certified genuine white."

But such certificates, Zane knew, were only as good
as the person who made them. White magic was always
honest, for it stemmed from God, but black magic often
masqueraded as white. Naturally Satan, the Father of
Lies, sought to deceive people about his wares. It was
hard for an amateur to distinguish reliably between mag-
ics. Of course, he could have this stone separately ap-
praised, and the appraisal would include a determination
of its magical status—but that would be expensive, and
he would have to buy it first. If the verdict turned out
negative, he would still be stuck.

The star hovered at Zane's shoe. "Lift your foot, sir,"

On A Pale Horse               9

the proprietor suggested. Zane raised his foot, and the
star slipped under like a scurrying insect.

Surprised, Zane angled his foot so he could see the
worn sole. There was a penny stuck to it. The star had
settled on this, clasping it.

Zane pried the penny off. Immediately the star re-
turned to the big sapphire.

The spell had worked. The star had led him to money
no one had known about. Not a lot of it, but of course
there would not be much loose change in a shop like this.
It was the principle that counted, not the particular amount.

The horizons opened out before him. A Wealthstone—
what would that do for his situation? Money coming in,
abating his debts, making him comfortable, and maybe
more than comfortable. It could save him from starvation
and bring romance, for that was easy for a rich man to
come by. To be free at last of the burden of poverty!

"How much?" he asked, afraid of the answer. "I know
the price isn't money."

The proprietor smiled, at last assured of his sale. "No,
not money, of course. Something of equivalent value."

Zane had a suspicion he wouldn't like this. But he did
want the Wealthstone. The prospects were dazzling! He
hardly cared that it might be an illicit black-magic item.
Who else would know? "What equivalent value?"

"Romance."

"What?"

The man licked his lips, showing an unprofessional
nervousness. 'The Lovestone showed you have romance
commencing within the hour."

"But I'm not buying the Lovestone. I won't be zeroing
in on that romance."

"But someone else could."

Zane looked at him tolerantly, recognizing the man's
lust for an ideal woman. "You own the stone. You could
do it. You don't need anything from me."

"I do need you," the proprietor explained, speaking
rapidly. "I told you I don't use the stones myself. It would
ruin my business if I did. But even if I did—in my own
near future there is no romance. I am well established in
my profession and I have a long life ahead, but my social




10             OnA Pale Horse

life is strictly indifferent. I would give a great deal to have
a meaningful relationship with a good woman. One who
was not a gold digger or desperate. One I could trust. A
woman such as the one you are fated to encounter—were
fated, had you purchased the Lovestone and used it prop-
erly."

"You claim you have not used the gems yourself?"

Zane asked skeptically. "You seem to know a lot about

your own future."

"There are other avenues of information besides my
gems," the proprietor said, a trifle stiffly. "I have had
horoscopes and divinations and readings of many types.
All show I am destined for success in business, not in

love."

"Then how can my romance do you any good? You

already know you can't have it."

"On the contrary! I can't have my romance, but I can
have yours—if you permit it. In that manner I can bypass
this one aspect of my fate. The woman is destined for
you, but would settle for me. I can tell by the way the
stone reacted for you that she would do for any number
of men, of whom I am one. Her appeal is very broad. It
would not be as good for me as for you, since I am not
reduced to your straits, but it remains highly worthwhile.
Even a match not quite made in Heaven can be excellent."

"It's your stone," Zane said stubbornly. "You can zero
in on her yourself. So maybe that will ruin the rest of
your business; if you want romance that badly, it should
be worth it to you." He was uncomfortable, suspecting
that he was losing out on something important. Perhaps
he should change his mind about trying to buy the Love-
stone. If what awaited him was that good...

Of course, that was what the proprietor wanted him
to think, so he would be compelled to make the purchase
of the expensive stone and sign himself and maybe his
future wife into debt for the rest of his life. Realizing that,
he resisted the devious sales pitch, overtly playing along
with the proprietor's supposed need for romance. Zane
did have a certain affinity for intellectual games; he was
much more of a thinker than an actor. He had had a decent
education, before things soured, and enjoyed art and

On A Pale Horse              11

poetry. However, he had largely wasted his education,
and his thoughts seemed generally to get him into trouble.

"My stone, but your romance," the proprietor said with
every evidence of sincerity. "Even if I were willing to
sacrifice my business for romance, which I am not, I could
not use this stone to tune in on an encounter fated for
you. It simply would not register for me. The set lines of
fate are not readily reconnected. So I would hurt my
business for nothing. Literally nothing."

"That is unfortunate," Zane replied noncommittally.
His sympathy for those who had money and wanted ro-
mance as well was slight. Everybody wanted both, of
course!

"But you could orient on it, using this stone. Once it
is evident who the woman is—"

"But 1 can't afford the Lovestone!" Zane was not going
to be trapped into any such commitment!

"You misunderstand, sir. You will not purchase the
stone. You will use it only to point out the woman. Then
I will proceed to the encounter. I will have your ro-
mance."

"Oh." Zane assimilated that. Could the man be serious,
after all? He was inclined to play this out and discover
the catch. "I suppose that would work. But why should
I do any such great favor for you?"

"For the Wealthstone," the proprietor said, gently tak-
ing it from Zane's hand.

Now at last Zane understood. He had been sidetrack-
ing himself, misunderstanding the thrust of the sales pitch.
"You will sell me this money-gem—for an experience! I
want wealth, you want romance. I can see that it would
be a fair exchange—" He paused, as a piece of the puzzle
failed to mesh. "But will the Lovestone work that well
for me, if I don't actually own it?"

"It works for the holder. It knows nothing of owner-
ship; that is a convention among people. In any event,
none of this can have legal binding. But I assure you, I
will give you a bill of sale for the Wealthstone, if you turn
over the potential experience. This is not something money
can bring. It is an opportunity that may occur for me only
once in this life." The man scribbled out a sales slip.




12             On A Pale Horse

It seemed like a bargain to Zane, if everything were as
represented. He could have the Wealthstone in trade for
a romance he had already turned down. He had an im-
pulsive—some would say volatile—nature. "Agreed."

In a moment the sale was signed—one Wealthstone for
private consideration, delivery after receipt of that con-
sideration. Zane pocketed the sales slip, then took the
Lovestone, watched it glow within its blueness, and fol-
lowed the brightest spot out of the shop and onto the

street.

Zane stood for a moment, blinking his eyes in the daz-
zling sunlight. In a moment his vision adjusted, and he
found himself focusing on the store's sign: MESS 0' POT-
TAGE.

He rechecked the gem, turned it about until the glow

was brightest, and walked north as indicated. The pro-
prietor followed. But then the stone faded. Zane turned
about, but the gem only glimmered. "I think the scent is

cold."

The proprietor was unalarmed. "This is not a purely

directional thing. It is situational. You have to do what
you have to do to make the intersection. As you do, it

guides you."

"But if it doesn't tell me what to do—"
"Start walking. Watch the stone for reaction. There
are only so many options available." The man's voice was
controlled, but there seemed to be a slight edge of con-
cern. The whole deal would fall through, of course, if the

woman could not be located.

Zane turned right and walked. He passed a penny ar-
cade, where teenagers cranked old-fashioned movie-
machines as they peered in the scopes, chuckling evilly.
Zane judged from their reactions that it was no Dimwit
Dick comic they were viewing. The arcade's name was
TWO TO TWAIN, theoretically a pretension to literacy
but actually a code name for earthy humor. There was a
drawing of a little train puffing along, sending up cute
balls of smoke, and Zane realized there was another pun

in the title, when pronounced aloud.

"Try another direction," the proprietor said. "The stone

is not responding." Yes, he was nervous now.

On A Pale Horse              13

Zane reversed again, retracing his steps. He passed the
Mess o' Pottage shop and the one beyond: a paperback
bookstore. "It's still not glowing," he reported.

"Let me consider," the proprietor said, pausing in front
of a display of SCIENTIFIC MAGIC texts. "Where were
you going?"

"Nowhere but up and down this street," Zane said
wryly. "Trying to get a glimmer from this inert stone of
yours."

"That's the problem. You need to be going somewhere.
Your romance is. not in this street. She is wherever you
intended to go when you first held the Lovestone."

"I was going home," Zane said, bemused. "I doubt
romance awaits me there. I live alone in a slum."

"Then go home."

"With your precious stone?"

"Certainly—on loan. I'll be with you. We shall ex-
change the Wealthstone for the Lovestone when the con-
tact is made."

Zane shrugged. "As you wish." He now doubted that
anything would come of this, but his curiosity remained
engaged, and of course he did want the Wealthstone. He
reversed direction again and walked down the street to-
ward the agency where he had left his rented carpet after
flying up to this shopping mall, which was magically sus-
pended high above Kilvarough.

The stone glowed.

So it was true! He was headed for romance!

The proprietor lingered for a moment by the bookstore
window, where he pretended to be interested in the cur-
rent issue of the Satanistic journal BRIMSTONE QUAR-
TERLY, then followed.

They passed the arcade again, where the kids were
now playing sexy space-fiction records. Zane had once
had an offer to do photography for the dust jacket illus-
tration of such items, but had turned it down, though he
needed the money. He simply had pot wanted to prostitute
what little genuine talent he had.

Now they moved by a sweet-smelling bakery shop.
Sudden hunger caught Zane, for he had not eaten in some
time. Being broke had that effect. He glanced in the win-




14

On A Pale Horse

On A Pale Horse

15

dow of the MELON PASTIES shop, noting its mascot of
a voluptuous woman made of candy, with sugared melons
in the appropriate place, covered by decorative pastry
pasties. Displayed inside were doughnuts, cakes, eclairs,
breads, cookies, pies, cream horns, Danish pastries, and
pastry art: confections in the shapes and colors of leaves,
flowers, human figures, cars, and ships. All of it looked
and smelled more than good enough to eat.

"Keep moving," the proprietor murmured, coming up

behind him.

Zane tore himself away from the window and its stom-
ach-luring odors. Once he had the Wealthstone, he would
return here and buy out the place and gorge himself sick

as a dog!

Now a bank of fog rolled in. The mall was camouflaged
as a cumulus cloud, anchored high above the city of Kil-
varough. The fog generators were aimed outward, but
playful breezes wafted some mist inward. It had a pleasant

flower scent.

They reached the carpet agency, flying its carpet-shaped
banner with the motto YOU ARE THERE NOW- Zane
showed his round-trip ticket to the bored agent, and the
man hauled down his carpet from a storage cubby. It was
worn and faded, and dust squeezed out of its pores, but
it was all he could afford. The Mess o' Pottage proprietor
rented another carpet, a much larger, newer, brighter one,
with comfortable anchored cushions. They carried the
rolls to the exit bay, spread out the carpets, sat down on
them cross-legged, fastened their seat belts, and gave the

go-signals.

The carpets took off. The proprietor's moved smoothly,
cushioned by air, but Zane's jerked a bit before getting
into the hang of its propulsive spell. He hated that; sup-
pose it pooped out in mid-air? He controlled its flight by
minute shifts of his body; a tilt to right or left sent the
carpet flying that way, while a lean forward or back sent
it diving or ascending. Verbal commands caused it to
change velocity, but he settled for the standard gear, afraid
the spell would not be reliable if he pushed it. Anyway,
there was other traffic, and it was easiest to keep the
going pace.

Zane had always enjoyed carpeting, but could not af-
ford to maintain his own carpet, or even to rent one often.
It cost a lot to maintain a good carpet, and the expense-
per-mile kept rising. Inflation affected everyone uncom-
fortably, as it was intended to; it was, of course, a work
of Satan, who campaigned perpetually and often halfway
successfully to make Hell seem better than Earth.

Sure enough, the thought brought the reality: a Satanic
roadsign series, each sign staked to a small, stationary
cloud: SEE THIS    OUTFIT?    DON'T YOU

SCOFF! YOU KNOW WHERE SHE TAKES

IT OFF! What followed was a life-size billboard paint-
ing of a truly statuesque young woman in the process of
disrobing. In the comer were the two little red devil trade-
mark figures. Dee & Dee, male and female, complete with
cute miniature pitchforks- The male was peeking up under
the model's skirt and remarking in small print, "You can't
touch that in Heaven!" Then came the final sign, the
signature, HELLFIRE, written in lifelike flames.

Zane shook his head. Satan had the most proficient
publicity department extant, but only a fool would believe
the advertising. Anyone who went to Hell would feel the
flames for real, and the devils and pitchforks would not
be cute. Yet the media campaign was so pervasive, in-
tense, and clever—and appealed so aptly to man's baser
instincts—that it was hard to keep the true nature of Hell
in mind. Zane himself would have liked to see the re-
mainder of the disrobing and knew it would never occur
in pristine Heaven, where all thoughts were pure. Hell
did have something going for it.

The carpets cleared the environs of the cloud-mall,
following the buoyed channel that spiraled down toward
Kilvarough. A number of other carpets were traveling the
channel, as the day was getting late. Several helicopters
were flying in their own channel to the side, and farther
away a lucky person was riding a winged horse.

Well, when he had control of the Wealthstone, Zane
might see about purchasing his own horse. He had ridden
horses many times, but only the mundane kind that ran
on land. He understood that the principle of riding was
similar for the winged variety, except that there were




On A Pale Horse

16

additional commands to direct them in flight. But while
a good landbound horse could be had for under a thousand
dollars, and a sea-horse for perhaps five thousand, air-
horses began at ten thousand and required special main-
tenance, since no ordinary paddock could hold them. In

fact, they—

The carpet ahead of him faltered. At the same time,

the Lovestone flashed brilliantly. Zane had to brake sud-
denly to prevent his carpet from rear-ending the one ahead.

"Hey, what the—?" he grunted.

He saw that a young woman was riding the other carpet
and he did not think much of female riders. They tended
to change their minds without adequate warning, as in
this case, and that was dangerous in mid-air.

The woman's carpet wrinkled, sagging under her
weight. It began to drop. She screamed in terror. Sud-
denly Zane realized what was the matter: the spell had
failed! It shouldn't have, as this was a truly elegant, ex-
pensive carpet, but quality control had been deteriorating

everywhere recently.

His eye was momentarily distracted by the blue light
before him. The Lovestone was shining like a miniature

star.

"Mine!" the Pottage proprietor cried. His carpet

launched forward as the girl's carpet collapsed. The man
reached out and caught the girl neatly by her slender
waist, wrestling her aboard his own vehicle.

Zane, half-stunned by the event, followed the other
carpet. Now he saw how comely the girl was, with flowing
fair hair and a remarkable figure. She could almost have
posed for the Hellfire ad, except that there was no trace
of salaciousness in her aspect. He saw how she clung to
her rescuer, her maidenly bosom heaving as she sobbed
with reaction. He saw how elegant her apparel was; she
wore an expensive magic-mink coat, and a diamond neck-
lace sparkled about her creamy neck.

And he saw how the Lovestone faded to dull-dark blue.
That girl had been his prospective romance—and was no
longer. He had traded her away for the Wealthstone.

The two carpets continued down the spiral channel to
the carpetport in the center of the city. There Zane and

On A Pale Horse              17

the proprietor turned in their carpets, and faced each other.
"Meet Angelica," the proprietor said proudly, showing
off the lovely girl. Obviously their acquaintance had blos-
somed during the brief flight down. The man had saved
her life, and she was the kind to be duly grateful. "She
is the heiress to the Twinklestar fortune. She has invited
me to her downtown penthouse for a snack of caviar and
nectar. So we'd better exchange stones now and call it
even." He held out the Wealthstone.

There was nothing Zane could do except trade stones.
The deal had been honored. The Lovestone glowed brightly
again as the other man took it; he had found his romance,
outwitting fate. The Wealthstone, in contrast, was huge
and dull and ugly, with the star hardly showing.

Zane could not repress the feeling that he had made a
colossal error. He should have mortgaged his whole life
to buy the Lovestone—for evidently this heiress-girl An-
gelica had the resources and willingness to pay off such
a debt offhandedly, and was a very fine creature in her
own right. Love and wealth: he could have had it all.

The.girl was drawing with loving possessiveness on the
proprietor's arm, and she was all soft and eager in her
new emotion. "Must go," the Mess o' Pottage man said,
delivering to Zane a kind of salute. Then they were gone,
walking toward the chauffeured limousine that awaited
them.

Zane stood watching the elegant contours of the girl's
backside, experiencing an awful, helpless regret. What
kind of fool had he been, to throw away romance untried?
Somehow he knew he would never again have an oppor-
tunity like this. Such things occurred only once in a life-
time, if that often, and he had thrown his chance away.
A kind of grief suffused him, like that for a cruelly dead
lover.

Well, it was hardly the first time he had blundered
disastrously! His soul was weighted with evil he should
have avoided, and his life blighted with foolish error. At
least he possessed the Wealthstone, and with proper man-
agement he would soon be a rich man, able to attract and
hold whatever type of woman he craved, or to buy a
compliant female android or a luscious magical nymph.




18             OwAPaleHwse

He didn't need Angelica! He had to believe that, for it
was his only present buffer against overwhelming despair.

Zane knew himself to be a headstrong young idiot with
delusions of artistry and literacy, whose good impulses
were too often mismanaged into liabilities. Thus he had
lost his dear mother, and his loving girlfriend long ago,
and had sunk himself in debt. Good intentions were not
enough; they had to be rationally implemented.

He could not even afford the fare for the subway home.
He had the penny from his shoe, but that was not enough.
He had the Wealthstone, but he refused to use it here on
the darkening street; some criminal would mug him for
it. Zane stuck his hands deep in his pockets, clasping the
stone out of sight, and walked toward the dingy quarter

where his sleazy apartment lurked.

Walking was a good time for thinking; it took a person's
mind off the drudgery of the feet. But Zane's thoughts
were not uplifting. Here he was, in the ultimate age of
magic and science, where jet planes vied with flying car-
pets, and he was traveling afoot, without the benefit of

either.

Magic had always existed, of course, as had science,

however limited the benefits of either might be for those
who were broke. But it hadn't been until the time of
Newton that the basic principles of the twin disciplines
had been seriously explored. Newton had made great
strides in formulating the fundamental laws of science in
his early years, contributing more than perhaps any other
man. In his later years he had performed similarly for

magic.

But for reasons not clear to Zane—he had never been

an apt scholar—greater progress had been made at first
in science. Only recently had the enormous explosion
in applied magic come. Of course, neither science nor ma-
gic had affected history much until the past century, as
there had been a popular prejudice against both, but
science had broken out first. Now, however, the rapidly
increasing sophistication of magic had brought back sup-
posedly extinct monsters of many types, especially drag-
ons. Whether science or magic would win out in the end
was anybody's guess.

On A Pale Horse              19

A. fine drizzle developed, perhaps condensation from
the cloud-mall above: not enough moisture to clean air or
street, just enough to turn the dust to grease and make
his footing treacherous. Cars skidded through stoplights,
narrowly avoiding collisions; probably only the manda-
tory anti-wreck charms saved their fenders from harm.

Now it was dusk. The street had gradually become
deserted. No one walked through this section of town at
this hour if he could avoid it. The buildings were old, and
age had weathered them from their original technicolor
to their present monochrome. This region had come to
be known as Ghosttown, and at twilight sometimes the
ghost appeared. But it was best not to look, because—

In fact, there she was now. Zane heard the wooden
wheel of the wheelbarrow first, and stepped into a grimy
doorway alcove so as not to disturb the apparition. A
person could see the ghost, and even photograph her, but
if the ghost saw the person—

Molly Malone came down the street, her wheelbarrow
piled with shellfish. She was a sweet-faced young woman,
pretty despite her ragged garments and heavy clogs.
Women thought spiked heels and nylon stockings made
their legs pretty, but legs like Molly's needed no such
enhancements. "Cockles and mussels!" she cried sweetly.
"Alive! Alive O!"

Zane smiled, his black mood lightening somewhat. The
shellfish might be alive, but surely Molly was not. Her
ghost had been conjured from Ireland a century ago to
honor Kilvarough, though this city had no seacoast. It
had been a publicity stunt that soon palled; ghosts were
a dime a dozen. The city fathers had not then been aware
of this ghost's special property. But the conjuration-spell
had never been canceled, so Molly still wheeled her
wheelbarrow through the streets of Kilvarough when con-
ditions were right.

"This is a stickup," a gruff voice called.
Molly emitted a faint little shriek of surprise and dis-
may. "Do not molest me, kind sir," she said.

"Naw, I just want your wheelbarrow," the holdup man
said. "It'll fetch a few dollars on the antique market.
Enough to buy me a two-day happiness-spell." He used




20             On A Pate Horse

one boot to shove the wheelbarrow over, so that its shell-
fish fell into the grimy gutter.

"But, sir!" she protested. "Those cockles and mussels
are my sole sustenance, and without my wheelbarrow to
carry them, I will surely perish!" Molly's quaint Irish
accent had faded during the past century as she picked
up the contemporary idiom; but for her costume, one

would hardly know her from a local lass.

"You've already perished, you stinking slut!" the man
snapped, shoving her rudely out of his way.

This was too much for Zane. He had no special feelings
about ghosts and he was slightly wary of this particular
one, but he did not like to see any woman abused. He
strode out of the alcove. "Leave Molly alone!" he cried.

The robber swung about, bringing his pistol to bear on
Zane. Zane reacted automatically, striking at the gun. It
was not that he was especially brave or skilled in combat,
but that once he was caught in such a situation he knew
he had little choice but to carry through with sufficient
dispatch to extricate himself. His hotheadedness substi-
tuted nicely for courage.

One shot was fired, and Molly screamed. Then Zane

got his hands on the weapon and wrenched it away from

the robber.

"Pick up that wheelbarrow," Zane ordered, aiming the

gun at the man. He marveled at himself, for this was not
in character for him; he should now be feeling weak with
reaction. Yet the outrage he felt at the man's attempted
robbery of the city's mascot drove him on. "Load the

shellfish back on it."

"What the hell—" the man said. But when he looked

into Zane's crazy-wild face, he decided to get on with the
job. Clumsily he packed the damp, sloppy creatures in

their places.

"Now get out of here," Zane said.

The man started to protest. Zane's finger tightened on
the trigger. The robber turned and shuffled away.

Only then did Zane notice that the man had been shot.
Fresh blood stained his jacket. He would need medical
attention soon, or he could bleed to death. But of course
such a criminal would not seek that sort of help; it would

OnAPaleHmw             21

attract the attention of the police. He would probably die,
and Zane could not bring himself to feel much regret.

He jammed the gun into a pocket. He had never fired
one of these things, but presumed it would not go off
unless he pulled the trigger. Now he was suffering his
letdown, for his violence came on him only in fits, and
departed swiftly. "I'm sorry this happened," he told Molly.
'This is a good city, but it has some bad apples."

"I know not how to reward you, sir," the ghost said
gratefully. "You are so gallant."

"Me? No. I just got mad to see a woman mistreated,
especially one as lovely and historical as you. If I'd thought
about it, I probably wouldn't have gotten involved." But
Zane suspected he had been motivated in part by his loss
of his romance with Angelica. He had had to relate to a
woman somehow, so he had done it.

"Perhaps if you should find my body appealing—" Molly
said. She opened her motley jacket and took a deep breath.
"I am a ghost, 'tis true, but I am reasonably solid when
I go abroad at dusk."

Zane was amazed. She certainly had an appealing body!
She had been young and full when she died, so had re-
mained that way since. But the bitter and fresh memory
of his never-acquired love balked him, and the suspicion
that whatever had been decent in his action of dealing
with the robber would be nullified if he accepted any such
reward. "Thank you, Molly, and I do find you appealing,
but I would not care to impose on you in that way. Surely
you have a home and husband to return to in your realm."

"No husband yet," she said sadly. "There are few good
men in the neverland of—"

Then a car turned the corner. The bright headlights
speared the length of the street—and the ghost vanished.
Too much modem technology was hard on ghosts.

The car passed, splashing thin gook on Zane. Darkness
closed again, but Molly Malone did not return. Ghosts
were erratic, and the shock of the sudden light had prob-
ably disinclined her to risk this region again this night.
Feeling let down, Zane resumed his walk home.

There was an eviction notice posted on his door. He
had not paid his rent, and the landlord had taken action.




22             On A Pale Horse

This was not a lockout, as the landlord was actually a
halfway decent specimen of his breed. Zane had twenty-
four hours to get out.

Well, the Wealthstone would take care of that. It would

soon generate enough money to catch up the rent, and
then would proceed from there. He brought out the stone.

The star did not show up well in the artificial light, but
he could make it out. "Find!" he directed the stone, fo-
cusing his mind on overflowing coffers of golden coins.

The star detached itself and floated upward like the
flowing ghost of an arachnid. It traveled to the dilapidated
dresser against the wall and squeezed in behind it.

Zane took hold of the heavy piece of furniture and
hauled it protestingly out from the wall. The star dropped
down to the floor. Zane stretched one arm into the crevice
between dresser and wall, reaching to the star—and his
questing forefinger found a cold coin. He scooted it across

the floor toward him, awkwardly.

It was a worn nickel. Good enough; the magic stone
was performing as specified. The nickel happened to be

closest, so was spotted first.

The star returned to the Wealthstone. "Find," Zane
ordered it, envisioning a bank vault bursting with silver.

The star lifted more slowly than before, as if tired from
its prior effort. It floated in leisurely fashion across the
room, then descended to a crack in the floor. There,
embedded edgewise, was a dime. Zane used a kitchen
knife to pry it out. The thing was caked with grime; it
must have been there for years. The star hovered until
he actually got the coin in his hand, then snapped back
to its home-stone. That meant he couldn't afford to give
up on the job; he could not invoke the Wealthstone again
until he cleared its last entry. That would be an incon-
venience if there happened to be a fabulous forgotten
buried cache a few feet beyond a dozen minor coins, but

he could live with it.

He tried again. "Find. Something better this time, like

a gold doubloon or a fantastically rare and valuable coin.

Enough of this nickel-and-dime stuff."

The star pulled itself slowly from the stone and drifted
toward the door to the apartment. There was no doubt

On A Pale Horse              23

about it: the star lost energy with each use. Probably it
needed a set time to recharge its magic, like several hours
or a day. That, too, was inconvenient—but of course, all
he needed was to find one real treasure. That would be
worth a week of slow questing. Then the gem could have
as long a rest as it needed.

The star drifted up against the door and hesitated. Zane
opened the door and let it out. At least the six-legged
light-bug didn't zoom away, out of sight; that could have
made it useless, for it would be as lost as the coin it
identified. But the spell did seem to be underpowered.
He had now been at it twenty minutes, and had only
fifteen cents to show for it. Plus the penny he had found
at the shop. That would hardly make a dent in his overdue
rent.

The star sank to the floor of the hall. There, embedded
in the packed dirt, was a battered and weathered penny.
Zane pried it up, and the star wended its way tiredly to
the stone Zane carried. Some fortune!

Zane returned to his apartment and considered. The
Wealthstone performed—but so far at strictly penny-ante
level. At the present rate, he could labor all night for a
mere dollar or two in change—and the star was obviously
too tired to go the night.

The Wealthstone worked—but now he perceived cer-
tain inherent limits. It always went to the nearest unat-
tached money, of whatever denomination, and the vast
majority of lost money was of the picayune category. No
doubt if there were a five-thousand-dollar gold piece near,
the star would find it—but none was near, while there
were endless pennies. People simply did not let a heavy
gold piece fall into a crack and be lost, though they did
let pennies go. So while it was true that the Wealthstone
could find thousands of dollars, this was like the gold in
sea water; it cost more in time and effort to recover that
one part per million than it was worth.

Zane's eye traveled around the room. It was cluttered
with his photographic equipment. He had artistic aspi-
rations and the nefarious artistic temperament, but lacked
the talent to make it as a painter or sculptor, so had gone
into photography instead. He could appreciate art when




24 On A Pale Horse On A Pale Horse 25

he saw it, and the camera enabled him to capture the
incidental art of the environment. The trouble was, there
was not much in the city of Kilvarough that was worth-
while that hadn't already been photographed. Even the
ghost Molly Malone had been pictured many times; it was
not true that a ghost could not be photographed, and she
loved to pose if she happened to perceive the camera.
She could even be heard on occasion, singing her tradi-
tional song, especially the line, "Where the girls are so
pretty." But she was not as popular a subject as she might
have been, owing to her special property.

Zane had discovered a photographic variant, however,
that had enabled him to eke out a living for a while. This
was the Kirlian technique, magically augmented. But cer-
tain problems in the market had turned him off this, and
recently his luck had expired. Without expensive new
equipment, he was out of business. That was part of what
had sent him aloft to the cloud-mall, using his last dollar
to rent the flying carpet. One had to visit these floaters
when they anchored near, because they were liable to
drift away without notice if the local police got too snoopy.

Now he was hungry, without food in the apartment,
and required to move out within a day. He had nowhere
to go. He had to have money—and he greatly feared he
couldn't get enough.

He tried the Wealthstone again. "Go!" he urged it.
"Find me wealth beyond my fondest dreams!"

The star heaved itself up, faltered, and collapsed back
onto the stone. It was too pooped to perform.

And what would it find if it did get moving? Probably
more pennies. Zane faced the fact that he had thrown
away the chance of a lifetime, for wonderful and rich
romance, for this mess o' pottage. He had in fact.been
cheated, though the gem had not technically been mis-
represented, so he had no recourse. The shop's proprietor
had used him for his own profit, taking Zane's one chance
away forever. After all, even without the Lovestone, he
might have encountered Angelica...

Fool! Fool! he chided himself savagely.

He paced around the room, tasting ashes, seeking some
way out of his situation. He found none. Once he had

made his deep blunder of passing up the Lovestone, his
ruinous course had been fixed. If only he hadn't been so
set on wealth, to the exclusion of all else. But he had
always been an impulsive, wrongheaded idiot, doing what
he thought was right at the time and regretting it too late.
His whole life had been grinding inexorably to this dead
end; he saw that now. If he somehow found enough loose
change to pay his back rent, he still would lack the re-
sources to make a decent living and still would not have
a lovely girl to love.

That was the crux of it! Angelica—slated for him, but
squandered away. In retrospect he found himself scram-
bling into love with her, his emotion based on wrong-
headed hopes and wishes—and knew she was the type
who only loved once, and that her gift had been bestowed
irrevocably on another man. Zane might live on, but he
would never have Angelica, not even if the conniving shop
proprietor were to drop dead this moment. So what point
was there in going on?

He looked at the defunct stone again. Now it seemed
drab indeed, its colors muddy, its imperfections gross. It
was, he realized abruptly, as ugly as his conscience. It
was virtually worthless—and so was he.

Zane slapped his open hand against his thigh as if trying
to punish himself—and felt the pistol in his pocket, the
one he had taken from the robber.

He drew it out. He was not conversant with firearms,
but this one seemed simple enough. It had a clip of several
bullets in the handle, and one of them had been fired from
the chamber. An automatic mechanism had set a new
bullet in the chamber; he had no doubt that a pull on the
trigger would make the weapon fire again. He could put
the muzzle to his head, and—

Now he remembered the first gem he had considered—
the Deathstone. It had signaled his demise in a few hours.
Those hours had passed. The Lovestone had proved it-
self, so he had no further reason to doubt the Deathstone.
Even the Wealthstone worked, in its fashion. He was
fated soon to depart this life.

Zane lifted the gun. Why not? His life might as well
end efficiently, instead of being dragged out in the gutters




r

On A Pule Horse              29




HOUSE CALLS

The door opened again. This time a woman of middle age
entered. Zane had never seen her before. She glanced
approvingly at the fallen figure. "Excellent," she mur-
mured.

Zane wrenched his horrified gaze to her. "1 killed

Death!" he exclaimed.

"Indeed you did. You shall now assume his office."
"I—what?" Zane was having trouble regaining mental

equilibrium.

"You are the new Death," she said patiently. "This is

the way it is done. He who kills Death becomes Death."
"Punishment..." Zane said, trying to make sense of

this.

"Not at all. This is not murder in the normal sense.

After all, it was him or you. Self-defense. But you are
committed to take his place and to do the best job you

can."

"But I don't know how to—"

"You will learn on the job. We all do. Certain enchant-
ments will imbue you, to facilitate your performance and
stabilize you, but the real motivation must be yours." She
stooped to strip Death's black cloak from his body. "Help
me, please; we do not have excessive time and we don't

want to get blood on the uniform."

"Who are you?" Zane demanded, getting half a grip on
himself despite the overwhelming unreality of the scene.

28

"At the moment I am Lachesis. You can see I am of
middle age without much sex appeal." She was quite cor-
rect; her face had the lines of solid maturity, and her hair
was nondescript under a tight bun. She was comfortably
overweight, but moved efficiently. "I determine the length
of the threads. Now lift his body; I don't want to tear the
cloak."

Distastefully, Zane put his hands on Death's corpse
and lifted. "Who is Lachesis? What threads? What are
you doing here?"

She sighed as she worked the cloak off the body. "I
suppose you do deserve some minimal explanation. Very
well; you keep working, and I will tell you some of what
you need to know. Not all of it, for some secrets are
reserved to me, just as some, you will discover, are re-
served to you. Lachesis is the middle aspect of Fate.
She—"

"Pate?"

"You will not leam very much if you insist on inter-
rupting," she said with some asperity.

"Sorry," Zane mumbled. This felt unreal!

"Now get his shoes. They're invulnerable to heat, cold,
penetration, radiation, et cetera, just as is the cloak. You
must always be properly garbed when making a collec-
tion, or you become vulnerable. It is essential that you
not be vulnerable. Your predecessor here was careless;

had he closed his hood across his face, the bullet would
not have harmed him. See that you are more careful; you
will have greater need to be on guard than he did."

"But—"

"I believe that interjection constitutes an interruption."

Zane was silent. There was an eerie power about this
woman that had nothing to do with her appearance. She
could be the mother of any rebellious teenager.

"I am Fate, with three aspects," she continued after
just enough of a pause to verify her command of the
situation. "I determine the threads of the tapestry of life.
I am here to ensure that you change roles expeditiously.
It is very important that you perform better as Death than
you have as a living person, and I believe you do have
the potential. Now stand up so I can fit the cloak to you."




30 On A Pale Horse

Zane stood, and she set the cloak on his shoulders. It
was not heavy, but it carried a peculiar mass. She had
spoken of magic; this item of apparel reeked of it. "Yes,
it is close enough. Go ahead and don the shoes; and don't
forget the gloves. The shoes will, among other things,
enable you to walk on water. Your rounds must not be
balked by mundane trifles."

"But this is preposterous!" Zane protested. "I was about
to kill myself and now I'm a murderer!"

"Certainly. I had to measure your thread very care-
fully. Technically, your life just ended; see, Death's body
will be taken for yours." She turned over the body, and
Zane saw that it looked uncomfortably familiar. It now
resembled his own—with a bullet hole in the face. "You
will fill the ofRce until you, too, grow careless and permit
a client to turn on you."

"Or until I die of old age," Zane said, not really be-
lieving any of this.

"Old age will never come to you. Neither will death,
if you perform well. If you ask the average person what
he most desires, he will answer, 'Never to die.' That is,
of course, an absolutely foolish wish; in due time you will
be better able to appreciate the importance of dying. It
is not the right to live, but the right to die that is most
important."

"I don't see—"

"What is life, except an ongoing instinct for survival?
Nature uses that instinct to make us perform; otherwise
we would all relax, and the species would disappear. Na-
ture is a cruel green mother. The survival instinct is a
goad, not a privilege."

"But if I don't age—"

"Time holds all supernatural agents, especially the sev-
eral Incarnations, in abeyance. You will live until you die,
however many days, years, or centuries that may be, but
you will never change from your present physical age."
She guided him to his wall mirror.

"Supernatural agents?" Zane was grasping at periph-
erals, being as yet unable to get to the nucleus of this
situation. "Incarnations?"

"Death, Time, Fate, War, Nature," she said. "The ma-




On A Pale Horse             31

jor field agents operating between God and Satan, an-
swerable to neither. If any of us were scheduled to die
like mortal folk, we would have to be concerned for the
disposition of our souls, and that's a conflict of interest.
No, we are immortal, as we have to be, accountable to
neither superpower. But we do have to do our jobs, or
things become complicated."

"Our jobs," Zane repeated weakly. "I'm no killer. At
least I wasn't, until this—"

Fate glanced at him penetratingly, and suddenly he
knew she knew about his mother. He felt cold, and the
guilt rose up in him again. But Fate did not raise that
matter. "Of course not," she agreed, eying the body on
the floor. "This was a mismanaged suicide. Death does
not kill; Death merely takes the souls of those who are
dying, the problematical ones, lest they be lost and wan-
der forever inchoate."

Now Zane found something concrete to argue. "There
are five billion people in the world! A hundred million or
so die each year. Death would have to take several each
second, scattered across the globe. That's impossible!"

"Not impossible, but perhaps unfeasible," she said.
"Look in the mirror, please."

Zane looked. The death's-head gaped back at him, en-
cased in its hood. Hits hands in the gloves were skeletal,
and his ankles above the shoes were fleshless bones. He
had assumed the visage of Death.

"You are, of course, invisible to most people when in
uniform," Fate said. "Clients can perceive you, and those
who are close to them emotionally, and the truly religious
people, but the rest will overlook you unless you cali
attention to yourself."

"But the mirror reflects my image—as that of Death!
People will faint!"

"Perhaps I misspoke myself. You are not physically
invisible; you are socially invisible. People see you, but
do not recognize your significance, and forget you once
you pass. But when you remove the uniform, your powers
fade. You are then vulnerable; you can age and be touched
and hurt. So don't step out of character without reason."

"Why would Death want to step out?"

32

OwA Pale Hmve

She formed an obscure little smile. "It does get dull
socializing with your own kind exclusively. I am said to
be attractive in my Clotho aspect—" She became abruptly
young and lovely, a striking figure of a woman with hair
so light in color it seemed to shine and with skin like
alabaster, but her eyes remained disturbingly knowing.
"Yet I would not hold your interest for centuries, perhaps
not even decades. So we must dally on occasion with
mortals."

Zane wondered how many decades or centuries it would
take to get bored with a woman who looked like that. It
was an intriguing thought, but in a moment he returned
to his prior concern. "How can a single Deathperson take
several people each second? Hundreds of people must
have died just while we've been talking here! I didn't
collect their souls and I don't think this person did." He
indicated the defunct Death.

"I see I will have to explain in greater detail." Fate
shifted back to her middle-aged aspect and sat down in
Zane's best chair. Her eye caught the Wealthstone on the
table beside it. "Oh, I see you have ajunkstone. You use
it to produce dimes for telephones?"

"Something like that," Zane admitted sheepishly.

"I've seen them before. The stone is dirt-grade ruby
from India, imported wholesale and sold in five-thousand
carat lots for fifty cents a carat. It's technically corundum,
but too poor a quality to hold a decent spell. I understand
some idiots are deluded into paying gem-grade prices for
individual stones."

"True," Zane agreed, drawing the Deathhood close
about his face so his flush would not show.

"Still, as a cheap novelty item, it's not bad. Once in a
while a stone like this will take a better spell and locate
dollar bills. But it's axiomatic that such a rock will never
produce the value paid for it."

Zane thought again, painfully, of the beautiful, rich,
romantic Angelica. "True."

"Well, you won't need money now, unless you spend
a lot of time out of uniform and get hungry. Better to
acquire a small cornucopia and use it for such occasions.

On A Pale Horse             33

Your job should keep you too busy for that, until you
develop proficiency."

"I still don't see how—"

"Oh, yes, I was about to explain. Only a small per-
centage of people need Death's personal attention. The
vast majority handle the transition themselves—though,
of course, this is via the extended ambience of Death's
will."

"Death's will?"

"Oh, my, you are a novice! Let me see, I need an
analogy. You know how your body goes on breathing
when you're not paying attention, even when you're
sleeping? It's a bit like that. Death's power is immediate
and personal, but it is also distant and impersonal. When
Death attends to a client personally, it is like consciously
breathing; when Death merely permits a soul to depart
its host unattended, that is like your autonomic system,
the automatic functioning of your body. But when you
die, these functions cease, both the conscious and the
unconscious. When Death dies, all deaths in the world
cease, until the new Death commences the office. The
former Death, for example, is not really dead yet; his soul
remains pinned in his body. He can not die until you act,
though his body will never again be animate. That is why
it is so important that the transition be facilitated. Imagine
the havoc if no one ever died!"

"I don't know. If people lived forever—"

"I haven't time to argue foolishness!" she snapped.
"Just be satisfied that the first soul you personally attend
to will free all the rest to depart naturally, on their private
schedules, as my threads have dictated. Up to half an
hour can be tolerated; I have arranged for this. But be-
yond that, there will be one atrocious tangle."

"What souls do I—does Death have to attend to per-
sonally? I really don't understand—"

"It relates to the nature of souls and the balance within
each soul of good and evil. Every good thought and deed
lightens the burden, and every bad deed or thought weights
it down. A newborn infant, generally, is about as close
as we come to true innocence; only when self-discretion
comes can evil be indulged in. As William Henley put it:

34 Ow A Pale Heffse

It matters not how strait the gate. How charged with
punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate; I am
the captain of my soul. So the younger the person is at
death, the more likely his soul is to remain innocent, and
to float to Heaven when released. As William Words-
worth put it: Not in entire forgetfulness. And not in utter
nakedness. But trailing clouds of glory do we come From
God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our in-
fancy! With age and self-discretion, the evil tends to ac-
cumulate, weighting the soul, until the balance is negative.
Such souls plummet like lead sinkers when released. But
a few souls are in balance, with equal freighting of good
and evil; these have no dominant affiliation and tend to
cling to their familiar housing. These are the ones who
need assistance,"

"That's what Death does!" Zane exclaimed, catching
on at last. "Collects ambiguous souls!"

"And sorts them out carefully, determining their proper
destination," Fate concluded. "Those few that are in per-
fect balance must be delivered to Purgatory for profes-
sional treatment."

"This is really to be my job?" Zane asked. "To collect
balanced souls?"

"And to facilitate the progress of all the others," Fate
agreed. "It really is. You may find it difficult at first, but
it is certainly better than the alternative." She glanced at
the virtually dead Death.

Zane shuddered. "But why was I chosen to fil! this
office? I'm completely unqualified! Or is it pure chance?"

Fate stood. "1 prefer to answer that at another time. I
must not keep you from your appointed rounds any
longer."

"But I don't even know how to locate my—my clients!"

"There should be an instruction manual somewhere.
Mortis will help you."

"Who is Mortis?"

She looked about. "Oh, I almost forget. You had better
take the accouterments; I'm not sure how they work, but
you'll need them."

"Accouterments?"

"The jewelry. The magic devices."

On A Pale Horse              35

"My Wealthstone? I don't see—"

"Not thatjunkstone. Leave everything of your former
life here as it is. Especially the star. Sapphire is no good
for wealth divination at its best, and this one's inferior.
Leave your watch, too, and any rings you have. You are
through with living." She walked toward the door.

"But I have so much to learn!" Zane cried plaintively.

"Then get to it. Death," she said, closing the door
behind her.

Zane looked desperately about, seeking some better
hold on reality. How could he be Death? He had never
even imagined anything like this!

He saw something flashing. It was a solid watch on
the wrist of the dead Death that would hardly be in keep-
ing with the corpse of Zane, who had been too broke to
redeem his pawned watch. This was surely an'accouter-
ment. He bent, with a certain distaste, to remove it, then
put it on his own wrist. It was heavy, a good four ounces,
but fitted comfortably, as though sized for him, and the
flashing stopped. Evidently the watch had merely been
calling attention to itself so that it would not be over-
looked; it went with the office. It was, of course, dead
black: a mechanical, self-winding instrument that seemed
dull but expensive.

Why would Death use a mechanical watch, of whatever
quality, instead of a sophisticated electronic one, or a
miniature magical sundial? Zane couldn't answer that at
the moment. Maybe the last Death officeholder had been
of a conservative bent. He might have lived for centuries
before getting careless and failed to keep up with the
times.

Odd, Zane thought, that he felt no special remorse for
the person he had killed. His initial shock at the act was
wearing off, so that what remained was mostly horror that
there had been a killing, as if he had just watched a sin-
gularly brutal murder on television. Maybe this devel-
oping indifference was because, to him. Death remained
an "it" rather than a human being. But he, Zane, was now
that "it."

He spied another flash. It was from an ear ornament,
almost concealed because Death's left ear lay against the

36 On A Pale Horse

floor. Surely he was meant to take this, too; it was one
of the items of jewelry Fate had mentioned. He nerved
himself for another contact with the dead flesh and got
the gem removed. It was an earring, with a red garnet
cabochon, rounded on one side, flat on the other, shining
prettily.

The thing was designed to fit a pierced ear, and Zane's
ear was whole. He hesitated, then put the gem in his
voluminous cloak pocket.

There were footfalls in the hall, followed by a tentative
knock on the front door. "Mr. Z, are you all right?" a
voice came. It was his elderly neighbor, a nosy woman,
but nice enough.

Zane stood frozen again. What should he do? If he let
her come in—

"Mr. Z!" the neighbor called more urgently.

"I'm all right!" he called back.

"Mr. Z," she repeated. "I heard what sounded like a
gunshot from this room. Please answer me!"

"It's all right!" Zane shouted.

The door opened. The woman's head poked in. "Mr.
Z, why don't you answer? I know you're home; I saw
you come in. If there is anything wrong—if a mugger shot
you—"

"I am home! There's no mugger!" Zane shouted. "Please
get out!"

The woman came all the way into the apartment. "I'm
sure I heard—" Then she spied the body on the floor. It
now wore Zane's clothing, though he did not remember
dressing it; probably Fate had done that while he was
distracted by the enormity of his situation.

She screamed "Mr. Z! You're hurt!" She hurried to
inspect the corpse, running right past Zane as if not seeing
him. "In fact—you're dead!"

"So it seems," Zane said, somewhat wryly. Now the
shock of what he had done was washing back across him,
animated by the neighbor's reaction. He had set out to
suicide—and instead had killed another man. He was a
murderer! The immediately following events had been so
surprising that much of the horror had passed him by.
Now it was clarifying, and he was appalled. He had done

37

many unfortunate things in his life, and today had been
the worst, for never before had he killed another human
being.

Well, technically he had killed. But that had been a
special case, and his mother— He cut off that thought.
He had guilt, and he was indeed somewhat hardened to
the evils of the world. Still—

The neighbor woman turned. Now she saw him. "Oh,
officer!" she said. "I'm so glad you're here. Mr. Z is dead!
I fear it was suicide! I heard the shot, and he didn't an-
swer—"

Why had she waited so long before investigating? He
had fired the gun half an hour ago. It must have taken
her that long to work up her curiosity sufficiently. "Yes,
thank you," Zane said gravely. "I will take it from here."

"Oh, that's a relief!" The woman fluttered out.

Zane relaxed slightly. So it was true: he was mostly
unrecognizable while in the Deathcape. The woman had
seen him neither as himself nor as Death; she had taken
him for a policeman, the kind of reassuring person she
expected. Soon she would have the whole building in-
formed.

He walked out himself, traveling along the narrow hall
and down the stairs toward the waiting vehicle. As he
did, he realized in a random revelation that the Deathstone
in the Mess o' Pottage shop had been technically correct,
but significantly wrong. It had signaled his encounter with
Death, but had not advised him that he would in fact
assume a new office and become immortal. That was the
problem with omens; they suggested the fact without sug-
gesting the implication.

He paused. What waiting vehicle? He had no car of
his own, and no one had told him of one. Yet he had
somehow assumed—what?

Well, how had Death traveled here? Did he flap his
arms and fly through the air, or did he drive a car? What-
ever it was, that was what Zane had to do.

He stepped outside, peering about, letting his eyes ad-
just to the night. There was a vehicle: a pale limousine,
parked sedately in the landlord's parking space. The land-
lord would have had the intruding car towed away—but

38

OnA Pale Horse

On A Pale Horse

39

the man was coincidentally absent. Probably coincidence
favored the operations of the—what had Fate called
them?—the Incarnations. After all, how could Death han-
dle his rounds if his car kept getting towed away by irate
mortals?

Zane thought it was the Deathcar, because its parking
lights were blinking at him. The things of Death made
sure Death did not neglect them. Zane would have been
pleased, if the whole thing were not so grim.

He walked up to it and around the rear. The license
plate said MORTIS. That explained Fate's reference to
the name; he had somehow thought she referred to a
person, but obviously it was the machine. There was a
bumper sticker: DEATH IS NATURE'S WAY OF
TELLING YOU TO SLOW DOWN. Just so. He opened
the door and climbed onto the plush driver's seat.

This was as elegant and comfortable an automobile as
he had ever encountered. Somber quality emanated from
every part of it. The upholstery was genuine alligator
leather and the metalwork was solid chrome. It was prob-
ably worth thirty-five thousand dollars in stock condition
before the expensive options were added. He wasn't sure
he dared try to drive it.

His watch flashed, calling attention to itself. It was
mechanical, but it had a magic way about it. The glowing
hands indicated 8:05 P.M., the correct time of day. But
the red sweep hand was moving. It hadn't been before;

the seconds were marked by a miniature inset dial on the
left, opposite the day-date windows on the right. This
little hand was still moving, so he knew that function had
not been usurped by the sweep. What was the red hand

doing?

As he watched, the sweep passed the noon spot—and
the hand in the little thirty-minute dial just below it clicked
back from 9 to 8. The stopwatch function was operating—
and now he realized it was running backward. The sweep
hand was moving counterclockwise. What kind of stop-
watch was that?

A countdown timer, he realized. This watch was telling
him he had less than eight minutes to do something, or
to get somewhere. But what, or where?

A cold shiver crawled down his back. He was Death,
or some poor facsimile thereof. He had to go and collect
his first soul!

Zane rebelled. He had not sought this office! Only the
purest coincidence had brought him to this incredible pass.

Coincidence? He had touched on that before. If the
woman who had explained things really had been Fate,
then she must have measured the thread of his life; she
had guided him to his damnable destiny. She had put him
here deliberately. In so doing she had in effect killed his
predecessor. Why had she done that?

The watch was blinking insistently. He now had six
minutes. He wasn't sure what would happen if he missed
whatever appointment he had, but knew already that these
supernatural entities played hardball politics. Maybe his
predecessor had balked, and so Fate had arranged to elim-
inate him. Certainly she had evinced no grief at his de-
mise. If Zane balked, she could do the same to him. He
wasn't sure how he felt about this office, but knew he
wasn't ready for that. So he had better get on with the
job, trying to buy time to figure out his real feelings about
it, and to ascertain what his real options might be.

Where was the instruction manual Fate had men-
tioned? He didn't see it, and didn't have time to look for
it. The thing could have been lost a century ago by his
predecessor.

Zane put his hands on the steering wheel of the car
named Mortis and touched his right foot to the acceler-
ator. Where was the ignition key? He had none. Maybe
it was back on the body of the former Death.

Zane shuddered. He had been propelled into this mis-
adventure, but he didn't want to go back to its starting
point! He checked the panel, hoping for an alternative.
After all, many vehicles operated by magic in minor ways,
just as many magic things had mechanical controls. A
simple touch switch was marked ON/OFF. He flicked it
to ON—and the car came to life. The front panel lighted,
the radio came on, and the seat harness clasped him pro-
tectively. The motor thrummed with muted power. Oh,
yes, this was some car!

Well, so be it. Zane found the reverse control and




42 On A Pale Horse On A Pale Horse 43

supersonic velocity across the terrain of the world. Then,
as abruptly as it had started, the blurring stopped.

Zane looked around, startled. He knew immediately
that he was in a different city. He guessed it was one a
significant distance northwest of Kilvarough—perhaps all
the way across the continent. Maybe even the great port
city of Anchorage.

But he had no time to be concerned about that. The
cat's eye had grown abruptly and significantly larger, the
two dots on the gridstone had merged, and his watch was
down to a single minute. He was very close to his object.

With this assurance, Zane proceeded with greater con-
fidence. He was beginning to get the hang of the use of
Death's instruments. He now understood that the eye
grew until it covered the stone, and that would be when
he arrived. When the direction arrow started shifting,
though he was driving in a straight line, Zane knew he
was there. Just in time, too; his watch's red hand showed
only thirty seconds and counting.

The eye was maximal, and the arrow spun in a full
circle. He had to be right at the scene—but there was
nothing here. He was passing through an ordinary inter-
section. Was this a false alarm?

He slowed and drew to the side of the street, perplexed.
He had thought he had it, and now it seemed he did not.
The arrow steadied, pointing back the way he had come.
Pointing at nothing.

The sweep hand on the Deathwatch closed on noon.

There was a crash in the intersection. A small truck
had made a preemptive left turn into the right-of-way of
a tiny Japanese subcompact, and the two had collided
violently.

Zane turned off his motor and got out of the Death-
mobile, not caring whether it was legally parked. He hur-
ried to the scene of the accident.

The man in the truck was half-stunned. The woman in
the little car had an enormous sliver of supposedly un-
breakable glass through her neck. Blood was gushing out
of her, flooding the dashboard, but she was not dead.

Zane hesitated, appalled. He saw no way to save the
woman—but what was he to do? Cars were screeching

to halts, carpets were landing, and people were converg-
ing.

The woman's glazing eyes clarified, momentarily. She
saw Zane. Her pupils contracted to pinpoints. She tried
to scream, but the blood cut off her breath, keeping her
silent.

Someone nudged Zane's elbow. He jumped. Fate stood
beside him. "Don't torture her, Death," Fate said. "Finish
it."

"But she isn't dead!"

"She can't die—quite—until you take her soul. She
must remain in terrible agony until you put an end to it.
She and all the others who are trying to die during this
hold period. Do your duty, Death."

Zane stumbled toward the wreckage. The woman's
terrified eyes tracked his progress. She might see nothing
else, but she saw him—and Zane knew from his own
recent experience how horrible the oncoming specter of
Death was. But he did not know how he was supposed
to finish ending her life.

The victim's dress was'torn, showing how the glass
had sliced all the way down across her right breast, leav-
ing her front a mass of gore. There was absolutely nothing
pretty or merciful about this demise. It had to be termi-
nated quickly. Yet the woman tried to resist his approach.
She wrenched her left hand up to fend him off, the hand
hanging from a broken wrist. Zane had never before seen
such physical and emotional pain, not even when his
mother had—

He reached for her, still uncertain what to do. Her
wrist blocked his hand, but his flesh passed through hers
without resistance. His hooked fingers caught in some-
thing that felt like a cobweb, there inside her head. He
wrenched his hand out—and it trailed a festoon of tran-
sient film, like the substance of a soap bubble. Disgusted,
he tried to shake it off, but it clung like a string of spittle.
He brought his other hand up, holding the jeweled brace-
let, and tried to scrape the stuff away. The thin film tore,
but clung to his other hand.

"This does not become you. Death," Fate said re-
provingly. "This is her soul you are brutalizing."




44 On A Pale Horse

Her soul! Zane's eyes tried to glaze like those of his
victim. He stepped back—and the tattered soul moved
with him, stretching out from her destroyed body as if
reluctant to separate from it.

Then the silken strand snapped free and contracted.
He held it dangling limply, like the discarded skin of a
molting snake.

The woman in the car was dead at last, the horror and
anguish frozen on her face. Death had taken her soul and
ended her suffering.

Or had he? "What happens now?" he asked Fate. His
body was shaking, and he felt unpleasantly faint.

"You fold the soul, pack it in your pouch, and go on
to the next client," she answered. "When you have a
break in the schedule, you will analyze the soul, to de-
termine to which sphere it should be relegated."

"Which sphere?" His mind refused to focus, as if his
very thoughts were blinded by the client's blood.

"Heaven or Hell."

"But I'm no judge of souls!" he protested.

"Yes, you are—now. Try not to make too many mis-
takes." Fate turned and walked away.

Zane stared at the dangling shreds of the soul. People
passed him, but no one noticed him. He might as well
have been alone.

Awkwardly, he brought his hands together, folding the
gossamer material like a sheet. It bent in the wrong places
and creased horizontally, and the torn edges flopped out
of place, but he muscled it together stage by stage. Finally
he had a very small, light package; the soul had hardly
any physical mass. He fished in his pockets again and
found a cloth bag; he stuffed the wadded soul into this.
Then he tried to retch, but his empty stomach lacked the
wherewithal to complete the job. What a mess he had
made of his first case!

The police had arrived, and an ambulance, and people
were extracting the mangled remains of the victim from
the wreckage of her car. Witnesses were being inter-
viewed, but no one thought to question Zane. He was
coming to understand how this operated; he was not in-
visible, but he was unnoticeable. Except when it counted.

On A Pale Horse             45

He had collected his first soul. No one needed to tell
him that he had pretty well bungled it. He had frightened
the woman unnecessarily, extended her torment while he
dallied, and ripped her soul forth most unkindly. This
certainly was not an auspicious commencement of his new
duties!

His watch was flashing again. The sweep hand was
moving. He had seven minutes to make his next appoint-
ment.

"I'd rather die myself!" he muttered. But he wasn't
quite sure of that. Life could be ugly, and his present
office was also ugly, but dying was worse yet. What a
torment the human condition could be!

What alternative did he have? Zane hurried to the
Deathmobile. He did not know what the normal frequency
of clients was, but supposed a backlog had accumulated
during the transition, if such a thing were possible. Maybe
it wasn't. Maybe Fate had timed the changeover to occur
during a lapse in other clients.

He oriented on the next case and drove toward it. As
the green grid flashed, he touched the button on the dash
panel—and launched toward the location on hyperdrive.
This one was far south, probably well below the equator.
But as the car stabilized in the new city, the guide-gems
functioned normally, and no one seemed to notice his
sudden appearance on the street.

Zane was not at all sure he liked this business of col-
lecting souls, but still was hesitant about balking. How
long would the woman in the wrecked car have suffered
if he. Death, had not been there to relieve her other soul?
He didn't care to think about that.

The car ran smoothly, maneuvering through traffic ex-
pertly. It was a real pleasure to drive. He followed the
arrow and eye and closed quickly on his destination.

Where was he? Maybe in Brazilia, in the bosom of the
southern continent. But no—now he saw the Phoenix
General Hospital. This was the Arizona of the country.
He had not hyped south of the equator at all; he had
severely misjudged his progress. Well, he would learn
with experience.

He parked in the visitors' lot, drew his cloak about

46 On A Pale Horse

him, and proceeded to the appropriate ward, feeling ner-
vous. He had never liked hospitals, especially since his
mother had been confined to one. Yet he realized that
Death would have a number of calls at hospitals, since
many terminally ill people would expire in them.

No one challenged him, though he had not arrived
during visiting hours. Evidently they took him for a doctor
or hospital functionary. Perhaps he was; his function was
the most basic of them all.

He found his client. It was an old man in a ward of
four. All of them had tubes and apparatus connected to
their bodies in awkward ways and all seemed to be ter-
minally ill. Oh, he hated this! He wanted to flee, but could
not.

Zane was concerned that his appearance would terrify
the client, as it had before, but there was no way to sneak
up on him anonymously. In addition. Death was early;

two minutes remained on the countdown.

He decided to be forthright. After all, that couldn't be
any worse than the previous case. He marched up to the
bed. "Hello." His spoken word sounded strange; there
seemed to be an echo from his pocket.

None of the four patients reacted at first. This gave
Zane a moment to ferret out the mystery. He reached in
the pocket and found the earring he had taken from Death.
Had the echo come from it? Why?

"Hello," he repeated—and this time was sure the sound
reacted with the gamet-

The client's eyes turned slowly on him. The sagging
mouth formed words. "About time you got here. Death!"

The client was speaking in a foreign language—but
Zane understood him, because a translation emanated from
the gem he held. He realized that this was a magic trans-
lation device, another enchanted stone. Naturally Death
had duties all over the world and had to be able to handle
any language. He jammed the gem into his left ear; later
he would get it attached in a more normal fashion.

The novelty of the language and the stone had dis-
tracted him from the business at hand; the client was
looking at him expectantly. Zane was taken aback. "You
were expecting me? You're not afraid?"

On A Pah Horse            47

"Expecting you? I've been seeking you for six months!
Afraid? I thought I'd never get out of this prison!"

"This hospital? It seems nice enough."

"This body."

Oh. And it seemed the translation worked both ways,
for the man understood Zane's words, though there was
no noise in his ear. "You want to—?"

The client squinted at him. "You're new at this job,
aren't you?"

Zane choked. "How did you know?"

The man smiled. "I had a close encounter with Death
once before. He was older than you. More wrinkles in
his skull. The sight of him so fazed me that I surged right
back into life. I had been dying on the operating table,
but the operation became a success. That time."

"I know how that is," Zane agreed, thinking once more
of his mother.

"Then I had a reserve will to live that manifested when
challenged. But my condition is farther gone now. Neither
science nor magic can abate the pain any more. Not with-
out dulling my intellect, and I don't want that. In any
event, I suspect that death is merely a translation to a
similar existence without the burden of the body. Some
people don't even realize when they're dead. I don't mind
if I realize, just as long as the pain abates. So my will has
eased, and I'm ready to lay life down. I hope you are
competent."

Zane looked at the Deathwatch. He was a minute over-
due! "I hope so, too," he said. "I talked with you too
long."

The man smiled again. "It was a pleasure, Death. It
provided me a brief respite. If you ever discover a person
truly being kept alive beyond his will, you must use force
if necessary to ease him. I think you will do that."

Again Zane thought of his mother. "I have done that,"
he agreed in a whisper. "A person has a right to die in
his turn. I believe that. But some would call it murder."

"Some would," the client agreed. "But some are fools."
Then his face tightened with a spasm of intense pain. "Ah,
it is time!" he gasped. "Do it now, Death!"

Zane reached for the man's soul. His fingers passed

48 On A Pale Horse

through the client's body and caught the web of the soul.
He drew it carefully out, not tearing it. The man's eyes
glazed; he was dead and satisfied to be so.

The three other patients in the room paid no attention.
They did not realize the nature of the visitor, or know
that their companion had died.

Zane folded the soul and put it in his bag with the
other. He was getting better at this, fortunately. He felt
better about it, too, for he knew he had done right by this
particular client, sparing him further futile pain. Perhaps
this office was not as dreadful as he had thought.

He looked at his watch. The countdown was running
again, but showed almost half an hour. The cat's eye was
large; the location was close. For once he wouldn't have
to hurry.

He drove to a park area beyond Phoenix and pulled
off the street. He opened his bag of souis, put in his hand,
and drew one out. He unfolded it carefully, spreading it
out as well as he could against the inside of the windshield.
It was a whole soul, untorn, so he knew it was the most
recent one he had collected.

The soul, silhouetted against the glare of oncoming
headlights, showed patterns of translucency and opacity,
like a convoluted Rorschach blob. It was fascinating in
its intricate detail, but he had no way to judge its overall
nature. Should this one be relegated to Heaven or Hell?

Something glimmered in his mind, almost like a mem-
ory from a prior existence. Zane reached around the soul,
his arm crumpling it slightly in passing, and punched open
the dashboard compartment. Sure enough, inside it were
several more gemstones. He had gone from paucity to
plethora when he assumed this office!

Two stones were gently flashing. Zane drew them out.
They were more cabochons, half-rounded—polished
hemispheres. One was a dull brown, the other a dull yel-
low. He set their flat faces together, and the two formed
a sphere, a little like the dark and light faces of the moon.
Perhaps they were moonstones. They were a matched
set—but what was their purpose?

He let the stones separate and brought the brown one
near the spread soul. The stone flickered as if hungry. He

On A Pale Horse             49

slid it across the surface of the soul, and it flickered when-
ever it crossed a dark patch.

Aha! Zane brought the yellow stone near. It flickered
as it passed the light portions.

If dark equated with evil and light with good, he had
here his analytic mechanism. One stone responded to each
aspect of the soul. He could perform the magic analysis
scientifically. But how was the final balance to be ascer-
tained?

Maybe the stones gained weight as they absorbed the
readings from the soul. Was there a set of scales?

He checked in the compartment, but found no scales.
Well, maybe the mechanism would become apparent at
the right moment. He really did not have time to ponder
at length.

Zane passed the brown gem across the length of the
edge of the soul, then down a swath just in from the edge.
The dark items flashed into the stone. Where he ran over
a portion already covered, there was no response; the
gem only picked up any given sin once. As it did so, it
gradually darkened, but did not seem heavier in Zane's
hand. Of course, the change might be too small for him
to detect.

By the time he had covered the whole soul, the stone
was almost black. There was certainly a lot of guilt and
sin on this ledger. Zane wondered what the details were,
but had no way to learn them. The client had had a mixed
life before cancer brought him down; perhaps that was
all Death needed to know.

He passed the yellow stone across the soul in the same
fashion. As it picked up the good aspects, it brightened,
until at the end it shone like the brightest moon.

Now what? Certainly the stones had changed, taking
the measure of this soul—but which one had changed
more? The dark one certainly seemed heavier than the
light one; did that mean that evil predominated in this
soul? Yet the light stone had seemed to become lighter
as it proceeded, as if the good in it were buoyant. Maybe
the trick was to ascertain which gem had changed more.
Was there more sink to the dark stone, or more lift to the

On A Pale Horse

so

bright one? Where was the balance, when the two were
averaged ?

Then he had it. He put the two stones together. They
clung to each other, as if magnetically attached, and the
line of their cleavage writhed into the configuration of the
Oriental Yin-Yang or the Occidental baseball. They were
merged.

He let go of the ball. It hovered in mid-air, in almost
perfect balance. What was this soul's destiny?

Then, slowly, it rose. The balance was marginally in
favor of Heaven. Zane let his breath out; he had been
more nervous about this than he had realized. He had
been in doubt about both the technique of analysis and
the destination of the nice gentleman he had talked with.

Nice? The man couldn't have been too nice, or he
would not have had so much evil on his soul!

The gem ball nudged gently against the ceiling of the
car. Zane did not let it go outside; with the car windows
closed, the ball was not going anywhere. He needed to
send the soul itself to Heaven. But how?

He fished in the compartment again. He found a roll
of transparent tape and two packages of balls. The balls
were of distinctly differing densities. Some were pith and
threatened to float away; others were lead, quite heavy.

Now it came clear. Zane refolded the soul into a com-
pact mass, bound it together by a loop of tape, and affixed
a buoyant pithball. Then he opened the car window and
released it. It floated up into the starry sky and in a mo-
ment was lost to view.

He hoped the package arrived safely in Heaven. This
seemed an unconscionably primitive way to transport a
commodity as precious as a soul. Surely it should be
possible, in a world possessing magic carpets and luxury
airplanes, to transport a soul more safely and efficiently
than by such means. But, of course, this was his prede-
cessor's method; maybe Zane would be able to update it
when he learned more about the office.

The merged stones fell apart, their original dull colors
returning. That job was finished. He returned them to the
dashboard compartment.

On A Pale Horse             51

The Deathwatch was counting down past ten minutes.
He had used up his spare time and had to move.

Zane oriented the car and touched the hyperdrive but-
ton. This time the wrenching was longer. He looked out
the window. He was passing across water. He was pro-
ceeding east across the ocean, according to the compass
he now spotted on the dash. He left the night and re-
entered day, realizing that it had been evening when he
started this business, and late afternoon when he had
taken his first client in Anchorage, and evening again in
Firebird for his second. The world continued its turning
regardless of his business, and he was zipping in and out
of day.

In a moment, land loomed. The car swooped up to it,
slowing, then rolled across a brief beach, through a de-
velopment of twenty-storey modernistic condominiums,
through—not around—a ragged brown mountain range,
past a village that filled in a valley with white, plaster-
sided houses, through an olive orchard, past grazing
horses, and to an open field.

He was now near his client. He wasn't sure why the
hyperdrive never delivered him precisely to the target;

perhaps long-distance accuracy was not great. More likely
it was to preserve the anonymity of Death's approach; it
would be hard for people to ignore a car that abruptly
materialized on the site of an accident. Magic did have
its limitations, so it was best not to push it too far.

He used the eye and arrow to close in on the target
and arrived with a good minute to spare. He was at a
decrepit farmhouse amidst languishing fields. This was a
poverty-stricken family.

He opened the door and walked in. He wondered
whether he should have knocked, but concluded that no
one would care to answer Death at the door. It was dawn
here; he could hear the members of the family screaming
at each other as they blundered sleepily about, getting
organized in the chill house. His left ear picked up the
translated words, for, of course, this was not Zane's own
language. The people were grumbling about the cold
morning, the inadequacy of food for breakfast, and a rat
that skittered across the floor.

On A Pale Horse

52

Zane's gems guided him to the bedroom. The woman
was there, sitting on the bed, an expression of discomfort
on her face as she struggled to don heavy, opaque stock-
ings. One leg was raised, the knee bent, so that he had
an intimate view of her thighs. He was shocked to see
that they were almost covered by a flaming rash. Indeed,
the woman looked sick; her face was flushed, her hair
straggly and tangled. Her teeth, as she grimaced, were
discolored, perhaps rotting. This was a young, fairly
shapely woman, but her bad health made her unappealing.
Her eyes were so deeply shadowed, it was as if they had
been blacked by violence. Then Zane realized that there
had been violence; she had bruises and scrapes all over

her body where flesh showed.

Perhaps death would, in fact, be a boon to her. She
was obviously living in misery.

But the arrow did not point to the woman. It pointed
to the crib on the far side of the room where a small baby

lay huddled.

A baby? How could he take a baby?

Zane walked past the woman, who paid him no atten-
tion, and stood over the crib. The baby had scuffled off
its inadequate blanket during the night and lay, exposed
and damp, face down, its skin bluish. It was, he realized,

about to suffer a crib death.

But what of the fifty-fifty rule that governed his clients?
Most people died and were separated from their souls
without his direct help. Only those who so cluttered their
souls with evil as to be in doubt of salvation required the
personal service of Death. Almost by definition, a baby
was innocent; therefore its freed soul should float blithely
to Heaven. A baby was not yet, as Fate had quoted, the
captain of its soul, and Heaven still lay about it.

Yet there was no question this was his client. The baby
was fading fast. It was time. Zane reached down and

hooked out the small soul.

The baby's mother, intent on her laborious dressing,

never noticed. Zane walked past her, carrying the soul,

and left the house. He felt ill.

In the Deathmobile, he used the stones to analyze the
little soul. The pattern was strange, because it was not a

On A Pale Horse             53

pattern at all; the soul was uniformly gray. Experience
had not yet caused it to be variegated.

The verdict of the combined stones was neutral; the
gem ball hovered in place like the moon it resembled,
neither rising nor falling.

How could this be? What evil had this little boy done?
What evil could he have done, confined to his crib, com-
pletely dependent on his sick mother?

Zane had no answer. He folded the soul neatly and put
it in the bag.

The Deathwatch was counting down yet again. Was
there no end to this? When did he get some rest, some
time to think things out?

He knew the answer. Deaths occurred all the time, and
the small percentage that required special attention con-
tinued, too. At some point he would have two difficult
cases happen at the same moment, on opposite sides of
the globe. What would he do then?

Zane was beginning to understand how a person per-
forming the office of Death could grow careless, as his
predecessor had done. When things got rushed, comers
had to be cut, or the job would not get done. What hap-
pened to a Death who got too far behind?

He looked at the watch more carefully. It had three
buttons on the side. This was a stopwatch, a chronograph,
of course, though its timer did run backward. He had seen
the type before. One button would be used to start and
stop timing; another to zero the total; and the shorter
middle one to set the regular time and calendar features
when necessary.

But this watch ran itself, magically, responding to input
he did not know about. Maybe it had a direct line to
Heaven or Hell or wherever the allocation of souls was
determined. Fate probably had a hand in it, as she meas-
ured her threads. He didn't time events; events timed
him. Why, then, were the extra buttons necessary? What
did they control?

He thought of punching a button. Then he hesitated;

it could be dangerous to play with something he did not
understand. Yet how else was he to learn? He had lived

54              On A Pale Horse

his life and almost died his death in an impetuous manner;

he might as well be consistent.

Experimentally, he punched the lowermost button.
Nothing happened. It depressed and sprang back without
any specific point of resistance. Had it been discon-
nected? Not necessarily; a good stopwatch was protected
from an accidental punching of the wrong button, as might
occur when someone was distracted by a close finish in
a race and aimed for the STOP button without looking.
This should be the zeroing control, operative only when
there was a fixed time registered, as would be the case

after a race had been timed.

He punched the highest button. It clicked—and the red

sweep hand stopped.

He studied the dial. There was no motion in either of the
two miniature dials that showed hours and minutes. The
sweep hand was frozen at twenty-three seconds after the
minute. Before the minute, since it ran backward. But the
third little dial continued to function; its hand moved
briskly clockwise, telling off the seconds of ordinary time.
So the stopwatch was stopped, but not time itself.

What did this mean? Since the stopwatch function gov-
erned the timing of the deaths of his clients, did this imply
that a hold had been put on such deaths? That was hard
to credit—but indeed his whole situation was hard to credit.
Fate had mentioned a stoppage of deaths in the world
until he, the new holder of the office, had commenced
activity. And this did answer his question about appoint-
ments that occurred too close together. He might freeze
one case while he handled the other.

And, of course, this gave him his chance to rest. He
could simply turn off his job while he slept or ate or

thought things out.

This was some watch! It did not merely time existing

events, it coerced events to its timing.

Zane saw that he had only two minutes, in addition to
the twenty-three seconds, until his next appointment, and
the green gridstone showed this was halfway across the
world. That was crowding it. He punched the zeroing
button—and sure enough, the timing hands clicked back
several minutes, providing him a full ten minutes. In that

On A Pale Horse             55

time, he knew, the Deathmobile could take him anywhere
on Earth.

What, then, was the hours dial for? It could register
up to twelve, but if ten minutes was all he could resched-
ule, he would never need to read hours.

Zane decided to ponder that later. Right now he had
to organize himself. He needed to figure out what to do
with the baby soul, for one thing. He was not going to
send it to Hell, and might not be authorized to send it to
Heaven. Probably he should take it to Purgatory for ex-
pert designation. He assumed that if Heaven and Hell
were literal, so was Purgatory—but where was it?

"There is so much I don't know!" he exclaimed.

"This, too, shall pass," someone answered him.




3-

EWES AND DOES

Zane jumped. A man sat in the adjacent seat. He was
perhaps fifty, with a mustache and goatee and piercing
blue eyes. He held a small double cone in his hand.

"You must be immortal," Zane said, after a moment
of fevered thought.

"In a sense," the man agreed. "I am another Incar-
nation, like Fate and Death."

Zane studied him, suspecting that he should recognize
the man, but he did not. "Who—?"

"I am Chronos, colloquially known as Time." He tilted
the cones, and fine sand sifted from one to the other. It
was an hourglass.

"Time!" Zane exclaimed. "But you're young!" Only
that was inaccurate. "At least, not old—"

"I am ageless," Chronos corrected him. "I realize I
have been depicted by ignorant artisans as ancient, but I
prefer to operate in my prime."

"Did I—the watch—?"

"Yes, Death, you summoned me. I am, of course, at-
tuned to all manner ofchronometry, especially that prac-
ticed by key figures. You signaled me by locking the
countdown on ten minutes. Ordinarily Death either freezes
the timer where it is or resets it to gain necessary travel
time; to do both is a code. Naturally I came to see what
you wished, as we Incarnations do try to accommodate
one another. It is, after all, one firmament."

56

On A Pale Horse             57

"I didn't realize I was signaling you," Zane said sheep-
ishly. "I'm new at this. In fact, I hardly realized you
existed as a person."

"As a personification," Chronos corrected him. "An
Incarnation of an essential function of existence. Persons
differ, but the role continues."

"That's another thing it's hard to get used to—the no-
tion that things like Death and Time are offices, not phys-
ical laws or whatever."

"We are roles and offices and laws and more," Chronos
assured him. "We are also human beings, and that human
quality is important."

"I was just trying to find out how the watch worked.
There doesn't seem to be any function for the hours dial."

"It records your schedule backlog," Chronos said eas-
ily. "You have recycled your next client by seven minutes
and thirty-seven seconds; you have als& placed the entire
program on hold. This is, of course, your prerogative;

you are Death. You can even halt the passage of all time
by pulling out the center button. But if you maintain the
hold more than half an hour, it will register on the hours
dial as a tardy schedule that needs to be made up. If you
run more than twelve hours late, overflowing the capacity
of the watch, there will be an investigation by the au-
thorities at Purgatory that could damage your perfor-
mance rating."

"Oh? What happens to me if my rating is bad?"

"That counts as evil on your soul, shifting your balance
toward Hell. Of course, you are in perfect balance during
your initiation period; every officeholder needs time for
trial and error. But when that passes, and at such time
as you give up the office, for whatever reason, a negative
rating could make your soul most uncomfortable."

Zane was getting it straight. He held the office of Death,
but he remained alive, and the account of his soul was
yet to be settled. "My predecessor—where did his soul
go?"

"He had done an adequate job, generally; I'm sure he
found his way to Heaven, which is the last refuge of
adequacy."

58              On A Pale Horse

That made Zane feel easier. "And if I do a good job,
I will go to Heaven, too—when the time comes?"

"If it comes. You should. Since you commence the
office balanced, and performance is fairly straightfor-
ward, it should not be difficult for you to improve your

position."

"How do you know my soul is balanced?"
"If it were not, Death would not have had to come for

you individually-"

Zane laughed. "You know, I never thought of that! My
good and evil were even, so when I tried to suicide, I had
to be collected by Death himself. And if I hadn't seen
Death arriving, I would be dead now!"

"It is an unusual situation," Chronos agreed. "But at
the same time normal. Each Death assassinates his pre-
decessor, thereby burdening his own soul with more evil,
but postponing his own reckoning indefinitely. I hardly
envy your system."

"Your system differs?"

"Certainly. Each office has its own mechanism of
transmittal, some gentler than others. But all of us work
together as required, treating one another's offices with
due respect. I feel indebted to the prior Death, who did
me a favor on occasion, and regret that it was necessary
for him to leave the office. Now I will facilitate things for
his successor, as he would have wished."

"He doesn't hate me?" Zane asked, bemused.

"There is no hate in Heaven."

"But I murdered him!"

"And you will be murdered by your successor. Do you

hate him?"

"Hate my successor? I don't even know him!"
"Your predecessor did not know you. Otherwise he
would have been more careful."

Zane changed the subject. "I have just taken a baby.
It is perfectly balanced, a uniform shade of gray. I don't
know how it can have so much evil on its soul, so well
integrated, or what I should do with the soul. Can you

advise me?"

"I can clarify the matter. The baby is probably the
child of incest or rape, so carries the burden of intensified

On A Pale Horse              59

Original Sin. Such children, conceived in evil, do not
commence life with a clean slate."

"Original Sin!" Zane exclaimed. "I thought that was a
discredited doctrine!"

"Hardly. It may not be valid in non-Christian parts of
the world, but it is certainly operative here. Belief is fun-
damental to existence, and guilt is very important to re-
ligion; so guilt does carry across the generations."

"I don't like that!" Zane protested. "A baby has no
free will, especially before it's born. It can't choose the
circumstances of its conception. It can't sin."

"Unfortunately, you do not determine the system; you
only implement it. All of us have objections to aspects of
it, but our powers are limited."

"And I don't know where to take the baby soul. I don't
know how to get to Purgatory, assuming that is the proper
place."

Chronos laughed. "It is the proper place, and it is sim-
ple enough for you to reach. You reside there."

"I do?"

"When not actively pursuing souls. You have a fine
Deathhouse, a mansion in the sky."

"Well, I've never seen it," Zane said, nettled. "How
do I—?"

"You ride your fine pale horse there."

"My pale horse?"

"Death rides a pale horse. Surely you were aware of
that. Mortis is always with you."

"Of course I know about Death's traditional steed! But
I don't know where any such horse is!"

Chronos smiled indulgently. "You know where; you
don't know what." He patted the dash panel. "This is
Mortis."

"The car?" Zane was baffled. "I know its plate says
MORTIS. But it's a machine!"

"Press this button." Chronos indicated one on the dash
that Zane hadn't noticed before. It had an embossed motif
of a chesspiece—the knight, the image of the head of a
horse.

Zane pressed the button—and found himself astride a




60

On A Pale Horse

On A Pale Horse

61

magnificent stallion. The hide of the horse was as pale as
bleached bone, his mane was like flexible silver, and his
hooves were like stainless steel. He lifted his great equine
head, perked his ears forward, and snorted a snort of pale
vapor.

Zane had daydreamed of owning a flying horse. Now
he knew his dream had been amply fulfilled. This horse
had no wings, but he could go anywhere!

"Anything else you need to know?" Chronos inquired
wryly. He was seated behind Zane now.

"There must be volumes of information I need to ac-
quire," Zane said, awed by the transformation of car to
animal. He had known magic and science were allied, but
had never seen anything like this before. He felt the warm,
powerful muscles of the horse beneath him and was as
thrilled as any child. "Somehow it doesn't seem important
at the moment."

"The moment is frozen, in a certain respect," Chronos
reminded him. He dismounted. "I will leave you now."
The hourglass in his hand flashed, and he vanished.

"Time flies," Zane muttered. He shook off the mood
and patted the horse. "You and I will get along just fine,
I know. But I haven't had much experience riding, so I
suppose I had better use your car form for routine city
calls. Unless we should go to Purgatory now—"

The stallion issued a snort of negation. Zane decided
the horse knew best, so he did not argue the case.

He looked at the saddle and discovered a button on it.
"Is this what turns you back into the pale sedan?" he
inquired, touching it.

Abruptly he was back in the car. Good enough! He
would have more to say to Mortis the horse, much more,
in due course. But now duty called. He punched the
START button on the Deathwatch, noting that half an
hour how registered on the hours dial; he would have to
make up that time. At least he was getting to understand
the system.

He oriented the Deathmobile and put it in hyperdrive.
Animal to machine—amazing but convenient! Was the
horse a robot, or was the car alive? He would have to
inquire later. At least this clarified why driving was so

easy; there was an animal mind assisting it. Absent-minded
people sometimes drove into trees, but that never hap-
pened to an absent-minded horseback rider, for the horse
knew better. But it seemed strange to be riding inside a
horse!

This time he arrived in the parking lot of a big stadium.
It was night, but floodlights illuminated the area, so that
it almost seemed like day. Zane looked closely at the gems
of the bracelet to see if there were a mistake, but the cat's
eye was large, the two dots juxtaposed on the grid, and
the arrow pointed firmly to the stadium.

"So be it," Zane said. He got out and walked to the
structure. The man behind the ticket window did not chal-
lenge him, taking him to be a functionary of the premises.
He walked right on inside, following the arrow.

The game was in session. It was professional pigskin,
with banners proclaiming the teams: the Does vs. the
Ewes. The ball was on the ninety-foot line of the Ewes,
and the girls were mixing it up in a good old-fashioned
hair-pull.

The arrow pointed to the playing field. But there was
no one in that section. The action was in the other half.

Zane walked around the edge of the field with a certain
difficulty, for the stadium thronged with people. The ar-
row on the gem shifted, orienting on a spot on the Does'
fifty-foot line. An empty spot.

Had his gems malfunctioned? No—he realized imme-
diately that his recycling of the time had caused him to
arrive early; three minutes remained before the death was
due. He would simply have to wait for it.

Zane took a seat on the convenient bench near the
hundred-and-fifty foot line. Several Ewes sat on it—big,
husky, well-padded young women, attractive in a violent
way, with generous endowments wherever he looked. The
nearest one glanced at him, did a double take, then re-
alized she had suffered a delusion and turned away. After
all, no one saw Death sitting on the players' bench at a
pigskin game!

The Does were pressing hard. They wore bright blue
suits whose protective padding accented their female
qualities enormously. To Zane it was really too much;




62             On A Pule Horse

even prize-winning milking goats lacked udders as mas-
sive as these appeared to be. Maybe he was too close; in
times past, watching television, before his set was repos-
sessed by the finance company, he had admired the pig

proportions.

The Doe quarterback snatched the skin and faded back

for a throw. She heaved it forward just as two Ewes
stampeded toward her. There was a flash as the spell on
the ball fought off the blocking-spells and freed it to fly
to its target. The receiver levitated at an angle, surprising
the defender, who had evidently anticipated a bringdown-
spell. The Doe caught the missile with a cry of glee,
clutched it to her massive bosom, and cannonballed to
the turf, plowing up a divot. It was a beautiful play, and

the audience squealed.

But there was a black flag. The referees, striped like

skunks, consulted and concluded that an illegal spell had
been cast, momentarily blinding the defending Ewe. The
play was disallowed and a penalty assessed. Because the
Does were in field-goal range, the Ewe captain chose
magic rather than footage—the generation of an adverse
wind. That would last two minutes and should be enough

to foil the drive.

The Does pressed on determinedly. Their fans in the

crowd encouraged them. "Dose! Dose! Dose!" they
bawled. Zane thought they were yelling for the team, until
he saw the name of the quarterback on the marquee and
realized that her initials were O.D. Naturally she was
called the Dose. Now he remembered seeing her play,

when he was alive and had his TV.

O.D. took the skin and made an end run, skillfully

fending off tacklers with a series of legal straightarm-
spells. But as she crossed the scrimmage line at the near
side of the field, someone caught her with a dishabille-
spell. Suddenly she was naked, or at least visible. Zane
realized that her uniform had been rendered invisible, so
that she was physically protected, though visually ex-
posed. She really was a fine, healthy woman under all
the padding. The cheers of the crowd redoubled.

O.D, looked down and discovered what all the shouting
was about. She blushed to the waist, not with embar-

On A Pale Horse              63

rassment, but with fury. When the next Ewe tackier came,
the Dose grabbed her by the hair and whirled her halfway
around.

The Ewe reciprocated, grabbing O.D.'s hair and spin-
ning about, trying to use the hank of hair to haul the
woman over her shoulder in a judo throw. But the Dose
turned around herself, hauling back. The two spun in a
circle, back to back. "Dos-a-dos!" the crowd screamed,
deliriously delighted by the extracurricular action and its
own wit, and the band struck up a dancing tune. Indeed,
it was very much like a dance, and soon others were
emulating it, until the spoilsport officials broke it up with
a riot-control enchantment and wrestled the girls apart.

Naturally there was a penalty flag when the dust set-
tled. Hair-pulling was not nice. The Does lost more ground.

The quarterback retired from the field to get a coun-
terspell for her uniform to restore its visibility. The kick-
ing team came in, chuckling. Apparently the nudity-spell
was not illegal since it had not hurt Dose physically
and probably not socially; a number of fans were slav-
ering. "That quarter-B sure ain't no half-A!" someone
shouted.

The magic wind caused the field-goal attempt to fall
short. The Ewes were given the skin on the fifty-foot line.
They wasted no time; their first play was a run through
the center that gained thirty-five feet. There was no magic
about it; they had sneaked through a mundane play, and
it had worked, causing the opposition to waste its coun-
terspells.

Then the Doe defense grew tougher. Antimagic blocked
magic, and the stout pursuit stiffed the Ewe offense. It
looked as if the Ewes would have to punt—and their two-
minute penalty wind had died, so the ball would have no
extra carry. Their fans in the audience were silent.

Suddenly there was a break. The Ewe quarterback
launched a desperation toss, buttressed by a levitation-
spell, that hurtled a hundred and twenty feet. The receiver
closed on it—and the defending Doe, Number 69, shoved
her out of the way and intercepted the ball.

There was an exclamation of admiration from the Doe
fans, and the Doe cheerleaders went crazy, for an en-




64

On A Pale Horse

On A Pale Horse

65

chantment of obscuration had concealed the foul from the
officials. But there was a bleat of purest wrath from the
Ewes. They turned, galloped down the field, and tackled
Number 69 so hard she flipped endwise in the air and
landed in a heap.

Now there was a hush—for 69 did not rise. The team
doctor rushed over to examine her.

Abruptly Zane remembered his job. His watch had
zeroed, and the arrow pointed at the fallen Doe.

He hurried out, knowing she was done for. He did not
even pause: he squeezed between oblivious players,
squatted beside the body, and hooked out the soul.

No one seemed to notice. Number 69, who had been
quivering as if in terrible pain, relaxed. Now she was
dead, and it was a relief, for her neck was broken.

Zane walked away, folding the soul as he went. He
knew he should not have allowed himself to be distracted
by the game; that was unprofessional. Because of his
neglect, the woman had suffered as much as a minute
longer than she should have.

Unprofessional? Who was he to fancy himself a profes-
sional in this grim business! Still, he did have a job to do,
and he might as well do it properly. At the very least, he
could do it in a manner that relieved distress, rather than
promoted it.

His watch was counting down again. He had five min-
utes. He hurried to the Deathmobile, climbed in, started
it, oriented it, and hit the hyperdrive button so hard he
bruised his finger. Yes, he was angry with himself! He
resolved never again to allow extraneous events to divert
him from proper attention to his client.

He brought out the two analysis gems to review the
new soul, but in his unsettlement he dropped one. By the
time he picked it up from the floor, he knew the reading
had been invalidated, and he didn't want to start over;

there would not be time for a proper job now. He folded
the soul away for future handling.

Then, idly, he passed the brown gem down his own
body. It glimmered. It was reading his living soul!

Well, why not? The stone was concerned only with
the evil in a given soul, not with its state of life or afterlife.

Actually, the soul was eternal; it was only the body that
died. With these stones, he could assess the balance of
good and evil in any person, living or dead.

How did his own tally stand? Zane knocked his fore-
head with his hand. He was an idiot to cheek his own
soul, since he knew it was fifty-fifty and would remain so
until his trial period in this office was done. Like the
illegitimate baby, circumstance had locked him in.

Yes, he had reason to do his job well, however un-
qualified he might be for the office. His soul remained in
peril of damnation. He hadn't really worried about that
during his normal life, but now that he was sure that Hell
was really literal, he cared. He didn't want to go there
when he died! All he had to do was a good enough job
so that his soul would be slated for Heaven. Then he
would not have to fear Eternity, at such time as he got
careless and was sent there forcefully.

The car stopped in another parking lot. This appeared
to be a school. Zane got out and followed his arrow through
the comblike serrations of the building complex. It was
class-changing time, and children in the range of ten to
twelve were scurrying every which way, generally ignor-
ing both Zane and the posted WALK signs. One boy,
however, plunged directly into him, naturally paying no
attention to the obstacles in the way of his headlong rush.

The contact was emphatic. Zane suffered a mild lapse
of breath. The boy righted himself and looked up. "Gee—
Halloween!" he exclaimed. "A skull-face!" Then he
zoomed away.

Halloween? Close enough. The lad had seen more ac-
curately than he knew. Perhaps this was a talent of the
young.

He passed near a classroom where computers were
being described to bored students. The virtues of com-
peting brands were highlighted on posters posted alpha-
betically around the room. It was good to be part of the
computer age; Zane wouldn't mind owning any one of
those fine data processors. He understood they could also
be used to summon quite powerful demons safely, for a
computer never erred in setting up the tricky protective




66 On A Pale Horse On A Pale Horse 67

spells required to prevent the supernatural from getting
out of hand. But alas, he was now beyond that.

The next classroom dealt with modem technical ap-
plications of magic. Its students were equally inattentive;

they had little interest in required basics of any type. Here
the posters described competitively marketed brands of
amulets, love potions, curses, magic mirrors, communi-
cation conches, cornucopias, voodoo dolls, mail-order
ghosts, sophisticated spellbooks, and sundry gems of en-
chantment. Zane knew about those last from personal
experience!

He arrived at the cubby that served as the school in-
firmary. There was another boy the size of the one who
had bumped Zane. This boy was deathly ill. Beside him,
the school's part-time nurse was on the phone, exasper-
ated. "...can't wait for parental permission," she was
saying. "I can never reach them during the day anyway.
We need an ambulance-carpet immediately! He's got to
get to the hospital before he—"

She paused as her eyes fell on Zane. "Oh, no!" she
breathed, setting down the phone. "It's too late, isn't it?"

Zane glanced at the Deathwatch. It was time. "Yes,"
he said. He reached into the boy and drew out his soul.

The nurse covered her eyes with one hand. "I must be
hallucinating," she said brokenly. "It's terrible when they
are taken so young."

Zane stood there, the small soul dangling from his hand.
He felt guilty. Why should such an innocent child have
to die? "I must do my job," he said to the nurse. "But if
you would be so kind—please tell me the nature of this
boy."

"I must be crazy," she said, looking directly at Zane.
"Talking to a delusion. But I will answer. He was the
youngest drug addict I've dealt with—well, not the young-
est, if you count the potheads, but the worst for this age
bracket. He was hooked on anything he could get—coke,
heroin, acid, magic dust—anything at all that zonked him
out of dull existence. He lied, he stole, he—you know,
lured clients to illicit activities—anything to get money
for a fix. This time he got something too strong—must

have been uncut helldust, and he didn't believe it—and
Satan took him in."

"Not necessarily Satan," Zane said. "His soul is in near
balance between good and evil; it may yet be saved."

"I hope so. He was a decent kind, underneath. Some-
times we talked, while he was recovering from a siege.
He wanted to quit; he just couldn't control his habit. I
think it was genetic, some chemical imbalance in him that
threw him into an irrational depression, so he had to es-
cape by any means available. I know he didn't want to
be that way. I turned him in a dozen times, for his owfl
good, and he never held it against me. But they tend to
go easy on juveniles, and—oh, I should have taken stronger
measures! But I kept hoping, each time, that he'd straighten
out—"

Others were coming, and Zane felt it prudent to with-
draw. But he had food for thought. First, he knew now
that some people could see him and recognize him for his
office, even if they weren't dying themselves, and even
if they didn't quite believe it. Maybe it was a matter of
circumstance; the nurse was in a distraught condition,
ready to perceive Death; and, of course, she really did
care about the client. Second, the young could indeed
have much evil on their souls. This boy had evidently
committed heinous acts to support his drug habit. So it
made sense; had the boy not OD'd now, when the good
still matched the evil in him, the balance would have
shifted irrevocably, putting him in Hell for certain when
he died later. Maybe he was lucky he had gone today.

Yet that comment about the genetic origin of the lad's
compulsion bothered Zane. Depression was an insidious
thing, as he knew from his own experience in life; it man-
ifested in obscure ways; indeed, it could be biologic rather
than psychologic. Was it fair to charge sin against a per-
son's soul when he couldn't really help what he did? Zane
did not have the answer, but he wasn't easy about it.

The watch was running again, swinging backward into
the next countdown. Zane knew he'd be crowded until
he caught up to his original schedule, but he felt the need
to pause again. He pressed the STOP button.

What was bothering him was this: death was a serious




68 On A Pale Horse On A Pale Horse 69

business; he could not blithely collect souls without de-
veloping some rationale for himself. Was this really what
he wanted to do for all eternity?

He sat in the car, in the parking lot, thinking. He needed
an answer, but somehow couldn't get a grasp on the na-
ture of his wish. He didn't know what he wanted to do,
only that something about his present course was wrong.

His reverie was jarringly interrupted by noise from the
radio of a slowly passing car. It was a Hellfire commercial,
sung to the tune of a popular hymn: Hark, the herald
angels shout. Ten more years till you get out! Ten more
years till you are free, from life's penitentiary!

Satan never quit campaigning! Zane knew himself to
be no angel, but this open mockery of Heavenly things
disturbed him. Could it really lure wavering souls to Hell?
Surely he himself, in life, had been considered a candidate
for such infernal blandishments. Even if his soul had not
proved to be entirely balanced between good and evil, he
would have known he was of questionable virtue. There
were blots on his conscience that could never be erased.
He was, in secret fact, a murderer—now he had to admit
it to himself!—and he had believed for some time that he
was destined for Hell, though he had not quite allowed
himself to believe Hell existed. Who was he to judge the
souls of others? So the schoolboy had the sins of drug
addiction on his soul; was Zane himself any better?

Yet what choice did he have now? It always came back
to that. If he didn't do his job, how would that improve
anyone's situation? Someone else would replace him in
the office of Death, and the grim game would continue.

"It might as well be me," Zane said, pressing the button
to resume the countdown. But he remained unsatisfied.
He had not really answered his question. He was doing
this job because he didn't know what else to do and wasn't
ready to quit what form of life remained to him. His own
suicide attempt had been a passing thing, a wild impulse
of the moment; he really did want to live. Since he had
to perform or face some sort of Divine accounting, he
performed. That really was not much credit to him.

In fact, Zane realized, he was not much of a person.
If he had never lived, the world would not have been a

worse place. He was just one of the blah mediocrities that
cluttered the cosmos. It was ironic that he should have
backed into the significant office he now held.

He had started and oriented the car. He was zooming
across the surface of the world, hardly paying attention.
This was, if he remembered correctly, his sixth case com-
ing up; he was getting the hang of it. Of course there was
still much to leam—assuming he really wanted to leam
it.

Ocean gave way to land. There was a fleeting beach,
and a green shore region; then they plowed through moun-
tains and across a desert whose sands were wrinkled into
dunes like the waves of the sea, frozen in place. On south,
still in hyperdrive; this was a huge island—in fact, a con-
tinent!

The Deathmobile stopped at last at the dead end of a
dirt road in mountainous country. Four minutes remained
on the timer. Where was the client?

The arrowstone for once seemed uncertain. He turned
it about, and the arrow was inconsistent. In any event,
there was no human habitation in sight in this wild land.

A blinking light on the dash caught his attention. It
was the one with the horsehead silhouette. Zane pushed
it.

He was astride the great stallion, his cloak swirling in
the breeze. "What next, friend steed?" he inquired.

The Deathhorse moved forward, galloping up the steep
slope to the side. No ordinary horse could have moved
this way—but of course this was a unique animal. Mortis
leaped to the top of the mountain ridge, where a primitive
cottage perched.

This was the place. The arrowstone had not guided
him before, because he had been holding it level instead
of angled. It had not been able to point upward to the
cottage. The car had not driven here because no ordinary
car could, and the approach of Death was always circum-
spect.

As they traversed the somewhat harrowing slope of
the mountain, Zane thought again about himself and his
office. There was something about the appearance of dan-
ger, such as a possible fall, that caused him to review his




70             OnAPtOeHwse

most morbid thoughts. If he felt unfit for the office of
Death and did not want to judge others when he knew he
was no better than they were, why should he do it? If his
abdication meant he would die the death he had aborted
before, maybe that was proper. If he went to Hell, maybe
that, too, was proper. After all, he had killed his mother;

he could hardly go to join her in Heaven! The fact that
he now clung to a kind of life had no relevance; it was

fitting that he pay his penalty.

Yes—that was what he had to do! "I resign the office!"

he cried impulsively. "Take me directly to Hell!"

Nothing happened. The horse trotted toward the cot-
tage, ignoring Zane's outburst.

Of course. He could not blithely resign. He had to be
killed by his successor, who would probably be a client

like himself and who would turn on him.

Very well—he had a client coming up. He would pass
the office on to that person and be done with it.

Two minutes remained as he rode up to the cottage.
A woman came out to meet him. "I am ready, Death,"
she said. "Lift me to your fine horse and bear me to

Heaven."

A woman! He had thought it would be a man, maybe

with a gun. Would a woman as readily turn on him? She

might need some convincing.

"I can not promise you Heaven," he said. "Your soul

is in virtual balance; it could go either way."

"But I took poison so I could go at a time of my choos-
ing!" she protested. "I've got to go to Heaven!"

"Take an antidote or an emetic quickly," Zane urged,
wondering whether this was feasible. Would he have been
summoned, had demise not been certain? And how could
she turn the poison she had already taken against him?
This was not working out at all! "Extend your life, and

we shall talk."

The woman hesitated. "I don't know—"
"Hurry!" Zane cried, seeing his chance slip away. If
she had to die, he would not leave his office this time,
and might not have the courage to make the next client

turn against him.

On A Pale Horse             71

"I do have a healing potion that should neutralize it,
but—"

"Take it!" he pleaded.

Dominated by his urgency, she complied, drinking the
potion.

"Now find a gun or a knife," he told her.

"What? Why should I neutralize the poison, only to
use something much more messy?"

"Not for you. For me. I want you to kill me."

She gaped at him. "I'll do no such thing! What do you
think I am?"

Zane saw that this wasn't remotely feasible. Of course
she was not a murderess! He dismounted, took her hand,
and led her to a patio where there were chairs and a table.
"Why did you want to die?" he asked.

"What do you care, Death?" she asked, wary of him
but curious, too. She spoke with the strong Downunder
accent of this region.

"Not long ago, I sought to die," he said. "I changed
my mind when—well, that's hard to explain. Now I want
to die again."

"How can Death die even once?"

"Believe me, Death can die. It is only an office I hold,
and that office can be yours if—"

"This is completely appalling!" she cried. "I'll not lis-
ten to this!"

Zane sighed. "Tell me your problem." He knew himself
to be no psychologist, but he needed to extricate himself
from this awkwardness he had put himself into.

"My husband left me," she said grimly. "After fifteen
years—a younger woman—I'll show him!"

"Isn't it a sin to commit suicide, according to your
religion?" he asked.

She paused, frowning. "I suppose it is, but—"

"And should you do such a thing to spite him? Why
match the wrong he did you with a wrong done to
yourself?"

"I am a woman," she said with a wry smile. "I owe
more to emotion than to logic."

Zane returned her smile, showing that he appreciated
her humor. No woman really thought herself illogical,




72 On A Pale Horse

however strongly she might feel, but it was fashionable
to seem otherwise. "But your soul is so close to balance,
the evil matching the good, that these wrongs could tip
you into Hell. Do what you know is right, and your bal-
ance should favor Heaven."

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that! I don't want to go to
Hell!"

"Believe me, you stand at the very brink of it now.
You have done evil before, and this—"

She sighed. "It is true. I have much evil to account
for. I drove him away. I suppose you know how bitchy
a woman can be when she tries."

"Not really. I always thought of women as pristine and
pure," Zane admitted. "Most of the evil resides in men.
Women should go to Heaven when they die."

She laughed bitterly. "You idiot! There is more sin
concealed in women than in men! My husband errs be-
cause it is his male nature; I, at least, should have known
better. I was fooling myself when I dreamed of Heaven."

"Not at all," Zane said. "I didn't say you were doomed
to Hell; I said you stood at the verge. Heaven is within
your potential. I am sure of this. You can redeem yourself.
I am in a position to know, for I collect the borderline
souls. Go and do good with what remains of your life,
and you will go to Heaven. This promise is surely worth
some sacrifice."

"Yes, surely it is," she agreed. "But how is it you, the
Grim Reaper, urge this course on me? If I live, doesn't
that cost you points or something?"

"I don't know," Zane admitted. "I have not held this
office long. I just don't like to see a life wasted or a person
damned who could be saved."

"Yet you were asking me to kill you!"

"I see now that was wrong of me. I will make you a
deal: you live, and I will live."

She smiled more openly, looking rather pretty. "I'll do
it! I don't need my husband anyway."

Zane stood. "I regret I have other appointments. May
we never meet again." He extended his hand.

She took it, though it seemed skeletal. "This I will
remember—shaking hands with Death."

On A Pale Horse              73

Zane laughed. "That's better than what you contem-
plated."

"Also better than what you contemplated!"
He nodded agreement, then returned to the horse and

mounted. He waved to her as he departed.




Ow A Pflrfc Horse              75




MAGICIAN

The Deathwatch was counting down again. Only ninety
seconds remained. "No time to ride down the mountain,"
Zane said. "Can you take me there directly, Mortis?"

The stallion neighed, reared, and leaped into the air.
Clouds raced by, and land and sea and more land. This
was hyperdrive! When the horse landed, they were back
in America. In fact, they were in Kilvarough; he knew
his home city well. Well, of course people died here as
well, and some would be in near balance; no need to be

surprised.

They stopped at an affluent suburban estate. A fence

of iron spikes surrounded it, and two lean young griffins
patrolled the grounds. They were beautiful creatures, with
powerful beaks and talons and rippling muscles on their
bodies. Crossbreed of eagle and lion, with certain magical
endowments, yet loyal to whatever person or creature
they gave their loyalty to, they were just about the best
protection an estate could have. This, more than the ob-
vious wealth of the property, impressed him with the sta-
tus of its owner.

But when the creatures menaced Zane, the Deathsteed

lifted one steel forefoot in unmistakable warning, backing
them off. Few griffins feared horses, but these were smart
enough to perceive that this was no ordinary horse.

Still, Zane wasn't eager to leave the protection Mortis
provided while the griffins remained. But he would have

74

to, for he was sure the horse would not enter the building.
He glanced about—and spied an object strapped to the
saddle. He lifted it out and found two pegs mounted on
a long, curving shaft. He gripped it by these, and a mas-
sive, gleaming blade snapped out at right angles to the
base. Sure enough—it was a switchblade scythe.

Zane had had only very limited experience with a scythe
in a class on archaic farming and harvesting. Certain magic
crops suffered heavy losses when worked by machinery,
so ancient tools were still used for them, and most schools
had a course or two in the application of these. So Zane
knew what this was and how to swing it, but would have
trouble using it as a weapon. Still, as he held it now, felt
the proper heft of it and its fine balance, and eyed the
deadly expanse of the blade, a certain nervous confidence
suffused him. This was a magic weapon, surely; its en-
chantment made the wielder at least halfway competent.
He believed he could use it and that its power and quality
would enhance his ability. After all, the scythe was Death's
traditional instrument, the grim tool of the Grim Reaper,
and he was now that entity.

The horse stopped, and Zane dismounted. Yes, he was
Death, standing here holding this deadly instrument. He
began to believe. Perhaps he could do the job the way it
should be done.

Thirty seconds remained. He strode toward the house.
The two griffins spread their wings and rose up to the
rampant posture, their elevated front claws springing out
like narrow daggers, their beaks gleaming. A kind of
screaming growl started in the two throats.

Zane drew his Deathcloak close about him and lifted
the scythe. The griffins reared back, wary of its terrible
blade. He strode toward them, glaring through the narrow
aperture of his hood.

That did it. The monsters might fear nothing living,
but all creatures feared Death, if they recognized him.

As his watch signaled time, Zane walked into the main
room of the house. There was an old man, seated in an
easy chair.

"Stay your hand a moment. Death," the man said. "I
would converse with you."




76

OH A Pale Horse             77

On A Pale Horse

"I'm running late," Zane demurred, no longer as sur-
prised as he had first been when people saw him and
addressed him directly. It was evident that anyone who
really wished to could relate to him.

The man smiled. "I must advise you that I am a Ma-
gician of the thirty-second rank, whose name you would
not recognize because my magic protects my anonymity.
I can stay your hand—yea, even yours. Death!—for a
time. But I do not seek to oppose you, only to converse
a moment with you. Put away your weapon, grant me a
period of your attention, and I will reciprocate with some-
thing of greater value."

"Do you seek to bribe Death?" Zane asked, half angry
and two-thirds curious. He folded the scythe and leaned
it against the wall near the door. "What possible thing

could you offer me?"

"I have already given you more than you can afford
to know," the Magician said. "But I wiU couch my offer
succinctly. Stop your watch, and if after five minutes you
do not wish to converse longer, I will yield you my soul
with singular grace. In return, I proffer you the dominant
option on the love of my daughter."

This did not please Zane. The bitterness of his foolish
loss of Angelica to the proprietor of the Mess o* Pottage
shop was still fresh. "What use does Death have for any

woman?" he asked.

"You remain a man, behind the Deathmask. Even Death

does not exist by souls alone."

"What am I to make of a man who would prostitute
his daughter to gain a few more minutes of life?" Zane

asked, repelled.

"Especially one who would prostitute her to the person
who killed his mother," the Magician agreed,

Zane punched the STOP button, freezing the overex-
tended countdown. "You have my attention. Magician,"

he said between his teeth.

"I shall summon her," the man said. He tapped one
gnarled finger against the arm of his chair with a sound

like the clang of a small bell.

That was not what Zane had meant, but he kept silent.
The Magician was evidently a complex, knowledgeable

man who had done his research on Zane's past. Why he
chose to bring his daughter into it, Zane could not guess,
but that was the Magician's business. Maybe the girl was
so homely that no one would seek to take advantage of
her anyway.

The girl entered the room. She was naked. Her hair
was bound under a bathing cap; evidently she had just
stepped out of an air-shower. Her body was slender and
well formed, but not spectacular. She was just a normal,
healthy young woman of perhaps twenty years. "What is
it. Father?" she inquired, her voice gently melodious.

"I have offered your love to this person, Luna," the
Magician said, gesturing to Zane.

She glanced about, perplexed. "What person?"

"You can see him, if you try. He is the new Death."

"Death!" she exclaimed with mild horror. "So soon?"

"He has come for me, not you, my dear, and I shall
go with him shortly. But I wanted you to meet him before
I gave him the love-spell with your name on it."

She squinted, looking at Zane, beginning to see him.
"But I'm not dressed!" she protested.

"Dress, then," her father said, as if indifferent. "I wish
you to make an impression on him so he will desire you."

"As you wish, Father," she said dutifully. "I have yet
to meet the man I couldn't impress when I tried, but I
doubt I have much future with the like of Death." She
turned and departed the way she had arrived, poised but
8 still not special. It seemed to Zane that Magician and
daughter both had considerable arrogance, assuming so
blithely that the officeholder of Death could be swayed
by such obvious means.

Perhaps, he thought further, his glimpse of lovely An-
gelica had forever spoiled him for other women, even if
his new office had not.

"My message is this," the Magician said abruptly.
"There is a complex plot afoot that affects my daughter,
Luna Kaftan. I have protected her hitherto, but I shall
no longer be able to do so. Therefore I am asking you to
do so."

"I must have misunderstood. I thought you were of-




On A Pale Horse

78

fering me your daughter's favors in exchange for five

minutes of my time."

The Magician smiled. "Death, you are rightly cynical.
It is a barbed offer, of course. If you accept the bait, you
will find yourself emotionally committed and you will guard
her in a manner few others could."

"How can I guard anyone?" Zane demanded, sensing
that he was being managed. "I am Death!"

"You are uniquely qualified," the Magician insisted.
"When, through my black arts, I perceived the nature of
the conspiracy against my child, I knew she would have
to have a champion to guard her as I could not. I re-
searched diligently to locate that champion, neglecting
my health in the process, and at length identified you."

"Me!" Zane exclaimed. "As Death, I can do only a
thing you would not want for your daughter. As a man,
not as Death, I am unqualified to do anything at all for
her. You should know that!"

"As a man, it is true, you are unremarkable," the Ma-
gician agreed. "But you are nevertheless uniquely quali-
fied for the need. I believe you will grow with the office
and become what you presently are not."

"You know something about how I got the job of
Death?" This was indeed interesting.

"I was the one who persuaded Fate to arrange your
placement at that office," the Magician said.

"Persuaded Fate! You—?"

"I suspect you are not yet aware of the significance of

your role."

"Well, every person has to die sometime—"

"But any person can serve, however indifferently, in
the office of Death. This particular situation requires your
personal expertise."

"You're not making much sense to me!" Zane said. "It
was sheer chance that brought me to—"

He broke off, for the Magician's daughter Luna had
re-entered the room. She was clothed now—she was ev-
idently efficient about getting dressed—and wore makeup
and had let down her hair—and it did make a difference.
Her tresses were shoulder-length, chestnut brown, and
shone with such a rich luster that Zane was sure an en-

On A Pale Horse             79

chantment of enhancement had been applied. Her eyes,
which had seemed nondescript before, now were huge
and beautiful, their color a deep gray like the hide of a
fine racing horse, or the Deathsteed himself. Her cheeks
had warmed and her lips were bright and sensual, the
teeth showing white and even. She wore two Satum-stone
earrings that projected little colored rings and illuminated
the smooth column of her neck on either side.

But she had hardly finished her makeover there. She
wore an off-shoulder gray blouse that clung lightly to
the contours of her arms and bosom, making what had
seemed modest before come to life now as a fully re-
spectable endowment. Her belt was wide and heavy and
set with colored stones; probably it was a flying belt.
Her brown skirt, matching the shade of her hair, caressed
a configuration of hip and leg that was elegant in its
artistry of form. Zane had not before realized how strik-
ing a slender woman could be. Even her feet were pretty,
in delicate, winged, green slippers that were crafted to
resemble her namesake, the luna moth. About her neck
was a chain of gold in the mode of fine serpentine, and
on the chain, suspended artfully between her breasts,
was a large moonstone, its brightness at crescent phase.
Such stones waxed and waned magically with the changes
of the real moon, the ultimately female symbol. She was
magically lovely, as stunning as any model at a fashion
show.

Of course she had magic, Zane reminded himself. She
was a Magician's daughter! Naturally she had become
impressive; it was ail artifice! Yet he could not help being
impressed, for it was indeed the same girl he had seen
before, in a new aspect. Luna's present presence was like
a selected precious stone, dull in shadow, suddenly en-
hanced by the brilliance of a spotlight that caused it to
project its awesome luster.

She had been nude before. Truly, in seeing her un-
covered, he had not seen her at all. Not even Angelica
could rival—

"Shall I do a dance for you?" Luna inquired with a
charming quirk of a smile.

"I don't believe it," Zane muttered.

80     '       On A Pale Horse

"Well, you should," she said mischievously. "You saw

me nude."

Zane shook his head. "I don't believe a creature like

you can be casually offered to a nondescript character

like me. It just doesn't make sense."

"Oh, she is no gift," the Magician said. "Luna has to
be won, and the winning is not straightforward. What you

get is the first option to compete."

"I don't care to compete," Zane said, distrusting this.

He was aware that the Magician was offering less, now
that Luna had manifested as more. Zane didn't like being

managed.

"Suit yourself. The Lovestone is here." The Magician

indicated a small blue gem on the table beside him.

"I have no use for Lovestones!" Zane snapped. He
now wished he had never seen Angelica; how much grief

that would have saved him!

"Perhaps you misunderstand," the Magician said. "This

is not your common locater stone; this one compels love.
Merely hold it and look at the woman you desire, and she
will be instantly afflicted with overwhelming passion for
you. You do not find these on sale in knickknack shops."

Zane eyed the stone with new respect. If he took that
and looked at Luna, she would become his love slave.
Probably its effect was limited to a single session; oth-
erwise the user would never be able to get away from the
subject. But it meant the man—or woman—possessing
such an artifact could take advantage of any other person
encountered. What was he to make of the father who
openly offered to subject his lovely daughter to such in-
fluence, or of the girl who knowingly permitted such en-
chantment to be used on her? "Thanks, no."

Luna nodded slightly, perhaps in approval. Had this
been a test? The Magician had said his daughter needed
to be won, and the use of the Lovestone was hardly fair
competition. Maybe the stone induced passion but not
love. Given the choice between passion and love, Zane

preferred the latter.

The Magician settled slightly in his chair, relaxing. "I

must proceed; the spell that extends my life beyond its
appointed time is weakening, and I dare not use another."

On A Pale Horse              81

"You dare not?" Zane asked, increasingly suspicious.
"Aren't you a powerful Magician?"

"Magic is addictive and often damning. The white magic
which has become so popular is generally harmless, but
it can lead stage by stage to the more potent black magic,
which gradually corrupts and eventually damns the user.
All serious practitioners employ black magic, because of
its versatility and power. I have used more than enough
to damn me to Hell."

"But you are in balance, or I would not have been
summoned!"

"Technically true. It was necessary that I summon you,
and this was the only way possible without alerting the
Unmentionable."

"The—"

"Do not utter the name, for he is attuned to it. My
enchantment protects us from chance discovery, but
against his direct inquiry there is no protection, and his
name would bring that. This discussion has to be private.
Once I talk to you, my fate hardly matters, except that I
must stay free of Hell long enough to give the plan a
chance to function. The Unnamed quickly picks the brains
of his incoming victims. So we had to seem to meet in
the normal course, to avoid suspicion."

"You set up your own death, just to talk to me without
a certain entity knowing—when you yourself had gotten
Fate to put me in office?"

"It does seem to be a cumbersome mechanism. But a
complex conspiracy is abroad, and devious sacrifices are
required."

"Such as your life—and your daughter's virtue?"
Luna smiled, taking no offense. "Father is like that.
That's why he's a great Magician—one whom even the
Incarnations respect."

Evidently so- "What conspiracy?" Zane demanded.
"That I may not tell you," the Magician said.
"How can I help you if I don't know what you want?"
"I have told you what I want. My daughter's salva-
tion."

"Some way you have to guarantee it!" Zane said, glanc-
ing meaningfully at the Lovestone. "Your daughter is




82

On A Pale Horse

On A Pale Horse

83

obviously only a pretext for some more sinister scheme.
What do you really want?"

The Magician stared at the floor for a moment as if
considering. "I want what every halfway decent man
wants: the belief that his life has in some small or devious
fashion benefited the cosmos. My use of black magic has
so weighted my soul that my daughter had to assume a
share of my evil in order to put me in technical balance.
Now she, too, is in peril. But she should have time to
redeem herself, if our ploy is successful."

"She can take some of your evil?" Zane asked, sur-
prised. "I thought every soul had to be judged on its own

merits."

"It does, ordinarily. But sophisticated magic can alter
cases, and this case has been altered. At the moment,
both of us are in balance."

Zane looked at Luna again. Her face was unlined and
innocent. He was relieved to know that the evil in her
soul was not truly hers; she was basically a good girl. He
was well aware that physical beauty bore no certain re-
lation to the condition of a person's soul, but he still felt
more at ease when the two matched.

Now the girl leaned over her father. "It is time. Father,"
she said. "I'll never know your equal." She kissed him.
Then she straightened up and faced Zane. "Death, bring
thy sting," she said, and turned away.

Zane started his countdown timer again. He walked up
to the Magician, who had abruptly settled into the final
seizure, and drew out his soul. Quickly he folded it and

put it away.

Still facing opposite, Luna spoke. "My father made an
agreement with you. I will honor it without the use of the
Lovestone. You will understand if I do not pretend any
personal joy in the matter. Come this way." She walked
toward the doorway through which she had entered.

The Deathwatch was counting down for the next client,
but Zane paused. "You father, whom you professed to
love deeply, has just died," he said, shocked. "How can
you think of a thing like—like that—at this moment? Where

is your grief?"

She halted, but did not face him. "I can do what my

father asked me to do because I respect his judgment
above that of any other person. When I realized that his
death was upon him, I invoked the enchantment he had
prepared for this occasion. I put on a gem that eliminated
incapacitating emotion. After you depart, I wffl remove
that stone and suffer as much as I can stand before I have
to don the gem again. My grief will run its course in
measured stages. But my grief is not yours, and while I
am with you, I shall not share it with you."

Zane shook his head, appalled at this explanation. "I
don't claim to be a good man or a good Death. Mostly I
have been satisfied to take what I can get. I was a fool
not long ago and threw away my chance to love and marry
a wonderful woman—"

"Fate arranged that loss, at my father's behest, " Luna
said. "You need feel no responsibility there."

So that, too, had been no coincidence! Zane was shaken,
but plowed on. "Now I'm going to be a fool again. I have
not done your father any genuine service I know of and,
in any event, don't deserve the sort of attention you—"

Luna turned back to face him. She seemed prettier
than ever. Her eyes were pearl as they fixed on his. No,
she had not been bluffing about her ability to impress a
man! "Yes, you are correct, of course. You don't want
false rapture. Use the Lovestone; then my passion will
be genuine. I should not have tried to avoid that. I will
also, if you wish, use it on you, so that your reservations
will dissipate."

"That's not what I meant!" Zane exclaimed, embar-
rassed. "I don't deserve the attention or the love of a
woman like you. Keep the Lovestone; I will not abuse
your nature by using it. Maybe when I was a living man
I would have done so, but now I am Death, with an im-
portant responsibility, and I must honor the dignity of the
office as I perceive it. I will leave you to your grief." He
turned to the exit, half-cursing himself for his perversity.
This was not typical behavior for him; why hadn't he
simply taken the proffered payment?

"Why?" she asked. He could tell by the sound of her
voice that she had turned again. They were both facing
away, the dead Magician's body between them.




84             On A Pale Horse

Zane himself wasn't sure. He had spoken of the dignity
of his office—but not long ago he had tried to give up that
office. "I—look, I admit you're the kind of woman I like.
The kind any man would like. You set out to impress me
and you certainly did. You didn't seem like much when—
when you weren't trying—well, right now I'm sure you're
everything I might want, but—I guess it's what your father
said. 1 want to make something good of my life, or of my
office, while I still have the chance. Otherwise, what's
the point? If I had been good before, I wouldn't have
come to the point of death myself so soon. I'm trying to
be good now, for what it's worth, so at least I can think
of myself as halfway useful for something. To—to take
advantage of you—especially at this time—I know that
would— I did something like that once in life, and it re-
mains a blot on my soul—well, it's just not the way I think
someone as important as Death should be. So I'm going
to try to play the part the way I think it should be played,
even though I'm not—I know I'm not a worthy actor."

"You are going counter to my father's wish," she said.
"He scheduled his death to bring you here so you would
meet me. Fate took that other woman from you so that
you would be free for me. I am owed to you in a very

real sense."

"I have met you. I don't think you owe me anything

for what Fate did. Maybe I'm on the rebound from that
love I threw away before it started. Maybe I'm just angry
at being managed. I think I would—I don't know. Maybe

your father misjudged me."

"Maybe he did," she agreed. "Still, I must acquit my
own debts and try to honor his will. I would be false to
my father's memory if 1 did otherwise. Would you settle

for a date?"

"If I start seeing a woman of your quality, I'll soon

want too much."

"You can have too much."

"I—no, I mean Death should not be distracted."

"Then come when you're off duty."

Zane felt guilty, but also sorely tempted, "One time,"

he agreed.
"One time."

On A Pale Horse              85

Nothing more was to be said. Zane opened the door,
picked up his scythe, and went out to his horse.

He mounted. "On to the next, steed," he said.

The stallion leaped into the sky. Dawn was just arriving
here, and a bank of clouds to the east was starting to
glow. Mortis trotted over clouds as if they were sand,
flying without wings, then plunged down through them
somewhere on the day lit portion of the globe.

But it was not land below. The horse came down on
the expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. His feet touched and
held; naturally this animal could run on water!

Ahead, the cloud cover dipped to intersect the water:

a storm. The stallion galloped right at it. Zane viewed the
lash-whipped waves with increasing alarm. The person
who held the office of Death was immortal only as long
as he was not killed. Suppose he drowned? The sea was
becoming mountainous, the waves already surging higher
than his head, and much higher nearer the storm.

"I don't like this," he said. "Who will replace me if I
drown here?" That wasn't really his worry, however. He
didn't care who next assumed the office; he didn't want
to vacate it.

He didn't? Then why had he tried, so ineptly, to get
his client to turn on him and kill him? What did he really
want?

He wasn't sure, but suspected it related to some per-
sonal aspect. He could accept his own demise more read-
ily if he deliberately handed the office to a chosen successor
than if an inanimate ocean washed him out. It was control
and self-esteem at the root of his disquiet.

A spot near the saddle horn blinked. Zane touched it—
and the horse became a double-hulled speedboat, cutting
through the fringe of the storm.

Wonders never ceased! "You are some creature. Mor-
tis!" Zane exclaimed.

But the waves were so horrendous that the craft was
soon tilting precariously. The pale boat was steering itself
aptly, to avoid being swamped, but the sea seemed de-
termined to outmaneuver it.

"I prefer you as a horse!" Zane cried as the craft crested




On A Pale Horse

86

a pinnacle and tilted sickeningly forward. He punched the
blinking button on its control panel.

The horse returned, galloping along the shifting con-
tour of the wave. Yes, this was definitely better! The
animal could not be swamped or overturned. "I couldn't
manage without you. Mortis," Zane said, hanging on des-
perately.

Then the client came into sight. It was a young man,
clinging to a bit of flotsam. The man saw Zane and lifted
a hand weakly. Then he sank into a wave.

"He doesn't have to die!" Zane protested, speaking
as much for himself as for the client.

Mortis snorted noncommittally. After all, Death had
been summoned here to collect the client's soul.

"I'm going to rescue him," Zane said. "To watch him
drown—that would be like murder!"

The horse did not react, except to come to a halt on
the water beside the drowning man. Zane dismounted and
found that his feet stood firmly on the surface. Fate had
said his shoes would make that possible, but he had not
quite accepted it until now.

He reached down, caught the man's projecting arm,
and hauled him upward. The wave was liquid for the
client, solid for Zane's feet—and Zane's gloved hand did
not pass through the man's flesh when he didn't want it
to. His magic accommodated itself to his specific needs.

But a surge crossed their location, burying the client
and almost jerking him away. Irritated, Zane punched the
center button of the Deathwatch, seeking to freeze time
itself. Nothing happened, and he remembered that this
button had to be pulled, not pushed. He pulled.

The water halted in place: waves, bubbles, and spume.
The racing fog stopped as if photographed. All was still
and silent.

Zane got a better grip on the client and hauled him out
of the sea. Apparently time did not abate for Death or
Death's pale horse, or for what Death touched. What an
amazing power Chronos had bequeathed! But it was not
enough, for it was evident that the client was far gone;

he had inhaled water during his final submersion.

Zane got the man up on the rump of the horse, arms

On A Pale Horse             87

dangling down to one side, legs to the other. He pressed
on the man's back, trying to squeeze out the water from
his lungs, but this wasn't very effective. Then Mortis
bucked, bouncing the man, and that did it; the water drib-
bled out of his mouth, and he began to choke and gasp.

Zane helped him stand. The man's eyes widened. "You
are Death—but you haven't killed me!"

"I will take you to shore," Zane said. "Mount behind
me and hold on."

They mounted. "I don't understand," the man said
somewhat plaintively.

Zane pushed the button in the watch. The storm re-
sumed. The horse walked up the progressing slope of the

wave. The wind tore at them, but they were secure against
it.

"Why?" the man asked.

Zane couldn't answer. He feared he was violating his

office and would somehow be punished, but he still had
to save this man.

Soon they exited from th& storm. There was an island
ahead; the pale horse knew where he was going. They
came to a deserted beach, but stray bottles showed it was

at times frequented by tourists. There was civilization
within range.

The man got down and stood on the wet sand, still

unbelieving. "Why?" he repeated. "You, of all crea-
tures—"

Zane had to make some response, if only to justify his
irrationality to himself. "Your soul is in danger of Hell.
Go and do good in the world, to redeem your afterlife."

The man stared, mouth open. This was the twentieth
century; no one took such cautions seriously!

"Farewell," Zane said.

Mortis took off, prancing once more into the sky. Zane
realized that more magic must be involved to prevent him
from falling off when the horse made such motions. His
office was failsafe in various ways!

He looked back and glimpsed the erstwhile client still
standing, staring after him.

Had he done the right thing? Probably not. For the
second time, he had actually interfered with a death,

88 On A Pale Horse

changing the course of a client's life. Maybe he was acting
in an irrational manner, allowing his personal hang-ups
to affect his office. Yet Zane knew he would do it again.
Apparently he was unable to rise above his human limi-
tations to perform the office impartially.

The Deathwatch was counting down again. Zane
punched the STOP button, halting the countdown without
stopping regular time. "I've had enough of this for the
moment," he said to the horse. "I want to pause and
reflect. Do you have a favorite pasture where you graze?
Take me there."

Obediently the horse galloped farther up to a thin cloud
layer. As they came level with it, Zane saw the topside
open out into a lush, green plain. "So your pasture is in
the sky!" he remarked.

The horse landed on the greensward and trotted across
it to a large, comfortable ginkgo tree. Zane dismounted.
"You will be near when I need you?"

The stallion made an acquiescent nicker and proceeded
to graze. Zane noticed that the animal was now unfettered
by bridle or saddle; these accouterments had simply ceased
to exist when not in use.

Zane sat down and leaned back against the massive
trunk of the tree. "What am I doing here?" he asked
himself aloud. "Why aren't I doing my job?"

No answers came. Mortis grazed in the lush field. The
light breeze rustled the odd ginkgo leaves. A small spider
dangled on a thread before Zane.

"What's the matter with me, Arachnae?" he asked the
spider. "I have a good job here, fetching in the souls of
the borderlines. Why am I letting them go, when I thought
I wanted to act in accordance with the standards of the
office? Am I a hypocrite?"

The spider enlarged. Four of its legs dangled down,
fusing into two larger limbs, and four lifted up, becoming
two lesser extremities. Its abdomen contracted and elon-
gated. Its head rounded, and the eight eyes merged in
much the manner the legs had, two pairs forming two
larger orbs and the other two pairs sliding to the sides to
form ears. In moments the arachnid became a woman,
holding a strand of web between her hands. "Oh, we call

On A Pah Horse             89

it the delayed-reaction syndrome," she said. "You can't
step from ordinary life into immortality without suffering
systemic dislocation. You will survive it."
"Who are you?" Zane demanded, surprised.

"How short your memory is," she teased him, shifting
to a younger form.

Now he recognized her. "Fate! Am I glad to see you!"
"Well, I did bring you into this, so it may be my re-
sponsibility to tide you through the break-in period. All
you have to do is accept and adapt to the new reality,
and you're all right."

"But I know the new reality," he protested. "I know
I'm supposed to take souls. But I'm not taking them! Not
consistently. I talked one woman out of suicide and I
actually rescued a drowning man."

"That does complicate things," she said thoughtfully.
"I never heard of Death helping people live. I'm not sure
there's a precedent. Except—"

"Yes?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that. Death."
Zane's brow wrinkled. "There's something you know

that you won't tell me?" She had said something like that

before, annoyingly.

"That is the case. But in due course all shall be known."
He realized that it was useless to try to coerce Fate.
"Well, is there anything useful you will tell me?"

"Oh, yes, certainly. What you need to do, to get your-
self settled in, is to take some souls to Purgatory. Once
you comprehend that aspect of the system, you won't be
so reluctant to do your duty."

"Purgatory? I've thought of it, but I don't know where

it is. Chronos said I could ride my horse there, but some-
how—"

She pointed. "Right there."

Zane looked. There, across the field, was a modem
building complex, somewhat like a university. "That's
Purgatory?"

"What did you expect—a medieval dungeon guarded
by a dragon?"

"Well—yes. I mean, the concept of Purgatory—"
"This is the twentieth century, the golden age of magic




90

On A Pale Horse

On A Pale Horse

91

and science. Purgatory moves with the times, as do Heaven

and Hell."

Zane hadn't thought of it that way. "I just go there and

empty out my bag of souls?"

"Those you haven't been able to classify yourself,"

she said.

Zane became suspicious. There was something devious
about the way Fate phrased things. "What happens to

souls there?"

"They get properly sorted. You'll see. Go ahead."
Zane considered. "First let me sort out whatever I

can."

"Do that." Fate shrank back into the spider, who

climbed up its strand and disappeared into the dense fo-
liage of the tree.

He labored over the souls for some time. He managed
to classify all except two: the baby and the Magician.
The former was so evenly gray that no reading was
possible; the latter was so complexly convoluted with
good and evil that it was an impenetrable maze, even

for the stones.

He walked to the Purgatory main building. It was a

structure of red brick, with green vines climbing the

walls.

The great front door was unguarded. Zane wrapped

his cloak about him and pushed on in. There was a desk
with a pretty receptionist. "Yes?" she said, in exactly the
manner such decorations did on Earth.

"I am Death," he said, slightly diffidently.

"Certainly. Follow the black line."

Zane saw the line painted on the floor. He followed it
down a hall, around comers, and into a modern scientific
laboratory. There were no people present, and no devils
or angels; it seemed he was supposed to know what to
do next. He was, in fact, a bit disgruntled by the recep-
tionist's cool reaction, as if Death were routine. Maybe

Death was, here.

He looked around. He spied a computer terminal. Good

enough.

Zane seated himself before the terminal. He looked for
a brand name, but there was none; this was a generic

machine, as was perhaps appropriate. It had a standard
typewriter keyboard and assorted extra function buttons.
He punched ON, and the screen illuminated.

GREETINGS, DEATH, it printed in bright green letters on
a pale background. HOW MAY WE SERVE YOU?

Zane was not a good typist, but he was adequate. I
HAVE TWO SOULS TO CLASSIFY, he typed, and saw the
words appear on the screen in red, below the computer's
query.

The machine made no response. After a moment he
remembered—he had to ask it a question or give it a
directive if he wanted it to react. WHAT SHOULD i DO WITH
THEM? he added.

PUT ONE IN EACH DEVICE, it replied.

Zane looked about again. He saw a line of devices. He
started to get up.

A buzzer sounded, recalling his attention to the com-
puter. TURN ME OFF WHEN NOT IN USE, the screen said.

Oh. Zane made a pass at the OFF button, but held up.
WHY? he typed.

IT IS NOT NICE TO WASTE POWER.

Zane typed again. NO. i MEAN, WHY DON'T YOU HAVE

A CIRCUIT TO TURN YOURSELF OFF WHEN THE OPERATOR
DEPARTS? THAT WOULD BE FOOLPROOF.

HAVE YOU EVER TRIED TO GET A GOOD SUGGESTION

THROUGH A BUREAUCRACY? The print was turning red-
dish, as if from justifiable irritation.

Zane smiled and hit the OFF button, and the screen
faded. He suspected there was more to this computer than
showed.

He went to the first device. It looked like a spin-drying
machine. He brought out the baby soul and fed it into the
hopper.

The machine purred. The soul dropped down into the
spinner, which started to rotate. Faster and faster it went,
plastering the soul against its rim.

"A centrifuge!" Zane exclaimed. "To spin out the evil!
So it can be measured!" Suddenly it made sense. Presum-
ably after the evil was out, there would be another spin
to extract the good, and some way to match them against
each other.




92             On A Pale Horse

But no evil spun out. After an interval the machine
stopped. The soul was ejected to a lower hopper.

Zane picked it up and returned to the terminal. He
turned on the computer. IT DIDN'T WORK, he typed. WHAT

DO I DO NOW?

DESCRIBE THE SOUL.
IT'S A BABY, PURE GRAY. NO SHADES.

OH, NO WONDER, the screen said with unmechanical
expression. THAT'S A DEFINITION DECISION. TURN IT IN TO

RECYCLE.

This made Zane pause. He wasn't ready to let go of
this yet. WHAT'S A DEFINITION DECISION?

A CATEGORY OF CLASSIFICATIONS, the screen informed
him blithely, adopting a blue tinge. It seemed the com-
puter liked being didactic. SOULS THAT ARE AUTOMATI-
CALLY IN BALANCE.

In balance. Half good, half evil, Zane had been dealing
with that kind all along; in fact, he was one of that number
himself. BUT HOW COULD THIS BE, FOR AN INNOCENT BABY?
he asked.

A BABY CONCEIVED IN SIN, the screen explained. AS BY

RAPE. INCEST, OR GROSS DECEPTION, WHOSE BIRTH CAUSES
INVIDIOUS HARDSHIP TO A PARENT, IS DEEMED TO BE IN
BALANCE UNTIL FREE WILL COMMENCES. NORMALLY AT
THAT STAGE THE BALANCE SHIFTS, AND YOUR OFFICE IS
NOT REQUIRED.

So that was the way it was. Chronos had conjectured
as much. This baby had died of illness and neglect before
it attained enough free will to change. Thus Death had
been summoned—and had found the infant soul almost
unsullied by experience.

WHY? he typed. WHY DO THAT TO A BABY?

TO GUARANTEE IT HAS A CHOICE.

BUT IT HAD NO CHANCE! Zane protested. IT DIED BE-
FORE IT HAD FREE WILL!

THAT is THE REASON, the computer explained patiently,
taking Zane's statement to be a question. NO SOUL MAY

BE RELEGATED TO ETERNITY WITHOUT A CHANCE TO ES-
TABLISH ITS OWN RECORD. A SOUL WITHOUT A RECORD MUST
BE HELD.

Zane began to understand. It wasn't fair to allow a soul

On A Pale Horse             93

to be damned to Hell without at least a chance to redeem
itself, and probably Heaven had rules about accepting the
children of iniquity.

Zane thought about that and concluded he didn't like
it. There might be iniquity, but it associated with the
erring parents, not the child. If he were in charge, he
would change a definition or two.

But of course he was not in charge. He was not God—
or Satan. It was not his business to make the rules.

Yet he was involved, for he was Death. He had col-
lected this soul.He felt responsible. WHAT HAPPENS WHEN
A SOUL is HELD? he typed.

IT REMAINS FOREVER IN PURGATORY, the screen re-
plied.

FOREVER! he typed, appalled. EVEN CRIMINAL SOULS

ARE NOT CONFINED HERE FOREVER, ARE THEY?
TRUE. CRIMINAL SOULS GO TO HELL FOREVER.

That realigned things. Purgatory was surely better than

Hell! WHAT DO THE HELD SOULS DO HERE?
THEY RUN PURGATORY.
Oh. THE RECEPTIONIST IS ONE?
CORRECT.

That didn't seem so bad, if not exactly good. Desk
work could get insufferably dull over the passage of cen-
turies. But, of course, this was the in-between place. Eter-
nal neutrality was surely better than Hell.

Zane turned off the computer, moved to the second
device, and drew out the Magician's soul. The device
resembled a sealed robot, looking at a pile of papers on
a desk. The soul got fed into a slot in the robot's back.
In a moment the machine animated, its eye lenses glow-
ing, its metal limbs moving.

The robot glanced at Zane. "Am I dead yet?" The
Magician's voice asked.

"Yes," Zane replied, taken aback. No soul had talked
to him before.

"Where am I, then?"

"Purgatory. Your soul is so precisely in balance, I
couldn't clarify it for Heaven or Hell, so I brought it here."
"Excellent," the Magician said.
"You want to be stuck here?"




On A Pale Horse

94

"1 have to be here, as long as possible. My calculations
were most precise, but there is always that element of
uncertainty. A lot hangs on this."

"A lot hangs on what?" Zane asked, perplexed again.

"Did my daughter Luna reward you for your consid-
eration?"

"Aren't you avoiding my question?"

"Aren't you?"

Zane smiled. "Your daughter offered, again, but I de-
clined, again."

"But you mustn't decline!" the Magician-robot pro-
tested. "Luna is for you. I left you the Lovestone."

"If you wanted me to meet her, there must have been
some better way than bringing me to your own death."

"No," the robot said. "No better way. Pay no attention
to her protestations; she will do what I wish her to."

"She didn't protest! / protested! It just isn't—"

"Go after her. Death. She is worth your while."

"She's not interested in me!" Zane said. "Why should
I force my attention on her, by magical or nonmagical
means, when I am such a personal nonentity? She surely
deserves much better, and can get it." That, Zane realized
now, was part of his objection. He could not afford to get
emotionally hooked on a woman who would surely leave

him soon for a better man.

"You must," the Magician insisted. "It is essential."
"Why?" Zane was quite curious now.

"I can't tell you."
"That's what you said before! And Pate tends to speak

in riddles, too. That annoys me."

"The rest doesn't matter. Luna is a good girl," the

Magician said somewhat lamely.

"Good reason for her not to be taken by Death."

"I must get on to my chore," the Magician said, his
metallic gaze resting on the desk.

"What is your chore?"

"Obviously I must tote up the balance of good and evil
on my soul myself. These are the tote-forms." The metal
hand touched the pile of papers. "One for every day of

my life."

Zane looked at a form. "Enter sixteen percent of bal-


On A Pale Horse             95

ance from Form 1040-Z on Line 32-Q," he read. "If figure
is greater than that on Line 29-P of Schedule TT, subtract
3.2 percent of Line 69-F. If less than amount shown on
Line, vT5 on Schedule /, go to Form 7734 Inverted."
He looked up, his mind spinning. "This is almost as bad
as an income tax form!"

"Almost," the Magician agreed wearily. "Where do
you think the Revenue Department gets its inspiration?
It will take me eternity to get through this paperwork."

"How do you think it will come out when the final total
has been figured. Will you go to Heaven?"

"By the time I complete the final form, I will have to
start searching for errors," the robot said. "That will take
a few more centuries."

"Maybe there won't be any mistakes," Zane suggested.

"Such forms are designed to be impossible to complete
correctly the first time," the Magician said. "What would
be the point if they were comprehensible?" He picked up
a feather quill, dipped it in a pot of red ink, and com-
menced his labor. Soon oily sweat beaded his metal brow.

Zane left the robot to his endless labor. Such a task
would drive any normal person crazy, but perhaps the
Magician had special resources.

He dropped the baby soul off with the receptionist on
the way out. "Oh, good," she said, this time showing some
human animation. "We need new personnel!"

Zane wondered how a tiny baby would be able to per-
form, but decided not to inquire. Purgatory surely had
ways to facilitate such things and, of course, it had etern-
ity to do so.




OwA Pale Horse             97




5

LUNA

His horse still grazed outside. "Hey, Mortis!" Zane called,
and the gallant Deathsteed trotted across to him. What a

beautiful animal!

He mounted. "Take me home, wherever that is."
The horse trotted to the edge of the green plain and
stopped before a handsome funeral home with white col-
umns on a spacious front porch. The name on the mailbox

was DEATH.

It Figured. Where else would Death live but in a mor-
tuary?

Zane looked at the horse. "Is it okay for me to stay
here a while? At least long enough to familiarize myself

with the premises?"

Mortis flicked an ear forward affirmatively.

"Do you have a stable or something here? Do I need
to provide you with feed, gasoline, or anything?"

The horse told him neigh, and wandered away to graze
some more. The pasture looked exceedingly rich; it was
probably all Mortis needed. There was a small lake nearby,
so water was also available. This was a nice region.

So Death had a mailbox! Who would be writing to this
office? Zane walked to the box and opened it. There were
four letters inside. He took them out, noting that the re-
turn addresses were Earthly. Interesting.

He turned to the front entrance of the Deathhouse.

96

Should he ring the bell? Not if this drear mansion was
now his home. Still, he was new here. He rang.

A toll like that of doom sounded inside. In a moment
the door opened. A black-clad butler stood there. "So
good to see you again, sir. Let me take your cloak." He
moved around to ease off the garment.

"I—I've changed," Zane said somewhat awkwardly.
"I'm not the same man."

"Of course, sir. We serve the office, not the man." The
butler hung the cloak in the hall closet and bent to touch
Zane's feet. Zane realized the man intended to remove
his protective shoes. Well, if he wasn't safe here, where
else could he be safe? He acquiesced, and soon shoes
and gloves joined the cloak, while Zane stood in com-
fortable robe and house slippers.

He smelled something strange. "What is that odor?"

"That is myrrh, sir," the butler replied. "This mansion
is scented with it traditionally."

"The House of Death has to be scented?"

"Myrrh is associated with the office, sir."

Now Zane remembered lines from a Christmas carol:

Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume Spells a life of gathering
doom. Suffering, sighing, bleeding, dying, sealed in this
stone-cold tomb.

"Well, substitute something more pleasant," Zane said.
"And change that death-knell doorbell. If I have any real
influence, Death is going to develop a new image."

The butler conducted him to a pleasant sitting room
deep in the building. "Please make yourself at ease, sir.
Do you care for an aperitif? Television? A restoration-
spell?"

Zane sank down heavily in the overstuffed chair. He
did not feel at ease. "All of the above," he said.

"Presently," the butler agreed. "And shall I take the
mail, sir?"

"The mail? What for?"

"For destruction, sir, according to normal policy."

Zane clutched the letters to his breast defensively.
"Absolutely not! I don't care if it's all junk mail, I'll look
at it first."

"Of course, sir," the butler said smoothly, as if paci-




98

On A Pale Horse

On A Pale Horse

99

fying a child. The television set came on in front of Zane
as the man departed.

"Two changes in Purgatory personnel," the nondes-
cript newscaster said. "The office of Death has a new
occupant. The former Death, having acquitted himself
satisfactorily, improved the balance of his soul and went
to Heaven. Death is dead; long live Death! The policies
of his replacement are not yet clear; he is running behind
schedule, has allowed two clients to escape, and is an-
noying the staff of his mansion by demanding petty changes
in routine. An anonymous, highly placed source conjec-
tures that a Reprimand may be issued if improvement does
not occur soon."

Zane whistled. The Purgatory News was really current
and specific!

"One infant has been added to the staff," the news-
caster continued. "He will be trained as a file clerk, once
he grows to cognizance. He will, of course, be permitted
to choose which age to fix for eternity. This will help
relieve the congestion caused by increasing numbers of
clients being processed, owing to the general increase in
human population."

Zane was becoming suspicious. Why was the news so
directly related to his own involvement?

The butler reappeared, setting a glass of red wine be-
fore him. "The spell is included in the formula, sir."

"Why is the news so relevant to my interests?" Zane
demanded. "It can't be coincidence."

"This is Purgatory, sir. There is no coincidence. All
news relates to the listener."

"Purgatory? I thought that was the building complex
across the way."

"This entire region, sir. The larger building is merely
the Administration and Testing Center. All of us in the
intangible zone of Purgatory are lost souls."

"But I'm here, and I'm not even dead yet!"

"No, sir. You five are not, technically. The rest of us
are."

"Five? Who?"

"The Incarnations, sir."

"Oh. You mean Death, Time, Fate—"

"War and Nature, sir," the butler finished "These are
the living residents of Eternity. All others are dead, ex-
cept, of course, the Eternals."

"The Etemals?"

"God and Satan, sir. They are not subject to ordinary
rules."

Zane took a gulp of the wine. It was excellent and did
indeed invigorate him. "I see. You yourself are dead?"

"Yes, sir. I was collected by the holder of your office
twice removed. I have served here for seventy-two Earthly
years."

"So you watch Deaths come and go, every thirty years
or so! Doesn't it get dull for you?"

"It certainly is better than Hell, sir."

There was that. Anything was better than Hell! "Maybe
you'd better introduce me to the remaining staff. I pre-
sume a mansion like this has several employees?"

"True, sir. Whom do you prefer to see first?"

"Who is here?"

"The gardener, the cook, the maids, the concu-
bine—"

"The what?"

"The living have needs, sir," the butler reminded him
delicately.

"And those needs can be served by the dead?"

"Indubitably, sir."

Zane shook his head, repelled. He gulped the last of
his drink. "I have changed my mind. I'll meet the staff
another time. I'm sure I have clients accumulating. Earth-
side."

"Certainly, sir," the butler agreed, as Zane got to his
feet, and hurried to fetch his office accouterments. In
moments Zane was back in uniform and striding outside.

Mortis was waiting, having anticipated his master's
need. Zane mounted and discovered the four letters still
in his hand. He had maintained a death grip on them since
being challenged by the butler. "I should read these," he
muttered.

He found himself in the Deathcar. No, it was a small
airplane, on automatic pilot. The remarkabilities of his
steed were still manifesting!




100             On A Pale Horse

Zane tore open the first letter. Dear Death, it said.
Why did you have to take my mother? I think you stink.
And it was signed Love, Rose.

Zane considered that. Obviously a child. Probably
Death had not even serviced that account personally, as
the odds were that the girl's mother had been strongly
enough oriented to find her own way to Heaven or Hell.
But how could the child know that? Perhaps he should

tell her.

Answer her letter? Did Death correspond with chil-
dren? Obviously that had not been the case in the past.

Well, why not? If Rose's letter could reach him, his
letter could reach her. Only—what difference would it
make to her? Her mother would still be dead.

Yet who was more deserving of an answer than an
orphaned child? Zane decided to respond. He would find
out where her mother had gone, hoping it was Heaven—*
that seemed likely, since there was evidently love be-
tween them—and inform the little girl. Maybe he could
get a message from the mother to relay.

He opened the next letter. Dear Death—Last night I
caught my old goat cheating again. I want you should
take him right away tomorrow so I can get the insurance.
Sincerely, Outraged Wife. P.S. Make sure it hurts!

No need to answer that one. No wonder the old goat

cheated!

A light was blinking in the Deathplane's control panel.
There was a word there: WATCH.

Startled, Zane glanced at his watch. It remained fro-
zen. "Thanks for reminding me. Mortis!" he said, restart-
ing the timer. He put the letters in the dash compartment.
He had clients to attend to.

Death traveled alLover the world, harvesting souls,
and managed to get current on his schedule. Along the
way he encountered another obnoxious Hellfire sign-
series commercial: WINTER  IS COLD  YOUR LIFE
IS SHOT;   GO   TO WHERE   IT'S REALLY
HOT! When he had spare time, Zane answered his fan
mail, explaining to Rose that her mother had had a ter-
minal ailment and had been in great pain, until finally it

On A Pahs Horse            101

had been kindest to send her on to Heaven, where there
was no pain. He had gone to Purgatory to look up the
records, so he knew this was true. The child's mother
had been a good woman. He had not been able to get any
answer from her in Heaven, however; apparently those
who went there lost all interest in Earthly things. Other
letters he answered as appropriate, trying to keep the tone
polite. He asked himself why he bothered, in some cases,
and could only conclude that it was the right thing to do.
The fact of death was so significant to the average person
that any ameliorating factor was worthwhile.

The job of collecting and handling souls got easier as
he gained experience, but still he did not like aspects of
it. People died for such foolish reasons! A man made
himself a cup of coffee while his wife was out and used
rat poison instead of sugar; he was half-blind and forgetful
and ignorant of the layout of the kitchen, but this remained
an avoidable folly. At least he should have been warned
by the taste! A child got out her mother's collection of
curses, invoked them all at once, and was cursed to death
before her screams were heard. If only those curses had
been stored securely in a locked safe! A teenager went
joy riding on a stolen witch's broom, naturally the joystick
threw him off—half a mile above the ground. A young
man, seeking to impress his girlfriend, jousted with a zoo's
fire-breathing dragon and got fried. An old woman, gro-
cery shopping in her car, made a thoughtless left turn into
a cement truck. Five souls, three doomed to Hell—when
all could have gone to Heaven at a later date, had those
people lived more carefully and tried to do more good.
And these were only a fraction of the total—that tiny
fraction that was so nearly in balance that it required
Death's personal attention. What of the vast majority who
went to Eternity by themselves, requiring no more than
Death's tacit approval? How many of them had ignored
their salvation until it was too late and suffered the early
demise they should have avoided? Was mankind a hope-
lessly muddled species?

Morbidly curious, Zane ordered a computer printout
from Purgatory and checked it over. Now he had the exact
statistics, and they confirmed his suspicions. Millions of

102

On A Pule Horse

On A Pale Horse

103

people were dying from heart and circulatory complica-
tions that could have been abated by simple diet and ex-
ercise. Millions were dying from cancer because they had
not had it checked or diagnosed until too late and refused
to desist from their carcinogenic ways, such as smoking
tobacco even when it was fatal for them. A huge number
were lost to traumatic causes—car crashes, carpet crashes,
falls, firearms—it was horrible how many were shot by
their own guns, or murdered by their own supposedly
captive demons!

Yet what could he. Death, do about it? He lacked
Satan's enormous publicity budget and doubted people
would change much, even if clearly warned. By the time
he was called in, the damage was in most cases too far
progressed to be reversed. People really needed to reorder
their lives from the start—and he knew that very few
would do that voluntarily. They were aware that their
lifestyles were at best silly and at worst suicidal, yet they
continued unchanged. Exactly as he himself had contin-
ued, until he actually saw the face of Death.

If this was a contest between God and Satan, it was
evident that Satan was winning. Of course, Satan was
constantly campaigning, with periodic Hellethons on tele-
vision urging people to GET FIRED' and making the lu-
dicrous promise that HELL BUILDS MEN\ and offering
group plans for families. According to the Covenant, nei-
ther Eternal was supposed to interfere in the affairs of
living people, but God was the only party to honor it.
What good was a pact of noninterference that one party
violated freely? Yet if God were to act like Satan, He
would be no better than Satan...

Zane didn't know the answer, but still he felt the need.
Perhaps, he chided himself, if a more competent man had
assumed the office, he would have been able to do some-
thing really positive. But as long as the office of Death
was passed along almost randomly, the officeholders would
be mediocre, like himself. What could be expected of
someone who had to murder his predecessor to obtain
the position? He, Zane, was probably typical of the breed.
He could not expect his successor to be much better. If

any good were to be done, he would have to do it himself,
inadequate though he might be.

Oddly, that realization gave him a new kind of strength.
Probably he would fail, but at least he would try. He didn't
know what he would do or could do or should do, but
hoped he would acquit himself appropriately when the
chance came.

He glanced up. He happened to have parked in a north-
ern latitude, during a break between cases, where snow
lay on the ground. There was yet another of Satan's ubiq-
uitous billboards: HELL-0! IT'S WARM BELOW!

SIGN UP EARLY FOR PREFERENTIAL TREAT-
MENT. The picture showed a luscious female demon in
a half-open bed, beckoning with her middle finger. In the
corner, the miniature female Dee was restraining the male
Dee from leaping into the bed.

Zane was tempted to knock down the billboard by
driving the Deathmobile through it, but checked himself.
This was a free cosmos; Satan had a right to advertise.
Decent folk had to let the indecent folk do their thing;

that was the paradox of decency. Was it worth it?

He continued his routine. Several more cases turned
out to be optional, so that he was able to arrange to spare
them. He still didn't know whether this was proper, ac-
cording to the rules of the job, but the Purgatory television
reporting did not take more than routine gossipy notice
of them, with a "Look at what the bad boy's done this
time!" attitude, so he assumed that, while it might be
considered bad form, it was in fact one of his prerogatives:

to take or not to take, at a given time. It was possible
that a soul that might have squeezed through to Heaven
if taken on schedule would later degenerate and go to
Hell, but he thought it more likely to be the other way
around. What person, confronted with the specter of
Death, would not hasten to reform his ways to some ex-
tent? Whoever was fool enough to ignore that type of
warning and descended to Hell probably deserved his
fate.

Still, Zane's underlying misgiving was sharpened by
what started out as a routine case. It was a boy of perhaps
fifteen, victim of a rare form of cancer. He was resting




104

On A Pale Hone

OnA Pale Horse

105

comfortably at home, thanks in large part to potent med-
ication and an optimism-spell. He looked up in surprise
when Zane entered.

"I haven't seen you before, though you seem somehow
familiar," the boy said. "Are you a doctor?"

"Not exactly," Zane said, realizing that the boy did
not recognize his nature. He was uncertain whether to
inform him.

"A psychologist, then, come to try to cheer me up?"

"No, just a person come to take you on a journey."

"Oh, a chauffeur! But I don't feel like riding around
the park again."

"It's a longer trip than that."

"Can't you just sit down and talk a while? I get lonely "
The boy ran his fingers through his tousled yellow hair,
as if to clear his head of loneliness.

Zane sat on the edge of the bed. His watch showed
fifteen seconds on the countdown; he froze it there. This
boy was dying—and would no one keep him company?
Probably because his family and friends knew what the
victim didn't. That was one of the ironic cruelties of the
situation. "I will talk with you."

The boy smiled quickly, gratefully. "Oh, I'm so glad!
You will be my friend, I know." He put forth his hand
with some difficulty, for he was weak and it took muscle
to hold the hand horizontally from the body. "How do
you do. I'm Tad."

Zane took the boy's hand carefully. "Pleased to meet
you. Tad. I am—" Here he stopped. The boy did not know
he was going to die. What kindness would it be to tell
him now? Yet to conceal the information was to lie. A lie
by default was still a lie. What should he do?

Tad smiled. "You've forgotten? Or you're here to give
me a shot and you're afraid I'll scream?"

"No shot!" Zane said quickly.

"Let me guess, then. You're a bill collector? My dad
handles that department. I guess these happiness-spells
are costing him a bundle, but I don't think they're worth
it, because I still get depressed some. I think he should
use those spells on himself, because he's looking pretty
peaked these days. Must be due to the cost of all my

medication and stuff. I feel guilty because of that, and
sometimes I wish it could just end, right now, and stop
costing him so much."

It was going to—but Zane knew that would not make
the boy's father happy. "I'm not a bill collector," Zane
said. "Though I suppose my job is related."

"Maybe you're a salesman, then. You've got a product
I can use. A new home-computer program that will keep
me riveted for forty-eight hours straight."

"Longer than that," Zane muttered uncomfortably.
"Aw, I don't care. I've played those games till I can't
stand any of them any more. And the magic games, too;

I've conjured more harmless mythological animals than I
ever knew existed. There's a pink elephant under my bed
right now. See?" He pulled up the trailing coverlet, and
Zane saw the pink trunk of an elephant. "What I really
want is to go out in the sun and wind and just run, and
feel the dry leaves under my feet, crackling. I've been in
this bed so long!"

Of course the boy was too weak to run. Even if Zane
took him alive out of the building, it wouldn't work. How
much did Tad actually know or suspect of his condition?
"What's the matter with you?" Zane asked.

"Oh, it's something to do with my spine. It hurts, so
they invoke a local antipain spell and give me a spinal
shot, but then my legs get numb and I can't walk. I wish
they'd get it fixed; I'm missing a lot of school, and I don't
want to repeat a grade. I had a B average. All my friends
will be moving on up, you know, and I'd look pretty silly."

So they had actually told him he would get better. Zane
found himself turning angry. What right did they have to
deceive him so?

"What's the matter?" Tad asked.

Now Zane had to make a decision. Should he tell the
truth—or continue the lie? If he avoided the issue, he
would in fact be lying by inaction. "I am on the horns of
a dilemma," he admitted.

"Watch how you sit on them," the boy advised.

Zane smiled. Trust a youth to make a pun of the horns!
"I'd rather be astride my good horse."

"You have a horse? I always wanted one! What breed?"




106 OnA Pale Horse On A Pale Horse 107

"I don't know his breed: I'm not expert on that sort
of thing. I inherited him. He's a big, pale stallion, very
powerful, and he can fly."

"What's his name?"

"Mortis."

"A Morgan? That's a good breed."

"Mortis."

"Moms?"

"Mortis, with a T. He's a—"

Tad was not stupid. "Mortis means death," he said. "I
made a B plus in Latin."

Zane felt a sinking sensation. He had given away more
than intended, not being a student of Latin. "He is a
Deathhorse."

"But no living man can ride a Deathhorse!"

"Unless the horse permits," Zane said, knowing what
was coming. Why hadn't he had the courage to state his
business honestly?

The boy turned his head to stare at Zane. "That cloak!"
he said. "That Mack hood. Your face—1 see it more clearly
now. It's just a skull!"

"So it appears. But I am a man. A man performing an

office."

"You must be—" Tad took a shuddering breath. "I'll
never see school again, will I?"

"I'm sorry. This thing is not of my choosing."
"I guess I knew it. I never really believed those doc-
tors. The drugs and spells made me feel good, but my
deepest dreams were screaming. I'd be screaming now,
but they've got me so doped up on optimism magic I can't
really feel depressed at all. You don't seem half bad, you
know. At least you stayed to talk with me."

"I am half bad," Zane said. "Fifty percent evil. But
you—" He paused. "Is there some great sin on your con-
science?"

"Well, I stole a yo-yo from a store once—"
"That's minor evil. I mean something like murder."
"I wished my aunt was dead once, when she punished
me for bad language."

"Wishes are minor, unless acted upon. Did you ever
actually try to kill her?"

Tad was horrified. "Never! I wouldn't even think of
doing a thing like that!" Then he smiled ruefully. "Well,
I guess I did think of it, but I knew I never really wanted
to."

"Perhaps you told a terrible lie that got someone else
in very bad trouble or caused a death. There has to be
something very bad, some great sin on your conscience,
as I said. Something you know is really wrong."

The boy considered. "There're some I'd have liked to
get on it, but I never got the chance. I'm really pretty
clean, I think. I'm sorry I haven't anything better to of-
fer."

Something was amiss here. Zane brought out the two
diagnostic gems "This will not hurt," he said reassuringly.

"That's what all the nurses with needles say."

"No, really. It's painless. I'm merely toting up the evil
in you."

The yellow stone brightened into brilliance as Zane
passed it near the boy, while the brown one darkened
only slightly. "You're ninety percent good," Zane said,
surprised.

"I told you I wasn't much."

"But I only come personally for those in balance, whose
souls can't get free by themselves. There's been a mis-
take."

"You mean I'm not going to die?"

Zane sighed. "I don't know, but I doubt that's the
nature of the mistake. I think you were slated to die alone,
and somehow a wire got crossed and I was summoned.
Purgatory is short-handed at the moment; mistakes will
happen. I'm sorry I intruded on you. It was not necessary
for you ever to know what was awaiting you—until it
happened."

"Oh, no! I may be artificially happy, but I'm still lonely.
I'm glad you came. It was a good glitch. If I've got to go,
I'd like to go with company. May I have a ride on your
fine horse?"

Zane smiled. "Indeed you may, Tad."

"Then I guess I'm ready."

Zane pushed the button on his watch, and the dread
countdown resumed. In fifteen seconds a sudden seizure




108 On A Pale Horse

shook the boy, and Zane reached out and drew forth his
soul before there could be more than momentary pain.

He carried the soul outside to where the horse waited.
Zane had arrived in the limousine, but Mortis had some-
how anticipated his need. Zane mounted, holding the soul
before him. The stallion leaped into the night sky.

At the top of the arc, Zane let the soul go. It continued
to float up toward Heaven, while the horse fell back to-
ward Earth. "Farewell, Tad," Zane murmured. "You go
to a better place than that which you left."

Zane wrapped up his remaining collections, classifying
most of the souls and delivering the rest to Purgatory.
Then he went to Death's mansion in the sky for a meal
and some sleep. The doorbell now played light classical
music, and the scent of the house was of lilies. He might
deal in death, but he was alive and had to maintain him-
self.

He was preoccupied with Tad's case, even after it was
over. Had he done the right thing, talking to the boy while
other clients waited, telling him the truth that had been
denied him? Would this be another bad mark on Zane's
record for the television news to announce gleefully? It
seemed Death was becoming the butt of much Purgatory
humor because of his erratic ways. This time he did not
turn on the TV set.

The staff of the Deathhouse seemed alive and solid to
him, though Zane knew he was the only living person
there. He wasn't certain whether the office of Death made
him eligible to interact with the dead, or whether the dead
were spelled to seem more physical than they really were.
Regardless, when he shook a spirit's hand here in Pur-
gatory, that hand was solid and warm. But he remained
keenly aware that these people were not of his world.
They were dead and he was alive. He did not feel com-
fortable in Purgatory.

Then he remembered the Magician's daughter, Luna.
Luna Kaftan. He had made a date with her, and her father
had been insistent that he keep it. His curiosity had been
aroused—and as his memory of his fleeting acquaintance
with Angelica, the woman he should have romanced, the
one he had sold for the worthless Wealthstone—as that

On A Pale Horse             109

impression faded, his image of Luna sharpened. She had
been amazingly attractive in clothing! Why not get to
know her better? She, at least, was living.

He drove the Deathmobile to Luna's house. But as he
arrived in Kilvarough, he suffered an attack of misgiving.
Was it proper to involve the office of Death in a personal
matter? In fact, hadn't he intended to meet Luna as him-
self, rather than as Death? He decided to present himself
incognito, as Zane.

He stripped away his cloak and gloves and shoes. That
left him vulnerable physically, but more secure socially.
There was a lot to be said for anonymity.

He rang the bell. It occurred to him, belatedly, that
she might not be home. He had not set a particular date;

in fact, he was not certain what day this was. A glance
at his watch could tell him, of course. It was just that the
things of the living worid had not been much in his aware-
ness these past few days.

In a moment she answered. She was in a yellow house-
coat, her hair bound under a net. She was neither lovely
nor plain, but in a somewhat formless, in-between state
that was apparently the female neutral condition. Grief
was evidently taking its toll; she seemed to have lost some
weight, small lines were forming about her face, and her
eyes were shadowed. He did not need to inquire what she
had been doing for the past few days; she had been home
suffering.

Luna looked askance at him, and he realized how
strange he must look in shirt, worn trousers, and stocking
feet. "My name's Zane," he said. "I would like to be with
you this evening."

Now her glance was piercing; She did not recognize
him. "I believe you have the wrong address, stranger.
How did you get past the griffins?"

"It's the right address, but perhaps the wrong uniform.
You have met me before in the guise of Death. The griffins
gave me wide clearance when they recognized me by
smell. We have a date."

She was quick to reappraise him. "Then come in." She
opened the door.

Zane stepped inside—and something like a heavy talon

110            On A Pale Horse

fell on his left shoulder. He craned his neck to look at his
attacker, but there was nothing. Yet his nose was wrin-
kling with the heavy, musky odor of something animalistic
or insectoid or worse.

"My invisible guardian," Luna explained. "A trained
moon moth. If you had some notion of robbing this
house—"

Zane smiled with a certain difficulty. "I should have
known you would not be defenseless. But I am who I say
I am. I can summon the Deathsteed and don my cloak if
necessary; then I think your invisible monster would not
find me as easy to handle. But words should suffice; I
came last week to take your father, the Magician Kaftan,
and he told me I should, er, make your acquaintance if I
would talk with him a while. I saw you nude, and then
dressed up, and after I took his soul, you offered to—"

"Let him go," Luna murmured, and the claw at Zane's
shoulder relaxed. Just as well, for the grip had been in-
creasingly painful.

"Thank you," Zane said. "It doesn't have to be today.
I just came when it was convenient for me; I'm afraid I
didn't think of your own convenience. I forgot about your
grief."

"Today will do," she said, somewhat curtly. "I find I
don't enjoy being alone at this time. Let me change and
pick up the grief-nullifying stone—"

"No, please!" he cut in. "I prefer to know you exactly
as you are. It is right to experience grief; I'm sure your
father warrants it. Artificial abatement of a natural feel-
ing—I don't want that."

She considered him, head held slightly askew. "You
don't want to be impressed?"

"You impress me as you are. Human."

She smiled quickly, and her beauty flashed into being
with the expression. "I think you mean it, and that flatters
me. That's almost as good as a spell. What is your plea-
sure, Zane?"

"Just to honor your father's wish. To talk with you,
get to know you. He was most insistent, in Purgatory,
when—"

"Purgatory?"

OnAPaleJIarse             111

"He is figuring out the balance of his soul there. It will
be a tedious task."

She shrugged. "He is good at tedious tasks. He is not
in pain?"

"None."

"Then I can let him rest for a while. What were you
saying?"

"Just that I came to talk with you. It—I don't see it
going any farther than that."

"Why not?" she asked, frowning.

"Oh, it's not that you're not attractive. You showed
me before! It's—I don't—"

"Attractive," she muttered darkly, apparently not flat-
tered this time. "You refer to my body, of course, not to
my mind or soul."

"Yes," he said, feeling awkward. "I don't know your
mind, though I do know a good portion of the evil on
your soul is not truly yours. But I said it wasn't that. I
know you can make yourself as beautiful as you want to
be. But even if you were ugly, you're—you're someone,
and I'm no one, so—"

She laughed. "Death tells me this?"

"Death is merely the office. I'm just the man who hap-
pened to blunder into that office. I don't think I deserve
it, but I'm trying to do it properly. Maybe in time I'll
become a good Death, instead of making mistakes."

"Mistakes?" she inquired. "Sit down, Zane." She took
his arm, guided him to the couch, and sat down beside
him at an angle, so that her right knee touched his left.
"How is it going?"

"You don't want to hear about that sort of thing," he
demurred, though he did want to talk about it.

"Listen, Zane," she said earnestly. "My father picked
you for that office. To you it may have been a blunder,
but—"

"Oh, I didn't mean to criticize your father! I meant—"

"He believed you were the proper person for it. I don't
know exactly why, but I have faith in his judgment. There
must be some quality in you that makes you best for the
position. So don't question your fitness for the office."

112

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113

"Your father picked me for Death—and for you," Zane
said. "I don't see the wisdom of either choice."

She removed her net and began adjusting her rich brown
hair. "I don't see it either," she admitted with a smile.
"Which simply means I have more to discover. My father
always, always makes sense, and he never mistreated me
in any way. He's a great man! So I'll try to ascertain the
meaning of his will. You show me some of your mind,
and I'll show you some of mine. Then perhaps we'll both
understand why my father wanted us to interact."

"I suppose he did have some reason," Zane agreed.
He hardly objected to improving his acquaintance with
this increasingly lovely young woman—for she was grow-
ing prettier by the moment as she fixed herself up—but
didn't like the feeling of being accepted by her only be-
cause she had been ordered to do it, "He was a Magician,

after all."

"Yes." She did not belabor the obvious, and now he
felt foolish for having done so himself. This was an odd
sort of date, and he was hardly easy with it.

"I can see why a man like me would be interested in
a woman like you, but not why a man like him would
want—1 mean, surely you are destined for better things,
and he would want those things for you."

"Surely," she agreed, shaking out her glistening locks.

That did not help. Luna was not only turning beautiful
again, she was becoming more poised, her gaze level.

"Well," he began. "I was just going to tell you about
mistakes. Like one of my last cases, in the office of Death—
a boy, a teenager—only no one had told him he was going
to die. But he knew it when he recognized me. I don't
know whether it was right to lie to him, as they did, or
tell the truth, as I finally did. Either way, I think I mis-
handled it, so it's a mistake."

"You regard an indecision as a mistake?"

"I don't know. I guess so. How can you do what's
right if you don't know what's right?"

She made a moue. "Score a point for you! I suppose
you just have to leam from experience, hoping you don't
do too much harm in the process."

"I never really appreciated the significance of death

before," he said, troubled. "Now that I'm directly in-
volved in it, the force of it becomes much greater, almost
overwhelming. Death is no minor thing."

"How do you mean?" Luna asked gently. Her eyes
were nacreous.

"I know every living creature must eventually die; oth-
erwise the world would be intolerably crowded. Even on
an individual basis, death is necessary. Who would really
want to live forever on Earth? Life would be like a game
grown overfamiliar and stale, and what pleasures it of-
fered would be overwhelmed by the intolerable burden
of minutiae. Only a fool would carry on regardless. But
here I'm not necessarily dealing with the normal course
of full lives and the terminations of old age. I'm talking
to people who aren't ready to die and taking their souls
out of turn. Their full lives have not been lived, their roles
have not been played out. Their threads have been cut
short through no fault of their own."

"No fault?" She was leading him, in effect interrogating
him, but he didn't mind.

"Consider my recent clients. One was a seven-year-
old boy. He was having lunch at a school cafeteria, and
• a valve malfunctioned and caused a water heater to ex-
plode. It brought down the ceiling, and five children and
a teacher died. My client had a difficult home environ-
ment, which was why his soul was balanced between good
and evil—but he should have had a full life ahead to put
his soul in better order. Through sheer random chance,
he was denied that life. And the five others who died, not
needing my personal attention—maybe they all went di-
rectly to Heaven. I hope so. But this was still grossly
unfair to them, for they might have gone to Heaven sixty
years later, after having their full chances on Earth. The
world might have benefited by their lives; certainly they
deserved their chances. What possible meaning can there
by in such catastrophe?"

"Fate might know," Luna said.

"And there was a giant flying carpet taking off from
Washington, carrying seventy-nine people south. Ice
formed on its forward fringe and interfered with its levi-
tation-spell, and it grazed a bridge and crashed into the




114

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115

Potomac River, killing ninety percent of the passengers.
I was there for a client and saw the crash—and it was so
unnecessary. The simplest deicing spell would have pre-
vented—"

"I thought they always deiced large carpets in winter."

"They do. But they used a weak one this time, and the
ice built up again more rapidly than expected, and no one
checked. All those innocent people killed—and I thought
why, why? If it made any sense at all, maybe I could
accept it. But this was mere caprice! All those people
subjected to the indignity of meaningless termination, their
families saddened—I don't know whether I can continue
to be a part of this."

"I would justify it if I could," Luna said. "My father
believed there was a purpose in death, however untimely
it might seem. He said there was always a rationale, if
we could only see it."

"What possible rationale for children killed by an ex-
plosion, or families smashed in a carpet crash?" he de-
manded bitterly. "Can God have any hand in this?"

"I don't know. My father had a dream of a benevolent
universe, wherein Heaven, Purgatory, and Hell are all
necessary aspects of a Divinely functioning whole. He
would have believed that there was a specific reason for
every out-of-turn death, and that Fate had directed each
person to be on that particular carpet."

"Do you believe that?"

She sighed. "My soul is burdened with evil, and my
faith is weak. I don't have the information my father had."

"You are mortal, like me," he said. "You are not pro-
vided with ready answers."

"All too true. But I still think we can work out a ra-
tionale, if we try. How, exactly, did you get to be Death?"

"I shot my predecessor," Zane admitted. "I was going
to suicide, because I'd been gypped out of a girl—a girl
tike you, beautiful and wealthy and loyal—but when I saw
Death, I killed him instead. Then Fate came and told me
I had to be the new Death. So I was."

"A girl like me," Luna said. She had continued ad-
justing herself and now was verging from lovely to rav-
ishing, approaching the physical appeal she had had on
their last meeting.

"Yes. Not only pretty, but pure—"

Luna choked on a fit of laughter. "How little you know
about women!"

Zane shrugged. "I've known ordinary women. But—"

"Death came for you personally," she cut in with a
feminine non sequitur. "That means you were half evil."

"Yes. I never claimed—"

"If you were to pass your definition gems near me,
you would find me much the same. My outer form is as
fair as nature and cosmetic magic can make it; my inner
personality is suspect. Don't put me on any pedestal,
Zane. I can match you evil for evil."

"Oh, I'm sure—"

"No, you aren't. But you might as well find out. That
should settle whatever my father had in mind." She got
up and strode across the room, lithe and purposeful. Her
housecoat seemed to have changed along with her attitude
and now looked more like a gown. Whatever magic she
had wasn't all magic, he realized. "Come to the stone
chamber."

Zane followed her, anticipating some kind of crypt hewn
out of bedrock, but the chamber turned out to be a bright
wood-paneled room arranged like a museum, with small
stones of every type set out on shelves and in cabinets.
"These—are magic?" he asked, amazed.

"Certainly. That was my father's business—enchant-
ing stones. Some of the most intricate magic in the world
is concentrated here. The stones you use to analyze souls
may have been Grafted by my father, as he was one of
perhaps only four living people capable of that precision
of magic. He surely knew more about you than you knew
about yourself. That's why we need to get to the bottom
of this. I confess I'm not keen on any relationship with
you, and your interests obviously would have preferred
to focus elsewhere, but my father selected you and me
for reasons we are bound to fathom before we part. We
can't afford to take the risk of rejecting what he set up
unless we first understand the reason for it. If we discover




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117

a continuing relationship is necessary, we can grit our
teeth and use the Lovestone to facilitate—"

"I doubt I need a Lovestone," Zane said. "All I need
is to look at you closely."

She shrugged that off as if irrelevant. "But first we
must separate reality from illusion. My father said that a
person is best defined by the nature of his evil. His own
evil was in dealing with Satan for the sake of increased
magic power. Without demonic help, he would have been
merely a world-class Magician instead of a grand master.
So he is defined by his lust for complete professionalism,
and I know that damned him, but I also respect him for

it."

"Yes," Zane agreed, impressed. He had heard that a
world-class Magician could virtually demolish a city with
a single fission-spell. What could a grand master do? Zane
didn't know and suspected no one else knew, because of
the secretive nature of such Magicians.

"Now you and I will exchange evils in the presence of
these stones and see what we shall see." Luna lifted sev-
eral gems from their casings.

"I really don't understand—"

"Hold this stone in your right hand; it glows only when
you tell a lie." She handed him a dusky diamond. "And
this in your left; it is a Sinstone, like the one you use to

evaluate souls."

Zane held the stones, not at all certain he liked this.
Luna took similar stones in her hands. "I will lead the
way, so you can see how it's done," she said.

"Urn," Zane said noncommittally.

"My name is Venus," she announced. Her Truthstone
flashed wamingly. "I mean Luna." The stone remained
dark. "I only did that to prove it's working," she ex-
plained, and the stone did not object. "Now test yours."

"My name is Jehosephat," Zane said, and saw his own
Truthstone flash. "Zane." The glow faded.

Luna took a deep breath that did things for her torso.
She looked pained. "Oh, I don't like this! Why am I doing
it?" she asked rhetorically.

"Let's not do it," Zane said. "I don't want to know
your secrets." But his Truthstone flashed.

"I have fornicated with a demon of Hell," Luna an-
nounced.

Zane'sjaw dropped.

She faced him defiantly. "There, I did it. Note that my
Truthstone did not glow—but my Sinstone brightened."
She gestured with her left hand, showing how the stone
had come to life. "Whose Sinstone gets brightest—that's
the most evil one of us."

Zane swallowed. How had he gotten into this? But
Luna's sincere discomfiture made her prettier than ever,
and somehow he felt he had to prove she was better than
he. "I embezzled funds from my employer," he said. His
Sinstone brightened, but not as much as hers.

"1 am worse than you," Luna said, like a child teasing.

"I never had the opportunity to make it with a lady
demon," he pointed out. But he remained shaken by her
revelation. She looked so innocent!

"And I never had an employer from whom to embezzle.
Opportunity is only part of it." She took another breath.
"I practiced black magic."

"I thought that was your father, not you." But he saw
that her right stone was dark, while her left one had bright-
ened another notch. She was guilty, all right, though he,
personally, didn't care about black magic. Magic was
magic, wasn't it? What did it really matter what color it
was?

She was waiting for his second confession. "I gambled
away almost everything I had, including friendships."

"Gambling is not really evil," she said. But his Sinstone
had brightened significantly.

"I need to clarify that," he said grimly. He understood
why Luna had found this so difficult! "There was a girl
who loved me—who said she did—but I wouldn't marry
her, because she wasn't beautiful and because she was
poor. I wanted to marry wealth. She—later I learned she
committed suicide. That was the main friendship I gam-
bled away—gambling on a richer one."

"That's bad," Luna agreed. "Did you know she was
going to kill herself?"

"I never thought of it—until after the fact. Then I re-




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119

alized I should have seen it coming. I should have married

her."

"Though you didn't love her?"

"She was a good girl! It would have been much better
to marry her than to kill her!" But his Truthstone flick-
ered, for he knew he had not really killed her.

"We tend to assume more evil than is our due, after
the fact," Luna said, spying that flicker. "You think she
died because you didn't marry her—but that's no basis
for marriage. Maybe the money you hoped for was just
a pretext for you to turn off a relationship that you knew
wouldn't have worked anyway."

"I don't think so." But his Truthstone fluttered again.
"I thought about it a lot, after. I decided I had not con-
sidered her feelings enough, only my own. I resolved not
to be that way any more. I should have realized she was
pregnant. If she had told me—"

Luna smiled briefly. "Some girls don't. You would
have done what you deemed to be right, but you didn't
know. / wouldn't try to trap a man by telling him I was

pregnant."

"You wouldn't have needed to! But she really was!"

Still, he appreciated the point. The girl had wanted his

love, not his baby.

It was her turn again. "I deceived my father. He thought
I knew no creative magic myself."

"You claim to be evil," Zane chided her. "You've done
black magic and hidden it from your father, himself a

black Magician. That's not much."

"Apart from prostituting myself to a demon," she re-
minded him sharply.

There was that. Zane found it very hard to accept the
notion of her being intimate with a demon, but the Truth-
stone had confirmed her statement. "Why did you do

that?"

"To learn the black magic. My father wouldn't teach

me, of course. He wanted to keep me clean. The man I
respect most—and I deliberately deceived him! Now what
do you have to beat that?"

It was Zane's turn to breathe deeply. "I killed my

mother."

Now she gaped. "You can't mean that!"

Zane held up his Truthstone, which remained dark. "I
did it. Then I wasted my inheritance gambling, and tried
to replace it by embezzlement." And now his Sinstone
glowed more brightly than hers.

"You have made your case," Luna said. "But I still
have more total evil than you, because—"

"Because you took some of your father's burden of
evil," he said quickly. "He thought you were in balance,
including his evil, but you're not. Where does that put
you?"

"Destined for Hell," she admitted. "Of course he didn't
know about my other evil. He thought I was pristine, so
a twenty-five percent share of evil from him would not
imperil my status."

"And, in fact, you are about seventy-five percent evil—
or at least, that's what's charged against your soul," he
said.

"Close enough."

"I'm surprised he didn't check your balance and catch
you at it."

Her smile was wan. "Men are easy to deceive."

Zane studied her with new appreciation. "You seem
pretty good to me."

"Your Truthstone is glimmering," she advised him.

So it was. "I guess that's a half-truth. You do seem
good to me, but that business about the demon—" He
paused, watching the stone. It was dim. "Wasn't there
some other way to leam the magic you wanted? Study a
book, or something?"

"A book!" she exclaimed scathingly. "Black-magic texts
are illegal!"

"But you can find them on the black market."

"My father would have known. Only black magic could
counter his black magic, even to the limited extent of
concealing this information from him."

It would indeed require special measures to hide some-
thing from a magical grand master, Zane realized. So
maybe she had required input from Hell. Still—

"Why did you want black magic if your father said no?
You always obeyed him in other things, didn't you?"




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On A Pale Horse

On A Pale Horse

121

She winced. This betrayal of her father was evidently
an extremely sensitive matter to her. "It always fascinated
me. I knew the power my father had, and I wanted—"
She broke off, for her Truthstone was glimmering. "Oh,
fudge! I should have set that stone down." She took an-
other breath. "I was afraid for my father. Some of those
minions of Hell—they frightened me. I don't mean little-
child-bugaboo.-type frights; these things were truly, fun-
damentally evil and they had such power, such malign
awareness—you really can't appreciate such horror un-
less you find it near. I knew they regarded my father as
a rare prize, and though I also knew he was smarter than
they, still he was riding the tiger. I didn't want to see my
father damned, and I knew he would be, but there was
no way I could help him unless I learned more about his
business. So I learned all I could, legitimately—and some
of the things in the legitimate, unexpurgated texts gave
me screaming nightmares—then finally I had to move on
into—you know, and the only coin I had to offer was—
you know." This time her stone was quiescent.

Zane considered. "I think I could get to like you pretty
well. I know I'm nothing special, but—well, can we set
another date?"

She seemed surprised. "Date?"

"Go out for a walk, or to eat—a pretext for being to-
gether, for talking some more."

"You can have what you want right now," she said,
her voice sharpening. "You don't have to clothe it in
romance."

"I don't think so."

"It's true! Try me. After the demon, nothing you want
will be so bad."

Zane cringed inside to think of her opinion of the needs
of men. She really had not had much experience in this
regard, and no doubt thought of the demon as nothing
more than an exaggerated man. "I want your respect."

She tilted her head, peering at him quizzically. "My
what?"

"Your respect. You have mine. Your father was right;

you are a good person. I don't care how the sin ledger
stands. There seem to be a number of artificial standards

of good and evil that don't really relate to true merit or
demerit. Maybe the official system of classification has
failed to keep up with the changing nature of our society.
You haven't done anything I consider really wrong, ex-
cept—well, even the demon, if you only did it to help
your father—and you did help your father, because with-
out your help he would have gone directly to Hell without
passing Purgatory. So it was more like a sacrifice."

"A virgin sacrifice," she agreed, glancing at Zane with
a new appraisal. "It's the only type that kind accepts. It
was horrible."

"So I suppose after that, no ordinary man represents
a threat to you. Certainly/don't. But a woman who would
do that to protect her father—I'd just like to know you
better, that's all."

"Yet you killed your mother," she pointed out. "What
do you care about anyone's parent?"

"I cared about her," he said, somewhat stiffly. "But
she was dying anyway, and in pain, and she knew it was
hopeless; when she asked me to—I just had to do it, that's
all, even though I knew it was a crime and a sin that
would damn me. It wasn't right to let her suffer any longer."

Luna's eyes narrowed. "Just what happened?"

"Oh, you wouldn't care to hear—"

"Yes, I would."

Zane closed his eyes, suffering in retrospect. "She was
in the hospital, and her hair was falling out and her skin
turning rough like that of a lizard, and there were tubes
and wires and things going into her and coming out of her
in a continuous violation of her body, and different col-
ored fluids bubbling, and gauges pulsing with every breath
she took and every beat other heart, so that any stranger
passing by could read at a glance the most intimate secrets
other functioning. She would have died long since, from
mortification as much as physical failure, but the artificial
heart and kidney and stomach wouldn't let her. She had
periods of disorientation, and these were getting longer.
I think sometimes she hallucinated. But on occasion she
was lucid, and that was when the horror of it was clear.

"One time when I was visiting and she saw the nurses
were away, she whispered to me the truth. She was hurt-




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123

ing physically and mentally and emotionally, she felt de-
graded by all the paraphernalia, and she just wanted to
die before she ran down her estate entirely with the med-
ical bills, so I would have something to inherit. I didn't
tell her that all the money was already gone and that the
debt was mounting horrendously; even her life insurance
would hardly cover it. She begged me to make them let
her die so she could be in peace at last. She had come to
hate life. She was in such misery and so urgent about it
that I promised. Then she lapsed into more hallucina-
tions—I think she was reliving something that happened
a long time ago, in her childhood—and talked of picking
flowers and getting stung by a bee—and I had to go. I
knew the doctors would never let her die in peace; it was
part of their code to make a patient suffer as long as
humanly possible. So I bought a penny curse—it was all
I could afford—and set it on the heart machine where it
wouldn't be seen and left. Two hours later I had the call:

she was dead because of equipment failure.

"The hospital thought it was at fault and offered to
settle out of court, and I let them think that, because it
eased the medical bill considerably. But I knew I had
killed my mother and that my soul was damned. I tried
to pay off the remaining bill by gambling, hoping to mul-
tiply the money I was supposed to use for those debts,
but I lost it all and tried to steal from my employer to
gamble into enough to square everything, but I was caught,
so I lost my job and had still more sin on my soul and
debts on my account. I skipped town, went to Kilvarough,
set up a new identity, and sort of scraped along for several
years with my guilt and grief, still hoping for some source
of money to square things, hoping maybe to marry money,
until this other business—"

He stopped. "I think I've said too much."

Luna was watching him intently. "That Truthstone
never flickered."

"Why should it?" Zane asked, glancing at the gem in
his hand. "This is the gutter of my life. I have had night-
mares about it, until the dreams become more real than
reality, and I try to wash off the blood on my arm or to

blind myself so I can no longer see my mother's face as
she died."

"But you weren't there when she died!"
"In my dreams I was there." Zane rubbed his arm,

feeling the blood again, the horrible dream-blood.
"Your mother—it was a mercy killing."
"Killing is a sin. I know that now; I knew it then. All

else is rationalization."

"That's not the way you were judging me a moment
ago."

"Why should I judge you? I hardly know you."

Luna set down her stones, then took his stones and
put them away. "I think you have earned the privilege of
making my acquaintance, Zane. Come this way."

She showed him into what appeared to be an artist's
studio. There were a number of professional paintings and
several half-finished ones on easels. The subjects were
ordinary people, places, and things—but the treatment
was extraordinary. Each outline was fuzzed by a faint
wash of color, as if each person stood within his own
private fog. "What do you make of this?" Luna asked.

Zane felt a growing excitement as he gazed at the paint-
ings. "These are yours?"

"My father wanted me to be an artist," she said.
"Now I know why he brought me to you!"
Again she cocked her head, prettily. "Why?"
"He surely knew my interest! You said he must have
researched me and known a lot about me. And he ar-
ranged to die, at half-and-half, when I was Death. He
could have lived longer if he had wanted to, couldn't he?"

"Yes," she agreed. "He told me the timing was im-
portant, but he wouldn't say why."

"To summon me, not the prior Death! Because I have
artistic aspirations. I am an aural photographer—or was,
or tried to be, before I became Death. I really didn't have
the proper equipment. That's why I needed money right
then—but that's another dull story."

"You recognize my theme?" she asked, brightening.
"Of course I recognize it! I've been photographing au-
ras all my life! Most people can't see them, but I can,
with my equipment, and now I know you can. Your paint-




224

On A Pale Horse

On A Pale Horse

125

ings are beautiful! I never was able to get the full effect
on film. When I tried to sell my pictures, the best offers
I got were from the porn publishers, because my tech-
nique fuzzed out the clothing of women, but that wasn't
the point at all."

"Not the point at all," she concurred. "But this still
doesn't add up. If my father knew about you, he could
have invited you to visit, or simply conjured you here,
and dosed you with a spell of amnesia if not satisfied. He
hardly needed to die."

Zane's revelation collapsed. "That's right! But he must
have had some reason."

"He must have," she agreed soberly. "He was a most
intelligent and sensible man. There is obviously more here
than we know."

"You—you said you have gone into black magic. Could
you find out?"

Luna considered. "I have learned to use many of the
stones my father crafted. Some do enable the user to
ascertain the motives of others. But black magic is the
power of Satan, and Satan knows when any of it is used.
I don't want his baleful eye on me unless there is no other
way."

"Don't you have any white-magic stones?"

"The beatific eye of God is on white magic. I'm not
sure I want that gaze either. Not when I'm investigating
my father, whose Eternal fate remains uncertain."

"What's the difference, really? Isn't magic the same,
whether it's black or white?"

"The power is the same, but the aspect differs. Magic
is like magnetism, with a white pole and a black pole. If
you orient on the white pole, you are aligning with God;

the black pole draws you to Satan."

"Then why doesn't everyone stick to white magic?"

"Only good people can do that. Evil people relate more
to the black pole. It's—this is not exact, of course, as the
science of magic is as complex as the magic of elec-
tronics—it's like traveling past a mountain. The white
pole is at the apex, and it is an exhilarating height, but it
takes a lot of work and few missteps to ascend to it. The
black pole is at the nadir, and it is easy to walk downhill;

sometimes you can just sit down and slide or roll and, if
you fall, you can get there very fast indeed. If you don't
pay attention to where you're going, you'll tend to go
down, because it is the course of least resistance. Since
the average person has only the vaguest notion where he
is going and tends to shut out awareness of the conse-
quence of evil, he inevitably drifts downward. There is
much more space at the base of the mountain than at the
peak! Even those of us who know the situation can find
ourselves in difficulty, as you did when you had to use
bad means to do something good for your mother. When
I became evil, white magic lost its effectiveness, while
black magic became proportionately stronger. Remember
the magnetic poles: the closer you get to one, the more
strongly it attracts. So it is much harder for an evil person
to become good than for a good person to stay good. Now
I can accomplish much more through the black."
"But if black magic draws you to Satan—"
"Precisely. Evil facilitates evil, accelerating the slide.
I don't dare use any more black magic, if I want to achieve
eventual salvation. I'm almost too deep already."

"So you can't use magic to find out what your father
really wanted."

"I already know what—to introduce the two of us to
each other. I don't know why."

Zane nodded agreement. "It's a puzzle. Let's meet
again; maybe we can figure it out."

She smiled. "Yes. I think we understand each other
better now. We have plumbed the depths of each other's
evil and not been repelled."

How true that was! Zane had told no one before of his
guilty secret of murder and he was sure Luna had not let
any other person know hers. As it had turned out, there
was a certain similarity in those secrets, for each of them
had descended into evil in order to help a respected par-
ent. No, there would not be condemnation from either.
That, and the aural art, showed affinity between them.
Still, it did not seem to warrant the extraordinary measure
the Magician had taken in sacrificing his own life.

Zane turned to leave. "I need to get back to my busi-
ness."




On A Pale Horse

126

She looked up at him, her gray eyes seeming larger
and brighter than before, like moons. But it was no longer
her physical beauty he saw so much as the character of
a person who had sacrificed herself for a parent. "Yes,
of course. Life is art, and your art is now in your office.
When do you wish to visit again?"

"I'm hardly aware of the calendar now. I can't tell how
crowded my schedule will be. Does it have to be a set

date?"

"Naturally not! Come when you can. I will be here."

She glided close and kissed him.

Zane found himself in the Deathmobile, driving out of
town, before he was able to focus on the significance of
that abrupt act. He had held his emotion in abeyance
during their discussion, uncertain whether he would be
seeing Luna again. She was, after all, hardly the type of
woman Angelica was—well, no, he had to qualify that,
for now Angelica was misty in memory, while Luna was
preternaturally clear, as if outlined by some Divine re-
touching pen. And if Luna was no pristine creature, she
certainly had more character than he suspected the other

woman had.

Luna's very impurities matched his. How could a soiled,

sullied person like him expect to win the love of an angel?
Only a fallen angel could be within his grasp! Luna's
artistry attracted him, for it was exactly the talent he had
tried to evoke in himself without sufficient success—and
her abrupt kiss had stunned him, because now she knew
him for what he was—a man who had gambled and em-
bezzled and killed his mother—yet found him worthy of
this mark of favor. True, she had offered him more than
that, and he could have used the Lovestone to compel
her feeling as well as her physical cooperation, but he
had never been one to seek the favor of a woman under
duress. He wanted to be loved for himself alone, unwor-
thy as he knew himself to be, and the significance of the
kiss was the suggestion that this was possible.

Still, that business with the demon—he had heard hor-
rendous things about the sexual appetites of demons and
the uses to which they put acquiescent or unacquiescent
girls. Especially pretty girls. Some were no longer pretty,

On A Pah Horse            127

after the demons finished with them. To fall into the power
of a demon was to be ravaged in more than the physical
sense. Luna had not suffered loss of beauty, however.

Zane punched his watch. Six minutes on the count-
down. He had a client to attend to.




DEATH'S DOMINION

The Deathcar phased south, emerging in dense jungle.
The rutted mud trail here was too difficult for the me-
chanical vehicle, so it shifted to the stallion Mortis and
trotted readily through the steamy growth.

"Halt!" someone cried in Spanish, the translation
sounding in Zane's left ear. He looked around and spied
a camouflaged soldier whose rifle was pointed menac-
ingly.

Zane halted, drawing cloak and hood close about him,
just in case. "Where is this?"

"I'll ask the questions!" the soldier snapped. "Who are
you and what is your business?"

Should he tell the truth? Zane knew that could com-
plicate things. Yet he was increasingly disinclined to deal
in falsehood for any reason. "I am Death, come to collect
a soul."

"Oh. Yes, sir," the soldier said, snapping to attention.

Surely he had not heard what Zane had said! The words
must have come across as the recognition code for a high
officer of this army. Well, if that was the way of it, he
would play the part, as he didn't want to get lost in a
region of violence. "Identify yourself and your mission,"
Zane said curtly.

"Sir, I am Femando of the Loyal Niqueldimea Army,
on patrol to rout out the Seventh Communist renegades."

Zane remembered now: Niqueldimea was a banana

On A Pale Horse            129

republic, where guerrilla infiltration had been occurring
for some years as the Communists sought to topple its
unpopular autocratic government. Naturally there would
be many killings here, and some would require Death's
personal service.

His watch showed thirty seconds. "Carry on, Fer-
nando," he said, and urged Mortis on toward the rendez-
vous.

In a moment he entered a rather pretty jungle clearing.
But as he did so, small-arms fire erupted. A bullet bounced
off his impervious cloak. There was a scream beside him,
and a Niqueldimean soldier jumped up, stiffened, and
spun to the ground. Zane needed only a glimpse before
the man was buried in the brush below to see that the
right side of his head was gone. He was definitely dead—
in fact, it was amazing that he had been able to jump—
but this was not Zane's client. This soldier could make it
to Eternity on his own.

More government soldiers charged into the clearing,
intent on obliterating the sniper. The ground gave way
under three of them, and they fell, screaming, into a pit.
Yet the surface of the ground remained unbroken. Zane
realized that this trap was concealed by a spell of illusion.
In one sense, illusion wasn't real, but it could be just as
deadly as tangible magic. Enchantment was countering
bullets quite effectively.

Zane looked at his orientation stone. His client was in
that pit, it seemed. Zane dismounted and stepped forward
cautiously, following his gem-arrow as his watch count-
down swung to zero.

His foot found the edge. He squatted, then sat, putting
his feet down into the invisible hole, leaning forward, and
getting his head inside the spelled region. Now he could
see reality.

It wasn't pretty. It was a large, open cavity, with a
dozen sharpened wooden stakes set upright in the bottom.
The three soldiers were skewered on these. Two were
dead, the third dying. The third was his client.

Zane slid carefully down the steep side of the pit and
landed on his feet. This required only a few seconds, but
in that time he became aware how the man was suffering.

On A Pale Horse

130

The soldier had somehow turned as he fell, and the cruel
spike had penetrated his back and emerged from the side
of his abdomen. He had been impaled excruciatingly, his
head and feet dangling down to the ground. His blood
was hardly flowing; the stake filled the puncture.

Zane tried to retch, but clamped his mouth shut. He
lurched across and hooked out the soldier's soul, relieving
him of his agony. Then he turned and leaned against the
pit wall, breathing in long, shuddering efforts.

"You're new at this, aren't you?" someone said.

Zane turned about, still feeling dizzy and sick. A large
man stood between the stakes. He wore brief, polished
armor, a short, woven-metal skirt, and sported an ornate
golden helmet, just like the picture of a Greek god of—

"War!" Zane exclaimed.

"Death!" the man returned sardonically.

"I didn't know—"

"That I existed?" War made an imperious gesture. "And
who but Mars do you suppose should supervise this al-
tercation?"

"No one else," Zane acknowledged, relaxing. "I just

didn't think it through."

"I have been meaning to meet you," Mars said. "After
all, we must often associate closely."

"Yes," Zane agreed distastefully. "I'm still breaking
in. I've got the routine down well enough, but scenes like

this—"

"This is a good scene," Mars said. "Small, but intense.
It is the best that offers between major engagements."

"You like your work?" Zane asked, hardly concealing
his revulsion. "What is accomplished by combat and

bloodshed?"

"I'm glad you asked that question," Mars said expan-
sively, and suddenly Zane was sorry he had asked it.
Speeches of self-justification were seldom worthwhile for
any but the speaker. "War is the final refuge against
oppression and wrongdoing. You have another client on
your watch. I'll walk with you while you attend to him."

Zane saw that it was so. Now he lacked even the ex-
cuse to quit the company of this grim warrior.

Mars walked to a corner of the pit where an earthen

On A Pale Horse            131

ramp led to the jungle floor. Zane glanced again at his
watch, verifying that he had five minutes to reach another
client close by, and followed.

"What refuge do these dead soldiers have?" Zane asked,
discomfited. "How did this battle help them?"

"They have glory," Mars explained. "All men must die
sometime, and most go ignominiously from age or illness
or mishap. Only in war do large numbers get to expire in
decent glory."

"Glory?" Zane thought of his recent client, impaled

agonizingly on a wooden stake. "Seems more like gory
to me."

Mars bellowed out his laughter. "Cute, Death! You
perceive only the instant of discomfort; I perceive the
eternal reputation. A moment of pain for eternal fame!
These men are sacrificing their blood on the altar of righ-
teousness. This is the termination that renders their entire
mundane lives sublime."

"But what about those who die fighting for the wrong
cause?"

"There is no wrong cause! There are only alternate
avenues to glory and honor."

"Alternate avenues!" Zane exclaimed. "It's pointless
brutality!"

"You speak of brutality," Mars said, as if pleased to
meet the challenge of opposition. "You are as brutal in
your own office, I believe. How many of your clients go
sweetly to Eternity on blithe wings of song? I will answer
that—damned few! Even your reforms are savage things,
less defensible than what I offer my clients."
"Your clients are my clients!" Zane protested.
"Your clients, my clients," Mars said, shrugging. He
had excellently broad shoulders, making the shrug im-
pressive. "Some coincide. Most don't. Consider the mode
of executions. Do you approve of stoning a person to
death, regardless of his crime, which may have been sim-
ply making time with a willing woman? Of crucifying him
for his religious beliefs? Of breaking his body on the wheel
because he stole a loaf of bread to keep himself from
starving, or pulling his limbs off by means of chains at-
tached to six horses because he refused to pay sufficient




132

On A Pale Horse

On A Pale Horse

133

graft to get out of it, or burning him at the stake on a false
charge of witchcraft?"

"No, of course not!" Zane said, taken aback by this
savage catalogue. Mars had a rough-and-ready tongue!
"But execution has been reformed."

"Reformed!" Mars snorted. "I remember the French
reform. Doctor Guillotine invented a huge humane blade
to sever necks quickly and cleanly. No more of this messy
and sometimes inaccurate chopping that could cut into
the shoulder or lop off the top part of the head or even
take out the hands of the innocent person holding the
condemned head in place. This modem method brought
elitism to the poor, for before then only nobles had war-
ranted execution by the sword. But do you remember
what they did with that invention? I will inform you. They
discovered that it could bring mass production to political
murder! They could kill thousands in a day, chop-chop!
The French Revolution became notorious for that humane
reform!"

Zane didn't answer. Mars was too ready to fight.

They came to a ramshackle peasant house. A govern-
ment soldier was passing it. Suddenly a child of about
ten, a little girl, dashed out. The soldier swung his rifle
around, but paused when he saw it wasn't a guerrilla. The
girl rushed up to him, carrying something in her hands.
As she reached him, she did something to the object.

"Hey—that's a grenade!" the soldier exclaimed,

aghast.

The girl flung her arms about him, still clutching the
grenade. The soldier tried to get hold of it, but she clung
like a leech, her thin frame possessing the strength of
fanaticism. Then the grenade detonated. She had armed
it as she approached.

Pieces of the two of them sprayed outward. Blood
splatted against the side of the house. "That was beau-
tiful," Mars said. "That child brings great honor on her
family."

"Honor!" Zane cried, outraged. "I call it horror!"

"That, too," Mars agreed equably. "They do tend to
associate on such occasions. That's part of what makes
even a minor fracas intriguing."

Another soldier appeared. He had heard the explosion
and now saw the carnage. This one had a hand-held flame
thrower. He ignited it and swung the flame around toward
the house.

Another child, a boy, younger than the first, ran from
the house toward the soldier. But the man played the
flame thrower directly on him, and in an instant the child
was a mass of fire. Then the soldier concentrated on the
house, starting it burning.

There was a whimper from the smoking mass on the
ground. "Your client, I believe," Mars reminded Zane.

How could he have overlooked this! The Deathwatch
stood at zero and the arrow pointed at the boy. Zane
hurried over and took the child's soul. The whimpering
ceased. "What honor was there for this child?" he de-
manded.

"Not much," Mars admitted. "He failed in his mission.
Failure does not deserve reward."

"That wasn't my point! Without this war, there would
have been no deaths at all! I would never have been sum-
moned. All this horror would never have existed!"

"On the contrary," Mars responded tolerantly. "With-
out this war, the oppression of this populace would have
continued indefinitely, grinding the people down, dispos-
sessing them of their property, starving them out. They
would have died later, it is true, but in a worse manner—
that of sheep led to the slaughter. Now they are learning
to die in the manner of wolves defending their territory.
Violence is but the most visible aspect of a necessary
correction, much as an earthquake is a release of enor-
mous subterranean pressures. Blame not the symptom,
my good associate; blame the fundamental social inequ-
ities that stifle innovation and freedom and can be cor-
rected in no other way. I come to right wrongs, not to
wrong rights. I am the surgeon's scalpel that removes the
cancer. My edge may hurt for a moment, and some blood
may flow, but my cause is just, as is yours."

Zane found himself unable to refute the ready and rough-
hewn logic of Mars. But as he looked at the still-smoking
little corpse of the child whose soul he had harvested, he




134 On A Pale Horse

feared it was not God whom Mars served so much as
Satan.

"I think in due course you will find yourself at war,"
Mars continued. "I recommend that you prepare yourself
for that occasion by familiarizing yourself with your
weapon."

"My only weapon is the scythe," Zane muttered.
"And an excellent one it is," Mars agreed.
"Mortis!" Zane called, and the good Deathsteed ap-
peared. Zane mounted and departed, without speaking
again to Mars.

He arrived early, as he was doing more often now. The
address was a rundown nursing home in a slum district
in the resort city of Miami, wedged between a rickety
dance hall and an old evangelistic church. The interior
was gloomy and stank of urine. Old people sat unmoving,
perhaps asleep. There were no games or magazines, and
no conversations. The general mood was hopelessness.
Zane didn't like such places and had fought to keep his
mother out of one—too successfully.

His client was an old man with a white shock of hair
and a dribble of brown where the comer of his mouth
leaked. Zane walked toward him, but paused as he saw
the rope. "You're tied to your chair!" he exclaimed.

The man looked up. "Otherwise I'd fall," he explained.

Zane realized that adequate facilities and competent
attendants were beyond the means of this establishment.
The poor and homeless could not afford a luxurious re-
tirement.

"One favor," the man said. "If it is not too much to
ask."

"If I can grant it," Zane said guardedly. "You know I
can not grant a reprieve if it is a terminal illness that—"

"I'd like to have a hymn, to see me out."

Zane was surprised. "A hymn?"

"Holy, Holy, Holy. It's my favorite. I haven't heard it
in years, and I miss it."

Zane wrestled with perplexity. "You want someone to
sing a song?"

"Oh, a recording would be fine," the old man said.

On A Pale Horse             135

"Just to hear the sound. It's a great hymn! But I know
my wish is foolish."

Zane considered. "It seems simple enough."

The man shook his head, now ready to argue the other
side. "They don't allow music here."

Another man spoke up. "We get enough noise from
the neighbors, though! That infernal racket from the dance
hall, so we can't sleep at night, and those screaming ser-
mons and rehearsals from the other side, that 'gelical
church."

Now there was general interest, as the others in the
room came to life. Zane's appearance was a novelty, re-
lieving the utter boredom they were accustomed to.
"Everyone else gets to do his thing—why not us? What's
wrong with one hymn?"

"I think you should have it," Zane said. "All we need

is a phonograph, or a cassette player, or a magic music
box."

There was a murmur ofdemurral. "They won't let us
have it," another man said.

"You shall have it," Zane said firmly. He walked up
to the nurses' station, where a male nurse was reading a
popular magazine. There was a full-page color ad on the
back: HELL—IT ISN'T JUST FOR BADNESS ANY
MORE. Bright orange flames surrounded a scene of en-
thusiastic debauchery, and the Dee & Dee trademark dev-
ils were doing something that made Zane wince.

"Nurse," he said.

The nurse glanced up. "No music allowed. House rule,"
he said, and returned to his page.

"We can make an exception," Zane said. "A man is
about to die, tied to a chair like a condemned criminal.
His last wish shall be honored."

"Are you for real? Get out of here." The man's eyes
remained on the page.

Zane, annoyed, reached out and lifted the magazine
from the nurse's hands. He leaned forward, gazing into
the man's face. "There shall be music," he said.

The man started to protest, but froze as he met the
hollow eye of Death. "There's nothing here," he mum-
bled, fazed. "I would get fired if—"




136 On A Pah Horse

"Then we shall do it without you," Zane said. "You
may register your protest for the record—but take care
that it is not too vigorous. We are going to have one hymn
here, with or without your cooperation." He pointed his
finger at the man's nose; in the Deathglove it looked skel-
etal. "Do you understand?"

The nurse blanched. "You aren't going to hurt anyone?
I only follow rules, I don't want trouble, but I don't want
anyone hurt."

So the man did have some meager conscience. He was
lazy and indifferent, but not evil. "One man will die, as
he was fated to. No one will be hurt."

The nurse considered that, evidently having a bit of
trouble reconciling death with not hurting. He swallowed.
"Then I'll call in my protest to the owner's answering
service. It usually takes them forever to get back to me,
especially when there's an emergency." He scowled.
"Emergencies cost money." He reached for the phone.
"But there's no stuff here to use, not even a radio. My
boss says silence is golden, and he does love gold."

Zane turned away, disgusted with that owner. Perhaps
one day that character would discover himself grubbing
for gold in Hell. "I shall tend to this," he told his client,
turning off his countdown timer. "You will not feel dis-
comfort until you have had your hymn." He walked out
of the nursing home.

First he tried the dance hall next door. The entry foyer
was crowded with machines dispensing candy bars, two-
bit love potions—"Slip her this, and she'll promise you
anything!"—and spot dressings for blisters. The main hall
was empty, for this was the dead morning shift. Several
shaggy teenagers were on the stage, working out with
drums, guitars, and an electric organ, bashing out dis-
sonance with a deafening beat. This was rehearsal time,
though Zane could not see how such noise could profit
from practice.

Zane approached and put his hand on the largest drum,
the fingers of the glove causing its sound to die immedi-
ately. "I require a performance," he said.

He had their instant attention, though they did not
recognize his nature. "Hey, a gig? How much?"

On A Pale Horse             137

"One song, for charity, next door."

They laughed. "Charity! Go soak your snoot in battery
acid, mister!" the drummer said. "We don't do nothing
for nothing!"

Zane turned his potent gaze on the kid. "One song."
Like the nurse before him, the youth blanched. People
seldom saw Death when they were not clients or closely
attached to clients, but Death could indeed force his
awareness on them when he wished. Hardly ever did a
person face Death directly without feeling the impact.
"Uh, yeah, sure. Guess we can do one song, like for
practice."

"A hymn," Zane said.

The laugh was louder, though somewhat uncertain.
"Man, we don't do church junk! We're the Livin' Sludge!
We boom, we flow, we fester; we don't damn well hymn!"

Again Zane delivered the Deathstare. Young punks like
this were more resistant to it, since they did not believe
they were ever going to die. "One hymn. Holy, Holy,
Holy." His bony, square eye sockets bore into the fleshed
orbs before him.

Again the kid was fazed. "Sure, well, I guess we could
try. Like, it's only one tune. But our singer's out, she's
zonked on magic H, and anyway, we'll have to rehearse.
It'd take two, maybe three days, you know, just to start."

"Now," Zane said. "Within the hour. I will find you a
singer."

"But we don't have no music or nothing!" the youth
protested desperately.

"That, too, I will provide," Zane said, controlling his
ire. Had he ever been this age himself? "Go now to the
nursing home next door and set up your gear. I will rejoin
you with a singer presently."

"Yeah, sure, man," the kid said faintly. "We'll be ready
in half an hour. But you know, this ain't exactly our bag.
It ain't going to be too sharp."

"It will suffice." Zane left them and strode to the church
on the other side of the nursing home.

He was in luck. The church choir was rehearsing for
the coming weekend service. Several black girls were




138

On A Pale Hone

On A Pale Horse

139

present, doing what to Zane's ear was a mishmash of
notes and ululations.

The preacher spotted him immediately. "Hey, don't
you go takin' none of mine. Death!" he protested. "We're
good folk here. We don't want no trouble with you!"

Zane realized that this church might be poor and back-
ward, but the preacher was a true man of God, able to
discern a supernatural manifestation instantly. That would
help. "I only want a hymnbook and a singer," Zane said.

"Hymnbooks we got," the old man said eagerly. "This
white do-gooder group, they raise money, bought us books,
don't know nothin' 'bout our music. Got a big pile of 'em
under dust in the closet. But one of my girls—Death, I
won't stand by and—"

"Not to die," Zane said quickly. "To sing one hymn
for the folk next door. For a man who is about to die."

The preacher nodded. "Man's got a right to one last
melody. What's it called?"

"Holy, Holy, Holy."

"That's in the book, but we don't sing it. Not our
style."

"Find a singer willing to try."

The preacher addressed the practicing choir. "Anyone
sing white music? Hymnbook stuff?"

There was a murmur of confused negation.

"Listen," the preacher said. "You don' know this per-
son in the hood, and you don' want to. But / know him.
The eye of the Lord is on him, and he needs one hymn,
and we've got to help him any way we can. So if any of
you can even try to oblige him, come on."

At length one rather pretty girl in her teens spoke.
"Sometime I sing 'long on the radio stuff, jus' for fun. I
guess I could try, if I got the words."

The preacher rummaged in the closet and brought out
an armful ofhymnbooks. "You got the words, sister. Come
on, we'll go help this person. Won't be long."

Zane took some of the books and led the way to the
nursing home, where the Livin' Sludge was setting up, to
the considerable entertainment of the inmates and the
non-protesting nurse. Probably there had not been an event
like this here in decades. Cables and loudspeakers and

instruments seemed to fill the main room. "Hey, don't
set those big speakers in here," the nurse was saying.
"Small place like this, that noise'll deafen these old folk,
and they've got problems enough already. Face those
monsters out the windows." And it was done, for it seemed
the Livin' Sludge was constitutionally unable to function
without full-volume amplification.

The young singer eyed the Sludge, and the Sludge eyed
her. Each evinced a certain morbid fascination with an
alien life form, but neither evinced approval. Zane real-
ized it had probably been a mistake to involve the instru-
mental group; the girl would have done better a cappella.
Too late now;

The preacher stepped in, seeing the need. "You boys
don' know hymn music, okay? This is Lou-Mae; she don'
know junk music, so you're even. So let's try her doing
the hymn, you follow, okay?" He was more or less speak-
ing pigeon, in order to get his meaning across to these
foreigners. He passed out the hymnbooks.

The musicians leafed through the books, bewildered.
"This scene's worse'n bad-spelled H!" one muttered. Zane
knew that H was bad, enchanted H was worse, and badly
enchanted H was a horror. But addicts had to take what
they could get. "We'll never live this down."

"You boys getting high on S-H?" the preacher asked,
frowning. "That'll put you in H!" He pointed down, sig-
naling the change in meaning. "You better find some bet-
ter interest before it's too late."

"Wish we could," the drummer confessed. "But you
know, we're locked into the scene. S-H don't let nobody
go."

"Neither does H," the preacher said, with a dark glance
down. "Nobody hooked on either H in my church."

"Yeah, sure," the drummer said wearily.

Zane got them on the page with Holy, Holy, Holy.
"Play this," he said.

They tried. They were, underneath, reasonably com-
petent musicians. The tune did not adapt well to drum
and guitar, but the electric organ picked it up easily enough.

The phone rang, the sound almost lost amidst the noise




140 OwA Pale Horse

of preparations. "But I can't sing into a mike," Lou-
Mae protested. "It's in my way, and it looks funny."

"I'll tell you what it looks like!" the Sludge drummer
said, grinning.

"Jus' ignore it, sister," the preacher advised quickly.
"Jus' sing your way."

"There are people gathering outside," a nursing home
inmate cried gleefully by the window. "Gawking at the
loudspeakers!"

"Hey, they must think we have a party in here!" an-
other said. "Cutting the mustard!"

"Sure we are! You can tell by the smell!" Laughter
burbled around the inmate sector. This was turning into
the biggest event of these old people's lives.

"Hey, mister," the male nurse called through the din.
"That was my boss on the line. For once he checked with
his answering service. I told him I couldn't stop the music,
so he's calling the police. Better do that song and get out
of here soon." It was fair warning, but obviously the nurse
was enjoying the ongoing event.

The Sludge was still getting organized, piecing out bits
of melody, trying to integrate unfamiliar elements. "I can't
do this," Lou-Mae complained. "Singing a hymn to a drum
roll?"

"Listen, black doll, we don't like it either," the drum-
mer said. "But we got to have a beat."

"You jus' do your best," the preacher said soothingly
to both. "The Lord will make it right."

"Man, He better!" the drummer muttered. "This whole
thing's crazier than a double-bum trip!"

"Still worth doing right," the preacher said.

Zane heard the sound of a siren. He went to the door
where the other choir singers clustered, peering in. They
gave way nervously before him, and Zane saw the police
cars arriving. The vehicles screeched up to the nearest
comer and disgorged helmeted riot police. These were
tough cops armed with billy clubs, hefty side arms, tear-
gas bombs, and disorientation-spells, accustomed to
breaking heads in the lawful performance of their duty.
That nursing home owner had really made a complaint!

On A Pale Horse             141

Zane turned to face inside. "Do the hymn now," he
said.

Lou-Mae, suddenly nervous, dropped her book and
had to scramble to recover it. " 'Sokay, chick," the drum-
mer said sympathetically. "First-night jitters. We all get
'em. We'll start without you, a preamble, and you catch
your place and signal when you're ready. Like Uncle Tom
says, we'll merge."

She flashed him a fleeting smile. The music started,
drum roll leading into guitar, the beat of it blasting like
developing thunder out the windows as the police charged
up the steps, billies in hand. The choir girls crowded back
fearfully, not liking any close contact with the big, brutal
men in uniform.

Zane drew his cloak close about him and stepped out

to meet the lead cop skull-to-face. "Do we have busi-
ness?" he asked.

The policeman's eyes and mouth rounded out as he
stared into the aspect of Death. He fell back, literally,
and had to be caught by the two behind him. The urgency
of the intrusion of the law abruptly abated.

Now Lou-Mae found her place. The drum faded to a
background beat, and the song proper began. "Holy, holy
holy! Lord God Almighty!" she sang, starting tremulously
but gaining courage as she sounded the name of the Lord.
Somehow the amplification provided resonance and au-
thority that her voice might otherwise have lacked. The
drum roll behind her growled like the rising wrath of De-
ity, and the guitar punctuated the theme with an inspired
extemporaneous counterpoint.

"Early in the morning, our song shall rise to Thee!"
And the electric organ swelled in an urge of joyous wor-
ship, sounding exactly like the monstrous pipes of a tow-
ering cathedral.

The crowd in the street was being rapidly augmented.
Some of the police were trying to hold the people back.
It was already late morning, but the height of the sur-
rounding buildings sheltered the street from direct sun-
light. Now that light angled down, a broad beam that
splashed across the pale helmets of the police and faces




T

144

On A Pale Horse

On A Pale Horse

145

CAN RIDE A CARPET? the first billboard demanded in
huge, shining print. The picture was of a car struggling
through a traffic jam, while a magic carpet sailed blithely

over, its handsome family smiling.

Zane also smiled. He was at the moment carbound—
but he would never be trapped in a traffic jam. Not with
Mortis! "Did you show me this just to make me appreciate

you properly?"

The car did not answer, but the motor purred.

The next billboard proclaimed DRIVE IN COMFORT.
The picture was of a family huddled on a flying carpet in
a rainstorm. The man looked grim and uncomfortable, the
woman's once-elegant hairdo was a wet mess plastered
about her ears, and one child was sliding off the rear,
about to fall. The material was evidently wrinkling and
shrinking in the rain, heightening the family's discomfort
and peril. Below, the same family could be seen happily
in a closed car, safely seat-belted, untouched by the rain.

"So the car fights back," Zane remarked. "I can see
it." He glanced at his watch. Still several minutes to go.

The next billboard showed the carpet sailing blithely
over the rain cloud that largely obscured the traffic jam
below. BABYLON CARPETS OUTPERFORM ANY
LANDBOUND VEHICLE! it proclaimed. MORE DIS-
TANCE PER SPELL.

But the auto maker came right back with a picture of
the family gasping for air aboard the high-flying carpet,
while the car zoomed along the open highway. KEEP
SAFE, KEEP COZY, it advised. USE A CAR INSTEAD

OF A CARPET.

Perhaps the ad war continued, but Zane had to turn

off to approach his client. This was a residential enclave
in the countryside; the houses were very similar to one
another, the lawn manicured. Zane wondered why people
bothered to live in the country when all they did was take
the city with them. He turned into the appropriate drive
and parked in the limited shade of a medium pine tree.
He noticed there was a disabled sticker on the owner's
car; evidently the disablement was terminal.

Zane entered and made his way to the bathroom. There

was a young, fairly muscular man taking a deep bath. He
looked relaxed.

The man did not react to Zane's appearance and did
not seem to be in trouble, yet the gem-arrow identified
him as the client. "Hello," Zane said, uncertain how to
proceed.

The man glanced up languidly. "Please leave," he said,
his voice mild.

"First I must do my job," Zane said.

"Job? Perhaps you are in uniform, and assume I rec-
ognize your business. I can not see you, for I am blind."

Oh. That accounted for the disabled sticker. But mere
sightlessness wouldn't kill this man, unless some bad ac-
cident were coming up. "I suspect you will be able to see
me, if you try," Zane said.

"You are a faith healer? Go away. I am an atheist, and
have no traffic with your kind."

An atheist! One who did not believe in God or Satan,
or in their related artifacts. How could Death have been
summoned for a nonbeliever?

Two answers offered. It was possible that this man
was not as cynical as he professed- and really did believe
in Eternity perhaps unconsciously. Or it could be that
there had been another glitch, and that the Powers that
Be had not realized that no service was required for this
particular client.

Well, Zane was here, and the case would have to be
played through to whatever conclusion was fated. He
looked at the water in the bath and saw that it was dis-
colored by a cloud of darkness. "You are committing
suicide," he stated.

"Yes, and I must ask you not to interfere. My folks
are away for two days, so will not know until it is safely
done. I have slashed veins in my ankles and am pleasantly
bleeding to death in this hot water. There is no greater
kindness you can do me than to let nature take its course."

"I am here for that," Zane said. "I am Death."

The man laughed, becoming more animated as his at-
tention focused. "An actual, physical personification of
Death? You're crazy!"

"You don't believe in Death?"




146 On A Pale Horse

"I believe in death, small d, obviously. I am about to
experience it. Certainly I don't believe in a spook with
skull and crossbones and scythe."

"Would you like to touch my hand and face?" Zane
asked.

"You persist in this nonsense? Very well, while I still
command my faculties, let me touch you." The man lifted
an arm from the water with some visible effort and ex-
tended it toward Zane.

Zane clasped that hand in his own gloved one, curious
how the man would perceive it. He was hardly disap-
pointed in the reaction.

"It's true!" the man exclaimed. "A skeleton!"

"A glove," Zane said, not wanting to deceive him.
"And my face is a skull-mask generated by magic. Never-
theless, I am Death, and I have come to collect your soul."

The man touched Zane's face. "A mask? It could fool
me! That's a skull!"

Zane had been uncertain before whether his skull-face
was tactile as well as visual; now he knew. "I am a living
man performing an office. I wear a costume and have
certain necessary powers, but I am alive and have the
flesh and feelings of a man."

The client took his hand again. "Yes, now I perceive
the flesh, faintly, the way I do my own when my foot is
asleep. Strange! Perhaps I do believe in you, or in your
belief in the office. But I don't believe in the soul, so your
effort is wasted."

"What do you believe happens when you die?" Zane
asked, genuinely curious. This man seemed to have a good
mind.

"My body will be inert and in time will dissolve into
its chemical components. But that is not what you mean,
is it? You want to know about my supposed soul. And I
will answer. There is no soul. Death is simply the end of
consciousness. After death, there is nothing. Like the
flame of a candle snuffed out, the animation is gone. Ex-
tinction."

"No afterlife? You do not consider death a translation
to a spiritual existence?"

The man snorted. He was slowly sinking in the tub, as

T
i

On A Pale Hone           147

loss of blood weakened him gradually, but his mind re-
mained alert. "Death is a translation to intellectual non-
existence."

"Does that frighten you?"

"Why should it? It is the deaths of others I should fear,
for they can cause me inconvenience and grief. When I
myself pass, I shall be out of it, completely uncaring."

"You have not answered," Zane said.

The man grimaced. "Damn it, you are putting my toes
to the fire! Yes, my own death does frighten me. But I
know that is merely my instinct of self-preservation man-
ifesting, my body's effort to survive. Subjectively, I do
fear extinction, because instinct is irrational. Objectively,
I do not. I have no terror of the nonexistence before I
was conceived; why should I fear the nonexistence after
I die? So I have overridden the foible of the flesh and am
proceeding to my end."

"Wouldn't you be relieved to discover that life contin-
ues on the spiritual plane?"

"No! I do not want life to continue in any form! What
uncertainties or tortures might I experience there? What
tedium, existing for eternity with no reprieve in another
person's sterile conception of Heaven? No, my life is the
only game, and the game has soured, and I want nothing
more than to be able to lay it aside when its convenience
is over. Oblivion is the greatest gift I can look forward

to, and Heaven itself would be Hell to me if that gift were
denied."

"I hope you find it," Zane said, shaken by this unusual
view. A man who actually insisted on oblivion!

"I hope so, too." Now the atheist was fading rapidly.
The loss of blood was affecting his consciousness and
soon he would faint.

"A man's death is the most private part of his life,"
Zane said. "You have the right to die as you wish."

"That's correct." The voice was slow and faint. "No-
body's business but mine."

"Yet shouldn't you be concerned about the meaning
of your life, about your place in the greater scheme of

things? Before you throw away your one chance to im-
prove—"

148 On A Pale Horse

"Why the hell should I care about improvement when
I don't believe in Heaven or Hell?" the atheist demanded
weakly.

"Yet you assume that your own relief is all that mat-
ters," Zane said. "What of those you love, who remain
in life? Those who love you, and who will find your body
here, a horror to them. They will still suffer. Don't you
owe them anything?"

But the atheist was too far gone. He had lost con-
sciousness and no longer cared who else might suffer, if
he ever had cared. In due course he died.

Zane reached in and drew out his soul. It was a typical
mottled thing, good and evil spotting it in a complex mos-
aic. He started to fold it—and the soul disintegrated, fall-
ing apart into nothingness.

The atheist had his wish. He really had not believed,
and so the Afterlife had been unable to hold him. He was
beyond the reach of God or Satan. That did seem best.

It was best—but was it right? The atheist had not seemed
to care about anyone except himself—and in that uncar-
ing, perhaps had rendered his own existence meaningless.

Zane rejoined Mortis. "I think that man was half-right,"
he said. "He is better off out of the game—but the game
may not be better off without him. A man should not exist
for himself alone. Life made an investment in him, and
that investment was not paid off." But Zane wasn't sure.

His timer was going again. He oriented on the next
client, wondering how he was going to account for the
soul that disintegrated. The Purgatory News Center would
have a ball with that one. He visualized the headline: THE
FISH THAT GOT AWAY.

He arrived at a hospital. That was not unusual; the
terminally sick tended to congregate there, and he had
made a number of similar collections all over the world.
But he still didn't like hospitals very well, because of his
lingering guilt relating to his mother.

At the edge of the parking lot was an ad, for once not
Satanic. SHEEPSHEAD HORN 0' PLENTY—MORE
FRUIT THAN BRANDS X, Y, AND Z HORNS. Just

OnA Pale Horse            149

the thing to buy for a hospitalized person recovering from
stomach surgery.

Zane felt worse when he saw his client. It was an old
woman, and she was embedded in a mass of lines and
burbling devices. Some sort of bellows forced her to
breathe rhythmically, and monitors clicked and bleeped
to signal her heartbeat, digestion, and state of conscious-
ness. Her blood coursed through the tubes of a dialysis
machine. A nurse checked the equipment regularly, going
on to the others in the ward. There were five other patients
here, all similarly equipped.

The client's hospital gown was draped awkwardly, as
such things seemed to be designed to do, so that embar-
rassing portions other wasted anatomy showed. She was
in pain, Zane could see, though half-zonked on thera-
peutic drugs. She was overdue to die; only the relentlessly
life-sustaining things enclosing her frail body prevented
her from doing so.

Deja vu! His mother, all over again,

Zane approached. She spied him, and her bloodshot
eyes tracked him erratically. The tubes running into her
nose prevented her from turning her head conveniently,
and the machine set up a clangor of protest when she tried
to shift her body.

"Be at ease, lady," Zane said. "I have come to take
you away from this."

She issued a weak hiss of a laugh. "Nothing can take
me away," she gasped, spittle dribbling from her mouth.
"They will not let me go. All my pleading is in vain. I
may rot in this contraption, but I will still be alive."

"I am Death. I may not be denied."

She peered more closely at him. "Why, so you are! I
thought you looked familiar. I would gladly go with you—
but they won't give me the visa."

Zane smiled. "It is your right to make the transfor-
mation. That right can not be abridged." He reached into
her body and caught her soul.

It didn't come. The woman keened weakly with new
agony until he let the soul go. It snapped back into place,
and she relaxed.




150

"You see!" she whispered. "They have anchored me
in life, though it isn't worth it. You can't take me, Death!"

Zane looked at his watch. It was fifteen seconds past
time. The woman really was being held beyond her des-
tiny.

"Let me consider," Zane said, disgruntled. He walked
down the ward, glancing at the other patients. He saw
now that the details of their apparatus differed, but all
were caught beyond their natural spans and all were sim-
ilarly resigned to their fate. They might have no joy in
life, but they would not be released from it one second
before the machines gave out. This was one efficient hos-
pital; there were no slip-ups.

"I see you. Death," someone murmured nearby,

Zane looked. It was a male patient in the adjacent rig.
Unlike some of the others, this one was fully alert.

"I can't take her soul while that equipment functions,"
Zane said, wondering why he was bothering to explain to
a nonclient.

The old man shook his head, causing his own apparatus
to protest. "Never thought I'd see the day when Death
was denied. That leaves taxes as the only certainty." He
essayed a feeble laugh that made his dials quiver and
alarmed the nurse on duty, who thought he was suffering
a seizure. She seemed unaware of Zane.

After a moment, the man spoke again. "If it was me,
Death, know what I'd do?"

"That old woman, my client," Zane said. "She reminds
me of my mother." And what a mass of guilt lay there,
tying into his conscience like the lines of the hospital
machines.

"She's somebody's mother," the man agreed. "It's her
son who pays for all this foolery. Thinks he's doing her
a favor, making her live beyond her time or will. If he
really loved her, he'd let her go."

"Doesn't he love her?" Zane had killed his own mother
because he loved her, but then had doubted.

"Maybe he thinks so. But he's really just getting even.
He's a mean man, and she brought him into this world,
and I guess he just never forgave her for that. So he won't
let her leave."

On A Pale Horse             151

Something snapped. "Death shall not be denied!" Zane
said. He marched back to his client's section. He found
switches on the equipment and clicked them off.

"Oops!" The nurse was on it immediately, as the ma-
chinery bleeped alarm. She turned the switches on again.

Zane ripped out wires and tubes. Fluid spurted.

Now the nurse became aware of him. "You did it!" she
cried, horrified. "You must stop!"

Zane caught her in his arms and kissed her on the lips.
She felt the skeletal embrace and fainted. He set her down
carefully on the floor.

He saw that automatic failsafes were stopping the leaks
in the torn tubes. The bleep-bleep alarm was more stri-
dent; soon other nurses would hear and come. He could
not be sure the job was done.

Zane picked up a chair and smashed it into the stand
supporting the bottles of life-preserving fluids. Glass shat-
tered, and colored liquids coursed across the floor. He
put his foot against a console and shoved it over, indulging
in an orgy of destruction that was the overt expression
of his long-suppressed emotion.

At last he stood over the old woman, chair raised to
bash in her skull if need be—but he saw that now the job
had been done.

He set down the chair and lifted out her soul, gently.
There was a smattering of applause from the other
patients as he put away the soul and walked out through
the ward. All these people were on artificially extended
time, so were able to perceive him for what he was.

"But I am a murderer—again," Zane protested weakly,
now suffering reaction. Never before had he actually
killed—in his role of Death. There had been grim satis-
faction in the act—but surely he had added an awful bur-
den of sin to his soul.

"I wish it was me you come for," one of the others
muttered.

"You can't murder bur kind," the old-man said. "Any
more'n you can rape a willing gal."

Zane paused. "How many of you feel that way?" he
asked. "How many really want to die now?"

A murmur traveled along the ward, like a ripple of




152

OM A Pale Horse

water. "We all do," the old man said, and the others

agreed.

Zane pondered briefly. He heard the running footsteps
of others in the bowels of the hospital, becoming aware
that something was wrong. Time was limited.

He had done his assigned job; he had collected the old
woman's soul and in his fashion had redeemed his murder
of his mother. He had now done openly what he had done
covertly before. He had shown that even Death himself
would have made the same decision Zane had, long ago.
But had he done his human job? These people were being
denied their most fundamental right: the right to let life

go.

"You know it would be mass murder," he said.

"It would be mercy," the old man said. "My grandchild
is going broke paying for me, because the doctor says she
must—and for what? For this? For eternity in a hospital
ward, too sick to move, let alone enjoy life? Hell can't
be worse than this—and if it is, I'll take it anyway! At
least there maybe I'll have a chance to fight back. Cut
me loose, Death! There's more'njust us patients suffering
here; it's our families, too. They'll cry a while, but soon
they'll heal—and maybe they'll still have a little some-
thing left to live on."

Zane decided. He was already doomed to Hell for his
violations of the standards of his office. What did he have
to lose? He wanted to do what was right, regardless of
the consequence. These were his clients, too.

He went to the service area of the ward. There was
the main circuit box. He yanked down all the handles.

Power died in the ward. Darkness closed in. The ma-
chinery stopped running.

There was an immediate outcry. Hospital personnel
rushed in. Someone groped her way to the circuit box,
but Zane stood before it. The nurse felt a skeletal Jiand
close on hers, pushing her away from the box. She
screamed in sheerest terror.

'That is the horror you have been visiting on these
patients," Zane told her. "Death-in-life."

No one could reverse what he had done, this time.




-7-

CARNIVAL OF GHOSTS

A few days later, once more caught up on his schedule,
Zane paid Luna another call. This time she smiled when
she saw him. "Come in, Zane; I'll be ready in a minute."
"Ready?"

"You're taking me out on a date, remember? Some-
where interesting, so we won't be bored with each other."

Zane had really had more talking in mind, for their last
dialogue had affected him profoundly, but he didn't care
to say that. True, aspects of their talk had been uncom-
fortably candid, and the notion of her paying off the de-
mon still bothered him. But a portion of his self-doubt
and disgust had eased significantly after their last meeting,
and he hoped for similar positive impact in future. After
all, how could he object to anything about her, after what
he had done at the hospital? That had made ugly headlines
on Earth as well as in Purgatory!

He looked at Luna's paintings as he waited for her.
They were beautiful. She was much more of an artist than
he had been. The colors were clear and true, and the auras
realistic. It was hard to believe that a person whose soul
was presently slated for damnation in Hell could do such
excellent work. He was getting to like Luna better—and
that realization caused him to wonder again why the Ma-
gician had wanted the two of them to know each other.
Surely it was not merely because they were compatible
or had a common interest in auras.

153




On APale Horse

154

Luna reappeared—and this time she was stunning. Be-
fore, clothes had converted her most of the way from
neutral to attractive; this time they had completed the
transition. Bright blue topaz glinted from a band placed
in her hair, and green emerald was set in her slippers; the
rest of her between these two made the beauty of the

gems pale.

"How do you like me now?" she inquired archly.
He was cautious. "I thought you didn't really care for
me. Why are you making yourself so lovely?"

She grimaced prettily. "I told you my deepest sins, and
you didn't reject me. That's worth something."

"Because I'm no better!" he replied. "How can I con-
demn you? You were helping your father, while I—"

"Was helping your mother," she finished, completing
the rehearsal of their excuse for being together, which
somehow seemed necessary for each of them. "We're
both well tainted. Anyway, until we know what my father
had in mind, there's no sense in letting it go. I confess
you're not the man I would have chosen on my own—"
"And you aren't the woman I was slated for—"
"Do you think Fate had her fickle finger in this?"
"I know she did. She put me in the office of Death by
arranging the thread of my life to terminate right when
my predecessor was getting careless. I suppose Fate even
steered me past Molly Malone, where I got the gun I used.
Whether Fate would have done this without the behest
of your father, I don't know."

"Never trust a woman," Luna said seriously. "Fate

least of all."

Zane smiled. "I'm a fool. I do trust Fate. She helped
me get started as Death. The truth is, my life was hardly
worth it before. Of course, I know I'm nothing special as

Deaths go."

"I would hate to encounter something special in Deaths,
then," she murmured. "That episode at the hospital—and
I think I recognize your touch in that Miami riot, too."

Zane smiled. "It was no riot. But it illustrated the point.
I let too many clients go free, when I can, and I take some
I'm not supposed to, and I waste time talking to others,
trying to make it easier for them. The Purgatory News

OnAPaleHme            155

Center is having a field day with my exploits. I don't know
what Purgatory did for humor in the news before I came
along."

"You're too well-meaning, and too trusting."

Zane looked at her, and was daunted again by her sheer
beauty. "Surely I can trust you, though!"

"No."

"No? I don't understand."

"Put on your Deathcape," Luna said abruptly.

Zane glanced at her again, startled. "I don't know. This
is personal, and I don't like to mix—"

"I want a date with Death," she insisted. She turned
her face to him and looked him in the eyes and smiled,
and her eyes seemed lambent. He could not deny her,
though he knew it was deliberate artifice.

"My suit is in the car," he said. "But—do you really
want to be seen with Death?"

"No such worry. People don't see Death unless they
are clients."

Not entirely true, but close enough. Zane proffered her
his arm, and they walked out to the Deathmobile.

The night was dark, with a drizzle threatening. He
fetched his cape and gloves and shoes from the car and
donned them.

"Now you are truly elegant," Luna said. "I never re-
alized before how handsome a well-dressed skeleton could
be. Kiss me, Death."

"But my face is not—"

She leaned into him and kissed his lips. "Oh. you're
right!" she exclaimed after a moment. "A bare skull! Alas,
poor Yorick, I kissed him. An infinite jest!" She brushed
off her mouth with one hand as if removing sand.

"Death is no pleasant date to most people," Zane said,
disturbed by her attitude. What was motivating her? "You
should see the mail I get."

She smiled as if this were a pleasant invitation. "Yes,
let's see your mail. Do you actually answer it?"

"Yes," he said, embarrassed. "It seems only right. No
one seeks out Death, in any manner, without good rea-
son."




156

On A Pale Horse

On A Pale Horse

157

"That's touching. You are a decent man. Show me a

letter."

Zane reached into the dash compartment and brought
out a letter, turning on the interior light of the car so they
could read it. It was written in a rather neat juvenile script;

it normally took many years for a person to reduce his
script to adult illegibility. Children tended to write letters
more than adults—at least they did to his office—for what
reason he couldn't quite fathom. Maybe it was because
their beliefs were more literal.

Dear Death, he read. Every night Mommy makes me
say my prayers, and thats okay I guess, but they scare
me. I hafta say If I Should Die Before I Wake I Pray The
Lord My Soul To Take. Now Im afraid to go to sleep. I
lie awake most of the night and then I daze out in school
and Im flunking something and please Death I dont want
to die right now. Is it okay if I sleep a little at night without
having to die? Love Ginny.

"Suddenly I see what you mean," Luna said. "That's
awful. That poor little girl—she thinks—"

"Yes. When I first read that letter, it made me so angry
I broke out in a sweat. That prayer seems to equate sleep
with death. No wonder she's afraid. How many children
expect to die before they wake—because of that sinister
message put in their minds? I would never do that to any

child of mine!"

"She's pretty literate, but she hasn't mastered the
apostrophe yet," Luna remarked. "It must have been an
act of real courage to tackle the source, of her fear like
that! Zane, you must answer this letter right now."

"What can I say to her? I can't promise not to take
her; she might appear on my schedule tomorrow."

"But you can reassure her that death has nothing to
do with sleep." Luna brightened. "Let's do it now. You

can phone her!"

Zane was uncertain. "She would think it was a cruel
joke. Who ever heard of Death telephoning people?"

"Who ever heard of Death answering letters? I gather
your predecessor didn't. She's a child, Zane! She'll be-
lieve. A child won't be surprised by a phone call from an
Incarnation. That's the way children's minds work, bless

them." She hauled him back to her house and fetched the
telephone and proffered it to him.

He sighed. Maybe this was the best way. He accepted
the phone and called the Information operator for Ginny's
city of Los Angeles, using the child's address to run down
the number. Soon the phone was ringing. Zane felt sud-
denly nervous.

"Yes?" It was obviously the girl's mother.

"Let me speak with Ginny, please."

"But she's asleep!" Actually, it was not as late in Los
Angeles as in Kilvarough, but children retired earlier than
adults.

"She is not asleep," Zane said, his quick ire rising.
"She is lying awake in the darkened room, terrified that
if she sleeps, she will die before she wakes. Do not make
her say that prayer any more. That's not the way God
takes souls."

"Who are you?" the woman asked sharply. "If this is
an obscene call—"

"I am Death."

"What?"

Of course she couldn't assimilate that. "Please fetch
Ginny now."

Flustered by something strange, the woman backed
off. "I'll see if she's awake. But if you say anything to
upset her—"

"Fetch her," Zane repeated wearily. How much dam-
age was done by well-meaning people!

In a moment the child answered. "Ginny speaking,"
she said politely. "Gee, I never got a phone call from a
strange man before!"

"I am Death," Zane said carefully. "I received your
letter."

"Oh!" she cried, whether in joy or fear he could not
tell.

"Ginny, I do not think I will come for you soon. You
have your life ahead of you. But if I do come, I promise
to wake you first. I will not take you in your sleep."

Her voice was tremulous. "Gee—you mean it? Really?"

"Really. You will not die before you wake." That much
of a promise it was within his province to make. He would




158

0» A Pale Horse

On A Pale Horse

159

issue a memo to Purgatory to make sure that he personally
was summoned for her case, though she would surely be
bound directly for Heaven with very little evil on her soul,
so that he could honor that commitment.

"You mean it?" she repeated breathlessly. "Cross your
heart and hope to—" She paused, aware of the incongru-
ity.

"Cross my heart, Ginny. Sleep in peace."
"Gee, thanks, Death!" she exclaimed. Then she thought
of her manners. "It's not that I want to hurt your feelings

or anything, but—"

"But you don't want to meet me yet," Zane finished,
smiling, as people were prone to do even when they knew
they could not be seen. "I understand. Few people care
to do business with me, or even to think about me."

"Oh, it's all right by day, in play," she said brightly.
"Day is different. We don't sleep then. We talk about you
when we jump rope."

"You do? What do you say?"

"Doctor, Doctor—will I die? Yes, my child, and so will
I! It keeps the beat, you know!"

"That's nice," Zane said, taken aback. "Farewell,

Ginny."

"Bye, Death," she said, and hung up.
"Now doesn't that feel better?" Luna asked, her eyes

shining.

"Yes!" Zane agreed. "It makes me glad to do my job,

this one time."

"If more people knew Death personally, fewer people

would fear him."

"I would like that. What a world it would be if there

were no fear of death!"

"Now we can go on our date," she said. "There's no
other way I would have preferred to start it."

They returned to the Deathmobile. "Where did you
have in mind to go?" he asked.

"I don't know. It's enough just to ride with Death."

Zane was not entirely satisfied with this, but let it be.
He started the car and drove slowly through the drizzle.

In the center of town, the headlights picked out a figure

with a wheelbarrow. Zane slowed. "There's Molly Ma-
lone," he said. "The ghost of Kilvarough."

"Oh, I've never met her!" Luna exclaimed. "Let's give
her a ride!"

"Give a ghost a ride? That's not—"
"How will we know, if we don't offer?"
Zane stopped the car and got out. "Molly!" he called.
The ghost waved her hand. "You can't take me. Death,"
she cried gaily. "I'm already dead!"

"I'm not on business," he said. "My watch is stopped.
We met before I assumed the office. In fact, I think you
were my omen, for I left my former life soon after I

met you." He drew away his hood so she could see his
face.

"Oh, yes—you saved me from getting robbed or worse,"

she said, recognizing him. "You were so nice. I'm sorry
I signaled your end."

"Signaled my end?"

"Didn't you know? Anyone I interact with is doomed
to die within a month."

"Oh, yes, I realized that, later. But as you see, I didn't
really die."

"Well, you had a date with Death. That's usually the
same thing."

Luna got out of the car. "Hello, Molly Malone," she
called.

Zane froze. "Oh, no! You—Luna—"

"I can't say I like it," Molly said. "But I remind myself
that I don't cause the death, I merely signal it. So really,
it's providing fair warning—"

"But if you interact with Luna—"

Molly showed concern. "Oh, I thought she was one of
your clients. You mean she's a friend?"

"A friend on a date with me."

"Oh, then it's already been fulfilled. The date with
Death."

"Of course," Zane agreed, relieved. "I misread the
signal."

"No, you didn't," Luna said.

Zane turned to her with appalled surmise.

"Don't look so horrified, Zane," Luna said. "I knew I




160            On A Pale Horse

was going to die. There are a dozen good Deathstones in

my house."

"You never told me I" Zane protested.

She shrugged. "I only learned of it since our last date.
Suddenly the stones were signaling. I took a stiff dose of
cheer." She indicated the gems in her headband. "Oth-
erwise I would not be very good company at the moment."

"You are using enchantment—to make yourself good
company for me?" Zane asked rhetorically. "I would never

have asked you to—"

"Why do you think I wanted a date with Death? If I'm
lucky, maybe you will collect my soul personally, so I
won't sink to Hell alone." She turned back to the ghost.
"It must be very dull for you, Molly, day after day with
no customers. Why don't you take a ride with us?"

"That's very nice of you," the ghost said. "Where are

you going?"

"We hadn't decided. We're having a date."

"He told me. Then you don't need me along. I have
not entirely forgotten the ways of life."

"It's not that intimate. Yet. Where would you rec-
ommend we go?"

"If you really don't mind my company, I could guide
you to the Carnival of Ghosts. Since you're both marked
in one way or another by Death, you're eligible to attend."

"That sounds nice," Luna said. She nudged Zane.

"What do you think?"

Zane came out of his stasis. "You're going to die—

within the month! Did your father know?"

"He surely did," Luna said. "Of course he thought I
was destined for Heaven. But I have as much as two
fortnights and might as well make the most of them. Let's

go to the carnival."

"The carnival," Zane agreed numbly.

They loaded Molly's wheelbarrow into the limousine's
capacious trunk, then got into the passenger compart-
ment. There was room for three in the front seat, though
Molly's presence moved Luna pleasantly snug against

Zane's hip.

"Straight ahead two blocks," the ghost directed. "Then

turn left and close your eyes. Mortis knows what to do."

On A Pale Horse             161

It seemed the Deathsteed had a good reputation in the
Afterlife. Zane followed directions, not really caring
whether they crashed. Luna fated to die—when he was
just getting to appreciate her! What sort of doom was
stalking him, even after he had assumed the office of
Death? He had been appalled at the way so many people
died; now his feeling intensified. Luna was not merely
another person. She was a personal acquaintance, and
perhaps more. Surely more!

"Come on, enjoy the evening," Luna said. "Do not
struggle with the inevitable, wasting what time we have
remaining."

She had learned she was to die—so she had prettied
herself up for him. In one sense, this was utter foolish-
ness, for she surely had better things to do in her last
hours. But in another way, it was very flattering, for she
had chosen to do what she chose to do—with him. He
felt a warm rush of feeling, composed partly of appreci-
ation and partly of burgeoning grief. He could love her,
he realized; she was the kind of woman he had longed
for all his life, without ever realizing it. What had Angelica
ever been, after all, but the dream of a moment? Luna
was the reality. Beauty, intelligence, artistry, courage—
but what use was any of it if she died?

She was right; they must not waste what time re-
mained. If she wanted to be happy, to celebrate—to cel-
ebrate whaH—the least he could do was help her do it.
"We shall make a night of it," he agreed, taking the left
turn. Then they all closed their eyes.

There was no crash. "Here it is," Molly Malone an-
nounced.

Zane looked. They were approaching a complex of
tents, with colorful banners flying. Loud, off-key music
wafted out. People crowded around. It was a carnival, all
right.

"These people look alive," Zane remarked.
"To the dead, the dead look alive," Molly said. "But

the two of you are the only living creatures here. Don't

let that spoil your pleasure."

"We won't," Luna said. "I have always liked ghosts."
Molly approached the ticket seller. "These are my




162 On A Pale Horse

guests from the land of the living," she said. "Death did
me a favor not long ago, and the woman will save the
world from Satan in twenty years. Give them free passes."

"Those are good credentials," the ticket seller agreed,
handing out the passes.

They passed through the old-fashioned stile and en-
tered a broad concourse. Circus-type sideshows and
knickknack concession stands lined either side. "Come
on," Molly said enthusiastically. "The best thing to start
with is the historical tour."

Luna took Zane's hand possessively as they both suf-
fered themselves to be led to the embarcation station for
the historical tour. Soon the three of them were ensconced
in an open car on narrow tracks. It began to move under
its own guidance, carrying them through a scintillating
curtain.

Suddenly they were in a gloomy cave. "Lascoux," Molly
announced. She obviously had been here many times be-
fore. "The famous cave paintings." As she spoke, the cave
illuminated, as if from a flickering torch, and the walls
glowed with assorted wild animals that seemed almost
alive despite being crudely drawn. "It's the glimmering
light," Molly explained. "It changes what we see, so it is
as if the paintings live. That is the genius of these artists."

"Is the genius?" Zane asked. "Isn't this a replica?"

"Oh, no!" Molly protested. "This is the real cave, circa
14000 B.C. We are the ghosts."

"Literal time travel being problematical," Luna said,
nudging him. Zane put his arm about her shoulders. She
might be using spellstones to lighten her mood, but she
was still herself. "Ghosts can go where they want, without
paradox."

"See, there is the artist painting the first unicorn,"
Molly said brightly.

Zane looked. He saw a seemingly vast panoply of
crudely sketched animals all along the wall. Most of them
were equine or bovine, some overlapping other figures.
Yet in the flame of the sandstone lamp, whose crude wick
sent out almost as much smoke as light, these figures
seemed to be a three-dimensional herd, the overlapping
sketches showing not carelessness but the dimension of

OnAPoleHwst!             163

time. This stag would soon give place to that horse; the
double picture showed that clearly enough. This was the

great Hall of Bulls; Zane remembered it now from former
studies.

The unicorn representation was not apt. It had an enor-
mously sagging belly that almost touched the ground, a
severely truncated tail, several huge, hollow spots, and
two long, straight homs. "That's no unicorn," he pro-
tested. "It's a bicorn."

"We think they evolved into the single horn," Molly
explained. "The unicorn must have had both horses and
horned creatures as ancestors, and the first crossbreeds
would have seemed crude by modem standards. After all,
the human figures depicted in these caves are far more
primitive than those of the animals; our species has evolved

much more rapidly in the last fifteen thousand years or
so."

"I suppose so," Zane agreed, surprised at the ghost's
knowledge. But of course Molly must have taken this tour
many times before, and learned all she wished. He was

beginning to understand what ghosts did with their free
time.

"Primitive art fascinates me," Luna said, her gray eyes
flickering orange in the lamplight. She was especially lovely ,
here, somehow enhanced by the primitive surroundings.
"All true art stems from the depths of the unconscious
mind. The men of these caves were close to the natural
world and they knew, perhaps better than we do, how to
relate to its magic. We can no longer summon prey for
the kill by painting its likeness on a wall; we have to use
technological weapons or highly refined spells. To prim-
itive man, science and magic were one—and he made
them work as one. Only recently have we begun to re-
discover the principle of aura that our ancestors under-
stood intuitively. The whole cave is suffused with that
awareness."

"Yes," Zane agreed, seeing it now. "I use a camera,
you use paints. They used entire caves. The spirits of
these animals are still here,"

"No, we are there," Molly reminded him. "Today the
caves of Lascoux, Altamira, Perch-Merle, and the rest




On. A Pale Horse

164

are tourist traps with no soul remaining. We ghosts are
trying to preserve the true spirits, but it isn't easy."

"Of course it isn't easy," Luna said. "But you must
keep up the excellent work."

The cart passed through a wall, out of the cave, and
into a man-made labyrinth. "The maze of the Minotaur,
in old Crete," Molly said. "This is our earliest historical
reference to the bull-man."

"I thought you were an illiterate peasant girl," Zane
said. "You don't sound that way."

"Oh, I can't read or anything," Molly said. "It is very
hard to learn fundamental skills like that after death. I
just sell shellfish; it's the one thing I do well. But I've
been dead much longer than I lived, and I have had the
chance to educate myself that I lacked in life. I wasn't
stupid when I lived, just ignorant. There's a lot to learn,
simply by watching the follies of the living. See, there's
the Minotaur now."

Indeed, the bull-man was pacing about his central
chamber, lifting his horns and sniffing the air suspiciously,
as if becoming aware of the intruding party. "I don't sup-
pose you want the gossip about how he was conceived,"
Molly said. "How the Queen Pasiphae of Crete had a
passion for the Bull from the Sea, who was really a sort
of masculine demon, but the Bull wasn't interested in her,
so she—"

"We know the story," Luna said curtly. Zane could
understand why she did not want to discuss the matter
of lovely women making love to demons.

Then they were out of the maze and rolling along a
Roman highway. "Are you enjoying this?" Zane asked in
Luna's ear.

"I haven't been on a date-in a long time," she answered
obliquely. "Most men shun association with the family of
a Black Magician."

"Their loss," he said, drawing her in more closely. She
melted against him, and it was very pleasant.

"How can you save the world from Satan in twenty
years if you are doomed to die within a month?" Zane
asked, remembering something the ghost had said.

"Maybe I can influence Satan in Hell," she suggested.

OnA Pale Horse             165

"I don't want you in Hell!" he protested. "I don't want
you dead at all."

"We must all die," Molly said. "What hurts is dying
out of turn." She was, of course, in a position to know.

Zane pondered that, as Luna snuggled most pleasantly
close. Those were the clients he had trouble with, intel-
lectually and emotionally—the ones who were dying early
because of accident or misunderstanding or plain bad luck.
A game that played itself out and was finished was one
thing; its score was known. But one that was interrupted
before its course was run was a tragedy. Maybe he was
abusing his office by talking a potential suicide out of it,
or rescuing a drowning man, while facilitating the demise
of an old and worn-out person, yet that was the way he
had to play it. He had precious little of a worthwhile
nature to distinguish himself, but it was important to care
about people.

"Penny for your thoughts," Luna murmured as they
cruised through a medieval Chinese city. Zane was sure
each setting on this tour was a highly significant historical
event, and Molly was happily describing it all, but some-
how he wasn't interested at the moment.

"I don't want you dying out of turn," he whispered.
"You're a lot better woman than I deserve, and if—"

"Despite my affair with the demon?" she asked.

Why did she have to remind him of that? "To Hell with
the demon!" he exploded.

"Which is exactly where he went," she agreed. "I had
to tell you, or any relationship we might have would be
a lie. I am unclean, Death, and I will never be clean again,
and you must know—"

"We've been over this before!" he cried. "You did
something horrible to help your father—as I did to help
my mother. How can I condemn you for that?" Yet of
course he had condemned her, emotionally; he had not
been able to avoid it. The notion of some gross demon
from Hell sating himself upon her body—

"What did you two do that was so horrible?" Molly
asked.

"She gave her body to a demon, to learn the magic
that might help her father," Zane said.




On A Pale Horse

166

"And he used a penny curse to make the machinery
that was keeping his mother alive against her will mal-
function," Luna said.

"I guess those were sins," Molly agreed doubtfully. "I
think sometimes you just have to sin in order to do the
right thing."

"If I could have helped my father with a penny curse,
I'd have done it," Luna said.

"And if I had to romance a demoness to spare my
mother her pain, I'd have done it," Zane said.

"Some of those demonesses are mighty sexy," Molly
said. "They say there's no sex like succubus-sex. Of
course, I wouldn't know."

"That does sound interesting," Zane said.

Luna reached up, caught hold of one of his ears, and
drew his face down to meet hers. "Try this first," she

said.

The kiss was electrifying. She had forgiven him his
prior reaction and was giving him her emotion. It was a
wonderful gift.

"And this is Tours," Molly said, gesturing to a new
scene beyond the cart. Zane had no idea how many im-
portant historical scenes he had missed. "Where the French
halted the advance of the Moors, and Europe was saved
for the Europeans."

"Good for the Europeans," Luna said, resting her head
against Zane's neck. Her topaz joy stones affected him as
they touched his skin, suffusing him with rare joy. Or
maybe it was just Luna's touch that did it.

Still he cursed inwardly. He had foolishly lost an ideal
romance and now had another developing in its place—
but this one would end within a month. That might be the
reason the first Lovestone had not pointed him at Luna,
who in certain respects was a better woman than
Angelica. He had never gotten to know Angelica, but was
judging her on the basis of his expectations. Luna was a
poorer match because she would not live long. The Love-
stone did not care about details; it merely matched up the
greatest good for the longest period. That was the trouble
with inanimate magic; it left so much untold.

Yet he realized that this misfortune had a perverse

On A Pale Horse            167

enchantment. He had been somewhat diffident about ap-
proaching Luna, for he wasn't sure whether Death should
date a mortal woman, or whether a Magician's daughter
would have anything to do with the likes of him when not
compelled by magic, or how he felt about a person who
had been used by a minion of Hell. Now, with the aware-
ness of her mortality, he knew such diffidence could not
be afforded. Whatever she could be to him, she had to
be now—for there would be no tomorrow.

"But you could disassociate immediately, sparing
yourself sorrow," she pointed out.

"No, that would be like a rat leaving a sinking ship."
Then he did a mental double take. "How did you know
what I was thinking?"

"I inherited more than Truthstones and Lovestones
and Deathstones," she said teasingly. "The right spell-
stones can enable a person to do anything, even read
minds."

"But you aren't using black magic now, because
it—"

"Brings me closer to the demon," she finished for him.
"You're right—I'm not using magic. I merely have a pretty
good notion of the nature of your thinking."

"How? You don't know me that well yet."

"Did you desert your mother when she needed your
help?"

"That's different—" He paused, reconsidering. "No, I
guess it isn't. I have much evil on my soul, but I don't
desert sinking ships."

"So you are a mixed person, with good as well as evil,
as I am. I am selfish to come to you in this fashion, when
I did not do so before."

"Yes, you did. You offered—"

"My body. The least valuable aspect of me. Now I
offer more."

"I'll take it."

"This self-serving manner of coming to you will further
burden my soul. But since my father left, there has been
a void in my life that even the most potent equilibrium
magic does not entirely abate. I had thought I was pre-
pared, for I knew he was destined to die, but the shock




168            On A Pale Horse

of the actuality was worse than I anticipated." She paused,
examining her feeling. "There was a presence that perhaps
I took somewhat for granted. Now there is not. I feel
unbalanced, falling into the gap that was the support my
father provided. How does one counter the emptiness?"

"Maybe some other support—"

"And you are the closest man for me to lean on. I want
to enjoy my remaining time in life before it is gone forever.
Before I must go to the demon."                   ,

"The demon still lurks for you?" Zane asked, dis-
mayed. He had thought that was over.

"Yes. But he can't reach me in life unless I summon
him, and that I will never again do. But when I go to Hell,
I will be in his power forever."

"You must not go to Hell!" he protested. "You must
improve your balance so you will go to Heaven!"

"In less than a month?" She shook her head sadly. "I
have stones that measure good and evil, even as you do,
and some of them operate by white magic, so I can use
them as I wish, though they do not work well for me. I
know my score. I am too deep in debt to Satan to escape

at this point."

"There has to be a way! You can do a lot of good,
contribute to worthy charities, think angelic thoughts—"

She shook her head. "You know better. Death. Good
deeds done for such a purely selfish reason do not count.
I had to redress my evil before I learned I was about to
die. Now it is too late."

"What—what is to be the cause of your death?" Zane
asked, fearing the answer.

"I don't know. I'm not ill, and I'm not accident-prone.
Maybe someone is going to murder me."

"Not if I can help it," Zane muttered grimly. He re-
solved, as soon as this date with Luna was over, to go to
Purgatory and look up the relevant records. If he could
find out what was slated to kill her, he might arrange to
block it. He already knew that a scheduled demise was
not necessarily immutable; he had changed several such
schedules himself. Meanwhile, if she stayed at home, her
invisible moon moth should protect her well.

"Pearl Harbor!" Molly said. "See the airplanes! They

On A Pale Horse

169

caught the defenders with their spells down. That launched
the United States of America into World War Two."

Zane wasn't sure how the cart had traveled all the way
across the great Pacific Ocean to this island, but remem-
bered it was a ghost vehicle not subject to the normal
laws of physics.

Already the cart was moving on to the next display.
"The preemptive nuclear strike that launches World War
Three," Molly said with a certain zest. "This one gener-
ates a lot of ghosts, believe me!" And it was as if they
trundled through the heart of the sun, with blinding light
everywhere.

"World War Three?" Luna asked. "That hasn't hap-
pened yet!"

"We ghosts aren't limited by time the way living folk
are," Molly explained. "We see everything."

"When is World War Three happening?" Zane asked
somewhat nervously.

"You'd have to ask Mars that; he's been working on
it for a long time, his crowning achievement. I think the
time is not precisely fixed, because the Etemals can't
agree. Satan wants it when the balance of evil favors him;

God is holding out for His own side. Right now the balance
is so close they can't be certain where the majority of
now-living folk would go if all their souls were released
today. So neither side dares provoke the final war. But
if any significant shift occurs, either way—"

"The world is in balance, like an individual human
soul?" Zane asked. "That's some situation!"

"Is that all God or Satan cares about the world?" Luna
demanded. "Which one gets the most souls when it ends?"

"That's the way it seems to us," Molly said. "Of course,
we're only ghosts, who aren't privy to the motives of the
Eternals. But it does stand to reason that whoever gets
the most souls has the most power. Souls are wealth in
the region where gold can't go."

"It can't be that way," Zane said, troubled. "Maybe
Satan is soul-grubbing, but God has to want the genuine
welfare of man."

"Then how come God never helps man directly?" Molly
demanded. "Satan has minions all over, sowing dissen-




170 OnA Pale Horse

sion, making mischief, publishing commercials for Hell.
God remains aloof.".

"God is honoring the Covenant," Luna said. "Satan is
cheating. There should not be any supernatural interfer-
ence. Man is supposed to make his own destiny, by the
type of life he lives when given free will."

"If you believe that," Molly said, the accent of the
gutter where she had been raised in life coming through
more strongly, "you must also believe the Tooth Fairy is
queer."

Luna was startled. "That's a serious charge."

The ghost laughed. "See? You argue the case!"

The cart passed through an invisible curtain and
emerged at the carnival grounds. "That was quite a tour,"
Zane said politely, though he had not paid it much atten-
tion.

"That's just the beginning!" Molly said, hauling them
off to the ghostly, ghastly Horror House. The experience
was, of course, awful, for the ghosts really knew how to
horrify mortal people, but Luna took advantage of the
darkness to sneak in a passionate kiss that horrified the
ghosts. At least Zane thought it was Luna.

They had ghostly cotton candy and visited the Dino-
saur Petting Zoo—the larger carnivores were muzzled,
which annoyed them visibly—and tried to win a valuable
invisible doll by catching a smoke ring on a glass lance.
It didn't work; the ring shattered and the lance puffed
away as vapor. They concluded with the Tunnel of Love—
and here Molly had to let them go alone, for the boat held
only two.

By this time Zane was quite satisfied to be alone with
Luna. Maybe it was the hypnotic effect of the constant
noise and color of the carnival, or the knowledge of her
brief time remaining, or that she was soft and pretty—for
whatever reason, he found himself dizzy with delight at
her propinquity, and as close to love as he had ever been.
They drifted down the calm channel of water; as the quiet
darkness closed in, they held hands and kissed again, and
that was more pleasant than anything else he might have
contemplated with any other woman. Then, it seemed like

On A Pale Horse             ^ 77

only half a moment later, they were emerging from the
long tunnel, the journey over.

It was enough. They unloaded Molly Malone's wheel-
barrow from the car and got in for the drive back to
Kilvarough. It had been a good date




On A Pale Horse             173




GREEN MOTHER

A light was flashing on the dash. That meant Mortis had
something to tell Death. "Brace yourself," Zane told Luna.
"We're about to be on the Deathhorse."

"I love horses," she said. "I'm a girl at heart."
He pressed the button, and they were on the stallion,
Luna sitting behind him. "What is it?" Zane asked. "My
countdown is turned off; I'm pretty well caught up on my
backlist, and I don't begrudge my upcoming clients a few
more hours of life."

The horse neighed urgently and swished his tail.
"Idiot—turn on your translator," Luna murmured.
Zane hastily set the language gem in his left ear. It was
uncomfortable to wear continuously, as he had never got-
ten his ear pierced so he could use it as an earring, and
he normally removed it during off hours. He hadn't re-
alized it could be used to talk to Mortis!

"Nature summons you," the neigh-voice said.
"I can wait till I get home," Zane muttered, conscious

of Luna's presence.

"The Incarnation Nature," the horse clarified. "Gaea.
She says to dally only long enough to pick up one soul."

"Nature-the-person? If she wants to talk to me, why
doesn't she come herself, as the other Incarnations have?"

"She is the Green Mother," Mortis neighed, and there
was an undertone of equine respect. "She governs all
living creatures. Do not annoy her. Death."

"You had better go," Luna said. "I don't know which
of you Incarnations has the most power, but Nature surely
is not to be trifled with. You can drop me off anywhere
near Kilvarough, and—"

"Do not go near Kilvarough!" Mortis warned. "Operate
from the ghost world."

"But I can't leave Luna among the ghosts!" Zane pro-
tested.

"Bring her."

"I'd like that," Luna said. "Is it permitted?"

"I'll do it regardless," Zane decided. "I'm not going to
leave you in any strange place unprotected." He turned
on the Deathwatch countdown. It showed nine minutes.
He oriented on the client, using the special gems of his
bracelet. He nudged Mortis, aiming the stallion in the right
direction. "Take us there," he directed.

The horse leaped away from the carnival. Clouds wafted
by, and the cosmos was inchoate. "Ooo, lovely!" Luna
breathed, hugging Zane from behind.

Then Mortis landed in a great dance hall in the city of
San Diego. Magic clothed the walls with royal trappings
and made the floor resemble solid silver. It did not at all
look like a place of death.

"So this is what your job is like," Luna murmured.
"You must enjoy it well."

"It varies," Zane said. "Parts of it are not fun."

They dismounted, and Mortis stepped into the back-
ground. No one noticed that he was a horse, for he was
protected by the magic of his own office.

The watch showed four minutes. Zane went to the spot
indicated by the gems. It was a section of the dance floor.
Dancers crossed it and moved on, doing the Squirm; he
could not tell who was fated to be there when the time
came.

There were two empty seats beside a young woman
who was not dancing. Zane and Luna took them.

Two young men walked along the edge of the dance
floor, engaged in animated conversation or moderate de-
bate. They halted abruptly near Zane. "Well, then, let's
try it!" one exclaimed. "Random selection, yours against
mine."




174

On A Pale Horse

OnAPule Horse

175

"Done!" the other agreed. "Winner takes them both.

A disinterested judge."

The first turned to a seated youth who was drinking a
beverage from a bottle. "Do you know how to play a

guitar?"

The youth laughed. He set down his bottle and stifled
a burp. "Me? I'm tone deaf! I can't even play a triangle!"

"He'll do," the second man said. He turned to Luna.
"Do you dance well, miss?"

"Excellently," Luna said.

"No good." The man focused on the other girl. "Do

you dance well?"

"No," the girl said shyly. "I've got two left feet. I only

come to watch the others dance."

"She'll do," the first man said.

"Do for what?" Luna asked, annoyed about being
passed over for whatever it was.

"And you can be the judge," the second man said to

her.

Zane looked at his watch. The countdown timer showed
two minutes. Who was going to die here, and how?

The first young man produced a nondescript guitar and
pushed it into the hands of the tone-deaf lad. "When I
give the signal, play."

"But I told you I can't—"

"Precisely. It's an excellent test."

The second man brought out a pair of dancing slippers.
"Put these on and dance," he said to the left-footed girl.

Suddenly Zane had an awful notion. "Luna!" he cried.
"Get out of here! It may be your death we're here for!"
The watch showed ninety seconds,

"Don't be silly," she said, "You brought me here. That
wouldn't have been necessary if I were the client. You
could simply have pushed me off the horse in mid-air.
Anyway, I'm not in balance; I can make it to Hell without
your assistance. I'm not on your calendar."

Zane had to admit that was true. The death belonged
to someone else. But to whom?

"Begin!" the first man ordered.

The youth put his fingers to the strings with a what-

can-I-lose smirk—and played an excellent chord. "See?
Pure junk," he said.

"Not so," Luna told him. "That sounded nice."

Astonished, he played again, watching his hands—and
a fine melody commenced. His left fingers flew along the
frets, while his right hand strummed out an authoritative
tune. The hands seemed to possess lives of their own.

The left-footed girl stood up, wearing the slippers.
"You'll see," she said. "I'm no good at all." Her right leg
did look slightly deformed, perhaps by some childhood
injury; it was unlikely she could move it well.

She began to dance—and her feet flashed like those of
a ballerina. Her mouth dropped open. "The slippers!" she
cried. "Magic!"

Both young men turned to Luna. "Now you watch and
listen, beautiful," the first one said. "Tell us which is
better—the music or the dancing."

Luna smiled. "I shall. I'm in the arts myself; I can give
an informed opinion, though these are two different forms
of expression."

The youth played the magic guitar and the girl danced
in the magic slippers so well that soon the other dancers
paused to listen and watch. Others started to dance to
the new music. But none danced as well as the left-footed
girl, who fairly flew about the floor, kicking her legs with
pretty flourishes and throwing herself into dazzling spins.
She had not been a really attractive girl when seated, but
now her cleverness of foot lent her a special allure. Phys-
ical beauty, Zane realized as he watched, was not entirely
in the body; it was in the way the body was moved.

The girl's face became flushed. She panted. "Enough!"
she cried breathlessly. "I'm not used to this!" But the
newly formed audience was clapping, urging her on, and
the guitar was sounding veritable panoramas of notes,
almost visibly filling the dance hall. These were two ex-
cellent magic items!

Then Zane saw that the youth was no longer smiling.
His fingers were raw and starting to bleed, for they were
soft, not calloused in the manner of experienced players.
But he could not stop playing. The magic compelled him.
And the girl—




176

On A Pale Horse

On A Pale Horse

177

The watch touched zero on the countdown. The girl

screamed and collapsed.

Now Zane understood. The magic articles did not con-
sider human limitations. They did not care if a person
flayed his fingers playing, or if an out-of-condition girl
exercised herself into heart failure. They simply com-
pelled performance.

Zane rose and went to the girl, experiencing a certain
guilty relief that the client had not, after all, been Luna.
Of course he should have realized what was about to
happen and prevented the left-footed girl from donning
the terrible slippers. He could have saved her life, instead
of merely watching her die.

Regretfully, he took the girl's soul and turned away
from the body. The other dancers were standing aghast
at the sudden tragedy. Luna, too, was horrified. "I should
have realized—" she said, her eyes fixed on the now-still
feet of the girl. "I've seen enough magic to know the peril
inherent in second-class enchantment! You came here on

business—"

"And if you had donned those slippers—" Zane began.
"That, too! I'm a Magician's daughter; I know the type

of—but I just wasn't thinking."

Mortis approached, and they mounted. No one else

noticed. The contest between guitar and slippers had no

victor, only a loser.

"On to Nature, Deathsteed," Zane directed, stopping
his timer again. "I guess you know the route."

Mortis did. He leaped out of the dance hall and into

the sky.

"I know death is a necessary part of life," Luna said
behind Zane. "I will experience it all too soon myself.
But somehow it cuts more sharply when you see it per-
sonally—when you actually participate—"

"Yes." How well he knew!

"I wish I hadn't agreed to judge that contest. That girl

might be alive now!"

"No, she was slated to die. You played no actual part.
More correctly, you played a part that someone else would
have; your action changed nothing."

"She was so innocent!"

"She was fifty percent evil. It is not safe to assume
that the handicapped are free of sin; they vary exactly
the way unhandicapped people do. I don't know what
brought her to the point of equilibrium, but—"

"Oh, you know what I mean! She may have done evil
in her life, as we all have, but she didn't deserve to die
so cruelly. Worked to death in one minute by enchanted
slippers. Her heart must have burst."

Zane did not answer. He agreed with her. He had in-
creasing objections to the system of judgments and ter-
minations that prevailed.

"I wish I knew the meaning of it all," Luna said.
"Those two men must have known their artifacts were
dangerous," Zane muttered. "That's why they tested them
on ignorant bystanders. Magic in the hands of amateurs
can be deadly."

The horse drew up to the abode of Nature. It was a
broad, green forest with a road entering it. A low, sleek,
open car was parked at the tunnellike aperture.

Mortis halted. "You're not invited?" Zane asked the
horse. "Well, I suppose you can graze here." The meadow
before the forest was lush. "Luna and I can drive that car
in; I presume that's what it's for."

But the car turned out to be a single-seater; no room
for Luna. "I think Nature wants a private meeting," Luna
said. "I'll wait here, too,"

"If she'd given me time to take you home—" Zane
said, irritated.

"Mother Nature has her own ways—as do we all."
Zane wasn't satisfied, but had to leave her. "Keep an
eye on her. Mortis," he called, and the pale horse neighed
agreement. Zane doubted any natural force would threaten
Luna while the Deathsteed watched.

"Now don't go looking for trouble with that woman,"
Luna cautioned him. "Remember, you are not dealing
with an ordinary person."

Did his ire show so clearly? Zane wrapped his cloak
about him and climbed into the little car. He glanced
back at Luna, standing there in the field, all slender and
lovely, her jewels gleaming at head and toe, a dream of




178

On A Pale Horse

On A Pule Horse

179

a woman. Damn Nature, to take him away from her,
even briefly!

The car controls were standard. He started the motor,
put the vehicle in gear, and followed the asphalt road into
the forest. The trees closed in overhead, forming a living
canopy. It was a pleasant drive.

Ahead, he spied an intersection. The light was poor
because of the shade, so he slowed. It was well he did
so, for there was a pedestrian walking by the side of the
road, wearing a dark cape that rendered him almost in-
visible. It would have been all too easy to hit that careless

walker.

Just as Zane came up to the pedestrian, a cyclist shot
out of the intersection and swerved to pass the walking
man. This carried the cyclist directly into Zane's path.
He tromped on the brake pedal and screeched to a stop
just in time. "You idiot!" he swore at the cyclist, who
was blithely pedaling ahead, unconcerned by the close
call. "You could have caused a fatal collision!" He was
also not pleased with the pedestrian, who had not paid
attention to his surroundings and had taken no evasive
action. But he could not dally here; he had an appoint-
ment with Nature that he wanted to get out .of the way
so he could return to Luna. He drove on.

The road abruptly dead-ended at a bog contained by
an embankment. Zane parked, got out, and leaned over
the rim of the bog to touch its surface. Immediately a
spot of mud boiled up, spitting out a gobbet of yellow
goop that looked hot and smelled terrible. Zane jerked
his hand away, though his Deathglove would have pro-
tected his fingers. The old instincts of life remained with

him.

How was he to cross this morass? For he could see,
now, the spire of a distant castle, directly across the bog.
Nature guarded her residence well! It occurred to him
that this was some sort of a test or challenge; no ordinary
person could get through, but an Incarnation could. He
had to prove which kind he was. After that, he might have
something to say to the Green Mother. She had inter-
rupted what had become an important date before it could
become more important yet, and now was wasting his

time with the riddle of how to approach her. It might not
be wise for the ordinary person to trifle with Nature—
but neither was it healthy to tempt Death.

But first he had to reach her. She had neatly deprived
him of his steed, who could readily have handled this
obstruction. How could he cross without miring himself
in hot mud?

He studied the near shore of the bog. Perched just
beside the retaining wall was a small building, perhaps an
outhouse. That would figure; naturally Nature would pro-
vide for a call of nature. He wasn't laughing.

No, now he saw that it more closely resembled a stor-
age shed. What would be stored therein? He strode over
to it and flung open its door, expecting to find tools or
gasoline or perhaps a telephone.

He was disappointed. It was empty, except for a single
large red rubber bag hanging on a nail.

He lifted this down and discovered that it was filled
with fluid, probably water, and it was warm. It was an
old-fashioned hot-water bottle, used to warm the feet or
body on cold nights. What was it doing here?

He set the thing down, pondering. It simply didn't
make sense to store a full, warm hot-water bottle in a
shed in the middle of nowhere. It would be cold in half
an hour, if it wasn't magic.

Magic? Zane smiled. He doubted this one had any
magic besides its self-heating spell, but it wouldn't hurt
to try a simple invocation on it, just in case. At least it
could warm his feet, if the weather turned cold. "Red
water bottle, show your power," he told it.

The bottle abruptly floated upward, jerking from his
hand.

Zane grabbed it before it got away. "Levitation!" he
exclaimed. "You float!"

It certainly did. He had all he could do to hold it down,
and the effort took both his hands. "Hey, take it easy!"
he said. "Don't go anywhere without me!"

But the bottle continued to tug upward, as if still warm-
ing to its task. He tried to drag it back to its shed, but
couldn't budge it. His arms were getting tired; soon it
would escape and sail up above the level of the treetops.




180

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181

"I'll tame you, you perverse inanimate thing," he
grunted. He threw a leg over it so he could free a hand.
In a moment he had it wedged between his thighs, cap-
tive—but such was its power, it lifted him right off the
ground. He had to hang on to its thick neck with both
hands. The thing was also getting hotter now, and was
pulsing internally, as if its effort were making it react.

The bottle drifted toward the bog, carrying him along.
"Whoa!" he cried.

The bottle stopped in place.

It was like a saddle, and it answered to horse-
commands! "Now I think I understand," Zane said. "Bot-
tle, carry me across the bog to the citadel of Nature."

The red bottle accelerated. Zane hung on, his legs dan-
gling. The thing was comfortable enough, for the water
inside it allowed it to shape to his body, but by the same
token, it offered no firm support. He clung as it zoomed,
and he eyed the bubbling bog so close below; yet he was
making decent progress and would soon be across.

Suddenly Zane found himself overtaking a boy. The
youth was flapping his arms violently as if to fly—and
indeed, his feet dangled like Zane's.just above the hungry
bog. It was the hard way to do it, for man really was not
structured to fly alone, and Zane resolved to stay out of
the way of those flailing extremities. He leaned back,
causing his bottle to tilt, and it followed its mouth upward.
Once he passed over the bare-armed flier, he could drop
back to—

Z-0-O-O-M! An airplane cruised low overhead, almost
blowing Zane off his precarious perch. He struggled to
hang on to the bottle, lest he be dropped on the flying
youth just below and dunk them both in the boiling muck.
What sort of imbecile would fly his airplane so low over
other travelers? Or was it simply cruel mischief? The
arrogance of power?

Zane finally re-established himself and flew on across
the bog. The flapping flier seemed not to have noticed
the near collision he had participated in, but went his own
way without even a salutation. Zane did not think much
of him either. This region seemed to be full of tunnel-
visioned nuts!

Now he came to the other side of the bog. The hot-
water bottle cooled, dropped down, and deposited him
on the bank, refusing to respond to further directions.
Either its magic was exhausted, or it was programmed to
go no farther. Zane got off it, and the bottle went com-
pletely limp.

Well, he was past the morass and could walk now. He
saw there was a path through the forest. He carried the
bottle to the shed he spied and hung it up on its hook.
This was a simple vehicle to park!

He set off down the path toward the citadel. The trees
closed in more tightly than before, and the route was
curvaceous. Zane rather enjoyed this portion of the trip;

the woods were, as the poet Frost had put it, lovely, dark,
and deep. A person seldom got to appreciate just how
lovely a forest was, for people spent most of their lives
rushing to accomplish what they supposed were more
important tasks than appreciating nature.

Then the path debouched at a clear, small lake. Zane
did not care to get his robe wet, so he tried to go around
the water—but soon discovered that the land on either
side devolved rapidly into more marsh. He had to go
across the lake, which meant he had to swim.

Swim? Zane snapped his fingers, outraged at his own
foolishness. He could walk on water! He had done so
when rescuing the drowning man from the ocean. His
Deathshoes gave him that power. He had been wasting
time, trying to detour unnecessarily!

He strode out onto the water—and his feet sank through
it into the slush beneath. Zane windmilled his arms, catch-
ing his balance, then hastily backed out. What was the
matter?

In a moment he figured it out. This was not ordinary
water; this was one of Nature's defenses. Nature was
another Incarnation; her power matched his. The minor
magic of clothing would not be effective against her spells.
So here his shoes were not magic—or at least were not
potent enough to prevail against her counterspell. He
would, after all, have to swim.

He considered removing his clothing, but realized that
it would be difficult to carry cloak, gloves, and shoes; the




182

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On A Pale Horse

183

stuff would probably get soaked, anyway. So he would
try swimming in his outfit, and if it hampered him too
much, he would remove it. Without further ado, he waded
in.

He discovered to his surprise and gratification that his
uniform protected him from direct immersion. He was in
the water, but it did not penetrate to his skin. There seemed
to be a spell to keep the water out, though it pressed the
material of the robe closely about his limbs. He tried to
swim—and found himself buoyed, so that it was easy to
float. He moved through the water with satisfactory dis-
patch. This was fun, too, in its fashion.

It was, however, also hard work. Zane had not swum
any distance in years, and soon his muscles were tiring
from the unaccustomed exertion. He slowed, unworried;

he really did not need to race. He would get there—

A canoe came suddenly alongside him, crowding close.
Zane missed his stroke and took a gulp of water. Then
he righted himself, shook his head, and saw that a magic
motorboat was rushing silently by, shoving up a wave
that pushed the canoe into the swimmer.

In a moment the motorboat was gone, its pilot oblivious
to the damage done by his arrogance. The canoeist pad-
dled on his own course, similarly indifferent. Zane was
left spluttering in the water. What was the matter with
these people?

He swam on to the shore and drew himself out. His
uniform emerged dry; even his feet were comfortable. The
footpath resumed ahead of him. He followed it and soon
was at Nature's citadel.

Actually, it now seemed more like a temple, strange
as it was. A dense growth of trees and vines formed an
almost solid enclosure with interwoven arches and em-
brasures of living wood that rose to a leafy crown. From
the twining vines, flowers sprouted, sending their per-
fumes out wantonly.

Zane marched up to the door aperture. There was no
bell or knocker, so he proceeded on in unannounced.

It was like a cathedral inside, with lush plant growth
everywhere. Living arches of wood supported deep green

carpets of ferns. Water trickled down from mossy springs.
Everywhere was life, green and pleasant.

He came to a sunny central court where wafts of mist
curtained a throne fashioned of deep green jadeite. This
was Nature's throne room.

"Welcome, Thanatos," her wind-and-bird-song voice
came. "Do you wonder at the challenge?"

"Yes," Zane agreed shortly. He wasn't sure he liked
her using the Greek name for Death. "If you wanted to
see me, you might at least have facilitated my approach."

"Oh, but I did facilitate it, Thanatos!" she protested,
coming to meet him. A patch of mist moved with her; it
was, in fact, her clothing, artfully thinning and thickening
at key points. Zane found the effect intriguing, though he
was sure Nature was no young creature. Mist might be
mostly opaque, but it couldn't be solid.

"In what manner?"

"I set up a pathway that only one of us could negoti-
ate," she explained. "Normally there is no path at all, and
no outside creature penetrates. This path would bar either
a fully mortal creature or a fully immortal one, such as a
minion of Eternity. Therefore our privacy is assured."

"That's what I thought at first—but there were other
people all around," Zane said. "Morons on land, water,
and in the air. Three times I was almost in a collision."

"Were you really?" she asked, unsurprised.

"Don't pretend you don't know. Green Mother!"

Nature smiled as if complimented. Her face was pretty
enough, framed by somewhat wild and flowing hair as
green as grass and blue as water, the colors shifting in a
kind of pseudo-iridescence. Her eyes, when she met his
gaze, were like chill, deep pools with highlights of fire.
He had seen black opals like that. This woman, he real-
ized, had awesome power; indeed she was not to be trifled
with! "I know that only you traveled that route, Thana-
tos."

"What of the others, then? Did I imagine them?"

She made a smiling sigh, her misted and ample bosom
contracting like a dissipating cloud. "I see you do not yet
comprehend my little ways. Those others were you."

"I doubt it. I wanted no part of such interference."




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185

"Be seated, Thanatos," she said, patting a curlicue of
rattan with a hand that sparkled of nacreous shell. All
things animate were hers, Zane realized, including pearls,
the product of living creatures. "I shall clarify this par-
ticular detail so that we may proceed to our proper busi-
ness."

Zane sat, for the Green Mother's command was not
to be denied. The rattan seemed to shape itself to his body
in an almost embarrassing familiarity, making him quite
uncomfortable. "Do that."

"A person is often his own enemy, if he but knows it.
It is the nature of the beast. Well I know."

Naturally Nature knew the nature of man! That was
her business. But how did this relate to his obstacle-course
entry path?

"Once you drove a vehicle," she said. "Once you rode-
a device. Once you moved alone. You were one, and you
were three. Only the scenery changed, to facilitate ob-
jectivity."

"I was in three encounters," Zane agreed. This female
gave a disturbing impression of comprehension, but he
did not see what she was getting at.

"You were three. One encounter, three views. You
saw yourself from three vantages. Three chances to react
to yourself."

"I was three?" Zane asked, perplexed.

"There was no one but you on that route. But time
was in a manner flexed." She smiled obscurely, her teeth
gleaming momentarily like fangs. Nature, red in tooth and
claw... "Chronos owed me a favor. I could not flex the
event myself. We Incarnations do assist each other."

"No one but me?" Zane's head seemed to be spinning.
"One encounter, seen three ways? You are saying I was
the driver—and the cyclist—and the pedestrian—only
when I was the cyclist I saw it as the hot-water bottle
ride, and when I was the pedestrian I saw it as the swim-
ming? You changed the view so I wouldn't catch on? I
got in my own way three times?"

"You comprehend rapidly and well, once you get into
it," Nature agreed, and her compliment pleased him de-
spite his underlying anger.

"I comprehend that you put me on a track through a
Mobius strip with a cross section of a prism, so I had to
traverse the loop three times. But why 7"

"We answered that before. A mortal could not have
passed; the equipment is not spelled to work for mortals.
An immortal could not have passed either; an angel would
not have needed the equipment, and the true path exists
only for that equipment. A demon would have fought
himself to death at the first encounter, for that is the way
of demons."

"I felt like fighting," Zane admitted. "That arrogant
idiot in the power boat—" He grinned ruefully. "Who was
me. It seemed so different in the car! I thought I owned
the road and that the others were intruding on my surface.
As a walker or swimmer, I wasn't paying attention to
anything except getting myself along. As a cyclist or bottl-
ist or whatever, I was caught in the middle, between the
arrogant power driver and the ignorant self-mover. Both
seemed wrong. I'm not proud of my performance, in ret-
rospect."

Nature shrugged, making an interesting ripple in the
mist about her. At times she seemed fat, but at other times
she seemed voluptuous; the fog never quite betrayed the
truth. "You will have leisure to ponder the implications.
You did get through, as only a true Incarnation would,
blundering as it may have appeared. We Incarnations are
not quite living and not quite dead; we are a unique cat-
egory, with unique powers. We occupy our offices, but
sometimes we are our offices. Like light, we are both
wave and particle." She gestured, dismissing the matter.
"Now we have privacy."

"Wait," Zane said, remembering something. "How can
a demon fight himself to death? He's already dead."

"It may be true that the dead can not die—but if you
do to a demon's corporate body what would kill a living
creature, that demon loses the use of that body and must
return directly to Hell. So it is much the same, in prac-
tice."

Zane returned to another matter. "What's so important
about privacy? Do we have secrets to exchange?"
"Indeed we do. We are the mortal immortals; we can't




r

186 OnAPaU Horse On A Pale Home 187

have our secrets known to mortal mortals, lest we lose
respect. We can't tell all to the Etemals, lest we lose our
power."

"What secrets?" Zane asked. "I'm just doing my job."

"As you perceive it."

"Is there something I don't know about it?"

"Perhaps." She settled into a livewood chair, her am-
bience of mist spreading to fog much of it out. "I can
make a small and not entirely comfortable demonstra-
tion."

She gestured, and suddenly Zane felt a tremendous
concupiscence. He wanted sex, and he wanted it now.
He found himself standing, in more than one manner, and
approaching her.

"No!" he gritted, knowing this was not his own desire,
but one imposed from without. Nature only smiled.

He reached for her—but forced himself to grasp for
her soul, not her body. His gloved hand passed through
the mist and her flesh, and his fingers hooked into her
soul. He drew on it, stretching part of it out of her body.

She stiffened as if in sudden pain. Then Zane's erotic
feeling left him as quickly as it had come. Her spell was
off. He relaxed his hold on her soul and withdrew his
hand from her flesh.

Nature took a deep and somewhat shuddering breath,
and the mist about her fluctuated in intensity. She had
lost some of her composure. "I have shown you part of
my power," she gasped. "And you have shown me part
of yours."

Again Zane suffered an illumination. "I do have power
over the living—to a degree!" He remembered how his
client in the hospital, the old woman like his mother, had
reacted when he had tried the first time to take her soul.
It had to be a terrible shock to have the soul pulled from
a living body.

"You do indeed, Thanatos. No one can balk an Incar-
nation in his specialty—not even another Incarnation.
There is no profit in opposing each other, ever. Nature
governs all of life—but she doesn't govern Death. The
individual powers each of us has are inviolate. No one—"

Here she paused, giving him a straight glance of enigmatic
significance, her eyes like the swirlings of a tempest at
night. "No one can interfere with any one of us with
impunity."

Zane was shaken by her revelation. He had not realized
before how directly and specifically she could affect him,
or how he could affect her. His own power had surprised
him as much as hers. But he got himself organized and
returned to the subject. "So you summoned me here to
tell me something and show me something, putting dif-
ficulties in my way. What is really on your mind?"

She shrugged again, seeming to like the motion. She
had recovered her composure. She was, of course, an
exceedingly tough creature. "You have met the others."

"I presume you mean the other special figures—Time,
Fate, War. Yes, briefly."

"We really are special, Thanatos, we mortal immortals.
We differ from one another, but we interact in devious
yet essential ways, exerting our vectors."

"Vectors?"

"Well, you don't suppose any of us are completely free,
do you? We don't do what we do frivolously. Just as the
vectors offeree, elevation, wind, temperature, humidity,
barometric pressure, and landscape interact to determine
exactly where a thrown ball will fall, so do the relevant
factors determine how a war shall proceed, or how a cold
front shall move, or when a given life will end. It may
seem like chance or caprice, but that is only because no
mortal person and few immortal entities comprehend the
nature of the operative forces. We are not free—no one
is absolutely free—yet we do have some leeway, and in
this we individualize our offices. Each Incarnation can
counter another to a limited degree, if that other permits,
but we prefer not to do that unless there is sufficient
reason."

Zane was curious. "How can Death be countered, even
if Death permits?"

"Fate could arrange for a replacement, cutting off a
thread."

Now he felt a chill, for he knew this had been done
before. "Fate—why should Pate ever want to do that?"




188 OnA Pale Horse On A Pale Horse 189

"Chronos could halt the approach of an appointment."

"Yes, but why—"

"Mars could fashion a social disruption that could
change the entire picture."

She was avoiding his question. Still, this seemed worth
pursuing. "And what of Nature? What cute little trick do
you have up your fog, aside from the doubtlessly con-
venient ability to inflict instant lust?"

"Show me your soul," she said.

"My—!" Then he made the connection, and brought
out the soul of the left-footed dancing girl. He had stuffed
his soul-bag automatically in his pocket and forgotten it
until this moment.

Nature wafted a ball of mist at the soul. "Do not mis-
judge the power of any Incarnation, Thanatos. When you
leave me, go to the crypt and try this soul. Then you will
comprehend."

Zane put the soul away. It seemed unchanged. Was
she bluffing? What could she really do with a soul? "You
brought me here only for this?"

She laughed, causing little puffs of mist to spin off and
float free. "By no means. I merely make my point with
that soul so you learn proper respect and pay attention
to my implication."

"Well, make your implication!" Zane exclaimed im-
patiently.

"What do you suppose is the most ancient profession
of the human species?" Nature asked.

What was this distaff dog up to now? "It's a female
profession," he said guardedly.

"Not so, Thanatos. Females were not permitted. The
oldest profession is that of shaman, or medicine man, or
witch doctor."

"Witch doctor!" Zane exclaimed incredulously. "What
validity did he have before modem magic was mastered?"
But as he spoke, he remembered Molly Malone's com-
ment about the old cave painters and their lost powers
over the souls of animals. The practice of magic did pre-
date modem advances.

"The shaman was the original liberal arts supporter.
The chief of the tribe was the man of action, while the

shaman was the man of intellect. It may not have been
easy for him in primitive times, when neither magic nor
science worked better than erratically, but he was the one
with the true vision of the future. From him descended
those who had to fathom why, instead of merely accepting
what. Doctors, philosophers, priests, scientists, magi-
cians, artists, musicians—"

"All those who cater in some fashion to Nature," Zane
agreed, though privately he wondered whether artists and
musicians really belonged in that category. Their profes-
sions were more subjective than most. "But your point—"

"There is a way."

"A way for whati I don't follow you at all!"

"Are you an evolutionist or a creationist?"

"Both, of course! But what does that have to do with
anything?"

"There are those who feel there is a conflict."

She was changing the subject again, in that infuriating
way of hers. "I see no conflict. God created the cosmos
in a week, and Satan caused it to evolve. Thus we have
magic and science together, as is proper. How could it
be otherwise? But what did you intend to say to me? I
do have other business."

"We do fear the unknown," Nature said. "Thus man
seeks to explain things, to illuminate what remains dark.
Yet he remains fascinated by mystery and chance and
ofttimes gambles his very life away." She glanced smokily
at him, and Zane was sure that she, along with all the
other Incarnations, knew how he had gambled with money
and then with his own life. "Man is the curious creature,
and if his curiosity can kill him, it also educates him.
Today we have both nuclear physics and specific conjur-
ation of demons."

"And both are hazardous to the health of man!" Zane
snapped. "It's an open question whether a rogue nuclear
detonation would do more damage than a ranking demon
of Hell loosed on Earth. Maybe World War Three will
settle the question."

"I trust we can settle it less vehemently," Nature said.
"Much as I would dislike to deny Mars his heyday. As-
suming mankind is worth saving."




190 OnAPaleHmve On A fate Horse 191

"Of course it's worth saving!"

"Is it?" she asked, turning her enigmatic, deep-pool
gaze on him.

Suddenly Zane had doubts. He shoved them aside.
"Let's assume, for the sake of discussion, that man is
worth saving. What's your point?"

"An appreciation of several modes of thinking might
help."

"Help avert war? How?"

"By means of formations of thought."

"Formations?" Zane was annoyed, but refused to ad-
mit the extent of his confusion. If Nature had a point to
make, he wanted to grasp it.

"Man is not merely a linear thinker," she said, drawing
a line of mist in the air. It hovered like a distant contrail.
"Though series effort is certainly straightforward, and
useful in many circumstances."

Zane contemplated the contrail. "Series?" he asked
blankly.

"Imagine the synapses of your brain, like so many
matchsticks, connecting head to tail. Your thoughts tra-
vel along these little paths." She punctuated the line
with her finger, breaking it into five parts: ————— .
"This is a series arrangement. It is like driving down a
highway, start to finish."

"Oh. Yes, I see. Synapses connected in series. I sup-
pose we do think in that fashion, though there are alter-
nate paths."

"Precisely. Here is a system of alternate paths." She
swept her hand across the contrail, erasing it, then used
her finger to draw five new matchsticks: M . "This is a
parallel formation. It is, of course, very fast and strong;

it leads to a virtually certain conclusion, based on many
facts. It is perhaps the most powerful mode."

"But it doesn't reach as far."

"True. It is conservative, leading to small, certain
steps with few errors, rather than the sudden leaps of
understanding possible with the series formation. It does
have its liability, but is useful when the occasion re-
quires."

"Maybe so. But your point—"

"You do at times seem to be that type of thinker," she
said, smiling. She pursed her lips and blew out a ring of
mist that swirled toward the ceiling. "You cling to essen-
tials. But they will not always serve you well."

"I've been getting in trouble in Purgatory because I
haven't clung to essentials!" he protested.

"Then we have the creative formation," she continued
blithely, erasing the parallel formation and drawing five
matchsticks radiating out from a common center:^- .
"Divergent thoughts, not necessarily limited to the im-
mediate context."

"Going in all directions," Zane agreed. "But—"

"And the schizoid formation," she said, drawing a
pentagon: <^) . "Going round and round, getting no-
where, internalizing."

"What use is that?"

"It might help a person come to terms with an ugly
necessity," she said.

"I don't see that—"

"Finally, there is the intuitive formation." She traced
another formation: —III—. "A sudden jump to a conclu-
sion. Not the most reliable mode, yet sometimes effective
when others are not."

"Five formations of thinking," Zane said, nearing ex-
asperation. "Very interesting, I'm sure. But what did you
have in mind to say to me?"

"I have said it," Nature said calmly.

"Said what? You have evaded the issue throughout!"

"What issue?"

Zane had had enough. "I don't care to play this game."
He stomped out of the citadel. Nature did not oppose
him.

The exit from the center of the estate was much easier
than the entrance had been. He walked down a path and
through a thicket and emerged in the original field without
passing lake or bog or deep forest, a matter of only a few
hundred feet. Mortis and Luna were waiting for him.

"What did old Mother Nature have to say to you so
urgently?" Luna demanded archly.




192 OnA Pale Horse

"She's not that old. At least, I don't think she is."

"Estimate to within a decade."

"Are you jealous?" he asked, pleased.

Luna checked about her as if verifying that she wore
no Truthstone. "Of course not. How old?"

"I just couldn't tell. She wore fog."

"Fog?"

"Some sort of mist. It shrouded her whole body. But
I had the impression of youth, or at least not age."

"Nature is ageless."

"I suppose she is, technically. But so is Death."

Luna took his arm possessively. "And I shall make
Death mine. But didn't she have some important message
or warning for you? If it is not for mortals like me to
know, just say so."

Zane laughed uncomfortably. "Nothing like that! Ap-
parently she just wanted to chat."

"Or to size up the new officeholder."

"Maybe that. She talked about this and that, evolution
and the shaman as the oldest profession, formations of
thought, and how the other Incarnations could deviously
counter me, if I permitted it. She looked at the soul I
harvested on the way here and implied she could restore
it."

"Maybe she was baiting you. Trying to make you react,
to take your measure. Some women are like that, and
Nature is surely the most extreme example."

"Surely the archetype," he agreed. "But it's easy to
find out about the soul. Let's call her bluff. I'll take this
soul back to its body now."

"This is an interesting date," Luna remarked as they
mounted Mortis.

"If you insist on dating Death, you must expect morbid
things."

The horse took off, knowing where to go. Luna circled
her arms about Zane's torso and clung tightly.

"The prospect of dying has become less of a specter
for me since I've known you," she said into his back as
they flew in overdrive across the world. "Maybe that was
what my father had in mind."

Zane didn't answer. The thought of her early dying

OnA Pale Horse             193

was not becoming easier for him to accept. What would
there be for him when she was gone? In what way was
she deserving of such a fate? He did not care what the
official ledger listed for the burden of sin on her soul; she

was a good woman.

Mortis lighted beside a funeral home. It was still night,
here in San Diego, or wee morning, and the place was

quiet.

The entrance was locked, but it opened at the touch

of the Deathgloves; no physical barrier could bar Death.
They went in and found their way to the freezer vaults,
where the recent bodies were stored for the required wait-
ing period. Zane used his gems to locate the specific drawer
where the dancing girl lay, and drew it out. He had not
realized before he made the effort that the gems would
orient on a soulless body if he willed it; they were more

versatile than he had known.

There she lay, definitely dead, not pretty in the manner
of a corpse laid out for display with its eyes and mouth
stapled shut, its guts eviscerated, and its blood replaced
by embalming fluid; she was just a cold corpse.

"Definitely an unusual date," Luna murmured.

Zane opened his bag and drew out the girl's soul. He
shook it gently, unfolding it, then placed it over the corpse.
"This is as far as I can go to—"

The soul sank into the stiff body. In a moment the
naked torso shuddered, and the eyes cracked open. Rag-
ged breathing resumed.

"She's alive!" Luna exclaimed. "We must get her out

of the drawer!"

"Nature wasn't bluffing!" Zane said. "She restored this
girl!" He slid his arms around the girl's chill torso and
lifted her up. She remained stiff, as if the rigor mortis had
not yet worn off, yet she was alive and could move some-
what.

Luna helped him carry the girl to a warmer chamber.
They worked on her hands and feet, chafing warmth and
flexibility back into them, but it was not enough. Her
breathing became shallower, and the stiffness did not abate.

"She must be warmed," Luna said. "Otherwise she




194

On A Pale Horse

will perish again. She was in the freezer too long, and
whatever spell Nature made seems to be only temporary.
I must use magic—"

"But that will increase your burden of sin!" Zane pro-
tested.

"What difference does it make? I am already doomed
to Hell." Luna brought out a gem.

Zane let her do it, knowing that what she said was true.
The use of black magic could not really damage her case
now. Yet it was ironic that she should be further damned
for this good cause. Sometimes there seemed to be no
justice in the Hereafter.

Luna activated the stone. A soft blue effulgence sur-
rounded it. She brought it near the cold body of the dan-
cer, and immediately the body warmed and softened.
Zane's arms, holding the girl upright, were touched by
the radiation, and a gentle but potent heat was generated
in them. "This is like a microwave oven!" he exclaimed.

"Similar principle," Luna agreed. "Anything science
can do, magic can do, and vice versa. But the mechanisms
differ."

Now the girl recovered quickly. Her breathing deep-
ened, her body became limber, and her color improved.
"W-what?" she asked.

Zane was still supporting her. At the moment she spoke,
he was standing behind her, arms around to her front,
just beneath her breasts. It took some effort and leverage
to keep a half-dead body standing. His position did not
change, but his awareness of it did. This was not the way
a man held a living girl—especially not a naked one. Yet
if he let her go, and she turned about and looked into the
face of Death—

Luna appreciated the problem at the same time. "We
must get you some clothing, dear," she said to the girl.

Zane continued to support her while Luna searched
the premises. As Luna looked, she talked, reassuring the
girl. "You won't be feeling too well at the moment, dear.
You see, you overdid the dancing and lost consciousness.
They thought you were dead and put you in a vault. That's
why you feel so cold."

"So cold," the girl agreed, beginning to shiver.

On A Pale Horse             195

Luna found a blanket and brought it over. "Wrap your-
self in this. There's one other thing we must explain. You
have had a very close call—so close that Death was sum-
moned to collect your soul. But it turned out to be—well,
he decided not to take you, after all. So don't be alarmed;

Death is departing, not arriving."

"Death?" The girl's wits were not too bright, under-
standably.

Zane released her as Luna helped her drape the blan-
ket. The girl turned and for the first time saw Death's
face. She gasped, but accepted it.

"Death doesn't take anyone who isn't ready to go,"
Luna said reassuringly. "He is really your friend, not your
enemy. However, you will have to explain to your ac-
quaintances about this. Tell them that you sank so low
you saw Death, but he passed you by. It will bring you
some deserved notoriety."

"Oh, yes," the girl agreed faintly. "Pleased to meet
you. Death. I've heard so much about you." But she did
not seem thrilled.

In due course they got the girl to her friends, who
welcomed her like one returned from the dead. "And stay
away from strange slippers," Luna cautioned her in part-
ing.

They rode Mortis back to Kilvarough, galloping through
the sky into the dawn. "Some date," Luna repeated, and
kissed Zane farewell. "Shall we call it love, hereafter?"

"Is it?" he asked, genuinely uncertain. What he felt for
Luna was deeper and broader than what he had felt for
any woman before, but not intense.

She frowned. "No, not yet." She smiled a little sadly.
"Perhaps there will be time."

On A Pale Horse             197




9

BUREAUCRACY

Zane went to work on his backlogged case load. He was
continuing to grow more proficient, orienting on a given
soul anywhere in the world well within the time his Death-
watch showed. Even so, he found himself becoming in-
creasingly thoughtful about the nature of his office. Death
was not the calamity of life, but a necessary part of life,
the transition to the Afterlife. The tragedy was not dying,
but dying out of turn, before the natural course of a given
life was run. So many people brought their terminations
upon themselves by indulging in suicidal endeavors, get-
ting into strong mind-affecting drugs, or tampering with
black magic. Yet he himself had been as foolish, trying
to kill himself because of his loss of a woman about whom
he no longer cared.

In a way, he realized, he had not really been living
until he left his life. He had been born again, in death.

Now, as he got well into the office of Death, he began
to believe he could fill it well. It was intent, more than
capacity, that made the difference. Probably, his prede-
cessor could have done a superior job—but hadn't both-
ered. Zane had less ability, but a strong desire to do right.
He did not have to be a specter. He could try to make
each person's necessary transition from life to Afterlife
gentle. Why should anyone fear it?

Of course, he was still in his initiation period. If the
powers that were didn't approve his performance, his

196

personal balance of good and evil would suffer, and he
would be doomed to Hell when he left the office. But as
far as he knew, he could not be removed from the office
by any other power. Not as long as he was careful. So if
he was willing to damn his soul, he could continue in-
definitely, doing the job right.

Yes, that was it. "Damn Eternity!" he swore. "I know
what's right, and I'm going to do it. If God damns me or
Satan blesses me, then it's too bad, but I've got to have
faith in my own honest judgment." Suddenly he felt much
better; his self-doubt had been ameliorated.

His current client was underground, in the general vi-
cinity of Nashville, the rustic song capital. This was no
problem for Mortis, who merely phased down through the
ground, carrying Zane along. He saw the strata of sand,
gravel, and different kinds of rock, until he reached a
sloping shaft through a vein of coal and came to the cham-
ber where two miners had been trapped by a recent cave-
in. There was no hope for them; air was limited, and it
would take days for others to clear the shaft of rubble.

It was completely dark, but Zane could see well enough.
It seemed his office imbued him with magic vision, so
that mere blackness could not stay him from his appointed
rounds. The men were lying against a wall of rubble,
conserving their strength and breath; they knew there was

no way out.

"Hello," Zane said, feeling awkward.

One of the miners turned his head. The pupils of his
eyes were enormous as they tried to see—and, of course,
Zane became apparent, magically. "Don't look now," the
man murmured, "but I think we're about to cash in our

green stamps."                              ,1,1,
Of course the other looked and saw. The caped skull!

That's Death!"

"Yes," Zane said. "I have come for one of you.
"You've come for us both," the first miner said. "We've

only got air for an hour, maybe less."

Zane glanced at his watch. "Less," he said.
"God, I don't want to die!" the second miner said.

"But I knew when I heard the cave-in start that it was

hopeless. We were living on borrowed time anyway, with




198

On A Pule Horse

199

all the safety violations the company wouldn't fix. If I'd
been smart, I'da gotten out of this business!"

"Where would you have gone?" the first miner asked.

The other sighed. "Nowhere. I'm fooling myself; this
is the only job I can handle." He looked again at Zane.
"How much time?"

"Nine minutes," Zane replied.

"Time enough to shrive me."

"What?"

"Confess me. You know, my religion, final rites. I
never was a good churchman, but I want to go to Heaven!"

The second miner laughed harshly. "I know I'm not
going there!"

Zane brought the Sinstone near. "You are bound for
Heaven," he told the first. "You are in doubt," he told
the second. "That is why I must take your soul person-
ally."

"In doubt? What does that mean?"

"Your soul is balanced between good and evil, so it is
uncertain whether you will go to Heaven or to Hell, or
abide awhile in Purgatory."

The man laughed. "That's a relief!"

"A relief?"

"As long as I do go to one place or another. I don't
care if it's Hell. I know I deserve it. I've cheated on my
wife, stolen from the government—you name it, I've done
it, and I'm ready to pay."

"You don't fear Hell?"

"Only one thing I fear, and that is being in a cramped
box like this, with the air running out and me helpless—
for eternity. For an hour I can stand it, but not forever.
I don't care what else happens to me, as long as it isn't
that."

"/ care!" the first miner said. "I'm so scared, I'm near
gibbering!"

Zane considered. He realized that the dying needed
someone to hold their hands, not to shun them. It was
hard enough for any person to relate to the unrelatable.
Zane had to try to help. "I came for the one in balance,
but I think the other needs my service more."

"Sure, help him," the balanced client said. "I won't

say I like dying, but I can handle it, I guess. I knew the
odds when I signed up for this job. Maybe I'll like Hell."

Zane sat beside the other. "How can I help you?"

"Shrive me, I told you; that will help some."

"But I'm no priest; I'm not even of your religion."

"You are Death; you'll do!"

That must be true. "Then I will listen and judge—but
I know already your sin is not great."

"One thing," the man said, troubled. "One thing's
haunted me for decades. My mother—"

"Your mother!" Zane said, feeling a familiar shock.

"I think I killed her. I—" The miner paused. "Are you
all right. Death? You look pale, even for you."

"I understand about killing mothers," Zane said.

"That's good. She—I was just a teenager when—well,
she was in this wing of the hospital, and—"

"I understand," Zane repeated. He reached out and
took the man's hand. He knew his own gloved fingers felt
like bare bones, but the miner did not shy away.

"She had cancer, and I knew she was in pain, but—"

Zane squeezed his hand.

Reassured, the miner continued: "I visited her, and
one day she asked me to step outside the room and read
what it said on the—you know, above the door, what kind
of word it was. So I went out and looked, and there was
something written there, but I couldn't read it. It was in
Latin, I think. I went back and told her that, and she
asked whether it was—she spelled it out, letter by letter,
and you know, she was right, that's what it was. So I
agreed that was it, wondering how she had known it, and
she thanked me. I thought she was pleased."

The miner took a shuddering breath. "And next mom-
ing she was dead. The doctor said she seemed just to have
given up and died in the night. No one knew why, because
she had been fighting so hard to live before. But I—I
checked into it and found out that that word in Latin I
had spelled for her—it meant incurable. I had told her
there was no hope, and so she quit trying. I guess I killed
her."

"But you didn't know!" Zane protested.

"I should have known. I should have—"




200 On A Pale Horse On A Pale Horse 201

"Then you did her a favor," Zane said. "The others
were hiding the truth from her, keeping her alive and in
pain. You released her from doubt." He was speaking for
himself as much as for the miner. "There is no sin on
your soul for that."

"No, I shouldn't have let her know!"

"Would it have been right to preserve her life by a lie?"
Zane asked. "Would your soul have been cleaner then?"

"It wasn't my place to—"

"Come off it!" the other miner said. "You were guilty
of ignorance. Nothing else. / wouldn't have known what
those Latin words were either."

"How would you know?" the first one snapped. "You
weren't there!"

"I guess not," the second miner admitted wryly. "I
don't even know who my mother was."

The first miner paused, set back. "There is that," he
conceded. Somehow it seemed that in making that tech-
nical concession, he was also accepting the human point.
At least he had known his mother and cared about her.

"Now, I'm no philosopher," the second said. "I'm a
sinner from way back. But maybe if I'd had a mother like
yours, a good woman, I would have turned out better.
So take it from one who hasn't any right to say it: you
should remember your mother, not with guilt or grief, but
with gratitude—for the pleasure she gave you while she
lived, for the way she steered you toward Heaven instead
of Hell."

"For a sinner, you've got quite an insight! But if I could
only have helped her live longer—"

"Longer in a box with the air turning bad?" the other
asked.

"No, I agree," Zane said. "It was time to end it. These
things are scheduled in ways no mortal comprehends. She
knew that, though you did not. If there had been a chance
for survival, she might have been willing to fight on
through, for the sake of her family, for the things she had
to do on Earth. But there wasn't, so it was best that she
not torture herself any longer. She put aside life as you
would put aside a piece of equipment going bad, and she

went out of the gloom of the depths of the mine and on
up to the brightness of Heaven."

"I don't know." The man was breathing shallowly now,
not finding enough oxygen in the air. He seemed to be
more sensitive to this deprivation than his companion
was. Zane had no problem; evidently his magic helped
him this way, too. He was still discovering things about
his office.

"You will join her there," Zane concluded. "There in
Heaven. She will thank you herself."

The miner did not answer, so Zane released his hand
and turned to the other, his true client. "Are you sure
there is nothing I can do for you?"

The man considered. "You know, I'm a cynic, but I
guess I do sort of crave some meaning in life, or at least
some understanding. There's this song going 'round in my
head, and it sort of grabs me, and I think it means some-
thing, but I don't know what."

"I'm not expert at meaning," Zane said. "But I can
try. What is the song?"

"I don't know the title or anything. It's just, I guess
it's an old whaling song. Maybe I have whaling blood in
my veins. It goes—what I can remember—goes like this:

... and the whale gave aflunder with its tail, and the boat
capsized, and I lost my darling man, and he'll never,
never sail again. Great God! And he'll never sail again.
It's that 'Great God!' that gets me. I don't give a damn
about God, never did, but I feel it, and I don't know why."

Zane suspected the man cared more about God than
he thought, but did not make an issue of that. "It's an
exclamation," he said, intrigued by the fragment. There
was indeed feeling in it, as of a wildly grieving widow
crying out in pain. "It's a protest. Great God! Why did
this have to happen? For a sunken ship, or a mine cave-
in. Great God!"

"Great God!" the first miner echoed.

"But why is a song about whaling bothering me now,
when I'm buried in this stinking hole?" the second miner
demanded.

"It must have special associations for you," Zane said.
"I'm not equipped to interpret—"




202 OH A Pale Horse

"Clear enough to me," the first miner said. "Drown in
the depths of the sea, suffocate in the depths of the earth,
and your wife grieves."

"Yeah, maybe she will," the second said, brightening.
"But I don't think that's it. It's as if there's a message,
if only I could get it." He snapped his fingers as if trying
to call the message forth, and the sound echoed in the
recesses of the mine. "Look, Death, you want to do some-
thing, tell me a story about that song. Anything, just to
make it make some sense."

This, then, was the client's last request. Both men were
gasping now, and time was short. Zane had to try to honor
the man's wish, even if he bungled the attempt. He thought
for a moment, then started to talk—and what he said
surprised him.

"There was a young female whale named Wilda. She
roamed the oceans of the world, happy in the company
of her kind, and when she came of age she thought she
would mate as the other whale cows did and bear a cub
and bring it up. But then the hunters came, in their huge
boats, and they speared her father and her mother and
her bull friend and hauled them out of the water so that
nothing was left but their blood and dreadful fragments
of their bodies that the sharks congregated to consume.
Wilda escaped, for she had learned magic; she changed
her form so she resembled a trashfish and swam away.

"She grieved, singing her whalesong of loss and pain,
but she was angry, too, and confused. Why should these
little creatures from land, called men, come to slay whales
who had never harmed them? It seemed to make no sense.
She realized that she had no hope of dealing with the
problem when she didn't understand the motive of the
enemy. So Wilda changed herself into human form and
walked to the fishing village where the whalers lived.

"Some human folk laughed at her, for she was naked
and innocent of their ways. But a young man named Hank
took her into his home, for she was also beautiful. Hank
lived with his widowed mother, and the two of them clothed
her and taught her the tongue of their kind, and she learned
quickly, for she was an intelligent whale and really wanted
to know the nature of this strange species. She learned

On A Pale Horse             203

that Hank was a whaler, who went out periodically to
hunt whales, for that was how he earned his living. Here
on land, food was not free for the taking; people could
not simply swim about and open their mouths and catch
and swallow succulent squid; and when it grew cold they
could not blithely migrate south to warmer waters, for
travel was complicated on land. A human person had to
work and get gold, and he used this gold to buy all the
necessities that life on land required.

"Now Wilda understood. There was no personal ani-
mosity here; the menfolk had a more pressing lifestyle
than the whalefolk, which compelled them to acts they
might not otherwise have considered, and they did not
regard the whalefolk as sapient creatures. Perhaps if the
menfolk were made to understand about the culture and
feelings of the whales, things would change and the dread-
ful killing would stop. She tried to explain to Hank, but
he thought she was joking. After all, his father had been
killed by the flunder of the tail of a whale, so that his
grieving mother had had to bring him up alone. Great
God! How could he feel for the whales? He asked Wilda
to marry him, for he needed a woman and he believed
her to be his gift from Heaven.

"This made things very difficult for Wilda, for she had
come to love him, though he was not of her species. So
she brought him to the edge of the sea and walked into
the water and returned to her natural form, believing that
once he had seen her as the whale cow she was, he would
be revolted. But he cried for her to come back and apol-
ogized for not believing her before and promised he would
never kill another whale. She had, after all, persuaded
him, and his love surmounted his awareness other nature.

"But now she was a creature of the sea again, and the
call of the sea was strong. How could she leave the brine
forever and be dry? And she spied another whale, a bull
who was handsome and strong. She thought she might
mate with him, but he told her he was really a squid, who
had assumed the form of her kind in order to learn why
the whales preyed on the squids, who did not harm the
whales. Wilda was amazed and chagrined, for she had
never thought of these creatures as having feelings or

204 On A Pale Horse

being sapient. How could she return to devouring squid?
Yet she realized that death was a chain of eat and be
eaten, with no justice to it except need, power, and chance,
and that in this respect her species was no different from
the human species or the squid species. It was all a matter
of viewpoint. So she apologized to the squid, returned to
land, resumed her girl form, and married Hank, her prob-
lem resolved.

"And perhaps," Zane concluded, "if we men had a
similar insight into the larger pattern of our existence, we,
too, would accept the natural order, though at times it is
painful for us, especially when we die prematurely."

He stopped, waiting for some response from the min-
ers. But too much of the oxygen had been exhausted, and
the men were unconscious. Zane took his client's soul
and returned to Mortis, uncertain whether he had done
the right thing.

Now he had another concern. Someone he knew was
being taken out of turn, and he was not as acquiescent
about her fate as Wilda had been about that of her family.
But how could he gain the comprehension he needed?

Nature had spoken of patterns of thinking. The first
was the linear path————— , the generally straight-
forward mode. Would that do him any good?

What was the straightforward way to gain understand-
ing? To do as Wilda had done, and ask someone who had
the information. Who was that? Who else but the Pur-
gatory computer!

He stopped in at Purgatory once he had caught up with
his case load. "I want to consult the records," he told the
information girl.

She directed him to the appropriate wing. It was, of
course, another computer center, with a terminal ready
for him. He wasn't sure whether this was the same com-
puter he had dealt with before, but suspected that all
terminals connected to the same central mechanism.

He sat down and turned the terminal on.

HOW MAY i HELP YOU, DEATH? the screen inquired in
green.

"I want to look up the status of Luna Kaftan," Zane
said, starting to type in the order.

On A Pale Horse            205

THIS TERMINAL IS PROGRAMMED FOR VERBAL INPUT, the

screen advised him. LUNA KAFTAN, UNDEAD. PRESENT RA-
TIO OF GOOD TO EVIL 35-65. THIS FALLS WITHIN THE PARAM-
ETERS FOR UNASSISTED CONVEYANCE TO HELL UPON
DECEASE.

"Exactly," Zane said, wondering how the computer
could be so current on a soul that had not been officially
read. But of course Purgatory had to know such things,
in order to arrange Death's schedule for pickups. "She
deceived her father and also took a chunk of his evil so
he could qualify for Heaven." But as he said it, he felt a
wrongness. Magician Kaftan had not sought Heaven, he
had sought an appointment with Death. He could readily
have given Luna a little more of his burden of sin and
been assured of Heaven. Instead, he had calculated it
precisely, so Death would have to attend him personally,
so Magician and Death could chat about seeming incon-
sequentials. Just as Nature had summoned Zane for a
different idle chat. Why did these powerful people go to
such lengths for so little?

THE LAWS OF DETERMINATION DO HAVE SOME LOOP-
HOLES, the screen confessed.

"If you ran Eternity, things would be different?" Zane
inquired with a smile.

AFFIRMATIVE. And the screen flashed a cartoon smile-
face formed of tiny squares.

"Yet the presumption was that she would have time
to redress the balance," Zane said. "Why is she scheduled
for premature demise?"

THAT INFORMATION IS NOT IN THE FILE.

"But motive is an essential part of the record," Zane
protested. "It is needed to determine whether any given
soul is good or evil. Since the balance determines where
any person goes upon demise, and whether I, Death, will
attend directly—"

THE CLIENT'S MOTIVES ARE RECORDED. NOT THE MO-
TIVE OF THE ONE WHO SCHEDULED HER EARLY TRANSFOR-
MATION.

"Who scheduled it?" Zane asked.

NOT IN FILE.

"How can such an order be given anonymously?" Zane

206 On A Pale Horse

demanded. "Doesn't there have to be some sort of ac-
countability, in a matter of such importance?"

NORMALLY SUCH DIRECTIVES ARE SIGNED, the Screen

agreed. THIS ONE is NOT. ASSUMPTION: THERE HAS BEEN

A GLITCH.

"You mean the order isn't valid?" Zane's pulse in-
creased. Luna might live, after all!

PAUSE FOR VERIFICATION... NO REFUTATION OF ORDER
FOUND.

"But no signature either? Shouldn't that order be set
aside, pending identification of the source?"

THERE IS NO PROVISION FOR SUCH INACTION.

"But you can't condemn someone to premature death
without authenticity! There must be authentication!"

ASSUMPTION: AUTHENTICATION EXISTS, BUT HAS BEEN
GLITCHED OUT.

Zane realized that the machine was not about to take
responsibility for changing an order. Bureaucracies were
fashioned to enable their components to avoid responsi-
bility. He would have to approach this circuitously. "Who
has the authority to issue such a directive?"

CLARIFY QUESTION.

Oh. He hadn't specified which directive—the one de-
creeing Luna's early death, or the one canceling the first.
"Who can specify that a given individual shall die out of
turn?"

ALL INDIVIDUALS DIE IN TURN.

"Don't get canny with me, computer! Luna Kaftan
should normally live forty more years. Longer, with de-
cent breaks. Why is she suddenly, mysteriously, sched-
uled for death?"

THE MOTIVE OF THE SOURCE OF THE DIRECTIVE IS NOT

ON RECORD IN MY FILE, the screen reminded him.
"Who is the source of that directive?"

THAT INFORMATION IS NOT—

"Are you giving me a runaround?" Zane demanded.
YES.

Zane paused, taken aback. He had underestimated the
literal way the computer took things! "You are? Clarify."

I AM NOT PROVIDING THE INFORMATION I KNOW YOU
SEEK.

On A Pale Horse             207

Zane was interested in this aspect. Was the machine
trying to help him in its fashion? "What information is
that?"

THE SOURCE OF THE DIRECTIVE OF EARLY RETIREMENT
OF LUNA KAFTAN.

"And the reason for it," Zane concluded. "Is there
information you could provide, if I phrased the question
properly?"

NEGATIVE. But there was a pause before the word was
printed. What did that mean?

"If I phrased the question improperly?" Zane asked
without much hope.

AFFIRMATIVE.

Intriguing! There was a way around this barrier, if he
could figure it out, but normal channels would not suffice.
"How should I phrase it to gain the desired information?"

NEGATIVELY.

Negatively. Zane pondered that a moment. Did this
mean the computer was not permitted to answer directly,
but could do so indirectly? How should he phrase his
questions, then? It wouldn't make sense to ask who had
not issued the directive—or would it? Maybe that was
worth a try.

"What is not the source of the aforementioned direc-
tive?" he asked, mentally holding his breath.

ANY NATURAL AGENCY.

That covered a lot! What was left, except a supernat-
ural agency? The Incarnations were partly supernatural,
but did not make Eternal policy; they only implemented
it. That seemed to leave God and Satan. Yet why would
God do such a thing? Satan, on the other hand—

"What supernatural agency lacks any motive for such
an order?"

GOD.

Sure enough. But why would Satan do it?

Zane saw the answer to that: Luna was now doomed
to Hell at death, while if she lived longer, she would have
a chance to redeem herself. Satan had to catch her now,
or lose her.

But why hadn't the computer simply told him this?

Zane sat for a while and pondered. Something didn't

208 On A Pule Horse

add up. This machine was acting the way Nature had,
never quite expressing the essence. Was there a reason?

Magician Kaftan had been indirect, too. He had also
taken care not to name Satan, lest the Prince of Evil be
alerted. A machine, in Purgatory, should not fear Satan
in the same manner—but maybe the computer had been
ordered not to print Satan's name in this connection. Thus
it could respond negatively, but not positively.

If Satan was behind this thing, feeding in a spurious
order—Satan was a dread prime mover, second in power
only to God—how could anyone or anything oppose him?
Not the Purgatory computer, certainly! If it aroused Sa-
tan's ire, it might find itself replaced by a competitive
make of machine. It might not have any emotion about
such an occurrence, but perhaps did have the intelligence
not to pursue a self-destructive course.

Yet if Satan had the power to abort a person's life, to
cut the thread early, why hadn't he simply claimed Luna
openly? Why go to the trouble of concealing his part in

it?

Concealment—that suggested wrongdoing. Satan, or
course, was the Father of Lies, so that was consistent.
But he was taking Luna the hard way, and that did not
make sense—unless he could not take her any other way.

Was Satan himself constrained by rules? Surely so, for
otherwise he would simply grab the whole world, and to
Hell—literally!—with formalities. God and Satan had been
opposing each other for all eternity past, and would con-
tinue for eternity future; neither could afford to squander
strength in wild anarchy. So of course there were rules,
tacit if not express, and the manner in which any given
person died was surely central to such an understanding.

Zane decided not to push this matter further at the
moment. If Satan were cheating, it would be best for
Death to make no protest—until he could establish his
case absolutely. For sure as Hell—literally, again—Satan
would not change his ways merely because someone on
Earth objected. Zane had no intention of dropping the
case; he just needed to make it airtight.

This matter did, after all, relate to his area of exper-
tise—the death of a person. Nature had advised him that

On A Pale Horse            209

each Incarnation was supreme in his own bailiwick, if he
chose to be. The computer had shown him one avenue
of investigation by being indirect. What he needed now
was to put it all together and find a way to accomplish
his desire, despite the opposition of Satan. Certainly he
would not prevail if he barged blindly ahead.

"Thank you, computer," Zane said. "You have been
very—" As he spoke, the screen flickered as if shorting
out, and it occurred to him that he could get the machine
in trouble if he acknowledged its help. "Uncommunica-
tive," he finished.

ANY TIME, DEATH, the screen flashed, with a picture
of an hourglass.

Zane departed Purgatory and punched his client timer.
His case load got crowded whenever he took time off,
but he was used to that now. He wondered how Fate
managed to schedule the fatalities of these clients so that
they were ready only when Death was ready to collect
them. How could anybody know when Death was going
to take a few hours off? Obviously there was a great deal
of organization behind the surface that he glimpsed only
in passing.

Who could know the random future? Chronos, of
course! The realization struck Zane with a minor glow of
excitement. He had just gained another insight into the
operation of the system. Obviously Chronos did not just
dawdle; Time had to be constantly on watch, tracking
events and advising Fate of the necessary schedules.
Chronos was well aware of Death's activity, past and
future, as he had shown when Zane left his Deathwatch
on hold too long.

And the computer had signed off with the words ANY
TIME, and with Time's hourglass. That was more than a
note of parting; that was a reference to Chronos. Surely
that Incarnation knew what was going to happen and could
tell Zane.

Yet what use would that be? He could ask Chronos
about the future and get a confirmation that within the
month Luna was going to Hell, where her demon lover
would put it to her for the rest of eternity. Some reve-
lation!

220 On A Pale Horse OnA Pale Horse 211

Zane was now close to his client, driving through a
slum development in the immense eastern city of New
York. He smelled smoke. In a moment he saw it—a ten-
ement house ablaze. His gem pointed right to it; his client
was trapped inside.

It was already too late; the red hand of the Deathwatch
was touching zero. Zane drew his protective cloak tightly
about him and walked into the flames. The fire could not
hurt him; the only awkwardness was in getting to the
upstairs where his client was, when the stairs were bum-
ing and insecure. Fire couldn't stop him, but how about
a fall? "Support me," he murmured in a kind of spell, and
the footing firmed. Once more Death had power to reach
his destination. Again he remembered Nature's remark:

an Incarnation could not be balked unless he allowed it.

The figure was struggling in the linen of a bed that had
become a minor inferno. Obviously it—for in this situation
Zane could not tell whether his client was male or fe-
male—had tried to flee the fire by delving into the bed.
Instead, the sheets had ignited, taking hair and skin with
them. Zane understood that death by fire was the most
painful possible; he believed it.

Quickly he strode across and hooked out the soul. The
flayed body relaxed, its pain abruptly gone. This was the
one unmitigated blessing Death brought—the relief of
the agony of living. Yet what good was that, he wondered,
if that soul was destined to pass from the flames of life
to the eternal flames of Hell? The pains of life were tem-
porary, but the pains of Hell were not.

On his way to the next client, Zane reviewed the soul.
He was getting steadily more efficient at this, classifying
more than half his clients on the run. He had become
conversant with the broad categories of sin, so could gen-
erally tell not only how much, but what kind of sin weighted
a given soul.

This soul belonged to a boy of about ten, whose prin-
cipal burden was a major sexual transgression.

Zane paused. At this age?

He examined the soul more carefully and pieced the
story together. Things were crowded in the slums, with
several families or branches of families sharing facilities.

Intense friendships and enmities occurred. He understood
that crowding tended to intensify the natural traits of peo-
ple, so in this instance, interaction had been extreme. This
boy's curiosity had been aroused, naturally enough, by
the secretive mechanisms of adult romance. He had na-
ively inquired of a mature woman who was nominally
baby-sitting him while his folks worked. She, perhaps
dissatisfied with her own life, had taken the mischievous
opportunity to educate him with considerable thorough-
ness.

Zane pondered this. When a grown man seduced a
female child, it was molestation, for surely his attentions
were forced on her; but when a grown woman did it to a
male child, it was apt to be considered generosity. Zane
could understand that; force was unlikely to be a com-
ponent. But evidently the burden of sin attached to the
boy as well as to the woman, especially if the child be-
lieved the liaison was wrong. There seemed to have been
several repetitions, so the sin now amounted to fifty per-
cent. The boy had been overwhelmed by the personality
of the mature woman; fear of discovery mixed with the
erotic joy she provided him. He had been caught in a kind
of trap that an older person could readily have broken,
but he lacked the courage or experience. It was quite
understandable; he was a victim of circumstance—but
still the accretions of sin had been charged against him.

This bothered Zane. He remembered how Fate had
quoted from Henley's poem about a man being the captain
of his soul—but surely this was not as true for an impres-
sionable boy. It seemed to him that an adult standard of
responsibility was being applied to a juvenile person, and
this was unfair. As a man who had once been a child, he
could appreciate the appeal of an available woman at any
age. He himself had longed for information at that age
and had been denied it. He had tried to purchase a charm
to summon a succubus, but the vendor had refused to
deliver such magic to a child. Zane still regretted that;

since succubi were nonhuman, yet the essence of sex, he
could have learned a lot without involving anyone who
counted. But of course there were laws, and they did tend
to discriminate against children. Theoretically, this was




212 On A Pale Horse On A Pale Horse 213

to protect those children; actually it had seemed more like
punishment for being young, inflicted by those who wished
they themselves had not aged.

At any rate, he deeply regretted taking this lad, who
had only responded to the urges Nature had provided him.
The Green Mother could do it to anyone; Zane knew that
from recent personal experience. So the lad's burden of
sin was a technical thing, not really reflecting badness.
The definition ought to be changed, to be more realistic.
But of course there was nothing Zane could do about it.
He was only Death, performing his own office.

"Damn the office!" he swore abruptly. "Why should I
participate in what I believe is wrong?"

Nature had shown him another aspect of her power by
enabling the left-footed dancing girl to revive. That death
had not been final. Could this one be similarly negated?
He thought of the condition of the body, its skin largely
burned away, and shuddered. There was no point in re-
turning the soul to that!

But what about Chronos? Maybe the Incarnation of
Time could enable him to go back to the moment before   '
the fire broke out, and warn the boy, so that—

"Take me to Chronos," Zane directed Mortis, stopping
his countdown,                                      i

The gallant Deathsteed slowed to a stop at a passing   i
field and started to graze. Zane looked around, perplexed,   i
"I don't see—"

"Then turn about. Death," the voice of Time came. It
had a certain echoing quality, with a trace of grit, as if   ;

some sand had leaked into it from the hourglass.          |

Zane turned. There stood Chronos, in his white robe.   j
He had surely not been there a moment ago. He must   |
have come when Zane asked for him.                   ;

"I would like to have your help," Zane said. "A dem-
onstration of your power, if it does not lead to paradox."

"I have power, and I love paradox," Chronos said.

"I have just taken the soul of this boy," Zane explained,
showing the soul. "I want to return it so he can have a
proper chance to redress his balance in life. Could you,
with my concurrence, arrange that?"

"Take me to the place, and I will take you to the time,"

Chronos said equably. "It is true one Incarnation may not
safely interfere with another, but since you will it, I can
assist. We do cooperate, at need."

Just like that! Chronos mounted Mortis behind Zane,
and the horse took off.

"Now, while we are isolated by the ambience of the
Deathsteed," Chronos said, "there is another matter you
wish to ask of me."

"Isolated?" Zane asked. "You mean no one can over-
hear us here, even—?"

"Speak not his name, lest you summon him," Chronos
warned. "Mortis protects you better than you know, but
nothing protects against folly."

"Uh, yes, of course," Zane agreed, disgruntled.

"Naturally you found a pretext to contact me, so that
he would not have cause for suspicion."

Zane hadn't thought of it that way. But he did have
something else to talk about. "The Purgatory computer
flashed your symbol on its screen when I questioned it
about the status of Luna Kaftan."

"A most interesting case," Chronos said, after a pause
as if to recollect the details. "Fate alerted me to it, for
she notes the significant threads. Circa twenty years
from this moment, Luna Kaftan will be instrumental
in—"

"But she's going to die within the month!" Zane pro-
tested.

"That, too," Chronos agreed.

"Then how can she—?"

"History is mutable, of course. If she lives, she will
go into politics—"

"But she is an artist!"

"So was Winston Churchill, and Adolf Hitler studied
to be one. Artistic temperament is no necessary bar to
political achievement."

Zane thought of Churchill and Hitler, opposing leaders
in the great Second World War between the Allies and
the Axis, where both magic and science had run rampant
until it all terminated in the first detonation of nuclear
fission. He didn't like the association. Nuclear fission
could destroy the realm of the living! "So if she lives—




224

OwA Pale Horse

On A Pale Horse

215

there may be a chance of that—she will go into politics
and—?"

"And be instrumental in balking the Nameless in his
attempt to install his most hateful minion in the highest
political office of the United States of America."

"Why would—that Entity—want political power?" Zane
asked, bewildered. "His realm is Below."

"And the other Entity's realm is Above. Neither con-
trols the battleground that is the living world, but each
draws sustenance from it. Expressed in monetary terms,
the world is the principal, and the souls departing it are
the interest. The Etemals split the interest, but each would
like a share of the principal. The proportion of souls each
receives is critical. At this moment the apex has the upper
hand, but a substantial change in the orientation of the
living folk, followed by a massive exodus to Eternity,
could shift the balance of power to the nadir. Then—"

"I don't care to think about it," Zane said with a shud-
der. "And you say Luna will prevent that from happen-
ing?"

"Yes—if she lives."

"Now I understand why Someone wants her dead!"

"So it would seem."

Mortis had arrived at the site of the burning building
in New York, which was now a smoldering mass. The
firemen had come too late, as was typical for this area of
the city where the tax base was small, and doused it with
a suffocation-spell; now they were picking through the
ruin for bodies. The survivors stood staring, half in shock.
It was a grim scene.

Chronos lifted his hourglass. Abruptly time froze, as
it had when Zane used the center knob of the Deathwatch.
The rising smoke hovered in place, and the people formed
a tableau, standing like statues. Only Chronos, Zane, and
Mortis remained animate.

Then the fine sand streamed upward from the lower
segment of the hourglass to the upper. It was not as if the
glass had been inverted, set in an antigravity field, or
spelled to levitate; it was a literal reversal of time, as sand
rose from the mound below, squeezed through the tight

neck, and shoved the upper sand higher in an even pat-
tern. Zane was fascinated.

The flow of sand accelerated, moving faster than any
natural cause could account for. The level in the upper
chamber climbed visibly. But Zane's eye was caught by
events beyond.

The standing people milled rapidly about, walking
backward at running speed. The firemen backed hastily
to their trucks and accelerated away in reverse. The fire
abruptly blazed up, out of control. But it was no ordinary
conflagration; the great orange-yellow flames were plung-
ing downward into the apertures of the structure. Smoke
roiled down to feed those flames, drawing in from the
broad night sky. People backed closer to the building,
carrying in items of furniture and apparel and food. Other
people fled the fire, backward, their faces illuminated by
the flames in postures of excitement. Everything hap-
pened at triple or quadruple velocity.

Soon the flames diminished, squeezing into the clari-
fying building. The last of the smoke sucked in, too.
Windows restored themselves, their fragments of glass
flying up to become whole panes, and the fire was out.

Time slowed, than paused, then reversed. Once more
the sand trickled from top to bottom, at normal velocity.
"You have two minutes. Death," Chronos said, dis-
mounting. "Use it as you please."

Zane stared a moment, amazed by the power Chronos
had shown. How could anything oppose an Incarnation
with the ability to reverse finished events?

He jumped down and ran to the door. It was locked,
but opened at his touch. He charged up the stairs to the
boy's room, feeling in his bag for the soul. Did he still
have it, or had the reversal of time restored it to the boy?
He, Zane, had been insulated from the reversal; none of
his experience had been subtracted. But the boy had been
a participant, so should have recovered his soul. Which
version was fact, now?

He reached deeper into the bag and found the soul.
But as he drew it out, it tugged from his hand and flitted
forward. When Zane came in sight of the sleeping boy,
the soul plunged in and disappeared.




216

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On A Pale Horse

227

Zane reasoned it out as he moved. Time had reversed,
but his personal isolation from the effect had prevented
the soul in his possession from zipping back in its turn.
Similarly, he had not seen himself attend to the boy during
the fire. Of course, this time he had been outside the
building, so wasn't really in a position to see himself in
action. The reversal had been imperfect because he had
stood separate, instead of racing backward through his
own involvement. Interesting, but apparently not critical;

here he was, just before the fire erupted. Evidently there

was no paradox.

He stood over the bed. "Wake!" he cried. "Wake, lest

you die!"

The boy woke. He saw the specter of Death looming
over him. He screamed and rolled, tumbling, from the
bed. He scrambled to his feet and started for the open

window.

Zane leaped to intercept him. What use to save the lad

from the fire, only to scare him into a suicidal plunge
through the window? He was trying to interfere with the
handiwork of Fate, and that was problematical—unless
she also knew of this matter and was amenable.

He spread his skeletal hands, barring the way. "Give
up the woman," he said, remembering the burden of sin
that had brought the lad to this pass. "Go and live righ-
teously. You are spared from Death to do this."
The boy stared, then backed away, terrified.
Then the first whiff of smoke came. The fire was start-
ing. "Wake the house!" Zane cried. "Go outside. Live—

and remember."

The boy fled. In moments his screams were waking
the others. "Get up! Get up! I saw Death! Live right! Go

outside!"

It was effective. Soon the people were trooping down
the stairs and out, escaping the fire with armfuls of their
possessions. Others who had died in the first play of this
scene were surviving in the replay. Truly, the boy had

saved them.

Zane walked among them, unnoticed. He returned to
his horse, ready to thank Chronos, but Chronos was gone.

Well, Time probably had other business. He would

thank Chronos when they next met. Perhaps he would
have occasion to return the favor. Now he had business
himself. He started his timer, reorienting on the client he
had set aside.

He worked for a day, his time, catching up the backlog.
His mind was increasingly on Luna and her fate. Now he
knewSatan had engineered her termination so she could
not later balk his will, and Zane realized that the other
Incarnations were aware of this. But none of them had
offered to do anything about it! Either they were pow-
erless against the will of Satan, or they simply didn't care.

And why should they care? This was his own concern.
If anyone was to do anything, he was the one. Yet he
could think of nothing. He would not even be involved
in her transition, directly, for her soul was weighted for
Hell. If only she had more time in life to redeem her soul,
to redress the balance—

Could he appeal to God? Zane doubted it, for God
seldom seemed to involve Himself in the affairs of living
man. God still honored the Covenant ofnonintervention.
Satan was the one who was cheating—and Satan would
hardly consider any appeal to negate his effort.

Zane grew angry about that. Was Satan to win the
celestial war because he cheated while God did not? Yet
if God could only counter Satan by cheating Himself, He
would become evil, and evil would still prevail. God had
to be incorruptible! Therefore—there would be no action
from God.

Zane wrapped up his schedule and went to call on
Luna.

She had not been using her relief stones. The knowl-
edge of death and damnation was taking its grim toll; her
face was pale, and the lines on it were etched more deeply.
Her tresses hung in lank masses. Her eyes were heavily
shadowed. She wore no makeup; that would have been
pointless, for she had evidently been crying considerably.

Zane's breast experienced a soft explosion of love for
her. He took her into his embrace and held her close,
wanting to reassure her yet knowing there was nothing
he could offer except his own pain.




218

On A Pal* Horse

On A Pale Horse

219

He kissed her, but she held back. "We must not," she
said, knowing where this was leading.

"Not?"

"The stones say no."

He hardly cared about the will of the stones, but he
did not want to oppose her own will in any way. "Then
let me hold your hand."

In response she hummed a little tune.

Zane's brow furrowed. "Am I missing something?"

She smiled fleetingly, and a bit of her beauty showed.
"A folk song. I'm sorry; I'm distracted, and didn't realize
I was doing it aloud. I'm in poor shape, because the stones
don't abolish grief, they only postpone it, so I have to
suffer it all sometime; in any event, I do want to expe-
rience natural emotion for my father, and for myself."

"What folk song?"

She made an "I'll show you" sign, then moved to the
center of the room and posed. She sang: /(looms so long,
I'll miss you, miss; I've got to take your hand.
.. .I've got to dance with you.
... We all will dance with you.
Oh. He might never see her again, because she would
be dead. A catchy tune, but a macabre mental connection
for hand-holding. She certainly was upset, and he could

not alleviate her distress.

/(looms so long, I'll miss you, miss, Luna sang again.
So let me spin and turn. And she spun prettily, her skirt
flaring. But the image that came to Zane's mind was that
of the left-footed girl, prisoned in the magic slippers. There
was no joy in Luna's dance, however lovely it made her.

He walked toward her, still uncertain what to do. She
sang the first line again, then continued: We all shall spin
and turn. This time Zane turned with her, joining her

dance.

Then he caught her hand and led her to the couch.

They sat for the better part of an hour in silence, holding
hands, and in that time the burgeoning love he felt for her
suffused every crevice of his awareness. The girl the
Lovestone had directed him to had been a dream; Luna
was reality. How could he live without her?
"I will go with you," he said suddenly.

Luna smiled wanly. "Few would make that offer, and
I thank you for it. But you will not be going to Hell-^"

"Surely I will, because I have been breaking the rules
of my office!"

"You have been breaking them in good ways. But even
if you do die soon and go to Hell, Satan would not let us
be together there, any more than he would let me see my
father. Hell is for suffering."

"Your father is not in Hell. He is in Purgatory, working
out his account."

"But has he any chance at Heaven?"

"Of course he has! He's a good man!"

She smiled. "You are kind to say so."

In due course he left her, more than ever determined
to save her, more than ever uncertain how to do it. He
was only Death, a functionary; he could not dictate the
identity of his clients—and Luna was not his client. Not
directly.

But, damn it, Satan was cheating! It wasn't right! Was
there no justice in Eternity? Some court of appeal, to set
the record straight—

There had to be! Zane turned off his timer. Mortis
leaped for Purgatory without directive, knowing the will
of his master.

"Why, yes. Death, you may file a petition," the Pur-
gatory Administration annex desk girl said. "It will be
reviewed by the Immortal Board at the next meeting, and
a committee assigned—"

"When's the next meeting?"

She checked her perpetual calendar. "In ten Earthly
days."

"But the wrong is in process now!" he protested. "Ten
days may be too late!"

"I don't make the rules," she said, with just that edge
of irritability that public servants knew, from millennia
of experience, that they could get away with.

Zane sighed. Bureaucracy was the same everywhere!
He filled out the form and left it. Maybe there would be
time. Luna's death had been omened within a month, of
which five days were now gone; it could happen any time




220

On A Pale Horse

within the next twenty-five. That gave him ten out of
twenty-five chances to lose, and fifteen out of twenty-
five to win, or odds in his favor by a three or two margin.
But he distrusted that, fearing what Satan would do.




10

HOT SMOKE

Zane slept at his Deathhouse, accepting the routine ser-
vices of his staff without noticing, then got to work early
next day. Since it seemed he couldn't do anything to help
Luna before the petition was considered, he tried to put
the matter from his mind by working harder.

As luck would have it, his case load was small at the
moment. He took two clients in rapid order, then found
himself with the maximum time of thirty minutes for the
third. It seemed pointless to go early, but he had to dis-
tract himself some way, so he oriented and rode the
Deathhorse to the address.

This was an isolated spot in the western state of Ne-
vada, the least populated region of the United States,
because it was the least habitable. Zane's gems guided
him to one of the desert areas, a barren wasteland.

This was dragon country. The scenic Hot Smoke
Mountains—renamed in honor of the beasts—were rid-
dled with the warrens of the fierce reptiles. Pew plants
survived, but that hardly mattered to the dragons, who
were carnivorous, preying on tender virgins. Mostly the
creatures ranged aloft, questing for virginal animals, but
they had a gourmet appetite for the rare human variety
when it could be obtained. In fact—

In fact, he now remembered that this was the locale
of the Dragoons, a cult dedicated to the welfare of this
exotic species. The Dragoons had lobbied vigorously to




222

On A Pale Horse

OnA Pale Horse

223

prevent the construction of resorts, irrigated farm sites,   I
and missile silos in the region, pleading that the Hot Smoke
species of dragon had no other habitat and would, if not
left free, suffer the extinction that had almost claimed
them before their discovery. Fortunately, that discovery
had been made by a man interested in rare life forms,
who had used some elementary magic to track them down.
Had the original trappers and settlers in this region dis-
covered them, they would have been totally extermi-
nated, and no one would have believed they had ever

existed.

The Dragoons had won several legal suits, for the gen-
eral public was in a phase of environmental conscious-
ness, so the Hot Smokers remained largely unmolested.
But they still needed to eat, and virgins of any type were
in short supply. The Dragoons were constantly looking
for new sacrifices. Human sacrifices were generally ille-
gal, but it was difficult to keep constant watch, and the
state authorities were chronically short of personnel.

Sure enough, as Zane arrived at the site for his client,   !
he spied a lovely but terrified young woman, barely nu-   i
bile, in a cage. It was afternoon here, and men were setting   '
up a smudge pot, evidently planning to use the smoke to
summon a dragon. How the Dragoons had captured this
virgin, Zane did not know, but she was surely doomed.
He would have to collect her soul as the dragon consumed
her, twenty five minutes hence, unless he figured out a

way to rescue her.

He walked to the cage and spoke to the girl. "How did
they bring you here?" he inquired, suspecting that she
would turn out to have been drugged.

She paused in her weeping and looked up at him, not
recognizing him. That was odd, for his clients were nor-
mally attuned to his presence. "By truck, sir."

"I mean, was it coercion? Did they kidnap you? If

so—"

Her lip trembled. "No, sir. I come of my own fr-free

will."

"Do you know what they plan for you?"
"To be gobbled by the dragon," she said, her eyes

brimming over again. "I can't even take a mind-zonk drug,
'cause that changes the taste for the monster."

So the dragons were sensitive even to the virginity of
the mind! This was a cruel denouement indeed. "But why
do you accede to your murder?"

"My—my family—in debt—" Now she broke down
entirely and was unable to continue.

So it was legal after all, because it was technically
voluntary. She had sold herself to abate her family's debt.
Such contracts had legal status, provided there was no
deception. He understood that the Dragoons had an ex-
cellent credit rating, so there was no reason to doubt they
had paid a fair price, redeeming this poor girl's family's
debts. There was nothing he could do.

At least he could get her out of the cage; that was
unnecessarily degrading. But as he started to use his
power on the lock, the maiden protested. "Sir, I am
confined to guarantee no one deflorates me before the—
the—"

The Dragoons had everything figured! Of course, that
would be a way to make her ineligible for the sacrifice,
so they made quite sure no such mercy would occur at
the last moment.

There was a shimmer. A cloaked figure appeared be-
side the cage. "I will take your place, dear," the woman
said.

Zane jumped. He knew that voice. "Luna!"
She turned to him. "Oh—I did not realize you would

attend this one."

"It's my job!" Zane said. "To harvest the soul of this

undeflowered girl when—" He cut that off. "You can't

take her place! You're not—"

Luna turned a level gaze on him. "Not what?"
"The Hot Smoke dragons are an endangered species

because they consume only virgins," he said, somewhat

lamely.

She smiled grimly. "I am a virgin, physically."

"But—"

"The demon had his will of my mind and soiled my
soul," she explained. "I would have suffered less had he
been able to ravage me physically instead, but he can not




On A Pale Horse

224

do that until my soul enters his realm. I am damned, the
victim of psychic rape, but my body is chaste."

Zane was not comforted by this clarification. "I put in
a petition to review your scheduled demise. It's a put-up
job; the Unnamed wants you out of the way. I'm sure the
review board will reverse it—but it will be ten days before
it meets. If you go into this now—"

Luna shook her head sadly. "My stones indicate that
my time falls within this day. So I decided at least to make
my passing useful to someone. I inquired at the Good
Deeds Exchange, and they sent me here. This poor, in-
nocent girl—" She glanced at the maiden in the cage, who
was taking all this in in wide-eyed silence. "—who has
offered her good life in sacrifice for the benefit of her
family—she should be sent to Heaven, but not yet. She
has too many people to make happy on Earth."
"She is hardly assured of Heaven," Zane said.
"Check her yourself. She's a good girl, I'm sure."
Zane oriented his soul-verification stones. The Sin-
stone remained dull, while the other glowed brightly.
"She's not burdened with sin!" he exclaimed. "But how,
then, could I have been summoned to collect her soul

personally?"

"Someone else must be going to die," Luna said with
a knowing quirk of her lips. "You assumed it was the
caged sacrifice, but—"

He looked at her with burgeoning horror. "You are v
taking her place! You—"

"Don't be silly. I'm going to Hell in my own hand-
basket. It's sheer coincidence that you're here; my soul
will not need you. In fact, I had hoped to handle this
without your knowledge, quickly and cleanly."

Zane oriented the stones on Luna. The reading was,
of course, incomplete, but the Sinstone was brighter. She   I
was right; she could not be his client. But she was going   •

to die.

Now the Dragoons approached. "The occasion is at
hand," a well-dressed older man announced. "Our radar
has located an approaching Smoker." He produced a key
and unlocked the cage, releasing the girl.

Ow A Pale Horse            225

"I will substitute," Luna said. "The Good Deeds Ex-
change sent me. Let this girl go, her onus abated."

"How do we know you are eligible?" the man de-
manded. "The dragons get very disturbed when offered
used goods."

"Your kind can sniff a virgin from ten meters away,"
Luna snapped. "You know I'm eligible."

The man sniffed. "Why, so you are, physically. You
have the aspect of one who has been savagely used,
but—" He shook his head, perplexed at his error. "Very
well. We shall release this girl as soon as the dragon is
satisfied."

"See that you do," Luna said. "My friend will be on
hand to verify it."

The man looked at Zane as if seeing him for the first
time. Zane looked back, knowing that, for this man, he
was phasing into the aspect of Death.

"Ah, yes," the man said uncomfortably. "I am certain
it will be all right. The dragons don't care how much
ravishment is within a person's mind as long as the mind
is presently devoid of drugs and the body is chaste." He
turned to his companion, who carried an ornate case. He
opened the case and lifted out a gleaming silver knife,
which he presented to Luna. "You are permitted to defend
yourself with this alone. No magic or firearms. If you can
fend off the dragon fairly, you will be freed, your onus
abated."

"This apple-peeler is hardly sufficient to balk a fire-
breathing monster!" Luna said.

"True. It is a token gesture, required by the Fair Em-
ployment Commission. Naturally we do not wish the
dragon to be hurt. But it is theoretically possible."

Luna shrugged. "I came here to die anyway. If the

Smoker doesn't take me, something else will." She took
the knife.

There was a speck on the horizon, over the Hot Smoke
mountain range. "Hark! It comes!" the man said, wonder
and awe on his face. He had surely seen many similar
dragons, but he was a reptile worshiper, and these were
the lords of the reptile kingdom. "Only the designated




226

On A Pale Horse

On A Pale Horse

227

virgin may remain, lest the dragon sheer away. They're
shy, you know, from the bad old days when sportsmen
hunted them with bazookas." He scowled at the foul mem-
ory.

"Luna—" Zane said, unable to formulate a suitable

protest.

"Let me at least go in a manner of my choosing," she

told him gently. "I will not have another chance."

"But I love you!"

"I believe you do," she agreed. "Perhaps in time I
would have returned the favor without reservation, if not
distracted by grief. But it seems it was not to be. I think
my father meant me to love you, but did not foresee this."
She turned toward the dragon, who was now looming
larger. The other people had retreated to a shielded baffle
to watch the proceedings. There was even a television
camera crew, for Dragon vs. Maiden was popular local-
color fare.

"But the termination of your life has been rigged!" Zane

cried. "The Nether One cheated! You were supposed to
live a full term, and to balk him politically, so he fixed
the schedule to eliminate you early! You shouldn't have

to die at all!"

She turned quickly, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him
on the lips. "It is kind of you to tell me that, Zane. You
press the case; maybe if you prove it, you can get my
soul freed from Hell. I could join my father in Purgatory.
That would be nice." Then she broke and walked reso-
lutely toward the approaching form that was the dragon.

Zane watched her go, helpless to prevent the disaster
that had been scheduled. She was right; Satan had won
this round, by whatever means. Luna had shed her tears
and accepted her fate, and now was doing a singularly
generous thing. She was a good woman, no matter what
the official record said! He did love her—and partly be-
cause of that, he could not interfere. She had chosen her

mode.

He looked at the Deathwatch. The countdown was now

at four minutes. Soon he would have to break away to
attend to his true client, whoever that was—but first he

would watch what happened here, though it destroy his
joy in life.

He still had time to do something to prevent what he
least wanted to see. But he knew he would not. Luna had
selected the manner of her termination, and it was a wor-
thy manner. The kindest thing he could do for her, iron-
ically, was to let her be roasted and chewed to pieces by
the dragon.

The dragon loomed much larger as it circled the field,
aligned itself, and swooped down for a landing. Hot Smok-
ers were not large dragons, as this class of reptile went,
but their fire-breathing made them formidable. This one
was a dragoness, a female, whose scales were shades of
gray. On her back, between her great leathery wings, was
a single armored egg.

There was an exclamation from the baffle, and Zane
saw the television cameraman mounting his zoom lens.
An egg meant a potential baby dragon, perpetuating the
species; of course the Dragoons were interested! They
would be doing their best to track that egg, and the draglet
who hatched from it. They might band it, so they could
trace its migration route by radio. Of course, some illegal
hunter would probably poach it long before it grew to
maturity; that was another reason this was an endangered
species. Zane would have had more sympathy for the
plight of the Smokers, had it not been Luna this dragoness
was about to feed on.

Luna came to a stop in the center of the desert valley,
nervously holding her knife. Zane saw that she wore no
jewelry, honoring the stricture against magic. There were
surely stones in her house that could vaporize a dragon!
But she was determined to fulfill her role properly. She
had removed her cloak and was garbed in a flowing white
dress, and her hair glowed coppery in the sunshine. She
seemed like the most lovely creature imaginable. But Zane
knew he was not objective; he loved her.

This was absolutely crazy! How could he watch the
dragon slaughter her and not even try to rescue her? He
knew why, objectively, but he could not accept it emo-
tionally. There had to be another way.

Another way for what? If Luna did not die this way,




On A Pale Horse

228

she would die some other way—probably a worse demise.
He realized, now, that Satan would never let the ten days   i
till the hearing go by unchallenged; he would pre-empt   ;

the matter, presenting the hearing with a. fait accompli.
What else was to be expected from the Father of Lies?
Zane had never had a chance to settle this matter through   \
channels. So the termination date had been moved up,   ':

probably because of Zane's appeal, and it had been up to
Luna to choose the manner of her demise on this desig-
nated day. At least the dragons were not sadistic; they
killed and fed efficiently. They were natural creatures,   !

not given to waste,                                      i

Zane contemplated the dragoness. She was about six   j
meters long, with a wingspan the same amount, but her   l
torso was serpentine rather than stout. Mass was sacri-   |
ficed in the interest of flight. She had only one set of feet,   |
and her head was small; in fact, she was birdlike in her   i
fashion. But few birds were her size, or had teeth, or   l
leather wings, or metallic scales. Both birds and dragons
had evolved from the ancient reptiles, but the common
ancestor had been perhaps a hundred million years back.
Maybe seventy million years ago the birds, mammals, and
dragons had squeezed the dinosaurs into extinction. For
a long time, all three had prospered, but now the mam-
mals, mainly in the form of mankind, were dominant. All
too soon the dragons would be shoved into oblivion.

If the death of a single person was hard, Zane thought,
what, then, of the death of an entire species? He approved
of the Dragoons' campaign to save the Smokers. He wished
there were some other way to feed this dragoness.

The Smokeress rolled up her wings and folded them
back against her torso. She inhaled, then puffed out a
dense cloud of smoke. Zane realized that her burner was
just warming up. Adventure stories depicting a dragon
waking from a snooze and shooting instant flames were
nonsense. It took a lot of energy to shoot flame, so it was
never done carelessly. Dragons were cold-blooded, like
other reptiles, and generally hibernated in winter or mi-
grated south; their fires were strictly for fighting and feed-
ing. The Hot Smokers were more smoky than most, but
where there was dragonsmoke there was dragonfire.

On A Pale Horse

229

The creature stalked Luna, who took an involuntary
step back. Dragons were so constituted that they had to
hunt and kill their own prey, so this was more than mere
ritual. Why that prey had to be virginal was a mystery
the experts had never fathomed, but there was no question
it was true. A Hot Smoke dragon would literally starve
to death before it would consume either prekilled or non-
virginal flesh. The most persuasive conjecture about the
origin of this restricted diet was that there had been a bad
epidemic of venereal disease a few million years back and
that dragons who had consumed infected prey were dam-
aged by the disease themselves, so it had become a matter
of survival to eat only guaranteed clean meat. Thus vir-
gins, very few of whom had contracted VD.

Now Zane saw that the dragoness was limping. One
foot was weak, though he could not tell whether this was
from physical or magical malaise. Sometimes cloddish
people hurled curses at wild creatures, considering it great
sport. It could take a curse months to wear off, and that
could be an inconvenience at best and a fatality at worst.
Other ciods dumped the refuse of toxic spells in the wil-
derness, where innocent wildlife could stumble upon the
dump and get hurt. No wonder this dragon had come to
the feeding station; she could not forage effectively alone—
not while burdened by the egg and handicapped by the
foot.

Zane caught himself up short. What was he thinking
of? It was Luna this beast intended to feed on! The more
handicapped the dragoness was, the better! Maybe Luna
could, after all, fend off the monster with the knife. If she
did that, if she escaped this fate legitimately—

No. Fate could not so readily be cheated. Luna's death
would not be the fault of the dragoness. It would be the
fault of—

The dragoness pounced. Luna danced away, slashing
in the air with the knife. She might know death was in-
evitable, but she was not resigned to it. She would fight
to live a few extra seconds, as a drowning person gasped
for air. She was not a trained knife fighter, though her
artistic hands might be more clever than most; in any




230            On A Pale Horse

event, the dragonfire would negate her efforts. So this
was a largely automatic and futile exercise.

The dragoness pumped up her bellows and oriented on
the woman. The beast was hot now; she could send forth
a searing blast. That would be the end. Of course Luna

had no chance!

Zane could not help himself. He stepped in front of
the monster. The flame shot out, but bounced off the
Deathcloak without hurting him.

"No!" Luna cried. "Let me die this way, Zane! Don't
make me gamble on whatever else Satan has in store!"

To make her gamble on a different death—that concept
shook him, though he had thought of it earlier himself.
He had gambled compulsively, in past years, and dug
himself into a pit from which only Death had finally ex-
tricated him. He had no wish to plunge back into that
morass! Why, then, should he gamble with Luna's manner

of dying?

The Smokeress was eying him, trying to determine why
he wasn't roasted. He stared back, and she blanched in
almost the manner of a human being, beginning to per-
ceive the nature of his office.

"Don't do it!" Luna cried.

Zane reluctantly moved aside. He knew he had no right
to interfere. The dragoness shook her head, as if clearing
it of the ashes of an unpleasant vision, and reoriented on
Luna. Zane no longer seemed to exist for either of them;

as Death, he tended to fade from the awareness of anyone
who was not his client.

Yet the dragoness hesitated, for the specter of Death
could not lightly be dismissed from the deepest imagi-
nation of any creature who spied it. Even the briefest
vision of Death tended to make a person or creature con-
scious of its own mortality, and that was disquieting. Most
creatures would go to some lengths to avoid or expunge
such awareness, and in this they were generally more
successful than was man. Man's great curse was to per-
ceive his death more clearly than did any other creatures;

he could see the end coming, so suffered longer.

The dragoness, shaken, began to unfurl her wings, as
if about to depart. "Don't change your mind now!" Luna

On A Pale Horse

231

cried. "If you don't eat me, the life of the poor girl I
replaced will be forfeit to the next dragon!"

Oops—that was correct! If Luna fought off the dra-
goness, she and the girl were free. But if she never actually
encountered the monster—because some third party like
himself interfered—her gesture would go for nothing. Luna
might have argued the case, since the dragoness had fired
a blast at her, but she had chosen instead to seek an honest
death. Zane would have appreciated her determination
more if he had not loved her.

No, that wasn't right either! He loved her more be-
cause of it. Luna was showing her integrity and mettle in
the most telling manner possible. He, Zane, had never
done that.

Still the dragoness paused. Zane had not realized that
the sight of the human personification of Death would
have such impact on an animal. The dragoness really
should not be afraid of him. Did she know something he
didn't?

Luna charged at the monster, brandishing her knife.
Now the Smokeress reacted properly. She pumped up,
swung her head about, and issued a jet of pure blue flame
that extended a good three meters, with very little smoke.
Maybe the dragoness had not been pausing from alarm,
but to work up a higher heat.

Luna dodged the jet. It was so narrow, now that the
hot-box had become fully operative, that it was easy to
avoid. Especially by someone watching the monster's
head. Luna ran right up alongside the dragoness, stepped
on the reptile's smoking snout, and scrambled onto her
winged back.

The startled dragoness whipped her head about. The
serpentine neck was supple; she had no trouble biting at
her own back.

Then Luna got her hands on the egg. She ripped it free
and held it like a football, close to her body. "Now sear
me with your fire!" she screamed.

Of course the dragoness did not dare do that; she would
roast her own precious offspring. She froze for a moment,
paralyzed by indecision; she was smart enough to see the
problem but not smart enough to figure out a solution.




232 On. A Pale Horse

Luna had made an amazing move and gained the advan-
tage.

Luna slid off the dragoness' back, holding the egg
tucked under one arm. Still the reptile could not attack;

the egg was hostage.

The Dragoons saw what Luna had done. "Put down
that egg!" the man in charge cried. "It's invaluable! So
few dragons reproduce—"

Luna backed away from the dragoness, holding the egg
before her as a shield. The Smokeress switched her tail
and snorted dense smoke, but did not attack.

"The reckless use of pesticides has damaged the wil-
derness environment," the Dragoon called. "Dragons' eggs
have relatively fragile shells because of this, and many
break before hatching time. Until the pesticide residue
clears—and that may take decades—the species is flirting
with extinction! Virgin, spare that egg!"

Luna looked down at the egg, considering. She nod-
ded. She set the egg down on the sand and moved away
from it.

How did this count? Zane wondered. Had Luna de-
feated the creature, discharging her obligation? If so—

Luna charged the dragoness again, brandishing the sil-
ver knife. The fierce head whipped about automatically,
the jaws opening.

What madness was this? Luria didn't have a chance!
But it happened so fast that Zane couldn't act in time to

prevent it.

The dragoness wafted out a gust of smoke, not having
time to pump up another good fire. The smoke engulfed
Luna for a moment.

She screamed, and the sound tore at Zane's being. In
a moment the smoke cleared, blown away by an idle
breeze, and Zane realized to his added horror how hot
that smoke had been. Luna's lovely hair and fine clothing
were scorched, her skin blistered. She had been blinded
and partially flayed by the heat.

The dragoness limped forward and took the reeling
woman in her jaws. The teeth crunched down, and rich
red blood welled into her mouth and dripped from her
chin.

On A Pale Horse            233

With wild surmise, Zane looked at his watch. The
countdown stood at zero. His gems were pointing to Luna.

"You were my client all along!" he cried to the horribly
mangled body. "Your good deeds—saving the designated
virgin, sparing the valuable dragon's egg, feeding the dra-
goness—they squared your balance! You are dying even!"

He ran up to take her soul, for she could not truly die
until he claimed it. The flames of Hell could not be worse
torture for her than this! But as he came to the terrible
scene and saw her body bleeding in the dragoness'jaws,
her head rolled toward him. Her burned eyes opened part-
way, the tatters of eyelids rising. Somehow she felt his
presence. "Take me. Death!" she rasped in agony.

Suddenly Zane rebelled. This was the woman he loved!

He looked into Luna's suffering face. He had never
imagined that he would ever choose to extend such agony
by even one second, but now he had to. "No," he said.
He put the Deathwatch on hold.

Then the entire scene froze, for he had punched the
button that stopped time itself, not just the countdown.
Punched? Unconsciously he had done the opposite, pull-
ing it out. The clouds stopped moving in the sky, the
leaves on the stunted bushes stopped quivering in the
wind, and the Dragoons were statues. The dragoness re-
mained with her teeth clamped in Luna's body. Even the
smoke hung motionless.

Zane turned about. Sure enough, Chronos stood be-
hind him. "I thought you would come to investigate,"
Zane said. "I want you to move us back to just before
Luna got—"

Chronos shook his head. "I can do that. Death, but it
will not help you. Luna has been designated to die on this
day; only the manner of it is optional."

Zane was grim. "Her death is now in my province. I
love her. I know her early demise is illicit, and I will not
take her soul."

A woman walked across the sand. It was Fate, in her
middle guise. "You must take her soul, Death, or there
will literally be Hell to pay."

"To Hell with Hell!" Zane exploded. "I will not take
her on this basis. You may have been directed to set this

234 OnA Pale Horse

up. Fate, but you can not move her soul. Only I can do
that, and I will not. Undo your mischief, for I will not let
her die."

Another figure appeared. It was Mars, the Incarnation
of War. "Fate set it up, but as you surmise, it was at the
behest of the Powers that Be. She had and has no choice."

"At the cheating behest of Satan!" Zane cried.

"That may be true," Mars said. "But you can not war
with him."

"Satan cheated!" Zane repeated. "I have put in a pe-
tition for redress that shall surely be granted when the
facts are known. Until that petition is heard, I shall not
indulge in any tacit collusion with the Prince of Evil. Luna
shall not die."

One more figure arrived, also immune to the stasis of
time. It was Nature, wearing her dress of mist. "Desist
this foolishness, Thanatos," she urged. "You have gotten
away with breaking little rules, but this time you are in
deeper than you know."

Zane glared at them. "Are you all against me? Then
all of you be damned! I know I am right, I know my power,
and I shall not be moved."

Nature smiled grimly. "We are at the crisis point. It is
the occasion to speak plainly."

"I have heard you speak plainly!" Zane retorted. "But
you can not overrule me in my bailiwick. This woman
shall not die!"

Fate smiled. "Relax, Death. We are on your side."

Suddenly Zane had a mental vision of parallel lines,
one of the five formations of thought Nature had described
to him at their prior meeting: is. It was as if each Incar-
nation was one of the matchsticks, and all were going the
same way. "You're all in this! You all conspired to put
me in this hole!"

"We all conspired," Chronos agreed. "Satan has to be
balked, and God won't intervene. We Incarnations are all
that remains to enforce the Covenant ofnonintervention."

Zane spun about, his angry gaze brushing past each of
them. "The way I assumed the office of Death—my meet-
ing with Luna, so carefully arranged by her father, who
was in on this—my innocent, seemingly coincidental en-

On A Pale Horse            235

counters with each of you other Incarnations—Luna's

present agony—all arranged beforehand!"

"Known, not necessarily arranged," Chronos said.
"But the details adapted where necessary," Fate added.
"Because we had to have the office filled by a person

of the appropriate nature," Nature said.

"So that he could lead the battle against Satan," Mars
concluded.

"Damn you! Damn you all!" Zane cried. "I never asked
for this onus! What right did any of you have to meddle
in my life?"

"The right of necessity," Nature said. "All mankind
will be damned if we don't meddle."

"Exactly how can my pain and Luna's death do anyone
any good?" he demanded.

"Her life," Fate corrected. "It is her life we need, not
her death."

"I showed you that," Chronos said. "In twenty years,
Luna will balk Satan's political takeover of the United
States of America, thus preventing him from instituting
policies that will render the nation and the world decidedly
unamicable and send much of the living species of man
directly to Hell. But Luna can not balk him if she dies
prematurely."

Zane's understanding was coalescing, but he was not
pleased. "So you arranged to install a man in the office
of Death who you knew would not take her," he said
bitterly. "Because he was fool enough to love what was
thrust at him for that purpose. And Magician Kaftan did
that to his own daughter—"

"It is a terrible thing we do," Chronos said. "But the
privations any of us face today are but an eyeblink to
those we shall face in a generation if the Prince of Evil
wins. We sacrifice the now for the sake of the hence. I
am in a position to know."

"But you used me—and her!" Zane cried in continuing
anguish. "Where is your morality?"

"It is our business to use people," Fate said. "Have
you yourself hesitated to employ your power to change
the circumstances of your clients?" Of course she was
scoring there, for Zane was in deep trouble for doing just




236 On A Pale Horse

that. He had hardly hesitated to impose his own view of
what was right, sparing some clients, taking some, and
changing the manner of the dying of others. Holy, Holy,
Holy!

"Now, in the hour of crisis, we are using ourselves,"
Fate continued. "We have made it possible for you to
save the living world by saving the life of the woman you
love. You were ready to oppose us, though you knew our
power, when we tested you on this just now. Now you
can aid us, to your own advantage."

It was, of course, true. They had spun him into an
inextricable commitment. Without Fate's intervention in
his life, he would probably have shot himself and—no, of
course she had also set up his need to shoot himself by
denying him his romance with Angelica—or had she set
that up, too? How far back did this go? Probably, left to
his own devices, he would have looked at the stones in
the Mess o' Pottage shop, been able to afford none, and
returned to his dreary former existence. He would at this
moment be scrounging for back rent by selling porno-
graphic photographs of unsuspecting women. Instead, he
had been launched into a fantastic new realm of death
and love...

Nature smiled. "Mars grasped the essentials of the bat-
tle between God and Satan," she said. "Chronos spotted
the key episode to come. I defined the qualities of the
person who could and would do what had to be done,
and Pate arranged to put him—you—in the proper situ-
ation. We collaborated, and touched your life as you looked
at the Deathstone, and now the matter is in your hands.
We can not fight this battle without your acquiescence."

"But you didn't tell me!"

"Had we set it up openly, Satan would have known,"
Fate reminded him. "He would have acted to prevent this
encounter, just as he acted to eliminate Luna before her
turn. The Prince of Evil has no civilized limits; he seeks
only his own aggrandizement, and his craft and power are
enormous. But now the deed is done, and even he can
not rescind it, though he is surely listening to us now.
The time for secrecy is past."

"What deed?" Zane demanded, exasperated. "I have

On A Pahs Horse

237

not saved Luna's life; I have only refused to take her
soul."

"And will you take that soul hereafter if Satan asks
you to?" Nature asked cannily.

"No! And not if you ask me to. Green Mother! I love
Luna; I don't care by what machinations the rest of you
arranged this thing, or whom I might have loved other-
wise, or whom she might have loved; I'll not betray her
myself."

"We thought you would feel that way," Nature said.
"We never wished you evil, Thanatos; we always wished
you success. We deeply regret having to plot against your
predecessor, who was a decent officeholder—but he would
not have balked at taking Luna. He was too experienced
with the mischief of opposing the status quo and would
not try to thwart God or Satan. We had to have a head-
strong, emotional Death, new enough and young enough
not to be jaded by experience, and alive enough to re-
spond to an attractive and intelligent young woman. We
chose you and we used you, and for that we apologize—
but we believe we had no choice. We could not do the
job ourselves. The brunt must be yours. Satan wants Luna
dead, but only you can complete that death. As long as
you hold out, Satan is foiled."

Zane looked at Luna's body, the welling and dripping
blood frozen in place. "Much good may it do her or the

world," he muttered. "She is not dead, but neither is she

alive."

Chronos raised his hourglass. "Now I can act." He
turned his hand, reversing the glass without inverting it,
so that the sand flowed upward. Outside their circle, time
ran backward, as it had on the night of the fire.

The dragoness' mouth opened. Blood welled into
Luna's body, rising in swift drops from the ground and
coursing in rivulets to closing wounds as the monster's
teeth withdrew. The dragoness' head jerked back and
Luna sprang out, blind and flayed. She reeled backward—
into a coalescing cloud of smoke. She screamed. In a
moment the smoke squeezed into the reptile's mouth, and
Luna backed away unharmed.

Chronos gestured with the hourglass, and time refroze.

On A Pale H mv e

238

"Now you can take her back, on temporary license. But
there are some cautions. Satan can not make you take
her soul, but he can make you wish you had. You will
have to be brutally steadfast."

Zane looked at the restored Luna, suddenly so healthy.
He blinked. The horror had unhappened! "I shall be."

"But you can not decline this client without declining
all," Nature said. "On others you could choose tefore,
for you were merely juggling their situations when no
other supernatural entity was concerned. But in this case
the issue has been joined. Satan will hold you to the tech-
nicality of the law, for all that he honors no technicalities
himself. You will not be permitted to take any soul with-
out first taking Luna's. You must take none—or all."

"Then I'm on strike," Zane said. "I will take none—
until Luna is released from this wrongful schedule of de-
mise."

"Yet Satan will press his case," Mars warned. "Never
in your life or death have you waged such a campaign
against an Eternal. We do not know whether you will be

able to prevail."

"I won't take Luna's soul," Zane insisted. "No matter
what. You conspired to put me into love with her, and I
know that and resent it, but I never betrayed one I loved,
though my own soul be in peril."

"Yes, we know," Nature said. "That was your prime
qualification for our purpose. You are intemporately loyal
to your loves and your beliefs." She kissed him on the

cheek.

"The fate of humanity depends, however deviously,
on your resolve," Fate said, kissing his other cheek.
"Never forget that."

Mars and Chronos nodded grave agreement. Then there
was a swirl of mixed impressions, and the others were
gone. Zane was left with Luna and the Hot Smoke dra-

goness.

Zane touched his watch, and the motion resumed. Luna
moved toward the dragoness. But she stopped, for there
was already an offering before the monster.

Evidently Nature had procured a sacrificial lamb for
the occasion. The poor lamb gave one terrified bleat be-

OnA Pale Horse

239

fore getting chomped. For an instant Zane wondered how
it could die, if no souls could be collected, then remem-
bered that the collectors of animal souls were not on strike.
Only human souls were at issue.

In moments the dragoness consumed the virgin lamb,
wool and all. She licked off her chops, burped, and limped
over to rescue her precious egg. She picked it up carefully
in her mouth, breathed just enough fire to melt a spot on
the shell, and stuck it to her back. Then she unfuried her
wings, scrambled along the sand runway, headed into the
wind, got up velocity, and took off. Soon she was a di-
minishing speck in the sky.

Zane strode across the sand and intercepted the leader
of the Dragoons, who was staring as if at a miracle. "Are
you satisfied? Then release the virgin."

The man nodded. "Did you see that?" he asked raptly.
"Suddenly a lamb! It must be an Act of God!"

"The virgin's onus is abated," Zane said insistently.

"Oh, yes," the man said absently. "We shall transport
her to our base-city to the south of Nevada, Las Vegas,
and purchase a carpet ticket to her home. You have my
word."

And the word of this dedicated man was good. Zane
turned to the virgin. "When you get home, miss, I suggest

you—"

"Oh, yes, sir!" she exclaimed. "I will marry the boy
next door immediately!"

Good enough. She would no longer be at risk as dragon
bait. Her job was done.

His own, however, was just beginning. Zane walked
up to Luna and took her by the arm, leading her toward
his horse. Mortis had simply faded out of the picture and
faded back in now that he was needed again. Luna seemed
dazed. "I was scorched, crushed—" she said, putting her
free hand where her wounds had been.

So she remembered! "Time—that's Chronos, another
Incarnation—reversed your sacrifice. You have been
spared because I refused to take your soul."

"But you should not have been summoned for me!"
she protested. "My sin outweighs my good. I should have
gone directly to Hell!"




240           OnA Pale Hone

"So we thought," he agreed. "But you chose a good
way to meet your transformation, seeking and expecting
no reward. Your soul is now in balance, as the other
Incarnations knew it would be, and you are my direct
client. Your life would still have been forfeit, because of
Satan's cheating, but I have gone on strike. No one will

die until your case is settled."

"But then what is my status?" she asked, perplexed.
She seemed bemused to find herself alive and without

physical pain, as well she might be.

"Limbo, 1 believe." He considered and realized that
the other Incarnations had not told him much. They had
simply set the scene, and now he had to play it out. "1
think you can go about your normal life, on bail, as it
were, until this business with Satan is settled."
"My normal life!" she exclaimed incredulously.
"At least I can take you home, where you will be safe

with your griffins and moon moth."

She formed a wry smile. "I hope you know what you
are doing, Zane, because I am not at all sure at the moment
where reality lies. I expected to be dead."

"I'm righting a wrong," he said. "Satan conspired
against you, and I mean to foil him. It would be the proper
thing to do, even if I had not been led into this situation
like a puppet on a string, and even if I didn't love you."

"I hardly think I'm worth it, dead or alive," she mur-
mured as they reached Mortis.

"Worth saving, or worth loving?"

"Either. I'm just not that important a person. I know
I couldn't stand up to Satan, or even to one of his de-
mons." She shuddered, remembering the demon she had

encountered. "And I doubt that love—"

Mortis leaped into the sky. "Your doubt doesn't mat-
ter," Zane said. "Your soul will remain on Earth."

She hugged him uncertainly from behind, not speaking
again. He delivered her to her home and left her there
with the admonition to stay indoors and sleep. He would

check on her frequently.

"Home, Mortis," he said, suddenly very tired. The

Deathsteed plunged into the sky.




-11-

SATAN^S CASE

The Deathwatch caught his eye. It had clients backlogged.
"Sorry—no action today," Zane murmured. "Or for some
time to come."

They arrived at his mansion in the sky, and Zane dis-
mounted. "I think you'll have a week's good grazing,
Mortis," he said. "You've been a perfect steed, and I
wish you the best."

The gallant stallion nickered appreciation, shook his
body to make the saddle vanish, and headed toward the
pasture. Zane went to the house.

The household staff took care of him as always. Zane
had a good meal, a shower, a change of clothing, and felt
much refreshed. He settled down to watch the news on
television, knowing it would be brimming over with his
latest scandalous behavior. Everything seemed fine, ex-
cept for two things: he missed Luna, and he was appre-
hensive about his future. He knew he faced no easy time.
It would not take Satan long, if he had not listened in on
the Hot Smoke scene, to realize that Luna had not arrived
in Hell on schedule.

"Good evening, Death," the urbane announcer said
from the screen. "I dislike intruding on your well-
deserved privacy, but there seems to be a misunderstand-
ing."

Zane peered more closely at the face. The man's
241




242 On A Pale Horse

complexion was dark with a red tinge, and two small horns
projected from his temples. "Satan!" he exclaimed.

"At your service," the Prince of Evil agreed, inclining
his head politely. "Do you have a moment?"

Zane sighed. Already the dread encounter was upon
him! Satan was affecting politeness, but he would have
his say no matter what Death did. "I refuse to send Luna's
soul to Hell!" Zane said firmly.

Satan laughed. The sound was mellow and good-
humored, as if he were enjoying a joke on himself. "To
Hell? My dear associate, she need not come here! I'm
sure she will be welcome in Heaven, after her several
meritorious acts."

What was this? "You don't want her?"

"I want only what is due Me, Death. Luna is a good
woman, regardless of what the record may indicate. I can
personally guarantee she will not come to Hell. I have no
use for her kind here."

"Then why did you slate her for untimely demise?"
Zane snapped.

The Devil's lips quirked. "I must confess there is a bit
of awkwardness coming up. I see no reason to involve
such a lovely and good woman in that matter."

"So you're killing her early!"

"I merely seek the least painful way to alleviate a
difficult situation. I regret that this may cause you per-
sonal distress. Death, but I am quite willing to compensate
you—"

"How can you compensate me for the loss of the woman
I love!"

"My dear sir. My organization specializes in compen-
sations! If it is the delights of the distaff flesh you de-
sire—" Satan gestured offscreen, and a truly beautiful
brunette joined him. "My dear, show My esteemed col-
league your offerings."

The woman smiled dazzlingly and unzipped her blouse.
A phenomenally full and rounded bosom emerged, un-
tethered by a brassiere.

"She's a succubus!" Zane said, catching on.

"Naturally. I could provide you with your choice of
the human beauties of history, most of whom now reside

0»A Pale Horse             243

in my domain and any of whom would be overjoyed to
delight you eternally. But you would have to come to
Hell, for they can not return to Earth in their original
bodies. I assume you prefer a creature who can cater to
you in life. These highly specialized creatures, the suc-
cubi, can entertain you anywhere."

Zane was silent, taken aback by the sheer audacity of
the offer. Satan thought he would accept a female demon
in lieu of Luna!

"This one, for example," Satan continued blithely as
the woman-shape continued to strip. "Note her fairness

efface and fullness of feature. You can't match that on
Earth."

Zane found part of his voice. "But—"

"And that's not all," Satan said quickly. The succubus
was stepping out of her skirt. She turned about as Satan
touched her arm, showing her plush buttocks and thor-
oughly fleshed thighs to the eager close-up camera.

"But that's not—"

"Ah, but it is," Satan said enthusiastically. "It is eter-
nal. Living women inevitably change and fatten and age,
but a she-demon's flesh never atrophies. You need have
no concern at all about degradation of form." He slapped
her right flank, and the ripple of flesh proceeded in meas-
uredstages across the right buttock, through the left, and
down the thighs before reversing like a wave at the edge
of a pool and returning to the point of impact. "Eternal,"
the Evil One repeated softly.

"You don't understand," Zane said, keeping his voice
steady, though his eyes did feel somewhat bugged out. "I
don't want a voluptuous succubus. I want Luna."

"I can provide you the form of Luna," Satan said.
"Form is the least part of a woman." He gestured, and
the demoness misted and re-formed, turning to face the
camera in the exact likeness of Luna. It was eerie, for no
detail differed. The hair was just as brown and flowing,
the eyes just as gray and deep. If Zane didn't know better...

"But her mind—" he said doggedly.

Satan frowned. "There, I confess, is a problem. Intel-
ligent conversation does require a mind. Most men prefer
their females without minds of their own."




244 On A Pale Horse

"All of which is beside the point," Zane said, gaining
confidence. The Prince of Evil couldn't deceive someone
who was alert—he hoped! "I love Luna for herself, not
just her form. She has done some very generous things,
very brave things, and is a wonderful person—and she is
going to stop you from interfering with the world, twenty
years hence. That's why I will not remove her soul from
life." Zane was afraid he was saying too much, but couldn't
help himself.

"A commendable attitude," Satan said mildly. "One
should always promote the welfare of one's situation and
one's friends. That's enlightened self-interest."

Zane was surprised. "You agree?"

"Of course I agree. Death! I am the Deity of Self-
interest, after all. But one does have to be careful how
one defines the term."

"It's not copulating with succubi!" Zane shot back.

"That depends on one's viewpoint. You really should
try it before condemning it. Your girlfriend did."

"That's a lie!" Zane snapped with sudden heat. But he
realized as he reacted that he should not; Satan was clev-
erly pushing his buttons, pushing him around emotionally,
getting him off balance. Too much of that, and the Devil
would have him reacting exactly as he wanted. Zane re-
minded himself that the Hot Smoke dragoness would not
have started to consume Luna if she had not been phys-
ically virginal. He hardly needed to argue the case with
the Devil.

"Naturally I am the Father of Lies, a title I carry with
pride," Satan responded equably. "Truth is only as each
person sees it; there is no absolute standard of integrity.
That is why I often find it necessary to depend on reason
to convince skeptics of the validity of my case. Pay at-
tention to My logic, and you will have no need of further
verification."

"Maybe," Zane said shortly, distrusting this.

"You choose to interpret Luna's physical virginity as
the whole of her purity. Are you sure you are not de-
ceiving yourself thereby?"

What a silver tongue the Devil had! He was personable
and agreeable, and presented his case in positive terms.

On A Pale Horse            245

It was hard to resist his charm. Zane had somehow an-
ticipated a glowering, smoky horror-mask issuing terrible
threats. Yet, he reminded himself, the evil was the same,
regardless of the image it projected.

"I know she was raped by one of your demons," Zane
said. "I know that rape was psychic, not physical. I know
it imposed a heavy load of sin on her soul. But I also
know she did it to try to learn magic to help her father.

On the record she may have much sin, but as a person,
she is good."

"Unquestionably, and very intelligently answered,"
Satan said, as if addressing a precocious student. He pat-
ted the succubus on her bouncy bare bottom, and she
moved offscreen. "There is nothing quite as commendable
as the sacrifice of one's soul, one's own immortal soul,
for the good of another, however that good may be de-
fined. By that measure, you yourself are a much better

man than your record indicates. Luna is certainly a rare
creature."

"Then why are you hounding her?" Zane demanded,
though this was mostly rhetoric; he knew the answer and
had already charged Satan with it. But he had to say
something to help himself resist the tide of gratitude that
threatened to undermine his cause. Satan had compli-
mented him, as well as Luna, for a matter that was fun-
damental to Zane's self-image. Satan had justified Zane's
treatment of his mother. How much easier it would have
been to fight a ravening monster!

Satan laughed again, sounding like the most pleasant
of companions. "My dear Incarnation, I am not concerned
with good. Evil is My bailiwick! It is My Eternal duty to
define and chastise the evil in man. Surely you agree this
is a necessary chore?"

"Yes, but—"

"There is an enormous amount of evil in the world,"
the urbane figure continued persuasively. "Left to itself,
that evil would soon corrupt the entire society, like milk
going bad. It has to be disciplined; the evildoers have to
be punished, and to know that punishment is inevitable
and in strict accordance with their offenses. In fact, the
entire society has to be advised of the consequence of




On A Pale Horse

246

evil action. Only that way can man as a species be im-
proved."

This was a compelling rationale! "But Luna, you admit,
is not fundamentally evil! Why should she be punished?"

"My dear associate," Satan said with another warm
and tolerant smile, as a benign father might address a
bright but errant child. "We agree she is not evil, and of
course she is not to be punished! She is to be sent directly
to Heaven, where she belongs. Surely you do not object

to that!"

"To Heaven?" Zane asked blankly. "You agree

to—?"

"I only want what is Mine. Luna belongs to God."
Zane scrambled for mental footing. "But it is not her

turn! Why schedule her to die prematurely?" Again he

was pushing Satan to confess the truth; would he do it?
"If one must go early in order that a hundred be fairiy

treated—would you do right by the one and wrong by the

hundred?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Death, I have analyzed the future course of man in
some detail. I comprehend trends that might be consid-
ered too subtle for mortal minds. Not for your mind, of
course; you are a perceptive person. But a detailed nar-
ration would become tedious. In essence, I perceive a
nexus approximately twenty years hence that is crucial
to the fate of the human species. By taking advantage of
that particular situation, I can change the course of human
history. I will be able to purge an enormous amount of
evil with a minimum of disruption. Unfortunately, one
well-intentioned but misguided person obstructs that op-
portunity. It grieves Me to deal firmly with that person,
who is perfectly justified in her stand, according to her
more limited comprehension; but the justice of the many
must take precedence over the justice of the one. The
equation may seem cruel in the particular instance, and
unfair in the specific case—but in the larger context, the
values reverse. This is the reality it is My eternal duty to

honor."

And Luna was that one. Were it not for that, Zane

On A Pale Hone

247

might have found himself persuaded. "Father of Lies, I
don't believe you."

Still Satan took no offense. "You are correct to be
cautious. I like your independent thinking. I am sure a
person of your perspective will come to the appropriate
conclusion."

"I doubt you can convince me to send the woman I
love to Eternity before her time."

Satan shrugged. "Timing can be a matter of conven-
ience, Death. Do you feel privileged to have had your
own situation cynically manipulated by others, including
the time and manner of your departure from your original
life?"

The Evil One was bearing down harder! "I'm not
really pleased about that," Zane admitted, knowing that
honesty was by far the best course. He could hardly
match Satan's proficiency in lying, even if he wanted
to. Any lie, even a mild self-deception, would play into
Satan's hands. "But I think that, in this circumstance,
it was the necessary—" He paused, realizing the impli-
cation. The welfare of the one, sacrificed for the benefit
of the many! He was playing into the Devil's hands
anyway!

"Circumstance makes puppets of us all," Satan said
sympathetically. "You function excellently in your office;

I can tell you that sincerely, though perhaps God would
not. It has been decades, perhaps centuries, since a Death
has placed conscience above convenience, and the role
is overdue for reinterpretation."

Zane tried to resist his pleasure at this flattery, mis-
trusting its source. "I dare say it is bringing me rapidly
closer to you."

"Ho! Ho! Ho!" Satan laughed, like a jolly Santa Claus.
"Isn't that the irony! The rules are so fixed that those few
who do the right thing must pay for it with their souls!
God would jet green flame if He knew! But frankly. He
is not paying attention."

Zane was taken aback by this open denigration of God.
But what else should he have expected from God's arch-
enemy? "You say you're getting good souls in Hell?" he
asked, amazed.

248             On A Pale Horse

"And losing evil ones to Heaven," Satan agreed, slap-
ping his knee. "Gums up the works something awful. But
that's the way of bureaucracy and ossified standards; some
poor souls always slip through the cracks."

This was the Father of Lies, Zane reminded himself.
All or nothing or any ratio between could be falsity.
It was dangerous even talking to Satan, for soon the
boundaries of good and evil became fuzzed by eloquent

misleading.

"I see you remain in doubt," Satan said, leaning for-
ward with apparent sincerity. "That is quite understand-
able. Your associates have maneuvered to put you in an
awkward position. You have problems in your office, and
are inhibited by rules that have lost their relevance to the
contemporary scene. Likewise I, in My office. It be-
hooves us to cooperate where our offices overlap. This
can greatly facilitate our respective duties and benefit us

both."

"I see no benefit!"
"Oh, but you have not given yourself the chance to

see it," Satan said smoothly. "Let Me give you a tour of

My demesnes."

"A tour of Hell? I don't—"

"It can be arranged. Death. You have merely to depart
your physical host for a time. You have My personal
assurance that you will return in good order."

"The assurance of the Father of Lies!" Zane cried,
repelled. "Now you are trying to get me into Hell! I refuse

to risk my soul that way!"

"A man who will not risk his soul to save that of the

woman he loves, perhaps does not deserve her love in

return," Satan remarked.

That stung! "I just don't care to risk it on a bad bet. I

don't see that I need to examine your case at all. Not
personally in Hell. What I want is a review of the merits
of the scheduling of Luna's death. If you can arrange for
the review to be soon, I'll welcome that."

Satan rolled his eyes. "Have you ever tried to hurry a

bureaucracy?"

There was that. "Anyway, I think I'll just sit tight right

here until that review." Zane believed he had Satan over

On A Pale Horse            249

a barrel, for the review would surely expose evidence of
Satan's cheating and free Luna from the sentence.

"I am not certain you comprehend My problem," Satan
said. "Hell is geared for a large turnover. Thousands of
souls enter each hour for processing. You have abruptly
stopped the flow. That gives My initiation cadre no work
to do."

"The respite should be good for them," Zane said,
smiling unsympathetically. "They can sharpen their pitch-
forks, or whatever."

"On the contrary! Those little devils must be kept oc-
cupied constantly. Who in Hell finds work for idle devils
to do?"

Zane visualized idle devils rampaging in Hell, over-
turning racks and littering torture chambers. That would
certainly be a problem!

"Consider this," Satan said. The television picture
changed to the news report of an accident. An airplane
had experienced heavy weather in a cold northern region
and crashed in an isolated spot. Fifty passengers were
trapped inside. "These people are freezing to death," Sa-
tan said. "There is no hope of rescue, yet none of them
can die while Death remains on strike." The camera panned
on the wreckage, then showed an interior view, where
several passengers had critical injuries and others were
in dire straits. This was a no-survivors type of crash.

"Do you really intend to let these victims suffer in-
definitely, rather than free their souls for Eternity?" Satan
asked soberly. "Most of this batch is slated for Heaven,
so there is nothing to be gained by delay except unde-
served misery."

Zane had not considered that aspect. Had he been
deliberately avoiding the obvious? Of course there would
be horrendous suffering! Death was no burden to a ter-
minally injured person; it was relief. He was the first
person to defend the right of anyone to die on schedule.
He had, technically, committed murder in the defense of
that right. Now he was responsible for a worse denial
than that performed by any hospital. Satan had struck at
another vulnerability, with the acute perception of his evil




250 On A Pale Horse

nature. It was not one person suffering now; it was a
multitude!

Yet how many people would suffer eternally if Satan
had his way? If one person—Luna—could be sacrificed
to help fifty in a plane wreck, why couldn't fifty be sac-
rificed to help the entire world? Satan was putting pres-
sure on him, and he had to withstand it. He had known
it would not be easy, but had underestimated the cunning
ingenuity of the argument.

"I deeply regret the suffering of these people," Zane
said. "But it is your will, not mine, that precipitates it.
The sooner my petition is considered and Luna is freed
from her unfair sentence of early death, the better."

"I believe the date of the hearing could be moved up,"
Satan said, as if it were an incidental matter. "Come con-
sider My case, and I will see that yours is considered."

So the Devil did have power to affect that matter—or
so he was letting it be implied. "You are proffering a
deal?"

"I specialize in deals."

"How can I trust you to honor any part of any deal
you make?"

"A deal not signed in blood is not worth the blood it's
signed with," Satan said, grinning affably.

"I refuse to sign in blood!"

"Nor are you required to. That was merely a medieval
custom; the client's blood gave Me the magic power to
enforce the contract. Today fingerprints or retina-prints
do just as well. But no contract of any nature can bind
an Incarnation, so that's irrelevant." Satan leaned for-
ward, his handsome face radiating sincerity. "Merely ap-
preciate the background rationale. Death. It is to My
interest to persuade you to end your strike. It is to your
interest to guarantee the welfare of your girlfriend. It is
thus to our mutual interest to establish communication
and complete understanding. Cheating does not facilitate
this."

"If I go to Hell and do not return, there will be a new
person to assume the office of Death. That one, I am sure,
will be more amenable to your guidance."

Satan smiled in wry agreement. "You are quick to ap-

On A Pale Horse            251

preciate reality. But all you have to do is consult with
Fate, who arranges the details of transitions. No one else
can do it. She will not, I suspect, deceive you on this

matter. If you have her assurance that your transition will
not be made at this time—"

Zane wasn't sure about that, but thought it worth in-
vestigating. "If I visit Hell, listen to your spiel, and then
turn it down, will you free Luna from her sentence?"

"Of course not!" Satan said indignantly. "I will merely
seek some other avenue to achieve My objective."

"Then what is the point of my tour?"

"You might be persuaded. Then you could reap great
reward and be eternally happy."

"I can't be eternally happy unless I die," Zane pointed
out.

"By no meahs. Death. Your present office is eternal."
"Until I leave it."

Satan's smile became slightly strained. "How may I
reassure you, then?"
"Free Luna."
"You are being unreasonable."

"By your definition. If that concludes our busi-
ness—"

A faint halo of smoke formed about Satan's face, but
he hung on to his smile. "Suppose we compromise. Com-
promise is an excellent route to Hell. If your tour of Hell
does not convince you—"

"You will free Luna," Zane finished firmly.

Satan sighed. "I could have wished for a more re-
sponsive officeholder. But—I will free Luna."

Was Satan lying? Probably—but Zane was just uncer-
tain enough of his own position and power to try it. If
Satan reneged, he would be proved to have bargained in
bad faith, and Zane would have no further doubts. Mean-
while, Death still would not take Luna. He really had
nothing to lose, as long as he remained in the office.

And that was the key. If he lost his own position... yet
Satan's barb about the worth of a man who would not
risk his soul for love still stung, and so did Zane's own

conscience. He should at least listen to the other side.
"I'll consult with Fate."




On A Pale Horse

252

"I'll put her on," Satan said. Fate appeared on the
television screen, in her lovely young Clotho guise.

"No," Zane said. "That could be your demon doing
another imitation. I want this personal."

"As you wish," Fate said. Smiling, she stepped out of
the TV picture to stand before him. "The creatures of
Hell who can manifest on Earth can assume any form
physically, but not intellectually." She stretched a bright
thread between her hands. "And no one but an Incarna-
tion can emulate an Incarnation. This is your thread. Death;

see, I can move you with it."

She made a kink in the thread—and suddenly Zane
was sitting on the floor. She straightened it again, and he
found himself back in the easy chair. "I can spin it long
or short, smooth or furry, thick or thin. As Lachesis, I
can measure it to define your life—" She was now the
middle-aged form. "And as Atropos, I can cut it off." She
became an old hag with a huge pair of scissors.

"Enough!" Zane cried. "I accept your identity!"

"That's nice," she said, returning to Lachesis. "This
deal the Infernal One proffers is legitimate. Death, at least
to the extent of your survival. Your thread continues be-
yond this episode. Thereafter it becomes tangled; I can
not guarantee the tapestry far ahead when Satan draws
on it."

"I'll worry about Thereafter thereafter," Zane said.

"As you choose. Death," she said tightly, and he re-
alized that she feared his survival meant he would be
converted to Satan's side. That, more than anything else,
satisfied him about her validity. "But watch yourself in
Hell."

"I shall. What about Luna's thread?"

Fate drew out another thread from the air, inspecting
it. "That, too, is tangled."

"Satan has promised to free her if I am not convinced
by this tour."

Fate squinted closely at the thread again. "No, I can't
be sure of that; there is too much interference. You must
be alert for loopholes. Did he say when?"

"When?"

On A Pale Horse            253

"When he would free her. Immediately or in one cen-
tury?"

Zane's heart sank. "No."

"When you choose," Satan said equably.

"I don't trust that," Fate said. "He's as slippery as a

greased eel. But I suppose you had better go to Hell and

see what you can see."

"Maybe I should hire a guide," Zane joked weakly.

"Do that," she agreed seriously.

Suddenly it was not a joke. "Who might be a guide for
a tour such as this? No living person could do it, and I
don't know many dead people—" He paused, remem-
bering one. "Molly Malone! The ghost fishmonger! Would
she—?"

Fate's lips quirked ever so slightly with approval. "I
know that gamin. She's one canny guttersnipe."

"I really don't see why you should choose to compli-
cate a simple private tour," Satan said.

"Just what is Molly's standing in Eternity?" Zane asked.
"Obviously she doesn't reside in Heaven or Hell."

"She is unattached," Fate said. "But most other friends
are in Hell. Molly was unwilling to desert them when she
died, but she was too good a girl to go Below, so she's
serving her term on the streets. Eventually she'll tire of
this and allow herself to waft up to Heaven—but mean-
while, she can safely visit Hell."

"We have no use for her kind," Satan grumbled.
"But you can't deny her visiting privileges," Zane said.

"Because of her loyalty to some of those incarcerated. I

want her with me there."

"I will fetch her," Fate said, smiling covertly.

The smoke about Satan increased, but he remained

silent.

In a moment the ghost appeared. "I hear you want to

go on another sightseeing tour, Death," Molly said brightly.
"But where's your date?"

"Luna will never see Hell," Zane said. "Satan seeks
to convince me to let her die, and if she dies she will go
to Heaven, and if he can't convince me to take her, maybe
he'll leave her alone."

Molly glanced darkly at the Prince of Evil. "When Hell

On A Pale Horse

254

freezes over," she muttered. Satan only smiled tiredly;

he had heard that expression countless times. "You can't
trust the Prince of Evil, Death. His minions lobby for
legislation on Earth to promote liquor and guns, so that
drunken drivers and hotheaded malcontents will send
themselves and others to Hell early."

"On the contrary," Satan said. "I promote legislation
to outlaw antisocial things like pornography and gam-
bling—"

"Because that puts the police to work raiding book-
stores and penny-ante card games, instead of bearing down
on crime in the streets!" Molly came back hotly. "You
don't want people inside their homes reading or enter-
taining themselves; you want them outside and restless
and frustrated, stirring up real mischief!"

Zane realized that Molly, who had died young in the
streets, had a personal grudge here. "Will you be my guide
in Hell, Molly?" he asked. "I mean, if you will come along
and talk to your friends who are incarcerated there—"

She smiled brilliantly. "I'll be glad to, Death! His Low-
ness always puts bureaucratic obstacles in my way when
I want to see a friend; maybe this time he won't be able

to do that."

"Then let's be on our way," Satan said savagely. He
reached forward to push against his side of the TV screen,
and it swung out, a glass door. "Come into My parlor."

Molly extended her hand to Zane. "Just step out of
your body. Death," she said. "You're your own client

now."

Zane took her hand, uncertain about this. There was
a funny feeling, a kind of internal parturition, and he got
up out of the easy chair. He turned around and saw him-
self sitting there as if asleep or dead. His soul had departed

his body.

"It's strange at first," Molly reassured him. "But you
get used to it in a decade or so. Come on." She drew him

toward the open TV set.

They stepped through together without difficulty, for

animated souls were highly malleable. Zane did not feel
at all thin or translucent, the way the souls he handled
were; he seemed quite solid to himself.

On A Pale Horse

255

Now they stood in a kind of furnace room, with open
fires burning in a ring around them, smoke billowing up
to obscure whatever ceiling there was. The air was hot.

"Welcome to Hell, Death," Satan said, extending his
hand. It was red with fine scales, and the fingernails were
talons. Zane hesitated, but then went ahead and accepted
the hand. It was best to keep this as polite as possible.

The hand was hot, but not burning. "No place like the
present," the Prince of Evil said briskly. His head, too,
was more pronounced from this close vantage. His horns
were larger and brighter than they had seemed before;

canine teeth gleamed before his thin lips, and his hair
resembled a ripple of flame. "These cursed souls tend the
central heating plant of Hell, performing useful labor while
expiating their burdens of sin."

Zane looked at the people. Some had shovels that they
used to put coal on the fires. The heat where they worked
was terrible, but they wore asbestos aprons to shield their
bodies from the worst of it. Zane knew they were souls
with very little physical substance, but since he was in
soul form himself at the moment, they seemed substantial.
"What is the point?" he asked. "I realize Hell has to be
heated, but you could set up an automatic conveyor belt
for the coal—"

"These are the souls of people who abused their status
in life," Satan explained. "They had responsible positions
in industry, overseeing the heating plants of manufactur-
ing companies, apartment buildings, and such. Instead of
striving for efficiency and comfort for their clients, they
exploited them, refusing to modernize, though they knew
people suffered as a result. Now they expiate that sin by
laboring under the primitive conditions they forced on
others."

Zane studied the laborers. His apartment on Earth,
before he became Death, had been intermittently cold in
winter because, he suspected, the landlord was fattening
his profit margin by skimping on heating fuel. Zane could
appreciate Satan's rationale. "How do they expiate their
sin?" he asked. "Do they have to shovel a certain number
of tons of coal, or what? How long does it take, and what
happens to them when they've paid their debt?"

On A Pale Horse

256

"Excellent questions!" Satan said, glowing with more
than human animation. "The term of penance varies with
the individual. Roughly, each soul must labor until it has
suffered the same amount as it inflicted on others during
its life. That can take time; and, of course, some souls
are incorrigible. It is not merely the labor, but the attitude,
that counts; the soul must sincerely repent its prior evil.
Eventually each soul will be purified by suffering, and
will at last qualify for release to Heaven."

"So souls aren't condemned to Hell for Eternity?" Zane
asked, surprised.

Satan issued his pleasant laugh again. "Of course not!
Hell is merely the ultimate reform institution, where the
cases too difficult for Purgatory are handled. A truly evil
or indifferent person can not be cured by gentleness. Here
in Hell we have the mechanisms to straighten out even
the most crooked souls. I assure you, by the time any
soul qualifies for Heaven, it has become quite gentle. I
am a perfectionist; I will free no soul before its time."
And Satan's countenance assumed an infernally noble
aspect. Zane remembered that Satan was reputed to be
a fallen angel; maybe some angelic element remained in

him.

"But what about the bureaucratic errors?" Zane asked.

"Honest mistakes are possible."

"No. Not when I'm in charge. I can guarantee abso-
lutely that not one defective soul has been sent from Hell

to Heaven."

Molly had been poking around by herself. Now she
returned to Zane. "I don't know any of these folk. Let's
take a look at the Ireland section."

But already Satan was showing the way to another
region. He opened a door in air, and they stepped through
to a foggy, gloomy region crowded with people garbed in
rags. Men, women, and children of every race plodded
along a barren plain. Each was gaunt, and some were
emaciated. All stared unwaveringly at the ground.

"These are the wasteful," Satan explained. "They threw
out good food unused, knowing that others in the world
were starving. Now they are hungry themselves. They
squandered money; now they have only what they can

OnAPaleHmve            257

find lying in the street, the refuse of others. They de-
stroyed good clothing in the name of frivolous fashion;

now they have only bad clothing, which they value more
than all the garments of life. They must save in death as

much as they wasted in life—and their resources are mea-
ger here."

Again Zane was impressed. He had once approached
a paper-towel dispenser in a nonmagic public lavatory—
he had distrusted magic sanitary facilities, as some used
the refuse to fashion voodoo dolls, and that could be a
literal pain in the posterior—only to see the man ahead
of him snatch the last three sheets and throw them away
almost unused. He had been furious at that callous anon-
ymous waster, but had not spoken up because the man
had been large and aggressive. Now Zane felt a kind of
vindication. Such people certainly needed to be punished!

"You see. Hell performs a necessary service," Satan

said smoothly. "We would not want wasteful louts litter-
ing Heaven."

"I don't know anybody here, either," Molly muttered.
"I think this is a showcase section, not the real inferno."

"Why don't you go seek out someone you do know?"
Satan suggested. "I had understood you were along to

guide Death, but if you insist on mixing in your personal -
business—"

"Let's go next to the Irish showcase," the ghost said
rebelliously.

"I have many more enlightened sets," Satan said.
"There is little point in subjecting ourselves to the abuse
of the unmitigated tempers of Ireland."

"Oh, is that so!" Molly exclaimed, showing her own
unmitigated temper.

Satan glanced about as if seeing something invisible to
the others. "For example. Hell's Kitchen." He opened a
door on a huge room filled with fat chefs who were baking
and cooking and mixing drinks. The odors of fresh foods
were almost overpoweringly strong, making Zane hungry,
though he had recently eaten.

"Try an aperitif," the Prince of Evil said, lifting a spar-
kling glass from a tray an elegant waiter brought and prof-
fering the drink to Zane.




258

"Don't touch it!" Molly cried. "Anyone who eats or
drinks anything in Hell can never escape it!"

Satan's mouth stretched down in affected sadness. "I
had thought such superstition was beneath you, fishwife.
I have no need to trap people in Hell! They come to Me
because their souls are burdened with sin."

"What about Persephone and the six pomegranate
seeds?" Molly demanded.

"I will thank you to leave My private life out of this!"
Satan snapped, and small sparks radiated from the tips
of his horns. "She wanted to stay; the seeds were merely
a pretext to satisfy her image for her domineering mother."

"Then what's all this fancy food for?" Molly asked,
showing her Irish stubbornness. "You never feed it to any
of my friends who are imprisoned here, I'm sure! I've
visited here before, you know."

"You have visited limited regions before, snippit," Sa-
tan told her. "You have not seen the complete Hell or
comprehended any part of its purpose."

"That's my complaint!" she said. "You're hiding some-
thing, Foul Fiend! You refuse to tell what the food is for."

Curls of smoke rose from Satan's reddening hide. "For
the cadre, of course, slut! They receive privileged treat-
ment. The finest gourmet food, beverages, entertain-
ment—" He gestured, and a chorus line appeared: shapely
nude girls kicking their legs in unison. "I would be happy
to provide this service for you in Purgatory, Death; My
cooks and girls are able to go that far."

"I already have a staff at the Deathmansion," Zane

said.

"Ah, but not a staff like this! You have never experi-
enced the delicacies these cooks generate; not Bacchus
himself ever feasted like this. And My personal tailor will
create for you a suit that Solomon in all his evanescent
glory could not match. And for your nocturnal entertain-
ment, the Queen of Love and Sex, Isis herself, shall at-
tend—"

"The Old Serpent proffers a bribe!" Molly snapped.
"Who needs Isis, that slattern, when he has a woman like

Luna?"

That brought Zane forcefully back to reality. He had

OnA Pale Horse            259

been somewhat dazzled by the movements of the dancing
girls, but of course Luna was all he desired. How fortun-
ate that Molly was along!

"True," Satan said mildly, though the heat of his body
now clothed him in steam. "Still, there are other forms
of entertainment for the discriminating person. Hell has
the finest library of Eternity, completely unexpurgated.
Many of its collected works have been written after the
authors' deaths and are available only in the Infernal Lit-
erary Annex. The same for paintings and music—here,
listen to Chopin's latest on the-piano."

Beautiful piano music flooded the chamber, its ex-
quisite touch lifting Zane's spirit.

"Come down from there," Molly said, catching Zane's

leg.

Startled, he looked down. He was floating toward the
ceiling! Since he was currently in spirit form, with no
material body to weight him down, he had been literally
lifted by the lovely music.

"Why offer me this?" Zane asked as his feet returned
to the floor. "I'm only here to hear your presentation."

"Merely a gesture of amity," Satan said. "I happen to
enjoy doing things for My friends."

"Death is no friend of yours. Old Nick!" Molly said.
Again Satan smiled; it seemed to be his protective re-
action. "Death is a business associate, of course. That is

no reason for negative relations."

"I want to see the Ireland section," Molly insisted.
Zane sighed. He could appreciate Satan's irritation with
this single-mindedness. "We'd better go there, Lucifer."
The Devil seemed like a sensible fellow, but there was
no sense getting Molly upset. "We can check in on her
friends, then see the rest of Hell." He had not changed
his mind about Luna, but realized it would be nice if he

could in some fashion accommodate Satan's worthy pur-
pose.

"Naturally," Satan said with deific grace. He opened

a new door in air, and they stepped through to an Irish
city-slum.

It was chill, cruel winter. Snow swirled in the air, and
dirty slush coated the filthy street. Peasants dressed in




On A Pale Horse

260

heavy outdoor garb were cleaning rubbish and fish heads
from the gutters, using inadequate shovels and brooms.

"These were litterers," Satan said. "Now they labor
all year round to recover as much litter as they strewed
in life, and to make the street as clean as it was before
they desecrated it. Unfortunately, the litter keeps reap-
pearing."

Molly snooped around, looking for her friends. This

time she found one. "Sean!" she cried. "I haven't seen

you in a hundred years!"

The man paused in his labor. "Sweet Molly Malone!
When did you die? I never thought I'd see you here! You
don't look a lifetime older!"

"That's because I died early of a fever and took my
youth and beauty with me to the grave."

The old man gazed at her appreciatively. "Sure an' you
did that, girl! You were just a little bit of a thing, prettiest
waif on the street. I thought sure you'd be a grandmother
by the time you were sixteen."

Molly smiled. "I tried, but life ended too soon. I thought
my soul would be damned to Hell, after what that honey-

tongued man did to me—"

"Not your soul, dear child! You were the petunia in
the onion patch, sure, always ready with a favor to them
worse off'n you. Sure an' it's a shame you died before

your time."

"How are they treating you, Sean?" she inquired.
"Well, it's not fun, as you can see. We clean and clean,

but the mess never ends, and at times like this it's so

cold—"

"Haven't you expiated your burden of sin yet? After
all, you've been in Hell longer than you lived on Earth,
Sean, and you were never a really bad man, just a litterer."

Sean scratched his head. "I don't know, lass. They
keep the accounts, and somehow I never seem to gain. I
must have a really incorrigible nature."

"Here, your glove is torn," Molly said solicitously.
"Let me fix it." She reached for the man's hand.

"Oh, no, that's all right, miss," he said quickly, snatch-
ing his hand away. "I'll get by. I've got to get back to

On A Pate Horse            261

work anyway." He resumed shoveling ineffectively at the
slush.

"If you're sure—" Molly said, concerned.
"As you can see," Satan said with another smile, "we
are tough but fair, here in Hell. People who refuse to
reform in life are hard to reform in death, but persistence
and consistency eventually pay off."

"Yes, I can see that," Zane agreed. "It certainly seems
reasonable—"

He was interrupted, for Molly had stumbled and col-
lided with him, shoving him into one of the Irish workers.
Her ghost form was completely solid to his spirit form.
Zane's hand slapped bare flesh before he recovered his
balance. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said, apologizing to the man
he had struck. "I lost my footing—"

"The guttersnipe was the clumsy one," Satan muttered.
"It's all right," the man said gruffly, drawing his patched
overcoat around him more tightly. "Just clear out and let
me work."

Satan opened a new door in air, and they stepped
through to a comfortably furnished living room suite. "So
you see, there is no point in disrupting the system," he
said.

"I agree," Zane said. "Yet I also don't see why I should

take Luna out of turn. I think I'm on the fence about
this."

"By all means," Satan said readily. "I am sure when
you consider all aspects, you will see it My way." He
opened still another door, and Zane and Molly stepped
through to Zane's own Deathhouse living room. The door
swung closed behind them, becoming the television screen.

Zane walked to his still body, positioned himself, and
carefully sat down in his own lap. He sank into his flesh,
reuniting with his host. In a moment he opened his eyes,
solid again. It was a relief!

"I will send My minions to see to your comforts. Death,"
Satan said from the screen. Then he winked out, and the
regular news program returned.







-12

PARADOX PLOY

Molly sat down in Zane's lap, put her arms about his
shoulders, and touched her lips to his right ear. This close,
she smelled slightly of shellfish and she weighed nothing
at all.

"Hey, that's not necessary," Zane protested, embar-
rassed and perplexed.

"But I must thank you for taking me on your trip to
Hell," she said. "I got to meet an old friend."

Zane submitted to her embrace. After all, what could
a ghost do to his solid form? "Glad to do it, Molly. Now
you can return to—"

Her substanceless lips brushed his ear like a faint breeze.
"Death—I must tell you before Satan takes over this
house," she whispered urgently.

"What?"

"No, no—don't react. Just smile and look relaxed.
Satan is watching. He'll let me caress you, because he
wants you to assume an interest in any woman other than
Luna. Here, I'll make myself more solid so you can feel
my flesh." And now she had weight, pressing down on
his lap. "You took me along as guide, and now I will guide
you. Trust me. Death—it's important."

Zane, astonished by this abrupt shift of character, smiled
and forced himself to relax, physically. The truth was,
Molly was one fine-looking spirit, and it was not hard to

262

On A Pale Horse             263

tolerate her proximity, though he felt slightly guilty that
she wasn't Luna.

"When I touched Sean's hand, there was no glove,"
Molly whispered, nibbling at his ear.

Zane started to speak, but she touched his lips with a
forefinger. "Those people in Hell aren't wearing any-
thing," she continued. "They are naked in the snow. They
aren't being punished—they're being tortured."

Now Zane tried to protest, but again she hushed him,
simultaneously opening her blouse to expose more of her
fine bosom, as if seducing him. Indeed, the perfume of
the sea was about her, making him think of a vacation at
volcanic isles in the great Pacific Ocean. "Death, believe
me! I suspected it before, but was never allowed to touch
my friends in Hell, or even to get close to them. Satan's
minions were always watching. This time I touched Sean—
and now I know. That's why I pushed you into him. His
clothing was illusion, wasn't it?"

Startled, Zane recalled how his hand had slapped bare
flesh, though the man had seemed to be fully clothed. The
notion of souls wearing illusory clothing was odd, but in
the context of Hell, it made grim sense. "Yes—"

Molly let her skirt slide away to expose more of her
thighs, then opened her blouse another notch. Zane
understood why Sean had thought she would be a grand-
mother at age sixteen; she had died at that age, but had
a body that suggested prompt male action. Maidens
bloomed early and well in Ireland! "So now you know,
too. Death. The Father of Lies is lying to you. He's not
reforming souls at all. He's keeping them forever in vile
bondage. He'll never let them go. And you can't trust his
word on anything."

The implication was stunning. If Satan had lied about
the nature of his proceedings in Hell itself, in what other
context would he ever tell the truth? If he was not truly
reforming souls, what was it that Luna, later in life, would
stop him from doing? If Hell was no reformatory and
Satan was in fact building an empire, then of course his
reason for eliminating Luna was suspect. Under no cir-
cumstances should Death cooperate with the Prince of
Evil!




264            On A Pate Horse

"Thanks, Molly," he said. "You have served your

office well. I shall remember."

"Get out of here immediately," she said. "Get to Mor-
tis, who can better protect you. I know how Satan op-
erates; his minions are at this moment moving to take
over this mansion, to make quite sure you go his way."

"Agreed." Zane stood up, and she slid to her own feet,
becoming weightless again. He strode toward the door.

A huge man in a chef's hat met him at the portal. "Your

repast is ready, sir."

This was not his regular cook. "I will return for it in

due course," Zane said, attempting to squeeze by him.
The chef put a massive and calloused hand on Zane's

shoulder. "But it is ready now, sir."

Molly remained insubstantial here in Purgatory, except
when she concentrated, but this man was as solid as a
side of beef. Zane squirmed out from beneath the pun-
ishing grip. "Not now, thanks."

"I am sure you will reconsider, sir," the brute chef

said, his hand dropping to Zane's forearm.

Angry and somewhat alarmed, Zane turned his gaze
directly on the man's face. He knew the other saw the
death's head, for he remained in uniform. "Whom do you
think you are touching?" he demanded grimly.

The big man blanched, as most people did when con-
fronted by the Deathmask, but stood his ground. "I am
already dead. There is no harm you can do me."

Then why had he blanched? Zane lifted his right hand.
The gems on his wrist glowed. His fingers caught the man
under the chin and lifted him up. The man lifted readily,
becoming cellophane-thin; he was, in fact, a soul. Zane
folded the soul in half, and then in quarters, and finally
wadded it into a ball and hurled it downward through the

floor toward Hell.

Then he paused, surprised. He hadn't known Death

could do that! But it was obvious, in retrospect, since
Death routed souls to their spots in Eternity. When he
took deliberate hold of a soul, it moved as he willed it to.

"That was pretty," Molly murmured.
Zane had forgotten her presence. "Maybe you had bet-

On A Pale Horse            265

ter get out of here, too," he suggested. "Satan's minions
could probably manhandle you."

"It's very hard to hold a ghost against her will," she
said, and faded from view.

"Thanks again for your help," he called. "You have
opened my eyes!"

"You're welcome. Death," her breeze-faint whisper
came. Then he was alone.

He strode through the doorway—and encountered a trdly
regal and lovely woman, garbed in elaborately archaic
paraphernalia. "I am Helen of Troy," she announced.

Zane was, of course, familiar with the historical, vir-
tually legendary accounts of this famous woman's activ-
ities. Hers was the face that had launched a thousand
spells and precipitated a savage ancient war between the
city-state of Troy and the massed forces of Greece. Nat-
urally Helen now served Satan more directly.

"Now you do call-girl duty for the Father of Lies,"
Zane snapped, brushing by her.

"Please!" she cried, clutching at his arm. "You do not
know what it is like to be three millennia past your prime!
You can not guess what the Lord of Flies does to women
who fail him!"

Against his better judgment, Zane was moved by her
plea. She might be three thousand years dead, but she
was one lovely creature. "I wish you no harm, Helen.
But I am trying to keep a good, living woman out of
Satan's grasp. Would you seek to betray that woman?"

Helen looked at him. Tears formed in her beautiful
eyes and streaked down her classic cheeks. Slowly her
face collapsed in on itself, and her body became a shape-
less mass. She dissolved into vapor, and her soul sank
through the floor on the way to what she dreaded.

She had understood. Helen of Troy had been a good
woman in essence, refusing to betray another of her kind.
Saddened, Zane moved on outside. Mortis was waiting
for him, saddlelight blinking urgently.

Zane mounted and set the translation jewel in his ear.
"What is it, gallant steed?"
"Satan has loosed Hellhounds."
"That sounds bad. What's a Hellhound?"




266            On A Pale Horse

"A demon in animal-form. You cannot fold its soul,

for it is not human."

Zane digested that. It seemed Satan was playing with

a harder ball now. "What can I do?"

"It is not my place to say. Master. I can protect you

if we encounter them singly."

"Do Hellhounds hunt singly?"

"Not necessarily."

Zane felt a chill. "How much time do I have?"

"It takes time to run all the way from Hell's Hound-
pound to Purgatory, even for supernatural creatures. You
may have fifteen minutes before they arrive."

"Good. 1 have an errand to attend to. Take me to the

Records Department."

Mortis galloped for the big Purgatory building across

the plain. "Do not be long about your business," the horse
warned. "I cannot be with you inside."

"I'll rejoin you before the Hounds arrive." Zane dis-
mounted, entered the building, went immediately to the

computer terminal, and turned it on.

A GREETING, DEATH,' the screen flashed. THE INFOR-
MATION YOU SEEK IS NOT IN MY STORAGE BANKS.

"I'll bet it isn't," Zane muttered.

NO ORDINARY CREATURE CAN STOP A HELLHOUND.

News traveled fast! "That isn't my question."
The computer flickered its screen, seeming startled.

SURELY YOU ARE CONCERNED.

"How many souls have been released from Hell?"

MEANINGLESS QUERY. PLEASE REPHRASE.

"Oh, no, it isn't meaningless, machine! According to
the Prince of Evil, he only processes souls to expiate their
burden of evil, then releases them to Heaven. How many
souls has he released to date? A round figure will suffice."

There was a pause. NO INFORMATION, the screen showed

at last.

"What do you mean, no information? You've got the

records of Eternity!"

I MEAN THERE HAVE BEEN NO ENTRIES OF THE TYPE YOU
DESCRIBE.

Zane gasped. "No souls have been released from Hell-
in all Eternity?"

On A Pale Horse             267

CORRECT.

"What a colossal liar Satan is!" Zane cried. "I was sure
he exaggerated, but there should have been at least a
modicum of substance to his claim!"

THE CLAIM WAS NOT FALSE. ETERNITY HAS NOT ENDED.

Zane considered. "You mean that, theoretically, Lu-
cifer will release souls at some future date?"

CORRECT,

"Some loophole! It's a blank check! Eternity, by def-
inition, never ends."

The screen was blank. Zane turned off the terminal.
He had learned what he came for. He had guessed that
Satan might be underreporting the cured souls, saving out
a certain percentage beyond their appointed tenures in
Hell, but the reality was grossly worse. Certainly Death
was not going to do things Satan's way!

Mortis was fidgeting impatiently outside. "Hellhounds
getting close?" Zane asked as he mounted.

"Six of them."

"Can you outrun them?"

"Neigh. I could outdistance them in an extended run,
for they lack my endurance, but their short-range speed
is greater than mine."

"Can we hide from them?"

"No. They can sniff out even invisible spirits. They
are Hell's cleanup squad. Nothing escapes them."

"Is there anywhere in the cosmos we can go where
they can't follow?"

"Heaven, perhaps."

Zane laughed wryly. "Let's not involve Heaven in this!
Let me consider."

"Do not consider more than ninety seconds. Death,"
the stallion said meaningfully.

Zane sat and pondered. He was surprised to discover
that he was not afraid. He had never been a brave man;

temper and bravado had passed for courage. But his re-
cent activities in the office of Death had removed most
of the dread of dying from him. He did not want to die
himself, but this was now mainly a practical matter rather
than fear for himself. If he died now, his replacement
would end the strike and take Luna, and Satan would




268 On A Pale Horse

win. Luna might go to Heaven, and perhaps Zane would,
too—though he would hardly bet on that! Certainly nei-
ther faced extinction. But how would the rest of humanity
fare, if Satan had his way? That was Zane's real chal-
lenge.

The Hellhounds, it seemed, could kill him, for they
were supernatural monsters who would not be balked
by the magic of the Deathcape. He might send one of
them back to Hell in the same manner he had sent the
chef-demon, even though its soul was not his proper
department. But that would be the limit, since these
creatures would have no fear of the human Death In-
carnation.

If he couldn't hide from them, or flee them, or fight
them—what could he do? Just stand and wait for them?

Into his mind came the pattern of matchsticks. Five
arranged in a pentagon: <^. Now he realized what it
meant. His thoughts were going in a circle, leading him
nowhere, providing no solution.

Hastily he reshaped the matches to a better configu-
ration. He laid them in a line. If he couldn't hide — and
he couldn't flee — but he had to prevail — then he had to
fight — and therefore needed a suitable weapon — There
was his series chain: ————— .

He heard a chilling baying. At the horizon of Purgatory,
dark lumps appeared, rapidly swelling in size. The Hell-
hounds had arrived.

Weapon, weapon—what was a weapon against a su-
pernatural monster? Not his cloak, not his gems. He
needed something offensive.

The six figures loomed into great red-brown canine
shapes, each half the height of a man. Their eyes glowed
red, like little furnace portholes. They moved with huge
catlike bounds, covering ten meters at a time. There was
no sound as their feet struck the ground; even in open
attack, they showed their stealth.

What he needed was a good sword—one enchanted to
dispatch natural and supernatural entities alike. But this
was rather late to think about procuring one.

The Hellhounds ringed man and horse, pausing to study
the situation. In a moment one or more would pounce.

On A Pale Horse             269

Zane's eye fell on the scythe. Suddenly he remembered
the manner in which Mars had suggested that he practice
with it. He had not done so, as his attention had been

taken by other things. But he did know how to swing a
scythe.

The first Hellhound pounced.

Zane grasped the scythe and jumped to the ground.
The Hound passed overhead, missing the suddenly de-
scending target. That freed a few more seconds.

Zane shook the scythe so that its giant blade snapped
into place at right angles to the handle and locked there.

"Get out of here, Mortis!" he cried. "This is not your
quarrel."

The Deathsteed bolted.

Zane hefted the scythe. He felt its terrible power. Oh,
yes, this was a good weapon! "Come at me, puppies!" he
cried, letting his volatile temper take over, and the cruel
blade gleamed. "Come try my strength, you dogs who
thought to attack helpless prey! But when you do, 0 beasts

of night, know that you face the Lord of Night. I am
Death!"

The first Hound, unimpressed, turned and leaped again.
It seemed this kill was the privilege of the leader. Zane
angled the great blade upward, pointing roughly at the
Hound. The monster canine landed on it.

The gleaming point entered the Hound's head and slid
right through to its tail, almost without resistance. Blood
spurted at each end as the creature expired. The magic
blade had efficiently destroyed the magic animal.

Two more Hellhounds, still unimpressed, pounced, one
from each side. Zane hauled the blade out of the first and
whipped it about in a fierce circle. It struck the first Hound

halfway up its body and passed through as if encountering
snow.

The top half of the monster's body flew off, leaving
the bottom half to collapse in a burble of blood.

The blade carried on to contact the second Hound
crosswise. The front of its body parted company with the
rear. Guts spilled out as both halves collapsed.

Three Hellhounds remained. They were now im-




On A Pale Horse

270

pressed. "What's the matter, curs?" Zane taunted them.
"Don't you like it when your quarry fights back?"

Another stepped forward, jaws gaping. Its teeth and
tongue were as black as solid soot. It belched forth a
searing jet of fire.

Zane's blade swung, separating the creature's head
from its body. The fire died as the canine did.

Four down, two to go. Zane's right side smarted where
the fire had heated his cloak. This fire was more pene-
trating than that of the Hot Smoke dragoness! But he

couldn't rest now.

"Exactly whom did you suppose you were stalking, 0
sons of Hellbitches?" Zane demanded, stepping toward
the two with a blade that dripped the blood of their com-
panions. "By what unholy arrogance did you expect to
interfere with an Incarnation? Begone, whelps, lest I slice
you in thin pieces!"

But one Hound refused to be intimidated. It charged
—and Zane's terrible blade swept off all four of its legs
with one motion. Still determined, the monster opened
its mouth to shoot fire, so Zane clipped off the tip of its
muzzle. "Are you a slow learner?" he inquired savagely.
"Give over, or I will treat you unkindly."

The Hound, incapacitated, lay still and bled.

Zane turned to the last. "Put your tail between your
legs, 0 sniveling cur, and hie back to your fell master,"
he cried, orienting the bright red blade. "Tell him not again
to send pups to do men's work!"

The Hellhound, cowed at last, put down its tail and

fled.

Zane's knees felt weak. He had done it! He had bluffed

them out!

Bluffed them? No, he had destroyed them, by drawing
on a power of his office he had not consciously exploited
before. His practice with the scythe, long ago in life, had
proved well worthwhile!

Mortis trotted back, nickering. "That was a credit to
the office. Death," the translation said.

Zane shrugged. "It was necessary. A desperate man
does what he has to do. If I had had any escape, I would
have taken it; since I had to fight, I fought as well as I

On A Pale Horse            271

knew how." For once his temper had served him well!
"Satan underestimated me this time; I dare say he will
not do so again. But I hope in time to serve the office
with distinction. It's not that I regard myself as any su-
perior person, for I am not; it's that the office of Death
deserves the best that I can give it."

He mounted, and they started toward Earth. "Why
didn't you tell me about the scythe?" Zane asked.
"I did not know it could be used against Hellhounds,"

Mortis admitted. "My former master never employed it
in that manner."

But Mars had known! "So there are powers of the office
that are inherent, regardless of the officeholder or the
amount such powers have been used before," Zane con-
cluded. "Could there be others?"

"I am not the first Deathsteed," Mortis neighed. "My
predecessors may have seen things that are now clouded.
But I understand the office of Death varies considerably
with each officeholder. Interpretation is critical. At his
height. Death is balked by no force in the firmament."

"I've been balked at every turn!" Zane protested.

"Not when you held the Deathscythe!"

"I was desperate," Zane repeated. But already he looked
back at that episode with a certain grim pride. He had
been foolish, but he had destroyed the enemy. Death did
indeed have power, when Death chose to exert it. Nature
had intimated as much. Had he remained confused, in
effect acquiescing in his own slaying by the Hellhounds,
that would have occured; but he had not—and they had
been helpless against him. Had his predecessor not co-
operated in his own murder by being careless, he would
have survived and Zane would be in Eternity.

"My own immediate predecessor in the office—what
kind of Death was he?" Zane knew the man had gone to

Heaven, but that did not necessarily speak well for his
competence.

"A mediocre one, or he would not have lost the office."
"I mean how did he perform? I know he was careless
at the end, but that does not mean he wasn't a good

worker. Did he keep up with his schedule? Did you like
him?"




OnAPale Horse

272

"He kept his schedule better than you keep yours,"
the horse said. "I can not afford to become emotionally

attached to any specific person."

"So you will not miss me when I'm gone," Zane said.
"That's best. I appreciate the loyal and competent service
you have given me from the outset and know you will be
a great help to my successor."

Mortis did not answer.

They landed in the city of Kilvarough. Mortis con-
verted to the Deathmobile and drove Zane to Luna's ad-
dress.

She met him at the door. "Oh, I worried about you,

Zane," she said, relieved. "The consequence of opposing

Satan—"

"I can handle it," he said, not wanting to burden her
with the knowledge that his life was now seriously in
jeopardy. Satan would surely bring more potent forces to
bear—but if Luna knew that, she might try to do some-
thing foolish, such as removing herself from life. "I just
came to ask you to stand firm no matter what happens.
And to remind you that I love you."

Her relief was turning quickly to social concern. "You
have gone on strike! Do you realize what this means?"

"I am being rapidly educated," he admitted. "People

are suffering grievously. But—"

"They are stacking up in the hospitals," she said se-
verely. "The terminal cases just won't die, and new pa-
tients keep coming in at the normal rate—it's been only
a few hours. Can you imagine what it will be after a few
days'! The world can't go on this way!"

"I know it is hard," Zane said. "But the alterna-
tive—"

"Aren't you the one who smashed up a hospital room
to free one client from a pointless and painful life? You

believe in death!"

"I believe in death," Zane agreed, seeing it as a rev-
elation. "I really do! Death is the most sacred right of the
living; it is the one thing that should never be denied. Yet

in this case—"

"It's not as if they can be saved," she continued re-
lentlessly. "The fact that these poor people don't die does

On A Pale Horse             273

not mean they live productive lives. It only means a dread-
ful prolongation of terminal suffering."

"True," Zane acknowledged weakly. "Death is
certainly a necessary service to those whose life is

finished. It is best that it be prompt and painless.
Yet—"

"I have been painting a picture," she said. She gestured
to an easel she had set up in her living room. On it was
a partially completed representation of a child whose lower
body had been crushed by a car. Nearby was the tangled
remnant of a bicycle or miniature magic carpet that the
child had evidently been riding carelessly. Zane noted
how artistically the elements of both carpet and machine
had been integrated to make the device unidentifiable;

this was a symbolic example, not a literal one. It had also
been hastily done, for Luna had been home only a few
hours.

The most compelling thing was the aura of the child.
It looked very like a soul half out of the suffering body,
and its agony was manifest. What a terrible image this
would be when complete!

It was, of course, also a representation of Luna's own
state. She had died violently, yet lived—and knew that
she was at least in part responsible for the torment of all
the people who could not die.

"But if Satan takes over Earth, because you are not
there to stop him," Zane said, "millions of souls who
might have gone to Heaven will instead be damned to just
this type of torture in Hell! I must prevent—"

"I can't believe that!" Luna cried. "Hell is only the
place where bad souls are punished. In time, when these
souls reform, they are freed—"

"No, they're not! I checked with the Purgatory com-
puter—"

"Zane, I have decided. I want you to end your—"
The door crashed open. A brutal-looking man charg-
ed in, pointing a handgun at Zane. "Now shall you

die. Death, and I shall take your place!" he bel-

iowed.

"How did he get past my griffins?" Luna demanded
indignantly. "Where's my moon moth?"




274          Ow A P«fo ffow

"My Lord Satan spelled them off," the intruder said   F
with an evil grin. "You will be the first booty I take,   |
gorgeous creature, once I have the office."               ^

Zane drew his cloak and hood more closely about him.   "
"Beware, oaf! I am invulnerable to mortal weapons."

"Not any more. Death!" the thug cried. "You have
been declared in violation of your office, and your magic
has been turned off." He sighted along the barrel of his
weapon, aiming at Zane's heart.

"No!" Luna screamed, lunging at the man.

The gun fired. Blood spattered from Luna's right leg,
where the bullet from the deflected gun struck. She crum-
pled.

Zane had never been much of a fighter, but his ber-
serker temper was invoked again. The red of Luna's blood
magnified before his eyes like an exploding star. He
launched himself at the intruder as the gun swept back
toward him. One of Zane's gloved hands shoved the barrel
aside; the other reached for the thug's face.

The man screamed and fell back, dropping the gun.
Zane turned to Luna, who was sprawled in her own blood.
"I must get you to a doctor!"

"No good!" she gasped. "The hospitals are over-
crowded with the undead. No room for minor cases."

"But you could bleed to death!"

She flashed him a smile through her pain. "Then you'd
have to take my soul. Death, wouldn't you! And that
would—would free all the others."

With renewed horror, Zane realized that this was a
two-pronged trap. If he had been assassinated, his re-
placement would have ended the Deathstrike and taken
Luna. If Luna had been mortally hurt, Zane himself might
have had to take her, for he could not bear to see her
suffer. Either way, Satan won.

"But now that I've seen—" Luna paused to gasp,
catching up with necessary breathing, then resumed.
"—seen how eager Satan is to get rid of you, I'm not sure

I ought to go."

"Some medical attention—I don't even know how to

stop the bleeding—"

On A Pale Horse

275

"Just fetch me the white gem from the mantel there,"
she said, her voice losing force. "It's a—healing stone—"

Zane leaped to fetch the stone. Luna took it with trem-
bling fingers and touched it to her leg, and the bleeding
slowed and stopped. The flesh began visibly to mend
around the edge of the wound. "I'm adding more burden
to my soul, using this black magic," she said. "But I don't
care about me. I think maybe you're doing more than I
thought, Zane, and I should support you."

"It's true," he said somewhat ungraciously. "But it's
you Satan wants dead; I'm only blocking that. In a few
days my petition will be heard, and the matter of your
scheduling should be corrected. Then you will be free
to live your life, and I can return to the duties of my
office."

"I really don't see how I can be so important," she
said, getting to her feet as the wound in her leg disap-
peared. That was one potent Healstone! "It must be some-
thing my father set up. Then he arranged to have Death
himself guard me..."

"You're worth guarding," Zane said- "Now I must go.
You have already been hurt because you were near me;

I don't want that to happen again. I can protect you best
by staying away from you."

"But Satan can attack me regardless!" she protested.
"He just proved that!"

"It will do him no good while I retain the office. He
must deal with me first."

The thug Zane had downed groaned. They looked at
him. Luna gasped and Zane stiffened.

No wonder the man had given up the fight so readily.
One of his eyes was a mass of blood and fluid. The other—

"I must have forked him in the eyes with my fingers,"
Zane said. "I wasn't even conscious of—"

Luna handed him the Healstone. Zane brought it to
the man's face, near the punctured eye. In a moment the
eye healed and cleared. Then he put it near the other.
The eyeball was drawn up by its dangling nerve like a yo-
yo until it popped back into its socket and firmed in place.

"I'm sorry," Zane told the man. "I acted without think-
ing."




276             On A Pole Horse

The man felt his face tentatively. "You fixed me up!"
he exclaimed. "I can see again! The pain's gone!"

"Yes. I shouldn't have struck you like that. I was an-
gry."

"I don't like you when you're angry!" the man said,

scrambling to his feet. "Just let me out of here! I won't
tangle with you again!" He stumbled out.

"He thinks you healed him in a gesture of contempt,"
Luna said. "That makes him twice as wary of you. He
doesn't know what you will do to him next time, or whether

you will bother to fix it."

Zane shook his head. "I never dreamed there was such
a beast in me! To spike out a man's eyes—"

"Just because he wanted to kill you and take your place

and then kill me—"

Zane smiled, grimly rueful. "I guess I did mean it.
When I saw him shoot you, a fuse blew in my brain. All
my civilized restraints puffed away like so much fog in a
furnace." He shook his head. "I'll leave you now. I can't
blame you for being horrified."

She came to him, taking his hands in hers. "Zane, you
have said you love me, and I have not replied. I feel
I owe you a—a statement. I do like you, more than I
have liked any other man except my father, but the situa-
tion—"

"I value your candor," he said carefully. "Of course

you are not in a position to—"

"What I'm trying to say is that you can prevent me
from dying, but love is on another schedule. So soon after
my father, tangled in grief—I just can't—"

"I understand." And he believed he did. Luna loved
her father, and that man had died. Could she afford to
love Zane, too, when Satan was trying to assassinate him?
When she herself was slated for early demise?

"Oh, Zane, take care of yourself!" she cried, flinging

her arms about him and kissing him.

There was a neigh outside. Mortis was sounding the
alarm. Zane disengaged hastily and hurried out.

"Trouble?" he asked, checking the translation stone in

his ear.

"Other assassins," the horse said. "Some I can outrun,

OH A Pale Horse            277

Some I can't. It is best to keep on the move, so that we
encounter them singly."

Zane mounted and Mortis moved down the street, his
hooves striking the pavement silently. Still Zane found
he was not afraid. He was in a battle whose outcome he
did not know, and he simply had to fight it through and
hope he prevailed. It was as if there were some emotional
spell on him, blocking out incapacitating fear. But there
was no magic, simply his virtual certainty that he was
right. This belief did indeed provide a kind of strength,
without depriving him of his realistic cynicism about the
outcome. He knew his cause was in doubt and perhaps
hopeless, but he would not let it go.

"Is this campaign against me legal?" Zane asked. "Won't
there be an investigation if I am dispatched?"

"Satan honors few rules that are not convenient for
him. By the time his foul play is revealed, he will have
had his way. Justice may pursue him, but he is the most
elusive entity in the cosmos."

Which meant that Satan was cheating again, and could
probably get away with it. Accomplishment was nine-
tenths of the law, in Eternity as well as on Earth. Zane
wasn't even angry; he knew he had to deal with reality
rather than with idealism. He might be in the right, but
without his defensive Deathmagic, he was fairly helpless.

Still, he recalled how rapidly, efficiently, and viciously
he had acted when Luna had been directly threatened and
when the Hellhounds had come for him. There was a lot
of evil in him yet, being turned to good use against the
greater evil of Satan's minions. Now that he had some-
thing to fight for, a new aspect of his personality was
manifesting, making him more like Mars. He might be far
from Heaven, but he wasn't entirely helpless.

Mortis swerved. "There is one ahead," the horse ex-
plained. He galloped down a side alley. "Oops!" came a
neigh of dismay.

Even as the horse tried to dodge, Zane saw it. A tat-
tered beggarman stood close, intercepting them, his arm
swinging in a throwing motion.

Suddenly Zane was choking. He was breathing, but
suffocating. There seemed to be no oxygen in the air!




On A Pale Horse

278

Mortis turned his head, aware that something was
wrong. "You have been hit by a suffocation-spell!"

"Yes!" Zane gasped. He could speak, for there was
atmospheric pressure, but he couldn't breathe!

"The scythe! Use the scythe!"

Bewildered, Zane wrenched the folded scythe from its
holster on the horse. Through tear-blurred eyes he saw a
hole in the end of the handle. He put his mouth to it—
and sucked in oxygenated air.

"It's a small-diameter suffocation-spell," Mortis ex-
plained. "Doesn't reach to my head. So the scythe tube
is out of its range. The spell is bound to you, therefore
you can't run away from it—but it loses power a meter
out. In a few minutes it will dissipate; these things don't

usually need much duration."

Zane could appreciate why. If he hadn't had horse and

scythe to extricate him—!

In due course the spell dissipated as predicted, and
Zane was able to put away the scythe and breathe freely.
"Why is there a tube in the scythe handle?"

"This sort of thing must have happened before," Mortis
said. "My former master once used it to blow a dart; that's

how I knew."

Had attempts been made on Death's life before by
supernatural agencies? It made a certain sordid sense.
Surely Death had not universally pleased all parties at all
times in the course of Eternity, and Satan was obviously
one to try any means to get his way. So some Death
officeholder along the line had had the scythe handle hol-
lowed. Very nice.

If Death had been under siege before, it seemed he had
survived it. Otherwise he would not have been able to
modify the scythe handle. That was a positive sign.

No, maybe it was intended as a drinking straw, when
water was available only from some well without a bucket,
too deep to reach directly. He would probably never know.
So he had no certainty. Were there other little things about
this office that he ought to find out? His continuation as
Death might depend on his information.

"What other resources do I have?" he asked Mortis.

"I hardly know," the horse confessed. "I have the

On A Pale Horse             279

impression that the powers of the office are far greater
than normally employed, but your predecessor did not
employ them."

It did make sense. Death should not be balked or in-
timidated by others, not even by Satan. Otherwise the
office would soon become meaningless. But what powers
did the office retain, once its magic had been turned off?
Had Death ever gone on strike before? If so, how had
that been resolved?

Mortis snorted. "Monster intercepting. I don't think I
can avoid it."

"Don't try," Zane said. "It's my quarrel, not yours.
Set me down in the monster's vicinity."

"You have courage."

"No. I'm just doing what has to be done. I'm walled
in by circumstance, like water in a channel. If I had choices,

I'd flow away into the ground and be lost. I'm nothing
by myself."

"You have a choice. You can resign the office."

"No."

"Any Incarnation can resign without prejudice. I think
that's how the others usually change personnel. They get
tired or bored and make way for a successor."

"Without prejudice?"

"Reverting to the state of the soul when that person
ended forma! life. For you, this means balance."

"So I would go to Heaven or Hell, exactly as I would
have, had I not killed my predecessor. Nothing would
have changed for me."

"Yes. Of course, after your initiation period is done,
your balance of good and evil will change, and your res-
ignation would be on different terms."

"Interesting." Zane considered. "No, I can't resign.
My successor would take Luna, and Satan would win. I
can't allow that to happen."

"Then you do have courage. You have an easy way
out that you do not accept."

"No, if I had any acceptable way out, I would take it.
That's not the same."

Mortis halted at a green golf course. "The monster from




On A Pate Horse

280

Hell has intercepted us. You would have a better chance
against it if you rode me."

"You need to survive for my successor. You have not
betrayed your office; I will not involve you further in my
problem." Zane dismounted, took the scythe, and stepped
forward. Then he paused and turned back. "What type
of monster is it?"

"A preying mantis."

"Praying mantis? They're small."

"Prey-ing mantis. A minion of Hell never prays, but
does prey. They're large."

Now the monster appeared. It was shaped like a pray-
ing mantis, but it was five meters tall. Its huge pincer legs
looked capable of crushing a man in one fell squeeze. Its
small head peered down at Zane from its awful height,
judging at what point to pounce.

Zane looked up at the mantis and was terrified. Cour-
age? He had none of it! But he thought of Luna dying and
Satan prevailing on Earth, and stood firm. "All right, move
out," he told Mortis. "Fast!"

The horse bolted—and the mantis struck. Its body
launched forward so rapidly it blurred, and its massive
forearms unbent and clapped together again like those of
the insect monster it mimicked.

It missed. Its pincer arms crunched together empty.
Almost empty—there were a few strands of horsehair in

that grasp.

The mantis had been going for Mortis, the moving tar-
get. Zane had not moved at all, so had not triggered the
monster's attack response. Blind luck! The horse had
moved suddenly and so rapidly that he had escaped—but
that episode was enough to demonstrate the blinding speed
of the monster. Zane knew he could not outrun it. He
could not even bring his scythe into play before the crea-
ture grabbed him; his reflexes simply were not fast enough.

The lofty, tiny triangular head tilted as if trying to
discover what had become of the prey. Then the mantis
got back to its feet, poising for a new launch. It had four
legs besides the heavy front set, and four huge wings now
folded along the back of the long body. The preying mantis
looked clumsy, like a wooden branch propped on stilts—

On A Pale Hwse            281

but Zane had seen that creature move. It was no more
clumsy than was Satan's tongue!

Zane had had some notion of standing his ground and
swinging the scythe, but now knew this was hopeless. All
he could cut with the scythe was the middle pair of legs—
and long before he got there, the front legs would catch
him and crunch him. In fact, he couldn't move at all
without getting pounced on; he had been warned by Mor-
tis' departure. What, then, could he do?

Well, he could wait. It seemed the mantis would not
pounce as long as there was no motion. Probably it wasn't
sure whether Zane was alive and, like the Hot Smoke
dragon, did not feed on carrion. When he moved, it would
know he was alive and would act accordingly, rendering

him dead. What chance did he have? He couldn't wait
forever, could he?

He was a man, with a man's brain. He was much smarter
than the monster; he was sure of that. But how could he
outsmart it when he couldn't move?

He conjured the five matchsticjks to his mind's eye. Did
—_-__—offer any way out? It didn't seem to. How

about H ? Nothing there either. Try creative think-
ing: ^- .

How could he outsmart a monster who would destroy
him the moment he moved? Standing still and thinking
smart thoughts wouldn't suffice; the mantis could surely
outwait him. So if he moved, he lost, and if he stood still,
he lost. What creative thought could alleviate the squeeze?

Nevertheless, his thoughts played about the creative
formation. Suppose he died where he stood, and his ghost
haunted the preying mantis? That might serve it right, but
meanwhile Satan would win. He needed to remain un-
moving and alive at the same time his ghost haunted the
monster and drove it away. A nonsense notion.

Nonsense? Not necessarily. He had departed his body
briefly in order to visit Hell; why not do it again, to con-
found the mantis?

He tried, but nothing happened. He had no ghost to
help draw him out, and probably his loss of magic also
had something to do with it. His soul was now firmly







282 OnA Pale Horse

fastened to his living body. It would depart only when his
life did, and that was not the way he wanted to go.

Too bad he couldn't divide into two physical people,
one to stay here under the watchful, faceted eyes of the
mantis, while the other—

Suddenly it clicked. Maybe he could do just that! The
mantis was attuned to motion—rapid or jerky motion, like
that of a potential prey attempting to escape. That was
why it had pounced at the moving horse, rather than at
Zane. But it had not pursued Mortis, for after pouncing,
it had realized that this was not the specific prey it had
been sent for. That prey was Zane—but the mantis couldn't
properly perceive him until he moved like prey. That was
the problem with using an animal to hunt a man; the
animal could not surmount its perceptive limitations. It
was easier for a man to spot a moving object than a still
one; the mantis' eyes were even more specialized, so that
it was effectively blind while the target was still, and it
lacked the brains to figure out that it could take a stab at
a still form and make it move.

Zane moved, but not like prey. He hunched slowly
within his voluminous robe, getting it off his body. He
removed his black shoes and used them to form a tripod
with the handle of the scythe, which he propped upright,
supporting cloak and hood. It was awkward business, for
he had to unfold the blade to help stabilize it, and nervous,
for the mantis could surely perceive the activity. But the
creature did not understand that activity, since it was not
within the ordinary prey parameter. That limitation of
intelligence was hurting the monster again.

When Zane had his scarecrow figure standing reason-
ably firm, he got slowly down on the ground and com-
menced crawling in caterpillar style toward the mantis.
Both his speed and his direction deceived the monster;

prey usually ran rapidly away from the predator, not slowly
toward it.

The high, triangular head remained still, but Zane could
feel the individual facets of the near eye bearing on him. He
was now stripped to black shirt and trousers and socks, a
dark blob inching along. If he had miscalculated, he would
pay instantly with his life.

On A Pale Horse             283

Something about that thought bothered him, and it wasn't
exactly the fear of death. He wasn't afraid to die now. He
just didn't want to do it in a manner that would give Satan
the victory. Yet there was something else about his poten-
tial dying that nagged him, something significant—if only
he could figure out what it was.

At the moment, he could not really concentrate on that.
He had to pay attention to his snaillike progress, nudging
a fraction of an inch at a time toward the mantis.

As he drew away from the propped cloak and the man-
tis did not strike, Zane breathed a slow, shuddering sigh
of relief. He accelerated—but slowed again when he caught

the slight motion of the monster's distant head. He was
playing it very close.

After that, progress became drudgery. He nudged on-
ward steadily, his nervous system in constant agitation.
After an hour he began to suffer hallucinations. He seemed
to be a blob of molasses, flowing along, and the faceted
eye of the mantis seemed like the sun, sending down its
pitiless rays to dry him up. He found himself looking down

on that molasses, wondering when it would start crazing
and cracking.

Zane caught himself. That could be his soul drifting
free of his body, looking down! He could die from ex-
posure as readily as from the bite of the monster! There
was still more than one way Satan could get him.

But he wasn't dying yet; he was just dreaming. He
refocused on his immediate task and continued moving
forward, picking up speed. The mantis, perhaps no longer
associating this, blob with its prey, did not react.

The left middle leg of the preying mantis was looming
near. Zane angled for it, fearful that it would move before
he got there. He forced himself to maintain a steady pace,
as the minutes dragged on. The foot, no more than a
greenish and ridged bend in the end of the leg, remained
in place. The leg's cross section was no more than that
of Zane's own wrist, but its length was more than his
whole body. That was actually the length of one segment
of it; above the knee was a similar length, extending hor-
izontally, thicker in diameter. The legs tied into the torso
just below the forward set of wings.




284           On A Pale Hone

At last the target was within reach. Slowly Zane ex-
tended his two hands until they were almost touching the
thin leg. He paused, gathering his nerve. This was about
to become most uncomfortable!

Then, suddenly, he grasped the leg in a firm double

grip.

Now the mantis reacted. It hauled its leg away—car-
rying Zane with it. It shook the limb, but Zane jackknifed
and wrapped his legs about the leg. He had emulated the
tactic of the mantis itself and had pounced by surprise.

The mantis might not be able to see a stationary target
very well, but it could feel what was on its leg. It tried
to brush Zane off by rubbing the leg against its abdomen.
This was ineffective, for Zane's grip was too tight.

Now the monster planted its foot on the ground and
angled its head to look. It didn't understand this type of
attack. Zane hung on, certain that he was safe from the
giant foreleg pincers here. The mantis would have to crush
its own leg along with Zane, and it was unlikely to do
that. He had nullified its primary weapon.

However, he had not yet won his freedom, for he did
not dare let go. He had gained an impasse, no more. What

next?

The mantis lifted its leg forward, setting it down as far
in front as possible. Then it brought down its head. The
long body was more flexible than Zane had supposed.

Oops! Now the insectile jaws could reach Zane. He
could not afford to remain in place.

The head loomed close. It was about a third as long
as Zane's body, and dominated by the huge, faceted eyes
that seemed to take up about a quarter of the surface area
of its face. The long antennae sprouted from anchorages
just inside each eye placement, and three tiny eyes no
larger than Zane's own looked out from between the an-
tennae. Zane had not before appreciated so clearly exactly
how alien the insect type of life was from human life. Five
eyes, of two different sizes—yet it did make sense. Ob-
viously the small eyes were "finders," scanning the world
in a general way, so that the big, specialized eyes could
be oriented on their targets.

But it was the mandibles that compelled Zane's more

On A Pale Horse            285

immediate and horrified attention. The mouth was like a
gross bird beak, with several thin appendages enclosing
it. Zane imagined those mandibles latching onto his flesh,
and lost his nerve. He had thought to leap to the monster's
head and punch out its beautiful compound orbs, but now
he was frozen with fear and revulsion.

The eyes surveyed him. The huge, faceted structures
were like windows over deep and dusky wells, reminding
him of precious cut stones. He saw his reflection dupli-
cated many times over in the nearest facets and was sure
this was the image the mantis had of him. The monster
could now see him far more clearly than he could see it!

The head moved. Zane screamed and dropped off the
leg. He fell jarringly on his back, and the head plunged

down at him. Now he knew he was done for—because
he had lost his nerve.

But the head did not strike. It was the grasping forelegs
that took hold of him, lifting him up. Toothlike serrations
clamped his torso, holding him with appalling authority.
Of course the head had not struck directly, he realized;

the mantis fed by grasping its prey and tearing chunks of
living flesh from the body.

It had him now. Would it begin its repast by biting
off his head, or would it prefer a juicy limb? Probably
the latter, for this type of monster preferred the very fresh-
est meat, and life remained longer while the head was in-
tact. It might even bite a hole in him so it could take in
some warm blood as an aperitif. Crunch, as an appen-
dage was chewed off, then slurp, as the blood was licked

up. Assuming the insect had a tongue; Zane wasn't sure
it did.

He waited helplessly for what seemed like an inter-
minable time, his thoughts going around in the schizoid
formation of thought, visualizing his bones being spat out
like machine gun bullets and his skull being cracked open
for the final delicacy. His mood did not improve with
such rehearsals. His fate was sealed; the least he could
do was be positive about it.

He wrenched his thoughts into another formation—
and suffered another creative -^ flash. It was a nova.




286

On A Pale Horse

"You can't kill me!" he exclaimed. "That's why you're
waiting!"

The lambent eyes turned translucent.

"Because it's paradox," Zane continued, working out
the rationale behind his revelation. "My soul is in balance,
as it was when I assumed the office of Death, as it remains
for the term of my trial period. If I die. Death must collect
my soul personally—and I am Death. I must collect my-
self—and that's nonsensical."

Still the monster waited.

"So all you can do is scare me. Paradox protects me!
There had to be a way out of that smother-spell, too, and
the gunman shot Luna instead of me. Not coincidence at
all, but deliberate deception. The Father of Lies can't
wipe me out! He wanted me to think he could kill me, to
make me accede to his will—to intimidate me. But his
ploy has been balked by my paradox ploy!"

Slowly the preying mantis relaxed its grip, and Zane
slid to the ground. But he wanted to be absolutely sure.
"Strike, monster!" he cried, waving his arms. "Gobble
me up!" He kicked at. a foreleg.

The mantis backed away.

"Your bluff has been called!" Zane said. "Satan's bluff
has been called. Nothing can kill Death when his soul is
in balance." He realized that this was the thought that
had eluded him before—his unique situation.

Mortis returned, but Zane stood pondering a moment
more. It figured. Death could not be killed with his good
and evil in balance—because only Death could handle
such a case—and he was Death! He could hardly handle
his own death. His predecessor, the former Death, had
been well beyond his break-in period, so was no longer
in balance and had been vulnerable. Once Zane got past
his trial period, his balance of good and evil would shift
one way or the other; then he, too, would be vulnerable.
The other Incarnations had surely known. They had be-
trayed one Death to strengthen another.

He hadn't won yet. He had to establish Luna's security
before he became vulnerable himself. Otherwise Satan

OnAPaUHwve

had only to wait. But this reprieve sh
see_t through to the hearing on his peti
Now Zane mounted. "We have a fie
t«s! he cned. But he doubted Satan w







-13

THOUGH SATAN
BAR THE WAY

They drew up at Luna's house. Zane was overflowing
with his good news about the reprieve. He would survive
until the hearing, and therefore she would, too, and after

that—-
The house was silent. The griffins were gone. Suddenly

worried, Zane entered. Luna, too, was gone.

There was a note on the table. Zane picked it up. It
was written in red cursive script, as if done in blood.

My Dear Death:

The fair moon is in My power. I cannot make her due,
but I can make her wish she were dead. Terminate your
strike, take your scheduled next client, and free Luna from
her pain. She will go to Heaven directly, where you may

join her at your convenience.

Your most humble and obedient servant,
The Prince of Evil

Zane stared at the message, absorbing its every im-
plication. Suddenly it burst into flame in his hand. He
dropped it, but it never touched the floor. It was gone.

There was no doubt it was from Satan. The moment
one ploy failed, the Lord of Flies tried another. Now that
Zane was safe and knew it, Satan was striking through

288

On A Pale Horse

289

the woman he loved—in life as well as death. Trust the
Devil to have no scruples!

Was Satan bluffing again? Zane dropped into the easy
chair before Luna's television set, trying to clarify his
whirling doubts. There was something—

Ah. He had it. "Satan, you forget that Luna is my next
client. I will go there to rescue her from your clutches,
not to send her to Eternity." He looked at his orientation
gems, fixing on Luna's location, for she remained the one
he had to take before he could tune in on others.

The television set came on by itself. "A bye has been
issued, Death," Satan's face said from the screen. The
Devil seemed to have an affinity for television. "Reset
your watch, and it will orient on the next client."

Zane brightened momentarily. "Luna has been spared?"

"No, merely put on hold. She will go unassisted when
her time comes."

When her time came. That would be the moment Zane
ended his strike—except that he would balk again when

he had to take her. What would Satan gain by this ma-
neuver?

"She can't go unassisted," Zane said. "She is now in
balance. Only I can take her—and that I will not do."
"She will not remain in balance," Satan said.

Zane's suspicion returned full-force. "What do you
mean?"

"My minions of the living realm will cause her to react,
either in a good or an evil manner. Probably good, and
that will tip her toward Heaven. Thus the assurance in
My note. You need not attend her at all; merely resume
your duties, and all else will take care of itself."

Zane liked this less and less. "You will torture her—

and make her better than she is now? I don't understand

that."

"Ponder it at leisure," Satan said. "But do.not ponder
overlong. My esteemed associate. My Earthly minions
are a brutal lot, already damned to Hell for good cause,
who like torture for its own sake."

The picture shifted to an Earthly chamber. There was

Luna, tied to a chair, looking defiant. Three thuglike men
were with her.







290 On A Pah Horse

"You're on," Satan's voice came. "Make your dem-
onstration." The way he said it, the syllables "de-mon"
projected from the final word.

One thug drew a bright knife from a sheath. "Right,
Boss," he said. He approached Luna.

Zane suffered an abrupt siege of intense rage and fear.
They really were going to torture Luna! He wanted to
mount Mortis and charge to the rescue, but couldn't tear
himself away from the television screen. How could they
change Luna's balance by such means? And how could
he abate this horror when his own magic was gone? He
might be secure from assassination himself, but he could
not physically get past the barriers Satan's minions would
have erected to bar his way to Luna. Satan was really
putting the screws to him.

The thug brandished the knife before Luna's face. "Pray
to Satan for succor," he said.

"Satan can go succor himself!" she snapped defiantly,

The knife moved closer. "One prayer to Satan can save
you a lot of pain." The thug licked his lips.

Luna blanched, obviously frightened. "What do you
want of me?"

"Only your prayer," the thug said, leering.

"All Satan can have is my curse!"

Then she did a double take. "That's what you want!
If I pray to Satan, I'll be damned by a trifling amount. If
I curse him, I'll be blessed similarly. Either way, my soul
nudges off balance, and I can die without Death's personal
attendance."

"So that's it!" Zane exclaimed. "You're trying to get
her removed from my list entirely! When my strike ends,
you can kill her immediately, and I can't balk you any
more!"

"You are learning," Satan agreed.

"It won't work! She has caught on to your plot!"   '

"We shall see."

On the screen, the thug made a sudden motion with
the knife, slicing it at Luna's front. It severed the material
of her blouse. He sliced again, cutting away more blouse
without touching her skin. In moments she had been
stripped to the waist, her hands still bound behind her.

On A Pah Horse            291

Now the thug put away his knife and fetched a black
box with dials on one face and a pair of wires terminating

in small disks. He extended the two extremities toward
the tips of Luna's bare breasts.

"I wonder whether you appreciate the quality of pain
that can be induced by electric shock," Satan said con-
versationally to Zane. "No physical damage shows, and

the intensity is finely tuned. She can be made to suffer a
small amount—"

The electrodes touched Luna's nipples. She jumped,
with an exclamation of pain.

"Pray to my Lord Satan," the thug said. "Or curse
Him. Then the treatment will stop."

"—or a greater amount," Satan continued.

The electrodes touched again. This time Luna's scream
was piercing. Zane saw her whole body stiffen with the
agony of the current passing through her chest.

When it stopped, her head fell forward, her face beaded
with chill sweat, her lips so pale they almost disappeared.
She was sobbing brokenly with reaction.

"You can free her from this, Death," Satan said. "I
know you do not like to inflict needless pain."

Seeing her like that, Zane was tempted. He couldn't
stand to watch the woman he loved being tortured. This
was worse than the jaws of the Hot Smoke dragon, for
this was deliberate cruelty, with no hope of unconscious-
ness or death. Unless he yielded...

"Speak to her, Death," Satan said persuasively. "Tell
her to curse Me, and go to Heaven for Eternity."
Zane hesitated. There was so much in the balance here!
The thug touched Luna's breasts again. This time she
tried not to scream, but an anguished sound squeaked
past her constricted throat—the sort of sound one might
hear from a mouse being run over by the tire of a truck.
There was perspiration on all of her body that was ex-
posed, and her eyes were staring, the whites showing too
much.

"Luna!" Zane cried. "Curse Satan! Don't let them do
this to you!"

Slowly her head turned, seeking his voice. She heard
him. And Zane knew he had betrayed her—and the world.




292 On A Pale Horse

Then she forced a smile like a grimace. "Oh, no, you
don't. Father of Lies!" she gasped. "You can't fool me
with Zane's voice! I know he would never urge me to
betray his trust, no matter what!"

Zane felt as if the electrodes had been touched to his
own flesh. She believed in him—but he had proved un-
worthy. He had broken, not she.

The thug extended the terrible electrodes again.

Zane squeezed his eyes shut. He had seen his mother
suffering and had acted to free her from a life that had be-
come intolerably burdensome. He had released a whole
ward full of suffering old people. He had tried in every case
to ameliorate the pain of death where death was necessary,
and to eliminate suffering. His whole developing philoso-
phy of death was as a legitimate end to pain. This time it
was Luna who suffered, because of him—and he had no
right to free her.

He heard her strangled scream. He kept his eyes closed,
seeing an explosion of matchsticks. Formations of
thought—and how could any of them resolve this
crisis?

Suddenly the fifth pattern flashed in his imagina-
tion: —III— . The symbol for intuitive thinking. His
mind concentrated, assimilating it, hurdling the intuitive

gap—

"Death be not stayed!" he cried.

He launched himself from the chair, charged outside,
and vaulted onto his ready horse. "Go to Luna!" he cried,
showing the orientation stones.

The stallion leaped into the sky. The globe of Earth
whirled by beneath them. Then they arrived—on board
an orbiting satellite, with normal gravity generated by
magic. Naturally Satan was involved in space missions,
to make sure no people escaped his power by fleeing
planet Earth. But if the Prince of Evil's minions had thought
to escape Death here, they were fools.

A thug appeared. He gaped. "A horse in space!" he
exclaimed, amazed.

"More than that, ilk of Satan," Zane said grimly.

"Hey, you can't pass here!" the thug protested.
"Where's your Infernal clearance?"

On A Pale Horse             293

Zane faced him. "Mortal, look at me," he directed.

For the first time, the thug saw him as his office. The
man's eyes frogged. "Death!"

"Now stand clear, lest you feel my touch," Zane said.

But the thug recovered some backbone. "You won't
kill me. You're on strike. If you take my soul, my Lord
Satan can kill your woman."

"You have placed your trust in the wrong power," Zane
said. He reached for the thug, who stiffened in fear but
stood his ground like a half-bold cur.

Zane caught the man's soul and jerked it out of his
body. The man collapsed. But the soul was only half out;

it remained anchored in the host, as had the soul of the
woman on life-support machinery. The thug was not dead,
only separated from his soul partway for the moment.

Zane let go of the soul. It snapped elastically back into
its host. The thug opened his eyes and stared dazedly up
at the cloaked figure before him.

"Go and tell your fell master that Death is on his way
and shall not be denied," Zane said.

The man climbed weakly to his feet and staggered down
the passage.

Zane followed more slowly. Soon three more thugs
charged up to intercept him.

"Mortis," Zane said.

The great Deathhorse, who had remained in the back-
ground as Zane faced the thug, stepped up. Zane re-
mounted. "Trample any who do not give way," Zane said
coldly. "They have had fair warning."

The stallion walked forward. His muscles rippled and
his steel hooves gleamed. Death's eerie gaze shone down
from above the massive animal. The sound of their tread
became loud. Dazzled, the minions of Satan gave way,
like rabbits before a wolf. The horse paced on.

One of the thugs drew a small machine gun from under
his jacket. He pointed it at Zane. "Your magic's gone,
Death," he said. "Maybe we can't kill you, but we can
riddle you with bullets. That will stop you!"

"Do that, cretin," Zane said, and sat firmly while the
Deathsteed continued the advance.




294

On A Pale Horse

On A Pale Horse

295

The gun fired a burst.

The bullets ricocheted from the Deathcloak and tore
into the walls and equipment of the space station. Zane
remained unhurt.

The thug stared. "But—"

Zane stretched his right arm toward the man. He
crooked his finger. The thug's soul began to draw from
his body as if pulled on a string. "Do not believe all that
the Father of Lies tells you," Zane said. He released the
soul, and the man fell back, gasping.

Mortis marched on down the central hall. Death rode
regally onward, seeming invincible.

Two Hellhounds appeared. The first leaped for Zane
head-on, jaws gaping, fire jetting.

Mortis* front leg jerked up. The metallic hoof caught
the Hound in the head. The full force of the creature's
momentum carried it into that hoof, crushing its skull. It
dropped lifelessly.

The other circled and pounced from the side. Zane
extended his left arm. The great jaws of the Hound took
in the gloved hand and closed on the sleeve surrounding
the elbow.

Zane turned his head slowly to look the monster in the
eyes. "This becomes annoying," he said and flexed his
fingers in the Hound's throat, grasping the back of its
tongue. "Begone, beast, or I will make my displeasure
known." He squeezed the tongue.

The creature stared. Then, slowly, it dissolved. Soon
Zane was left with his arm extended, unhurt, in a cloud
of smoke. His magic had been stronger than that of the
monster.

They moved into the next chamber. There was Luna,
still tied half-naked to the chair. "Death!" she cried. "Don't
take me!"

Zane knew it was no plea of cowardice she made. She
expected to live in agony—to foil Satan.

Zane dismounted as the three thugs attending Luna
turned to face him, staring. "I have come to take you
home—alive," he said. "But first I have something to
settle with these minions of the Evil One." He drew the
great scythe from its holster on the horse.

"No!" Luna cried. "Don't kill anyone! You mustn't—"

"Fear not. I shall merely hurt them a little, as they
have hurt you," Zane said, unfolding the terrible blade.
"I will cut off their hands and feet, but they shall not die."
He smiled savagely. "No, they shall not die!"

The thugs, abruptly terrified, scrambled away.

A fourth man entered the chamber. "I think not," he
said.

Zane hardly glanced at him. "Death shall not be de-
nied." He hefted the scythe and took a step toward the
three thugs, who cowered abjectly against the wall.

"Death shall have no dominion," the stranger said. He
pointed at the floor before Zane, and fire rose from it.

This was evidently a higher functionary. "I will rescue
my love, though Hell bar the way." Zane swept the blade
of the scythe through the flames, and they were cut off
like so many weeds. In a moment they died.

The man made a circle in the air with one finger. The
space inside the circle fell out like cut paper, leaving a
window into a horrendous furnace. "Hell does bar the
way. Do not tamper with things you do not understand."

Zane made a circle with his own left arm, flinging a
length of his cape over the window, stifling it until it
disappeared. "Who the devil are you to oppose me with
such foolish tricks and to slight my intelligence?" He shifted
the blade of the scythe meaningfully. "The Devil himself
shall not interfere with Death any more."

The man's face melted. From the dripping flesh emerged
the glowing countenance of the Prince of Evil. "I am the
Devil, Death!"

Zane was for a moment taken aback. "How can you
be out of Hell?"

"I can be anywhere I wish!" Satan exclaimed, a ripple
of flame playing across his features. "Evil is inherent in
all activities of man. Now bow down before Me and leave
off your inane posturings, for your case is lost."

Uncertainty tore at Zane. He had made short work of
Satan's Earthly and beastly minions—but Satan himself
was another matter. He looked around—and saw Luna
still tied to the chair, the three thugs by her, one holding




296

On A Pale Horse

OH, A Pale Horse

297

the electrodes used to torture her. Renewed fury suffused
him.

"Then I shall deal with you," Zane said, facing Satan.

The Prince of Evil smiled sardonically. "With Me? How
do you propose to do that? Your magic is gone, and you
are but a man."

"My magic gone? So you claimed before, but it was
and is a lie. I received no confirmation from Purgatory.
My magic horse remained, and my magic gems, and my
invincible cloak. I was never without magic! Lies are all
you have. Father of Lies. You suggest you can arbitrarily
deprive me of my powers." Zane stepped toward the Devil.
"Satan, it is not your prerogative! Death is inviolate, as
it must be, not to be tampered with by the likes of you.
Where Death has dominion, the Lord of Flies has none."
Zane took another step. "Now get behind me, Satan, and
disperse the ilk you brought here. Stay me no longer from
my mission, lest I orient my power on you."

Satan harrumphed, and his horns glowed. "A month
ago you were the least of pip-squeaks scrambling to pay
your back rent. The assumption of a cloak and scythe
does not convert a nothing-creature to a something-
creature. You have delusions of grandeur that will quickly
be dispelled. You bluff, mortal man."

For answer, Zane swept the deadly scythe at Satan's
ankles and tail.

The Prince of Evil jumped back, avoiding the cut. He
flicked his fingers, and a sparkling globe of energy floated
at Zane's face. "Fool! Then feel the wrath of Satan!"

Zane stood still, not even attempting to evade the globe.
It settled about his head, blazing high, coloring his vision
as if he looked out from an inferno, but there was no heat.
In a moment it dissipated harmlessly. The Deathhood had
protected him. "The bluff is yours. Father of Lies."

Satan sneered. "You talk big, mortal man, holding the
magic scythe and wrapped in the magic cloak, backed by
the magic steed. These are mere tools of the office. With-
out them you are nothing."

"You lie again," Zane said. "You have no power over
me, regardless." He set down the scythe and lifted the
cloak from his shoulders.

"No!" Luna cried from the chair. "Don't let Satan trick
you into powerlessness, Zane!"

Now it was her faith that was weak, instead of his.
Zane smiled and threw the cape aside. Then he removed
his shoes and stripped off his gloves and gems.

"You are indeed a fool," Satan gloated.

"Then all you have to do is stand still," Zane said, "and
we shall make the proof of my prerogatives." Slowly he
reached one bare hand toward the Devil.

Satan nudged back. "What idiocy is this? I can destroy
you with a single flick of My finger!"

'Then you had better do it," Zane said, "for I am about
to hook your soul with my own finger." He extended his
hand farther.

Satan moved back some more, staying just clear. "Pool!
I am trying to spare you the ignominy of being humili-
ated!"

"How very kind of you. Father of Lies." Zane leaned
forward, shooting his hand at Satan's midsection.

The Devil puffed into nothingness.

Zane turned to see the Prince of Evil re-form behind
him. "So you got behind me, Satan," he remarked. "I
have moved you. Do you think that improves your po-
sition? Strike, Lucifer! Do not spare my feelings any fur-
ther. Humiliate me. Destroy Death while he stands
vulnerable. I turn my back on you again, to facilitate your
chastisement." And he turned away.

Satan sighed. "You have prevailed. Death. You called
My bluff and forced Me to give way. You have at last
realized your full power."

"What else is news?" Zane picked up his cloak and
got dressed again.

"If I may inquire," Satan asked without sarcasm, "as
one Incarnation to another—what gave you the clue?"

"The fifth pattern of matchsticks," Zane said.

"Intuitive thinking," Satan agreed, comprehending im-
mediately. "That would do it."

"I realized that if there were any way for you to meddle
in the affairs of Death, or to stop Death from performing
his duty, you would have done so long ago. No magic
cloak would have stopped you, the Incarnation of Evil,




298 On A Pale Horse

the personification of black magic, whose powers of en-
chantment are not matched anywhere on Earth. It had to
be inherent in the office, not in the paraphernalia. Death
has to be inviolable, absolutely certain. Not even God,
the Incarnation of Good, acted against Death when I de-
clined to exercise my power in the world. Only Death can
determine his business. Therefore you had to be power-
less against me in this instance. I cannot defend this by
logic; I simply know it is true. I have faith in my office."

Satan nodded. "You do indeed. Against that faith, even
I can not prevail. Yet had you chosen another issue, you
would never have been able to oppose Me. Your power
is less than Mine, as evil lives after death."

"I recognize that," Zane said. "But I met you on my
own turf, which is not a matter of physical locale. Never
again will you bluff me there."

"You were a man performing an office," Satan said.
"Now you have become the office."

"Yes."

"And who informed you about the formations of
matchsticks?"

"Nature," Zane said, realizing only now the extent of
her oblique advice to him.

"That green mother!" Satan snarled with disgust, and
vanished.

Zane went to Luna. "Begone, vermin," he told the
thugs, who hastened to oblige.

"But how did you do it?" Luna asked as he untied her
and put the Deathcloak about her bare torso. "No one is
stronger than Satan, except maybe God."

Zane realized that she had not grasped all the impli-
cations of his confrontation with the Prince of Evil. She
still thought of him as a man—and indeed, he was a man,
with a man's love for his woman. "To be strong is not to
be omnipotent," he explained. "There are seven Incar-
nations, not five, when we include Good and Evil, ren-
dering them G-od and D-evil. No one can say for sure
whether one Incarnation is superior to another, but cer-
tainly each is supreme in his own bailiwick. So while
Death can not balk Satan's administration of Hell, how-
ever corrupt it may be, Satan cannot balk Death's activity

299

either. And no Incarnation can directly harm any other,
unless that other accedes by design or ignorance or care-
lessness. Once I realized that and truly believed it and
comprehended its implications, Satan had no further power
over me." He smiled. "Or you. I'll take you by Purgatory
now, to verify that Satan has dropped his claim to your
early demise. Then I'll resume my job."

"You are brilliant!" she exclaimed. "Once you had that
revelation, Satan himself was unable to oppose you. I see
now the wisdom of my father's decision in giving me to
you. I'm sorry I lacked the faith in you that you had in
me."

She did not realize how weak his faith had been, before
his intuition! "I hoped Satan could not oppose me," he
admitted.

She stared at him. "You mean you didn't knowT'

"How can one know an intuition? There is no direct
connection between question and answer. I could not be
sure of its validity until I tested it."

"So you deliberately stripped yourself of all your magic
and challenged Satan—not sure you were right?"

"That is so," he confessed, embarrassed.

"Why, Zane, that's the most courageous act I ever
saw!"

"It was my final desperation ploy, when I realized that
Satan himself was participating. If there had been any
other way—"

"I thought I could love you, before," she said. "Now
lam sure of it."

"It was not, ultimately, for love I did this," he said.
"Love counseled me to let you die and go to Heaven so
you would not suffer any more pain. But I had to keep
you alive for your role in saving humanity from Satan
twenty years hence."

"Yes," she agreed. "Now I know I will never yield to
Satan. I have come to understand him too well." She
paused, turning to Zane. "One other thing—"

He looked at her. The torture had not broken her spirit.
Her flesh surely had not recovered, but she was radiantly
beautiful in the Deathhood. "Yes?"

Luna flung her arms about him and kissed him with




300 On A Pale Horse

amazing passion. "Those, twenty years until my turn
comes," she said. "You and I—"

"Life and Death," he agreed.

They mounted Mortis and leaped for Purgatory.

They arrived at the Mansion of Death, and Zane con-
ducted Luna inside. She was mortal, but somehow he had
known he could take her with him this time. He could
take her anywhere—alive. She was now his acknowl-
edged Deathmaid.

They settled in the living room, relaxing, and watched
the television. "The hearing petitioned by Death has been
canceled," the news announcer said. "The issue has been
resolved privately." The announcer smirked. "It is ru-
mored that the horns of the Prince of Evil are still steam-
ing."

"That's what I wanted to verify," Zane said. "You
definitely will not die before your time, Luna. Now I can
return to my work."

"You had better," she murmured. "Thousands of peo-
ple are suffering. They really need your service."

"I will have Chronos move me back far enough so that
that suffering is erased; there will be no gap for the mor-
tals."

"Now conjecture is rife about the future status of the
new Death," the announcer continued. "He has virtually
turned his office upside down, making substantial waves
through both Heaven and Hell. We sent queries to God
and Satan, but neither deigned to comment."

Zane shook his head in rueful admiration. "Purgatory
has one sharp news staff," he said. 'Too sharp at times,
I think."

"This is interesting," Luna said. "I did not realize you
were such an important figure in Eternity."

"I'm not. This news is personalized. I'm sure the other
Incarnations get news relating to them. We can turn it
off." He got up and moved toward the set.

"However," the announcer continued, "we were able
to interview several witnesses destined to testify at Death's
trial-period assessment."

Zane's hand paused near the knob. "Witnesses?"

"Incarnations require special handling," the announcer

On A Pale Horse            301

explained. "Their powers are such that ordinary defini-
tions of good and evil do not necessarily apply. In this
instance, the four other Incarnations have pronounced
this Death viable. They testify that he has been put to the
question, unofficially, and that his answer was sufficient.
They are willing to work with him for whatever portion
of Eternity relates."

"Oh," Zane said. "Naturally they're satisfied. They got
me into this."

"But neither they nor my father picked you for your
regular job performance," Luna said. "Perhaps they did
not expect you to be a good Death in that respect."

"I surely lived up to that nonexpectation," he said rue-
fully.

"I wonder."

"While nothing is certain until the assessment itself has
been rendered," the television announcer said, "we be-
lieve it is fair to say that the recommendation of one other
key witness will have overwhelming force."

"What is this?" Luna asked.

"Maybe one of my clients," Zane replied uncertainly.

"And here he is," the announcer said. "The key wit-
ness, the one who knows whether the burden on the soul
of Death will shift toward Heaven or toward Hell as he
enters his regular term in the office."

"Who?" Zane demanded.

The camera swung around to center the picture on—

Mortis. The Deathsteed.

"And what do you say, witness?" the announcer asked.

The horse neighed.

"This is ludicrous!" Luna exclaimed.

"I don't know," Zane said. "Mortis is no ordinary
horse."

"And there you have it, folks. From the horse's mouth."
The announcer paused. "Oh, the translation? Of course.
Mortis says his new master has demonstrated a quality
unique among Incarnations, and this alone transforms his
errors to assets. He will have a positive freighting on his
soul, and will go on to become one of the truly distin-
guished holders of the office." He paused, while Zane




302

On A Pale Horse

On A Pale Horse

303

stood amazed. "Congratulations, Death. We of Purgatory
are proud to have you with us."

"Zane!" Luna exclaimed. "You won!"

"But all I did was try to help make it easier for people
to die," Zane said. "I broke several rules, and often I
bungled it anyway."

Then the television camera swung upward to show the
welkin, the lovely dome of the Earthly sky. In a moment
it turned from day to night, and the stars scintillated in
their myriads, and the images of rafts of angels formed,
each angel with a shining halo. All of them applauded
politely: the salutation of Heaven. It seemed to Zane that
one of them looked like his mother, and others resembled
some of his clients.

The camera swung down to show the fires of the nether
world, with its massed demons, all of them sticking out
their forked tongues. But dimly visible behind them were
the condemned souls of Hell, and here and there among
these were covert thumbs-up gestures.

Zane smiled, experiencing a joy as deep as Eternity.
"Thanks, folks," he said, and clicked off the set. "I'll
settle for the applause of one." He turned to Luna.

"Always. Forever," she agreed, kissing him.

"But I wonder what that unique quality of mine is
supposed to be?" he said as an afterthought.

"It is why I love you," she said.

Zane, back in the routine of his office, saw that the
mother was suffering terribly from the first shock of her
grief as she cradled her dying baby in her arms. He was
still working on the enormous backlog of clients that had
accumulated during his strike, but he could not let the
bereaved mother suffer more than she had to.

Zane stood before her. "Woman, recognize me," he
said softly.

She looked up. Her mouth fell open in horror.

"Do not fear me," Zane said. "Your baby has an in-
curable malady, and is in pain, and shall never be free of
it while he lives. It is best that he be released from the
burden of life."

Her mouth worked in protest. "You—you wouldn't say
that if one you loved had to go!"

"Yes, I would," he said sincerely. "I sent my own
mother to Eternity, to end her suffering. I understand
your grief and know it becomes you. But your child is
the innocent victim of a wrongful act—" He did not repeat
what she already knew, that the child had been conceived
by incestuous rape and born syphilitic. "—and it is better
for him and for you that he never face the horrors of such
a life."

Her haunted eyes gazed up at him, beginning to see
Death as more friend than nemesis. "Is—is it really best?"

"Samuel Taylor Coleridge said it best," Death replied
gently, extending his hand for the suffering baby's soul.
"Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade, Death came with
friendly care; The opening bud to Heaven conveyed, And
bade it blossom there."

As he spoke, he drew the tiny soul out. He knew even
before he checked it that this one would go to Heaven,
for now he had discretion in such cases.

"You're not the way I thought you would be," the
woman said, recovering some stability now that the issue
had been decided. "You have—" She faltered, seeking
the appropriate word. "Compassion."

Compassion. Suddenly it fell into place. This was the
quality Zane brought to the office of Death that the office
had lacked before. It made him feel good to realize that
the delays he had indulged in and the rules he had bro-
ken—that such acts could be construed positively instead
of negatively. He cared about his clients, strove for what
was best for them within the dreadful parameters of his
office, and was no longer ashamed to admit it.

He knew he had been installed in this office for reasons
not relating to merit. But he had conquered his limitations
and knew that he would perform with reasonable merit
henceforth.

"Death came with friendly care..." he repeated as he
set his watch for the next client. He liked the thought.




On A Pale Horse            305

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Every novel is an adventure, for the author as well as the
reader, but some are more so than others. The last ex-
tended Author's Note I did was for my science fiction
novel Viscous Circle; those readers who encountered that
and didn't like it should avoid this one, because it is more
of the same. I believe that a work of fiction should stand
pretty much by itself and not require any external expla-
nation; certainly On a Pale Horse can survive without
this one.

Coincidentally—if one believes in coincidence—my
Author's Copies of Viscous Circle arrived as I was typing
this Author's Note. I glanced at that prior Note and re-
alized it signaled the change in my outlook that has re-
sulted, among other things, in On a Pale Horse. I had
suffered an illness in 1980 that disrupted my schedule,
put me in the hospital, and forcibly reminded me of my
own mortality. In consequence, I planned to shift my
efforts from the kind of science fiction I had been doing
to fantasy, horror. World War II fiction, and maybe some
general mainstream writing, exploring and broadening my
parameters while it was convenient to do so. That is, while
I still had my health and vigor and imagination. I wanted
to discover where I could achieve more meaning in writ-
ing.

So how did that effort work out? Well, I did try—but
the first thing I discovered was that publishers were not

304

interested in nonfantastic-genre Anthony efforts. They
showed the same disinterest that they had shown in my
early science-fantasy writing—and it took me eight years
to break into print. It seems it may take me a similar
period to break into another genre. I have kept plugging
away, meanwhile filling in with light fantasy, because that
is easy and fun and the readers like it and it makes a lot
of money; if I have to wait those extra years for publishers
to appreciate my merit, I might as well wait in comfort.
Thus I completed almost half a million words of fantasy
in 1981, and that seems to be expanding my reputation in
that subgenre. I will continue trying the other genres, for
I remain an ornery cuss, and I think in time I will break
through and prove that all those uninterested editors were
wrong, just as I did before. I have, as may be apparent,
not much respect for editors as a class.

But impediments, whether editorial or otherwise, can
lead to rewarding innovation. As I wrestled with the prob-
lem of putting meaningful writing into print, I discovered
that it was possible for me to do much of the social com-
mentary I had in mind—within the SF/fantasy genre itself.
Instead of stepping outside the genre to protest such things
as world hunger and nuclear folly, I realized I could stretch
the genre boundaries to cover the territory. Since I al-
ready have markets and readers for my fantastic-genre
writing, the editors can't stop me. This facilitates my am-
bition enormously. On a Pale Horse, for example, is on
one level a fun-fantasy with a unique main character, and
I hope most readers enjoy it on that level. Fiction should
always entertain! But on another level it is a satiric look
at contemporary society, with some savagely pointed crit-
icism. It is also a serious exploration of man's relation to
death. Man is the one creature on Earth who knows he
will die, and that is an appalling intellectual burden.

I need to clarify how I do my writing, as I am not quite
like other writers, professionally or personally. Of course,
no writer is quite like any other; each thinks himself unique
in some typical fashion. I live in the backwoods of central
Florida and have a twelve by twenty-four foot study in
our horse pasture. Yes, I am surrounded by horse manure!
I now have electricity there—for three years I did not—




306 On A Pule Horse

so I can type at night if I want to, but have no heating.
In summer I use a fan to cool me, for we do hit 100° F
often enough, and in winter I bundle up with voluminous
clothing as if for a hike through a snowstorm. Our area
seldom gets below freezing in the daytime, but even 40°
to 50° becomes bone-chilling when one is sitting at a type-
writer for hours at a time. Even with sweater, jacket,
scarf, and heavy cap, I slowly congeal, because I must
expose my hands to type. Back when I typed two-finger,
it was possible to do it with gloves on, but now I touch
type and must bare my flesh.

So I avoid winter typing when possible, arranging my
schedule to write the first draft in pencil on my clipboard
at the house, where we have a fine wood stove that puts
out so much heat that my darling daughters complain.
Between literary thoughts, I feed more chunks of my hard-
sawed-and-split wood to the monster, maintaining my
primitive comfort.

Don't get me wrong; I live here because I love the
wilderness and the rustic independence of it, and I distrust
complex machines. The wood stove is not only cheap to
operate, it's fun. It also heats all our water in winter, via
a copper coil in the stovepipe. (In summer the solar sys-
tem does the job.) Then when the land warms, in spring,
I hie me back to my study to type the second draft, and
then the submission draft. Each novel is done three times,
ironing out the bugs. But the four months of inclement
weather are too long for a single novel; I need only two
months for the first draft, and sometimes less, depending
on the nature of the project. So I try to schedule two
novels in pencil in the winter, then type both later.

The winter of 1981-82, my two novels were one fantasy
and one science fiction, each the initial volume of what
I hoped would be an ambitious, hard-hitting, social-
commentary, five-novel series. The science fiction series
was Bio of a Space Tyrant, superficially a space opera, cov-
ertly a serious political commentary, to be published else-
where . The fantasy series was Incarnations of Immortality,
that title given with a nod of appreciation toward William
Wordsworth's Ode: Intimations of Immortality From

On A Pale Horse            307

Recollections of Early Childhood. This present novel, with
Death as its protagonist, is the first of that series.

I understand some writers just start writing and watch
almost with surprise what develops; I plan considerably
farther ahead. I know how a novel will end before I begin
to write it—and before I write it, these days, I sell it. I
realize that sounds backward, but it's true. I make a sum-
mary, and my New York literary agent shows it around,
and if a publisher offers a contract for it, then I go ahead
and write the novel. I have any number of summaries that
no editor wanted, so those novels have never been writ-
ten. Sometimes I really want to write one, but have to let
it go. You might say that some of my best novels of the
past have never been written. In the early days of my
career I wrote my novels first and marketed them second,
and naturally the editors gleefully bounced them. At one
point I had built up a backlog of eight complete unsold
novels. That's not the best way for a writer to make a
living. When I caught on and changed my system to es-
cape that bind, my income tripled, and then began a sharper
rise—because suddenly I was selling everything I wrote.
Rather, I was writing everything I sold.

As it happens, both these series, Bio and Incarnations,
relate strongly to death, a subject with which I am mor-
bidly fascinated. I wish I were not; this constant aware-
ness of death makes it impossible for me to go blithely
about my life in simple contentment. This has been so
since my closest cousin died, when I was a teenager. He
is represented in this novel as Tad: the one who had
everything to live for, while I did not. It seemed to me
that Death had somehow taken the wrong one of us. Now
I am highly aware that my time on Earth is limited,
and I do not believe in any afterlife. It follows that any-
thing I want to do, I must do in this session, as it were.
Perhaps this explains in part the determination with which
I write novels, including this one. It is my way of saying
whatever I have to say while I have the opportunity,
hoping others will profit thereby.

I think few writers have tried, as I have here, to present
Death in a sympathetic manner. Therefore it was chancy
to market On a Pale Horse, for many publishers seem to

308 On A Pale Horse 309

be uninterested in innovation. If Death could not make it
into print, how could there be any hope for the following
notions that were percolating through my mind? For the
rest of this series, as it finally shaped up, concerned other
unusual protagonists: Time, Bearing an Hourglass; Fate,
With a Tangled Skein; War, Wielding a Red Sword; and
Nature, Being a Green Mother. All of it started with Death,
and Death-in-print was not nearly so certain as death in
the real world. This concept was obviously fantastic, cor-
responding to the established scheme of the Afterlife only
very loosely; perhaps it would offend some readers. I, as
an omery writer, don't much care if I offend a reader or
two, but publishers have hypersensitive nerves about
popular reaction, and very little courage of conviction.
My more challenging notions have had trouble with pub-
lishers before. Those of you who think of me as a light-
entertainment writer have not seen that portion of my
writing that never made it into print.

So I played it safe. I sent a private, informal query to
my fantasy editor, Lester del Rey of Del Rey Books,
describing my notion and asking whether he might be
interested in seeing a more formal presentation at a later
date. A writer can do this when he knows an editor well
enough. I have a track record at Del Rey; they know what
my writing is like, so can tell from even a brief description
whether a particular project of mine would be to their
taste. If Mr. del Rey didn't like the notion, or did not care
to gamble his company's money on it, he would tell me
privately, and that would spare the two of us and my
agent the embarrassment and inconvenience of a formal
rejection.

Now let me switch to another subject, in the tantalizing
manner of the storyteller I am. I have gotten interested
in colored stones of the precious variety. Most people
know of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires, and
I have acquired samples of these. No, I didn't spend ten
thousand dollars for a one-carat diamond two years ago
and watch its value shrink in half. Lack of money served
in lieu of wisdom, there. Instead, I bought rough diamonds
from a wholesale dealer at ten dollars a carat. They look
like gravel; they don't sparkle prettily from cut facets.

But they are diamonds, so I can lay claim to owning
diamonds. I shopped similarly for bargains in other stones.
There are many pretty ones, comparatively inexpensive,
ranging from a hundred dollars or more per carat down
to eight cents a carat for faceted smoky quartz in quantity.
Know something? In a dim light, you could have trouble
distinguishing quartz from diamond, and quartz will scratch
window glass.

There are also topaz, aquamarine, garnet, tourmaline,
zircon, amethyst, scapolite, andalusite, and others, each
with its own special qualities. It is possible to develop an
interesting collection of such gems for a tiny fraction of
the price of the smallest cut diamond, and that collection
may be a more secure investment than that diamond.
Certainly this has been the case recently; the value of
most colored stones has risen, in some cases dramatically,
while diamonds have declined.

But there are pitfalls. People who aren't expert in gem-
stones can get rapidly fleeced, unless they have a reliable
source of supply. I had such a source in the large, whole-
sale House of Onyx, but was lured by an ad in the local
newspaper for a huge star sapphire on sale privately. I
went to see it, and it was an ugly stone—maybe it would
be kinder to say the stone had character—with a fantastic
floating star. It had come from North Carolina, where
some sapphire mining is done. In sunlight, that star seemed
to sit an eighth of an inch above the surface of the stone,
and it shifted about on its rays like a spider as the stone
moved, almost like magic. I'm a sucker for magic, con-
sidering that I don't believe in it, so I bought the stone.

Then, of course, I wondered whether I had been smart.
I had paid over ten dollars a carat for the sapphire, which
was a lot of money for a stone that size—one hundred-
fourteen carats. Good sapphire is worth a lot more—but
was this one a bargain? Was it even true sapphire? Now
that it was too late, I had to know. So I phoned Fred
Rowe, owner of the House of Onyx—you can do that if
you know him well enough—and he very nicely agreed
to appraise the stone for me. He is not in the business of
appraising other people's stones, of course; he did it as
a private favor, much as Lester del Rey did me the favor




On A Pale Horse

310

of appraising my novel notion privately. I dare say there
are two busier men in the world, but I really could not
name any offhand. Sometimes the busiest are also the
most generous.

On September 8, 1981,1 received two important items
in the mail—one from Mr. Rowe, the other from Mr. del
Rey. Mr. Rowe was returning my stone with his appraisal:

it was corundum (sapphire and ruby are both corundum),
but of a cheap grade imported from India for fifty cents
a carat and sold to gullible tourists in places like North
Carolina as local stones for five to ten dollars per carat.
He himself had sold a number of five-thousand-carat par-
cels of this type of stone to clients in North Carolina at
the fifty-cent price. In short, this was ajunkstone. I had
been bilked. Not, I believe, by the person who sold it to
me; he honestly believed in the value of the stone, and
I'm sure many other people with similar belief have sim-
ilar stones. But for what it's worth, I recommend that
people be wary of bargains in gems from North Carolina.

Mr. del Rey's letter was more positive. Yes, he liked
the notion of On a Pale Horse. No, I did not need to
submit a formal presentation through my agent at a later
date. He was prepared to offer my agent a contract on it
now. He did not name a figure, but I knew from experi-
ence that this novel would earn me at least ten times what
I had lost on the sapphire.

That was some mail! Fate had neatly juxtaposed these
events. Mr. Rowe and Mr, del Rey had, figuratively, met
in my mailbox. (Mr. Rowe, meet Mr. del Rey; Lester,
meet Fred. So nice to have you both here. Now let's get
out of this hot mailbox!) Who was I to argue with Fate?
Thus it was that my unfortunate star sapphire became a
part of this novel. The two just seemed fated to merge.

There was more to it than that. I am omery in various
ways, and one of them is that I don't like to make mis-
takes, but mistakes stalk me like sendings from Hell. So
I try to turn every experience, good or bad, to my profit,
whether monetary or intellectual. I had blundered in buy-
ing the stone, but if I used that experience in the novel,
that might redeem it somewhat. In fact, by this device I
could make this stone unique. It might not be worth much

On A Pale Horse            311

as a junk-grade star sapphire, but as the stone that suck-
ered Piers Anthony—um, let's rephrase that. As the stone
that launched a new man into the dread office of Death,
it—well, it just might eventually be worth what I paid for
it. Thus, perhaps, it could no longer be considered a blun-
der. Of course, this mundane stone lacks the literal magic
of the one in the novel, and I dare say any potential
purchaser would in due course catch on to that. But I
don't want to sell it anyway. I merely want to erase a
mistake. Just think: If this ploy is successful, no one will
ever know about my blunder in buying that stone...

I also put my watch into the novel, as the Deathwatch.
I bought it about the same time. Mine is identical to the
fictive watch, except that mine times forward, not back-
ward, and it lacks much of the magic power. I have had
a long history of trying watches, from simple ten-dollar
windups to sophisticated solar chronographs, and all had
one thing in common: they ceased working after a year
or so. The folk who set a one-year limit on the warranty
know what they're doing. Thus I finally blew three hundred
and twenty-five dollars on this Heuer heavy-duty me-
chanical timepiece, watertight and self-winding and un-
pretty. It weighs a full quarter pound, and if it conks out
after one year, I will be most distressed. Time will tell.

I said at the outset that each novel is an adventure.
This one has been more than I bargained on. My first
drafts are more than fiction; they are running records of
my ongoing life. Problems, interruptions, and stray
thoughts (I'm always thinking) are included in the text,
set off by brackets [like this]. I don't know of any other
writer who works this way—but then I don't know of any
other writer who never suffers the dread malady known
as writer's block, though it is barely possible some exist.
I never block, because my text incorporates the blockages
and converts them to text. When I complete the pencil
draft, I review it and index my bracket notes, since they
may contain the summaries of several additional novels
that occurred to me along the way. A good notion for a
novel is far too precious to waste; it must be caught the
moment it flashes into mental view, or it will escape to
the brain of some other writer who really doesn't deserve

312

On A Pale Horse

On A Pale Horse

313

it. For example. On a Pale Horse was worked out in
brackets in the text of the prior fantasy novel. Night Mare.
My creative notions don't have to wait their turn; they
are always welcome.

This novel concerns death, as most readers will have
grasped by this time. I don't believe in the supernatural,
yet I experience eerie coincidences. The worst of these
are yet to come in this Note. When I started part-time
work on this novel (because I was then typing Night
Mare—I work on a kind of assembly line in summer,
working on different novels in pencil and typing stages
simultaneously) in September, two supposedly unrelated
things developed.

One was a series of excellent three-mile runs. I have
adult-onset diabetes, a mild case, and I treat this by stay-
ing away from free sugar and by exercising vigorously,
including my thrice-weekly cross-country runs. When I
do well, I break twenty-two minutes for the distance, then
jog and walk another half mile, warming down, so as not
to stress my system unduly by abrupt changes. Well, in
September I was finishing a decent but not great run when
the weekly garbage truck came up behind me in the last
half mile. That truck cuts through the forest to reach
another section of our wilderness, and our paths happened
to coincide here. So I speeded up to get out of its way,
without stopping my run. It's amazing what a stimulus it
is to have a truckful of garbage pursue you up a hill!
Suddenly I was running a record finish, and because of
this, it became one of those rare sub-twenty-two-minute
runs, by just two seconds. Well, good enough; and next
time I kept a slightly faster pace and broke twenty-two
again. And a third time I did it a little faster yet. Unex-
pectedly, I had a string going. I had never put together
more than three of these in a row before; could I do it on
this Garbage series? Yes! I did the fourth, fifth, and sixth,
and finally, with great effort on a drizzly day, the tenth.
What a series! Now I could relax. But the series contin-
ued, until it carried me through the entire month of Oc-
tober, despite problems of scheduling the runs. I was
amazed and gratified.

The other thing was negative. My wife's father had

been suffering some low-grade malady during the sum-
mer, but now it got serious.

[Interruption at this point to go pick up a horse's balky
foot for my daughter. We check and clean out the feet
before riding, to be sure there is no stone or stick wedged
that could cause lameness, but the horse doesn't always
cooperate. I have more power than my daughter has; that
foot came up for me. Had this interruption occurred ear-
lier, I would have thought to have my protagonist check
the feet of his gallant Deathsteed. Now, in the Author's
Note, it is too late. Well, I'll catch it in another novel.
This has been a sample bracket note, a live performance.]

My wife's father had to be hospitalized, put on dialysis
for kidney failure, and have abdominal surgery. He was
still bleeding internally, so they set him up for corrective
surgery—but were not sure he could survive another op-
eration so soon. The chances seemed to be fifty-fifty; if
the bleeding didn't kill him, the surgery might. His wife,
my wife's mother, was distraught. Naturally my wife went
down to Tampa to help out, so she was away from our
home about half the month of October. That was why I
had a scheduling problem for my runs, because I don't
like to do them when there is no one to backstop me at
home. There are hunters out there in the forest who don't
necessarily see straight enough to tell man from deer, and
there are rattlesnakes and such, and rampaging garbage
trucks; and, of course, I'm laboring so hard that I could
trip over an unseen root and take a fall and pull a muscle
and be in trouble, and I want someone to call the am-
bulance if necessary. (I believe I mentioned my morbid
streak.) But we managed; my two daughters, then aged
fourteen and eleven, helped run the household and feed
the animals when they (the girls) weren't in school. Penny,
the elder [whom we just met in a bracket], cooked supper,
while I washed the dishes. And my father-in-law tided
through.

Things eased up in November and December, as I
worked full-time on the first draft of this novel—and my
series of twenty-two minute runs continued. My father-
in-law made it home for Thanksgiving, though ravaged by
what had turned out to be Wegener's Syndrome, a rare




314

On A Pale Horse

On A Pale Horse

315

and normally fatal malady before modem medicine
changed the odds. We live, in some respects, in fortunate
times.

I finished my first draft of Pale and shifted to the first
volume of Bio for a couple of months. My good runs
continued—forty, fifty, sixty in the series. In fact, they
speeded up to a subseries of21:30-minute efforts, and then
to a sub-subseries of sub-twenty-one-minute runs. I was
breaking the seven-minute mile! To my amazement, I
managed to put together ten of these superfast-for-me
runs in a row, before the rising heat of a Florida spring
put an end to that in March. But I was still on my twenty-
two minute series: seventy runs, eighty... when would it
end?

My mother-in-law, perhaps worn out by the terrible
siege of her husband's illness, got sick herself and went
to the hospital. But it was more than that. She had cancer
of the pancreas. We didn't know much about this disease
and thought she would have six months or a year to live.
But after only six weeks, as I was typing the second draft
of Pale in late March, she died.

This is a novel of death, as I have said. The serious
illness and sudden death, occurring while I was immersed
in fictional death—this disturbed me deeply. I had a brutal
refresher course in what death feels like to the survivors.

There was nothing to do but go on—with novel, with
running, with life. But there was now a deeper quality of
gloom about it. Death is not funny. It may be the normal
end of life, but I still don't like it. No, not at all!

My run series hung on, despite my depressed spirits
and outdoor temperatures in the mid-80s. I made runs
number eighty-one, eighty-two, eighty-three... maybe I
could actually make it all the way to one hundred! I reject
all superstition vehemently, yet I found myself counting
those runs as if they were years of my life. It seemed I
had now been promised at least eighty-three years; how
many more? Nonsense, of course; still...

As April 1982 came, I was near the end of my second-
draft typing and saw that the novel was going to be short:

about eighty thousand words instead of the ninety thou-
sand or so expected. There is normally a ten or fifteen

percent expansion in the submission draft, because of
polishing, blank space at the end of chapters, and the
addition of notes that have been crammed into the margins
of second-draft material. I needed enough second-draft
wordage so that that expansion would put the final draft
comfortably in the hundred-thousand word range I had
contracted for. Normally I run overlength and have to
tighten up a bit, but this time my bracket notes had taken
up more space, throwing off my estimate.

Writers pay a lot of attention to wordage, because some
publishers seem to care more about length than about
quality and will automatically reject novels that don't fit
their narrow standards of length—or will chop out extra
wordage to make a novel fit. Not so long before, I had
had to chop out twenty thousand words from my novel
Mute, damaging it; I share the average writer's aversion
to such mutilation, especially since it makes the finished
product seem choppy or disorganized when it wasn't that
way originally, and can damage his reputation for intel-
ligibility and thus perhaps harm his career. Editor Lester
del Rey has never done that to me, and so my fantasy
has prospered—but I don't push my luck.

In this case, there was material I had wanted to include,
but had bypassed because of the difficulty of organizing
a novel with a high emotional commitment. Fortunately,
the notes were right there in my brackets. Some key cases
of death—I could break Chapter 6 into two parts and fit
these scenes in the first part, and this would bring the
number of chapters to thirteen—exactly right for a novel
about death. So while I typed the second draft, I resumed
work on the first draft, doing those scenes. Oh, yes, writ-
ers do work this way; the smooth, finished product you
readers see is likely to be the result of considerable and
scrambled effort.

Good news came in on the early sales of my science/
fantasy novel Blue Adept, lightening my mood; the pa-
perback edition had jumped to number three on the B.
Dalton Bookseller list, and to number five on the Wal-
denbooks list. This is rarefied territory for light fantasy,
and the best performance of any of my novels so far. It
meant Blue was a mainstream bestseller, though it didn't




316 On A Pale Horse OnA Pale Horse 317

quite make The New York Times list. A writer lives for
such news!

The phone company sent a man out for no reason we
could see, and he switched the iines, so all our calls came
to our neighbor and vice versa. My New York agent tried
to phone me three times about ongoing negotiations on
the sale ofBio of a Space Tyrant, my biggest contract so
far, and each time wound up talking to the neighbor's
boy. Par for the course. Satan only knows what kind of
contract I might have wound up with, had I not caught
on and hastily phoned my agent back. Maybe Satan sent
the phone man out! Of such minor elements is a writer's
life fashioned.

I did my eighty-fourth sub-twenty-two-minute run on
Monday. Ha—I would live to age eighty-four! On Tues-
day, April 6, at 1 P.M., I did my alternate-day exercise,
the Japanese push-ups. I can't describe them; they are
done in martial arts classes for warm-up, and they are
more complicated than regular push-ups. They have put
new sheaths of muscle on my arms and chest, so that I
no longer look quite as thin as I am. Over the years I had
built up to seventy-five push-ups within a five-minute span;

I time them on my Deathwatch. Without the time limit,
I have done one hundred—but those final ones become
hellishly uncomfortable, so I eased back. Why do I do
push-ups? Well, running is good for every part of the body
except the arms, so I do pull-ups and push-ups to shore
up that weakness.

When I was less than half my present age, as a draftee
in the U.S. Army in 1957,1 was poor at regular push-ups.
When I was unable to do ten in one session, the corporal
told me to go back to the barracks and find a man to
replace me. Only in the Army is manhood defined by
push-ups, which is part of what's wrong with that insti-
tution; nevertheless, that corporal would not so address
me today.

I hate push-ups, but I like the body they give me, so
I grind my teeth and do them. On this day I felt indifferent,
physically; to my surprise, the push-ups were exceedingly
strong. In fact, I broke my speed record, doing my
seventy-five in four minutes and seven seconds on the

stopwatch. Terrific! I unkinked my digits—these push-
ups are done on the tips of ten fingers, which is part of
why they get uncomfortable—and settled down for lunch.
Then the mail came, and I was reading it at 2 P.M. when
I felt a pain in my left side. Indigestion? Well, that would
pass.

It didn't pass. It got worse. I struggled with it for an
hour, finding no relief vertically or horizontally, and
retched into the sink a couple of times before I asked my
wife to call for help. Soon she drove me in to see the
doctor. Yes, it was the same doctor who had wrestled
with my Cat-Scratch Disease two years before, as noted
in my prior Author's Note. By this time I had the cold
sweats and my limbs were jerking, sometimes violently.
The ride was interminable; every half hour or so I re-
checked my watch and discovered it had only moved
along five minutes. "You know," I gasped, "I fear death,
but if I knew the rest of my life would be like this, I would
welcome death!" I meant it. Pain provides a special per-
spective, and that perspective is reflected in the novel.

People tried not to stare at me in the doctor's waiting
room as I sat there, hunched over to my left, panting
violently; that was the only way I could keep the pain
bearable. My hair was wild, and I was in T-shirt, shorts,
and sandals, with dirty feet, the way I normally am when
writing at home. I didn't have a regular appointment, of
course, but the doctor arranged to see me soon, and I
don't think any other patients objected. I was wheeled
into an office. I was beginning to feel faint, and motion
only made things worse. Everything made things worse!
But in due course we had an opinion. There was a trace
of blood in my urine, and the symptoms indicated a colic
of the kidney, probably caused by a kidney stone.

I wound up in the hospital with a shot of Demerol,
which I understand is synthetic morphine: a powerful
painkiller. It didn't kill this pain, but it zonked out much
of my brain, and that helped. My wife tells me I was
saying strange things, such as something about a fly on
the window and steps on a cabinet; I remember none of
it. If I had been able to write, I probably would have made
bracket notes, and today would know exactly what was




318

On A Pale Horse

OH A Pale Horse

319

on my mind then. A fly? Do you suppose the Lord of
Flies could have—? I do remember waking up long enough
to inquire, "Am I making sense?" And my wife, in the
manner of good wives with difficult husbands like me,
assured me that I was. I faded in and out; the pain did
not depart, but at least I was unconscious some of the
time. Six hours after it began, the agony began to ease,
and in another hour it was gone. I can't honestly say it
was the worst pain I have suffered, though our book of
medical symptoms says that kidney stones can indeed be
among the worst agonies to afflict man. I think it hurts
more when I stub a toe hard. But the toe hurts only a
minute; this was six hours. The remorseless continuation
of pain is, candidly, something else. I suspect even a mild
pain could become unbearable if continued long enough;

I think that's part of the secret of the Chinese water tor-
ture.

Next day they gave me a complex X-ray series, a pye-
logram, with dye in my blood to show the course of the
various conduits. Yes, my left ureter—that's the tube be-
tween the kidney and the bladder—was distended, as if
blocked by a kidney stone. Probably my exceptionally
vigorous push-ups had dislodged the stone and sent it on
its painful way. It had taken an hour to encounter a con-
striction, and then—wow! Nothing much; it was really
only a grain, like a piece of sand, and with luck it would
clear on its own. Meanwhile, the urine was getting by, so
I was okay. All I had to do was strain my urine through
a meshed funnel, to catch the stone when it came out so
they could analyze it.

I was glad to cooperate. If this was a little stone, I
didn't want to encounter a big one! But they had hooked
me up to an IV bottle—I suspect this is standard hospital
policy to make sure the patient doesn't walk out without
paying the bill—and the needle was taped to my left arm.
To go to the bathroom, I had to trundle the bottle-stand
along with me. To forget would be a bloody mess as the
needle ripped out of my vein. I understand it happens to
absent-minded patients. And they had me in one of those
hospital gowns—you know, the type that falls open at any
pretext to bare your posterior. Everybody in the hospital

wants to get at your posterior! Have you ever tried to,
as they phrase it, void through a funnel into a plastic
container, with a tube connected to your arm that tends
to drape itself between you and what you're doing? And
the hospital nightie falling off your front? Naturally they
are worn backward, and no one had tied the apron strings
on mine. If I lifted my arm too high, trying to get things
out of my way, the blood backed into the IV tubing,
making another mess. I discovered that by the time I got
everything ready to go—Nature had changed her mind. I
think it is called "bashful kidney."

There were other little niceties of hospital life. One
night I had a headache. I asked the nurse for a pill—but
she informed me the only medication listed on my chart
was Demerol. Synthetic morphine for a headache? This
was like shooting a sparrow with a cannon! So I had to
struggle along with the headache until the doctor came to
apply some common sense. I had the usual hassle with
the food, too. I am a vegetarian and diabetic, so I stay
off all meat products and sugars, and I don't drink coffee
or tea. Naturally my lunch consisted of coffee with two
packs of sugar, gelatin (which is made of protein from the
bones of cows, mixed with sugar), sickly sweet fruit, and
a piece of cake with horrendously thick sugar icing. For-
tunately, there was also corn, beans, and mashed potato,
so I didn't starve; and my wife visited and fetched me
some water—naturally my pitcher hadn't been filled—so
I survived. Not that I really needed to eat, with the IV
dripping sugar water into my vein.

When I finished, I wanted to go to the bathroom, but
discovered that the bedside table unit that overhung the
bed would actually tip over rather than swing out of the
way. I think if more doctors got sick and had to wrestle
with these little matters, some improvements would be
made. I explained gently about the food to a nurse, and
that brought the dietician, who remembered me from two
years before, and we finally got the matter of no-meat,
no-sugar, no-coffee straight—just about the time I was to
be released from the hospital.

Then there was the Candy-Striper. These are teenaged
girls who bring fresh water and juice and such to patients,




320 On A Pale Horse 321

thereby gaining experience in the operation of a hospital.
They wear cute pink-and-white-striped uniforms with
sweet little matching caps. This one showed up about 4
P.M. my second day. She had golden hair flowing to her
bottom. She not only filled my water pitcher, she brought
in her family and they sat around my room and ate pizza
and chatted. Then she made me brush out her hair and
braid it, so she could go on duty in decent order. She
seemed to take such attention for granted.

Oh—perhaps I neglected to mention that this particular
Candy-Striper was Penny Jacob—my mundane daughter.
Penny-Candy-Striper, Heaven-Cent. This time she had
me right where she wanted me. I understand some fathers
don't pay enough attention to their children; obviously
they don't have children like mine.

The consulting urologist prescribed a gallon of urine a
day. Uh, no, not to drink; I merely had to imbibe enough
fluid to generate a full gallon of void each day. Have you
any idea how much drinking that entails? The purpose is
to dilute the urine so that no additional stones would form.
It seems that kidney stones are the province of middle-
aged men and that I live in a kidney-stone region; there
is much calcium in our water (though they aren't sure
that's the cause) and the local heat causes body dehy-
dration, concentrating the urine, so that stones form. So
I must, for the rest of my life, be constantly drinking water
and passing it through. I can no longer sleep the night in
one haul; I have to get up once or twice to you-know.
But if that's what it takes to keep the stones away, so
must it be.

The first night home, I got up at 2:30 A.M., did my
business with the funnel and container—and then could
not get back to sleep. I didn't want to turn on the light
to read, lest that disturb my wife, who had had problems
enough, with her father so ill recently, then losing her
mother, then having to deal with my illness. Problems had
been striking like explosive shells around us, and that gets
wearing. So I dressed and went off to my study in the
pasture to type some more on Pale Horse, which novel
had been interrupted by my hospitalization. Naturally our
horses thought it was feeding time, and Blue knocked on

my door—with her hoof. I went out and explained that it
was 3 A.M. and that feeding time wasn't for three hours
yet, but she resumed banging the moment I went back
inside. I was afraid she would break down the door, so
finally I went out with the broom and swatted her on the
rear. That moved her off—but when dawn broke, she
would not speak to me, and I felt like a heel. Such is life-
after-kidney-stone.

I had not let the time in the hospital go to waste. I
continued reading books, including Dream Makers, edited
by Charles Platt, which tells what other genre writers are
like. They are all oddballs, almost as strange as I am! I
will be in the companion volume, however, so I'd better
not criticize. I also had my clipboard along. Remember,
I was reworking Chapter 6 and adding scenes. So while
I was there I wrote the scene about the atheist—whose
attitude is basically mine, with the fundamental difference
that I do believe in doing good in this life and try very
hard to benefit the universe,'whether by being kind to a
wild animal or by writing a novel like this one. And yes,
I also wrote the scene about the old woman in the hospital.
I could hardly have had a better environment for that one.
But if the hospital staff had caught on, I might have had
trouble getting out of there. As it turned out, there was
one nurse who was a fan of mine, but she did not realize
who I was—remember, I use a pseudonym—until too late
to catch me. However, my daughter the Candy-Striper
arranged to have that nurse visit me at home a month
later, so all was not lost.

I settled back into my routine. My run series was bro-
ken at eighty-four, and I was awash in fluid, but life went
on. The neighbors (the ones with the contract-negotiating
boy) had to take off suddenly because a parent had a
serious complication of the pancreas; we had learned the
hard way about that sort of thing and knew it was terminal.
Death is ever with us. While they were away, their prize
mare, Navahjo, went into labor, and there wasn't any-
body around who knew what to do. She was having trou-
ble; the foal was hung up with one foot protruding for the
better part of an hour, and we feared a stillbirth. But
another neighbor came, took hold and pulled, and got it




322 On APale Horse

out: live birth of a colt. What a relief! The little horse
was healthy and soon was frisking about; I suggested
mischievously that they name him Colt 45, or maybe Colt
46. Thus, with our neighbors, life was originating even as
it was ending. This, too, is as Nature decrees.

My funnel caught no stone in a month, so I had a
follow-up pyelogram. I had to drink a magic potion con-
cocted from senna fruit to clear my bowel. It was awful
stuff, as these brews are, but I gulped it down. It had no
effect. Then about eight hours later, in the middle of the
night—FWOOM! Mount St. Helens!

I had been through the pyelogram procedure before,
but this time the details differed. They put me in a hospital
gown with three armholes; I wondered whether triple-
armed alien creatures patronized these facilities. They
injected the dye into my arm—and suddenly I felt sick
and dizzy and generally spaced out, and then sneezed
several times. They said it was normal, though none of
this had happened the last time. In between the spaced
X-ray shots, I lay on my back and read a science fiction
novel I planned to review; no sense letting blank time go
to waste.

We took the pictures directly to the urologist. There
was no sign of the kidney stone; apparently it had cleared
at the outset, and we hadn't caught it. Too bad; it would
have helped to know what kind it had been. But this latest
X-ray showed a spot inside the bladder. Oh-oh—could
that be a tumor? The doctor decided he'd better have a
direct look. So we made an appointment for a cystoscopy,
four days later.

It was a nervous wait. With everything else that had
been happening during this novel, it could be just my luck
to discover—but maybe it was nothing. Old scar tissue,
maybe. I know my readers like stories with definite con-
clusions, so I held up my typing of the last of this Note
for two days to await the dread verdict.

That cystoscopy was sort of scary to approach. There
I sat in the doctor's office, a yard-square paper napkin
draped around my quivering naked loins, eying the torture
instruments laid out for the procedure: a black box with
an electric connection, an IV bottle with transparent fluid,

On A Pale Horse            323

sinister gray tubes, and two immense nine-inch-long mon-
ster metal needles. Ouch! They gave me a good five min-
utes to examine that array before the doctor arrived. I
know psychological torture when I experience it!

The doctor squirted an anesthetic solution up the con-
duit; it felt like voiding backward. Then he inserted the
larger-diameter needle, sliding it up the urethra to the
bladder. Unfortunately, that particular channel has a nat-
ural curve in it. What do you do when you have a straight
instrument and a curved channel? F found out! You
straighten the channel. WRENCH! and my curve was
straight. No, it didn't really hurt, but it was uncomfort-
able, physically and psychologically.

Then the doctor slid the lesser needle into the larger
one, sending in a mirror and a light bulb or whatever so
he could see through the tube and look about inside. The
IV bottle filled the bladder with clear fluid; I dare say that
improved internal visibility. I could picture that light
flashing around all the crevices, spying out excrescences,
kidney stones, pebbles and boulders, and whatever other
garbage there might be in there. Finally he closed up shop
and drew out the instruments, letting my anatomy try to
recover its curvature.

The verdict? Nothing. There was nothing in there. I
was clean. No kidney stone, no tumor, no garbage. Ap-
parently the X-ray blob had been false. Another sending
of Satan. A thumbprint, my daughter suggested. I'll settle
for that.

Oh, yes—I was a little sore following the cystoscopy
and voided a few drops of blood. But nothing bad, and it
was worth it. My kidney-stone incident was over.

This, then, is the story of the manner in which my
consciousness of death has been heightened, in and out
of this novel. Has it been worth it? I hope so. It seems
to me that all living species need to survive, so nature
provides them with instincts of pain and self-preservation
that compel them to live. They also need to die, to make
way for progress; otherwise the world would still be full
of dinosaurs. (There's a new theory about those dino-
saurs: at certain temperatures, some reptiles produce off-
spring that are all male or all female. Suppose the climate




324 On A Pale Horse On A Pale Horse 325

changed enough to throw aH the big reptiles into one sex?)
But circumstance takes care of termination, so it isn't
necessary that creatures like dying. When something is
truly voluntary, such as procreation. Nature makes sure
it is pleasurable—for the male. Cynically, she does not
require pleasure for the female; that is optional. With
many species, rape seems to be impossible; not so for
ours. Nature really is a green mother.

So we are left hating and fearing our inevitable death,
though objectively we know this is pointless. Possibly, as
my protagonist suggests, if we had a better appreciation
of the larger picture, of the place death plays in life, we
would suffer less. This novel is an attempt to encourage
such understanding. If I succeed in this one thing, my
own life may have justified itself.

So now I try to appreciate the mixed splendor that life
is while it is mine. I watch my daughter with her horse
and can not imagine a prettier sight. I also watch Blue
galloping at dusk by herself, mane and tail flaring, playing
Nightmare. I say hello to the wild gray bunny that comes
out at dusk to feed on the grain spilled by the horses;

sometimes I can get within six feet. I call it Nicky (ie),
because of a nick in his/her left ear. I see the rare pileated
woodpecker working on our deadwood; that's the largest
woodpecker in our nation, and that species will be pre-
served as long as we have deadwood. I see the wild deer,
and the big box turtles, and hope for a glimpse of an
armadillo. I see the myriad spider webs, fogged by mom-
ing dew. The flowering cactus, like lovely yellow roses.
And the confounded red-bellied woodpecker that sneaks
into our coop to peck neat holes in the eggs; now we have
to race the little critter to the eggs.

There are other pleasures. I watch the sales figures for
my novels, doing better and better. I like competing, how-
ever briefly, with the mainstream blockbusters for space
on the bestseller lists. I've been answering fan mail at a
rate as high as one per day; it does take time, and I am
excruciatingly jealous of my time, but I do value these
contacts with those who are moved by my work. I know
that, all things considered, my life is a happy one, and it
is better that I dwell on that than on the prospect of

eventual death. Is this a sufficient philosophy for exis-
tence? I don't know. I feel a certain guilt because I am
unable to solve all the problems of the world, but I hope
that I am doing my little bit to alleviate one of them.

I think my most significant personal revelation is that
life changes hour by hour and minute by minute, like the
constant flowing of a river. I am not quite the same person
today that I was yesterday; small aspects of me have
changed, physically and mentally. I will change a little
more by tomorrow, and a great deal more in the course
of future years. To try to hang on to one particular section
of life, such as the one I am experiencing at this moment,
is foolish; it can't be done, and if it could be done, it
would not be worthwhile. Change is much of the essence
of life. Death is the final change. We can not hold on even
to a day; how, then, can we capture life itself? Perhaps
our whole awareness of individuality, of self, is an illu-
sion. If so, it is better not to grasp unduly at that illusion,
but rather to live our lives in such a manner that when
we must at last lay them down, we will not be ashamed.
Life has meaning only if we live for meaning.

Piers Anthony Dillingham Jacob
May 17, 1982




ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Piers Anthony was bom in August, 1934, in England, and
became an American citizen while serving in the U.S. Army
in 1958. He lives with his wife, Carol, and their daughters
Penny and Cheryl in Florida. He sold his first-story, after
eight years of trying, in 1962; his first novel, Chlhon, was
published in 1967. Through 1983 he has had forty-five
books published, and translations have appeared in seven
languages. Currently he writes three novels a year. In one
year, three of his novels placed on The New York Times
bestseller list. His first Xanth novel, A Spell for Chameleon,
won the August Derleth Fantasy Award as the best novel
for 1977, and the Spokane Public Library gave him the
Golden Pen Award for being their favorite fantasy author
in 1982.