Michael Swanwick's Periodic Table of Science Fiction

Neon

20.183

House Rules

I met the Devil in Las Vegas. He lives there full-time now. He says the

light is good for his skin. We walked down the Strip at midnight, the

neon reflected in his wraparound shades, and as we walked, I saw how his

people adored him. Hookers seized his hand and kissed it fervently.

Croupiers genuflected as he passed.

"They called Elvis the King," I remarked. "But really, the title belongs

to you."

"Oh, pshaw!" the Devil said, pleased. "What a sycophantic little toady

you are! You must be hoping to sell me your soul."

"Well ?"

"I gave up on that. Got out of the direct sales end of the business

entirely. Too much quibbling about clauses and legalisms. I was spending

all my time with lawyers! That's no way to live."

"You don't collect souls anymore?"

"I didn't say that. Here, let me show how it's done now."

We went into a casino thronged with people playing the slots. Now and

again, bells would ring and a player would scoop up coins and feed them

back into the machine, emotionless as a robot.

"The machines are rigged to return a fixed percentage of the take." The

Devil gestured toward the roulette wheel. "There are thirty-eight

numbers, including the zero and double-zero. If you win, we pay off

thirty-six to one. In the long run, the house always wins. It's like a

tax on people who don't understand mathematics."

"Sometimes people hit the jackpot, though."

"Yes, and they're always welcome back. We'll send a private jet for them,

if that's what it takes. They invariably end up broke and in hock to the

IRS within the year."

"This is legal?"

"Oh, yes. Let me show you." He led me to the poker tables. I couldn't

help noticing how grim and joyless all the players looked. "Poker is one

of those rare games where, if you keep track of what cards have been

played and maintain a cool head, the odds favor a skilled player."

He placed his hand on a card-player's shoulder. "Excuse me, sir. You've

been counting the cards. I'm afraid you'll have to leave."

The man looked up belligerently. "Yeah, so what? I ?"

The Devil's eyes glowed red. "Don't make me call the police."

The man left quickly.

"And that's all there is to it?" I asked, as we left the casino.

"That's all. Our clientele leave in despair?a sin in itself?and in order

to get back into the game, they'll commit any atrocity imaginable. The

odds always favor the house."

"And then you take their souls to Hell."

"Oh, not any more. We've modernized." The Devil indicated one of the neon

signs. "Look inside the tube. See? Those are souls in torment. What a

marvelous, jittery light they give off. It makes you subliminally

nervous, and that in turn makes you more likely to gamble."

I don't mind admitting that actually looking at the tormented souls made

me a little nervous myself. Suddenly, this whole thing didn't seem such a

good idea after all. And since the Devil wasn't buying ? I figured I

might as well cut my losses.

"Well," I said uneasily, "I'll be seeing you."

The Devil showed his teeth in a wide smile. "Oh, I'd bet money on it."