fellow?
Relieved of Williamson’s annoying chatter, Lucifer fell to inspecting the severely modern makeover his labyrinthine headquarters had recently undergone. After centuries of lavishly baroque decor designed to affirm his stature as the earthbound world’s premier power, Lucifer had suffered a spasm of aesthetic discontent and remodeled. The heroic scale remained, but Lucifer’s vast environment was empty now, for empty had become synonymous, in his mind, with clean, and Lucifer craved nothing more than
cleanliness.
Long straight lines, perfect right angles, orderly grids, practical materials in sober, undistracting colors, naked utility uncluttered by frivolous decoration. After centuries of baroque excess, these were the breath of sanitized air that Lucifer had contrived to ease his confinement here. Every floor was carpeted in soil-resistant gray. Even the walls were constructed of acoustically absorbent materials so that his immense nest should remain clean even of unwanted sound.
Concerned for the aesthetic nourishment of his staff and tenants, Lucifer had taken care that this new industrial monotony be tastefully punctuated with priceless examples of
appropriate
artwork. Bad Dadaist painting, Neobrutalist sculpture, Pop art, Op art, and original animation cells from
Beavis
and Butthead
were displayed, not as expressions of Lucifer’s taste but as evidence of mankind’s depravity.
That
was what Lucifer collected most avidly.
Entering the conference room, Lucifer settled unceremoniously into a large gray chair at the near end of a massive, gleaming graphite table. Williamson walked around a large obelisk of polished obsidian to join two more conservatively dressed project recruits already seated at the table’s far end, the dour tension in their faces magnified by a sourceless, color-leaching light from overhead. There was no other kind of light in Hell. Lucifer regarded windows as nothing but inducements to reduced productivity.
He considered the three damned souls awaiting his will and sighed despondently. “Before we waste any time
brain
storming,” he announced dryly, “you’ll want to give your full attention to the following presentation.”
The room fell dark as a large screen appeared from within the wall behind him. It flickered blue-green for a moment, as if illuminated by firelight through twenty feet of seawater. Then a young man in medieval garb appeared on bended knee, his pale face cast down reverently, half-hidden behind locks of shiny raven hair. “My King,” he murmured, “I would serve you with my life. Only name the quest.”
Lucifer’s three servants watched in utter silence as Joby’s entire dream of Arthur and Merlin was replayed. When the screen flickered to darkness, the overhead illumination resumed, and Lucifer turned back to face his functionaries.
“Lest I steal anyone’s
thunder
,” Lucifer drawled sardonically, “I’ll hear
your
ideas before expressing my own modest thoughts.”
The team sat like deer staring into the headlights of an oncoming truck.
“Lesterman,” Lucifer sighed, “let’s begin with you.”
“Certainly, Sir.” Lesterman pulled an attaché case from beneath the table. “Well, Sir,” he said, proffering a thick sheaf of manila folders, “I’ve prepared these personnel rosters, materials requisitions, and logistical outlines for a variety of strike scenarios ranging from the immediate mutilation of his parents at the hands of a serial killer currently stationed in the area to the destruction of his entire town by direct meteor impact in late March. Of course, I’ve researched a number of more prosaic options; the collapse of their home during an earthquake, financial catastrophe, public disgrace, the usual things, but I thought . . .” Lesterman stammered to a halt as Lucifer dropped his face into his hands, and began to shake his head. “Sir? . . . Is something wrong, Sir?”
“Are you deaf and blind, Lesterman,” he asked
Relieved of Williamson’s annoying chatter, Lucifer fell to inspecting the severely modern makeover his labyrinthine headquarters had recently undergone. After centuries of lavishly baroque decor designed to affirm his stature as the earthbound world’s premier power, Lucifer had suffered a spasm of aesthetic discontent and remodeled. The heroic scale remained, but Lucifer’s vast environment was empty now, for empty had become synonymous, in his mind, with clean, and Lucifer craved nothing more than
cleanliness.
Long straight lines, perfect right angles, orderly grids, practical materials in sober, undistracting colors, naked utility uncluttered by frivolous decoration. After centuries of baroque excess, these were the breath of sanitized air that Lucifer had contrived to ease his confinement here. Every floor was carpeted in soil-resistant gray. Even the walls were constructed of acoustically absorbent materials so that his immense nest should remain clean even of unwanted sound.
Concerned for the aesthetic nourishment of his staff and tenants, Lucifer had taken care that this new industrial monotony be tastefully punctuated with priceless examples of
appropriate
artwork. Bad Dadaist painting, Neobrutalist sculpture, Pop art, Op art, and original animation cells from
Beavis
and Butthead
were displayed, not as expressions of Lucifer’s taste but as evidence of mankind’s depravity.
That
was what Lucifer collected most avidly.
Entering the conference room, Lucifer settled unceremoniously into a large gray chair at the near end of a massive, gleaming graphite table. Williamson walked around a large obelisk of polished obsidian to join two more conservatively dressed project recruits already seated at the table’s far end, the dour tension in their faces magnified by a sourceless, color-leaching light from overhead. There was no other kind of light in Hell. Lucifer regarded windows as nothing but inducements to reduced productivity.
He considered the three damned souls awaiting his will and sighed despondently. “Before we waste any time
brain
storming,” he announced dryly, “you’ll want to give your full attention to the following presentation.”
The room fell dark as a large screen appeared from within the wall behind him. It flickered blue-green for a moment, as if illuminated by firelight through twenty feet of seawater. Then a young man in medieval garb appeared on bended knee, his pale face cast down reverently, half-hidden behind locks of shiny raven hair. “My King,” he murmured, “I would serve you with my life. Only name the quest.”
Lucifer’s three servants watched in utter silence as Joby’s entire dream of Arthur and Merlin was replayed. When the screen flickered to darkness, the overhead illumination resumed, and Lucifer turned back to face his functionaries.
“Lest I steal anyone’s
thunder
,” Lucifer drawled sardonically, “I’ll hear
your
ideas before expressing my own modest thoughts.”
The team sat like deer staring into the headlights of an oncoming truck.
“Lesterman,” Lucifer sighed, “let’s begin with you.”
“Certainly, Sir.” Lesterman pulled an attaché case from beneath the table. “Well, Sir,” he said, proffering a thick sheaf of manila folders, “I’ve prepared these personnel rosters, materials requisitions, and logistical outlines for a variety of strike scenarios ranging from the immediate mutilation of his parents at the hands of a serial killer currently stationed in the area to the destruction of his entire town by direct meteor impact in late March. Of course, I’ve researched a number of more prosaic options; the collapse of their home during an earthquake, financial catastrophe, public disgrace, the usual things, but I thought . . .” Lesterman stammered to a halt as Lucifer dropped his face into his hands, and began to shake his head. “Sir? . . . Is something wrong, Sir?”
“Are you deaf and blind, Lesterman,” he asked
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