Television made Miss Enid Twilley's life endurable by providing the romance which life had withheld. So when the picture tube in her old-fashioned set blew out, it was a major crisis. But Ed Jacklin's phone didn't ring. The spare twenty-eight inch tube in Jacklin's T.V. shop remained undisturbed on the shelf. And the drawn shades of Miss Twilley's living room gave no hint of what was happening behind them. The town of Ellenburg went its suburban way unaware of the crisis in its residential district.

Which was probably just as well.

Frozen with terror, Miss Twilley sat in spastic rigidity, her horrified eyes riveted on the thing in front of her. One moment she had been suffering emphatic pangs of unrequited love with a bosomy T.V. blonde, the next she was staring into a rectangular hole of Cimmerian blackness that writhed, twisted and disgorged a shape that made her tongue cleave to the roof of her mouth and her throat constrict against the scream that fought for release.

It wasn't a large shape but it was enormously impressive despite the lime green shorts and cloak that partially covered it. It was obviously reptilian. The red skin with its faint reticulated pattern of ancestral scales, the horns, the lidless eyes, the tapering flexible tail, the sinuous grace and Mephistophelean face were enough to identify it beyond doubt.

Her television set had disgorged the devil!

Silence draped the room in smothering folds as Miss Twilley's frozen eyeballs were caught and held for a moment by the devil's limpid green eyes whose depths swirled for an instant with uncontrolled surprise. The devil looked around the room, at the closed drapes, the dim lights, the shabby furniture and the plate of cookies and the teapot on the tray beside Miss Twilley's chair. He shook his head.

"No pentacle, no candles or incense, no altar, no sacrifice. Not even a crystal ball," he murmured in an impeccable Savile Row accent. "My dear young woman—just how in Eblis' name did you do it? There isn't a single sixth order focus in this room."

"Do what?" Miss Twilley managed to croak.

"Construct a gateway," the devil said impatiently. "A bridge between your world and mine."

"I didn't," Miss Twilley said. "You came crawling out of the picture tube of my T.V. set—or what was the picture tube," she amended as her eyes strayed to the rectangle of darkness.

The devil turned and eyed the T.V. curiously, giving Miss Twilley an excellent view of his tail which protruded through a slit in his cloak. She eyed it with apprehension and distaste.

"Ah—I see," the devil murmured, "a third order electronic communicator transformed to a sixth order generator by an accidental short circuit. Most interesting. The statistical chances of this happening are about 1.75 to the 25th power, give or take a couple of hundred thousand. You are an extremely fortunate human."

"That's not what I would call it," Miss Twilley said.

The devil smiled, an act that made him look oddly like Krishna Menon. "You are disturbed," he said, "but you really needn't keep projecting such raw fear. I have no intention of harming you. Quite the contrary in fact."

Miss Twilley wasn't reassured. Devils with British accents were probably untrustworthy. "Why don't you go back to hell where you came from?" she asked pettishly.

"I wish," the devil said with a shade of annoyance in his beautifully modulated voice, "that you would stop using those terminal 'l's', I'm a Devi, not a devil—and my homeworld is Hel, not hell. One 'l', not two. I'm a species, not a spirit."

"It makes no difference," Miss Twilley said. "Either way you're disconcerting, particularly when you come slithering out of my T.V. set."

"It might give your television industry a bad name," the Devi agreed. "But there are many of your race who claim the device is an invention of mine."

"I don't enjoy being frightened," Miss Twilley said coldly. She was rapidly recovering her normal self-possession. "And I would have felt much better if you had stayed where you belonged and minded your own business," she finished.

"But my dear young lady," the Devi protested. "I never dreamed that I would frighten you, and besides you are my business." He smiled gently at the suddenly re-frozen Miss Twilley.

I must be dreaming, Miss Twilley thought wildly. This has to be a nightmare. After all, this is the Twentieth Century and there are no such things as devils.

"Of course there aren't," the Devi said.

"I only hope I wake up before I go stark raving mad!" Miss Twilley murmured. "Now he's answering before I say anything."

"You're not asleep," he said unreassuringly. "I merely read your mind." He grimaced distastefully. "And what a mass of fears, inhibitions, repressions, conventions and attitudes it is! Ugh! It's a good thing for your race that minds like yours are not in the majority. It would be disastrous. Or do you realize you're teetering on the verge of paranoia. You are badly in need of adjustment."

"I'm not! You're lying! You're the Father of Lies!" she snapped.

"And liars (he made it sound like "lawyers") so I'm told. Nevertheless I'm telling you the truth. I don't care to be confused with some anthropomorphic figment of your superstitious imagination. I'm as real as you are. I have a name—Lyf—just as yours is Enid Twilley. I'm the mardak of Gnoth, an important entity in my enclave. And I have no intention of seizing you and carrying you off to Hel. The Council would take an extremely dim view of such an action. Passing a human permanently across the hyperspatial gap that separates our worlds is a crime—unless consent in writing is obtained prior to such passage."

"Unless we have consent in writing, passing a human permanently across the hyperspatial gap that separates our worlds is a crime."

"I'll bet!"

"Are you calling me a liar?" Lyf asked softly.

"That's the general idea."

"There's a limit to human insolence," Lyf said icily. "No wonder some of my colleagues occasionally incinerate members of your race."

Miss Twilley choked back the crudity that fluttered on her lips.

"That's better," Lyf said approvingly. "You really should practice self control. It's good for you. And you shouldn't make assumptions based upon incomplete data. Your books that deal with my race are notoriously one-sided. I came through that gateway because you needed my help. And yet you'd chase me off without really knowing whether you want my services or not."

"I don't want any part of you," Miss Twilley said sincerely. "I don't need a thing you can give me. I'm healthy, fairly well-off and"—she was about to say "happy" but changed it quickly to "satisfied with things as they are." It wasn't quite a lie.

Lyf looked at her critically. "Permit me to disagree," he said smoothly. "But you are wrong on every count. You are neither satisfied, wealthy nor happy. Frankly, Miss Twilley, you could use a great deal of help. In fact, you need it desperately."

"I am thirty-eight years old," Miss Twilley said. "That's old enough to recognize a high pressure sales pitch. And you needn't be so insulting about my appearance. After all, I don't have my makeup on."

Lyf flinched. "I almost hate to do this," he murmured. "But you have doubted my honesty. Perhaps it is compensation to hide a feeling of inferiority. Primitive egos are notorious for such acts. But the truth is probably less harmful than permitting you to lie to yourself."

Miss Twilley jumped angrily to her feet. "How dare you call me a liar!" she snapped. She towered over the Devi, her tall bony body a knobby statue of wrath.

Lyf's eyes locked with hers. "Sit down," he said coldly.

And to her surprised consternation, she did. A physical force seemed to flow from him and force her back into the chair. She sat rigidly, seething with a mixture of fear and indignation as Lyf picked up his discourse where he had dropped it.

"You are not satisfied," he said quietly "because you are undernourished, ungainly, and ugly. You would like to be attractive. You wish to be admired. You long to be loved. Yet you are not."

"That's enough!" Miss Twilley snapped. "Neither man nor Devi has the right to insult me in my own house."

"I am not insulting you," Lyf said patiently. "I am telling you the truth. Now as for this business of being well-off, which I infer, means moderately wealthy—you are not. There was a small inheritance from your father, but through mismanagement and inept investments it is today less than fifteen thousand dollars, although it was fifty thousand when you received it a few years ago."

"You are the devil!" she gasped.

"I told you I could read your mind. I'm a telepath."

"I don't believe you. You found out somehow."

"You're not thinking," he said. "How could I? Now, as for your health, you will be dead in six months without my help. You have adenocarcinoma of the pancreas which has already begun to metastasize. You cannot possibly survive with the present state of medicine your race possesses. Of course, your doctors do have ingenious ways of alleviating the pain," he added comfortingly, "like chordotomy and neurectomy."

Miss Twilley didn't recognize the last two words, but they sounded unpleasant. She had been worried about her health, but to hear this quiet-voiced death sentence paralyzed her with a cold crawling terror. "It's not true!" she gasped. Yet she knew it was.

"I could make a fortune as a diagnostician for your sham—your doctors," Lyf said. "It's as true as the fact that I'm a Devi from Hel. Actually, my dear Miss Twilley, I had no intention of coming here even though your gateway appeared in my library. But I was intrigued enough to scan through it. And when I saw you at the other end, frightened, diseased, and friendless, I could not help feeling pity for you. You needed my help badly." He sighed. "Empathy is a Devi's weak point. Naturally I couldn't refuse your appeal." He shrugged. "At least I have offered to help, and my conscience is clear if you refuse." He wrapped his cloak around him with a movement of his lithe body that was symbolic. The case had been stated. His part was done.

"I have nothing more to say," Lyf added. "If you do not wish me to stay I shall leave." He turned toward the T.V. set. "After I have vanished," he said over his shoulder "you may turn the set off. The gateway will disappear." He shrugged. "Next time I'll look for a sabbat or some other normal focal point before I enter a gateway. This has been thoroughly unsatisfying."

"Wait!" Miss Twilley gasped.

He paused. "Have you changed your mind?"

"Maybe."

"For a human female, that's quite a concession," he said, "but I'm a Devi. I need a more devinate—er—definite answer."

"Would you give me twenty-four hours?" Miss Twilley said.

"So you can check my diagnosis?"

She nodded.

Lyf shrugged. "Why not. If your T.V. holds out that long, I'll give you that much time. Longer if necessary. You can't really be blamed for being a product of your culture—and your culture has rejected the Snake. It would be easier if you were a Taoist or a Yezidee."

"But I'm not," Miss Twilley said miserably. "And I can't help thinking of you as the Enemy."

"We Devi get blamed for a lot of things," Lyf admitted, "and taken collectively there's some truth in them. We gave you basic knowledge of a number of things such as medicine, writing, law, and the scientific method. But we can't be blamed for the uses to which you have put them."

"Are you sure I have cancer?" she interrupted.

"Of the pancreas," he said.

"And you can cure it?"

"Easily. Anyone with a knowledge of fifth order techniques can manipulate cellular structures. There's very little I can't do, and with proper equipment about the only thing that can't be defeated is death. You've heard, I suppose, of tumors that have disappeared spontaneously." Miss Twilley nodded.

"Most of them are Devian work. Desperate humans sometimes use good sense, find a medium and generate a sixth order focus. And occasionally one of us will hear and come."

"And the others?"

"I don't know," Lyf said. "I could guess that some of you can crudely manipulate fifth order forces, but that would only be a guess." He spread his hands in a gesture of incomprehension incongruously Gallic. "I don't know why I'm taking all this trouble with you, but I will make a concession to your conditioning. See your doctors. And then, if you want my help, call through the gateway. I'll probably hear you, but if I don't, keep calling."

The darkness where the picture tube had been writhed and swirled as he dove into it and vanished.

"Whew!" Miss Twilley said shakily. "That was an experience!"

She walked unsteadily toward the T.V. set. "I'd better turn this off just in case he gets an idea of coming back. Trust a devil! Hardly!" Her hand touched the switch and hesitated. "But perhaps he was telling the truth," she murmured doubtfully. "Maybe I'd better leave it on." She smiled wryly. "Anyway—it's insurance."

"Miss Twilley," the doctor said slowly, "can you take a shock?"

"I've done it before. What's the matter? Don't tell me that I have an adenocarcinoma of the pancreas that'll kill me in six months."

The doctor eyed her with startled surprise. "We haven't pinpointed the primary site, but the tests are positive. You do have an adenocarcinoma, and it has involved so many organs that we cannot operate. You have about six months left to live."

"My God!" Miss Twilley gasped. "He was telling the truth!"

"Who was telling—" the doctor began. But he was talking to empty air. Miss Twilley had run from the office. The doctor sighed and shrugged. Probably he shouldn't have told her. One never can tell how these things will work out. She had the diagnosis right and she looked like a pretty hard customer. But she certainly didn't act like one.

Panting with fear, Enid Twilley unlocked the door of her house and dashed into the living room. Thank G—, thank goodness! she thought with relief. The set was still working. The black tunnel was still there.

"Help!" she screamed. "Lyf! Please! come back!"

The blackness writhed and the Devi appeared. He was wearing an orange and purple striped outfit this time. Miss Twilley shuddered.

"Well?" Lyf asked.

"You were right," she said faintly. "The doctor says it's cancer. Will you cure me?"

"For a price," Lyf said.

"But you said—"

"I said nothing except that I felt sorry for you and that I could cure you. Even your own doctors charge a fee."

"There had to be a catch in it," Miss Twilley said bitterly.

"It will be a fair price. It won't be excessive."

"My soul?" Miss Twilley whispered.

"Your soul? Ha! Just what would I do with your soul? It would be no use to me—assuming that you have one. No—I don't want your soul."

"Then what do you want?"

"Your body."

"So that's it!" Miss Twilley blushed a bright scarlet.

"Hmm—with that color you're not bad looking." Lyf said.

"Would you want my body right away?"

"Of course not. That wouldn't be a fair contract. You should have use of it for a reasonable time on your homeworld. Say about ten years. After that it becomes mine."

"How long?"

"For the rest of your life."

"That doesn't seem quite fair. I'm thirty-eight now. Ten years from now I'll be forty-eight. I'll live perhaps to eighty. That gives you over thirty years."

"It gives you them, too," Lyf said.

"But your world is alien."

"Not entirely. There are quite a few humans on Hel. You'd have plenty of company."

"I can imagine," she said drily.

Lyf flinched. "I've told you I do not like those anthropomorphic references to my race."

"So you say. But I don't trust you even though you've told me the truth about my body. I won't sell my soul."

"I'll put a disclaimer in writing if that will satisfy you," Lyf said wearily. "I'm tired of haggling."

"But will you obey it."

"With us Devi, a contract is sacred. Even your mythology tells you that much."

She nodded. "Of course, I'd want a few more things than health," she said. "I'd want to enjoy these ten years on earth."

"That is understandable. I'll consider any reasonable request."

"Beauty?"

"As you humans understand it. Sarcoplasty isn't too difficult."

"Wealth?"

"That's more difficult. And more expensive. But I could perhaps give you a one month chronograph survey. In that time you could probably arrange to become rich enough to be independent. But I can't guarantee unlimited funds. And besides you're not worth it."

Miss Twilley bridled briefly and then nodded. "That's fair enough I suppose. And there's one more thing. I want to be happy."

"I can do nothing about that. You make or lose your own happiness. I can provide you such tangible things as a healthy body, beauty and money, but what you do with them is entirely your own affair. No man or Devi can guarantee happiness." He paused and looked thoughtfully at a point above Miss Twilley's head. "I could, perhaps, provide you with a talent such as singing or manual dexterity—and even make sufficient adjustments in your inhibitions so you could employ your skill. But that is all. Not even I can play Eblis."

Miss Twilley's eyes glittered. If he could only do what he said it would be worth any payment he demanded. She had never been pretty. As a child she had been bony, ungainly, awkward and ugly. As an adult she had only lost the awkwardness. Boys had never liked her. Men avoided her. And she wanted desperately to be admired. And, of course, she was about to die. That alone would be reason enough. She was appalled at the thought of dying. At thirty-eight she was too young. Perhaps thirty or forty years from now the prospect wouldn't be so terrifying, but not now—not when she hadn't lived at all. Life had suddenly become very precious, and its immediate extinction appalled her. She wasn't, she reflected wryly, the stuff from which heroes or martyrs were made, and ten years were a lot more than six months. As far as repayment was concerned it was a long way off, and Hel was probably not much worse than Ellenburg.

"In my opinion Hel's infinitely better," Lyf interjected.

"You're prejudiced," Miss Twilley said absently,—"now if she had a figure like—hmm—say one of those movie actresses, and a face like—hmmm—and money to go with them—hmm—it just might be worth the price. Of course, it might not. It could be something like a salt mine—or—"

"It's nothing at all like a salt mine," Lyf said. "The hours are reasonable and there's plenty of free time outdoors if you want it. The food isn't the Cafe Ritz, but it's nourishing, and the life is healthful. After all we Devi aren't savages."

"I wonder," she said thoughtfully—"now if I could—hmm—say a gold lamé sheath dress—ah!—and perhaps in a bikini—"

"Women!" Lyf sighed and gave up. Why should he bother about listing the disadvantage. She hadn't been listening to the advantages.

"What are you stopping for?" Miss Twilley demanded. "I'm listening."

"There are a few other things such as free medical care, splendid recreation facilities, and conducted tours of Hel."

"And the disadvantages?"

"Very few. There's no pay, of course, and you will be required to devote a certain amount of time to my service. On the whole, employment on Hel isn't much different than here except that it's a bit more enlightened."

"Like slavery?" Miss Twilley smiled unpleasantly. "You're not dealing with a fool."

"The concept of freedom is a relative thing," Lyf said. "And who among us, either Devi or human, is truly free. And what is the essential difference between being a slave to society and a slave to an individual? We Devi don't have such a high regard for physical liberty—"

"Obviously."

"But as long as you do your work, there's no interference with your outside activities. You can think and read as you please. We supply our help with a very complete library—and keep it up to date."

"Is that so?"

Lyf paled to a dull pink. "I wish you'd stop mentally dredging those old lies about fire and brimstone. They're embarrassing. It's been quite a few thousand years since a Devi has derived any satisfaction from sadism. We've removed that particular trait from our race. You won't be overworked or cruelly treated. And you won't be beaten or subjected to physical torture. Since I have no knowledge of what you might consider mental torture, I couldn't say whether there would be any or not. I think not, since no other human has complained of being mentally misused, but I can't tell."

"Why can't you? You can read my mind."

"Only your thoughts, not your emotions or attitudes."

Miss Twilley shrugged. "It sounds fair enough, but twenty or thirty years for ten is a high price."

"You fail to consider the costs involved. Your physical rehabilitation will be expensive and your financial even more so. I'll have to employ the Time Study Enclave to predict a financial plan for you, and chronography isn't cheap."

"Why can't you just give me the money?"

Lyf shrugged. "I don't have it—and I couldn't supply you with gold. It would be suspicious and we try to avoid attracting attention to our clients or ourselves. Humans have some rather messy ways of abrogating a fellow human's contract. So you acquire your wealth within the framework of your society—through the stock market in your case."

"Oh—I see."

"Your money is enough to start you off. I'll show you how to make it multiply."

"And if I cheat you?" Miss Twilley asked.

"You won't, I'm not utterly naive. There is a security clause in the contract which must be fulfilled."

"And what is that?"

"I put my mark on you. That makes you a permanent sixth order focus I can contact at any time."

"That gives you quite an advantage."

"Have you ever read any contracts on your own world? I'm not asking for a thing more than your grantors do. In fact, not as much. Read a mortgage sometime if you don't believe me." Lyf eyed her with mild reproof. "Think," he said. "When—even in your perverted mythology—has one of my race failed to live up to his end of an agreement? Who has done the cheating? Who attempts to break contracts? Your whole history is filled with specious promises, broken words, and outright falsehood. Just why do you think we had to make contracts in the first place? Because you humans cheated at every opportunity. And you still do. That's why we must have guarantees. We go to all the expense, take all the risk and then run the added risk of being double crossed. That's too much."

"But our souls are beyond price."

"I've already told you that I care nothing for your soul. It's useless to me." He frowned. "We have had to fight that canard for centuries. We Devi are practical folk, not starry-eyed idealists. We deal in real property, not in intangibles. Now stop quibbling and make up your mind. You've heard the concessions. After all, there is a limit to altruism. Now if you don't want to deal, say so and I'll leave. It will be no skin off my tail if you don't accept." Lyf half turned toward the T.V. set.

"I haven't said I wouldn't," Miss Twilley said.

"Nor have you said you would. Now speak up. My time's valuable."

"Oh—very well," Miss Twilley said sulkily. "I accept."

Lyf smiled, reached under his cloak and produced a long sheet of paper covered with writing. "You're a hard bargainer, Miss Twilley," he said. "You extracted every condition you could possibly get on a deal of this kind. My congratulations. This is a personal contract I had drawn up. It's in English so you can understand it. All you do is sign both copies. In transactions like this no witnesses are necessary."

"You don't mind if I read it first?" Miss Twilley said. "Not that I don't trust you—but this is business."

"Not at all," Lyf said "and please note the escape clause which allows you a peremptory withdraw if you are not satisfied with the basic services."

Miss Twilley eyed the paper, skipping over the legal jargon, but carefully reading the specific provisions. It was deceptively simple and completely binding. But it didn't vary from Lyf's proposals. She would have ten years of health, wealth and beauty, in return for which she would surrender her body to Lyf, mardak of Gnoth, to employ as he saw fit—within certain limits provided by the exceptions. She sighed. It was fair enough, she supposed. There were a few exceptions like the suicide clause that allowed Lyf to take immediate possession if she tried to kill herself, and the war clause which permitted him to remove her to a safe place for the duration of the conflict. She shrugged. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with it except the tone. Somehow it managed to convey the impression of a property rather than a personal transaction.

"It's always best to keep these things impersonal," the Devi said. "You sign on the bottom line underneath my cartouche."

Miss Twilley signed.

"And now," Lyf said briskly "there are a few formalities. Not that I don't trust you, of course, but business is business. Will you please disrobe?"

"Must I?"

Lyf nodded. "You must. I realize that this is embarrassing for you, but it would be infinitely more embarrassing if I placed my mark upon you while you were clothed."

Miss Twilley shivered a little as she reached for the zipper of her skirt. But she had expected something like this.

Lyf looked at her critically. "You're worse than I thought," he said. "However, your skeleton seems structurally sound and well proportioned. Now please turn around."

Miss Twilley had hardly turned her back when a lance of numbing cold struck her in the base of the spine. She jumped involuntarily as Lyf's voice came to her ears.

"There—that does it." He walked past her and turned off the T.V. The black hole winked out, leaving a shattered picture tube where it had been. "Now that you're a sixth order focal point we can dispense with this monstrosity," he said. "The automatics on Hel will generate a new gateway shortly."

"Now what?" Miss Twilley asked. She wasn't sure that she liked the idea of being a sixth order focus.

"The mark leaves a small red lesion," Lyf said, "but it won't bother you. However, I should warn you not to attempt to have it removed. That could be quite painful and perhaps fatal." He moved in front of her. "I expect that we'd better start therapy right away. That tumor isn't going to be easy to remove." His eyes were level with her own, twin pools of clear bottomless green with the darker spots of his pupils sharply demarcated from the surrounding iris. With mild surprise she realized that they were oval rather than round, and that their ellipses were growing—and encompassing her in their inner darkness.

Lyf eyed her solicitously from a chair next to her bed. There was a faint proprietory glint in his eyes but his voice was as soft as ever. "It's all done Enid," he said. "How do you like it?"

Miss Twilley didn't like the use of her first name. It sounded entirely too familiar, but she supposed that there was little she could do about it. After all he did have certain rights, even though their full exercise was some years hence. She stirred sleepily. She was in her own bedroom and the bed that she had slept in these past eighteen years was familiar and comforting. Except for the Devi sitting beside her everything was normal down to the last fold of the flannel nightgown that covered her.

She felt oddly alive, and somehow different. There was a fullness to her body and a heaviness to her chest. She looked down and gasped with surprise and pleasure at the jutting rise of the nightgown. She had changed!

"That was the biggest part of the specifications," Lyf said with the faintest hint of amusement in his voice. "Your mental patterns were extraordinarily precise about some things. About others I had to use my own judgment. I hope the overall effect meets with your approval."

Miss Twilley felt as excited as an adolescent on her first date. She slipped out of bed and padded on bare feet over to the vanity in the corner. Eagerly she eyed herself in the big mirror. Even in the nightgown she looked good. Her face was still her own but it had been subtly changed, the features smoothed and rearranged. Her pale blue eyes were now a smoky gray, and her plain mouse-brown hair had reddish glints in it and was much thicker than before. It was a very satisfactory face, smooth and beautiful, and years younger. Why—she looked barely twenty five!

With a quick movement she bent, grasped the hem of her gown, and pulled it over her head.

And gasped!

She had never dreamed of looking like this, even in her wildest flights of fancy!

"Like it?" Lyf asked from his seat in the corner.

"Like it!" she chortled. "I adore it! How on Earth did you do it? You've not only made me beautiful, you've made me young!"

"I didn't do it on Earth," Lyf admitted. "I took you to Hel where there's some decent equipment. It wasn't much," he added vaguely, "merely the application of some rather simple cellular biology—mostly a rearrangement of DNA molecules and a bit of sarcoplasty. Actually it wasn't too difficult. The removal of your tumor was much harder. You'll find that two weeks have gone from your life, but they've been well spent."

"I should say they have!" Miss Twilley said as she pirouetted slowly before the glass. Her brows knit in a tiny frown as she saw her only blemish, a bright red spot at the base of her spine.

"The mark can't be helped," Lyf said, "but it doesn't detract at all. And it won't show even in a bikini."

"Forty, twenty-four, thirty-six." Miss Twilley breathed. "Lyf—I could kiss you!"

"I'd rather you wouldn't," Lyf said. "There is, after all, a certain species incompatibility between yours and mine. Incidentally, you have perfect health. You'll never know a sick day for the rest of your life which should be quite long. And I gave you a fine singing voice, and a mental attitude that will let you use it."

"Thank you," Miss Twilley murmured as she stared at her reflection.

"I've left instructions for your financial operations on your dresser. Follow them and you'll be financially independent. I think that does it. Everything is satisfactory, I trust."

"Completely," Miss Twilley breathed, never removing her eyes from the mirror.

"Then I shall be leaving."

Miss Twilley drew in a deep breath and observed the results with utter fascination. "Don't you think I'm beautiful?" she asked.

Lyf smiled. "Different worlds, different standards," he said. "Beautiful isn't quite the word I would use."

"What word would you use?"

"Useful," Lyf said.

"Useful? Hmm. What do you mean?"

"It should be obvious," Lyf said. "But I suppose it isn't. You humans are a strange lot. You assume. You don't reason. And it always shocks you to find that your assumptions are wrong."

Miss Twilley looked at him with wide eyes. A cold chill ran down her spine and poked tingling rootlets of ice into her viscera. "What have I assumed?"

"Do I have to answer that?"

Miss Twilley blushed. The effect was far more startling this time.

Lyf smiled with an air that would have been infuriating in a human but was somehow appropriate for a Devi. Miss Twilley sighed. At least that worry was removed.

"Perhaps I should give you a short synopsis of Devian society," Lyf said. "It's not like yours. Millennia ago our culture and technology evolved to the point where individual needs could be satisfied effortlessly. As a result we were compelled to consider group desires. Modern society on Hel is composed of enclaves with a community of interest plus certain ancillary groups that support them. The task of satisfying the desires of an enclave is infinitely more complex than satisfying an individual, which gives our civilization the necessary stimulus to progress.

"One of the reasons we deal with your world is to provide us with things impractical to produce upon our own. Another reason is amusement. If only you humans were not so savage we could perhaps arrange tours of Earth to observe you in your native haunts."

"Is that why—" Miss Twilley began.

He shook his head. "No—the importation of humans for ethnological studies has long since become a matter of interest only to highly specialized enclaves. That subject has been exhausted for popular satisfaction. We have tried to import other species, but they do not thrive on Hel, and it takes a great deal of trouble merely to keep them alive. However, your race adapts so readily that even your cultural variations disappear in a few decades.

"It was this early importation and your ability to survive that has placed your race in such demand. It is unfortunate, perhaps, that your species cannot reproduce on our world, but the inhibitors we use to regulate our numbers also affect yours. Naturally, we can't risk a population explosion merely to reproduce your race. So we obtain more of you when necessary."

"Why?"

"Consider for a moment what might be valuable in a civilization that has no basic needs."

"Luxuries?"

"Precisely. As an ancillary system operator, I supply a luxury item to my fellow citizens. One that cannot be readily produced by our techniques. I said I was a mardak, but you never asked what it meant. You assumed it was a title. It is, but it's professional, not social. There are no classes on Hel, merely occupations."

"All right," Miss Twilley said reluctantly, "What is a mardak?"

"The closest analogy in your society," Lyf said, "is a dairyman."

THE END