The Hades Connection

by Gabriel S. Timar

Chapter 7

The last things George Pike remembered about his life on Earth were the suntanned, streamlined, naked body of Lynn, the report of a gun, the bullet hole in the wood paneling, and his blood on the white carpet next to the black towel.

The next thing he knows, he’s being welcomed to the Third Dimension, where he has a choice not only of afterlifes but of accommodations and a new body, as well. George signs up with Hades, Ltd., a corporation that seems to be the best of a dubious lot.

George very much enjoys being welcomed by Arabella, who is not only highly efficient but something of a race car driver. And yet she has asked one question he cannot answer: how he died. Neither he nor anyone else seems to know. Now George must meet the head of Hades, Ltd., a certain Mr. Lucifer... and prepare himself for a career as a double agent in interstellar intrigue.

All the way to my apartment I was thinking about the morality of my mission. It was rather distressing. Actually, I was a soul damned by choice en route to Earth to persuade the leaders to do certain things just to make sure that more souls could damn themselves. In terrestrial terms, according to Father Golding I was a paragon of evil, the arch-devil himself. But was I really evil? I could not make up my mind.

The events of my last confession crept up on me. I told Father Golding what I have done to poor little Mary Doolie and what she has done to me.

“Son,” my confessor thundered, “your chances of going to heaven are absolutely zilch unless you mend your ways. Say one hundred Hail Marys as your penance. By the way, I must steer Miss Doolie back onto the straight and narrow. What did you say her phone number was?”

I still owe him the hundred Hail Marys. I had no doubt what he would say if he knew where I was and what I was planning to do to my native planet. He would faint.

I got to Elizabeth Towers, parked my car, got into the elevator, went to the twenty-eighth floor, fitted my key to the lock, and walked straight into the room.

“Hi, George,” came a silky feminine voice from the direction of the kitchen.

I spun around, finding myself facing a strange but cute little blonde standing in the kitchen door. She wore a black bath towel, nothing else. I was stunned.

“I am your fairy godmother, Georgie,” she continued. “I have a proposition for you.”

She certainly did not waste any time with preliminaries. Although I was shocked, I recovered quickly, deciding to play the big tough macho man, the type I despise so much. I told her: “Cute little girls like you can make propositions anytime, provided the proposition end up there.” I pointed to the bed.

“If that’s the price of your attention, Georgie,” she said, “you’re on. What will it be? Talk first or go to bed?”

“Pleasure before business,” I said. “Talk.”

She appeared surprised but very calmly sat down on the edge of my bed. I flopped into the armchair. “Go on honey, talk.”

“All right, George,” she said curling her legs up. “I’ll be brief. It is not in the interest of my employer that you get involved in the Earth-Khomu conflict. He’s willing to pay you twenty thousand souls if you abort the mission.”

“Doll,” I replied, “it’s very nice of your employer to come up with an offer like that, but I’m new here, and I’ve no idea how much twenty thousand souls are worth.”

She was ready with a prompt reply: “Quite a bit. An apartment like this may rent for one thousand per year. The minimum salary of an executive could reach about three thousand per year. Now, what do you say?”

I just stood up, stepped to the closet, took out my tennis outfit, and laid it on the chair. I gave her a long look.

“Well, business next, honey,” I said and started to undress.

“Will you consider my offer?” she asked.

“I’ll let you know in a minute,” I replied removing my last garment. The apparent excited state of my body put her motor reflexes into high gear. “Come on, Georgie,” she said huskily dropping the towel. “Come on, I want you.”

“I don’t want you,” I snapped. “I’ve always despised whores, especially stupid ones. You are about as excited as the freezing compartment of my refrigerator. Whom are you trying to kid? You are not really a seductress, and you don’t know how to go about bribing people. Now, pick up that damned towel and tell me who you are and what you really want.”

I turned away and started putting on my tennis outfit, but I kept a close watch on her in the mirror. She pulled up her towel and stared at the ceiling. When I finished dressing, I turned around.

“Well,” I started, “have you decided who you are and what you want?”

“My name is of no consequence,” she said with as much dignity as a woman covered by a single black towel could muster. “All I want is that you abandon the mission and collect twenty-five thousand from my employer.”

“Who is your employer?”

“You won’t believe it,” she said. “I don’t know.”

“That is strange,” I admitted. “How did you get here?”

“Again, you will not believe me,” she said. “I don’t know that either.”

“Then tell me what you do know.”

“I know very little,” she said in a sad tone.

“Okay.” I began to feel sorry for her. “The little you know may help a great deal.”

“I’ll tell you only if you promise to collect the twenty-five K for aborting the mission.”

“Doll,” I said in a hardened tone, “your father must have been a railroad engineer; you have a one-track mind. Why don’t you put on your clothes and go home?”

She burst out crying: “Because I don’t have any, and I don’t know where home is. It’s so horrible.”

I cannot resist crying women. I tried to steel myself, but it was no damn good. I was getting weaker. Suddenly the idea hit me. Whoever sent her knew me very well. I immediately realized that her employer must be listening. I hoped it was an audio system only. I looked at her; she was still sobbing.

I stood up, stepped to my night table, picked up the writing pad and wrote out a note saying:

I _____ of _____ object to having my soul removed from my present body.

Date: _____ Signed: _____ Witness: _____

With this paper in my hand, I went to the bed, sat down, and turned her face toward me. She had the most beautiful deep blue eyes full of tears. I put my finger to my lips, and then pointed at the paper. The girl read it, and looked at me with terror in her eyes. I smiled, put my finger to my lips, and pointed first to my ears, then to the ceiling, and back to the paper offering her a pen.

She obviously understood that someone might be listening. She nodded. Without hesitation, she inserted the name Esther Jackson of Montreal and signed it. I witnessed the signature and pocketed the paper.

Again, I put my finger to my lips and squeezed her shoulder against my chest. “That was very nice, honey,” I said. “Now, I must go to play my daily game of tennis. As the pro is waiting, I cannot cancel the match, but I will be back in a few hours. You should cook yourself a meal; there are all kinds of food in the fridge.”

“Are you sure you’ll come back, George?”

“Sure, I’m sure,” I replied. “Do you think anybody in his right mind would walk out on a girl like you holding thirty thou’ or more for me? No, honey, I’ll be back. Just stay put.”

“I will,” she replied. “I’ll see you out.”

She got up, draped herself into the towel, and came to the door. I took her into my arms and kissed her gently; then on my notepad, which I always kept in my pocket, I scrawled a message: “Don’t let anyone in unless he can tell you the brand of the cognac in the liquor cabinet. Someone is listening!”

She nodded. I was out on the door like a bullet.

* * *

I am sure I broke my own speed record to the office. I ran all the way to the elevator and to room B52. Of course, Attila and Nick were there, pounding away at their laptops.

Nick raised his head and remarked: “You’re way too early.”

I flopped down on a chair, produced a bottle of brandy from the armrest, and poured myself a healthy slug.

Attila smiled: “Only one drink is permissible before the training program, no more. Do you understand, George?”

I nodded and swallowed the brandy in one gulp.

“You won’t believe this, fellows,” I said and recounted the Esther Jackson story.

When I produced the note with her signature, Attila became serious. He promptly hit a special button on his keyboard. Immediately an unfamiliar voice filled the room: “This is security, the K2, Melchior speaking. What is the nature of your problem?”

“Attila here.” The Hun sounded like the commander of an army. “There is a serious breach of internal security. I’m ordering a yellow alert.”

“Affirmative,” came the reply. “Yellow security alert now in force. Keep all security channels open. Melchior out.”

“What’s next?” I asked.

“As far as you’re concerned, George,” Nick replied, “nothing. Just write down the name of the cognac in your liquor cabinet, put it in this envelope, seal it, and give it to me. I will give it to the security people. They’ll look after Miss Jackson.”

“I don’t want your goons to touch her,” I snapped. “I’ve great plans for her.”

“Nobody is going to harm your little toy, George,” Attila said, smiling. “We’ll only defuse her. She will be right where you left her, black towel and all that romantic junk. Now, get into the think tank.”

“Just a minute,” I said. “Seriously, Attila: don’t defuse her; leave Miss Jackson alone. Send a couple of security people to watch the building. Make sure she does not leave my apartment. At present she is harmless. I’ll explain my plans for her later.”

“Okay, George,” he said with a heavy sigh. “We’ll leave her alone, as you wish. Apart from a wild roll in the hay, what other plans do you have for her?”

“At this time, Attila, my plans are not firmed up. Later, when I’ve cross-examined her, I’ll give you the details. You can rest assured it will considerably enhance the chances of the mission’s success.”

“I figured as much,” Attila said. “Could you give us a hint?”

“No,” I said firmly. “Now where is that damned think-tank?”

Proceed to Chapter 8...