Asimov's Future History V. 01 by Isaac Asimov

Author:Isaac Asimov [Asimov, Isaac]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Dead^Man March, 2011
Published: 2011-03-02T05:00:00+00:00

I had to call Azazel from the other continuum. It is a complicated matter of runes and pentagrams, fragrant herbs and words of power, which I will not describe to you because it would permanently unhinge your already weak mind, old fellow.

Azazel arrived with his usual thin shriek at seeing me. No matter how often he sees me, my appearance always seems to have some strong influence on him. I believe he covers his eyes to shut out the blaze of my magnificence.

There he was, all two centimeters of him, bright red, of course, with little nubbins of horns and a long spiked tail. What made his appearance different this time was the presence of a blue cord wrapped about the tail in swatches and curlicues so intricate it made me dizzy to contemplate it.

“What is that, O Protector of the Defenseless,” I asked, for he finds pleasure in these meaningless titles.

“That,” said Azazel, with remarkable complacence, “is there because I am about to be honored at a banquet for my contributions to the good of my people. Naturally, I am wearing a zplatchnik.”

“A splatchnik?”

“No. A zplatchnik. The initial sibilant is voiced. No decent male would consent to let himself be honored without wearing a zplatchnik.”

“Aha,” I said, a light of understanding breaking. “It is formal dress.”

“Of course, it is formal dress. What else does it look like?”

Actually, it merely looked like a blue cord, but I felt it would be impolitic to say so.

“It looks perfectly formal,” I said, “and bya peculiar coincidence it is this matter of perfect formality I wish to place before you.”

I told him Winthrop’s story and Azazel spattered a few tiny teardrops, for, on rare occasions, he has a soft heart when someone’s troubles remind him of his own.

“Yes,” he said, “formality can be trying. It is not something I would admit to everyone, but my zplatchnik is most uncomfortable. It invariably obstructs the circulation of my magnificent caudal appendage. But what would you do? A creature without a zplatchnik at formal gatherings is formally rebuked. In actual fact, he is thrown out onto a hard, concrete surface, and he is expected to bounce.”

“But is there anything you can do for Winthrop, O Upholder of the Pitiful?”

“I think so.” Azazel was unexpectedly cheerful. Usually, when I come to him with these little requests of mine, he makes heavy weather of it, decrying its difficulties. This time he said, “Actually, no one on my world, or, I imagine, on your slummish misery of a planet, enjoys formality. It is merely the result of assiduous and sadistic childhood training. One need merely release a spot in what, on my world, is called the Itchko Ganglion of the brain, and, spro-o-o-oing, the individual reverts instantly to the naturallackadaisicality of nature.”

“Could you then spro-o-o-oing Winthrop?”

“Certainly, if you will introduce us so that I may study his mental equipment, such as it must be.”

That was easily done for I simply put Azazel into my shirt pocket on the occasion of my next visit with Winthrop.

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