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Hit the pound sign and then the number of the Arm followed by the room number. Blue Arm is number one, Yellow Arm number two—there’s a list next to the phone. I’m in Blue 1, so just hit #11 to get me. Or hit *100 and go live over the house speakers.”
    Andy yawned, knowing he wouldn’t remember any of that.
    “The only outside line is in the control room,” Race continued, “and for obvious reasons that’s restricted. If you need to get a message to the rest of the world, you have to go through me.”
    Andy looked at the bed and felt his will drain away.
    “Do I get a wake up call?”
    “I believe you’ve already got one in the form of Dr. Jones. I know a thing or two about being macho, but I’m not sure you should witness a feeding just yet, even to impress the cute doctor.”
    “It’s that bad?”
    “I’ve seen action in two wars, son, and it’s that bad.”
    Andy took Race’s outstretched hand and mumbled a thank you, though he wasn’t really sure what he was thankful for. He was three items into his list of necessities when he fell asleep.
    A buzzing woke him up. Andy wasn’t sure where he was, and when he remembered, he couldn’t figure out what the noise meant. It turned out to be his phone, humming like an angry bee.
    He lifted the receiver.
    “Mr. Dennison? This is Dr. Jones.”
    Andy blinked and said good morning. The clock on the dresser said 12:07, so it was technically afternoon, but that didn’t enter into his sleep-addled head.
    “Can you meet me at Orange 12, say in fifteen minutes?”
    “Sure. Orange 12.”
    The doctor hung up. Andy rubbed his eyes and extended the motion into scratching his chin. Stubble. He sat up in bed. Thought about the demon. Felt his heart begin to race.
    Pretend it’s just another translation job,
he told himself.
    A suitcase that he recognized as his own was sitting next to the bathroom door. When he calmed down, he opened the case to find clothing and sundries, packed neater than he’d ever been able to. His electric razor was in a zippered pocket, and he took that and his toothbrush kit into the bathroom with him.
    After a shave and a brush he hopped into and out of a tepid shower, using soap in his hair because he hadn’t bothered to look for shampoo. Five minutes later he was dressed in some khakis and a light blue denim shirt. After a brief indecision he left two buttons open at the neck rather than one, and was then out the door and headed for the Orange Arm.
    When he reached the center of the compound—the Octopus as Race had called it—he found two men sitting at the center table. Both were at least thirty years his senior. The one on the left wore round Santa Claus glasses on an equally round face. He had a balding head and a gray goatee, and his large green sweater was tight on his rotund body. The other man was his comic opposite; long and gaunt, cheeks sunken rather than cherubic, scowl lines instead of smile lines. He looked uncomfortable in his jeans, whereas his companion looked at home in his.
    Andy recalled Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street.
    They were in an intense conversation when Andy entered, and his arrival didn’t warrant an interruption.
    “As usual,” the chubby one said in a voice deep and full, “you’re narrowing your concept of Christian hell to church teachings, with Dante, Milton, and Blake thrown in for good measure. But the concept of an Underworld goes back to Mesopotamia almost four thousand years ago, which predates both Christianity and Judaism.”
    The thin man sighed as if the world rested on his shoulders. “I’m aware of Mesopotamia, as I am of Egyptian, Zarathrustrian, Grecian and Roman beliefs in Hell.” He had a thin, reedy voice that matched his appearance. “I’m also aware of the complexities of explaining the presence of evil in a divinely created universe. But it seems to make more sense to have an embodiment of evil in the form of Satan than a dualistic God who is both forgiving and