None But Lucifer / by Horace L. Gold and L. Sprague de Camp ; with 14 illustrations by Kirby Carter. Nevada City, CA : Gateways Retro Science Fiction, 2002, 213 pages. ISBN 0-89556-128-X. $19.95.

None but Lucifer is a neglected classic from the “golden age” of fantasy and science fiction, first published in the September 1939 issue of the fantasy magazine Unknown. It was well received by its initial readers, as one might expect considering the writers. Horace L. Gold would become founding editor of the award-winning Galaxy Science Fiction magazine, while de Camp was a leading genre author of the era. Yet the novel remained unpublished in book form for over sixty years, until finally brought out as a trade paperback and ebook by Eugene J. Gold, son of Horace.

Why did it take so long? One reason is that it dated very quickly. Set late in the Great Depression, in the political shadow of the confrontation between the western democracies and Axis dictatorships that would shortly lead to World War II, it mooted but did not envision a general war; rather, it posited an abrupt economic stimulation followed by an equally rapid disintegration of society. This scenario was soon falsified by events.

Another cause might be the circumstances of its original production. As de Camp later recalled,

“Horace L. Gold wrote [it] and sent it to [Unknown editor John W.] Campbell. Campbell found it unsatisfactory but suggested that Horace ask [me] to rewrite it. I cannot blame Horace Gold for disliking the idea; but Campbell held the purse. My part in the final draft consisted mainly of deleting vivid but irrelevant episodes that Horace had included, changing a few names to avoid too many monosyllabic ones; and injecting a few faint gleams of humor.” (De Camp, L. Sprague. Time & Chance : An Autobiography, Hampton Falls, NH, Donald M. Grant, Publisher, Inc., 1996, p. 151.)

In other words, the work was not a true collaboration, but a case of script-doctoring that left neither writer particularly invested in the result. The younger Gold plainly regarded the work more highly, perhaps because it was his father’s only novel. In any event, he is to be commended for reviving it. De Camp may even have smoothed the way; I think in his old age he tidied up the rights situation on this and some other collaborative works (“The Last Drop,” written with L. Ron Hubbard, may be another instance) by surrendering his interest to the other author or heirs thereof. Maybe this is why Gold’s son could bring the book out on his own.

This is one of those books it would be a mistake to judge by the cover, which is hideous. The art, by E. J. Gold himself, shows a crude portrait of the titular devil as a bald, porky figure with pointed ears and tusks protruding from his lower jaw. It’s practically a crayon sketch, which likely detracted from sales.

The original magazine cover, also featuring the novel, was much better. Executed by Harold Winfield Scott, it had the protagonist, urbane if diffident, overseeing the globe and moving piles of coins around it, while looming behind and guiding his actions is the sinisterly grinning Lucifer. Scott’s Lucifer is, pardon the expression, a handsome devil, his demonic character suggested solely by frilled shirt-cuffs, oddly sharp knuckles, and a hair style indicative of horns. The scene catches one’s interest immediately.

Neither cover really matches the story, though ironically Gold’s crude version more accurately captures the Lucifer of the story—an undistinguished, timid, blobby little man, albeit untusked. The Kirby Carter illustrations from the magazine, which are reproduced in the book, are spot-on, character wise, with Lucifer as a nebbish and the protagonist as a leading-man type, rugged and a bit desperate. Carter’s illustrations vary in quality and are sketchier than one might expect in a magazine known for such top notch artists as Edd Cartier and Virgil Finlay. But they get the job done.

What of the story itself? Does it live up to its early reputation? I give it a qualified “yes.” I’m not familiar enough with Gold’s fiction to rate None But Lucifer against his other work, and it lacks de Camp’s customary whimsical touch. If the latter did bring “faint gleams of humor” to it, they’re faint indeed. Perhaps the gleams should be looked for in the exaggerated New York dialects of some of the minor players or the bubble-brained wife the hero manages to saddle himself with (a characterization that likely played better in 1939 than today). But the tale fits the model of rationalized fantasy Unknown was famous for, as does most of de Camp’s work.

In what follows I address the plot, generally rather than specifically, but in full. Which means spoilers abound. Those who haven’t read the book, but intend to, are strongly cautioned.

Protagonist William Hale is a man of insight. We first encounter him at the bottom of the heap in the Great Depression, sick, starving, penniless, and about to be evicted from his squalid flat. But his plight is part of a clever scheme. Hale has come to the conclusion that ours is a world of profound suffering—so profound that it must actually be Hell, even if none of its other damned inhabitants realize it. If so, the goal of achieving true happiness can only be a cruel dream—except, perhaps, for Hell’s ruler.

Deciding he wants a piece of the action, Hale sets about demonstrating that he’s in on the secret of the world, gaming it in a way sure to bring him to the attention of Lucifer, ruler of Hell. Instead of striving for success, he works to maximize his own suffering, and finds himself perversely rewarded. The more he shows himself indifferent to his own fate, the better he fares, until he finds himself in a top job at a top firm, together with a penthouse, servants, and his boss’s daughter Gloria as his fiancé. The trick is to keep Hell guessing. Try to better yourself and you achieve misery; spurn fortune, and anything you could dream of comes your way—as long as you show no signs of actually wanting it.

Having proven his ability to cheat the system, Hale makes his move, placing a classified ad:

TO NONE BUT LUCIFER: OF ALL THE INHABITANTS OF THE INFERNO, NONE BUT LUCIFER AND I KNOW THAT HELL IS HELL. / WILLIAM HALE.

A reply duly appears in the same paper:

William Hale: My detective agency and clipping bureau will be of inestimable aid to you. Consult me at your leisure; no obligation. Alexander P. Johnson.

Hale looks up Johnson’s agency, visits it, and is duly presented to the proprietor. Johnson is a disappointment—a “chubby Babbitt with a face like a pale-pink pumpkin” and a “hearty businessman’s voice” who affects ignorance of Hale’s purpose and disclaims the identity imputed to him. But Hale will not be deterred, and eventually Johnson is forced to admit he is indeed Lucifer, and helpless against Hale’s system. But what’s Hale’s game? “That’s pretty obvious. I want to go into partnership with you.”

Up to this point, the story is a page-turner. But now ... Lucifer needs surprisingly little convincing to accept Hale’s proposition. For that matter, he’s helpful, friendly, and apparently completely above board, not only unconcerned about Hale horning in on his operation, but positively eager for him to succeed. In no time, Hale is put in full charge of the Americas, while Johnson runs off to Asia to handle some delicate matters there. Hale, and the reader, are naturally suspicious.

So Hale gains immortality. He gets the girl. His mere whim influences the economy and politics of a whole hemisphere. Good, right? But there’s a catch. He can make anything happen, but none of his actions can be undone. Immortality means an eternity of inescapable bleakness. Gloria proves a superficial ninny, with incompatible tastes—and he’s stuck with her; eternally. He made the mistake of making her immortal too, declaring their love undying and asserting they could never be happy apart from each other. To his horror, he finds this true; neither can abide the other’s absence. The trouble is, they also find they can’t be happy together. Every exercise of Hale’s power makes an already bad situation worse.

This is emphasized in the outcome of his one unselfish act —to reward his former landlords the Burkes, who would, if only he had let them, have cut him a break at the beginning of the story. Guided by Johnson, he contrived for them to come into wealth. But on revisiting the Burkes, he discovers their new fortune has brought them nothing but misery, leaving them fundamentally worse off. Unable to remedy the damage, he wisely (for once) doesn’t try.

Hale does no better on a broader scale. He has the distinct feeling that his mastery of the Western Hemisphere is a test of his competence. If so, he’s failing. Having shown himself clever right up to the point of achieving his ambition, he doesn’t know what to do with his triumph. He can’t comprehend the workings of Johnson’s vast system, lacking the expertise and knowledge to handle it with his mentor’s deft touch. Time and again, he messes up.

Hale chokes, paralyzed by the scope of the job he has taken on. His life becomes one of existential panic in which he flails away to little purpose. Throughout the middle part of the story we are hit over the head with how awful things are, how clueless the person now in charge is, and how unfit he is for anything useful. Worse, he’s a whiner. Not only does Hale suffer from a bad case of imposter syndrome, he really is an imposter. At this stage, he’s totally losing at least this reader’s sympathy. This is not the man we started our journey with.

Part of the problem is inherent in the way Hell works. As Johnson notes:

“Consider your power as a sort of catalyst, which induces an irreversible reaction in your subject. This action cannot be halted, modified, or reversed. It can progress but one way, and then only until all the terms of the ‘spell’ are completely satisfied.”

Moreover,

“The philosophy of Hell, my boy—and don’t forget this—is that all its inhabitants are here for the purpose of suffering. They deserve to be here, or they’d be elsewhere. Our function is to cause suffering as all-inclusively and with as low a cost per unit as possible. That, William, is our business.”

Hale thus cannot help but cause unhappiness—for himself, his wife, and the world at large. But does he think his way out? Does he proceed with his previously demonstrated mastery? No, he comes completely unglued. He hasn’t the stomach for it. He spends the whole mid-part of the novel dithering, and only then, more of desperation then design, does he finally try to buck his fate. He acts with hardly a thought, much less a plan. Well before Hale’s own realization, we see this can end only in disaster.

So what does Hale do? He resolves to subvert the regime of which he has made himself part, defeating Lucifer’s grand design by improving the world rather than ramping up its misery. After all, the elements are all there to get the world out of the Great Depression. People are just too fearful to act; they just need confidence in their own abilities! Thus, to combat the stagnation oppressing the world, he must instill the apprehensive business class and masses with a powerful assurance.

Hale works the spell ... which, of course, “can progress but one way ...” The sputtering engine of the economy quickly revs into overdrive. Production booms. The wildest schemes are immediately financed. Everyone goes into business for himself, convinced he will win. And wages go through the roof, because suddenly it’s almost impossible to retain employees... With everyone intent on being boss, there are none to be found.

It’s here, if anywhere, that the comic influence of de Camp comes into play, as we see people running around like chickens with their heads cut off, quitting secure jobs to strike out on their own and trying to convince everyone else who’s done the same to sign on with them. And they do it in dialect! Every man’s scheme is a sure-fire success; “Only, I gotta have woikers!” In such circumstances first capital, and then credit, are rapidly used up. Despite their mania, the financiers must perforce stop financing. The economic train goes full-throttle over the cliff.

Whereupon, inevitably, Johnson returns to view what Hale hath wrought—and congratulates him. He has definitely outdone Lucifer. Thousands of years before, the man now known as Johnson outdid his own mentor, advancing human misery by devising that insidious little thing called “hope.” Thus he inherited the truly horrible job of managing Hell—which he has long since wearied of. His only way out was to groom a worthy successor. Hale, by unleashing confidence, has demonstrated the needed quality. Now Johnson can finally pass on, leaving the whole mess to Hale and his brainless helpmeet Gloria. Unless they, in turn, find someone able of do a better (worse?) job. There we leave them.

And where does this leave us? The beginning was intriguing. I found Hale's deduction that Earth was actually Hell clever, and his methods of proving his system and attracting Lucifer’s attention ingenious. The middle was weak. Hale stumbled badly before pulling himself together and acting in a way mingling both his strong and weak traits. The end was devastating. He reaped the chaos he had sown, as one would expect in a “deal with the devil story.” And he and Johnson both achieved what they set out to get. But was it ultimately good for either? Well, not everything is tied up in a bow, and some unknowables remain. But the answer, to me, is a resounding no.

Hale, in “winning,” loses utterly. Johnson, in losing, “wins.” Or does he? Hell’s business is to make those consigned to it suffer. The damnation of its boss is his inability to cause anything but suffering. Is it possible to gain relief by retiring from such a role? Lucifer evidently thinks so.

We are at liberty to differ. He could well have “won” an even worse punishment, and Hale’s fate may very well be preferable after all—assuming he does not, like Johnson, cheat it. Ultimately, as in Johnson’s own formulation, I suspect that however sympathetic they may seem, both he and Hale truly deserve their suffering, just like the rest of Hell’s inhabitants. No more than they do we know how they may have come to merit it. An exercise best left to each reader’s imagination, perhaps.

This story is an interesting exploration of one of the ultimate questions—why suffering exists—even if we never do really learn why. If we are all punished in this life for transgressions in an earlier one, that just tells us why we suffer in this world, ducking the root explanation. In the context of the story, not even Lucifer appears to have that.

As originator of the tale, we must attribute its theme to Gold. It is certainly not one that would naturally have occurred to de Camp. The latter did look into religious concepts, central or ancillary, elsewhere in his writings. Instances that come to mind include Solomon’s Stone and “Mr. Arson” (demon summoning), “The Gift of God” (effective prayer) and “Retirement” (the afterlife), to which we might add Lest Darkness Fall (medieval theological hair-splitting), and those Harold Shea stories (“The Mathematics of Magic” and The Castle of Iron) set in venues of European romance. But in each instance de Camp’s reuses tropes rather than really examining them. Even his final story, “Captain Leopard” (Christian origins retold from the discredited Celsian perspective), is superficial, and ultimately unconvincing.

Nowhere does he equal the portrait of unremitting despair we are left with in None But Lucifer. De Camp’s natural instinct was to observe mankind’s various characteristics and common lot from a vantage of amused and not unsympathetic detachment. Only rarely, as in “Judgment Day,” does he independently demonstrate his capacity for true horror.

On the strength of the concept, the strong beginning and the disquieting ending, I rate None But Lucifer three and a half stars out of five. The flaccid middle section prevents me from awarding it a solid five. It remains well worth a read.

—Brian.