Azazel - By Isaac Asimov Page 0,8

be satisfied with the real thing, my dear?"

"Oh, well!" She hesitated, then said, with the most charming blush, "he's not always like that, you know. He's got a very difficult job at the airport and sometimes he comes home just worn out and exhausted, and then he becomes just a little touchy, and scowls at me a bit. If I had a photograph of him, as he really is, it would be such a comfort to me. - Such a comfort." And her blue eyes misted over with unshed tears.

I must admit that I had the merest trifle of an impulse to tell her of Azazel (that's what I call him, because I'm not going to call him by what he tells me the translation of his real name is) and to explain what he might do for her.

However, I'm unutterably discreet - I haven't the faintest notion how you managed to find out about my demon.

Besides, it was easy for me to fight off the impulse for I am a hard-shelled, realistic human being, not given to silly sentiment. I admit I have a semisoft spot in my rugged heart for sweet young women of extraordinary beauty - in a dignified and avuncular manner - mostly. And it occurred to me that, after all, I could oblige her without actually telling her about Azazel. - Not that she would have disbelieved me, of course, for I am a man whose words carry conviction with all but those who, like you, are psychotic.

I referred the matter to Azazel, who was by no means pleased. He said, "You keep asking for abstractions."

I said, "Not at all. I ask for a simple photograph. All you have to do is materialize it."

"Oh, is that all I have to do? If it's that simple, you do it. I trust you understand the nature of mass-energy equivalence."

"Just one photograph."

"Yes, and with an expression of something you can't even define or describe."

"I've never seen him look at me the way he would look at his wife, naturally. But I have infinite faith in your ability."

I rather expected that a helping of sickening praise would fetch him round. He said, sulkily, "You'll have to take the photograph."

"I couldn't get the proper - "

"You don't have to. I'll take care of that, but it would be much easier if I had a material object on which to focus the abstraction. A photograph, in other words; one of the most inadequate kind, even; the sort I would expect of you. And only one copy, of course. I cannot manage more than that and I will not sprain my subjunctival muscle for you or for any other pin-headed being in your world."

Oh, well, he's frequently crotchety. I expect that's simply to establish the importance of his role and impress you with the fact that you must not take him for granted.

I met the O'Donnells the next Sunday, on their way back from Mass. (I lay in wait for them actually.) They were willing to let me snap a picture of them in their Sunday finery. She was delighted and he looked a bit grumpy about it. After that, just as unobtrusively as possible, I took a head shot of Kevin. There was no way I could get him to smile or dimple or crinkle or whatever it was that Rosie found so attractive, but I didn't feel that mattered. I wasn't even sure that the camera was focused correctly. After all, I'm not one of your great photographers.

I then visited a friend of mine who was a photography wiz. He developed both snaps and enlarged the head shot to an eight by eleven.

He did it rather grumpily, muttering something about how busy he was, though I paid no attention to that. After all, what possible value can his foolish activities have in comparison to the important matters that occupied me? I'm always surprised at the number of people who don't understand this.

When he completed the enlargement, however, he changed his attitude entirely. He stared at it and said, in what I can only describe as a completely offensive tone, "Don't tell me you managed to take a photo like this."

"Why not?" I said, and held out my hand for it, but he made no move to give it to me.

"You'll want more copies," he said.

"No, I won't," I said, looking over his shoulder. It