One Night of Song

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As it happens, I have a friend who hints, sometimes, that he can call up spirits from the vasty deep.

Or at least one spirit-a tiny one, with strictly limited powers. He talks about it sometimes but only after he has reached his fourth scotch and soda. It's a delicate point of equilibrium-three and he knows nothing about spirits (the supernatural kind); five and he falls asleep.

I thought he had reached the right level that evening, so I said, "Do you remember that spirit of yours, George?"

"Eh?" said George, looking at his drink as though he wondered why that should require remembering.

"Not your drink," I said. "The little spirit about two centimeters high, whom you once told me you had managed to call up from some other place of existence. The one with the paranatural powers."

"Ah," said George. "Azazel. Not his name, of course. Couldn't pronounce his real name, I suppose, but that's what I call him. I remember him."

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