the sane men of satan By Jacques Jean Ferrat Does the past still live and not in dreams alone? Justin thought not till a strange decision took him back to days he knew as dead. _Until recent times the Devil, to give him his due, was a figure of fear rather than of Hallowe'en fun. Nowadays, to most of our enlightened citizenry, Satan is a device used by the clergy to keep folk in line, or by a Goethe to create Faust. Consider then the plight of a thoroughly sophisticated man of today who discovers Old Nick to be not only real but deadlier by far than the horned brimstone-breather of legend._ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe October-November 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Charles Justin paused briefly in the encroaching darkness to look at the north front of the Old State House in Boston. He was engaged in the process of walking home from his office on State Street to his house in Louisburg Square. The ancient building, he thought, with its palladian windows and gilded lion and unicorn, still looked much as it must have when Paul Revere engraved his crude but effective print of the Boston Massacre, back in 1773. One of the things Justin loved most about Boston was the fact that so much of the old town still breathed. Faneuil Hall, a few blocks behind him, where James Otis and Sam Adams had roused the Commonwealth against the crown, still did duty as a major market. Worshippers still paraded on Sunday mornings to King's Chapel, Christ Church, the Old North Church. Scores, perhaps hundreds, of twentieth-century Bostonians still lived and worked upon the same broad planks of old T-Wharf that had felt the measured tread of Gage's grenadiers. Justin, born and bred in rawer if no more bustling Midwestern surroundings, had felt a powerful tie with the old thus standing alongside the new, a strong _déjà vu_, from his first glimpse, more than twenty years before as a Harvard freshman. This, he had known instinctively, was home for him. He had made it his home ever since. The sense of the past was strong upon him this evening--perhaps, he thought wryly, more strong than was proper for an executive vice-president of the Ninth National Bank. As he scaled the slope of Park Street on Beacon Hill he felt like a man born out of his proper time. Life and color and revolt had been strong in the little city of two centuries ago. Men had thought and dreamed--and then had talked and acted. Unlike their descendants, who seemed to have relapsed into an everlasting featherbed of trustfundism.