The rousing welcome home Nick received as he climbed the hill to his great palace would have warmed his heart if he’d owned one.
“Thanks, boys and girls,” he intoned in his best golden voice. “It’s swell to be back among you. I haven’t time for a speech now, but tune in to Channel Thirteen tomorrow evening for my fireside chat.”
He wanted to take off for Moscow immediately, but decided to start the war by calling The Board. Also, the boys would be hurt if he didn’t inspect what they’d done during his absence. After a hasty, Russian-style dinner of caviar, cabbage and cold horse with a gold flagon of vodka, he ordered Azazel, Flag Bearer and Statistician Chief, to call a meeting in the throne room.
Little Cletus waylaid his big boss. The scout among the celestials looked like a chubby cherub what with his dimpled cheeks and curly black hair, but he’d proved to be the trickiest imp south of the pearly gates. Knowing that Raphael had cajoled the little imp into revealing something of the improvements in Hades, Nick suspected treachery by one of his most trusted scouts.
“I hear you’ve been seeing Raphael!” he barked.
“Aw, I told ’im a pack of lies,” Cletus scoffed. “Maybe Rafe figured out something; he’s a smart apple. I told ’im everybody here is hot and unhappy like you ordered me to say if they ever caught me. I said our air-conditioning system goes haywire and that we were ripping out a thousand old boilers and coolers. Stuff like that.”
“Don’t lie to me, you ornery little brat. Okay to anybody else but not to me. I happened to hear Rafe talking to Mike, and they’re wise to my plan of making Hell attractive.”
“Well, hell,” Cletus protested, “they saw Mulcie’s gangs fixing the road. If Rafe and them extra-extrapopulated that dope to figure out the truth, why blame me?”
“We’ll forget it,” Nick said, vastly relieved to believe his scout had not betrayed him. “I have a job for you. I’m going to Moscow and I want your help. Light out as soon as you can. Requisition as much gold as you can handle by the usual translation method, and include a sack of polished diamonds and rubies. I’ll tell Mammon it’s okay when I arrange for my own supply.”
“Okay, boss. Where do we meet? And what am I supposed to look like, and do?”
“Make yourself bellhop size and register at the Droshky Hotel as Prince Navi from Baghdad with fifty Persian oil wells to sell. Let ’em see your gold and jewels. And, remember, you’ll account for any dough you toss away to women and bribes. Get going!”
Nick could see into the near future, at least, and he chuckled after Cletus vanished through the wall. “The little devil doesn’t know what’s in store for him.”
In the throne room, sage old Beelzebub sat at the right of His Majesty’s chair; huge Moloch with his evil grin and snaggle teeth, at the left. Tall, prissy Azazel, always acting important, planted Satan’s flag and then sat down at a table opposite wide-shouldered Mulciber and handsome Belial. Charter members all of the original organization booted out of Heaven some eighteen million years ago when Nick’s first but not last rebellion flopped.
After the customary ritual of renewing their vow to get back to Heaven, the gang sat down. Nick rapped the arm of his throne and glared at Chemos, the lustful one.
“Cheme,” he said, “if you will quit flirting with Astarte, The Board will take up business.”
Belial snickered when the culprits’ red faces grew even redder, and after a wink at the court wit, Nick went on: “I intend to take off for Moscow after a quick look about with Mulcie and Belial. Incidentally, my compliments on the good work you did on the road.”
“Egad, boss,” Moloch complained, “why can’t you stay home more and line things up for us?”
“Time enough—” Nick sniffed, scowled, then pointed toward a thick pillar near the rear of the big room. “I smell an interloper. Thammuz, Dagon, drag ’im up here! Beel, I fancy he’s the one who forged your signature.”
Beelzebub rose in anger when a shadowy figure darted for the door. The intruder moved as fast as any wraith but the two former gods were too quick for him. A brief struggle, then they dragged the eavesdropper before the throne where they held him upside down.
“It’s the Paperhanger!” Beelzebub roared.
“I guessed that from Charon’s description,” Nick said calmly. “He’s siding with the Reds again—Smell him? Stand up, Adolf, and hear your sentence!”
“I didn’t do a thing, Your Majesty,” Hitler began, but the hot, glowing eyes were too much to face. His knees buckled and he sank, groveling, on the floor. “Didn’t I send you millions of customers?” he wailed. “Haven’t I done a good job of sweeping out and collecting garbage? Have a heart, Nick. I came in here to sweep, and how would I know about this private conference?”
“You talk about hearts?” Nick flared. “You hung around to listen. You forged Beelzebub’s signature on my official paper, then put Charon in charge of the bridge, thinking he’s too dumb to report any Commies coming here.”
“I can prove—”
“You get the same chance at that which you gave people in Berlin. Down the chute with him, boys!”
The chute, connecting with a main one leading down to the burning lake, has a flap which Belial gleefully lifted. Since shades have no mass worth mentioning, the long duct acts like a department store vacuum tube.
“Oh, my beloved emperor, forgive me,” Adolf yelled as he felt the suction. “I only wanted to organize a counter-revolution against the Communists and—”
“Ratting on your pals again, eh?” Nick sneered. “You stay in the burning lake a thousand earth years. You’ll have plenty of time and company for your plotting. Let ’im rip!”
“No! I’ll be forgotten—”
“No one remembers you now except as a dung heap.” Nick turned a thumb downward, and the screeching shade vanished.
“Like a paper towel in a gale,” Belial said as he let the flap clang shut. “How’d that creep get a job where he could snoop?”
“My fault,” Beelzebub admitted. “He’s a smooth talker. I saw him not long after you left, Your Majesty, when I went out to inspect the garbage incinerator. He had shaved off his dinky mustache and changed the color of his eyes, but I recognized him.”
“It’s okay, Beel.” Nick patted the heavy shoulder of his top assistant. “The punk did us a left-handed favor in bringing things to a head.” He told of how Charon had discovered the Red plot, then outlined his general plan.
“Those Commies can’t stand ridicule,” Nick summed up. “While I’m gone I want every Communist son tossed into the burning lake. Alarm all guards and tell them how to identify them—the fragrance of sweet peas with an underlying stink. No one in the USSR has used up a cake of soap in twenty years, and the perfume they add can’t quite cover the BO.”
“Must be a lot of Commies here,” Mulciber commented. “How many guards have we, Azzy?”
Azazel, Statistics Chief, glanced at a roll of incombustible microfilm, and cleared his throat. He liked being called upon, and since he had the history of every shade while on Earth, he was the second most feared devil in Hades.
“After promoting the last batch who qualified for better jobs during the minimum millennium at common labor,” Azazel said, “and adding—”
“Never mind the commercial!” grouchy Moloch roared. “Boss, how do we know all our guards are to be trusted?”
“We don’t,” Nick said. “When did we ever trust anybody? But our system of checkers, checkers checking the checkers, super-checkers on up to charter members, hasn’t failed yet.”
“If His Eminence, The Corpse-Snatcher, is satisfied,” Azazel said, smoothing his sleek black hair, “I shall answer Prince Mulciber’s polite question. We now have on the guards’ roll exactly thirteen million four hundred—”
“That’s close enough.” Plainly pleased with his title, Moloch grinned at the big engineer. “Mulcie, why not build a chute straight up into Moscow? Save the boss trouble. He could take along a few gorillas and toss all those troublemaking stinkers straight into a hot bath.”
Nick joined in the laughter. “Trouble with that, Molly, The BBU wouldn’t stand for it. Only Death can give the final sting, and even he has to wait for the call. Our game is to play it cagey, stick by the few rules The BBU laid down, and stay out of trouble.”
“How do you aim to handle those fellas?” Belial asked.
“Tell you after I do it.” Nick guessed the fun-loving Propaganda Chief wanted to go along, but decided Cletus would be a better assistant in a plan already formulated. A boon companion, Belial, for any nefarious project. True, he had the quickest wit of the lot, but had worked over-long in the advertising racket, and many of his schemes resembled those of a hen on a hot griddle.
Nick turned to the secretary. “If you have all this down, Asta, I’ll consider a motion to adjourn.”