l
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."

III

It was an hour short of midnight and snowing in Moscow when Nick
landed in the printing room of Pravda, the official Red journal. As he
had calculated, several sample newsp