apers had been run off.

Vichy Volonsky, a short, roundheaded man, had held up the rest of the
issue while he studied the content through his nose-glasses. Editor
Blochensk and the mechanics anxiously awaited the great man's verdict.
An unfavorable one meant the concentration camp for everybody. As
Minister of Culture, Volonsky previewed all news personally when not
running errands for Andrei Broncov at a meeting of the Inner Council.

The Number Two ranking man in the Kremlin clique frowned most
frighteningly, then, moved by an odd compulsion, walked into a
sound-insulated telephone room. He closed the door and stared at it
stupidly while looking through the invisible Nick.

"Why did I come in here?" he said. "There's only the usual bilge in
the sheet, nothing to telephone the fat slob about. Yet something made
me."

"I did," Nick said, suddenly visible. "When I finish, Pravda will
never be the same again. Lie down, Vichy!"

Volonsky opened his mouth, but Nick wiggled a finger, and no yell came
out. In the wink of an eye, he squeezed out the Minister's shade and
took its place.

"Pretty cramped and smelly quarters," Nick told himself, "but do or
die for good old Hades."

"What? Who are you?" Volonsky's phantom teeth chattered. "You must be
Nick, himself."

"Russia's patron saint till you amateurs took over. I have business
with your boss. I mean Andrei Broncov. Not that it matters, but who
conceived the idea of deposing Satan? Talk, _mujik_, and tell the
truth. All of it."

"Blame Broncov, not me," Volonsky pleaded. "It was his scheme to kill
off several thousand loyal party comrades. They got a choice: Be
tortured to death, or die quickly and work for a revolution in Hell as
soon as they arrived. Naturally--"

"I've heard enough, rat." Nick spat contemptuously, and a puff of gray
smoke spread rapidly over walls, ceiling and floor. "That will hold
you," he jeered, and opened the door. Aping the Minister's important
waddle, he walked over to the great press.

Editor Blochensk stared with fear-bulged eyes. "Anything--anything
wrong, Your Excellency comrade?" he asked shakily.

"Nothing I can't fix."

"Oh!" The editor clutched his throat. "Thank--uh--uh--"

"Never mind, I know Who you mean." Muttering words in Hell's silent
language, Nick walked completely around the press. "It's perfect,
Blochy. Don't let the content worry you. It's part of The PLAN. Roll
out your papers and deliver them fast. Don't qu