Once More With Footnotes

talk about it. "
     
                  " Oh."
     
                  Silence, exce pt for the creaking of the oars.
     
                  "Of course, you'll have to replace this by a bridge. "
     
                  " Oh, yes."
     
                  Crucible looked thoughtful. "A ha'penny for them."
     
                  "I am thinking," said Crucible, "about the water that is lapping about my ankles."
     
                  The Devil did no t look up. "Here."
     
                  He handed Crucible a battered mug, on which the initials "B.R." were just discernible. And so they continued.
     
    -
     
                  They stood in front of the gate. Crucible looked up and read the inscription:
     
                  "All hope abandon, ye who enter here."
     
                  "No good."
     
                  "No?"
     
                  "Neon lights. "
     
                  " Oh, yes? "
     
                  " Red ones. "
     
                  " Oh, yes? "
     
                  " Flashing. "
     
                  " Oh, yes?" They entered.
     
                  "Down, boy; get off Crucible."
     
                  Three tongues licked Crucible simultaneously.
     
                  "Back to your kennel, boy."
     
                  Whining, Cerberus slunk off.
     
                  "You must excuse him," said the Devil, as he picked Crucible up and dusted him down, "he has never been the same since he took a lump out of Orpheus's leg."
     
                  "It didn't say that in the story."
     
                  "I know. Pity, because the real story was much more — er, interest ing. But that's neither here nor there."
     
    -
     
                  Crucible took stock of his surroundings. They appeared to be standing in a hotel lobby. In one wall was a small alcove containing a desk, on which a huge Residents' book, covered in dust, lay open.
     
                  The Devil opened a small wooden door.
     
                  "This way."
     
                  "What?"
     
                  "My office."
     
                  Crucible followed him up the narrow stairway, the boards creaking under his feet.
     
                  The Devil's office, perched precariously on the walls of Hell, was rather dilapidated. There was a patc h of damp in one corner, where the Styx had overflowed, and the paper was peeling off the wooden walls. A rusty stove in the corner glowed red hot. Crucible noticed that the floor seemed to be covered with old newspapers, bills, and recipes for various sp e lls.
     
                  The Devil dropped into a commodious arm-chair while Crucible sat down in a tortuous cane chair, which all but collapsed Under his weight.
     
                  "Drink?" said the Devil.
     
                  "Don't mind if I do," said Crucible.
     
                  "Very nice drink, this," said Crucible. "Yo ur own recipe?"
     
                  "Yes. Quite simple — two pints bats' blood, one — I say! You've gone a funny colour! Feel all right?"
     
                  "Ulp! Ghack! Um — quite all right, thanks. Er — shall we get down to business?"
     
                  "Okay."
     
                  "Well, as I see it, our main difficulty will be to make the public take Hell — and you for that matter — seriously. I mean, the generally accepted theory of Hell is a sort of fiery furnace, with you prodding lost souls with a pitchfork and hordes of demons and what-not running around yelling — Hey, that remind s me, where is everybody — er, soul?"
     
                  "Who?"
     
                  "Lost souls and demons and banshees and what-not?"
     
                  "Oh, them. Well, like I said, no-one has been down here for two thousand years, except that nit, Dante. And all the souls down here gradually worked their w ay up to Purgatory, and thence to — yes, well, the demons all got jobs elsewhere."
     
                  "Tax collectors," murmured Crucible.
     
                  "Quite so. As for fiery furnaces, the only one still in working order is the Mark IV, over