CHAPTER I
An air of apprehension pervaded the throne room.
The most imperfect day known for ages in the Court of Gehenna was drawing to a close. The seven Tartarean courtiers had effaced themselves as far back in the auditorium as the folds of its black and red electric hangings would permit. Each held eyes and ears intent, realizing far too well that his particular tenure of preferment hung upon the mood of the moment. Even the prime minister, Old Original Sin, who had weathered so many Apollyon storms that he well might have considered himself immune, sat ill at ease in his chair of honor upon the dais.
His Satanic Majesty leaned forward from the throne chair, imposing in its effect of onyx and gold. His head drooped as though from weight other than the voltage of his crown. His elbows pressed upon the chair-arms, that both his strong, long hands might stroke in turn his pointed, copper-colored beard. About the room, as lightning plays in advance of thunder, flashed his gray-eyed glances. When he spoke, although in a mild voice, each auditor quivered through taut nerves.
“Draw the night curtains. Throw on every switch. I dislike this pale, abiding light.”
Without awaiting the attendants, the courtiers sprang to do the royal will. Sin himself operated the electric switch-board. At his touch, a design in heraldry blazed from the wall behind the dais. In pseudo-seeming, bands of ebony and of beryl formed the setting for a golden crown in bas relief, its points pricked out with emeralds. Projecting from its headband, three horns of power suspended from their tips the ruby-writ words “Japheth,” “Shem” and “Ham.” The crown itself looked to rest upon a sword that dripped all jewels known, like tears of every agony, from those of water to those of blood. Beneath, through letters transparent as thin sardonyx, flamed this caption:
SATAN the FIRST and LAST.
Outcast of Paradise
Heir-apparent to Earth
Monarch of Greater Gehenna
His Highness glanced back at this elaborate conceit and a gratified expression crossed his face. He signed a page to spread out his crackling mantle of gold-bordered black; slanted a self-respecting look at the splendid proportions revealed through his easy-fitting body garment of opaque red light; matched his long-nailed finger-tips in pairs.
The seven waited with increased perturbation. They knew that calm, considering look to presage some diabolical idea; realized that no flattery might blind that super-keen sight; appreciated that the day had run too unevenly for hope of a restful end.
From the moment of the royal rising that early morn, the King had seemed of malevolent mind. The attendants in his private suite insisted that he had quit the royal bed from the right side. Yet he had seemed to assimilate perversity from his static shower, declaring the current hot when, in fact, it was cold as refrigeration could make it. In a passion he had unwound the small dynamo of a new costume considered by his chief tailor a creation; later had hurled his breakfast filectric-mignon at the first chef, asserting that it bore no resemblance, either in appearance or gastronomic satisfaction, to the beefsteaks of men.