“What!” I gasped.
“Remember also that this paper never accepts an excuse. You must either hand in your story or your resignation. Perhaps I ought to explain further, though the Universe has no place for the newspaper man who cannot achieve the impossible or for the reporter who wants a reason for what he is told to do. We want men who can carry ‘a message to Garcia’—or to Lucifer, if need be.
“The ting-a-ling of my desk telephone at the psychological moment when I had unconsciously consigned you to a colder climate than that of New York, was a summons from Satan. Why it didn’t come through the medium of the ‘printer’s devil’ is a mystery, unless His Majesty desired to show me that he is up-to-date in having a system of telephones installed by a famous electrician who recently crossed his wires and the Styx. I tried to transfer him to the managing editor by telling him that he had got a wrong connection, as my jurisdiction is limited, but he assured me that Hades is less than a hundred miles from New York, which makes me responsible for what happens there! Not a very pleasant thought, is it?
“Lucifer wants you to go to Cimmeria and interview Henry the Eighth. His much-married Majesty is angry at the liberties the historical novelists have taken with his wives and wants to divorce himself of his wrath through the columns of the Universe. Satan also wishes us to decide a dispute between Adam and Methuselah as to whom is the oldest inhabitant.”
“But how in the name of—”
“Don’t say it,” warned the city editor. “That word is always expressed by a blank in the paper, so you might as well leave it blank in your speech. Besides, to say it would be justification for keeping you down there, and we want that interview without fail, even if you have to write it on asbestos and deliver it to mortals at a seance of the Society for Psychic Research. We want the work well done, so you will have to take your chances of being scorched.
“Discussions regarding Hades have waxed almost as hot as the subject of dispute itself. Most people believe it is built on the Turkish bath plan with departments of varying temperature. Those are the kind of people who swallow the thermometer of Dr. Doubt and die by degrees. If you find it as pleasant as John Kendrick Bangs did, you will want to stay and join the Stygian smart set, so I’ll transfer your insurance from the Equality to the Rock of Gibraltar and see to it that your sister does not starve or freeze, whatever may be the climatic fate of her brother.
“Don’t take the subway route to the under world, for then your chances of coming back would be grounded. You are to take the Twenty-third Street Ferry for the Jersey shore. New York and Hell are said to be convertible terms, but I’ve never before heard New Jersey given that distinction. However, Bangs says that’s the route, and as he plays golf with good intentions over there every summer, he ought to know.
“Don’t take any baggage, except perhaps your sister’s sunshade, as only shades and shady characters are permitted to cross the River Styx. You more nearly come under the second category than any other member of the staff, so I have chosen you. As you may need ‘money to burn,’ call on the cashier for a ‘sinking fund’ before you start on your journey.
“By-the-by, while you are in Hades you might ask John Paul Jones whether he would prefer burial in New York, Washington, Annapolis, Philadelphia or Ocean Grove. That would be a ‘scoop’ worth more than the marital intemperance of the Mormon king. Get his signature so that if ‘our friends, the enemy,’ cry fake we can show them ‘what’s in a name.’ As Mr. Bangs, by the exercise of his imagination, was enabled to penetrate the Stygian regions, a newspaper man should have no difficulty in doing likewise by the exercise of his nerve; but if Charon bars the gate owing to your being still in the flesh, this will admit you. It’s a skeleton key.”