“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 newspapers had been run off.