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.