“Heck!” Cletus shrugged resignedly. “Well, lend me that hat, and conjure up a couple million tons of soap—not perfumed.”
Roaring with laughter, Nick promised to spread soap over the entire country, then watched the little imp zooming back and forth across Red Square—sprinkling the snowy pavement with Ivan-Tsar pieces of gold.
The Satanic laughter lasted till Nick had whizzed half way across Chaos. “That caper,” he told himself gleefully, “will fool The BBU about my plan. Or, will it? Great Hades! I did a good deed.”
A million miles above the wastes of Chaos, he remembered he still wore Volonsky whose shade would still be imprisoned in the Pravda room. Nick shucked out of his unpleasant quarters, halted to watch the thing spinning downward.
“Cheer up, Vych,” he laughed. “Next century I’ll gather up what’s left and give it back to you—maybe.”