“Cost you five thousand rubles to cross, mister,” Charon called in a thick voice.
The old riverman who had ferried new shades across the earth-hell boundary for eons of time, had just returned after a year’s vacation in Moscow.
He hid a bottle under his brimstone bench, then straightened a gaudy red tie as he weaved forward. A changed devil, Charon. His year in Redland had done more than put him into a natty summer suit. Although not very bright, he had unusual powers of observation. He liked to ape the odd speech of his customers, especially American prospectors. These truculent but harmless old timers worked at odd jobs around the nearby palace grounds, and in the ferryman they found a kindred spirit.
Nick eyed the loyal old fellow’s red tie with amazement. “What, for St. Pete’s sake, are you drinking, Char?”
“Vodka,” Charon gasped. Recognizing the stern voice, he tried to focus his bleary eyes. “’Scuse it, Your Majesty. I’ve come a long way and alone. Your substitute, Pudzy, gimme a bottle ’fore he returned to Ameriky, and it’s durn cold up there in Musk-Cow, and so I took a few nips, and I felt so goldurned glad to git back I polished off what was left, so I didn’t recognize Your Majesty when you came zoomin’ along, and if you’ll sort of overlook—”
Nick patted the frightened old fellow’s scrawny shoulder. “Better check in and sleep it off, Char.”
“Gosh, stoppin’ you!”
“You let everybody in till I tell you different. Forget the toll charge too, you old conniver.”
“Yeah, and look!” Chortling with glee, Charon tottered back to his station and put one hand across the beam of a photo-electric eye. The ponderous gate slid silently upward. “It weighs fifteen hundred tons, Mulcie says, and I don’t even push a button.”
“You still smell like a Communist, Char,” Nick said, sniffing the good sulphurous air. “How come you’re on the job as bridgekeeper if you’ve just returned from Moscow?”