There was no need to explain. He shook from head to foot as with the palsy; and under all Heaven none tremble save those who come from that class which “also believe and tremble.”
“Do you tell Me this officially, or as one created being to another?” Death asked after a pause.
“Oh, non-officially, Sir. Strictly non-officially, so long as you know all about it.”
His awe-stricken fellow-workers could not restrain a smile at Death having to be told about anything. Even Death bit his lips.
“I don’t think you will find the War-side will raise any objection,” said he. “By the way, they don’t wear that uniform over there.”
Almost before Death ceased speaking, it was ripped off and flung on the floor, and that which had been a sober clerk of Normal Civil Death stood up an unmistakable, curly-haired, bat-winged, faun-eared Imp of the Pit. But where his wings joined his shoulders there was a patch of delicate dove-coloured feathering that gave promise to spread all up the pinion. St. Peter saw it and smiled, for it was a known sign of grace.
“Thank Goodness!” the ex-clerk gasped as he snatched up the Lattimer records and sheered sideways through the skylight.
“Amen!” said Death and St. Peter together, and walked through the door.
“Weren’t you hinting something to me a little while ago about my lax methods?” St. Peter demanded, innocently.
“Well, if one doesn’t help one’s Staff, one’s Staff will never help itself,” Death retorted. “Now, I shall have to pitch in a stiff demi-official asking how that young fiend came to be taken on in the N.C.D. without examination. And I must do it before the N.C.D. complain that I’ve been interfering with their departmental transfers. Aren’t they human? If you want to go back to The Gate I think our shortest way will be through here and across the War-Sheds.”