“I don't know what he done,” it said, “but when I first come here his punishment was to be chained to that rock and every day an eagle would come down and peck his liver out. Bit of an old favourite, that one”
“It doesn't look as though it's attacking him now,” said Rincewind.
“Nah. That's all changed. Now it flies down every day and tells him about its hernia operation. Now it's effective, I'll grant you,” said the demon sadly, “but it's not what I'd call torture.”
Rincewind turned away, but not before catching a glimpse of the look of terminal agony on the victim's face. It was terrible.
There was worse, however. In the next pit several chained and groaning people were being shown a series of paintings. A demon in front of them was reading from a script.
“- this is when we were in the Fifth Circle, only you can't see where we stayed, it was just off to the left there, and this is that funny couple we met, you'd never believe it, they lived on the Icy Plains of Doom just next door to -”
Eric looked at Rincewind.
“It's showing them pictures of itself on holiday?” he said.
They both shrugged and walked away, shaking their heads.
Then there was a small hill. At the bottom of the hill there was a round rock. Beside the rock sat a manacled man, his despairing head buried in his hands. A squat green demon stood beside him, almost buckling under the weight of an enormous book.
“I've heard of this one,” said Eric. “Man who went and defied the gods or something. Got to keep pushing that rock up the hill even though it rolls back all the time -”
The demon looked up.
“But first,” it trilled, “he must listen to the Unhealthy and Unsafety Regulations governing the lifting and moving of Large Objects.”
Volume 93 of the Commentaries, in fact. The Regulations themselves comprised a further 1,440 volumes. Part 1, that is.
Rincewind had always liked boredom, treasuring it if only because of its rarity value. It had always seemed to him that the only times in his life when he wasn't being chased, imprisoned or hit were when he was being dropped from things, and while falling a long way always had a certain sameness about it, it did not really count as “boring”. The only time he could look back on with a certain amount of fondness was his brief spell as assistant Librarian at Unseen University, when there wasn't much to do except read books, make sure the Librarian's banana supply wasn't interrupted and, rarely, help him with a particularly recalcitrant grimoire.
Now he realised what made boredom so attractive. It was the knowledge that worse things, dangerously exciting things, were going on just around the corner and that you were well out of them. For boredom to be enjoyable there had to be something to compare it with.
Whereas this was just boredom on top of more boredom, winding in on itself until it became a great crushing sledgehammer which paralysed all thought and experience and pounded eternity into something like flannel.
“This is dreadful,” he said.
The chained man raised a haggard face. “You're telling me?” he said. “I used to like pushing the ball up the hill. You could stop for a chat, you could see what was going on, you could try various holds and everything. I was a bit of a tourist attraction, people used to point me out. I wouldn't say it was fun, but it gave you a purpose in the afterlife.”
“And I used to help him,” said the demon, its voice raw with sullen indignation. “Give you a bit of a hand, sometimes, didn't I? Pass on a bit of gossip and that. Sort of encourage him when it rolled back and that. I'd say things like `whoops, there goes the bleeder again,` and he'd say `Bugger it`. We had some times, dint we? Great times.” It blew its nose.
Rincewind coughed.
“'S'getting too much,” said the demon. “We used to be happy in the old days. It wasn't as if it used to hurt anyone much and, well, we was all in it together.”
“That's it,” said the chained man. “You knew if you kept your nose clean you'd stand a chance of getting out one day. You know, once a week now I have to stop this for craft lessons?”
“That must be nice,” said Rincewind uncertainly.
The man's eyes narrowed. “Basketwork?” he said.
“I been here eighteen millennia, demon and imp,” grumbled the demon. “I learned my trade, I did. Eighteen thousand bloody years behind the pitchfork, and now this. Reading a -”
A sonic boom echoed the length of Hell.
“Oi oi,” said the demon. “He's back. He sounds angry, too. We'd better get our heads down.” And indeed, all over the circles of Hades, demons and damned were groaning in unison and getting back to their private hells.
The chained man broke into a sweat.
“Look, Vizzimuth,” he said, “couldn't we just sort of miss out one or two of paragraphs -”
“It's my job,” said the demon wretchedly. “You know He checks up, it's more than my job's worth -” He broke off, gave Rincewind a sad grimace, and patted the sobbing figure with a gentle talon.
“Tell you what,” he said kindly, “I'll skip some of the sub-clauses.”
Rincewind took Eric by an unresisting shoulder. “We'd better get along,” he said quietly. “This is really horrible,” said Eric, as they walked away. “It gives evil a bad name.” “Um,” said Rincewind. He didn't like the sound of Him being back and Him being angry. Whenever something important enough to deserve capital letters was angry in the vicinity of Rincewind, it was usually angry with him. “If you know such a lot about this place,” he said, “perhaps you can remember how to get out?”
Eric scratched his head. “It helps if one of you is a girl,” he said. “According to Ephebian mythology, there's a girl who comes down here every winter.” “To keep warm?” “I think the story says she actually creates the winter, sort of.” “I've known women like that,” said Rincewind, nodding wisely.
“Or it helps if you've got a lyre, I think.” “Ah. We could be on firmer ground here,” said Rincewind. He thought for a bit and then said, “Er. My dog... my dog has six legs.”
“The kind you play,” said Eric patiently. “Oh.” "And, and, and when you do leave, if you look back... I think pomegranates come into it somewhere, or, or, or you turn into a piece of wood."
“I never look back,” said Rincewind firmly. “One of the first rules of running away is, never look back.” There was a roar behind them.
“Especially when you hear loud noises,” Rincewind went on. “When it comes to cowardice, that's what sorts out the men from the sheep. You run straight away.” He grabbed the skirts of his robe.
And they ran and ran, until a familiar voice said: “Ho there, dear lads. Hop up. It's amazing how you meet old friends down here.”
And another voice said, “Wossname? Wossname?”
“Where are they!”
The sub-lords of Hell trembled. This was going to be dreadful. It might even result in a memo.
“They cant have escaped,” rasped Astfgl. “They're here somewhere. Why can you not find them? Am I surrounded by incompetents as well as fools?”
“My lord -”
The demon princes turned.
The speaker was Duke Vassenego, one of the oldest demons. How old, no-one knew. But if he didn't actually invent original sin, at least he made one of the first copies. In terms of sheer enterprise and deviousness of mind he might even have passed for human and, in fact, generally took the form of an old, rather sad lawyer with an eagle somewhere in his ancestry.
And every demonic mind thought: poor Vassenego, he's done it this time. This won't be just a memo, this will be a policy statement, c.c.'d to all departments and a copy for files.
Astfgl turned slowly, as though mounted on a turntable. He was back in his preferred form now but had pulled himself together, as it were, on a higher level of emotion. The mere thought of living humans in his domain made him twang with fury like a violin string. You couldn't trust them. They were unreliable. The last human allowed down here alive had given the place a terribly bad press. Above all, they made him feel inferior.
Now the full wattage of his anger focused on the old demon.
“You had a point to make?” he said.
“I was merely going to say, lord, that we have made an extensive search of all eight circles and I am really certain -”
“Silence! Don't think I don't know what's going on,” growled Astfgl, circling the drawn figure. “I've seen you - and you, and you” - his trident pointed at some of the other lords -“plotting in corners, encouraging rebellion! I rule here, is that not so? And I will be obeyed!”
Vassenego was pale. His patrician nostrils flared like jet intakes. Everything about him said: you pompous little creature, of course we encourage rebellion, we're demons! And I was maddening the minds of princes when you were encouraging cats to leave dead mice under the bed, you small-minded, paper-worshipping nincompoop! Everything about him said this except his voice, which said, calmly, “No-one is denying this, sire.”
“Then search again! And the demon who let them in is to be taken to the lowest pit and disassembled, is that clear?”
Vassenego's eyebrows rose. “Old Urglefloggah, sire? He was foolish, certainly, but he is loyal -”
“Are you by any chance endeavouring to contradict me?”
Vassenego hesitated. Dreadful as he privately held the king to be, demons are strong believers in precedence and hierarchy. There were too many young demons pressing below them for the senior lords to openly demonstrate the ways of regicide and coup, no matter what the provocation. Vassenego had plans of his own. No sense in spoiling things now.
“No, sire,” he said. “But that will mean, sire, that the dread portal is no longer -”
“Do it!”
The Luggage arrived at the dread portal.
There was no way to describe how angry you can get running nearly twice the length of the space-time continuum, and the Luggage had been pretty annoyed to start with.
It looked at the hinges. It looked at the locks. It backed away a bit and appeared to read the new sign over the portal.
Possibly this made it angrier, although with the Luggage there wasn't any reliable way of telling because it spent all its time beyond, in a manner of speaking, the hostility event horizon.
The doors of Hell were ancient. It wasn't just time and heat that had baked their wood to something like black granite. They'd picked up fear and dull evil. They were more than mere things to fill a hole in the wall. They were bright enough to be dimly aware what their future was likely to hold.
They watched the Luggage shuffle back across the sand, flex its legs and crouch down.
The lock clicked. The bolts dragged themselves back hurriedly. The great bars jerked from their sockets. The doors flung themselves back against the wall.
The Luggage untensed. It straightened. It stepped forward. It almost strutted. It passed between the straining hinges and, when it was nearly through, turned and gave the nearest door a damn good kick.
There was a great treadmill. It didn't power anything, and had particularly creaky bearings. It was one of Astfgl's more inspired ideas, and had no use whatsoever except to show several hundred people that if they had thought their lives had been pretty pointless, they hadn't seen anything yet.
