Death routed souls to their spots in Eternity. When he took deliberate hold of a soul, it moved as he willed it to.
'That was pretty,' Molly murmured. Zane had forgotten her presence. 'Maybe you had better get out of here, too,' he suggested. 'Satan's minions could probably manhandle you.'
'It's very hard to hold a ghost against her will,' she said, and faded from view.
'Thanks again for your help,' he called. 'You have opened my eyes!'
'You're welcome. Death,' her breeze-faint whisper came. Then he was alone.
He strode through the doorway — and encountered a truly regal and lovely woman, garbed in elaborately archaic paraphernalia. 'I am Helen of Troy,' she announced.
Zane was, of course, familiar with the historical, virtually legendary accounts of this famous woman's activities. Hers was the face that had launched a thousand spells and precipitated a savage ancient war between the city-state of Troy and the massed forces of Greece. Naturally Helen now served Satan more directly.
'Now you do call-girl duty for the Father of Lies,' Zane snapped, brushing by her.
'Please!' she cried, clutching at his arm. 'You do not know what it is like to be three millennia past your prime! You can not guess what the Lord of Flies does to women who fail him!'
Against his better judgment, Zane was moved by her plea. She might be three thousand years dead, but she was one lovely creature. 'I wish you no harm, Helen. But I am trying to keep a good, living woman out of Satan's grasp. Would you seek to betray that woman?'
Helen looked at him. Tears formed in her beautiful eyes and streaked down her classic cheeks. Slowly her face collapsed in on itself, and her body became a shapeless mass. She dissolved into vapor, and her soul sank through the floor on the way to what she dreaded.
She had understood. Helen of Troy had been a good woman in essence, refusing to betray another of her kind. Saddened, Zane moved on outside. Mortis was waiting for him, saddlelight blinking urgently.
Zane mounted and set the translation jewel in his ear. 'What is it, gallant steed?'
'Satan has loosed Hellhounds.'
'That sounds bad. What's a Hellhound?'
'A demon in animal-form. You cannot fold its soul, for it is not human.'
Zane digested that. It seemed Satan was playing with a harder ball now. 'What can I do?'
'It is not my place to say. Master. I can protect you if we encounter them singly.'
'Do Hellhounds hunt singly?'
'Not necessarily.'
Zane felt a chill. 'How much time do I have?'
'It takes time to run all the way from Hell's Houndpound to Purgatory, even for supernatural creatures. You may have fifteen minutes before they arrive.'
'Good. I have an errand to attend to. Take me to the Records Department.'
Mortis galloped for the big Purgatory building across the plain. 'Do not be long about your business,' the horse warned. 'I cannot be with you inside.'
'I'll rejoin you before the Hounds arrive.' Zane dismounted, entered the building, went immediately to the computer terminal, and turned it on.
A GREETING, DEATH,' the screen flashed. THE INFORMATION YOU SEEK IS NOT IN MY STORAGE BANKS.
'I'll bet it isn't,' Zane muttered.
NO ORDINARY CREATURE CAN STOP A HELLHOUND.
News traveled fast! 'That isn't my question.' The computer flickered its screen, seeming startled.
SURELY YOU ARE CONCERNED.
'How many souls have been released from Hell?'
MEANINGLESS QUERY. PLEASE REPHRASE.
'Oh, no, it isn't meaningless, machine! According to the Prince of Evil, he only processes souls to expiate their burden of evil, then releases them to Heaven. How many souls has he released to date? A round figure will suffice.'
There was a pause. NO INFORMATION, the screen showed at last.
'What do you mean, no information? You've got the records of Eternity!'
I MEAN THERE HAVE BEEN NO ENTRIES OF THE TYPE YOU DESCRIBE.
Zane gasped. 'No souls have been released from Hellin all Eternity?'
CORRECT.
'What a colossal liar Satan is!' Zane cried. 'I was sure he exaggerated, but there should have been at least a modicum of substance to his claim!'
THE CLAIM WAS NOT FALSE. ETERNITY HAS NOT ENDED.
Zane considered. 'You mean that, theoretically, Lucifer will release souls at some future date?'
CORRECT.
'Some loophole! It's a blank check! Eternity, by definition, never ends.'
The screen was blank. Zane turned off the terminal. He had learned what he came for. He had guessed that Satan might be underreporting the cured souls, saving out a certain percentage beyond their appointed tenures in Hell, but the reality was grossly worse. Certainly Death was not going to do things Satan's way!
Mortis was fidgeting impatiently outside. 'Hellhounds getting close?' Zane asked as he mounted.
'Six of them.'
'Can you outrun them?'
'Neigh. I could outdistance them in an extended run, for they lack my endurance, but their short-range speed is greater than mine.'
'Can we hide from them?'
'No. They can sniff out even invisible spirits. They are Hell's cleanup squad. Nothing escapes them.'
'Is there anywhere in the cosmos we can go where they can't follow?'
'Heaven, perhaps.'
Zane laughed wryly. 'Let's not involve Heaven in this! Let me consider.'
'Do not consider more than ninety seconds. Death,' the stallion said meaningfully.
Zane sat and pondered. He was surprised to discover that he was not afraid. He had never been a brave man; temper and bravado had passed for courage. But his recent activities in the office of Death had removed most of the dread of dying from him. He did not want to die himself, but this was now mainly a practical matter rather than fear for himself. If he died now, his replacement would end the strike and take Luna, and Satan would win. Luna might go to Heaven, and perhaps Zane would, too — though he would hardly bet on that! Certainly neither faced extinction. But how would the rest of humanity fare, if Satan had his way? That was Zane's real challenge.
The Hellhounds, it seemed, could kill him, for they were supernatural monsters who would not be balked by the magic of the Death cape. He might send one of them back to Hell in the same manner he had sent the chef- demon, even though its soul was not his proper department. But that would be the limit, since these creatures would have no fear of the human Death Incarnation.
If he couldn't hide from them, or flee them, or fight them — what could he do? Just stand and wait for them?
Into his mind came the pattern of matchsticks. Five arranged in a pentagon: Now he realized what it meant. His thoughts were going in a circle, leading him nowhere, providing no solution.
Hastily he reshaped the matches to a better configuration. He laid them in a line. If he couldn't hide — and he couldn't flee — but he had to prevail — then he had to fight — and therefore needed a suitable weapon — There was his series chain —
He heard a chilling baying. At the horizon of Purgatory, dark lumps appeared, rapidly swelling in size. The Hellhounds had arrived.
Weapon, weapon — what was a weapon against a supernatural monster? Not his cloak, not his gems. He needed something offensive.
The six figures loomed into great red-brown canine shapes, each half the height of a man. Their eyes glowed red, like little furnace portholes. They moved with huge catlike bounds, covering ten meters at a time. There was no
