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“Shall we let them go, sire?” said a duke, peering at the climbing figures in the mirror's dark image.
“Oh, I think so,” said Vassenego airily. “It's always a good thing to let a few tales spread, you know. Pour encouragy le - poor encoura - to make everyone sit up and take notice. And they have been useful, after their fashion.” He looked into the depths of his drink, exulting quietly.
And yet, and yet, in the depths of his curly mind he thought he could hear the tiny voice that would grow louder over the years, the voice that haunts all demon kings, everywhere: look out, behind you...
It is hard to say whether the Luggage was happy or not. It had viciously attacked fourteen demons so far, and had three of them cornered in their own pit of boiling oil. Soon it would have to follow its master, but it didn't have to rush.
One of the demons made a frantic grab for the bank. The Luggage stamped heavily on its fingers.
The creator of universes was happy. He'd just inserted one seven-sided snowflake into a blizzard as an experiment, and no-one had noticed. Tomorrow he was half-inclined to try small, delicately-crystallised letters of the alphabet. Alphabet Snow. It could be a winner.
Rincewind and Eric were happy:
“I can see blue sky!” said Eric. “Where do you think we'll come out?” he added. “And when?”
“Anywhere,” said Rincewind. “Anytime.”
He looked down at the broad steps they were climbing. They were something of a novelty; each one was built out of large stone letters. The one he was just stepping on to, for example, read: I Meant It For The Best.
The next one was: I Thought You'd Like It. Eric was standing on: For the Sake of the Children. “Weird, isn't it?” he said. “Why do it like this?” “I think they're meant to be good intentions,” said Rincewind. This was a road to Hell, and demons were, after all, traditionalists. And, while they are of course irredeemably evil, they are not always bad. And so
Rincewind stepped off We Are Equal Opportunity Employers and through a wall, which healed up behind him, and into the world. It could, he had to admit, have been a lot worse.
President Astfgl, sitting in a pool of light in his huge, dark office, blew into the speaking tube again. “Hallo?” he said. “Hallo?” There didn't seem to be anyone answering.
Strange. He picked up one of his coloured pens, and looked around at the stack of work behind him. All those records, to be analysed, considered, assessed and evaluated, and then suitable management directives to be arrived at, and an in-depth policy document to be drafted and then, after due consideration, redrafted again...
He tried the tube once more. “Hallo? Hallo?” No-one there. Still, not to worry, lots to do. His time was far too important to waste.
He sank his feet into his thick, warm carpet. He looked proudly at his plotted plants. He tapped a complicated assembly of chromed wire and balls, which began to swing and click executively. He unscrewed the top of his pen with a firm, decisive hand. He wrote: What business are we in??? He thought for a bit, and then carefully wrote, underneath: We are in the damnation business!!! And this, too, was happiness. Of a sort.
