Eric

“‘—as pleasurable as possible’,” said Urglefloggah. It made a noise like a sigh of relief, from somewhere deep in its mandibles. Now it appeared to be listening for the first time. “Yes? What?” it said.

“Where are we?” said Rincewind.

Various mouths beamed. “Quail, mortals!”

“What? We’re in a bird?”

“Grovel and cower, mortals!” the demon corrected itself, “for you are condemned to everlast—” It paused, and gave a little whimper.

“There will be a period of corrective therapy,” it corrected itself again, spitting out each word, “which we hope to make as instructive and enjoyable as possible, with due regard to all the rights of YOU, the customer.”

It eyed Rincewind with several eyes. “Dreadful, isn’t it?” it said, in a more normal voice. “Don’t blame me. If it was up to me it would be the old burning thingys up the whatsit, toot sweet.”

“This is Hell, isn’t it,” said Eric. “I’ve seen pictures.”

“You’re right there,” said the demon mournfully. It sat down, or at least folded itself in some complicated way. “Personal service, that’s what it used to be. People used to feel that we were taking an interest, that they weren’t just numbers but, well, victims. We had a tradition of service. Fat lot he cares. But what am I telling you my troubles for? It’s not as if you haven’t got plenty of your own, what with being dead and being here. You’re not musicians, are you?”

“Actually we’re not even dea—” Rincewind began. The demon ignored him, but got up and began to plod ponderously down the dank corridor, beckoning them to follow.

“You’d really hate it here if you was musicians. Hate it more, I mean. The walls play music all day long, well, he calls it music, I’ve got nothing against a good tune, mark you, something to scream along with, but this isn’t it, I mean, I heard where we’re supposed to have all the best tunes,^{19} so why’ve we got all this stuff that sounds like someone turned on the piano and then walked away and left it?”

“In point of fact—”

“And then there’s the potted plants. Don’t get me wrong, I like to see a bit of green around the place. Only some of the lads says these plants aren’t real but what I say is, they must be, no-one in their right mind would make a plant that looks like dark green leather and smells like a dead sloth. He says it gives the place a friendly and open aspect. Friendly and open aspect! I’ve seen keen gardeners break down and cry. I’m telling you, they said it made everything we did to them afterwards seem like an improvement.”

“Dead is not what we—” said Rincewind, trying to hammer the words into a gap in the thing’s endless monotone, but he was too late.

“The coffee machine, now, the coffee machine’s a good one, I’ll grant you. We only used to drown people in lakes of cat’s pee, we didn’t make them buy it by the cup.”

“We’re not dead!” Eric shouted.

Urglefloggah came to a quivering halt.

“Of course you’re dead,” it said. “Else you wouldn’t be here. Can’t imagine live people coming here. They wouldn’t last five minutes.” It opened several of its mouths, showing a choice of fangs. “Hur hur,” it added. “If I was to catch any live people down here—”

Not for nothing had Rincewind survived for years in the paranoid complexities of Unseen University. He felt almost at home. His reflexes operated with incredible precision.

“You mean you weren’t told?” he said.

It was hard to see if Urglefloggah’s expression changed, if only because it was hard to know what part of it was expression, but it definitely projected a familiar air of sudden and resentful uncertainty.

“Told what?” it said.

Rincewind looked at Eric. “You’d think they’d tell people, wouldn’t you?”

“Tell them wh—argarg,” said Eric, clutching his ankle.

“That’s modern management for you,” said Rincewind, his face radiating angry concern. “They go ahead and make all these changes, all these new arrangements, and do they consult the very people who form the backbone—”

“—exoskeleton—” corrected the demon.

“—or other calcareous or chitinous structure, of the organisation?” Rincewind finished smoothly. He waited expectantly for what he knew would have to come.

“Not them,” said Urglefloggah. “Too busy sticking up notices, they are.”

“I think that’s pretty disgusting,” said Rincewind.

“D’you know,” said Urglefloggah, “they wouldn’t let me on the Club 18,000-30,000 holiday? Said I was too old. Said I would spoil the fun.”

“What’s the netherworld coming to?” said Rincewind sympathetically.

“They never come down here, you know,” said the demon, sagging a bit. “They never tell me anything. Oh yes, very important, only keeping the bloody gate, most important, I don’t think!”

“Look,” said Rincewind. “You wouldn’t like me to have a word, would you?”

“Down here all hours, seeing ‘em in—”

“Perhaps if we spoke to someone?” said Rincewind.

The demon sniffed, from several noses at once.

“Would you?” it said.

“Be happy to,” said Rincewind.

Urglefloggah brightened a little, but not too much, just in case. “Can’t do any harm, can it?” it said.