The most imperfect day known for ages in the Court of Gehenna was drawing to a close. The seven Tartarean courtiers had effaced themselves as far back in the auditorium as the folds of its black and red electric hangings would permit. Each held eyes and ears intent, realizing far too well that his particular tenure of preferment hung upon the mood of the moment. Even the prime minister, Old Original Sin, who had weathered so many Apollyon storms that he well might have considered himself immune, sat ill at ease in his chair of honor upon the dais. His Satanic Majesty leaned forward from the throne chair, imposing in its effect of onyx and gold. His head drooped as though from weight other t…
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