It is not always easy to laugh at Satan, or take pleasure in his antics. But when the Prince of Darkness goes on a vacation or holds a mirror up to human nature at its most Luciferian chuckles are certain to arise and follow one another in hilarious profusion. Here is a yarn contrived by a craftsman with ironic lightning bolts at his fingertips, as mordantly compelling as it is jovial and Jovian. If you liked SATAN ON HOLIDAY, and were hoping for a sequel you can now rejoice in full measure, for Ralph Bennitt has provided that longed-for delight.

SATAN AND THE COMRADES

by … Ralph Bennitt

Lucifer wasn’t sure that just the right improvements had been made in Hell. So he used a dash of sulfur with Satanic skill.

Nick felt almost good-humoredly buoyant after his year’s holiday as a college boy. About a second after leaving Earth he slowed his traveling speed down to the medium velocity of light by shifting from fifth dimension to fourth. Though still a million miles above the wastes of Chaos and twice that distance from the gates of Hell, his X-ray eyes were quick to discern a difference in the road far below him.

Sin and Death had built that broad highway eons before. On leaving Hell, presumedly forever to carry on their work among men, they had done a mighty good job of the original construction. But time had worked its ravages with the primrose-lined path, and it was not surprising that on starting his sabbatical leave, Nick had ordered his chief engineer to repair the road as a first step in his plan to modernize Hell.

Apparently, old Mulciber had done a bang-up job, and Nick roared in laughter at evidences of the engineer’s genius and those of wily Belial, the handsome court wag. The Propaganda Chief had added advertising at numerous new roadhouses along the way, and unwary shades traveling hellward gazed at beautiful scenes of lush vegetation instead of a dreary expanse like the Texas Panhandle. This “devilish cantraip sleight” also changed the raw Chaos climate to a steady 72°F and gave off a balmy fragrance of fruits and flowers.

Ten thousand drachmas, a fictitious unit of currency established by foxy old Mammon, was the flat fee for use of the road. Blissfully unaware of this “Transportation Charge,” or how it would be paid, numerous phantom pilgrims were sliding down the steeper hills—and having a swell time. Their shouts of glee reached Nick’s largish ears despite the lack of air as mortals know it. Clever old Mulcie had installed freezing plants here and there to surface the road with glare ice.

Nick poised above a party of phantom men and girls sliding downhill on their derrieres and ending in a heap at the bottom. A nice change from traveling under their own power. Their maximum speed while swift and incomprehensible to mortals, seemed relatively slow to one of Hell’s old timers. Only Nick and his best scout, Cletus, could move at thought speed—“Click-Click Transportation.”

Drifting on, a pleased smile on his red, bony face, Nick paused several times to read Belial’s welcomings.

“Die and see the original Naples in all its natural beauty,” said one sign. “Try our hot sulphur springs and become a new soul.” Gayest pleasures were promised to all and golfers had special attention. “Register with the pro at your favorite golf club so you can qualify. No charge for pro’s services who’ll teach you to break 80. Free lunch and drinks at all Nineteenth Holes.”

No fool shade would wonder what he’d qualify for, nor suspect he’d have to shovel eighty million tons of coal and ashes before his handicap would be lowered enough to earn him a set of golf clubs or that the free lunch and drinks were chunks of brimstone, the sulphurous air and Styx River water which is always just below boiling point at 3,000°F.

Hell’s thousand of new golf courses, gambling joints and bars would be available only after downtrodden souls had worked a millennia or two at common labor jobs. A shady deal, indeed, but all a part of Nick’s master plan to get him and his legions back to Heaven.

By modernizing Hades he hoped to annoy “The Big Boss Upstairs” while diverting the attention of those two vigilant celestial watchers, Michael and Raphael, from the main idea. In a series of bold moves, known only to Nick and his Board or Inner Council, mankind would be wiped off the earth—and thus bring The BBU to time. Or so Nick hoped.

As a first step, he had spent a year as Pudzy, a college boy, studying electronics and modern skills of all kinds. He had enjoyed the holiday on Earth though it irked him to recall that he’d been obliged to do good here and there. The thought of these satanic lapses caused him to frown, but his jolly mood returned when he saw the familiar gates of Hell wide open in obedience to his whistle.

The whistle’s high frequency waves also awakened Cerberus, the three-headed watch dog, besides actuating “The Dingus.” This electronic device Nick had stolen to operate the three ponderous triple-fold gates of adamantine, brass and iron.

He slowed to supersonic speed, brought back his great red wings and made a neat three-point landing without injuring the needle-sharp dart at the end of his long, black tail. Still feeling jovial, he kicked all three of Cerberus’s heads, then zoomed down through the tunnel to the north bank of the River Styx.

There he halted to view the ten-lane suspension bridge Mulciber had thrown across the steamy black water. Nick was wondering how the old genius had accomplished such a feat when a thick black wall dropped across the bridgehead.

“Cost you five thousand rubles to cross, mister,” Charon called in a thick voice.

The old riverman who had ferried new shades across the earth-hell boundary for eons of time, had just returned after a year’s vacation in Moscow.

He hid a bottle under his brimstone bench, then straightened a gaudy red tie as he weaved forward. A changed devil, Charon. His year in Redland had done more than put him into a natty summer suit. Although not very bright, he had unusual powers of observation. He liked to ape the odd speech of his customers, especially American prospectors. These truculent but harmless old timers worked at odd jobs around the nearby palace grounds, and in the ferryman they found a kindred spirit.

Nick eyed the loyal old fellow’s red tie with amazement. “What, for St. Pete’s sake, are you drinking, Char?”

“Vodka,” Charon gasped. Recognizing the stern voice, he tried to focus his bleary eyes. “’Scuse it, Your Majesty. I’ve come a long way and alone. Your substitute, Pudzy, gimme a bottle ’fore he returned to Ameriky, and it’s durn cold up there in Musk-Cow, and so I took a few nips, and I felt so goldurned glad to git back I polished off what was left, so I didn’t recognize Your Majesty when you came zoomin’ along, and if you’ll sort of overlook—”

Nick patted the frightened old fellow’s scrawny shoulder. “Better check in and sleep it off, Char.”

“Gosh, stoppin’ you!”

“You let everybody in till I tell you different. Forget the toll charge too, you old conniver.”

“Yeah, and look!” Chortling with glee, Charon tottered back to his station and put one hand across the beam of a photo-electric eye. The ponderous gate