"Zelazny, Roger - Bring Me The Head Of Prince Charming" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zelazny Roger)

What had pulled Azzie from his repose was that in the sector directly ahead of him, the dead were stacked only about eight or ten high. Azzie gave up his comfortable (relatively) berth and scrambled down through rotting eggshells and squashy entrails and chicken heads to the level ground where he could trample comfortably over the bodies.
"When I said stack 'em high," he told the imps, "I meant a whole lot higher than that."
"But they topple over when we try to stack them any higher!" said the head imp.
"Then get some bracing material to hold them in! I want those piles at least twenty bodies high!"
"Difficult, sir."
Azzie stared. Dared an imp talk back to him? "Do it or join them," he said.
"Yes, sir! Bracing material going right up, sir!" The imp ran off, shouting orders to his work crew.
It had started out as another typical day in one of the Pits of Hell. But it was to change dramatically, unexpectedly, in another moment. So it is with change! We go about our accustomed ways with lowered head and hangdog eye, tired of our accustomed round, sure it will go on forever. Why should it change when there is no change in sight, no letter, no Federal Express, not even a telephone call presaging a great event? So you despair, never realizing that your messenger has already been dispatched, and that hopes are sometimes realized, even in Hell. Indeed, some would say, hopes are especially realized in Hell, since hope itself is counted by some as one of the diabolic torments. But this may be an exaggeration of the churchmen who scribble about such things.
Azzie saw that the imps were beginning to perform satisfactorily. He only had another two hundred hours to work on his shift (days in the Pit are long) until he could get his three hours' sleep before beginning again. He was just about to return to that comfortable - relatively comfortable - spot he had just abandoned when a messenger came running up.
"Are you the demon in charge of this Pit?"
The questioner was a violet-winged Efreet, one of the old Baghdad crowd, now mainly working courier service since the Evil Powers of the Upper Council liked their gaily colored turbans.
"I am Azzie Elbub," our demon said. "And yes, I am in charge of this particular subpit."
"Then you're the one I'm looking for." The Efreet handed Azzie an asbestos document inscribed in letters of fire. Azzie drew on his gloves before handling it. Such documents were used only by the High Council of Infernal Justice.
He read, "Know all demons by these presentiments that an Injustice has been done; namely, a human has been brought to the Pit before his time. The forces of Light have already made remonstrations on his behalf, since, if he were to live out his allotted days, he would still have time to repent. The betting against this taking place is on the order of two thousand to one, but the chance exists, albeit but mathematically. You are therefore requested and ordered to take this man out of the Pit, sponge him off, and restore him to his wife and family on Earth, and there remain with him until he has adjusted sufficiently to get his own living, since otherwise we are responsible for his upkeep. After that, you will be released to normal demonic duties on Earth. Sincerely, Asmodeus, Head of North Pit Section of Hell. P.S. The man answers to the name of Thomas Scrivener."
Azzie was so elated that he embraced the Efreet, who stepped hastily back, adjusting his turban and saying, "Take it easy, buddy."
"I was just excited," Azzie said. "I'm going to get out of this place at last! I'm going back to Earth!"
"A disappointing place," the Efreet said. "But to each his, her, or its own."
Azzie hurried off to find Thomas Scrivener.

He located the man at last in row 1002WW. The Pits of Hell are laid out like amphitheaters. Every location can be traced. A master plan exists. In practice, however, what with the imps carelessly throwing people onto piles and the piles falling over onto other piles, people's locations in the Pits are known only approximately.
"Is there a Thomas Scrivener here?" Azzie asked.
The mound of sinners at location 1002WW turned away from their discussion and looked at him, those whose heads were faced in the right direction. Instead of repenting their sins, they considered Pit time a social occasion, a chance to get to know neighbors, exchange opinions, have a few laughs. Thus do the dead continue to deceive themselves, just as in life.
"Scrivener, Scrivener," an old man in a middle position said. He turned his head toward his armpit with difficulty. "Sure, he's here. Any of you fellows know where Scrivener is?"
The request was carried up and down the great mound.
Men turned from their preoccupation with sports (there are plenty of sports in Hell, but the home team always loses-until you bet against them) to say, "Scrivener, Scrivener, sort of a tall skinny loony fellow with a cast in one eye?"
"I don't know what he looks like," Azzie said. "I assumed he answered to his name."
The mound of people mumbled and coughed and discussed it among them, as humans, living or dead, are wont to do about anything. And if Azzie had not had a demon's preternatural hearing, he would not have heard the faint squeak that came from somewhere deep in the pile.
"Hi there! Scrivener here! Was somebody asking for me?"
Azzie directed his imps to pull Scrivener out of the pile, but gently, without tearing off any of his appendages. They could be replaced, of course, but the procedure was painful and apt to leave a psychic scar. Azzie knew he was supposed to bring the man back to Earth intact so that Scrivener wouldn't create trouble for the Dark Forces for reaping him prematurely.
Soon enough Scrivener scrambled out of the pile, brushing himself off. He was a small, balding, jaunty little man.
"I'm Scrivener!" he cried. "You found out it was a mistake, eh? I told them I wasn't dead when they first brought me here. That Grim Reaper of yours doesn't do much listening, does he? Just keeps grinning that great big idiotic grin. Plucked me away just like that. I've a good mind to complain to someone in authority."
"Listen to me," Azzie said. "You're lucky the mistake was found at all. If you begin litigation, they'll put you in a holding tank until your case can be heard. That could take a century or two. Do you know what our holding tanks are like?"
Scrivener shook his head, wide-eyed.
"They're so bad," Azzie said, "that they even contravene infernal law."
Scrivener seemed impressed. "I guess I'm lucky to be getting out at all. Thanks for the tip. Are you a lawyer?"
"Not by training," Azzie said. "But all of us down here have a little lawyer in us. Come on, let's get you back home."
"I've a feeling I have a few problems at home," Scrivener said hesitantly.
"That's what life is," Azzie continued. "Problems. Be glad you have problems to worry about. When you come down here to stay, you'll have nothing to worry about. Whatever's happening to you just goes on and on."
"I won't be back," Scrivener said.
Azzie wanted to ask him if he wanted to bet on it, but decided that it wouldn't be appropriate under the circumstances.
"We'll have to wipe your memory of this experience," he told Scrivener. 'You understand we can't have you fellows going back to Earth and telling a lot of stories."
"Fine with me," Scrivener said. "Nothing here I want to remember, anyhow. Although earlier, in Purgatory, I met this blond succubus - "
"Save it," Azzie growled, grabbing Scrivener by the arm and steering him to the gate in the wall that leads to other parts of Hell and, eventually, to everywhere else and vice versa.

Chapter 2

Azzie and Scrivener proceeded through the iron gate in the iron wall and up the spiraling road that leads through the outer suburbs of Purgatory, a region composed of great crosshatched depths and startling heights exactly as Fuseli drew it. They trudged along, demon and man, and the way was easy, for easy are the roads of Hell, but it was also boring, because Hell is the state of not being amused.
And after a while Scrivener said, "Is it much farther?"
"I'm not sure," Azzie confessed. "I'm new in this sector. In fact, I shouldn't be here at all."
"Just like me," Scrivener said. "Just because I fall into a corpselike coma from time to time is no reason for your Grim Reaper fellow to grab me up without making proper tests. It was slipshod, I tell you. Why shouldn't you be here?"