Dolores sank into the double seat that swung like a hammock across the roomy cock-pit. Satan placed himself beside her, seized the “stick” by which his super-bird was directed and pressed the starting button. Like an elevator the aeromobile shot upward, with an utter lack of vibration that gave the effect of hella-firma receding, while their craft stood still. Soon, however, he released the lofting button to press that which gave power to the drivers. Forward through space they started at a speed which would not have seemed speed at all, except for the mounting figures finder-pointed upon a dial set into the invisible air-screen before them. They seemed to hover above, while Gehenna raced past them below. “It is--is wonderful,” breathed the Apollyon guest, pauperized in expression by the emotions that accompany a first flight. He nodded. “Consider this morning’s air-joying one of your rewards for being, although a factory girl, _somewhat_ different from the rest.” She turned to him. “You must have some object in treating me so well. What is it?” “Ha, you are like the rest, after all--curious!” His Highness exclaimed. “Must every she-soul know the end of the story first? Suppose my object is to acquaint you with myself through my works. ‘By their works ye shall know them.’ So look and know. Apply what mind you have to getting a panoramic conception of the extent of my kingdom. Notice the estates surrounding the palace park. I have given them over to vari-villains so fortunate as to have merited my approval.” When Dolores gripped the edge of the swinging seat and leaned to peer over the side of the fuselage, he objected. “Why must you earthlings do everything the hardest way? Let the Hawk see for you.” He indicated an artfully arranged series of mirrors which reflected through the eyes of the bird a moving picture of scenes beneath. “It looks like--like a picture postal-card of some tropical city, only not so bright and more squat,” she observed after a moment. “It is neatly laid out.” “It _is_ neat,” Satan admitted. “Our perpetual heat-without-rain does fade the colors, though. The only moisture we get down here is when the angels weep over some new triumph of mine. Hell knows I try to make them open the ducts more often. If ever I learn to weep myself, I’ll likely irrigate a lot of suffering.” “And why do you wish to weep?” “People seem to enjoy it so. As for the squatness of the bungalows, what can you expect in the most tropical of climates? Assume a little imagination if you have it not. You should have seen the place before I took hold of it. At first, after my sudden fall into utter desolation from the Paradisian comforts of home, I couldn’t see any possibilities in Gehenna. But I never was one to let bad enough alone.” “Oh, I didn’t say I thought it bad,” Dolores hastened to insert.