The figure nodded solemnly. "Now you've got it. You should have guessed that when the Princes told you their boss was called the Old One. You've already had clue after clue that they're forbidden to conceal from you; that no one dies here; that all the world's magicians come here eventually; that making money--remember the saying about the root of all evil?--is the town's principle industry; and so on." "Well, well." Hugh scratched his head. "Hugh Tracy, Ph.D., F.R.A.S., spending a season in Hell just like Rimbaud or some other crazy poet. The fall season at that. How Evelyn would love this. But it's not quite as I would have pictured it." "Why should it have been?" Hugh could think of no answer. "Who's Yero, then? He's called The Enemy." "He's their enemy, sure enough. I don't know exactly who he is, but he's someone in authority, and his job is to see that the Purgatory candidates get a chance to straighten things out for themselves. Naturally the Fallen buck him as much as possible; and part of the trick is to disguise the place somewhat, to keep its nature hidden from the transportees--the potential damned--and lure them into doing something that will keep them here for good. That bed you're in, for instance, is probably a pool of flaming brimstone or something of the sort." Hugh bounded out hastily. "Yero establishes himself in the fortress of Dis, which is what that pile of chromium junk is, up on the hill, after you get behind the disguise. Each time he comes, he makes a tour through the town, showing himself to each newcomer in a form which will mean the most to that person. The important thing is that few people take kindly to being corrected in the fundamental kinds of mistakes that bring them here, so that nine times out of ten Yero's appearance to you makes you hate him." "Hmm," Hugh said. "I begin to catch on, around the edges, as it were. To me he looked like a man I'd started out to murder a few days ago." "You're on the track. Examine your motives, use your head, son, and don't let the Princes trick you into anything." The pellucid shape steadied and grew real and solid by degrees; the man in the top hat rose and walked toward the bed. "Above all--don't hate Yero." His outstretched hand touched Hugh's sleeve, and he vanished on the instant with a sharp hiccup. There was no one in the house, and nothing to eat but a half-consumed and repellent-looking pudding left over from the "night" before, which he finished for lack of anything else rather than out of any attraction the suety object had as a breakfast dish. Then he left the house in search of the other Atavar.