“Oh! there’s Priggles, the publisher.  I have always wondered about printers’ overs.  Priggles was a clever man ...  But we shall know now—­even about him.

“I shall hear all that.  I shall get most of the fun before ... My letter’s S.”

He drew the air in between his teeth.

“Historical characters, too.  See?  That’s Henry the Eighth.  There’ll be a good bit of evidence.  Oh, damn!  He’s Tudor.”

He lowered his voice.  “Notice this chap, just in front of us, all covered with hair.  Paleolithic, you know.  And there again—­”

But I did not heed him, because I was looking at the Lord God.

IV.

“Is this all?” asked the Lord God.

The angel at the book—­it was one of countless volumes, like the British Museum Reading-room Catalogue, glanced at us and seemed to count us in the instant.

“That’s all,” he said, and added:  “It was, O God, a very little planet.”

The eyes of God surveyed us.

“Let us begin,” said the Lord God.

V.

The angel opened the book and read a name.  It was a name full of A’s, and the echoes of it came back out of the uttermost parts of space.  I did not catch it clearly, because the little man beside me said, in a sharp jerk, “What’s that?” It sounded like “Ahab” to me; but it could not have been the Ahab of Scripture.

Instantly a small black figure was lifted up to a puffy cloud at the very feet of God.  It was a stiff little figure, dressed in rich outlandish robes and crowned, and it folded its arms and scowled.

“Well?” said God, looking down at him.

We were privileged to hear the reply, and indeed the acoustic properties of the place were marvellous.

“I plead guilty,” said the little figure.

“Tell them what you have done,” said the Lord God.

“I was a king,” said the little figure, “a great king, and I was lustful and proud and cruel.  I made wars, I devastated countries, I built palaces, and the mortar was the blood of men.  Hear, O God, the witnesses against me, calling to you for vengeance.  Hundreds and thousands of witnesses.”  He waved his hands towards us.  “And worse!  I took a prophet—­one of your prophets——­”

“One of my prophets,” said the Lord God.

“And because he would not bow to me, I tortured him for four days and nights, and in the end he died.  I did more, O God, I blasphemed.  I robbed you of your honours——­”

“Robbed me of my honours,” said the Lord God.

“I caused myself to be worshipped in your stead.  No evil was there but I practised it; no cruelty wherewith I did not stain my soul.  And at last you smote me, O God!”

God raised his eyebrows slightly.

“And I was slain in battle.  And so I stand before you, meet for your nethermost Hell!  Out of your greatness daring no lies, daring no pleas, but telling the truth of my iniquities before all mankind.”