The Stainless Steel Rat Goes to Hell by Harry Harrison

next?”
    â€œThe only thing that we can do. Go back to Hell.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause that is where we came in—and where we must be if we want to get out. Slakey is the only one that knows how to
pass between these places. And another thing …” My voice was suddenly grim.
    â€œWhat, Jim? What is it?”
    â€œJust the sobering thought that Angelina may have been sent to this place before we were dispatched. If so, we won’t find her in my youth or your youth. She would have to be in Slakey’s particular Hell.”
    â€œRight,” she said, standing and brushing the grass from her dress. “If we are thirsty we can always find our way back here. If we are hungry—”
    â€œPlease save that thought for awhile. One step at a time.”
    â€œOf course. Shall we go?”
    We retraced our steps back through the field and into the forest. A distant, happy grunting cheered me up a good deal. As long as there were porcuswine in existence this galaxy would not be that bad a place. Out of the trees and across the field of grass. That grew sparser and shorter until it disappeared. Volcanic soil again and more than a whiff of sulfur about. The mounds were getting higher as we walked and we labored to climb an even higher one. When we reached the summit we had a clear view of a smoking volcano. It appeared to be the first of very many. And behind it the red sun, which was hovering just above the horizon.
    The dunes ended in foothills of cracked and crumbled stone. Red of course. The cleft of a small canyon cut into them and we went that way. A lot easier than climbing another hill. We both heard the scratching sound at the same time; we stopped.
    â€œWait here,” I whispered. “I’ll see what it is.”
    â€œI go with you, diGriz. We are in this together—all the way.”
    She was right of course. I nodded and touched my finger to my lips. We went on, as slowly and silently as we could. The scratching grew louder—then stopped. We stopped as well. There was a slurping wet sound from close by, then the scratching started again. We crept forward and looked.
    A man was standing on tiptoes, reaching above his head with a shard of rock, scratching at something gray on the cliff
face. A piece of it came away and he jammed it into his mouth and began chewing noisily.
    This was most interesting. Even more interesting was the fact that he was bright red. His only garment a pair of ancient faded trousers with most of the legs torn off. There was obviously a hole in the seat of these ragged shorts because his red tail emerged from them.
    That was when he saw us. Turned in an instant and gaped open a damp mouth with broken black teeth—then hurled the piece of rock in our direction. We ducked as the stone clattered into the stone wall close by. In that instant he was gone, swarming up the sloping cliff face with amazing agility, vanishing over the rim above.
    â€œRed …” Sybil said.
    â€œVery red. Did you notice the little red horns on his forehead?”
    â€œHard to miss. Shall we go see what he was doing?”
    â€œDoing—and eating.”
    I picked up a sharp fragment of stone and went over to the spot where he had been working. There was a gray and rubbery looking growth protruding from a crevice in the canyon wall. I was taller than our rosy friend and could easily reach it; sliced and chopped at it until a piece fell free.
    â€œWhat is it?” Sybil asked.
    â€œNo idea. Vegetable not animal I imagine. And we did see him chewing it. Want a bite?”
    â€œI wouldn’t think of depriving you.”
    It tasted very gray and slimy, and was very, very chewy. With all the taste and texture of a plastic bag. But it was wet. I swallowed and a piece went down. And stayed down. My stomach rumbled a long complaint.
    â€œTry some,” I said. “It’s pretty foul but it has water in it and maybe some food