“Well, obviously not, though there are plenty who'd like to get out of going to Hell.” Harold looked behind him, in case Jasfoup had materialised though the chances are he'd notice the smell (the demon was overly fond of a brand of deodorant last popular in the seventies) and lowered his voice. “It's really not very nice there. Unless you're a demon, obviously. Being born there does make it feel more wholesome, I suppose. One can't help loving one's homeland.”
“”Born there? I thought they...you know...” Dill made a falling motion with his hand the way a child might simulate a plane crash.
“Fell? Those are the original Third. The ones ejected from Heaven will never be at peace because they have been denied the Light. How would you feel if you'd spent your life in the sunshine and suddenly had to spend every waking hour cooped up underground?”
“I do, actually. It sucks like a lamprey.”
Harold frowned, not understanding the reference. “So yes, I agree with you. No golems. We'll keep it all a secret. Perhaps I should destroy the manuscript, too.”
“You do that.” Dill tapped his temple. “I've already memorised it, so you'll be doing me a favour by limiting exposure to it. Wouldn't want another company muscling in on the profits, would we?”
“We? What profits? I though we just agreed we shouldn't make any more golems?”
“No, you agreed that. I just said we shouldn't make golems for the masses. Sam and I had this plan to make exclusive soul housings for the very rich.” He lifted his hand to his face and turned it, admiring the construction. “Once I've got the design sorted out.”