Sleepside: The Collected Fantasies

by Greg Bear

  I nodded.

  He got up from his seat real fast, jowls quivering and belly doing a silly dance beneath his work blues. He flicked one hand at me, come ‘ere. “Don’t go. Just you wait a minute. Outside in the office.”

  I waited and heard him talking on the phone. He came out smiling and put his hand on my shoulder. “Listen, John, I’m not sure we should let you quit. I didn’t know you were the one who’d gone inside. Word is, you stuck around and tried to help when everybody else ran. The company appreciates that. You’ve been with us a long time, reliable driver, maybe we should give you some incentive to stay. I’m sending you to Vegas to talk with a company man...”

  The way he said it, I knew there wasn’t much choice and I better not fight it. You work union long enough and you know when you keep your mouth shut and go along.

  They put me up in a motel and fed me and by late moming I was on my way to Vegas, arriving about two in the afternoon. I was in a black union car with a silent driver and air conditioning and some Newsweeks to keep me company.

  The limo dropped me off in front of a four-floor office building, glass and stucco, with lots of divorce lawyers and a dentist and small companies with anonymous names. White plastic letters on a ribbed felt background in a glass case. There was no name on the office number I had been told to go to, but I went up and knocked anyway.

  I don’t know what I expected. A district supervisor opened the door and asked me a few questions and I said what I’d said before. I was adamant. He looked worried. “Look,” he said. “It won’t be good for you now if you quit.”

  I asked him what he meant by that but he just looked unhappy and said he was going to send me to somebody higher up.

  That was in Denver, nearer my God to thee. The same black car took me there and Saturday morning, bright and early, I stood in front of a very large corporate building with no sign out front and a bank on the bottom floor. I went past the bank and up to the very top.

  A secretary met me, pretty but her hair done up very tight and her jaw grimly square. She didn’t like me. She let me into the next office, though.

  I swear I’d seen the fellow before, but maybe it was just a passing resemblance. He wore a narrow tie and a tasteful but conservative gray suit. His shirt was pastel blue and there was a big Rembrandt Bible on his desk, sitting on the glass top next to an alabaster pen holder. He shook my hand firmly and perched on the edge of the desk.

  “First, let me congratulate you on your bravery. We’ve had some reports from the... uh... field, and we’re hearing nothing but good about you.” He smiled like that fellow on TV who’s always asking the audience to give him some help. Then his face got sincere and serious. I honestly believe he was sincere; he was also well trained in dealing with not-very-bright people. “I hear you have a report for me. From Charles Frick.”

  “He said his name was Charlie.” I told him the story. “What I’m curious about, what did he mean, this thing about who’s in charge?”

  “Charlie was in Organization until last year. He died in a car accident. I’m shocked to hear he got the Low Road.” He didn’t look shocked. “Maybe I’m shocked but not surprised. To tell the truth, he was a bit of a troublemaker.” He smiled brightly again and his eyes got large and there was a little too much animation in his face. He had on these MacArthur wire-rimmed glasses too big for his eyes.

  “What did he mean?”

  “John, I’m proud of all our drivers. You don’t know how proud we all are of you folks down there doing the dirty work.”

  “What did Charlie mean?”

  “The abortionists and pornographers, the hustlers and muggers and murderers. Atheists and heathens and idolworshippers. Surely there must be some satisfaction in keeping the land clean. Sort of a giant sanitation squad, you people keep the scum away from the good folks. The plain good folks. Now we know that driving’s maybe the hardest job we have in the company, and that not everyone can stay on the Low Road indefinitely. Still, we’d like you to stay on. Not as a driver—unless you really wish to continue. For the satisfaction of a tough job. No, if you want to move up—and you’ve earned it by now, surely—we have a place for you here. A place where you’ll be comfortable and—”

  “I’ve already said I want out. You’re acting like I’m hot stuff and I’m just shit. You know that, I know that. What is going on?”

  His face hardened on me. “It isn’t easy up here, either, buster.” The “buster” bit tickled me. I laughed and got up from the chair. I’d been in enough offices and this fancy one just made me queasy. When I stood, he held up his hand and pursed his lips as he nodded. “Sorry. There’s incentive, there’s certainly a reason why you should want to work here. If you’re so convinced you’re on your way to the Low Road, you can work it off here, you know.”

  “How can you say that?”

  Bright smile. “Charlie told you something. He told you about who’s in charge here.”

  Now I could smell something terribly wrong, like with the union boss. I mumbled, “He said that’s why there’s trouble.”

  “It comes every now and then. We put it down gentle. I tell you where we really need good people, compassionate people. We need them to help with the choosing.”

  “Choosing?”

  “Surely you don’t think the Boss does all the choosing directly?”

  I couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  “Listen, the Boss... let me tell you. A long time ago, the Boss decided to create a new kind of worker, one with more decision-making ability. Some of the supervisors disagreed, especially when the Boss said the workers would be around for a long, long time—that they’d be indestructible Sort of like nuclear fuel, you know. Human souls. The waste builds up after a time, those who turn out bad, turn out to be chronically unemployable. They don’t go along with the scheme, or get out of line. Can’t get along with their fellow workers. You know the type. What do you do with them? Can’t just let them go away—they’re indestructible, and that ain’t no joke, so—”

  “Chronically unemployable?”

  “You’re a union man. Think of what it must feel like to be out of work...forever. Damned. Nobody will hire you.”

  I knew the feeling, both the way he meant it and the way it had happened to me.

  “The Boss feels the project half succeeded, so He doesn’t dump it completely. But He doesn’t want to be bothered with all the pluses and minuses, the bookkeeping.”

  “You’re in charge,” I said, my blood cooling.

  And I knew where I had seen him before.

  On television.

  God’s right-hand man.

  And human. Flesh-and-blood.

  We ran Hell.

  He nodded. “Now, that’s not the sort of thing we’d like to get around.”

  “You’re in charge, and you let the drivers take their perks on the loads, you let—” I stopped, instinct telling me I would soon be on a rugged trail with no turnaround.

  “I’ll tell you the truth, John. I have only been in charge here for a year, and my predecessor let things get out of hand. He wasn’t a religious man, John, and he thought this was a job like any other, where you could compromise now and then. I know that isn’t so. There’s no compromise here, and we’ll straighten out those inequities and bad decisions very soon. You’ll help us, I hope. You may know more about the problems than we do.”

  “How do you... how do you qualify for a job like this?” I asked. “And who offered it to you?”

  “Not the Boss, if that’s what you’re getting at, John. It’s been kind of traditional. You may have heard about me. I’m the one, when there was all this talk about after-death experiences and everyone was seeing bright light and beauty, I’m the one who wondered why no one was seeing the other side. I found people who had almost died and had seen Hell, and I turned their lives around. The management in the company decided a fellow with my ability could do good work here. And so I’m here. And I’ll tell you, it isn’t easy.
I sometimes wish we had a little more help from the Boss, a little more guidance, but we don’t, and somebody has to do it. Somebody has to clean out the stables, John.” Again the smile.

  I put on my mask. “Of course,” I said. I hoped a gradual increase in piety would pass his sharp-eyed muster.

  “And you can see how this all makes you much more valuable to the organization.”

  I let light dawn slowly.

  “We’d hate to lose you now, John. Not when there’s security, so much security, working for us. I mean, here we learn the real ins and outs of salvation.”

  I let him talk at me until he looked at his watch, and all the time I nodded and considered and tried to think of the best ploy. Then I eased myself into a turnabout. I did some confessing until his discomfort was stretched too far—I was keeping him from an important appointment—and made my concluding statement.

  “I just wouldn’t feel right up here,” I said. “I’ve driven all my life. I’d just want to keep on, working where I’m best suited.”

  “Keep your present job?” he said, tapping his shoe on the side of the desk.

  “Lord, yes,” I said, grateful as could be.

  Then I asked him for his autograph. He smiled real big and gave it to me, God’s right-hand man, who had prayed with presidents.

  The next time out, I thought about the incredible thing that Charlie Frick had told me. Halfway to Hell, on the part of the run that he had once driven, I pulled the truck onto the gravel shoulder and walked back, hands in pockets, squinting at the faces. Young and old. Mostly old, or in their teens or twenties. Some were clearly bad news... But I was looking more closely this time, trying to discriminate. And sure enough, I saw a few that didn’t seem to belong.

  The dead hung by the slats, sticking their arms through, beseeching. I ignored as much of that as I could. “You,” I said, pointing to a pale, thin fellow with a listless expression. “Why are you here?”

  They wouldn’t lie to me. I’d learned that inside the City. The dead don’t lie.

  “I kill people,” the man said in a high whisper. “I kill children.”

  That confirmed my theory. I had known there was something wrong with him. I pointed to an old woman, plump and white-haired, lacking any of the signs. “You. Why are you going to Hell?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “Because I’m bad, I suppose.”

  “What did you do that was bad?”

  “I don’t know!” she said, flinging her hands up. “I really don’t know. I was a librarian. When all those horrible people tried to take books out of my library, I fought them. I tried to reason with them... They wanted to remove Salinger and Twain and Baum...”

  I picked out another young man. “What about you?”

  “I didn’t think it was possible,” he said. “I didn’t believe that God hated me, too.”

  “What did you do?” These people didn’t need to confess.

  “I loved God. I loved Jesus. But, dear Lord, I couldn’t help it. I’m gay. I never had a choice. God wouldn’t send me here just for being gay, would he?”

  I spoke to a few more, until I was sure I had found all I had in this load. “You, you, you and you, out,” I said, swinging open the rear gate. I closed the gate after them and led them away from the truck. Then I told them what Charlie Frick had told me, what he had learned on the road and in the big offices.

  “Nobody’s really sure where it goes,” I said. “But it doesn’t go to Hell, and it doesn’t go back to Earth.”

  “Where, then?” the old woman asked plaintively. The hope in her eyes made me want to cry, because I just wasn’t sure.

  “Maybe it’s the High Road,” I said. “At least it’s a chance. You light out across this stretch, go back of that hill, and I think there’s some sort of trail. It’s not easy to find, but if you look carefully, it’s there. Follow it.”

  The young man who was gay took my hand. I felt like pulling away, because I’ve never been fond of homos. But he held on and he said, “Thank you. You must be taking a big risk.”

  “Yes, thank you,” the librarian said. “Why are you doing it?”

  I had hoped they wouldn’t ask. “When I was a kid, one of my Sunday schoolteachers told me about Jesus going down to Hell during the three days before he rose up again. She told me Jesus went to Hell to bring out those who didn’t belong. I’m certainly no Jesus, I’m not even much of a Christian, but that’s what I’m doing. She called it Harrowing Hell.” I shook my head. “Never mind. Just go,” I said. I watched them walk across the gray flats and around the hill, then I got back into my truck and took the rest into the annex. Nobody noticed. I suppose the records just aren’t that important to the employees.

  None of the folks I’ve let loose have ever come back.

  I’m staying on the road. I’m talking to people here and there, being cautious. When it looks like things are getting chancy, I’ll take my rig back down to the City. And then I’m not sure what I’ll do.

  I don’t want to let everybody loose. But I want to know who’s ending up on the Low Road who shouldn’t be. People unpopular with God’s right-hand man.

  My message is simple.

  The crazy folks are running the asylum. We’ve corrupted Hell.

  If I get caught, I’ll be riding in back. And if you’re reading this, chances are you’ll be there, too.

  Until then, I’m doing my bit. How about you?

  The Visitation

  The Trinity arrived under a blossoming almond tree in Rebecca Sandia’s backyard in the early hours of Easter morning. She watched it appear as she sipped tea on her back porch. Because of the peace radiating from the three images—a lion, a lamb, and a dove—she did not feel alarm or even much concern. She was not an overtly religious person, but she experienced considerable relief at having a major question—the existence of a God—answered in the affirmative. The Trinity approached her table on hooves, paws, and wings; and this, she knew, expressed the ultimate assurance and humility of God—that He should not require her to approach Him.

  “Good morning,” she said. The lamb nuzzled her leg affectionately. “An especially significant morning for you, is it not?” The lamb bleated and spun its tail. “I am so pleased you have chosen me, though I wonder why.”

  The lion spoke with a voice like a typhoon confined in a barrel:

  “Once each year on this date we reveal the Craft of Godhead to a selected human. Seldom are the humans chosen from My formal houses of worship, for I have found them almost universally unable to comprehend the Mystery. They have preconceived ideas and cannot remove the blinds from their eyes.”

  Rebecca Sandia felt a brief frisson then, but the dove rubbed its breast feathers against her hand where it lay on the table. “I have never been a strong believer,” she said, “though I have always had hopes.”

  “That is why you were chosen,” the dove sang, its voice as dulcet as a summer’s evening breeze. The lamb cavorted about the grass; and Rebecca’s heart was filled with gladness watching it, for she remembered it had gone through hard times not long ago.

  “I have asked only one thing of My creations,” the lion said, “that once a year I find some individual capable of understanding the Mystery. Each year I have chosen the most likely individual and appeared to speak and enthuse. And each year I have chosen correctly and found understanding and allowed the world to continue. And so it will be until My creation is fulfilled.”

  “But I am a scientist,” Rebecca said, concerned by the lion’s words. “I am enchanted by the creation more than the God. I am buried in the world and not the spirit.”

  “I have spun the world out of My spirit,” the dove sang. “Each particle is as one of my feathers; each event, a note in my song.”

  “Then I am joyful,” Rebecca said, “for that I understand. I have often thought of you as a scientist, performing experiments.”

  “Then you do not understand,” the lion said. “For I seek not to
comprehend My creation but to know MySelf.”

  “Then is it wrong for me to be a scientist?” Rebecca asked. “Should I be a priest or a theologian, to help You understand YourSelf?”

  “No, for I have made your kind as so many mirrors, that you may see each other; and there are no finer mirrors than scientists, who are so hard and bright. Priests and theologians, as I have said, shroud their brightness with mists for their own comfort and sense of well-being.”

  “Then I am still concerned,” Rebecca said, “for I would like the world to be ultimately kind and nurturing. Though as a scientist I see that it is not, that it is cruel and harsh and demanding.”

  “What is pain?” the lion asked, lifting one paw to show a triangle marked by thorns. “It is transitory, and suffering is the moisture of My breath.”

  “I don’t understand,” Rebecca said, shivering .

  “Among My names are disease and disaster, and My hand lies on every pockmark and blotch and boil, and My limbs move beneath every hurricane and earthquake. Yet you still seek to love Me. Do you not comprehend?”

  “No,” Rebecca said, her face pale, for the world’s particles seemed to lose some of their stability at that moment. “How can it be that You love us?”

  “If I had made all things comfortable and sweet, then you would not be driven to examine Me and know My motives. You would dance and sing and withdraw into your pleasures. “

  “Then I understand,” Rebecca said “For it is the work of a scientist to know the world and control it, and we are often driven by the urge to prevent misery. Through our knowledge we see You more clearly.”

  “I see MySelves more clearly through you.”

  “Then I can love You and cherish You, knowing that ultimately You are concerned for us.”

  The world swayed; and Rebecca was sore afraid, for the peace of the lamb had faded, and the lion glowed red as coals. “Whom are you closest to,” the lion asked, its voice deeper than thunder, “your enemies or your lovers? Whom do you scrutinize more thoroughly?”

  Rebecca thought of her enemies and her lovers, and she was not sure.