Phineas picked up the specifications, ran them over, and blinked. This would never do; much as he loathed the work, he was an excellent draftsman, and he knew enough of general structural design to know this would never do. “But, two-inch I-beams here—”
“’Sail right, Phin, structural strength is about twelve times what you’re used to. Makes some really nice designing possible, too. Just follow the things like I said, and I’ll go over it all later. Things changed a little while you were delirious. But I’m in a devil of a rush right flow. See you.” He stuck his body through the door, thrust his head back inside and cocked an eyebrow. “Lunch? Need somebody to show you around, I guess.”
“As you wish, Mr. Sloane,” agreed Phineas. “But would you please mind—”
“Not swearing. Sure, okay. And no religious arguments this time; if I’m damned, I like it.” Then he was gone, leaving Phineas alone—he couldn’t work with the distraction of others, and always had a room to himself.
So he’d been sick had he, even delirious? Well, that might explain things. Phineas had heard that such things sometimes produced a hiatus in the memory, and
it was a better explanation than nothing. With some relief, he put it out of his mind, remembering only to confess how sinfully he’d lost his trust in divine guidance this morning, shook his head mournfully, and began work with dutiful resignation. Since it had obviously been ordained that he should make his simple living at drafting, draft he would, with no complaints, and there would be no fault to be found with him there.
Then the pen began to scratch. He cleaned and adjusted it, finding nothing wrong, but still it made little grating sounds on the paper, lifting up the raw edges of his nerves. Had Phineas believed in evolution, he’d have said the hair his ancestors had once grown was trying to stand on end, but he had no use for such heretical ideas. Well, he was not one to complain. He unclenched his teeth and sought forbearance and peace within.
Then, outside, the addressograph began to thump again, and he had to force himself not to ruin the lines as his body tried to flinch. Be patient, all these trials would be rewarded. Finally, he turned to the only anodyne he knew, contemplation of the fate of heretics and sinners. Of course, he was sorry for them roasting eternally and crying for water which they would never get—very sorry for the poor deluded creatures, as any righteous man should be. Yet still they had been given their chance and not made proper use of it, so it was only just. Picturing morbidly the hell of his most dour Puritan ancestors—something very real to him—he almost failed to notice the ache of his bunion where the cheap shoes pinched. But not quite.
Callahan was humming out in the office, and Phineas could just recognize the tune. Once the atheist had come in roaring drunk, and before they’d sent him home, he’d cornered Phineas and sung it through, unex-purgated. Now, hi tune with the humming^ the words insisted in trickling through the suffering little man’s mind, and try as he would, they refused to leave. Prayer did no good. Then he added Callahan to the tortured sinners, and that worked better.
“Pencils, shoestrings, razor blades?” The words behind him startled him, and he regained his balance on
the stool with difficulty. Standing just inside the door was a one-legged hunch-back with a handful of cheap articles. “Pencils?” he repeated. “Only a nickel. Help a poor cripple?” But the grin on his face belied the words.
“Indeed no, no pencils.” Phineas shuddered as the fellow hobbled over to a window and rid himself of a chew of tobacco. “Why don’t you try the charities? Furthermore, we don’t allow beggars here.”
“Ain’t none,” the fellow answered with ambiguous cheerfulness, stuffing in a new bite.
“Then have faith in the Lord and He will provide.” Naturally, man had been destined to toil through the days of his life in this mortal sphere, and toil he must to achieve salvation. He had no intention of ruining this uncouth person’s small chance to be saved by keeping him in idleness.
The beggar nodded and touched his cap. “One of them, eh? Too bad. Well, keep your chin up, maybe it’ll be better later.” Then he went off down the hall, whistling, leaving Phineas to puzzle over his words and -give it up as a bad job.
Potts rubbed his bunion tenderly, then desisted, realizing that pain was only a test, and should be borne meekly. The pen still scratched, the addressing machine thumped, and a bee had buzzed in somehow and went zipping about. It was a large and active bee.
Phineas cowered down and made himself work, sweating a little as the bee lighted on his drafting board. Then, mercifully, it flew away and for a few minutes he couldn’t hear it. When it began again, it was behind him. He started to turn his head, then decided against it; the bee might take the motion as an act of aggression, and declare war. His hands on the pen were moist and clammy, and his fingers ached from gripping it too tightly, but somehow, he forced himself to go on working.
The bee was evidently in no hurry to leave. It flashed by his nose, buzzing, making him jerk back and spatter a blob of ink into the plans, then went zooming around his head and settled on his bald spot. Phineas held his
breath and the bee stood pat. Ten, twenty, thirty seconds. His breath went out suddenly with a rush. The insect gave a brief buzz, evidently deciding the noise was harmless, and began strolling down over his forehead and out onto his nose. It tickled; the inside of his nose tickled, sympathetically.
“No, no,” Phineas whispered desperately. “N—AcheeOOl EEOW!” He grabbed for his nose and jerked violently, bumping his shins against the desk and splashing more ink on the plans. “Damn, oh, da—”
It was unbelievable; it couldn’t be true! His own mouth had betrayed him! With shocked and leaden fingers he released the pen and bowed his head, but no sense of saving grace would come. Too well he could remember that even the smallest sin deserves just damnation. Now he was really sweating, and the visions of eternal torment came trooping back; but this time he was in Callahan’s place, and try as he would, he couldn’t switch. He was doomed!
Callahan found him in that position a minute later, and his rough, mocking laugh cut into Phineas’ wounded soul. “Sure, an angel as I live and breathe.” He dumped some papers onto the desk and gave another backbreaking thump. “Got the first sheets done, Phin?”
Miserably, Phineas shook his head, glancing at the clock. They should have been ready an hour ago. Another sin was piled upon his burden, beyond all hope of redemption, and of all people, Callahan had caught him not working when he was already behind. But the old Irishman didn’t seem to be gloating.
“There now, don’t take it so hard, Phin. Nobody expects you to work like a horse when you’ve been sick. Mr. Sloane wants you to come out to lunch with him now.”
“I—uh—” Words wouldn’t come.
Callahan thumped him on the back again, this time lightly enough to rattle only two ribs. “Go along with you. What’s left is beginner’s stuff and I’ll finish it while you’re eating. I’m ahead and got nothing to do, anyhow. Go on.” He practically picked the smaller man off the
stool and shoved him through the door. “Sloane’s waiting. Heck, I’ll be glad to do it. Feel so good I can’t find enough to keep me busy.”
Sloane was flirting with one of the typists as Phineas plodded up, but he wound up that business with a wink and grabbed for his hat. ” ‘Smatter, Phin? You look all in. Bad bruise on your nose, too. Well, a good lunch’ll fix up the first part, at least. Best damned food you ever ate, and right around the corner.”
“Yes, Mr. Sloane, but would you… uh!” He couldn’t ask that now. He himself was a sinner, given to violent language. Glumly he followed the other out and into the corner restaurant. Then, as he settled into the seat, he realized he couldn’t eat; first among his penances should be giving up lunches.
“I… uh… don’t feel very hungry, Mr. Sloane. I’ll just have a cup of tea, I think.” The odors of the food in the clean little restaurant that brought twinges to his stomach would only make his penan
ce that much greater.
But Sloane was ordering for two. “Same as usual, honey, and you might as well bring a second for my friend here.” He turned to Phineas. “Trouble with you, Phin, is that you don’t eat enough. Wait‘11 you get a whiff of the ham they serve here—and the pie! Starting, now, you’re eating right if I have to stuff it down you. Ah!”
Service was prompt, and the plates began to appear before the little man’s eyes. He could feel his mouth watering, and had to swallow to protest. Then the look in Sloane’s eye made him decide not to. Well, at least he could fast morning and night instead. He nodded to himself glumly, wishing his craven appetite wouldn’t insist on deriving so much pleasure from the food.
“And so,” Sloane’s voice broke in on his consciousness again, “after this, you’re either going to promise me you’ll eat three good meals a day or I’ll come around and stuff it down you. Hear?”
“Yes, Mr. Sloane, but—”
“Good. I’m taking that as a promise.” Phineas cringed. He hadn’t meant it that way; it couldn’t go through as a promise. “But—”
“No buts about it. Down there I figured you had as good a chance of being right as I did, so I didn’t open my mouth on the subject. But up here, that’s done with. No reason why you can’t enjoy life now.”
That was too much. “Life,” said Phineas, laying’ down his knife and preparing for siege, “was meant to give us a chance to prepare for the life to come, not to be squandered in wanton pleasure. Surely it’s better to suffer through a few brief years, resisting temptations, than to be forever damned to perdition. And would you sacrifice heaven for mere mundane cravings, transient and worthless?”
“Stow it, Phin. Doesn’t seem to me I sacrificed much to get here.” Then, at Phineas’ bewildered look. “Don’t tell me you don’t realize where you are? They told me they were sending a boy with the message; well, I guess he just missed you. You’re dead, Phin! This is heaven! We don’t talk much about it, but that’s the way it is!”
“No!” The world was rolling in circles under Phineas’ seat. He stared uncomprehendingly at Sloane, finding no slightest sign of mockery on the man’s face. And there was the hole in the memory of sins, and the changes, and—Callahan! Why, Callahan had died and been buried the year before; and here he was, looking ten years younger, and hearty as ever. But it was all illusion; of course, it was all illusion. Callahan wouldn’t be in heaven. “No, it can’t be.”
“But it is, Phin. Remember? I was down your way to get you for overtime work, and yelled at you just as you came out of your house. Then you started to cross, I yelled again—Come back now?”
There’d been a screeching of tires, Sloane running toward him suddenly waving frantically, and—blackout! “Then it hit? And this… is—”
“Uh-huh. Seems they picked me up with a shovel, but it took a month to finish you off.” Sloane dug into the pie, rolling it on his tongue and grinning. “And this
is Hereafter. A darned good one, too, even if nobody meets you at the gate to say ‘Welcome to Heaven.’ ” ·
Phineas clutched at the straw. “They didn’t tell you it was heaven, then? Oh.” That explained everything. Of course, he should have known. This wasn’t heaven after all; it couldn’t be. And though it differed from his conceptions, it most certainly could be the other place; there’d been that bee! Teh, it was just like Callahan and Sloane to enjoy perdition, misguided sinners, glorying in their unholiness.
Slowly the world righted itself, and Phineas Potts regained his normal state. To be sure, he’d used an ugly word, but what could be expected of him in this vile place? They’d never hold it against him under the circumstances. He lowered his eyes thankfully, paying no attention to Sloane’s idle remarks about unfortunates. Now if he could just find the authorities of this place and get the mistake straightened out, all might yet be well. He had always done his best to be righteous. Perhaps a slight delay, but not long; and then—no Callahan, no Sloane, no drafting, or bees, or grating noises!
He drew himself up and looked across at Sloane, sadly, but justly doomed to this strange Gehenna. “Mr. Sloane,” he asked firmly, “is there some place here where I can find… uh… authorities to… umm—”
“You mean you want to register a complaint? Why sure, a big white building about six blocks down; Adjustment and Appointment office.” Sloane studied him thoroughly. “Darned if you don’t look like you had a raw deal about something, at that. Look, Phin, they made mistakes sometimes, of course, but if they’ve handed you the little end, we’ll go right down there and get it put right.”
Phineas shook his head quickly. The proper attitude, no doubt was to leave Sloane in ignorance of the truth as long as possible, and that meant he’d have to go alone. “Thank you, Mr. Sloane, but I’ll go by myself, if you don’t mind. And… uh… if I don’t come back… uh—”
“Sure, take the whole afternoon off. Hey, wait, aren’t you gonna finish lunch?”
But Ph’ineas Potts was gone, his creaking legs carrying him out into the mellow noon sunlight and toward the towering white building that must be his destination. The fate of a man’s soul is nothing to dally over, and he wasn’t dallying. He tucked his umbrella close under his arm to avoid contact with the host of the damned, shuddering at the thought of mingling with them. Still, undoubtedly this torture would be added to the list of others, and his reward be made that much greater. Then he was at the Office of Administration, Appointments, and Adjustments.
There was another painted Jezebel at .the desk marked information, and he headed there, barely collecting his thoughts in time to avoid disgraceful excitement. She grinned at him and actually winked! “Mr. Potts, isn’t it? Oh, I’m so sorry you left before our messenger arrived. But if there’s something we can do now—”
“There is,” he told her firmly, though not too unkindly; after all, her punishment was ample without his anger. “I wish to see an authority here. I have a complaint; a most grievous complaint.”
“Oh, that’s too bad, Mr. Potts. But if you’ll see Mr. Alexander, down the hall, third door left, I’m sure he can adjust it.”
He waited no longer, but hurried where she pointed. As he approached, the third door opened and a dignified-looking man in a gray business suit stepped to it. The man held out a hand instantly. “I’m Mr. Alexander. Come in, won’t you? Katy said you had a complaint. Sit right over there, Mr. Potts. Ah, so. Now^if you’ll tell me about it, I think we can straighten it all out.”
Phineas told him—in detail. “And so,” he concluded firmly—quite firmly, “I feel I’ve been done a grave injustice, Mr. Alexander. I’m positive my destination should have been the other place.”
“The other place?” Alexander seemed surprised.
“Exactly so. Heaven, to be more precise.”
Alexander nodded thoughtfully. “Quite so, Mr. Potts.
Only I’m afraid there’s been a little misunderstanding. You see… ah… this is heaven. Still, I can see you don’t believe me yet, so we’ve failed to place you properly. We really want to make people happy here, you know. So, if you’ll just tell me what you find wrong, we’ll do what we can to rectify it.”
“Oh.” Phineas considered. This might be a trick, of course, but still, if they could make him happy here, give him his due reward for the years filled with temptation resisted and noble suffering in meekness and humility, there seemed nothing wrong with it. Possibly, it came to him, there were varying degrees of blessedness, and even such creatures as Callahan and his ilk were granted the lower ones—though it didn’t seem quite just. But certainly his level wasn’t Callahan’s.
“Very well,” he decided. “First, I find myself living in that room with the gray streak on the wallpaper, sir, and for years I’ve loathed it; and the alarm and telephone; and—”
Alexander smiled. “One at a time please. Now, about the room. I really felt we’d done a masterly job on that, you know. Isn’t it exactly like your room on the former level of life?
Ah, I see it is. And didn’t you choose and furnish that room yourself?”
“Yes, but—”
“Ah, then we were right. Naturally, Mr. Potts, we assumed that since it was of your own former creation, it was best suited to you. And besides, you need the alarm and telephone to keep you on time and in contact with your work, you know.”
“But I loathe drafting!” Phineas glanced at this demon who was trying to trap him, expecting it to wilt to its true form. It didn’t. Instead, the thing that was Mr. Alexander shook its head slowly and sighed.
“Now that is a pity; and we were so pleased to find we could even give you the same employer as before. Really, we felt you’d be happier under him than a stranger. However, if you don’t like it, I suppose we could change. What other kind of work would you like?”
Now that was more like it, and perhaps he had even misjudged Alexander. Work was something Phineas hadn’t expected, but—yes, that would be nice, if it could be arranged here. “I felt once I was called,” he suggested.
“Minister, you mean? Now that’s fine. Never get too many of them, Mr. Potts. Wonderful men, do wonderful work here. They really add enormously to the happiness’ of our Hereafter, you know. Let me see, what experience have you had?” He beamed at Potts, who thawed under it; then he turned to a bookshelf, selected a heavy volume and consulted it. Slowly the beam vanished, and worry took its place.
“Ah, yes, Phineas Theophilus Potts. Yes, entered training 1903. Hmmm. Dismissed after two years of study, due to. a feeling he might… might not be quite temperamentally suited to the work and that he was somewhat too fana… ahem!… overly zealous in his criticism of others. Then transferred to his uncle’s shop and took up drafting, which was thereafter his life’s work. Umm. Really, that’s too bad.” Alexander turned back to Phineas. “Then, Mr. Potts, I take it you never had any actual experience at this sort of work?”
The Best of Lester del Rey Page 7