Escape From Hell

by Larry Niven

  “I was a writer,” I reminded her.

  “Hah. Ted was a writer, and he was never depressed. Wild, stupid, wonderful sometimes, angry a lot, but not depressed.”

  “He was after you died,” I told her. “Especially when the best known biography about the poet laureate of England had the title Her Husband.”

  She giggled. It was a horrible sound. “It was?”

  “Yep.”

  “He really became poet laureate?”

  “He did.”

  “I wonder where they put Ted? Maybe he’s in Heaven. Did he reform? Get religion?”

  “Not that I read,” I told her. “But I’m not even sure he’s dead. Nobody thought he was as interesting as you were. They didn’t make movies about him.”

  “Movies. And you said books, too. About me?” There was a bit of wonder in her voice, but not too much. She’d thought about it.

  When I was in the bottle, I’d thought about everything.

  “Allen?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Do people still read my work?”

  “Yeah. They made a movie out of The Bell Jar, too. Julie Harris. Ted Hughes sold the rights. He published most of your work. Letters, stories, poems. Your journal, or nearly all of it. Hughes burned the last month’s entries. Some say he burned more, burned your best work because it made him look bad. I wouldn’t know, I never read much literary gossip.”

  “I read too much of it,” she said. “So. You were in a bottle. Then you were outside the bottle, and your friend Benito was there. Who sent him to get you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know. Your friend came to rescue you. Didn’t he know who sent him?”

  “Benito was a good Catholic. He was sure everything was according to God’s will. But Sylvia, he wasn’t my friend. Not then. Sylvia, he was Benito Mussolini! And he didn’t really know who sent him. God never talked to him.”

  She was quiet. I reached to take hold of a branch.

  “You don’t have to do that. I can talk. I was just trying to comprehend that. Benito Mussolini. There were movies making fun of him when I was growing up during the war, but there were people who admired him, too. Fascist. Made the trains run on time. Il Duce. In German that’s Führer. He taught Hitler. At least that’s what I learned in school. You’re sure it was him?”

  “Oh, I’m sure.”

  “And he got out. Benito Mussolini led you all the way to the exit. Then he got out of Hell, and you could have, but you didn’t follow him. And you know the way out now, but you’re not going until you know everyone can get out. Have I got all that right?”

  “Yes. Sounds stupid, doesn’t it?”

  She ignored that. “And you have the gift of tongues. You can wander through Hell.”

  “Yes —”

  “Allen, all my life I prayed for a Sign. You had one. Allen! So do I! You’re my Sign.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  I was curled up like a knot on Sylvia’s twisted roots. “Because it’s not doing either one of us any good, that’s why!”

  “Maybe that’s wrong. Dante wasn’t a theologian, he was a poet. We can trust his geography, but Allen, you already know something he didn’t know!”

  “What’s that?”

  “That even someone who has been condemned can get out. That people like you and Benito can wander through Hell.”

  “Oh.” I felt better for a second. Benito had certainly been condemned to the Pit of the Evil Counselors, and now he was out. “But we still don’t have a way to get you out!” I slapped her trunk. Rooted.

  “We’ll get to that later. O Allen, don’t leave me! Tell me, tell me everything. This has to make sense. I know it makes sense! We’ll figure it out. Start in the Vestibule, and tell me everything.”

  Chapter 3

  The Vestibule

  Opportunists

  * * *

  We to the place have come, where I have told thee

  Thou shalt behold the people dolorous

  Who have foregone the good of intellect.

  I hurt all over. It felt like I’d been blasted to bits. I felt motion within myself, like a sluggish dust eddy. I was coming back together, but the process wasn’t fast. After about a hundred years — well, it might have been just a few minutes, how can you tell? — I looked around to see where I was.

  I was exactly where I found myself the first time, in an endless expanse of stinking mud studded with old clay and metal bottles, with insects buzzing around me. There were low hills all around me. Far off in the distance one way was a wall, and in the other direction, closer, was an evil–looking river. Acheron. There was the faint smell of decaying flowers, and overhead was the gray haze that passes for sky in Hell.

  There was an opened bronze bottle next to me. It might have been mine, my prison. I was home.

  • • •

  “But you weren’t, Allen.”

  Sylvia had interrupted my narrative. I looked up at her, startled for the moment. “You can still talk.”

  “Yes. I can talk as long as I bleed. Allen, you weren’t right back where you started. You were outside the bottle.”

  “Yeah.” I shuddered at the thought. What if I’d been bottled again? I wasn’t alone, either. There was a small crowd drifting around me, swatting at themselves and watching me. When I tried to talk I squawked. Just like I did with you, I guess. Eventually I was able to ask what the Hell they were looking at.

  “They all talked at once. In half a dozen languages. The funny part was that I understood every one of them. They were all saying there’d been a big bang, and there I was, in wisps of pink fog that were coming together, and they’d never seen anything like that.”

  “Simple curiosity,” Sylvia said. “I can understand that.”

  “Maybe.”

  • • •

  It would have to be damned strong curiosity. Have I mentioned the wasps? The Vestibule is full of them. Maybe they’re attracted to people standing still. This crowd was drawing a lot of them.

  I bent over to pick up my bottle. Someone shouted at me, and I said something stupid like, “It’s all right, that’s my bottle. It’s where I started.” Wasn’t there something else I ought to tell them? “I know the way out!”

  There was this tall guy, clean shaven, funny haircut. Ordinary dirty robe like most wore. Like I was wearing. My robe had reassembled itself, too. I thought I ought to recognize him, but I didn’t. He had a question.

  “Is that a cause worth dying for?” He sounded serious, but there was this cynical flavor, too. Infuriating.

  “You’re already dead,” I informed him.

  “You are certain of this?”

  “Damn straight I’m certain. I know how I died, and I met lots of other people who know how they died. Everyone here is dead. Don’t you know what killed you?”

  “Of course I do. And I have been here long enough that I cannot still be alive.”

  “So why do you doubt that you’re dead?” This seemed like a silly conversation, except that I noticed a dozen others listening to me.

  “Sir. What is your name?” one asked me. She was a woman about forty, and she’d been attractive in life. Even here she was primped, her dark hair braided since she didn’t have a comb, and her robe was clean. I wondered if she’d washed it in the river. That would have been dangerous, or Benito said it was.

  “Allen Carpenter.”

  “Rosemary Bennett, Mr. Carpenter. I’ll take your case.”

  She seemed serious. I studied her. Dark braided hair. Brown eyes, large and clear. A full mouth with what I can only describe as a professional smile designed to put me at ease.

  “What?”

  She ignored me. “Mr. Carpenter represents that it is self–evident that we are all dead,” she said. “Signor Crinatelli disputes this, but admits that all the evidence known to him supports that hypothesis.”

  “I dispute that.” He was on the other side of this ci
rcle around me. Tall, silver haired, a voice that practically reeked of credibility. Silver–tongued devil, I thought. “We do not stipulate that all the evidence known to us supports that hypothesis.”

  “The admission was made in open court, and we all heard it. Resipso loquat.”

  “It was not, and in any event it was an unprepared statement made before counsel was appointed, and thus not admissible.”

  “I object!”

  “You can’t object, you don’t represent anyone here.”

  “I am amicus curiae!”

  “Overruled.”

  “You’re not the magistrate! It’s not your day!”

  “How do you know what day it is? It is my day to preside.”

  “It is not. I appeal!”

  But now they were all talking at once, and I realized something. They were all talking, and I could understand what they were saying, but half of them didn’t understand each other. Or did they? Maybe they just weren’t listening.

  “I have doubted everything. Why should I not doubt that as well?” Signor Crinatelli asked.

  “May it please the Court to ask the witness to speak through counsel,” said the man who’d claimed he was a friend of the court.

  I kept wondering who these people were. Then again, this was the Vestibule, the place for ditherers. They weren’t likely to be famous.

  I ignored them all and went over to Crinatelli. “What have you been doing all the time you were here?”

  “Slapping wasps.” He slapped hard at one.

  “Please, I can’t hear you, how can I plead for you if I can’t hear you?” The lady who’d appointed herself my counsel was near tears.

  “Just who are you?” I asked her.

  “Rosemary Bennett, Esquire.”

  I noticed the accent. Southern. Not Deep South drawl, but definitely Southern. Texas, maybe. “Ms. Bennett, I thank you for trying to help, but I didn’t appoint you as my lawyer, and I don’t need a lawyer.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  She turned to Crinatelli. “I will accept your case.”

  “He already has counsel.”

  “Objection.”

  “Overruled.”

  “We told you, this isn’t your day to be magistrate!”

  “The wasps guide us. They force us to chase those banners,” Crinatelli said. “We stopped when you appeared. Ouch.”

  “How do you stand this?” I waved to indicate the group.

  He shrugged expressively. “We run together. You get used to it. You see where we are.”

  And why, I thought. I pointed to a group running pell–mell after a green banner. Words flowed across it. DON’T LET THEM IMMANENTIZE THE ESCHATON. I looked at it and blinked. It still said that.

  “The wasps force you to chase banners?” I asked.

  “Yes.” He slapped again.

  “Does it matter which one you chase?”

  “Not that I can discern.”

  “Red banner! Red is best!” Rosemary’s silver–haired opponent was adamant.

  There was a red banner in the distance. It said, for a moment, LIFE IS PAIN. THE PAIN IS CAUSED BY CRAVING FOR LIFE. Then the message changed to something I couldn’t make out.

  “Green! It is vital!” another shouted.

  Several began a chant. “Hey hey! Ho ho! Green banners have got to go!”

  There were cheers, but someone shouted over them, “One, two, three, four, put red banners out the door!” That got more cheers, and now we had two parties, red and green, each with passionate defenders, both chanting.

  “Which do you like?” I asked Rosemary.

  She looked pained. “Do you really think it matters? Or even that they think so? Besides, the colors change.”

  She pointed to a blue banner. For a moment it said O DANIEL, SHUT UP THE WORDS, AND SEAL THE BOOK, EVEN TO THE TIME OF THE END: MANY SHALL RUN TO AND FRO, AND KNOWLEDGE SHALL BE INCREASED.

  I thought about that for a moment. Truth or humor? The words were changing as the banner retreated. OH COME TO THE CHURCH IN THE WILD WOOD!

  As that retreated another came across. KARMA’S FORCE ALONE PREVENTS WHAT IS NOT DESTINED. The letters blurred, and then I made out FOR THEREIN IS THE RIGHTEOUSNESS OF GOD REVEALED FROM FAITH TO FAITH: AS IT IS WRITTEN, THE JUST SHALL LIVE BY FAITH.

  I announced, “Follow me, if you’re tired of banners.”

  “Others have said that,” someone said. “Many others. Sometimes we see them again, but some never return.”

  That voice sounded Italian. Crinatelli? He’d got lost in the chanting crowd, and I couldn’t see him. “Did you know Benito?” I shouted.

  He heard me. “Of a certainty. He asked us to follow him. It was not the first time. I followed him once in life, until the king dismissed him. We all deserted him, but he came back and demanded obedience again, but then he was a mere puppet of the Germans. I had had enough of him, but I could not choose another side. The Germans shot me for my indecisions. I found myself here. Then Mussolini came here and asked us to follow him. He seemed different, less certain of himself. He had no Germans with him. None of us would follow him. Why should we? We knew who he was.”

  “I did follow him,” I said. I didn’t think I was speaking Italian, but he seemed to understand me. But then so did all the others. “I followed him all the way down, through the circles, past Satan. I watched him leave Hell! I’ll show you how!”

  “Follow you through Hell,” Crinatelli said. “Why should we do that? Who are you that you may lead us out of Hell?”

  “I’m the guy who knows the way!”

  Crinatelli’s silver–tongued counsel shouted, “Because you have read a book? Many of us have read that book!”

  “What book?” someone screamed.

  “Dante.”

  “Who’s Dante?”

  Others chimed in. “Who has appointed you as our savior? If God wants us saved, why does He not send His Son to lead us?”

  Another banner floated past. I couldn’t see anyone carrying it. THE UNIVERSE IS BATHED IN THE GLORY OF THE LORD. RENOUNCE THE WORLD AND ENJOY IT. COVET NOTHING. It had a dozen followers.

  The wasps were gathering in strength. My pains from — congealing? Reassembly? — were almost gone, but the wasps were making up for it. Standing here wasn’t going to do anyone any good. There was a banner with no followers. It said simply REPENT! I ignored it. “Follow me!” I shouted, and took off.

  A fair number of them did. I tried to remember how Benito and I had found Charon’s ferryboat. Off to the left as I faced the river, I was pretty sure of that. I ran that way, leading a mixed party of men and women still slapping wasps. The tall guy with the funny haircut wasn’t with them. He’d gone a different way. But Rosemary Bennett was right with me.

  “You believe me?” I asked her.

  “Allen, I don’t know. I want to believe something. Can I believe you?”

  • • •

  I broke another twig from Sylvia’s tree. “Sylvia, it was then I realized just how serious this all was. I was asking people to believe in me, and I didn’t know if what I believed made any sense. What if I’m wrong? Just who did appoint me savior?”

  “Why did Rosemary believe you?”

  “I was afraid to ask her. I was afraid if I asked her she’d see I was a fake.”

  “But you’re not a fake!”

  “Well, but I was afraid she’d think I was. I wanted her to come with me!”

  Sylvia said, “She’s not with you now.”

  “No.”

  “What happened to her?”

  Chapter 4

  Charon And The Acheron

  * * *

  All those who perish in the wrath of God

  Here meet together out of every land;

  And ready are they to pass o’er the river,

  Because celestial Justice spurs them on

  So that their fear is turned into desire.

  I was looking for Charon’s ferryboat
… but I’d remembered the woman I’d talked to last time, the one who told me, “We’re in the hands of infinite power and infinite sadism.” She’d scared me with that. I wanted to tell her what had happened and see if she had learned anything. She’d upset me as much as anyone I met in Hell.

  I was still thinking about her when a banner crossed my path. It said PAY IT FORWARD. That was what I thought I was doing. Benito had helped me. So had others I couldn’t pay back. The banner changed. FREELY YOU RECEIVED. NOW FREELY GIVE.

  Justice. Pay it forward. I thought I could make out someone carrying that banner, and I ran toward it. When I got closer I saw that it was like the others, floating free with no one carrying it.

  Now I was running in circles like everyone else. My entourage was still following me. I don’t think I’d lost a single one of them. Rosemary Bennett was right with me, half a step behind and off to the right. “I can’t find her!” I said.

  “Can’t find who?”

  “Fat lady. Morbidly obese. She’d been an FDA attorney. Made the decision to ban cyclamates.”

  “Cyclamates?” Rosemary asked.

  I waved it off.

  “Sugar substitute? Why would she be here for banning cyclamates? Why would she be in Hell at all for that, and why here?”

  “You expect Hell to make sense? To find reasons?”

  “I hoped to find reasons,” she said. “They told us not to hope, didn’t they? But I still hoped to make sense of this place.”

  “Hoped. You gave up, then?”

  “Until you came along. Why did you come?”

  “Wasn’t my fault. I got blown up by an exploding … soul.”

  “You didn’t come back to us for a reason?”

  Now the banner said BEWARE LEST ANY MAN MAKE YOU HIS PREY THROUGH PHILOSOPHY ACCORDING TO THE ELEMENTAL SPIRITS OF THE UNIVERSE. I was trying to absorb that when it changed again. ASK, AND IT SHALL BE GIVEN YOU; SEEK, AND YE SHALL FIND.

  “I didn’t choose where to come back,” I told her. But of course I’d had a reason for coming back out of the grotto. “I came to tell everyone there’s a way out of here! To show them the way out!” To earn my own way out? It was a new thought.

  The banner said PAY IT FORWARD again. It veered off to the left. I followed, but it seemed pointless.