Escape From Hell

by Larry Niven

  “What are you doing?” Sylvia shouted. “Stop! Eloise, help! Eee!” She was falling. Flames puffed up around her.

  “What are you doing?” I shouted.

  “Forgive us the deception,” Lindemann said. “Our insurance against each other. Allen, after two more go up you will be allowed to leave. We will pass the pitchfork to you. The rest of us will then leave this pit one at a time. Most of us will be able to get out without your assistance, but the last ones will require help. Your help. You will stay up there and assist us until we are all out of the pit. I shall be the last one. You will then be free to rescue your companion as you rescued Benito. Until then, she stays with us.”

  “This is insane!” Devilish, I thought. Sylvia was trying to stand up.

  “Hardly. It is the only rational solution. We none of us trust each other, nor do we trust your convictions. However, we have seen you rescue Benito, so we know that you can do that and have done so at considerable cost. We assume that you have at least as strong an urge to rescue your current companion. Herr Heydrich, you are next. Please be swift.”

  One of the bottom four got up. The pyramid was now three at the base, then two, then one. Reinhard climbed rapidly, grasped the top of the ledge, and pulled himself up. “I am safely out. The flames are extinguished,” he shouted. “Next.”

  Reinhard Heydrich. The butcher of Bohemia, and still arrogant. And I helped him escape.

  The pyramid disintegrated to let them rest. “I am truly sorry to do things this way,” Lindemann said. Sylvia was crying hysterically. “It will not be long,” he told her. “Believe me, if I knew any other way I would have tried it. Young lady, we will need you at the top of the pyramid. David, you are next. Allen will follow you.”

  Lindemann took his place at the bottom of the wall. The others silently took theirs. Sylvia looked at them, then at me, and still crying, still burning, climbed up to the top of the stack. The one they called David climbed up, and using Sylvia as a ladder climbed out of the pit.

  “Allen, you are next,” Lindemann said. His voice was strained.

  All right, I thought. I climbed. The heat was notably greater when I was atop the crouchers on the bottom. I climbed to where I could grasp Sylvia’s knees, then up to stand beside her. She was trying not to cry. I thought of assisting her up, but one of the men below her held her ankle. They had thought this out well.

  With Sylvia’s help I was able to grasp the top of the ledge and begin pulling myself up. I figured that when I got up I’d reach down for Sylvia. Maybe I was strong enough to pull her up even with someone clinging to her. Of course they’d thought of that. As soon as I had pulled myself up so that my torso was on the ledge, all the support below me was gone. The pyramid had collapsed.

  I wriggled my way up to the top. Eloise came over to help. As I got clear and my flames vanished I thought I heard Sylvia screaming.

  Eloise helped me to my feet.

  “What happened to the others?” I asked.

  “Gone.”

  “Did they say anything to you?”

  She shook her head. “Just the first one, Joachim. Sylvia helped him out of the pit. When his fire snuffed out he grabbed her and said ‘Die Schuld ist zahlend,’ and threw her into the pit. Then he ran off.” She pointed in the widdershins direction. “That way.”

  The debt is paid. I wondered what debt, and to whom, but I wasn’t likely to find out.

  “And the others just ran off without a word?”

  “Yes. I knew one of them.”

  Before I could ask, another flame appeared at the ledge top. He seemed unable to pull himself the rest of the way, so I reached into the flames to grasp his hair and pulled him out. When his flames extinguished he nodded to me briefly.

  I nodded back. “I know you. Jesse Unruh.” When I met him he’d been Assembly Speaker in California, but then he ran for mayor of Los Angeles and lost, and had to settle for some lesser position. A politician all his life. I couldn’t think of any special scandals associated with him other than the general corruption of that era.

  “Why?” I asked. “Are all the politicians in there?”

  “No. I was condemned for good intentions. I thought to help the schools.” He stood for a moment longer, then ran off clockwise.

  “Pitchfork coming. Be prepared,” Lindemann’s voice called up from the pit. Moments later the handle of Frightbeard’s twelve–foot pitchfork appeared. I grabbed it. It was hot, but holding it wasn’t as painful as reaching into the flames had been. I laid it on the ledge to cool, and blew on my hands.

  “We will rest for a moment,” Lindemann’s voice called.

  “Justice,” Eloise said.

  I looked the question to her.

  “Big Daddy Unruh. Before he began meddling, California had the best public school system in the country. It wasn’t the most expensive, either. Then he forced districts to consolidate. They got far too big for any local control. Unions and bureaucrats took over.”

  “California had pretty good schools when I died —”

  “We’re near rock–bottom last now,” Eloise said. “And damned near the most expensive. Thanks to Big Daddy. You should have thrown him back in.”

  “I should have thrown Heydrich back in,” I said.

  “Have you become a judge?” Eloise asked.

  I was trying to think of an answer. “Another coming out now,” Lindemann shouted. “Lev, you are next.”

  A small bearded man with a triangular face appeared. He needed assistance so I grasped his wrist and pulled him up. He stood blinking at the edge. “Do you need assistance?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t want him behind me. “Thank you, no. You may go now.”

  “Very well.” He went clockwise.

  “Coming out,” Lindemann shouted.

  They had chosen the order of their escape with some care, because the next two came out by themselves. Each left without speaking. That left Lindemann and one other, and Sylvia.

  “We will need assistance,” Lindemann shouted. “Sylvia and I will lift the general. You must pull him the rest of the way.”

  I dreaded this part. My hands had burned to char while Benito climbed that iron pitchfork. I got a grip on the iron handle and lowered the pitchfork into the pit at the place where the last one had emerged. He must have been standing on Sylvia’s shoulders, because he appeared immediately. Eloise came over to help and we had him out of the pit before the handle was more than uncomfortably hot.

  “Can I help?” he asked.

  I looked at him.

  He stood erect, and I would have known he was military if he hadn’t told me. “Air Marshal Harris. Lindemann is my friend. I can help you get him out of there.”

  “Ready,” I called.

  I could hear arguing below. Sylvia protested loudly. I dangled the pitchfork over the edge, and there was Lindemann. Sylvia must have lifted him. Lindemann continued to climb. The pitchfork heated, became hotter, too hot to hold.

  “I will help.” Harris came up behind me and grasped the handle. I flinched, but I could feel he was lifting the fork, not pushing me in. “Try letting go now.”

  My hands were blistered but not cooked to the handle, and I could let go. I stepped away quickly as two bar–shaped blisters burst out on my palms. I tried to ignore the pain.

  Lindemann came up over the edge. Harris stepped back, pulling Lindemann to him. The flame went out. I was afraid for a moment that Harris would throw the pitchfork back into the pit, but he set it down carefully and nursed his blistered hands.

  “Well. It is accomplished,” Lindemann said. “Do you care for company the rest of the way, or shall we leave you?”

  “I guess I don’t much care for your company,” I said.

  “I hardly blame you. Again we apologize, but I could think of no other way to be certain of escape. Now let me urge haste in rescuing your companion. When you fell into the pit we drove others away from this area, but I cannot expect they will stay away for long.”
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  “Oh.” I picked up the pitchfork. It was hot and hurt like hell. I could hear shouting below. I dangled the pitchfork over the edge. “Sylvia! Quick!”

  I felt her weight. “Coming! Thank you! Oh, thank you! Allen, I’m scared!”

  She climbed slowly, slower than Benito had, and I was afraid I couldn’t hold on. I gritted my teeth. “Hurry!”

  “I’m trying! Stop! Let me alone!”

  The weight on the pitchfork increased. Someone was trying to climb up on Sylvia! I pulled frantically.

  Then I felt Lindemann behind me. “I will assist,” he said. “General, if you please?”

  General Harris joined us. We strained as we lifted. Sylvia’s body came up out of the pit. We pulled, hard, and as we did we could see that someone was clinging to her waist. I could feel the fork getting red hot.

  “Too heavy!” I shouted.

  “Hang on,” Lindemann grunted.

  Eloise came over, and as a head appeared near the rim she did a graceful kick that caught the man full in the face. He flinched, and Eloise kicked again. The man fell.

  Now the three of us were strong enough to lift Sylvia clear of the pit and bring her onto the ledge. Her flame died out, and she collapsed whimpering on the rocks.

  Chapter 30

  Eighth Circle, Ninth Bolgia

  Sowers Of Discord

  * * *

  I sorrowed then; I sorrow now again,

  Pondering the things I saw, and curb my hot

  Spirit with an unwontedly strong rein.

  For fear it run where virtue guide it not,

  Lest, if kind star or greater grace have blest

  me with good gifts, I mar not my own fair lot.

  My hands were a ruin. I waited to heal, and as I did I thought about Lindemann and Harris. They seemed in no great hurry to get away from us, but Lindemann acted as if we were in a social situation. He had committed a faux pas, and was anxious to make amends.

  Sylvia lay curled up in a near fetal position. Eloise knelt beside her making soothing noises. “You’ll be all right, now,” Eloise said.

  “I don’t think so.” She looked over to me. “Allen, I wanted to die. To just curl up and turn to ash. I thought I was over all that. I thought I was beyond despair.”

  “You are. Sylvia, you didn’t despair. You did what you had to do.”

  She thought about that.

  “Indeed. You were quite brave,” Lindemann said. He bowed to Eloise. “As were you. La Savate?”

  Eloise nodded and cradled Sylvia’s head in her lap. “You were splendid,” she crooned.

  I looked at my hands. They were nearly healed. Good enough, I thought. I got to my feet and grasped Lindemann by his robe. I lifted him above my head. It would be easy to throw him into the pit.

  He was startled, but he made no protest beyond a squawk when I grabbed him.

  General Harris ran over and tried to fight me. He pounded on me with his fists but that didn’t do any good at all. I hardly felt his blows. I looked at him. “Run or you’re next.”

  “No. Damn you, put him down.”

  “Allen,” Sylvia said. “They did help me get out.”

  “They threw you in!”

  Definitely justice, I thought. But was it? They could have run away. They chose to stay and help, even though I hadn’t trusted them. And who was I to make this decision? Was Eloise right, was I becoming a judge instead of a rescuer? The moment of rage passed. I set Lindemann down.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Thank Sylvia,” I said. “Now get away from me.”

  “Of course. Again, young lady, my apologies. And my thanks.” They walked off together, clockwise.

  We waited until they were out of sight. I gathered up our rope and pickaxe, and we followed.

  “Why this way?” Eloise asked.

  “It’s the way Dante went,” Sylvia said.

  “Benito, too,” I told them. “But he said it didn’t really make any difference. Anyway, there ought to be a bridge not far ahead.”

  “Reinhard Heydrich,” Eloise said. “And we helped him escape.”

  “Has he escaped?” Sylvia asked.

  We found the bridge. It arched high above the Eighth Bolgia. Flames burned like candles below us. I remembered the old drinking song, Fire and sleet and candlelight …

  The ridge between the Eighth with its Evil Counselors and the next Bolgia wasn’t very wide, and was scattered with rocks of all sizes. It was a long way to the next bridge.

  “There’s a demon at the next bridge,” I said. “Stay closer to the uphill side.” I shuddered, remembering the demon with the great sword.

  “What about the demon?”

  “He likes to talk,” I said. “And he’s dangerous.”

  We were safe enough above the Eighth Bolgia but the flames kept calling to us for help. They all had stories, and nearly all the stories had the same theme. They meant well. Whatever horrors they had advocated, they meant well.

  “We thought we could control Hitler! The Reich was in chaos, Hitler promised so much, and we were sure we could control him!”

  “Saddam had to go! He was evil, we thought if the people rose up against him they could win! How could we know he would kill everyone in the Delta?”

  “We thought he had weapons of mass destruction because Saddam damn well faked us out! He was using the money to build palaces!”

  “Didn’t matter. We had to tell the Congress there were weapons of mass destruction! They would never have supported us without that story!”

  “We didn’t know we would kill more people than Saddam ever did! We were patriots, how could we know so many would die? We believed Chalabi!”

  “Kennedy needed a coward in that room! It might have been atomic war!”

  “Leaks! There were leaks everywhere! The Pentagon was spying on the President! We had traitors in the White House! We had to do something, and do it fast!”

  “We meant well! We didn’t know!”

  There were thousands of others, from a thousand times and places. English who counseled wars against the French because the English king had rights. French who counseled war against the Germans. A French cardinal who urged the French to aid the Turks against the Germans. Self–serving counselors who shut down research programs so there would be more money to steal. French, German, American, Turkish. Two Bulgarians. An Albanian. They all had meant well.

  It was easier for Sylvia and Eloise to ignore them. They couldn’t understand most of them in the first place. After a while I tuned them out. “I’ve done that demonstration,” I said.

  Sylvia looked puzzled. “Allen?”

  “I’ve pulled souls from the Eighth Bolgia, twice now,” I said.

  “But Allen, why did we burst into flames when we were in there? Why were we trapped there?”

  “I don’t know. We weren’t Evil Counselors.”

  “Dante called them counselors of fraud,” Sylvia said. “But that’s no better. I never advised people to steal or do fraud. I don’t think I did.”

  “Me, either. Dammit, if this place is run by justice —”

  “Justice without mercy,” Eloise said.

  “All right, justice without mercy. Then that says it was just for us to be in that pit.”

  “You weren’t in it for long,” Eloise said. “Does that make a difference?”

  “I don’t know.” I thought about it as we walked. Justice without mercy. Had I ever given evil advice? Well–meant evil advice? But of course I had. I’d written stories with that theme. Good ends justify evil means. “I didn’t try to convince anyone! They were just stories!” I shouted.

  Someone in the pit bellowed, “Behind the hedge of the teeth!” Shut up, in Spanish.

  “Of course they were. You weren’t condemned to that place,” Sylvia said.

  “Neither were you.”

  “That’s my point,” Sylvia said. “We weren’t sentenced there. You went past it twice already. You even helped Benito get ou
t. So nothing compelled you to be in there, but once you were — is it really unjust that you had to find a way out?”

  “Puzzles.” I wondered, “Could it be part of the game?”

  “Game?” She shied back a little.

  “Bridge ahead,” Eloise said.

  “Some games are played for very high stakes. Be careful up here,” I told them. “There’s a demon under the bridge.”

  “Allen —” Sylvia pointed.

  There was a man lying in the path. No. Not a man. Half a man, the upper part of a body cut off above the waist. Entrails spilled out of the body cavity. There was blood everywhere.

  “We’ve seen him before,” Eloise said. “We helped get him out! Lev, they called him.”

  “Leon Trotsky,” Sylvia said. “What happened to you?”

  He stared at her in incomprehension. Shock, I thought. “Demon.” His voice was strained. I wondered how he could talk at all.

  “Ha! Carpenter, you have returned!”

  The voice was deep and inhuman and came from under the bridge. I recognized the voice. “Did you do this?” I called.

  “Why, yes, Carpenter. He was a schismatic, a sower of discord. Doubly so. Communism divided humanity and he divided Communism. Much like Mohammed and his son–in–law, wouldn’t you say? I have had them since they died. Come, Carpenter, you are an educated man. Surely this is justice?”

  “I’m not looking for justice,” I said.

  “Mercy? Never here. There is teaching, but not mercy.”

  “Not that, either.” I pulled Trotsky’s torso away from the edge of the pit. “You’ll heal,” I told him. “At least I think you will.”

  “My legs,” he groaned. He pointed to the edge of the pit. “Down there. I need my legs!”

  “Is there any other kind of justice, Carpenter?” the demon called. “Come closer and see my justice.”

  “Fat chance!”

  “Come now, Carpenter, you have nothing to fear from me. If you belonged in my pit you would be here. I even let you win the game.”

  “My companions —”

  “They are not mine,” he said. “Now come, I will show you marvels.”

  “The devil lies,” Sylvia reminded me.

  I was dithering. It was possible to dash past the demon. I’d done it. I’d also fallen into the Tenth Bolgia for my pains. But when I needed to get back uphill to rescue Benito, he’d let me pass. For a price.