“Look, Howard,” I said, “just what in the Hell are you doing in my dream, anyhow?”
“Funny you should mention Hell,” Howard said, with that quick nervous laugh of his. “That’s where I live these days.”
“I could have figured that out for myself,” I said.
“Come on, lighten up, Tom,” Howard said, with a flash of irritation. “I’m not in Hell because I was bad. Everybody’s here—everybody I’ve ever known, and most of the people I’ve ever heard of. I mean this is the place people go to after they die. Nobody even calls it Hell. I call it that because nobody ever smiles around here and I figure this has got to be the place. But it’s not bad. There’s a guy who runs things. He tells us to just call him Mr. Smith. But I figure he’s the Devil. He doesn’t seem to be a bad fellow and he’s very cultured.”
“I always figured the Devil would be a businessman,” I said. “Or possibly a scientist.”
“There you go with that cynicism, Tom,” Howard said. “As a matter of fact, the Devil is an art critic and an expert on contemporary culture.”
“Did he tell you that himself?”
“It’s the only way I can explain how all the best jobs down here go to artists, writers, sculptors, musicians, painters, dancers… And they get the best housing, too, and the new cars.”
I was interested. As I have mentioned, I’m a writer, not wildly successful, but not entirely unknown, either. My mother had always told me that my reward would come in Heaven, or wherever I happened to land. And here was proof of sorts.
“Tell me more,” I said.
“A person’s status down here depends entirely on how well known he was on Earth. The Supreme Court is run by guys like Tolstoi, Melville, Nijinsky, Beethoven. Even a loser like Poe has been given the directorship of a large interlocking conglomerate and he gets paid whether he works or not.”
“I really like the sound of this,” I said. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“Oh, it’s fine for guys like you,” Howard said, with some bitterness. “For the rest of us it’s not so great.”
My brother-in-law told me that he lived in a one-room semidetached house in a small suburb on the outskirts of Hell. His work—the only work available—was sorting gravel according to size and number of facets. All the unknowns did that.
“Doesn’t sound too tough,” I said.
“It’s not. The real punishment is boredom. They did give me a television, but the reception is lousy and the only program I can get is I Love Lucy reruns. We also get to see a baseball game once a week, but it’s always the same one, Phillies and Red Sox, Fenway Park, 1982. I could recite it for you play by play.”
“Well, Howard,” I said, “it’s all pretty dreary, but there’s nothing I can do about it. So take care of yourself and lots of luck in your new home.”
“Wait!” Howard said. “Don’t go wake up yet. I used up ten years’ worth of cigarette rations to get into your dream. You could help me, Tom, and it would help you, too.”
“What are you talking about, Howard?”
“You could write up this story for a magazine. They’d pay you for it. Just mention my name in the story. Even being mentioned by a published writer is worth something in Hell. I think it would give me enough status to get out of this suburb, take the next step, move into a cottage in a place that looks like Cape May in the rain, and I’d get to sort semiprecious stones instead of gravel, and get two channels on the television with an NFL football game every Sunday as well as the baseball game. It’s not much, but from where I’m sitting it looks like Heaven. Tom, say you’ll do it!”
He looked at me imploringly. His time in Hell hadn’t done much for his looks. He was drawn, haggard, strained, nervous, apathetic, anxious, and tired. I suppose that’s how people on the lowest social rungs of Hell always look.
“All right, Howard, I’ll do it. Now, please go back to Hell and have a good trip.”
His face lighted up. “You’ll do it? May Satan smile upon your reviews!” he cried. And then he was gone.
And so I sat down and wrote this story. My original intention was to use it to complete my revenge against Howard. You see, I have written this whole thing without using my brother-in-law’s real name. As far as I’m concerned he can sort gravel in his semidetached house in Hell forever.
That was my first intention. But then I relented. It was a fine revenge, but I couldn’t let myself take it. I think it’s all right to pursue vengeance to the grave, but not beyond. And you may laugh at this, but it’s also my conviction that we living have a duty to do whatever we can to help out the dead.
So this one’s for you, Howard, whose real name is Paul W. Whitman, late of 2244 Seacactus Drive, Miami Beach, Florida. I forgive you for all the bad stuff about Tracy. Maybe she and I would have split up anyway, even without your help. May this mention get you safely to your hotel room and your football game once a week.
And if you happen to see my old high school buddies, Manny Klein, killed in Vietnam, 1969; Sam Taylor, heart attack, Manhattan, 1971; and Ed Moscowitz, mugged in Morningside Heights, 1978, tell them I was asking after them and thus ensuring, I hope, their move to more pleasing surroundings.
The Necessary Thing
Richard Gregor was seated at his desk in the dusty offices of the AAA Ace Interplanetary Decontamination Service, staring wearily at a list. The list included some 2,305 separate items. Gregor was trying to remember what, if anything, he had left out.
Anti-radiation salve? Vacuum flares? Water-purification kit? Yes, they were all there.
He yawned and glanced at his watch. Arnold, his partner, should have been back by now. Arnold had gone to order the 2,305 items and see them stowed safely aboard the spaceship. In a few hours, AAA Ace was scheduled to blast off on another job.
But had he listed everything important? A spaceship is an island unto itself, self-sufficient, self-sustaining. If you run out of beans on Dementia II, there is no store where you could buy more. No Coast Guard hurries out to replace the burned-out lining on your main drive. You have to have another lining on board, and the tools to replace it with, and the manuals telling you how. Space is just too big to permit much in the way of rescue operations.
Oxygen extractor? Extra cigarettes? It was like attaching jets to a department store, Gregor thought.
He pushed the list aside, found a pack of tattered cards, and laid out a hopeless solitaire of his own devising.
Minutes later, Arnold stepped jauntily in.
Gregor looked at his partner with suspicion. When the little chemist walked with that peculiar bouncing step, his round face beaming happily, it usually meant trouble for AAA Ace.
“Did you get the stuff?” Gregor asked.
“I did better than that,” Arnold said proudly.
“We’re supposed to blast off—”
“And blast we will,” Arnold said. He sat down on the edge of his desk. “I have just saved us a considerable sum of money.”
“Oh, no,” Gregor sighed. “What have you done?”
“Consider,” Arnold said impressively, “just consider the sheer waste in equipping the average expedition. We pack 2,305 items, just on the offchance we may need one. Our payload is diminished, our living space is cramped, and the stuff never gets used.”
“Except for once or twice,” Gregor said, “when it saves our lives.”
“I took that into account,” Arnold said. “I gave the whole problem careful study. And I was able to cut down the list considerably. Through a bit of luck, I found the one thing an expedition really needs. The necessary thing.”
Gregor arose and towered over his partner. Visions of mayhem danced through his brain, but he controlled himself with an effort. “Arnold,” he said, “I don’t know what you’ve done. But you’d better get those 2,305 items on board and get them fast.”