The sphere swerved upward and passed overhead. Inwardly, Matt flinched.
A new sphere swam up. The soul inside sat grinning frantically, sweat popping from its brow, clutching at a brightly-colored object in front of it. As its hands touched it, the colors faded, and the bauble evaporated. Another appeared to the side; he clutched at it, but it faded, too.
"This is a materialist," the devil cackled in glee. "He believed nothing was real save what he could see and feel. He sees it now, but can never touch it. Illusion-all he sees is illusion. Even should he touch his own body, he will find there no substance. He has lost his reality, you see. Still he'll go on, clutching at phantoms, in ever-failing hope that he'll find something real. Each creates his own," the devil went on, as the sphere swam away. "Each damns himself. All have chosen this; none are sent here who have not chosen it."
Matt realized, Madness. They're all going mad - but they can never get there.
"Of course," the devil gloated. "That's part of Hell."
The sphere disappeared, and a dark, empty one replaced it.
"Yes," the devil murmured, "this is yours. It is empty now, but 'twill soon be peopled. You will people it, with your own ungovernable fantasies; for you are, at the bottom, a solipsist, and your subconscious is out of control. Oh, by long and stern training, a man might gain mastery of it-but you have had no taste for such lasting, disciplined effort. Small wonder in that; all Hell is for such solipsists, of one form or another: but you have not chosen your form. These sinners you saw-there is something of each of them in you; but no one form of sinning has dominance in you. You are general, amorphous. All that may definitely be said is that you're convinced you're the center of the universe, you never have grown up, have you? - and that you're lost in your own illusions.
"Let them have you!"
The dark, empty sphere slammed up, and Matt plunged headlong against its surface. It gave beneath him, stretching, like a film of plastic; then it gave, and he broke through and in.
Suddenly, he could move again, of his own accord - and could speak! Screaming, he whirled about and dove at the invisible wall. It stretched beneath him, it gave - but it didn't break.
The devil throbbed and pulsed on the other side, howling with glee. "Oh yes, fight, struggle! But you'll never escape! Hell is forever!"
A last desperate hope touched Matt's mind. "But my hell is being the victim of my own uncontrolled illusions! If I can get them under control, it'll cease to be Hell!"
"Hell is Hell," the devil sneered.
"Is it?" Matt cried. "Or is it purgatory? That's supposed to be just like Hell - except that it ends! And if this might end, it might be Purgatory!"
"It might," the devil said thoughtfully.
"Yeah! So which is it?"
"Hell is not knowing," the devil murmured.
And it hit Matt, with the full weight of despair - the devil was correct in this. If you were in Purgatory, you knew it; you knew it would end. Not knowing, he knew this was Hell!
The devil was fairly bouncing with glee. "Despair! You do it so well! Ah, hope! It's so wonderful - when it's gone!"
Matt realized the devil had been deliberately baiting him, encouraging a last flare of hope only so that it could snatch it away. Anger kindled, plowing through the despair; Matt shot forward against the unseen wall, hands outstretched for the devil's theoretical throat.
"Rage!" The devil howled with delight. "Delightful to watch! I wish I could stay!"
Panic surged through Matt, burying anger. This devil was, at least, a sentient being. "No, please! Foul as you are, you're some bit of company! Don't leave me alone!"
"Alone," the devil mocked him. "That, at the bottom, is the nature of Hell. Farewell, penultimate skeptic! Farewe-e-e-e-e-lll!"
Its voice faded as it shrank down to a dot, receding, going, going...
Gone.
Matt was surrounded by darkness, total, impenetrable, without a single iota of light. Not even the pinpoints of distant, other hells were visible any longer. Despair plunged down on him, flattening the soul. He looked about frantically for a dagger, a razor, anything to end life!
Then he remembered - life was ended.
And the loneliness bit in through the despair, till Matt could have sworn there was nothing left of him but a consciousness that felt its isolation as a burning pain, worse than fire in each cubic millimeter. His whole being pleaded for madness.
A low growling sounded, swelling to fill the void.
Matt whirled about, panic clutching his throat.
It shot toward him - black, with curly fur and a blunted muzzle that opened to show long, pointed teeth, sharper than any dog ever had.
"No!" Matt shrieked, dropping into a crouch, arms up to hide his face. "No! I loved you! You were my friend!"
But the dog came on, its growl rising to rage, eyes reddening.
It was the pet dog from his boyhood, the dog who had died while he was at summer camp.
The growling modulated into words. "I died without you:"
"It wasn't my fault, Malemute! I was a kid, I couldn't get back! They didn't tell me!" And his brain knew the truth of the words, but his subconscious didn't believe it.
So neither did Malemute. Knife-teeth flashed down. Matt screamed as they ripped furrows in his leg. He jackknifed over, clawing at the muzzle, trying to pry the jaws apart. But the dog bit down harder; teeth crunched on Matt's bone, and he shrieked. The dog chewed, ripping the leg into shreds.
"Give him to me!"
Jaws snapped open; the dog's head jerked up, looking back over its shoulder.
Long, golden hair, round face, huge, long-lashed eyes, impossibly full, ruby lips, long, tapering legs, swelling hips, and huge pillow-breasts - she advanced, smiling lazily.
But Matt didn't feel the slightest bit of sexual interest; he felt terror. He knew her; she'd filled his dreams, day and night, in earliest puberty. In his daydreams, she'd been very willing, extremely cooperative-after all, there hadn't teen that much asked. But at night ...
He plastered himself back against the yielding wall, sweat starting from his brow.
"Yes," she murmured sleepily, "this is a woman. Touching you here ...touching you here..."
Matt's scream turned into a shuddering gasp. Her touch was like pliers drawing hot wire, drawing it out of the depths of his body. Fire lanced him from knees up to chest.
"The pain is the preacher's," she breathed, "but - the lust is yours." Her face slipped up, and huge breasts descended, covering, enfolding his face, pressing down, cutting off sight and sound, isolating him, smothering. He fought for air, gasping, struggling; but nothing could move that huge, sodden weight ...
"Stand aside! Let me through!"
Bolster-weight rolled off him. Matt jerked up, gasping for breath...
A knight in full armor advanced, broadsword in hand. He glanced at the fertility symbol, then averted his eyes. "Clothe yourself! Do you not know the law?"
"Law!" Matt grasped at the straw. "Here? What law?"
"The law of your mind," the knight intoned sternly. "The law buried there, in the depths, the prudish ethic - that nothing unclothed can be good."
A friend, Matt thought, with a surge of hope. "Yes! Show me some clothes!"
"I am they." The knight clanked up closer, three feet away. Matt realized, with a shock, that the slits in the visor showed blackness only. "I am clothes, or what you saw clothing to be, only armor, only a shield. You ever went clothed, for you feared other people."
Matt realized that the voice was echoing hollowly, and the fear of the nameless surged though him as the broadsword lifted. "Defense mechanism," the knight boomed. "So you thought clothes to be, thought them armor; but you forgot what accompanies armor and shields." His own shield swept up. Five razor-edged knife blades were welded to it, pointing at Matt. "Your defense gave offense. Those who sought to touch you, befriend you, you pushed away with your shield-and, in pushing, gave wounds." The shield slammed out, stabbing through Matt's chest and stomach in five places. He tried to scream, but only burbling came through the blood in his throat.