Robert Silverberg - The Nature of the Place

At the age of twenty, Paul Dearborn first reached the conviction that he would ultimately go to hell. He worried over it, but not for very long.

At the age of forty, the idea of going to hell positively appealed to him. Heaven would be so dull, after all.

But by the time he was sixty, he was just a bit uneasy again. “It’s not that I’m afraid of it,” he said one night after two beers too many. The shabby little man standing next to him at the bar only smiled. “I’m not afraid at all,” Paul repeated firmly. “Just—uneasy.”

“How can you be so sure you’re going there?” the little man wanted to know.

“Oh, I’ve never doubted it,” Paul said. “And I don’t feel bitter, mind you. I’ve had a rather pleasant life,” he said untruthfully, “and I’m prepared to pay the price. I’ve got no complaint coming. Another beer?’

“Don’t mind if I do,” the little man said.

Paul signalled the bartender for refills. “I know where I’m heading, all right,” he went on. “But the damned uncertainty bothers me. If I only knew what the place was like—”

The little man’s eyes gleamed. “Faith, man, it’s hot and smelling

of brimstone there, and the sinners are roasting in the lake of fire, and right in the heart of it all is the old devil himself, up on his throne with his horns sharp as swords, and his tail going flick-flick like a cats.”

Paul chuckled patronizingly. “Oh, no, I can’t buy that. Straight out of 1910 Sunday School lessons. Hellfire and brimstone just won’t convince me.”

The other shrugged. “Well, if you want to be an individual—”

“That’s just it,” Paul said, smacking the palm of his hand against the counter. “Hell’s such an individual thing.”

His companion lapsed into silence, contemplating with bleary eyes the suds at the bottom of his beer glass. Paul had another round, then looked at his watch, decided it was about time to leave for home. He dropped a bill on the counter and sauntered out. I’ll get what I deserve, he told himself firmly.

He walked toward the bus stop. It was a chilly night, the wind cutting into his bones. He was tired. He lived alone, now; his most recent wife was dead, his children strangers to him. He had few friends. Many enemies.

As he rounded the corner, he paused, wheezing. My heart . Not much time left now.

He thought back over his sixty years. The betrayals, the disappointments, the sins, the hangovers. He had some money now, and by some standards he was a successful man. But life hadn’t been any joyride. It had been rocky and fear-torn, filled with doubts and headaches, moments of complete despair, others of frustrated rage.

He realized he was more than half glad he was almost at the end of his road. Life, he saw now, had really been a struggle not worth the bother. Sixty years of torture. There was the bus, half a block ahead, and he was going to miss it and have to stand in the cold for twenty minutes. Not very serious? Yes, but multiply it by a million slights and injuries over the years —scowling, he began to run toward the corner.

And stumbled as a cold hand squeezed tight around his heart. The sidewalk sprang up to meet him, and he knew this was death. For a startled instant he fought for control, and then he relaxed as the blackness swept down. He felt gratitude that it was over at long last—and a twinge of curiosity about what was to come.

After an age, he opened his eyes again and looked around. And, in that brief flashing moment before Lethe dimmed his eyes, he knew where Hell was, knew the nature of the place and to what eternal punishment he had been condemned. Paul Dearborn wailed, more in despair than in pain, as the doctor’s hand firmly slapped his rear and breath roared into his lungs.