Piers Anthony - On a Pale Horse

No answers came. Mortis grazed in the lush field. The light breeze rustled the odd ginkgo leaves. A small spider dangled on a thread before Zane.

"What's the matter with me, Arachnae?" he asked the spider. "I have a good job here, fetching in the souls of the borderlines. Why am I letting them go, when I thought I wanted to act in accordance with the standards of the office? Am I a hypocrite?"

The spider enlarged. Four of its legs dangled down, fusing into two larger limbs, and four lifted up, becoming two lesser extremities. Its abdomen contracted and elongated. Its head rounded, and the eight eyes merged in much the manner the legs had, two pairs forming two larger orbs and the other two pairs sliding to the sides to form ears. In moments the arachnid became a woman, holding a strand of web between her hands. "Oh, we call it the delayed-reaction syndrome," she said. "You can't step from ordinary life into immortality without suffering systemic dislocation. You will survive it."

"Who are you?" Zane demanded, surprised.

"How short your memory is," she teased him, shifting to a younger form.

Now he recognized her. "Fate! Am I glad to see you!"

"Well, I did bring you into this, so it may be my responsibility to tide you through the break-in period. All you have to do is accept and adapt to the new reality, and you're all right."

"But I know the new reality," he protested. "I know I'm supposed to take souls. But I'm not taking them! Not consistently. I talked one woman out of suicide and I actually rescued a drowning man."

"That does complicate things," she said thoughtfully. "I never heard of Death helping people live. I'm not sure there's a precedent. Except — "

"Yes?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that. Death."

Zane's brow wrinkled. "There's something you know that you won't tell me?" She had said something like that before, annoyingly.

"That is the case. But in due course all shall be known." He realized that it was useless to try to coerce Fate. "Well, is there anything useful you will tell me?"

"Oh, yes, certainly. What you need to do, to get yourself settled in, is to take some souls to Purgatory. Once you comprehend that aspect of the system, you won't be so reluctant to do your duty."

"Purgatory? I've thought of it, but I don't know where it is. Chronos said I could ride my horse there, but somehow — "

She pointed. "Right there."

Zane looked. There, across the field, was a modem building complex, somewhat like a university. "That's Purgatory?"

"What did you expect — a medieval dungeon guarded by a dragon?"

"Well — yes. I mean, the concept of Purgatory — "

"This is the twentieth century, the golden age of magic and science. Purgatory moves with the times, as do Heaven and Hell."

Zane hadn't thought of it that way. "I just go there and empty out my bag of souls?"

"Those you haven't been able to classify yourself," she said.

Zane became suspicious. There was something devious about the way Fate phrased things. "What happens to souls there?"

"They get properly sorted. You'll see. Go ahead."

Zane considered. "First let me sort out whatever I can."

"Do that." Fate shrank back into the spider, who climbed up its strand and disappeared into the dense foliage of the tree.

He labored over the souls for some time. He managed to classify all except two: the baby and the Magician. The former was so evenly gray that no reading was possible; the latter was so complexly convoluted with good and evil that it was an impenetrable maze, even for the stones.

He walked to the Purgatory main building. It was a structure of red brick, with green vines climbing the walls.

The great front door was unguarded. Zane wrapped his cloak about him and pushed on in. There was a desk with a pretty receptionist. "Yes?" she said, in exactly the manner such decorations did on Earth.

"I am Death," he said, slightly diffidently.

"Certainly. Follow the black line."

Zane saw the line painted on the floor. He followed it down a hall, around corners, and into a modern scientific laboratory. There were no people present, and no devils or angels; it seemed he was supposed to know what to do next. He was, in fact, a bit disgruntled by the receptionist's cool reaction, as if Death were routine. Maybe Death was, here.

He looked around. He spied a computer terminal. Good enough.

Zane seated himself before the terminal. He looked for a brand name, but there was none; this was a generic machine, as was perhaps appropriate. It had a standard typewriter keyboard and assorted extra function buttons. He punched ON, and the screen illuminated.

GREETINGS, DEATH, it printed in bright green letters on a pale background. HOW MAY WE SERVE YOU?

Zane was not a good typist, but he was adequate. I HAVE TWO SOULS TO CLASSIFY, he typed, and saw the words appear on the screen in red, below the computer's query.

The machine made no response. After a moment he remembered — he had to ask it a question or give it a directive if he wanted it to react. WHAT SHOULD I DO WITH THEM? he added.

PUT ONE IN EACH DEVICE, it replied.

Zane looked about again. He saw a line of devices. He started to get up.

A buzzer sounded, recalling his attention to the computer. TURN ME OFF WHEN NOT IN USE, the screen said.

Oh. Zane made a pass at the OFF button, but held up. WHY? he typed.

IT IS NOT NICE TO WASTE POWER.

Zane typed again. NO. I MEAN, WHY DON'T YOU HAVE A CIRCUIT TO TURN YOURSELF OFF WHEN THE OPERATOR DEPARTS? THAT WOULD BE FOOLPROOF.

HAVE YOU EVER TRIED TO GET A GOOD SUGGESTION THROUGH A BUREAUCRACY? The print was turning reddish, as if from justifiable irritation.

Zane smiled and hit the OFF button, and the screen faded. He suspected there was more to this computer than showed.

He went to the first device. It looked like a spin-drying machine. He brought out the baby soul and fed it into the hopper.

The machine purred. The soul dropped down into the spinner, which started to rotate. Faster and faster it went, plastering the soul against its rim.

"A centrifuge!" Zane exclaimed. "To spin out the evil! So it can be measured!" Suddenly it made sense. Presumably after the evil was out, there would be another spin to extract the good, and some way to match them against each other.

But no evil spun out. After an interval the machine stopped. The soul was ejected to a lower hopper.

Zane picked it up and returned to the terminal. He turned on the computer. IT DIDN'T WORK, he typed. WHAT DO I DO NOW?

DESCRIBE THE SOUL.

IT'S A BABY, PURE GRAY. NO SHADES.

OH, NO WONDER, the screen said with unmechanical expression. THAT'S A DEFINITION DECISION. TURN IT IN TO RECYCLE.

This made Zane pause. He wasn't ready to let go of this yet. WHAT'S A DEFINITION DECISION?

A CATEGORY OF CLASSIFICATIONS, the screen informed him blithely, adopting a blue tinge. It seemed the computer liked being didactic. SOULS THAT ARE AUTOMATICALLY IN BALANCE.

In balance. Half good, half evil, Zane had been dealing with that kind all along; in fact, he was one of that number himself. BUT HOW COULD THIS BE, FOR AN INNOCENT BABY? he asked.

A BABY CONCEIVED IN SIN, the screen explained. AS BY RAPE. INCEST, OR GROSS DECEPTION, WHOSE BIRTH CAUSES INVIDIOUS HARDSHIP TO A PARENT, IS DEEMED TO BE IN BALANCE UNTIL FREE WILL COMMENCES. NORMALLY AT THAT STAGE THE BALANCE SHIFTS, AND YOUR OFFICE IS NOT REQUIRED.

So that was the way it was. Chronos had conjectured as much. This baby had died of illness and neglect before it attained enough free will to change. Thus Death had been summoned — and had found the infant soul almost unsullied by experience.

WHY? he typed. WHY DO THAT TO A BABY?

TO GUARANTEE IT HAS A CHOICE.