Job: A Comedy of Justice by Robert A. Heinlein
I didn’t go right to sleep. Pat was not the least bit aggressive. But she was very cooperative. I found one part of my mind devoting itself intensely to what Pat had to offer (plenty!) while another part of my mind was explaining to Marga that this wasn’t anything serious; I don’t love her; I love you and only you and always will…but I haven’t been able to sleep and—
Then we slept for a while. Then we watched a living hollow gram that Pat said was “X rated” and I learned about things I had never heard of, but it turned out that Pat had and could do them and could teach me, and this time I paused just long enough to tell Marga I was learning them for both of us, then I turned my whole attention to learning.
Then we napped again.
It was some time later that Pat reached out and touched my shoulder. “Turn over this way, dear; let me see your face. I thought so. Alec, I know you’re carrying the torch for your sweetheart; that’s why I’m here: to make it easier. But I can’t if you won’t try. What did she do for you that I haven’t done and can’t do? Does she have that famous left-hand thread? Or what? Name it, describe it. I’ll either do it, or fake it, or send out for it. Please, dear. You’re beginning to hurt my professional pride.”
“You’re doing just fine.” I patted her hand.
“I wonder. More girls like me, maybe, in various flavors? Drown you in tits?—chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, tutti-frutti. ‘Tutti-frutti’—hmm… Maybe you’d like a San Francisco sandwich? Or some other Sodom-and-Gomorrah fancy? I have a male friend from Berkeley who isn’t all that male; he has a delicious, playful imagination; I’ve teamed with him many times. And he has on call others like him; he’s a member of both Aleister Crowley Associates and Nero’s Heroes and Zeroes. If you fancy a mob scene, Donny and I can cast it any way you like, and the Sans Souci will orchestrate it to suit your taste. Persian Garden, sorority house, Turkish harem, jungle drums with obscene rites, nunnery—‘Nunnery’—did I tell you what I did before I died?”
“I wasn’t certain you had died.”
“Oh, certainly. I’m not an imp faking human; I’m human. You don’t think anyone could get a job like this without human experience, do you? You have to be human right down to your toes to please a fellow human most; that stuff about the superior erotic ability of succubi is just their advertising. I was a nun, Alec, from adolescence to death, most of it spent teaching grammar and arithmetic to children who didn’t want to learn.
“I soon learned that my vocation had not been a true one. What I did not know was how to get out of it. So I stayed. At about thirty I discovered just how miserably awful my mistake had been; my sexuality reached maturity. Mean to say I got horny, Saint Alec, and stayed horny and got more so every year.
“The worst thing about my predicament was not that I was subjected to temptation but that I was not subjected to temptation—as I would have grabbed any opportunity. Fat chance! My confessor might have looked upon me with lust had I been a choir boy—as it was, he sometimes snored while I was confessing. Not surprising; my sins were dull, even to me.”
“What were your sins, Pat?”
“Carnal thoughts, most of which I did not confess. Not being forgiven, they went straight into Saint Peter’s computers. Blasphemous adulterous fornication.”
“Huh? Pat, you have quite an imagination.”
“Not especially, just horny. You probably don’t know just how hemmed in a nun is. She is a bride of Christ; that’s the contract. So even to think about the joys of sex makes of her an adulterous wife in the worst possible way.”
“Be darned. Pat, I recently met two nuns, in Heaven. Both seemed like hearty wenches, one especially. Yet there they were.”
“No inconsistency. Most nuns confess their sins regularly, are forgiven. Then they usually die in the bosom of their Family, with its chaplain or confessor at hand. So she gets the last rites with her sins all forgiven and she’s shipped straight to Heaven, pure as Ivory soap.
“But not me!” She grinned. “I’m being punished for my sins and enjoying every wicked minute of it. I died a virgin in 1918, during the big flu epidemic, and so many died so fast that no priest got to me in time to grease me into Heaven. So I wound up here. At the end of my thousand-year apprenticeship—”
“Hold it! You died in 1918?”
“Yes. The great Spanish Influenza epidemic. Born in 1878, died in 1918, on my fourtieth birthday. Would you prefer for me to look forty? I can, you know.”
“No, you look just fine. Beautiful.”
“I wasn’t sure. Some men—Lots of eager motherhumpers around here and most of them never got a chance to do it while they were alive. It’s one of my easier entertainments. I simply lead you into hypnotizing yourself, you supply the data. Then I look and sound exactly like your mother. Smell like her, too. Everything. Except that I am available to you in ways that your mother probably was not. I—”
“Patty, I don’t even like my mother!”
“Oh. Didn’t that cause you trouble at Judgment Day?”
“No. That’s not in the rules. It says in the Book that you must honor thy father and thy mother. Not one word about loving them. I honored her, all the full protocol. Kept her picture on my desk. A letter every week. Telephoned her on her birthday. Called on her in person as my duties permitted. Listened to her eternal bitching and to her poisonous gossip about her women friends. Never contradicted her. Paid her hospital bills. Followed her to her grave. But weep I did not. She didn’t like me and I didn’t like her. Forget my mother! Pat, I asked you a question and you changed the subject.”
“Sorry, dear. Hey, look what I’ve found!”
“Don’t change the subject again; just keep it warm in your hand while you answer my question. You said something about your ‘thousand-year apprenticeship.’”
“Yes?”
“But you said also that you died in 1918. The Final Trump sounded in 1994—I know; I was there. That’s only seventy-six years later than your death. To me that Final Trump seems like only a few days ago, about a month, no more. I ran across something that seemed to make it seven years ago. But that still isn’t over nine hundred, the best part of a thousand years. I’m not a spirit, I’m a living body. And I’m not Methuselah.” (Damn it, is Margrethe separated from me by a thousand years? This isn’t fair!)
“Oh. Alec, in eternity a thousand years isn’t any particular time; it is simply a long time. Long enough in this case to test whether or not I had both the talent and the disposition for the profession. That took quite a while because, while I was horny enough—and stayed that way; almost any guest can send me right through the ceiling—as you noticed—I had arrived here knowing nothing about sex. Nothing! But I did learn and eventually Mary Magdalene gave me high marks and recommended me for permanent appointment.”
“Is she down here?”
“Oh. She’s a visiting professor here; she’s on the permanent faculty in Heaven.”
“What does she teach in Heaven?”
“I have no idea but it can’t be what she teaches here. Or I don’t think so. Hmm. Alec, she’s one of the eternal greats; she makes her own rules. But this time you changed the subject. I was trying to tell you that I don’t know how long my apprenticeship lasted because time is whatever you want it to be. How long have you and I been in bed together?”
“Uh, quite a while. But not long enough. I think it must be near midnight.”
“It’s midnight if you want it to be midnight. Want me to get on top?”
The next morning, whenever that was, Pat and I had breakfast on the balcony looking out over the Lake. She was dressed in Marga’s favorite costume, shorts tight and short, and a halter with her breasts tending to overflow their bounds. I don’t know when she got her clothes, but my pants and shirt had been cleaned and repaired in the night and my underwear and socks washed—in Hell there seem to be busy little imps everywhere. Besides, they could have driven a flock of geese through our bedroom the latter part of the night without distur
I looked at Pat across the table, appreciating her wholesome, girl-scout beauty, with her sprinkle of freckles across her nose, and thought how strange it was that I had ever confused sex with sin. Sex can involve sin, surely—any human act can involve cruelty and injustice. But sex alone held no taint of sin. I had arrived here tired, confused, and unhappy—Pat had first made me happy, then caused me to rest, then left me happy this lovely morning.
Not any less anxious to find you, Marga my own—but in much better shape to push the search.
Would Margrethe see it that way?
Well, she had never seemed jealous of me.
How would I feel if she took a vacation, a sexual vacation, such as I had just enjoyed? That’s a good question. Better think about it, boy—because sauce for the goose is not a horse of another color.
I looked out over the Lake, watched the smoke rise and the flames throwing red lights on the smoke…while right and left were green and sunny early summer sights, with snow-tipped mountains in the far distance. “Pat—”
“Yes, dear?”
“The Lake bank can’t be more than a furlong from here. But I can’t smell any brimstone.”
“Notice how the breeze is blowing those banners? From anywhere around the Pit the wind blows toward the Pit. There it rises—incidentally slowing any soul arriving ballistically—and then on the far side of the globe there is a corresponding down draft into a cold pit where the hydrogen sulfide reacts with oxygen to form water and sulfur. The sulfur is deposited; the water comes out as water vapor, and returns. The two pits and this circulation control the weather here somewhat the way the moon acts as a control on earth weather. But gentler.”
“I was never too hot at physical sciences…but that doesn’t sound like the natural laws I learned in school.”
“Of course not. Different Boss here. He runs this planet to suit himself.”
Whatever I meant to answer got lost in a mellow gong played inside the suite. “Shall I answer, sir?”
“Sure, but how dare you call me sir? Probably just room service. Huh?”
“No, dear Alec, room service will just come in when they see that we are through.” She got up, came back quickly with an envelope. “Letter by Imperial courier. For you, dear.”
Me? I accepted it gingerly, and opened it. An embossed seal at the top: the conventional Devil in red, horns, hooves, tail, pitchfork, and standing in flames. Below it:
Saint Alexander Hergensheimer
Sans Souci Sheraton
The Capital
Greetings:
In response to your petition for an audience with His Infernal Majesty, Satan Mekratrig, Sovereign of Hell and His Colonies beyond, First of the Fallen Thrones, Prince of Lies, I have the honour to advise you that His Majesty requires you to substantiate your request by supplying to this office a full and frank memoir of your life. When this has been done, a decision on your request will be made.
May I add to His Majesty’s message this advice: Any attempt to omit, slur over, or color in the belief that you will thereby please His Majesty will not please Him.
I have the honour to remain,
Sincerely His,
(s) Beelzebub
Secretary to His Majesty
I read it aloud to Pat. She blinked her eyes and whistled. “Dear, you had better get busy!”
“I—” The paper burst into flames; I dropped it into the dirty dishes. “Does that always happen?”
“I don’t know; it’s the first time I’ve ever seen a message from Number One. And the first time I’ve heard of anyone being even conditionally granted an audience.”
“Pat. I didn’t ask for an audience. I planned to find out how to do so today. But I have not put in the request this answers.”
“Then you must put in the request at once. It wouldn’t do to let it stay unbalanced. I’ll help dear—I’ll type it for you.”
The imps had been around again. In one corner of that vast living room I found that they had installed two desks, one a writing desk, with stacks of paper and a tumbler of pens, the other a more complex setup. Pat went straight to that one. “Dear, it looks like I’m still assigned to you. I’m your secretary now. The latest and best Hewlett-Packard equipment—this is going to be fun! Or do you know how to type?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Okay, you write it longhand; I’ll put it into shape…and correct your spelling and your grammar—you just whip it out. Now I know why I was picked for this job. Not my girlish smile, dear—my typing. Most of my guild can’t type. Many of them took up whoring, because shorthand and typing were too much for them. Not me. Well, let’s get to work; this job will run days, weeks, I don’t know. Do you want me to continue to sleep here?”
“Do you want to leave?”
“Dear, that’s the guest’s decision. Has to be.”
“I don’t want you to leave.” (Marga! Do please understand!)
“Good thing you said that, or I would have burst into tears. Besides, a good secretary should stick around in case something comes up in the night.”
“Pat, that was an old joke when I was in seminary.”
“It was an old joke before you were born, dear. Let’s get to work.”
Visualize a calendar (that I don’t have), its pages ripping off in the wind. This manuscript gets longer and longer but Pat insists that Prince Beelzebub’s advice must be taken literally. Pat makes two copies of all that I write; one copy stacks up on my desk, the other copy disappears each night. Imps again. Pat tells me that I can assume that the vanishing copy is going to the Palace, at least as far as the Prince’s desk…so what I am doing so far must be satisfactory.
In less than two hours each day Pat types out and prints out what takes me all day to write. But I stopped driving so hard when a handwritten note came in:
You are working too hard. Enjoy yourself. Take her to the theater. Go on a picnic. Don’t be so wound up.
(s) B.
The note self-destroyed, so I knew it was authentic. So I obeyed. With pleasure! But I am not going to describe the fleshpots of Satan’s capital city.
This morning I finally reached that odd point where I was (am) writing now about what is going on now—and I hand my last page to Pat.
Less than an hour after I completed that line above the gong sounded; Pat went out into the foyer, hurried back. She put her arms around me. “This is good-bye, dear. I won’t be seeing you again.”
“What?”
“Just that, dear. I was told this morning that my assignment was ending. And I have something I must tell you. You will find, you are bound to learn, that I have been reporting on you daily. Please don’t be angry about it. I am a professional, part of the Imperial security staff.”
“Be damned! So every kiss, every sigh, was a fake.”
“Not one was fake! Not one! And, when you find your Marga, please tell her that I said she is lucky.”
“Sister Mary Patricia, is this another lie?”
“Saint Alexander, I have never lied to you. I’ve had to hold back some things until I was free to speak, that’s all.” She took her arms from around me.
“Hey! Aren’t you going to kiss me good-bye?”
“Alec, if you really want to kiss me, you won’t ask.”
I didn’t ask; I did it. If Pat was faking, she’s a better actress than I think she is.
Two giant fallen angels were waiting to take me to the Palace. They were heavily armed and fully armored. Pat had packaged my manuscript and told me that I was expected to bring it with me. I started to leave—then stopped most suddenly. “My razor!”
“Check your pocket, dear.”
“Huh? How’d it get there?”
“I knew you weren’t coming back, dear.”
Again I learned that, in the company of angels, I could fly. Out my own balcony, around the Sans Souci Sheraton, across the Plaza, and we landed on a third-floor balcony of Satan’s Palace. Then through several corri
Great brass doors, as complex as the Ghiberti Doors, opened. I was shoved inside.
And saw Him.
A dark and smoky hall, armed guards down both sides, a high throne, a Being on it, at least twice as high as a man…a Being that was the conventional Devil such as you see on a Pluto bottle or a deviled-ham tin—tail and horns and fierce eyes, a pitchfork in lieu of scepter, a gleam from braziers glinting off Its dark red skin, sleek muscles. I had to remind myself that the Prince of Lies could look any way He wished; this was probably to daunt me.
His voice rumbled out like a foghorn: “Saint Alexander, you may approach Me.”
XXVI
I am a brother to dragons, and a companion to owls.
Job 30:29
I started up the steps leading to the throne. Again, the lifts were too high, the treads too wide, and now I had no one to steady me. I was reduced to crawling up those confounded steps while Satan looked down at me with a sardonic smile. From all around came music from an unseen source, death music, vaguely Wagnerian but nothing I could identify. I think it was laced with that below-sonic frequency that makes dogs howl, horses run away, and causes men to think of flight or suicide.
That staircase kept stretching.
I didn’t count the number of steps when I started up, but the flight looked to be about thirty steps, no more. When I had been crawling up it for several minutes, I realized that it looked as high as ever. The Prince of Lies!
So I stopped and waited.
Presently that rumbling voice said, “Something wrong, Saint Alexander?”
“Nothing wrong,” I answered, “because You planned it this way. If You really want me to approach You, You will turn off the joke circuit. In the meantime there is no point in my trying to climb a treadmill.”