“No. The tanks are on an autonomous system. Only the Citizen can override their action. We’re better off in here.” There was the sound of androids converging. “Not much better,” Stile muttered. But she was off again, and he had to follow.
They ducked in and out of service passages. Sheen had unerring awareness of these, being able to tune in on the directive signals for maintenance robots. But the pursuit was close; they could not halt to camouflage themselves or ponder defensive measures.
Suddenly they burst into the main residential quarters.
And paused, amazed.
It was Heaven. Literal, picturebook Heaven. The floor was made of soft white sponge contoured to resemble clouds; smaller clouds floated above, and on them winged babies perched, playing little harps. The front gate was nacreous: surely genuine pearl. Lovely music played softly in the background: angelic hymns.
An angel spied them and strode forward, his great wings fluttering. He wore a flowing robe on which a golden letter G was embroidered. “Ah, new guests of the Lord. Have you renounced all worldly sins and lusts?” Neither Stile nor Sheen could think of a suitable spot rejoinder. They stood there—while the pursuing androids hove into sight.
“Here now! What’s this?” the angel cried. “You soulless freaks can’t come in here!”
The androids backed away, disgruntled. They reminded Stile of the animals of his football game when a penalty was called.
Now there was a voice from another cloudbank. “What is the disturbance, Gabriel?” a woman called. “We have visitors,” the Angel Gabriel called back. “But I am uncertain—“ The lady appeared. She wore a filmy gown that clung to her lushly convex contours. Stile found the effect indescribably erotic. He was accustomed to nakedness, or to complete clothing, but the halfway states—surely this Heaven was far from sexless!
The woman frowned. “These are serfs! They don’t belong here!”
Stile and Sheen bolted. They plunged across the cloud-bank toward the most obvious exit: a golden-paved pathway. It spiraled down through a cloudwall, becoming a stone stairway. Letters were carved in the stones, and as he hurried over them Stile was able to read their patterns:
GOOD INTENTIONS. At the bottom the stair terminated in a massive opaque double door. Sheen shoved it open, and they stepped through.
Again they both stood amazed. This nether chamber was a complete contrast to the region above. It was hot, with open fires burning in many pits. Horrendous murals depicted grotesque scenes of lust and torture. Metal stakes anchored chains with manacles at the extremities. “This is Hell,” Stile said. “Heaven above. Hell below. It figures.”
“The serf on the shuttle mentioned Heaven and Hell,” Sheen reminded him. “She meant it literally.” A red-suited, homed, barb-tailed little devil appeared. He brandished his pitchfork menacingly. “Fresh meat!” he cried exultantly. “Oh, have we got fires for you! Move it, you damned lost souls!”
Behind them, feet sounded on the stairs. The androids had resumed the chase. It seemed the soulless ones were not barred from Hell.
Stile and Sheen took off again. Sheen charged the little devil, disarming him in passing. They ran across the floor of Hell, dodging around smoking pits.
“What’s this?” a fat full-sized devil cried. “You serfs don’t belong here!” It seemed Hell was after all as restrictive as Heaven. The devil squinted at Stile. “I just had you melted!”
“That’s how I came here,” Stile said, unable to resist the flash of wit.
“The Citizen!” Sheen said. “He’s Satan!”
“Apt characterization,” Stile agreed.
“I’ll have you torn to ragged pieces!” the Citizen roared, becoming truly Satanic in his ire.
“You would do better to tear up whoever faked the message that brought us to this address,” Stile said. “Sir,”
The Citizen paused. “There is that.” He glanced at the ceiling. “Detail on that summons.”
A screen appeared. “The summons was from a female Citizen, the man’s Employer. The address was incorrect.”
“Get me that Citizen!” Almost, it seemed that smoke issued from Satan’s nostrils.
There was a pause. Then Stile’s Employer appeared in the screen, frowning. “You sent for this serf?” the Satanic male Citizen demanded, indicating Stile. The female Citizen’s eyes took in Satan and Hell.
“Do I know you?” she inquired coldly.
“You’re a woman, aren’t you? You bet you know me!” She elected to change the subject.
“I summoned this serf to my own address. What is he doing here?” “This was the address he was given, idiot!”
“It certainly was not!” she retorted. Then she perused the message. “Why—the address has been changed. Who is responsible for this?”
“Changed ...” Sheen murmured, the circuits connecting almost visibly in her computer-head. “Authentic summons, but one address-chip substituted for another. The handiwork of your assassin.”
The female Citizen bore on Sheen. “Serf, you know who is responsible?”
“Sir, I know someone is trying to kill Stile,” Sheen said. “I don’t know who or why.”
