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.
BUT IT HAD NO CHANCE! Zane protested. IT DIED BEFORE IT HAD FREE WILL!
THAT IS THE REASON, the computer explained patiently, taking Zane's statement to be a question. NO SOUL MAY BE RELEGATED TO ETERNITY WITHOUT A CHANCE TO ESTABLISH ITS OWN RECORD. A SOUL WITHOUT A RECORD MUST BE HELD.
Zane began to understand. It wasn't fair to allow a soul to be damned to Hell without at least a chance to redeem itself, and probably Heaven had rules about accepting the children of iniquity.
Zane thought about that and concluded he didn't like it. There might be iniquity, but it associated with the erring parents, not the child. If he were in charge, he would change a definition or two.
But of course he was not in charge. He was not God — or Satan. It was not his business to make the rules.
Yet he was involved, for he was Death. He had collected this soul. He felt responsible. WHAT HAPPENS WHEN A SOUL IS HELD? he typed.
IT REMAINS FOREVER IN PURGATORY, the screen replied.
FOREVER! he typed, appalled. EVEN CRIMINAL SOULS ARE NOT CONFINED HERE FOREVER, ARE THEY?
TRUE. CRIMINAL SOULS GO TO HELL FOREVER.
That realigned things. Purgatory was surely better than Hell! WHAT DO THE HELD SOULS DO HERE?
THEY RUN PURGATORY.
Oh. THE RECEPTIONIST IS ONE? CORRECT.
That didn't seem so bad, if not exactly good. Desk work could get insufferably dull over the passage of centuries. But, of course, this was the in-between place. Eternal neutrality was surely better than Hell.
Zane turned off the computer, moved to the second device, and drew out the Magician's soul. The device resembled a sealed robot, looking at a pile of papers on a desk. The soul got fed into a slot in the robot's back. In a moment the machine animated, its eye lenses glowing, its metal limbs moving.
The robot glanced at Zane. 'Am I dead yet?' The Magician's voice asked. 'Yes,' Zane replied, taken aback. No soul had talked to him before.
'Where am I, then?'
'Purgatory. Your soul is so precisely in balance, I couldn't clarify it for Heaven or Hell, so I brought it here.'
'Excellent,' the Magician said. 'You want to be stuck here?'
'I have to be here, as long as possible. My calculations were most precise, but there is always that element of uncertainty. A lot hangs on this.'
