Inside Outside

by Philip José Farmer

  Another nut, Cull thought. “Be brief,” he said. “You’ve already tied up the line too long. Just give me the gist of your message. If I think what you have to say is worthwhile, you can give me more detail.”

  Then, he said, “Haven’t you called before? You sound vaguely familiar.”

  “Never,” Fyodor said. “You’re the first man with the name of Cull that I ever talked to.”

  “O.K. Shoot.”

  “Listen,” said Fyodor excitedly, “you know the theory of Translation? That is, that birth is a translation into one tongue, life, from another tongue, life? And that death is still another translation? Into one of two possible speeches? Heaven or Hell? Or, possibly, three, for you must not overlook Limbo? Or, maybe, four, since Purgatory must also be considered, although there is no evidence that a Purgatory exists.

  “On the other hand, perhaps this world is Purgatory and not Hell. If this is true, we have hope. But, if this is Purgatory, why haven’t we been told so, so we may know why we’re suffering and what we have to do to get out.

  “But, the same reasoning holds true if this is Hell. Why haven’t we been told why we’re here and where we’re going, if anywhere.

  “Of course, you can say that the same held true on Earth. There we did not know where we came from, why we were there, or where we were going. But, if you say that, I say that we did have the means of finding out what so many regarded as mysteries. The Church told us what was what, and the Church derived its knowledge and consequent authority from the Sacred Books, which were dictated by God, in a manner of speaking. Oh, the Church could not tell us the details, nor, in many cases, even the bare outlines. But it could tell us enough to furnish an anchor to which we could tie our faith, a point from which our faith, thrown into the winds of doubt like a spider’s exploring filament, could…”

  “Get to the point,” Cull said. But he could not resist the inevitable riposte. “Why are you here?”

  “I do not know why — if this is Hell. For I believed, and I do believe. And I was a miserable sneaking wretch of a sinner. A sinner, I tell you! But I believed, and I loved Him! And I loved Man, too. Or Him in Man. And Man in Him.”

  “Never mind your personal troubles,” Cull said. “Give me something worthwhile.”

  “And by worthwhile,” he continued, “I mean one or both of two things. Two things we want to know. One, the exact location and identity of the man or woman who could not be here if this were Hell. Two, the identity of X, the Dark Messiah, the Bastard Christ.”

  The third, he did not mention.

  Fyodor did not resume talking at once, but Cull could hear his heavy breathing.

  “Speak up!” he said, terrified because the Chairman’s eyes were again upon him. “What’s the matter?”

  “Perhaps,” said Fyodor, “I can help you. But I must digress a bit. Rather, not digress but build up to my point. My point would be quite lost without prelude, a foundation, as it were. You must be patient. Why not? When we have eternity…”

  “You may. I don’t,” Cull said, feeling the sweat pouring from his armpits and flowing over his ribs.

  “You know for a fact,” said Fyodor, “that Christ visited Hell for three days while His body was in the tomb. Three days while He preached the True God and so liberated all the virtuous pagans and pre-Savior Jews who had been condemned to suffer Hell until He came. And He freed them, His presence and appearance allowed them to go to Heaven. So, Abraham, Moses, Socrates; Gautama, all these and many more who had sought the True Light but were unable to see It because He had not come yet — all these believed Him and so were able to pass out of the gates of Hell…”

  “I’ve heard all that,” said Cull, “but I’ve never found a person who could tell of seeing any of these pre-Christians actually leave Hell. Come to think of it, nobody has ever seen a pre-Christian in The City. Or, if he did tell of such a thing, his story couldn’t bear up under any scientific scrutiny. Liars all. And God knows I’ve talked to enough, traveled thousands of footsore miles, located and interviewed thousands of men and women who were here when the Christ — or someone claiming to be Him — came here.”

  “But did He leave?” cried Fyodor shrilly. “Did He leave?”

  “What in Hell are you talking about?”

  “Suppose that there was a man who had repented of his sins? But too late? And he had heard from the fallen angels that Christ would come and stay for three days? And so he, with good aforethought, cleverly turned his hand to evil, distinguished himself among the professional malevolents — the fiends? Remember, this was in the days when the fiends outnumbered man. And this man was honored — or dishonored — by being initiated into demonhood, an event causing great rejoicing in Hell?

  “And so Christ came down and was captured and imprisoned by means we can’t guess but which we may surmise were not beyond the powers of the devils. Of course, they could not imprison Him without His consent. But He tacitly gave it for reasons of His own.

  “And the Evil Man — this Human-Turned-Fiend, was chosen to represent the person who would masquerade as Christ-Returned-To-Earth. But, once surfaced, reterrestrialized, as it were, he played double-crosser. Played traitor to Hell, this time, and refused to carry out the infernal plans. And was he, as his reward from Heaven, allowed to make the actual ascension? While the True Christ, for the sake of one sacred soul thought lost forever, gladly remained in His prison in Hell?

  “Or, if not in prison, in Hell’s boundaries? And became X, the Dark Messiah, the Black Savior?

  “And the man who had come out of the tomb in the garden did not let Mary touch him — Noli me tangere! — because he was yet in a demon’s state. Mary’s hand would have touched off from his robe, not a strengthening discharge of virtue, but a searing flash of evil. And Doubting Thomas was not destroyed because the celestial authorities — or Authority — had by then decided on the disposition of the false Christ. And had switched the tremendous potential investing his robe and flesh from evil to good. Although, that is a weak point in my hypothesis, because only through a man’s free will can a man change from good to evil.

  “And, of course, all I have told you is only speculation, surmise. Possibly, the false Christ had made a mistake when he perpetrated evil in Hell in order to do good on Earth and in Heaven. He may have found out that the end does not justify the means, that doing evil in Hell — even if to sinners who are perpetually condemned to suffer in any case — is yet evil. And he had been allowed to escape briefly only to make his punishment even more severe and desolate.

  “He was returned to Hell after a taste of Earth. And the Ascension was a pious fraud — for Christ was still here, that is, in Hell — during which the apostles thought He went up but in which, in reality, he (the escapee) went down. A sort of celestial-terrestrial-infernal relativity theory, as it were.”

  “Oh, my God,” Cull thought. “I’ve wasted all this time with this nut!”

  And then he thought, “Wait a minute! What am I thinking of? This is really wonderful!” Wonderful, not because of two reasons Cull had given Fyodor but because of the unmentioned third.

  “Hold on,” he said. “We’ll be temporarily disconnected, but the operator will hook us in again. Just don’t hang up.”

  He clicked off, then pressed a button in the base of the phone. Doing this put him in direct contact with Stengarius, one of the men sitting at the table below the platform. He summarized Fyodor’s story for Stengarius. After hearing that Stengarius was interested, Cull gave it to him in full detail.

  “Think the Chairman’ll buy it?” Cull said. “Myself, I see at least four distinct markets — rich markets — in Fyodor’s stuff. And God knows what else can be squeezed out of it.”

  “I agree, Cull,” said Stengarius. “But, it’s up to him.”

  Stengarius cut Cull off and put in a call to the Chairman. This call had to go through the Chairman’s Secretary; he sat on a basalt chair carved out of the steps of the platform. Cull watched h
im answer Stengarius, then cut Stengarius off, and put in a call to the Chairman.

  The old man kept the phone hidden under his beard. He reached into the white tangled mass — like a nest of uncooked spaghetti or pale worms — and pulled out the phone. For a long time he listened without speaking, or, at least, without moving his lips, while Stengarius talked. Then, suddenly, the long long hairs over his upper lip parted a little, and a black hole appeared beneath them. He turned his head toward Cull — the upside-down scimitar of a nose briefly profiled — and his black eyes stared at Cull. Cull knew a man’s eyes did not shine from reflected light as a cat’s, but he could swear he saw the old man’s shine. Perhaps, it was terror reflected from Cull, the bright nightlight of terror.

  The Chairman phoned to Stengarius, and Stengarius looked up at Cull and gestured with the thumb and forefinger meeting to make an O.

  Cull smiled. If this worked out, he might be advanced, might even find himself on a seat on the bottom row. Maybe, some day, to the Secretaryship. Possibly — though not probably — to the Chairmanship. The Chairman had been on the throne for a long long time.

  Fyodor’s voice roused Cull from his dream. “Mr. Cull, I haven’t finished. Not by a long way.”

  Suddenly, Cull knew why the voice had seemed familiar. Of course! He had heard that same voice only a short time ago in his apartment when he had started to replace the phone after Doctor B.O. had left.

  “Down in the sewers!” said Cull. Breath sucked in on the other end. A pause. Then, a stammering in some Slavic tongue — probably Russian. He must have been shocked to have reverted to his native speech. Finally, he said, in Hebrew, “What do you mean?”

  “There was an accidental connection on the phone earlier today,” Cull said. “I heard you. Which reminds me. You’re not a member of the Exchange. What were you doing on the phone?”

  Cull did not tell him he had heard only the final part of the conversation and only his voice. Let panic shake what Cull did not know out of Fyodor. Rotten apples blown down by the wind of guilt. Or so he hoped.

  “Mr. Cull,” Fyodor said, “I don’t know how much you heard. Or whose side you’re on.” He said nothing of why he was using the phone.

  “Man’s side,” Cull said. “You surely don’t think I’m a stinking Judas? I wouldn’t work for The Authorities, damn them!”

  “I don’t want to say any more over the phone,” Fyodor said excitedly. “I never thought of it before. But The Authorities could be tapping this line.”

  “If they are, they’ve never given any evidence of it yet,” Cull said. “The Exchange has been operating for a long time, and They’ve never interfered with anything. At least, Their interference, if any, was indirect.”

  Again, he began sweating. From time to time, men disappeared. Perhaps, the Authorities, whom nobody had ever seen but who had to exist…?

  “You know where I am,” said Fyodor. “I’ll wait for you here.”

  The phone clicked off.

  Cull did not try to call Sven back. He decided, instead, to go directly to where Sven and Fyodor were. He had to ask permission to leave. But, after he had explained that this Fyodor was a possible treasure house, he was told to go ahead. Find out everything.

  “If you really dig up something for the good of the Exchange, you’ll be a big man in the organization,” said Stengarius. “Bigger, anyway. Only, don’t get too big for your britches. You’ll get whittled down so fast you won’t know where the knives come from. I’d take this assignment myself, but I’m too busy now.”

  What he meant was that he did not dare to leave for fear of the machinations of his colleagues. Once a man worked his way up to First Telephoner, he became a prisoner. He could not chance leaving his post. But there were compensations.

  One of the compensations was Phyllis Nilstrom. She was standing in the lobby, talking to Robertson, First Telephoner of the Second Shift, when Cull left the Exchange Floor. She was a beautiful woman of medium height. Her hair was ash-blonde, pulled back tightly from her broad forehead and fastened in a large Psyche knot. She had long slim legs, curving firm buttocks, a narrow waist, flat stomach, and breasts that were firm and full but not vulgarly so. Her voice was husky.

  Cull loathed her.

  Shortly after he had joined Exchange, he had gone to a party given by Cardinal, Head Telephoner of Sector XXB-1A/A. He was introduced to Phyllis by Cardinal, who informed him he could shake hands with her but that was to be his last intimate contact with her. Cull had dutifully laughed, but, during the rest of the party, he could not keep his eyes off her. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted any woman. But he was no fool; he did not make it apparent. Every chance he got thereafter, he managed to talk to her, in the Exchange lobby, at parties, sometimes, when he contrived “accidental” meetings. Then, when he had worked his way up to Head Telephoner for sector XXB-8N/B and could offer her something to rank with Cardinal’s position, he had nerved himself to tell her he loved her. Knowledge of her relationship at that time with Cardinal had helped him gain courage, for he knew that the two were unhappy with each other.

  To his surprise and delight, Phyllis had responded. She had told him that she’d love to move into his apartment. That is, if something happened that would demote Cardinal. At present, Cardinal still held much power. If she left him for Cull, she might disappear, murdered and dropped into the sewers by Cardinal’s agents. Cull did not have enough power to protect her.

  A short time later, Zabbini, Telephoner for one of the smaller sectors, was caught by two of Cardinal’s bodyguards in Cardinal’s apartment. They killed him and then searched for their boss. Not finding him in his rooms, though they knew he had not left, they looked out the window. A crowd gathered around a body showed them what had happened. Zabbini had defenestrated Cardinal.

  Phyllis came home a little later and expressed much surprise but little grief. After the inquest conducted by the Exchange First Detective, Phyllis was absolved of any direct blame. It was revealed that Zabbini had been in love with Phyllis and that he must have killed Cardinal with the expectation of getting her as his mistress.

  Cull had been a little shocked at this. He had no doubt that Phyllis had encouraged Zabbini to kill Cardinal so that she could get rid of him and also become Cull’s mistress.

  But he forgot about that when he took her to bed. She was the most passionate woman he had ever known.

  Or so he thought until the day she left him for Stengarius, the First Telephoner. Cull had made a big scene, had called her every name he could think of in Hebrew, English, and demon-speech. Phyllis had then told him that she was frigid, that she had to force herself to let any man touch her. But she wanted all the good things of life — her words — and she could get them easily by allowing men to get excited over her beauty and by pretending passion.

  Cull had threatened to tell Stengarius this fact. She had laughed and said that, if he did, she’d tell Stengarius that he was lying and that he was scheming to get her back. How long would he last after that?

  Now, as he passed her in the lobby, she spoke to him.

  Cull said, “How are you?” and went to pass by.

  “I’m fine,” she replied, and she smiled. She had very white teeth.

  “I want to speak to you alone,” she said.

  Robertson looked startled. He glanced with narrowed eyes at Cull, then said, “Be seeing you, Phyl.”

  “Not for some time,” she answered. She reached out and placed her hand on Cull’s arm.

  “I understand you’re taking a long trip,” she said. “Way out.”

  He trembled a little at the touch of her hand, and he became sick with the pain of wanting her. He loathed her, but he wanted her back.

  “It’s… it’s… a business… tr… trip,” he said, hating himself because his stammer was betraying him.

  She smiled coolly and said, “Don’t be nervous. Stengarius knows I’ll be talking to you. He won’t think the wrong thing. You have nothing to worry abou
t. I convinced him that you and I are through.”

  “I’m not the least bit worried about him,” Cull said. He hoped his voice did not sound as hollow to her as to him.

  “I’m sure you’re not,” she said, her smile leaving no doubt that she thought him scared out of his skin.

  “Damn it, I’m not!” he said harshly.

  “I didn’t stop you to discuss your state of terror. So drop it. The facts are these. The Chairman wants me to go to the same sector you’re going to. You are to be my bodyguard. Or,” she smiled again but with an unpleasant curl of lip, “my watchdog. Stengarius didn’t want me to go, but the Chairman ordered it. So, he had to swallow the bitter pill. But he’s trying to put a little sugar on it. You’re the sugar.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” she said, suddenly speaking in English, “that he thinks I’m perfectly safe with you. He knows what an eager beaver you are to advance yourself and how you’d do nothing to jeopardize your chances. Also, that you wouldn’t have the guts to make a pass at me.”

  Cull felt the heat climbing up his face. He tried to laugh but failed.

  “Perhaps,” she said, “beaver was the wrong description of you. Wouldn’t jackal be the better term? A jackal among the lions, Jack Cull?”

  For a moment, he did not understand her. It had been so long since he had spoken English that he had almost forgotten its use. Moreover, his memory was dim. What were lions? What was a jackal?

  Then, the images of the beasts came. They were blurred but not so much that he did not feel the sting of the metaphor. And he knew why she had used English. Only with it could she make a pun on his name.

  Why, you bitch, you frigid Stengarian whore! he thought. His face was composed though he knew his flush exposed the anger within.

  “Well, Jack Cull, shall we go?” she said. She beckoned to a servant. The fellow picked up her briefcase, and he and Cull followed her out of the Exchange.

  A palanquin sat on the street between its four carriers. It was constructed on long bones cleverly fitted together and covered with skin. The four men, seeing Phyllis, lifted the palanquin off the street. The servant placed her briefcase on one end. She climbed into the palanquin and sat up, her back supported by a pile of cushions formed of skin and stuffed with rocktree leaves.