Job: A Comedy

by Robert A. Heinlein

  "No," I answered, not entirely truthfully.

  "Listen and learn. You can forget the Ten Commandments. Here only two or three of them still apply and you'll find you can't break those even if you were to try. The golden rule everywhere in Heaven is: Rank Hath Its Privileges. At this eon you are a raw recruit in the Armies of the Lord, with the lowest rank possible. And the least privilege. In fact the only privilege I can think of that you rate is being here, just being here. The Lord in His infinite wisdom has decreed that you qualify to enter here. But that's all. Behave yourself and you will be allowed to stay. Now as to the traffic rule you asked about. Angels and nobody else fly over the Holy City. When on duty or during ceremonies. That does not mean you. Not even if you get wings. If you do. I emphasize this because a surprising number of you creatures have arrived here with the delusion that going to Heaven automatically changes a creature into an angel. It doesn't. It can't. Creatures never become angels. A saint sometimes. Though seldom. An angel, never."

  I counted ten backwards, in Hebrew. "If you don't mind, I'm still trying to reach that information booth. Since I am not allowed to fly, how do I get there?"

  "Why didn't you say that in the first place? Take the bus."

  ****

  Sometime later I was seated in a chariot bus of the Holy City Transit Lines and we were rumbling toward the distant Throne. The chariot was open, boat-shaped, with an entrance in the rear, and had no discernible motive power and no teamster or conductor. It stopped at marked chariot stops and that is how I got aboard. I had not yet found out how to get it to stop.

  Apparently everyone in the City rode these buses (except V.I.P.s who rated private chariots). Even angels. Most passengers were humans dressed in conventional white and wearing ordinary halos. But a few were humans in costumes of various eras and topped off by larger and fancier halos. I noticed that angels were fairly polite to these creatures in the fancier halos. But they did not sit with them. Angels sat in the front of the car, these privileged humans in the middle part, and the common herd (including yours truly) in the rear.

  I asked one of my own sort how long it took to reach the Throne.

  "I don't know," I was answered. "I don't go nearly that far."

  This soul seemed to be female, middle-aged, and friendly, so I used a commonplace opener. "That's a Kansas accent, is it not?"

  She smiled. "I don't think so. I was born in Flanders."

  "Really? You speak very fluent English."

  She shook her head gently. "I never learned English."

  "But—"

  "I know. You are a recent arrival. Heaven is not affected by the Curse of Babel. Here the Confusion of Tongues never took place . . . and a good thing for me as I have no skill in languages—a handicap before I died. Not so here." She looked at me with interest. "May I ask where you died? And when?"

  "I did not die," I told her. "I was snatched up alive in the Rapture."

  Her eyes widened. "Oh, how thrilling! You must be very holy."

  "I don't think so. Why do you say that?"

  "The Rapture will come—came?—without warning. Or so I was taught."

  "That's right."

  "Then with no warning, and no time for confession, and no priest to help you . . . you were ready! As free from sin as Mother Mary. You came straight to Heaven. You must be holy." She added, "That's what I thought when I saw your costume, since saints—martyrs especially—often dress as they did on earth. I saw too that you are not wearing your saint's halo. But that's your privilege." She looked suddenly shy. "Will you bless me? Or do I presume?"

  "Sister, I am not a saint."

  "You will not grant me your blessing?"

  (Dear Jesus, how did this happen to me?) "Having heard me say that, to the best of my knowledge and belief, I am not a saint, do you still want me to bless you?"

  "If you will . . . holy father."

  "Very well. Turn and lower your head a little—" Instead she turned fully and dropped to her knees. I put a hand on her head. "By authority vested in me as an ordained minister of the one true catholic church of Jesus Christ the Son of God the Father and by the power of the Holy Ghost, I bless this our sister in Christ. So mote it be!"

  I heard echoes of "Amen!" around us; we had had quite an audience. I felt embarrassed. I was not certain, and still am not certain, that I had any authority to bestow blessings in Heaven itself. But the dear woman had asked for it and I could not refuse.

  She looked up at me with tears in her eyes. "I knew it, I knew it!"

  "Knew what?"

  "That you are a saint. Now you are wearing it!"

  I started to say, "Wearing what?" when a minor miracle occurred. Suddenly I was looking at myself from outside: wrinkled and dirty khaki pants, Army-surplus shirt with dark sweat stains in the armpits and a bulge of razor in the left breast pocket, three-day growth of beard and in need of a haircut . . . and, floating over my head, a halo the size of a washtub, shining and sparkling!

  "Up off your knees," I said instead, "and let's stop being conspicuous."

  "Yes, father." She added, "You should not be seated back here."

  "I'll be the judge of that, daughter. Now tell me about yourself." I looked around as she resumed her seat, and happened to catch the eye of an angel seated all alone, up forward. (S)he gestured to me to come forward.

  I had had my fill of the arrogance of angels; at first I ignored the signal. But everyone was noticing and pretending not to, and my awe-struck companion was whispering urgently, "Most holy person, the angelic one wants to see you."

  I gave in—partly because it was easier, partly because I wanted to ask the angel a question. I got up and went to the front of the bus.

  "You wanted me?"

  "Yes. You know the rules. Angels in front, creatures in back, saints in the middle. If you sit in back with creatures, you are teaching them bad habits. How can you expect to maintain your saintly privileges if you ignore protocol? Don't let it happen again."

  I thought of several retorts, all unheavenly. Instead I said, "May I ask a question?"

  "Ask."

  "How much longer until this bus reaches the River from the Throne?"

  "Why do you ask? You have all eternity before you."

  "Does that mean that you don't know? Or that you won't tell?"

  "Go sit down in your proper section. At once!"

  I went back and tried to find a seat in the after space. But my fellow creatures had closed in and left me no room. No one said anything and they would not meet my eye, but it was evident that no one would aid me in defying the authority of an angel. I sighed and sat down in the mid-section, in lonely splendor, as I was the only saint aboard. If I was a saint.

  ****

  I don't know how long it took to reach the Throne. In Heaven the light doesn't vary and the weather does not change and I had no watch. It was simply a boringly long time. Boring? Yes. A gorgeous palace constructed of precious stones is a wonderful sight to see. A dozen palaces constructed of jewels can be a dozen wonderful sights, each different from the other. But a hundred miles of such palaces will put you to sleep, and six hundred miles of the same is deadly dull. I began to long for a used-car lot, or a dump, or (best yet) a stretch of green and open countryside.

  New Jerusalem is a city of perfect beauty; I am witness to that. But that long ride taught me the uses of ugliness.

  I never have found out who designed the Holy City. That God authorized the design and construction is axiomatic. But the Bible does not name the architect(s), or the builder(s). Freemasons speak of "the Great Architect," meaning Jehovah—but you won't find that in the Bible. Just once I asked an angel, "Who designed this city?" He didn't sneer at my ignorance, he didn't scold me—he appeared to be unable to conceive it as a question. But it remains a question to me: Did God create (design and build) the Holy City Himself, right down to the smallest jewel? Or did He form it out to subordinates?

  Whoever designed it, the Holy City has a major short
coming, in my opinion—and never mind telling me that my presumption in passing judgment on God's design is blasphemous. It is a lack, a serious one.

  It lacks a public library.

  One reference librarian who had devoted her life to answering any and all questions, trivial and weighty, would be more use in Heaven than another cohort of arrogant angels. There must be plenty of such ladies in Heaven, as it takes a saintly disposition and the patience of Job to be a reference librarian and to stick with it for forty years. But to carry on their vocation they would need books and files and so forth, the tools of their profession. Given a chance, I'm sure they would set up the files and catalog the books—but where would they get the books? Heaven does not seem to have a book-publishing industry.

  Heaven doesn't have industry. Heaven doesn't have an economy. When Jehovah decreed, after the expulsion from Eden, that we descendants of Adam must gain our bread by the sweat of our faces, He created economics and it has been operating ever since for ca. 6000 years.

  But not in Heaven.

  In Heaven He giveth us our daily bread without the sweat of our faces. In truth you don't need daily bread; you can't starve, you won't even get hungry enough to matter—just hungry enough to enjoy eating if you want to amuite yourself by stopping in any of the many restaurants, refectories, and lunchrooms. The best hamburger I ever ate in my life was in a small lunchroom off the Square of the Throne on the banks of the River. But again, I'm ahead of my story.

  Another lack, not as serious for my taste but serious, is gardens. No gardens, I mean, except the grove of the Tree of Life by the River near the Throne, and a few, a very few, private gardens here and there. I think I know why this is so and, if I am right, it may be self-correcting. Until we reached Heaven (the people of the Rapture and the resurrected dead-in-Christ) almost all citizens of the Holy City were angels. The million or so exceptions were martyrs for the faith, children of Israel so holy that they made it without ever having personally experienced Christ (i.e., mostly before 30 A.D.), and another group from unenlightened lands—souls virtuous without ever knowing of Christ. So 99 percent of the citizens of the Holy City were angels.

  Angels don't seem to be interested in horticulture. I suppose that figures—I can't imagine an angel down on his/her knees, mulching the soil around a plant. They just aren't the dirty-fingernails sort needed to grow prize roses.

  Now that angels are outnumbered by humans by at least ten to one I expect that we will see gardens— gardens, garden clubs, lectures on how to prepare the soil, and so forth. All the endless ritual of the devoted gardener. Now they will have time for it.

  Most humans in Heaven do what they want to do without the pressure of need. That nice lady (Suzanne) who wanted my blessing was a lacemaker in Flanders; now she teaches it in a school open to anyone who is interested. I have gathered a strong impression that, for most humans, the real problem of an eternity of bliss is how to pass the time. (Query: Could there be something to this reincarnation idea so prevalent in other religions but so firmly rejected by Christianity? Could a saved soul be rewarded, eventually, by being shoved back into the conflict? If not on earth, then elsewhere? I've got to lay hands on a Bible and do some searching. To my utter amazement, here in Heaven Bibles seem to be awfully hard to come by.)

  ****

  The information booth was right where it was supposed to be, close to the bank of the River of the Water of Life that flows from the Throne of God and winds through the grove of the Tree of Life. The Throne soars up from the middle of the grove but you can't see it very well that close to its base. It's like looking up at the tallest of New York skyscrapers while standing on the sidewalk by it. Only more so. And of course you can't see the Face of God; you are looking straight up one thousand four hundred and forty cubits. What you see is the Radiance . . . and you can feel the Presence.

  The information booth was as crowded as that cherub had led me to expect. The inquirers weren't queued up; they were massed a hundred deep around it. I looked at that swarm and wondered how long it would take me to work my way up to the counter. Was it possible to work my way there other than by the nastiest of bargain-day tactics, stepping on corns, jabbing with elbows, all the things that make department stores so uninviting to males?

  I stood back and looked at that mob and tried to figure out how to cope. Or was there some other way to locate Margrethe without stepping on corns?

  I was still standing there when a STAFF cherub came up to me. "Holy one, are you trying to reach the information booth?"

  "I surely am!"

  "Come with me. Stay close behind me." He was carrying a long staff of the sort used by riot police, "Gangway! Make way for a saint! Step lively there!" In nothing flat I reached the counter of the booth. I don't think anyone was injured but there must have been some hurt feelings. I don't approve of that sort of action; I think that treatment should be even-handed for everyone. But, where R.H.I.P. is the rule, being even a corporal is vastly better than being a private.

  I turned to thank the cherub; he was gone. A voice said, "Holy one, what do you want?" An angel back of the counter was looking down at me.

  I explained that I wanted to locate my wife. He drummed on the counter. "That's not ordinarily a service we supply. There is a co-op run by creatures called 'Find Your Friends and Loved Ones' for that sort of thing."

  "Where is it?"

  "Near Asher Gate."

  "What? I just came from there. That's where I registered in."

  "You should have asked the angel who checked you in. You registered recently?"

  "Quite recently; I was caught up in the Rapture. I did ask the angel who registered me . . . and got a fast brushoff. He, she, uh, that angel told me to come here."

  "Mmf. Lemme see your papers."

  I passed them over. The angel studied them, slowly and carefully, then called to another angel, who had stopped servicing the mob to watch. "Tirl! Look at this."

  So the second angel looked over my papers, nodded sagely, handed them back—glanced at me, shook his head sadly. "Is something wrong?" I asked.

  "No. Holy one, you had the misfortune to be serviced, if that is the word, by an angel who wouldn't help his closest friend, if he had one, which he doesn't. But I'm a bit surprised that she was so abrupt with a saint."

  "I wasn't wearing this halo at the time."

  "That accounts for it. You drew it later?"

  "I did not draw it. I acquired it miraculously, on the way from Asher Gate to here."

  "I see. Holy one, it's your privilege to put Khromitycinel on the report. On the other hand I could use the farspeaker to place your inquiry for you."

  "I think that would be better."

  "So do I. In the long run. For you. If I make my meaning clear."

  "You do."

  "But before I call that co-op let's check with Saint Peter's office and make sure your wife has arrived. When did she die?"

  "She didn't die. She was caught up in the Rapture, too."

  "So? That means a quick and easy check, no searching of old rolls. Full name, age, sex if any, place and date of—no, we don't need that. Full name first."

  "Margrethe Svensdatter Gunderson."

  "Better spell that."

  I did so.

  "That's enough for now. If Peter's clerks can spell. You can't wait here; we don't have a waiting room. There is a little restaurant right opposite us—see the sign?"

  I turned and looked. "'The Holy Cow'?"

  "That's it. Good cooking, if you eat. Wait there; I'll send word to you."

  "Thank you!"

  "You are welcome—" She glanced again at my papers, then handed them back. "—Saint Alexander Her-gensheimer."

  ****

  The Holy Cow was the most homey sight I had seen since the Rapture: a small, neat lunchroom that would have looked at home in Saint Louis or Denver. I went inside. A tall blackamoor whose chef's hat stuck up through his halo was at the grill with his back to me. I sat down at the
counter, cleared my throat.

  "Just hold your horses." He finished what he was doing, turned around. "What can I— Well, well! Holy man, what can I fix for you? Name it, just name it!"

  "Luke! It's good to see you!"

  He stared at me. "We have met?"

  "Don't you remember me? I used to work for you. Ron's Grill, Nogales. Alec. Your dishwasher."

  He stared again, gave a deep sigh. "You sure fooled me . . . Saint Alec."

  "Just 'Alec' to my friends. It's some sort of administrative mistake, Luke. When they catch it, I'll trade this Sunday job for an ordinary halo."

  "Beg to doubt—Saint Alec. They don't make mistakes in Heaven. Hey! Albert! Take the counter. My friend Saint Alec and I are going to sit in the dining room. Albert's my sous-chef."

  I shook hands with a fat little man who was almost a parody of what a French chef should look like. He was wearing a Cordon Bleu hat as well as his halo. Luke and I went through a side door into a small dining room, sat down at a table. We were joined by a waitress and I got another shock.

  Luke said, "Hazel, I want you to meet an old friend of mine, Saint Alec—he and I used to be business associates. Hazel is hostess of The Holy Cow."

  "I was Luke's dishwasher," I told her. "Hazel, it's wonderful to see you!" I stood up, started to shake hands, then changed my mind for the better, put my arms around her.

  She smiled up at me, did not seem surprised. "Welcome, Alec! 'Saint Alec' now, I see. I'm not surprised."

  "I am. It's a mistake."

  "Mistakes don't happen in Heaven. Where is Margie? Still alive on earth?"

  "No." I explained how we had been separated. "So I'm waiting here for word."

  "You'll find her." She kissed me, quickly and warmly—which reminded me of my four-day beard. I seated her, sat down with my friends. "You are sure to find her quickly, because that is a promise we were made and is precisely carried out. Reunion in Heaven with friends and loved ones. 'We shall gather by the River—' and sure enough, there it is, right outside the door. Steve— Saint Alec, you do remember Steve? He was with you and Margie when we met."