The Nature of the Place

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At the age of twenty, Paul Dearborn first reached the conviction that he would ultimately go to hell. He worried over it, but not for very long.

At the age of forty, the idea of going to hell positively appealed to him. Heaven would be so dull, after all.

But by the time he was sixty, he was just a bit uneasy again. “It’s not that I’m afraid of it,” he said one night after two beers too many. The shabby little man standing next to him at the bar only smiled. “I’m not afraid at all,” Paul repeated firmly. “Just—uneasy.”

“How can you be so sure you’re going there?” the little man wanted to know.

“Oh, I’ve never doubted it,” Paul said. “And I don’t feel bitter, mind you. I’ve had a rather pleasant life,” he said untruthfully, “and I’m prepared to pay the price. I’ve got no complaint coming. Another beer?’

“Don’t mind if I do,” the little man said.

Paul signalled the bartender for refills. “I know where I’m heading, all right,” he went on. “But the damned uncertainty bothers me. If I only knew what the place was like—”

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