Larry Niven & Jerry Pournelle - Inferno

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INFERNO

by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle

v1.0 (12-31-1998)

If you find and correct errors in the text, please update the version number by 0.1 and

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CHAPTER 1

I thought about being dead.

I could remember every silly detail of that silly last performance. I was dead at the end of it.

But how could I think about being dead if I had died?

I thought about that, too, after I stopped having hysterics. There was plenty of time to think.

Call me Allen Carpentier. It's the name I wrote under, and someone will remember it. I was one of

the best-known science-fiction writers in the world, and I had a lot of fans. My stories weren't

the kind that win awards, but they entertained, and I had written a lot of them. The fans all knew

me. Someone ought to remember me.

It was the fans who killed me. At least, they let me do it. It's an old game. At science-fiction

conventions the fans try to get their favorite author washed-out stinking drunk. Then they can go

home and tell stories about how Allen Carpentier really tied one on and they were right there to

see it. They add to the stories until legends are built around what writers do at conventions.

It's all in fun. They really like me, and I like them.

I think I do. But the fans vote the Hugo awards, and you have to be popular to win. I'd been

nominated five times for awards and never won one, and I was out to make friends that year.

Instead of hiding in a back booth with other writers I was at a fan party, drinking with a roomful

of short ugly kids with pimples, tall serious Harvard types, girls with long stringy hair, half-

pretty girls half-dressed to show it, and damn few people with good manners.

Remember the drinking party in War and Peace? Where one of the characters bets he can sit on a

window ledge and drink a whole bottle of rum without touching the sides? I made the same bet...

The convention hotel was a big one, and the room was eight stories up. I climbed out and sat with

my feet dangling against the smooth stone building. The smog had blown away, and Los Angeles was

beautiful. Even with the energy shortage there were lights everywhere, moving rivers of lights on

the freeways, blue glows from swimming pools near the hotel, a grid of light stretching out as far

as I could see. Somewhere out there were fireworks, but I don't know what they were celebrating.

They handed me the rum. "You're a real sport, Allen," said a middle-aged adolescent. He had acne

and halitosis, but he published one of the biggest science-fiction newsletters around. He wouldn't

have known a literary reference if it bit him on the nose. "Hey, that's a long way down."

"Right. Beautiful night, isn't it? Arcturus up there, see it? Star with the largest proper motion.

Moved a couple of degrees in the last three thousand years. Almost races along."

Carpentier's trivial last words: a meaningless lecture to people who not only knew it already, but

had read it in my own work. I took the rum and tilted my head back to drink.

It was like drinking flaming battery acid. There was no pleasure in it-- I'd regret this tomorrow.

But the fans began to shout behind me, and that made me feel good until I saw why. Asimov had come

in. Asimov wrote science articles and histories and straight novels and commentaries on the Bible

and Byron and Shakespeare, and he turned out more material in a year than anyone else writes in a

lifetime. I used to steal data and ideas from his columns. The fans were shouting for him, while I

risked my neck to give them the biggest performance of all the drunken conventions of Allen

Carpentier.

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With nobody watching.

The bottle was half empty when my gag reflex cut in and spilled used rum into my nose and sinuses.

I jackknifed forward to cough it out of my lungs and pitched right on over.

I don't think anyone saw me fall.

It was an accident, a stupid accident caused by stupid drunkenness, and it was all the fans' fault

anyway. They had no business letting me do it! And it was an accident, I know it was. I wasn't

feeling that sorry for myself.

The city was still alive with lights. A big Roman candle burst with brilliant pinpoints of yellows

and greens against the starry skies. The view was pleasant as I floated down the side of the

hotel.

It seemed to take a long time to get to the bottom.

CHAPTER 2

The big surprise was that I could be surprised.

That I could be anything. That I could be.

I was, but I wasn't. I thought I could see, but there was only a bright uniform metallic color of

bronze. Sometimes there were faint sounds, but they didn't mean anything. And when I looked down,

I couldn't see myself.

When I tried to move, nothing happened. It felt as if I had moved. My muscles sent the right

position signals. But nothing happened, nothing at all.

I couldn't touch anything, not even myself. I couldn't feel anything, or see anything, or sense

anything except my own posture. I knew when I was sitting, or standing, or walking, or running, or

doubled up like a contortionist, but I felt nothing at all.

I screamed. I could hear the scream, and I shouted for help. Nothing answered.

Dead. I had to be dead. But dead men don't think about death. What do dead men think about? Dead

men don't think. I was thinking, but I was dead. That struck me as funny and set off hysterics,

and then I'd get myself under control and go round and round with it again.

Dead. This was like nothing any religion had ever taught. Not that I'd ever caught any of the

religions going around, but none had warned of this. I certainly wasn't in Heaven, and it was too

lonely to be Hell.

It's like this, Carpentier: this is Heaven, but you're the only one who ever made it. Hah!

I couldn't be dead. What, then? Frozen? Frozen! That's it, they've made me a corpsicle! The

convention was in Los Angeles, where the frozen-dead movement started and where it has the most

supporters. They must have frozen me, put me in a double-walled coffin with liquid nitrogen all

around me, and when they tried to revive me the revival didn't work. What am I now? A brain in a

bottle, fed by color-coded tubes? Why don't they try to talk to me?

Why don't they kill me?

Maybe they still have hopes of waking me. Hope. Maybe there's hope after all.

It was flattering, at first, to think of teams of specialists working to make me human again. The

fans! They'd realized it was their fault, and they'd paid for this! How far in the future would I

wake up? What would it be like? Even the definition of human might have changed.

Would they have immortality? Stimulation of psychic power centers in the brain? Empires of

thousands of worlds? I'd written about all of these, and my books would still be around! I'd be

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famous. I'd written about--

I'd written stories about future cultures raiding corpsicles for spare parts, transplants. Had

that happened to me? My body broken up for spares? Then why was I still alive?

Because they couldn't use my brain.

Then let them throw it out!

Maybe they just couldn't use it yet.

I couldn't tell how long I was there. There was no sense of time passing. I screamed a lot. I ran

nowhere forever, to no purpose: I couldn't ran out of breath, I never reached a wall. I wrote

novels, dozens of them, in my head, with no way to write them down. I relived that last convention

party a thousand times. I played games with myself. I remembered every detail of my life, with a

brutal honesty I'd never had before; what else could I do? All through it, I was terrified of

going mad, and then I'd fight the terror, because that could drive me mad--

I think I did not go mad. But it went on, and on, and on, until I was screaming again.

Get me out of here! Please, anyone, someone, get me out of here!

Nothing happened, of course.

Pull the plug and let me die! Make it stop! Get me out of here!

Nothing.

Hey, Carpentier. Remember "The Chill"? Your hero was a corpsicle, and they'd let his temperature

drop too low. His nervous system had become a superconductor. Nobody knew he way alive in there,

frozen solid but thinking, screaming in his head, feeling the awful cold--

No! For the love of God, get me out of here!

***

I was lying on my left side in a field, with dirt under me and warm light all around me. I was

staring at my navel, and I could see it! It was the most beautiful sight I'd ever imagined. I was

afraid to move; my navel and I might pop like a soap bubble. It took a long time to get the nerve

to lift my head.

I could see my hands and feet and the rest of me. When I moved my fingers I could see them

wriggle.

There wasn't a thing wrong with me. It was as if I had never fallen eight stories to be smashed

into jelly.

I was clothed in a loose white gown partly open down the front. Not very surprising, but where was

the hospital? Surely they didn't waken Sleepers in the middle of a field?

They? I couldn't see anyone else. There was a field of dirt, trampled here and there, sloping

downhill to become a shiny mud flat. I raised my head, and he was standing behind me. A fat man,

tall but dumpy and chunky enough that at first I didn't notice his height. His jaw was massively

square and jutted out, the first thing I noticed about his face. He had wide lips and a high

forehead, and short, blunt, powerful fingers. He wore a hospital gown something like mine.

He was beautiful. Everything was beautiful. But my navel? Magnifique!

"You are well?" he asked.

He spoke with an accent: Mediterranean; Spanish, perhaps, or Italian. He was looking closely at

me, and he asked again, "You are well?"

"Yes. I think so. Where am I?"

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He shrugged. "Always they ask that question first. Where do you think you are?"

I shook my head and grinned for the pleasure of it. It was pleasure to move, to see myself move,

to feel my buttocks press against the dirt and know something would oppose my movements. It was

ecstasy to see myself in the bright light around me. I looked up at the sky.

There wasn't any sky.

Okay, there has to be a sky. I know that. But I saw nothing. Thick clouds? But there was no detail

to the clouds, just a uniform gray above me. Even in my sensation-starved condition it was ugly.

I was in the middle of a field of dirt that stretched a couple of miles to some low brown hills.

There were people on the hills, a lot of them, running after something I couldn't make out. I sat

up to scan the horizon.

The hills ran up against a high wall that stretched in both directions as far as I could see. It

seemed straight as a mathematician's line, but I sensed the slightest of inward curves just before

it vanished into deep gloom. There, was something wrong with the perspective. but I can't describe

precisely what, just that it didn't seem right.

The hills and the mud flats formed a wide strip between the wall and a fast-moving river of water

black as ink. The river was a mile away and didn't seem very wide at that distance. I could see it

perfectly, another perceptual distortion because it was too far away for the details I could make

out.

Beyond the river were green fields and white Mediterranean villas, walled complexes with the squat

classical look to them, some quite large. They weren't arranged in any order, and the effect was

very pleasing. I turned back to the wall.

Not very high, I thought. High enough to be trouble climbing, perhaps two or three times my six-

foot height. I was hampered by the perspective problem. The nearest point of the wall might have

been a mile away or ten, though ten seemed ridiculous.

I took a deep breath and didn't like the smells. Fetid, with an acrid tinge, decay and sickly

sweet perfume to cover the smells of death, orange blossoms mingled with hospital smells. All

subtle enough that I hadn't noticed them before, but sickening all the same. I won't mention the

smells often, but they were always there. Most stinks you get used to and soon don't notice, but

this had too much in the blend and the blend changed too often. You'd just get used to one and

there'd be another.

Beside me on the ground was a small bronze bottle with a classical beaker shape. I figured it

would hold maybe a quart. Except for the man standing above me there wasn't another blessed thing.

"Never mind where I am," I said. "Where have I been? I don't remember passing out. I was

screaming, and here I am. Where was I?"

"First you ask where you are. Then where you were. Do you think of nothing else you should say?"

He was frowning disapproval, as if he didn't like me at all. So what the hell was he doing here?

Breaking me out of wherever I'd been, of course. "Yeah. Thanks."

"You should thank the One who sent me to you."

"Who was that?"

"You asked Him for help--"

"I don't remember asking anyone for help." But this time I'd heard him pronounce the capital

letter. "Yeah. 'For the love of God,' I said. Well?"

The fat meaty lips twitched, and his eyes filled with concern. When he looked at me it wasn't in

distaste, but in sympathy. "Very well. You will have a great deal to learn. First, I answer your

questions. Where are you? You are dead, and you lie on the ground of the Vestibule to Hell. Where

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were you?" He kicked the bronze bottle with a sandaled foot. "In there."

Hot diggity damn, I'm in the nut hatch and the head loony's come to talk to me.

Carpentier wakes up a thousand years after his last flight and sloppy landing, and already he's in

trouble. Spoons and forks and chopsticks, traffic lights, the way a man puts his pants on, all may

have to be relearned.

Law and customs change in a thousand years. Society may not even recognize Carpentier as sane.

But wake him in a thirtieth-century loony bin among thirtieth-century twitchies, and now what? How

can he adjust to anything?

There were other bottles sitting unattended on the dirt, some larger than mine, some smaller. I

don't know why I hadn't noticed them before. I picked one up and dropped it quick. It burned my

fingers, and there were faint sounds coming from inside it.

It sounded like human speech in a foreign language, a voice screaming curses. That tone couldn't

be anything else. Endless curses screamed--

Why would they put radios in old bronze bottles and scatter them through the loony bin? My

hypothesis needed more work.

The people up on the hills were still running. They'd looped back to about where I'd first seen

them, and whatever it was they chased, they hadn't caught it yet. Do they let the nuts run in

circles in futuristic loony bins?

Where had I been? Where? There wasn't any hospital around here, no facilities for keeping all at

part of a corpsicle, nothing but this crazy man and a lot of bronze bottles and people running in

circles, and-- and insects of some kind. Something whined and did a kamikaze into my ear.

Something else stung me on the back of the neck. I slapped frantically, but there wasn't anything

to see.

It felt good even to hurt myself slapping.

My "rescuer" was patiently waiting for me to make some response. It wouldn't hurt to humor him

until I had more information.

"Okay, I'm in the Vestibule of Hell and I was in a bottle. A djinn bottle. How long?" I told him

the date on which I'd fallen from the window.

He shrugged. "You will find that time has not the same meaning here as you are accustomed to. We

have all the time we will ever need. Eternity lies before us. I am unable to tell you how long you

were in that beaker, but I can assure you it is not important."

Not important? I almost went mad in there! The realization made me start to shiver, and he dropped

to his knees beside me, all concern, to put a hand on my shoulder.

"It is over now. God will not allow you back into the bottle. I cannot assure you that there will

be nothing worse before you leave Hell. There will be much worse. But with faith and hope you will

endure it, and you will be able to leave."

"That's a lot of comfort."

"It is infinite comfort. Did you not understand? I know a way out at here!"

"Yeah? So do I. Right over that wall."

He laughed. I listened for a while, and it got irritating. Finally he choked it down to a chuckle.

"I'm sorry, but they all say that, too. I suppose there is nothing for it but to let you try.

After all-- we have plenty of time." He laughed again.

Now what? Would he turn me in if I tried to climb the wall? I got up, surprised at how good I felt

except for the gnats and the smell. My imaginary exercises in the bottle--

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Look-- wherever I really spent all that time, effectively I was in a bottle, right? It's a

convenient figure of speech. Anyway, my exercises in the bottle had paid off. I started briskly

toward the wall.

Wherever the ground dipped low it became squishy mud, ankle-deep, with small live things in it. I

tried to stick to the high ground. The fat man kept right alongside me. There was no chucking him.

After a while I said, "If we're going to walk together I might as well know your name."

"Benito. Call me Benny if you like."

"Okay. Benito." Benny sounded much too friendly. "Look, Benito, don't you want out of here?"

I hit a nerve. He stopped short, his wide face a gamut of emotions unlike anything I'd even seen.

After a long time he said, "Yes."

"Then come over the wall with me."

"I can't. You can't. You'll see." He wouldn't say anything else, just kept pace with me as I

walked on.

And on.

And on, and on, and on. The wall was a long way off. I was right about the perspective. We'd been

walking for over an hour as far as I could tell, and the wall looked no closer.

We walked until we were exhausted, and it was still a long way off. I sat down in the mud to slap

gnats. "Didn't seem that far. How high is that thing, anyway? Must be colossal."

"It is no more than three meters high."

"Don't be silly."

"Look behind you."

That was the shock of my life. The river was now maybe three miles away instead of one. And we'd

walked for hours. But--

Benito nodded. "We could walk for eternity and never reach the wall. And we have eternity. No, you

don't believe me. Very well, convince yourself. Continue toward the wall. Continue until even you,

are certain it can never be reached, and then I will tell you how you can escape."

It took me several hours, but I finally believed him.

The wall was like light speed. We could get arbitrarily close, but we couldn't ever reach it. Like

light speed, or the bottom of a black hole, but like nothing else in the universe I knew.

We weren't going out this way.

And-- and just where were we?

CHAPTER 3

I sat in the dirt and slapped gnats while Benito explained it again.

"We are dead and in Hell. This is the Vestibule to Hell, where those who would make no choices in

life are condemned. Neither warm nor cold, believers nor blasphemers-- you see them in the hills.

They chase a banner they will never catch."

I remembered then. "Dante's Inferno?"

Benito nodded, his big, square jaw heaving like a broaching whale. "You have read the Inferno,

then. Good. That was the first clue I had to the way out of here. We must go down--"

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"Sure, all the way." Something about a lake of ice, and a hole in the center of it. It had been a

long time since I had read Dante. I couldn't see that remembering a thirteenth-century book would

do me any good to begin with. This couldn't possibly be the real Hell. Dante's cosmology had been

ludicrous, for one thing.

So where was I? "How come you're so sure this is the place Dante described?"

"Where else could it be? All of the features are here. All of the details."

And I'd been dead a long time. Centuries? What kind of civilization would build an exact copy of

Dante's Inferno? An Infernoland. Was it part of a larger amusement park, like Frontierland in the

Disneyland complex? Or was Infernoland all there was to it?

Who was Benito? A stooge, or a revived corpsicle like me?

The wall. How had they managed that trick? The wall hadn't moved, and I certainly had. Some kind

of local field effect? A time slip? Bent space? Come on, Carpentier, you wrote the stuff. What's

the explanation? Not the way they did it, just a plausible way!

"First, we must cross the river," Benito was saying. "Do you believe me now when I tell you that

you must not attempt to swim it, or even I get wet from it, or must you try that too?"

"What happens if I just dive in?"

"Then you will be as you were in the bottle. Aware and unable to move. But it will be very cold,

and very uncomfortable, and you will be there for all eternity knowing you put yourself there."

I shuddered and slapped a gnat. He might be lying. I wasn't going to try it.

A looked very nice across the river, and that was where we had to get before we could find Dante

Alighieri's escape hole in the center of Infernoland. The hell with getting to the center! Let me

get to those villas over there and I'd be happy enough. "Who's on the other side of the river?"

"Virtuous pagans," Benito answered. "Those who never knew the Word of God, but kept the

Commandments. They are not persecuted. Their fate may be the most cruel of all those in this

place."

"Because they aren't tortured?"

"Because they think they are happy. You'll find out, let us go and see them."

"How?"

"There is a ferryboat. Once it was a rowing boat, but--"

"Got overcrowded in Hell. Too many arrivals. Sure." And in Disneyland I'd been on a Mississippi

riverboat big enough for fifty or sixty people to walk around on. It chugged around on a little

pond it shared with a miniature clipper ship. The Builders of Infernoland had a sense of humors

putting a ferryaboat in place of Charon's old rowboat.

Maybe we'd meet some of the paying customers on the ferry. I didn't think Benito was one. He

behaved more like a fanatical Catholic.

And what was I? Nobody had given me any role to play. Who inhabits Infernoland?

Who inhabits the Inferno?

Damned souls. Could that be my job now-- to play damned soul for the amusement of tourists? It

wasn't a role I liked very much.

It took as long to leave the wall as it had to go toward it. At least things were consistent.

There were laws to this place, if only I could discover them.

When we passed the bottle that had been beside me when I woke up, we turned left and angled toward

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the river. An old drinking song from science-fiction conventions kept running through my head. "If

hosen and shoon thou never gavest men, every night and all, the fire will burn thee to the bare

bone, and Christ receive thy soul." Was that really where I was, in a real Hell, where justice was

meted out to the ungodly?

Scary. It would mean that there was a real God, and maybe Jonah was swallowed by a whale in the

Mediterranean Sea, and Joshua ben Nun really did stop the Earths rotation for trivial purposes...

There was something leaning against a rock. At first I couldn't make it out: a pink mound with

hair trailing down one side. We got closer and the mound became five-hundred-odd pounds of woman

sitting cross-legged in stinking mud. A swarm of gnats hummed around her. She didn't bother to

swat them.

She looked up at us with lifeless eyes. Benito took my arm to hurry me on past her, but I shook

him off. She couldn't be quite sane either, but she might be able to tell me something straight.

It was more than he would do, and I needed help.

I squatted down to look into her face. She was pathetic, hardly in shape to help anyone, including

herself. Far back within tunnels of fat were tiny sparks of life, dull gray against black.

Hopeless eyes, almost lifeless.

Her voice was a husky whisper. "Well?"

"I don't know where I am. I just got here, and I have to know. Can you help me?"

"Help you! I died, and then this happened to me!"

"Died?"

"How else do you get into Hell?" Her voice rose to demand attention despite my shocked surprise.

The full force of her breath washed over in waves. "What did I do? I don't deserve this! I don't

belong here at all," she wailed. "I was beautiful. I could eat like a horse and burn it off in an

hour. Then I woke up here, like this!" Her voice dropped to a low, confidential murmur. "We're in

the hands of infinite power and infinite sadism."

I shied back. Another one.

"Is there nothing you can do?" Benito asked her.

"Sure. I can chase banners to keep slim. What's the point of that? They won't let you do anything

meaningful."

I shuddered. It could have been me. "Why would anyone do this to you?"

"I... think it must have been because ten-million fat people were cursing me." Her voice turned

venomous. "Fat, fat, fat people with no willpower and no self-respect."

"Why?"

"For doing my job! For trying to help people, trying to save them from themselves! For banning

cyclamates, that's why! It was for their own good," she ranted. "You can't trust people to be

moderate about anything. Some people get sick on cyclamates. They have to be helped. And this is

what I get for helping them!"

"Were trying to escape. Want to come with us? Benito thinks we can get out by going down to the

center of this crazy place."

A little spark of interest flared in her eyes, and I held my breath. My open mouth had sent me

floating down the side of a building; when would I learn to keep it closed? If she came with us

we'd never get away. What good was she?

She struggled to get up, then collapsed against her rock. "No, thank you."

"Right." I started to say something else in parting, but what? If anything went at all right, I'd

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never see her again. I just walked away, and she let her head slump back into the mounds of fat

that bulged at her neck.

As we walked away, Benito asked, "What are cyclamates?"

I slapped at a gnat. The gnats were everywhere, stinging us both, but Benito didn't bother to slap

at them. "Sugar substitute. For people who want to lose weight."

He frowned. "If there is too much to eat, surely it would be better to eat less and share with

those who have none."

I looked at his big paunch and said nothing.

"I too am in Hell," he reminded me.

"Ah. And they can do what they did to her to you..." I shuddered. We were lucky.

"I take it you did not agree with her policy?"

"Idiots. If they'd fed as much sugar to the control rats as they gave cyclamates to the

experimental group, they'd have killed the controls first. Instead, they doomed a lot of people to

fat. There wasn't a good substitute for cyclamate. I know one guy who bought up cases and cases of

a cyclamate diet drink just before the ban hit. He used to give cases of 'vintage Tab' as

Christmas presents. They were appreciated, too."

Benito said nothing.

"I know a couple who used to drive up to Canada every so often just to buy cyclamates. It was a

stupid policy." I looked back over my shoulder at the shapeless pink mound. "Still, it seems a

little extreme, what they did to her."

"It is not just?"

"How can you call that just?" I didn't say anything else, but I remembered what she'd said.

"'We're in the hands of infinite power and infinite sadism.'"

And just who in Hell was Benito? A paying customer having sport? A damned soul like me? Or one of

the paid crew of Infernoland? He talked like a religious fanatic; he seemed to take everything at

face value.

Did I dare follow him? But what else could I do? One thing was certain: if he could think that

woman had been treated justly, he was not much better than a devil himself.

Hey, Carpentier. Would an artificial Hell have artificial devils? I looked at Benito more closely.

He was partly bald. There were no horns on his forehead.

We seemed to be covering a lot of ground, as if the effect of too much distance to the wall had

been played in reverse. Suddenly we were part of a crowd, all streaming toward the river. Nobody

was pushing them along, but they didn't seem friendly and they didn't talk among themselves. Each

one was huddled in toward himself, not looking where he was going. Or she; there were a lot of

women.

The ferryboat captain had a long white beard and eyes like burning coals. He screamed in rage when

anyone was slow getting aboard. We were pressed together on deck, a mass of us so tightly packed

that we couldn't move.

"You again!" He'd turned his burning eyes on Benito. "You've come here before! Well, you won't

escape again!" He swung a long billyclub at Benito. It hit with a crack that I thought would break

my guide's skull, but it only staggered him.

More people packed the decks until I couldn't even see. Finally I felt the boat begin to move. By

then I'd have been glad to stay behind, but there was no way off the boat.

Two voices whispered intensely near my ear:

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"Why didn't you stop when I screamed?"

"Because you startled me into taking my foot off the brake. At least I'll never have to listen to

your backseat driving again--"

"But we're in Hell, darling. They'll probably put us in a car with no brakes. Maybe they'll give

you a horn. You'll like that.

"Shut up! Shut up!"

She did, and quiet descended. No crowd is that quiet. It was as if nobody had anything to say to

anyone.

We bumped solid ground. "All off," Charon shouted. "Damned souls! Damned forever! You cursed God,

and now you'll pay for it!"

"Damn God and everyone else!" "Piss on you!" "Up the people!" "You're mucking bastards, all of

you, get off my foot!" "But I don't belong here." "What'd I do? Just tell me--" "Damn the lot of

you, I died a man!"

We pushed and shoved, and danced to keep our feet in the swarm. At least we were on the other

side. The crowd was hurrying downhill, along a road that ran between thick, high walls. I hung

back, hoping Benito would go with the rest. No such luck. The road turned and twisted so we

couldn't see what was ahead, but that was good because after a while we were alone.

I tried to climb the wall. It was a tough scramble, and I kept falling back. After the fourth time

I sat there below the wall and whimpered.

"Would you like help?" Benito asked.

"Sure. I thought you said the only way out was downhill."

"It is, but we have time to explore. Try again, I will lift you."

He practically threw me over the wall. He didn't look that strong. I sat on top for a second and

looked down at him. He seemed to be waiting for me to help him up.

And now what, Carpentier? Fair's fair, he helped you. Yeah, but why? Leave him behind, he's

trouble.

But he knows things I don't. And he got me out of the bottle.

Did he? He says he poured you out of a bottle the size of a fifth of rum! Leave him.

I didn't get the chance to decide. While I was thinking it over, Benito began climbing like an

alpiner, using tiny cracks and bumps I could hardly see. Pretty soon he got one hand on top of the

wall and pulled himself up. He wasn't breathing hard, and he didn't say anything about my sitting

there and watching instead of helping.

I turned to look at the countryside. After. all, this Infernoland seemed to be modeled on Dante's.

A quarter of a century ago the Inferno had been a required book for a course in Comparative World

Literature. I'd paid as little attention to the book as I could get away with. I remembered almost

nothing, but certainly the place had not been pleasant. God's own torture chamber, very medieval.

Vague images came back to me now: devils with pitchforks, trees that talked and bled, giants and

centaurs, fire, snakes... but were those from the authentic Inferno, or were they hangovers from

Oz books and Disney cartoons? Never mind, Carpender. You're not going any further.

CHAPTER 4

It was lovely on the other side of the wall. I jumped down onto firm ground, grassy and pleasant.

The air was clean, as at the top of a mountain, with that fresh smell you get only after a hard

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file:///F|/rah/Larry%20Niven/Larry%20Niven%20&%20Jerry%20Pournelle%20-%2Inferno.txtINFERNObyLarryNivenandJerryPournelle(c)1976byLarryNivenandJerryPournellev1.0(12-31-1998)Ifyoufindandcorrecterrorsinthetext,pleaseupdatetheversionnumberby0.1andredistribute.CHAPTER1Ithoughtaboutbeingdead.Icouldremem...

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Larry Niven & Jerry Pournelle - Inferno

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