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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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Unknown, October August 1941, with "Even the Angels"
Concerning the case of one Soul, accidentally and
mistakenly
consigned to Gehenna, and the interdepartmental troubles of
straightening out the case. For the Soul wanted his rights....
MR. HERBERT P. MCQUIGLEY died, was buried, and duly mourned. He was a good man, as men are judged in Pearlburg. He did not smoke, drink, dance, or play at cards. He married early, and he was the kind of man that did not take his marriage vows lightly. His private life, in short, was impeccable. His reputation for utter rectitude had never been clouded by the slightest breath of scandal except for one brief rumor that turned out later to be a base canard. At a time when Mr. McQuigley was attending a bankers' convention in Cincinnati, the police happened to raid a gambling dive. Part of their haul chanced to be a man, quite drunk, who was clicking a stack of chips with one hand while his disengaged arm held a chorine he was dandling on his knee. The culprit gave his name as H.P. McQuigley of Pearlburg, and the thing got in the papers. But all that was straightened out and explained, and the appropriate apologies made public by the papers. The fellow happened to be a ne'er-do-well cousin, of the reprobate Orangetown branch.
So much for Mr. McQuigley's private life. He was a lawyer by profession, but eventually got into business, where he was acclaimed to be a success. He became president of the local bank and acquired the town's leading mercantile establishment in addition to much good farmland. Disgruntled persons who had had business dealings with him often complained he was a hard bargainer and a merciless collector, but to those Mr. McQuigley always said—and the logic of it is indisputable—that since he never demanded more than was due, he should not be expected to concede less. To those who complained that the laws were unfair, he suggested they change the law. In politics he was a conservative.
But as previously stated, he died and was buried. His widow and the brethren of the First Orthodist Church, of which he was a deacon, gave him an imposing funeral. He was buried in a private burial ground and a modest stone placed to mark the spot. A few centuries rolled by, and in the course of them the headstone sagged and fell into the patch of weeds that had taken the plot. The world passed on, busy with its own affairs, not knowing or caring that once the McQuigley name was one to conjure with in Pearlburg. Sic transit gloria mundi!
Not so, however, in Heaven. Or rather, in that sector of it
given over to the Orthodists. Two hundred years, four months and
five days after the demise of Mr. McQuigley, a routine report
from the Heavenly Auditor to the Rectifier of Wrongs started a
chain of activities whose reverberations continued to echo in the
Hereafter for a long time to come. Perhaps as good a way as any
to plot the course and expose the anatomy of that Celestial
headache is to offer the Heavenly file, enriched by the
interpolation of certain unofficial memoranda exchanged among the
harassed angels and demons concerned.
The very first entry is the Auditor's report alluded to above. It is dated the 204th day of the year 88,011, absolute—which is meaningless to us. The report itself is self-explanatory, except that Mesram's use of the word "recently" will bear a little interpretation. He is no doubt alluding to the two-hundred-and-odd years that had intervened between the passing of Mr. McQuigley and his own entry into the case. It must be borne in mind that to an immortal such a period of time is not impressive. Here is the report:
From: THE HEAVENLY AUDITORTHE HEAVENLY AUDITOR.
To: THE RECTIFIER OF WRONGS.
In Re: SATANIC COMPLAINT ABOUT ALLOTMENT.
YOUR REVERENCE:
Pursuant to your gracious instructions I have looked into His Malevolency's demand for a larger allotment for fuel and his request for additional appropriation for salaries and upkeep of one demon and three imps. I regret to state that for once His Devilship appears to have a well-grounded complaint. A comparison of the rosters of the Blest and the Damned with an actual head count on the job shows that there is one soul too many in the Pits of Gehenna, while the Celestial Chorus is shy one tenor.
A superficial investigation indicates that this unfortunate soul is one Herbert P. McQuigley, a devout Orthodist, recently admitted, known on the records as Inmate 1,218. He was received on the night of August 14, 1941; Gate Tender, Saleph, angel, second class; Deputy Recording Angel of the Watch, Mosoch; Sorter of the Sheep from the Goats, Riphath. The latter, acting on a transcript of the record furnished by Mosoch, sentenced McQuigley to an eternity in the Pits. Curiously, the transcript upon which he acted has since disappeared. Sorter Riphath, when interviewed, said that to the best of his recollection the alleged sins were gambling, drunkenness and lascivious conduct. These sins do not appear in the official record.
A miscarriage of justice may have occurred. I recommend a searching inquiry into the whole matter of McQuigley's entry and commitment. But may I suggest to Your Reverence that it is high time someone put a bug in Satan's ear? He is no doubt a good angel for his job, but it seems to me he lies awake nights thinking up ways to worry and embarrass us here in Heaven. After all, we aren't damned.
Yours faithfully,
MESRAM
From: RECTIFIER OF WRONGS.
To: THE HEAVENLY AUDITOR.
In Re: YOUR REPORT.
SUBMISSIVE SIR:
Your report received and will be acted upon.
The last four lines of your report are rejected and you are hereby rebuked for having written them. When your opinion is desired on such matters, it will be asked for.
ABIMAEL.
Unofficial scribble to First Deputy Recording Angel,
attributed to Judith, private secretary to Abimael.
Stand by, sanctikins, to go through the wringer. It's about that McQuigley mixup. Somebody's going to sizzle for it. Satan squawked and old nosy Mesram has been poking around. So far he's pinned it on Riphath, but you can bet your last bowl of ambrosia that that holy old coot isn't going to accept the buck. You'd better tip Thiras off so he can be thinking up the answers—I just finished engrossing the official scroll. It'll hit you in a day or so.
For ever and ever,
Judy.
From: SPECIAL INVESTIGATOR NAHUM.
TO: THE RECTIFIER OF WRONGS.
In Re: SCANDALOUS LAXITY IN BUREAU OF RECORDS OF THE LIVING.
YOUR REVERENCE:
I have the honor to report that the Angel Riphath, though guilty as charged of having wrongfully committed Inmate 1,218 while sitting as Sorter of the Day, is completely exonerated. He had no choice but to proceed from the Divine Record, a presumably authentic copy of which was before him at the time.
The fault lies in the Recording Bureau, whence the false document emanated. After a very painful investigation the following facts have come to light:
On New Year's Eve of the first day of 88,000, absolute, they threw a party in the Recorder's office—much nectar and nec—Well, you know—the usual thing. Present were: First Deputy Sarug and Judith, of the your own office, and a brace of Soothers of the Blest, and several minor deputies. Thiras, who was on watch at the time, joined them and lost contact with his watchees for the space of several hours. To cover up, he later used the current Earthly AP dispatches as a source of recordable sins, on the theory that only stuff that gets into the papers is serious enough to be worth writing down anyhow. In the interim a report had come through to the effect that H.P. McQuigley—Inmate 1,218—had been arrested in Cincinnati on various charges and that his guilt was apparent, which Phiras inscribed on the blotter.
Somewhat later a correction came through and was duly made, but it was delayed somehow and in the meantime the said McQuigley had died, been received and committed, leading to the unhappy dilemma we have now to face. It scared Sarug and Thiras. They rectified the records, but there was no way to undo the commitment without exposing themselves, so they entered into a conspiracy to forget the whole thing, trusting no one would pay attention to McQuigley's wails that it was all a mistake.
These are the facts. I have no recommendations to make.
NAHUM.
From: THE RECTIFIER OF WRONGS.
To: SARUG, THIRAS, JUDITH.
In Re: YOUR MISCONDUCT.
CHILDREN:
Report to me at once for assignment of penance.
YOUR HOLINESS:
Please advise me how to rectify the foregoing error.
ABIMAEL.
Unofficial note, Asarmoth to Abimael.
You can't. Best thing to do is forget it. What is one damned, more or less, among the Orthodists? I've never been able to figure out how any of 'em get by, their views are so strict. Anyway, what makes their Heaven any more desirable than their Hell? We only work here, you know, but we can't help having our personal opinions.
But seriously, old boy, you're up against something. The fellow has a legitimate kick, I suppose, but we can't back down on the doctrine of the infallibility of our courts. And you are perfectly aware of what we will be letting ourselves in for if we admit a single instance of error in the records. Every damned soul in Hell will be clamoring for a review. No, old-timer, it won't do. Why not send one of your slick-tongued persuaders down there and have a talk with him?
As for Satan, there is no pleasing him. I've never liked him, but then I am not omniscient. What's more to the point, I'm not. omnipotent. You might hush him up by giving him what he asks for, but mind you, not an obulus more. He'll get the idea he has something on you, and then there will be Hell to pay! Excuse the pun, old fellow, but Heaven is a dull place at times.
Cordially,
Asarmoth.
From: THE RECTIFIER OF WRONGS:
To: SPECIAL INVESTIGATOR NAHUM.
In Re: MCQUIGLEY.
DEAR SERVITOR:
Go to Hell. In Pit 47 in Subdivision 3 of West Gehenna you will find Inmate 1,218. Have him fished out and cooled off and have a talk with him. You know all the facts. Tell him as little as you have to—maybe the best thing to say is that we have arranged a pardon for him. In any case, give him a thorough brushing off and tell him we are transferring him to Heaven. That ought to do it. Let me know as early as possible how you make out.
ABIMAEL.
Copy of Requisition on Celestial Stores and Supplies,
submitted by Rachel, secretary to Nahum.
Please furnish at once:
Item 1. Two brand-new wings, size 38, style XIV-B. To replace former ones, badly singed and unfeathered by trip to Hell.
Item 2. Fresh head of hair, as per sample—only a couple of shades redder, and slightly more curly, if you don't mind. Same reason as above, except there was no defeathering.
Item 3. Complete new outfit of robes, as above.
P.S. If I've got to do this again, for Heaven's sake, furnish asbestos weave—especially the skirt. You should have seen those poor sinners writhe! It was too, too cruel.
From: SPECIAL INVESTIGATOR NAHUM.
To: THE RECTIFIER OF WRONGS.
In Re: MCQUIGLEY.
YOUR REVERENCE:
This McQuigley is a tough egg. He has the legal mind. To make a long story short, he won't play ball except on his own terms.
First off, he was stubborn and wouldn't get out of the pool. Said he'd stood it for two centuries and would stand it as many more. All he wanted was justice. That is, justice and retribution. He kept saying that over and over, and all the while he was splashing that damned vitriol all over us. Rachel was taking down the chatter, and it made her pretty sore. She was all burned up, and I'm not being funny about it, either.
But to get to the point. He claimed he had been framed and could prove it. Said he had been through the same thing on Earth and came out on top, and what's more, got big damages. Says he expects as much or more here. I promised him Heaven, but he said that was not enough. He rated Heaven. In addition, he wants to know, what does he get for two hundred years of torment in blazing brimstone and boiling vitriol? He was entitled to damages. What are we offering to keep him from blabbing to the Big Boss?
That smacks of blackmail, I know, but he is shrewd, and knows where he has got us. I pointed out that it was impossible to add anything to Heaven, since Heaven itself is the gratification of every proper human desire. He snorted at that; said he'd settle for an archangelship. I made the counteroffer of a demonship, but he said no. Archangelship or nothing. Well, that's out, I know. An archangel is allowed a few faults, but one thing he must have, and that is some understanding and sympathy for human beings. An Orthodist of his type has neither. What's more, he would start out with a grievance against all the Blest, because they had been there from the first, while he had just come from the Pit.
It looks bad. I borrowed a few yards of unused vitriol strainer and wrapped Rachel up in it and brought her home. Fortunately the parchment she used was acid-proof, so the transcript of the interview has been preserved. It is inclosed herewith.
NAHUM.
Unofficial, Asarmoth to Abimael.
Herewith the sequel. Read it and weep. Now what?
Unofficial: Asarmoth to Abimael.
Nahum did quite right. But send him back to talk some more. Keep on fishing for counterproposals. Sooner or later the bird will come across with one we can handle. It's likely to be a slick proposition, for McQuigley was a lawyer and a clever one. But then, I'm a lawyer, too. Let me worry about our angle.
From: SPECIAL INVESTIGATOR NAHUM.
To: THE RECTIFIER OF WRONGS.
In Re: THE MCQUIGLEY CASE.
YOUR REVERENCE:
Things came out better this time. He refuses absolutely to accept a pardon for a sin he did not commit, but says he has no scruples against accepting one for a sin he did commit. It seems that the basic cause of his bellyache is that he has had to suffer for some alleged concentrated sinning that he didn't get any fun out of. I gather that he spent most of his life yearning to go on a big bust, get pie-eyed, watch the little ball fall, and the rest of it, but being a pillar of society in a hick town and getting rich at it, he didn't dare. Anyhow, what he wants now is to be permitted to go back to Earth for a week end with an understanding in advance that he can shoot the works and get away with it. Then he will come back to Heaven with no hard feelings.
NAHUM.
Unofficial, Abimael to Asarmoth.
I am afraid of this. It is revolutionary. But it may be an out. What do you think?
Same: Asarmoth to Abimael.
It's worth a shot, but not via the pardon route. To get such a pardon we would have to go to the Big Boss. He must know, of course, since He knows everything, but since He chooses to pretend not to notice, it's a hint to us not to emphasize it. Suppose we do it by contract—I will draw up the contract—and sign it with him? We'll have lots of witnesses so he can't squirm out of it later.
By the way, it wouldn't do him any good to go back to Earth now. Things have changed. Better cut him back to his own time—say, swap his personality with that of the erring cousin who got him into this mess. That'll take a miracle, but I guess you can wangle that out of the Miracle Bureau without going higher. We don't want this small time chiseler's wails to make too much noise.
From: THE RECTIFIER OF WRONGS,
To: CHIEF OF BUREAU, MIRACLES AND APPARITIONS.
In Re: CASE OF H.P. MCQUIGLEY.
(Brief of transcript attached)
From the inclosure you will readily see the dilemma we are facing. Knowing nothing is impossible to you, I want to ask a favor. Will you—without making too much fuss about it—arrange to have this soul transferred back to 9:15 the night of Saturday, the 15th of June, 1940, and kept there until 3:22 the following Monday morning? House it in the body of his black sheep cousin Hank. I presume you can do the necessary juggling of the consciousnesses of the parties concerned so that the substitution will go unnoticed.
ABIMAEL.
Unofficial (very).
From Miraclist's Helper Joel, to Nahum.
Your chief sure wished an assignment on us this time! Boy! You should have seen that sainted hellion of yours perform. He did everything, and how! He lapped it up. He went at his sinning like an old-timer and added a few touches of his own. First he socked the roulette layout for a couple of grand, and then he shifted to stud. He played his cards like a fish, but he had 'em, so he mopped up. And drink—wow! I've heard of the unquenchable thirst of the Pit, but I never saw it in action before. He settled down to straight rum finally, and polished off two full bottles by dawn.
He slept awhile after that—who wouldn't—and then got up and tapered off on champagne. By midafternoon, when the chorines came in, he was in form again. He didn't miss any bets with them, either. That night they danced awhile and shot craps in the intermissions. He never let down a minute until the cops came in and the show was over.
Anyhow, your miracle is done, and I hope it helps. But for Pete's sake, what's it all about? How is a guy like that going to stand it in the Orthodist Heaven?
Canceled pass, lifted from hook in the gatekeeper's lodge,
Southern Portal of the Pearly Gates:
Good for one exit from Hell and one re-entry to Heaven.
Signed, Abimael; countersigned, Asarmoth.
Taken up by Gatekeeper Ebal, 240th day, the year 88,011.
From: SATAN.
To: THE RECTIFIER OF WRONGS.
In Re: YOUR PET, MCQUIGLEY.
Think you've pulled a fast one, don't you? Wait. That guy belongs in my joint, if I know anything about sinners. Anyhow, I'm keeping the fires going in his pit and his demon Meroz on the job, and if you know what's good for you, you'll pay the bills. Here's something else to put in your pipe–when you start raiding my place to populate yours, you're simply raising Hell! He! He!
BEELZEBUB.
FROM: SUPERVISOR OF DISTRIBUTION OF BLESSINGS.
To: RECTIFIER OF WRONGS.
YOUR REVERENCE:
My flock is turning sour and something's got to be done about it. A new saint hit here the other day, but there is something fishy about him. He has a low number, for one thing. Moreover, he grouses all the time, which no true saint ever does. He threw his first goblet of nectar in the cherub's face and howled because it didn't have kick enough to make a gnat grunt. And his manner with the lady saints is... well, uh... unsaintly. That's not all, he openly boasts of having sinned on Earth and says he is going to get away with it. The rest of my charges are deeply offended. Do you suppose a hatch was left open and the fellow crawled up from Downside?
SHADRACH.
Unofficial, Abimael to Asarmoth.
Now look what you got me into. I'm sunk. What do we do next—build him a special private heaven? I'm afraid there will be riots both here and down there. One thing the Big Boss'll never stand for and that is discrimination. You said you'd do the worrying. Well, hop to it. I'm worried out.
Asarmoth to Abimael.
Ah ye of little of little faith. Leave it to Uncle Dudley. How long since he came back—five months, Earth time, isn't it? Send for a couple of Michael's strong-arm angels and have them give him the bum's rush. His old pit is warm and ready.
Abimael to Asarmoth.
He'll holler. Then we'll have an investigation.
Asarmoth to Abimael.
Let him holler. Tell him to file an appeal in your court. Then send for me.
Transcript of significant portions of hearing before Special Court of Rectification held in Gehenna, Justice Abimael sitting. Satan is present as an interested party. The demon Meroz is acting as sergeant at arms. Attorney General Asarmoth is acting for the authorities, the shade of Herbert P. McQuigley as his own counsel—at his own insistence. The Miraclist Joel has testified as to the sins committed. Satan, and various shades, both from the Pits and from among the Blest, have appeared as character witnesses. Their testimony is unanimous on one point. McQuigley is a typical nonrepentant sinner of the most arrogant variety. At last McQuigley takes the stand, Asarmoth questioning.
Q. You complain that you were tormented for the space of two hundred years and five months? And without justifiable reason?
A. I do. And fearfully. There was no justice in it. I should have spent that term in Heaven.
Q. Quite so. The court concedes it. Since then you have spent five months in Heaven?
A. Yes, after much—
Q. Never mind that. You admit it. Now, as a member in good standing of the Orthodist sect, what do you think is a fitting punishment for a man who gets beastly drunk and fritters away his substance in gaming?
A. Eternal damnation!
Q. Good. Yet you did that very thing?
A. Yes, all but the frittering part. (Witness smirks.) But I had in my pocket—
Q. We know what you had in your pocket. It was this. I show you a contract. Do you recognize it? Do you admit it to be your own free act, done without coercion or any promise given outside the terms set down and agreed upon in its text?
A. Sure. Why not? (Defiantly.)
Q. One more question and then we will examine the contract. Was it not a lifelong tenet of yours that one should be satisfied with the letter of a contract, neither demanding more nor accepting less?
A. Absolutely. It still is. Asarmoth opens contract and reads.
Q. The essence of this agreement is in Stipulation III. I read:
"Having been unlawfully deprived of two hundred years and five months of Paradise and in lieu of it having been compelled to suffer a like period of the most bitter torment, the party of the second part—that is, McQuigley—contends that he is thereby entitled to whatever benefits that may have flowed from the alleged sins for which he was punished; and that in order to possess himself of those intangible benefits, it is necessary that he be released from Hell long enough to commit the sins from which they flow—"Correct, Mr. McQuigley?
A. (Witness nods emphatically.) To the dot!
Q. (Continuing reading): "—and to achieve that end he voluntarily consents to accept that punishment appropriate to the deeds which he has alreadvy suffered, and further waives all right, title and interest in the two hundred years of bliss of which he has been defrauded, provided the party of the first part concurs. The party of the first part—The Heavenly Authorities—agree." Still correct, Mr. McQuigley?
A. (Smugly): What could be righter? The text is plain.
Q. Quite so. You came here an innocent man. Through a clerical error you wrongfully suffered a period of punishment—an extremely short period, I may say, in view of the extent of Eternity. As soon as the error was discovered you were offered any atonement within our power, but you rejected everything but this—your own idea. We have carried out the contract. You accepted the period of punishment and waived the two hundred years of bliss. The five-odd months of Paradise to which your original entry entitled you has been given you. The accounts are balanced, all terms fulfilled. There is nothing left to do but file this document among the archives.
Asarmoth, turning toward the bench: Your Reverence, the case is complete. The sinner's plea is frivolous. Let Meroz take him back to his pit.
McQuigley: Hey! You cant do that to me. What about the rest of it—what you promised? From now on—
Justice Abimael: You came here in the beginning as a flawless soul, so far as the record showed, meriting eternal bliss. There was an unfortunate error made, but it has since been compensated for on terms of your own dictation. Justice is satisfied. But in your second coming, you appear as a confessed and unregenerate sinner and thus merit a perpetuity of damnation. It is by your own act that—
McQuigley: B-but I understood... it was implied... that is, I... uh... thought that—
Justice Abimael, shaking his head wearily: Not in the contract! Meroz, take him away!
Most unofficial, from the Archangel Asab, Keeper of the Great Seal of All the Heavens and personal attendant on the All Highest.
To ASARMOTH:
God's in his Heaven and all's right with the world. I heard the Big Boss chuckle last night—the first time in eons. You got away with it, kid, but for a while you were on awfully thin ice. Don't stick your neck out again!
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.