A Short Stay in Hell by Steven L. Peck Page A

The
university was well thought of, and people knew its reputation even
a great distance from its origin. I felt blessed to be on the
faculty. I saw Rachel standing by herself holding the book she had
just read from.
    “Hi. Nice reading,” I said as she looked
up.
    “Thanks,” she said, smiling slightly.
“Another year down and another significant find.”
    I gave a soft laugh – more like an audible
smirk.
    “Always the unbeliever, eh?” she said.
    “It’s just been so long – over two of my
lifetimes on earth,” I replied, feeling sorry for myself. “And I’ve
found one coherent phrase in that time, ‘lightbulb ocean left,’ of
all things …”
    She smiled. “Ah, yes, the MST of ’25.”
    “Exactly,” I continued, “and I’ve not found a
thing since – that was a nice sentence today, by the way, but
Stew’s a digger, he spends most of the day with his face in the
books scanning. I can’t scan more than an hour or so before I just
can’t stand it anymore.”
    “Yeah, me neither.”
    We stood in silence for a moment, and I asked
if I could see the text. It had been in Stew’s possession for most
of the time and he had just given it up a week ago.
    She nodded and handed me the book. I opened
to the page and stared at the text. A thrill ran down me as I saw
those words embedded in a sea of gibberish. Real words, with
meaning, as if they had been in a sentence from a real book printed
long ago on earth. I looked at it a long while, enjoying the feel
of the book’s weight and the deep satisfaction of finding an island
of sensible text in an ocean of meaninglessness.
    “It does bring a modicum of hope.”
    “Yes, it does … and maybe some despair.”
    I looked at Rachel. Since we were all white,
little differences were magnified, and her freckles made her seem
different and mysterious in a way that almost intimidated me. I
knew what despair she was talking about. This tiny nonsensical
sentence was all that a group of over seventy-five people could
show for a hundred years of effort.
    She continued, “And I’m so sick of this. I’m
sick of the monotony. I’m sick of this university. I’m sick of
listening to people’s life stories. I’m sick of listening to people
repeating books they read when they were alive.” Her eyes were
starting to water. “And do you know what I hate most of all?”
    “What?” I said as sympathetically as I could,
but I could guess what was coming.
    “I’m sick of having nothing to look forward
to. I’m sick of not having any dreams. I’ve spent a hundred years –
four times my earthly life – looking for a book that exists
somewhere in an infinity of gibberish. I can’t do it anymore. I’m
sick of it.” She suddenly kicked the kiosk as hard as she could,
and then she melted down beside it, crying.
    I just stood there for a moment. Such
breakdowns were common. We were all sick of it. If I let it get to
me, let it get away from me at all, I could be in the same state in
a matter of minutes. I knelt beside her and lifted her up. I found
tears running down my face. It surprised me. Something about the
day – reading the damn text, and making such a big deal about
something so stupid, had raised my feelings to the surface too.
    She looked at me, noticed I was crying too,
and smiled. “Bad day.”
    “Bad day,” I agreed. I helped her to her
feet, and she took a step and winced in pain.
    “I think I broke my toe,” she laughed
wryly.
    “Probably,” I said. “You kicked that thing
pretty hard. It will be healed in the morning.”
    “Yeah. Of course.”
    She looked around. There was still a good
crowd of people around. Sandra was looking my direction. Wondering,
I could tell, whether I was going to join her for dinner or keep
talking to Rachel all evening. Sandra and I had been bunking
together for about three years. I liked Sandra, we had a great deal
in common, and I was going to miss her. It seemed funny at the time
that I would think that right then,