The next day was Saturday. Blaine lounged in bed late, made himself breakfast and called Marie. She was out. He decided to spend the day relaxing and playing his sensory recordings.

That afternoon he had two callers.

The first was a gentle, hunchbacked old woman dressed in a dark, severe uniform. Across her army-style cap were the words, “Old Church.”

“Sir,” she said in a slightly wheezy voice, “I am soliciting contributions for the Old Church, an organization which seeks to promote faith in these dissolute and Godless times.”

“Sorry,” Blaine said, and started to close the door.

But the old woman must have had many doors closed on her. She wedged herself between door and jamb and continued talking.

“This, young sir, is the age of the Babylonian Beast, and the time of the soul’s destruction. This is Satan’s age, and the time of his seeming triumph. But be not deceived! The Lord Almighty has allowed this to come about for a trial and a testing, and a winnowing of grain from chaff. Beware the temptation! Beware the path of evil which lies splendid and glittering before you!”

Blaine gave her a dollar just to shut her up. The old woman thanked him but continued talking.

“Beware, young sir, that ultimate lure of Satan—the false heaven which men call the hereafter! For what better snare could Satan the Deceiver devise for the world of men than this, his greatest illusion! The illusion that hell is heaven! And men are deceived by the cunning deceit, and willingly go down into it!”

“Thank you,” Blaine said, trying to shut the door.

“Remember my words!” the old woman cried, fixing him with a glassy blue eye. “The hereafter is evil! Beware the prophets of the hellish afterlife!”

“Thank you!” Blaine cried, and managed to close the door.

He relaxed in his armchair again and turned on the player. For nearly an hour he was absorbed in Flight on Venus. Then there was a knock on his door.

Blaine opened it, and saw a short, well-dressed, chubby-faced, earnest-looking young man.

“Mr. Thomas Blaine?” the man asked.

“That’s me.”

“Mr. Blaine, I am Charles Farrell, from the Hereafter Corporation. Might I speak to you? If it is inconvenient now, perhaps we could make an appointment for some other—”

“Come in,” Blaine said, opening the door wide for the prophet of the hellish afterlife.

Farrell was a mild, businesslike, soft-spoken prophet. His first move was to give Blaine a letter written on Hereafter, Inc. stationery, stating that Charles Farrell was a fully authorized representative of the Hereafter Corporation. Included in the letter was a meticulous description of Farrell, his signature, three stamped photographs and a set of fingerprints.

“And here are my identity proofs,” Farrell said, opening his wallet and showing his heli license, library card, voter’s registration certificate and government clearance card. On a separate piece of treated paper Farrell impressed the fingerprints of his right hand and gave them to Blaine for comparison with those on the letter.

“Is all this necessary?” Blaine asked.

“Absolutely,” Farrell told him. “We’ve had some unhappy occurrences in the past. Unscrupulous operators frequently try to pass themselves off as Hereafter representatives among the gullible and the poor. They offer salvation at a cut rate, take what they can get and skip town. Too many people have been cheated out of everything they own, and get nothing in return. For the illegal operators, even when they represent some little fly-by-night salvation company, have none of the expensive equipment and trained technicians that are needed for this sort of thing.”

“I didn’t know,” Blaine said. “Won’t you sit down?”

Farrell took a chair. “The Better Business Bureaus are trying to do something abut it. But the fly-by-nights move too fast to be easily caught. Only Hereafter, Inc. and two other companies with government-approved techniques are able to deliver what they promise—a life after death.”

“What about the various mental disciplines?” Blaine asked.

“I was purposely excluding them,” Farrell said. “They’re a completely different category. If you have the patience and determination necessary for twenty years or so of concentrated study, more power to you. If you don’t, then you need scientific aid and implementation. And that’s where we come in.”

“I’d like to hear about it,” Blaine said.

Mr. Farrell settled himself more comfortably in his chair. “If you’re like most people, you probably want to know what is life? What is death? What is a mind? Where is the interaction point between mind and body? Is the mind also soul? Is the soul also mind? Are they independent of each other, or interdependent, or intermixed? Or is there any such thing as a soul?” Farrell smiled. “Are those some of the questions you want me to answer?”

Blaine nodded. Farrell said, “Well, I can’t. We simply don’t know, haven’t the slightest idea. As far as we’re concerned those are religio-philosophical questions which Hereafter, Inc. has no intention of even trying to answer. We’re interested in results, not speculation. Our orientation is medical. Our approach is pragmatic. We don’t care how or why we get our results, or how strange they seem. Do they work? That’s the only question we ask, and that’s our basic position.”

“I think you’ve made it clear,” Blaine said.

“It’s important for me to do so at the start. So let me make one more thing clear. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that we are offering heaven.”

“No?”

“Not at all! Heaven is a religious concept, and we have nothing to do with religion. Our hereafter is a survival of the mind after the body’s death. That’s all. We don’t claim the hereafter is heaven any more than early scientists claimed that the bones of the first cavemen were the remains of Adam and Eve.”

“An old woman called here earlier,” Blaine said. “She told me that the hereafter is hell.”

“She’s a fanatic,” Farrell said, grinning. “She follows me around. And for all I know, she’s perfectly right.”

“What do you know about the hereafter?”

“Not very much,” Farrell told him. “All we know for sure is this: After the body’s death, the mind moves to a region we call the Threshold, which exists between Earth and the hereafter. It is, we believe, a sort of preparatory state to the hereafter itself. Once the mind is there, it can move at will into the hereafter.”

“But what is the hereafter like?”

“We don’t know. We’re fairly sure it’s non-physical. Past that, everything is conjecture. Some think that the mind is the essence of the body, and therefore the essences of a man’s worldly goods can be brought into the hereafter with him. It could be so. Others disagree. Some feel that the hereafter is a place where souls await their turn for rebirth on other planets as part of a vast reincarnation cycle. Perhaps that’s true, too. Some feel that the hereafter is only the first stage of post-Earth existence, and that there are six others, increasingly difficult to attain, culminating in a sort of nirvana. Could be. It’s been said that the hereafter is a vast, misty region where you wander alone, forever searching, never finding. I’ve read theories that prove people must be grouped in the hereafter according to family; others say you’re grouped there according to race, or religion, or skin coloration, or social position. Some people, as you’ve observed, say it’s hell itself you’re entering. There are advocates of a theory of illusion, who claim that the mind vanishes completely when it leaves the Threshold. And there are people who accuse us at the corporation of faking all our effects. A recent learned work states that you’ll find whatever you want in the hereafter—heaven, paradise, valhalla, green pastures, take your choice. A claim is made that the old gods rule in the hereafter—the gods of Haiti, Scandinavia or the Belgian Congo, depending on whose theory you’re following, Naturally a counter-theory shows that there can’t be any gods at all. I’ve seen an English book proving that English spirits rule the hereafter, and a Russian book claiming that the Russians rule, and several American books that prove the Americans rule. A book came out last year stating that the government of the hereafter is anarchy. A leading philosopher insists that competition is a law of nature, and must be so in the hereafter, too. And so on. You can take your pick of any of those theories, Mr. Blaine, or you can make up one of your own.”

“What do you think?” Blaine asked.

“Me? I’m keeping an open mind,” Farrell said. “When the time comes, I’ll go there and find out.”

“That’s good enough for me,” Blaine said. “Unfortunately, I won’t have a chance. I don’t have the kind of money you people charge.”

“I know,” Farrell said. “I checked into your finances before I called.”

“Then why—”

“Every year,” Farrell said, “a number of free hereafter grants are made, some by philanthropists, some by corporations and trusts, a few on a lottery basis. I am happy to say, Mr. Blaine, that you have been selected for one of these grants.”

“Me?&qout;

“Let me offer my congratulations,” Farrell said. “You’re a very lucky man.”

“But who gave me the grant?”

“The Main-Farbenger Textile Corporation.”

“I never heard of them.”

“Well, they heard of you. The grant is in recognition of your trip here from the year 1958. Do you accept it?”

Blaine stared hard at the hereafter representative. Farrell seemed genuine enough; anyhow, his story could be checked at the Hereafter Building. Blaine had his suspicions of the splendid gift thrust so unexpectedly into his hands. But the thought of an assured life after death outweighed any possible doubts, thrust aside any possible fears. Caution was all very well; but not when the gates of the hereafter were opening before you. “What do I have to do?” he asked.

“Simply accompany me to the Hereafter Building,” Farrell said. “We can have the necessary work done in a few hours.”

Survival! Life after death! “All right,” Blaine said. “I accept the grant. Let’s go!”

They left Blaine’s apartment at once.