to me, had some other possibility — Purgatory, or Limbo. But for some reason I pictured that as a vast version of one of those rooms filled with sleeping babies in maternity wards.
But I could not have reached any sort of final destination. I was still at MicroMagnetics. The former site of MicroMagnetics. It flitted through my mind that MicroMagnetics, Inc., no longer had any financial prospects worth calculating. I was right here where my life had been brought to an end. It must be, I reasoned, that I was whatever it is that people call a ghost. I knew even less about ghosts than about heaven and hell. An image of the Flying Dutchman floating off the Jersey coast formed and dissolved in my mind. Ruddigore. As far as I can remember there has never been a time, even in my earliest childhood, when I believed in ghosts. I could never abide people who believed, or pretended to believe, in ghosts. I have never understood the appeal of ghost stories. In fact, I have never understood the point of ghosts. Usually they seem to be doomed to wander the earth restlessly for ages — which, when you stop to think about it, is exactly the existence that most people choose for themselves insofar as longevity and wealth permit. Or else they are condemned to remain for centuries at the scene of some terrible event in their own lives. The latter fate seemed to fit my own immediate situation quite well, actually. Although to haunt New Jersey through the ages seemed an odd doom. Still, it was an improvement over the possibilities that had been running through my mind moments before. An extraordinary improvement. A world of difference.
My mood picked up a bit. My heart was still whirring like a wind-up toy and I was still trembling, but I felt as if I had struggled to the surface of the uncontrollable terror in which I had been drowning. The ghost hypothesis gave me some frame of reference, however distasteful. If I had to be an entity in which I had not previously believed, “angel” would have been more satisfactory. “Ghost” lacked theological dignity. But the status of angel was clearly beyond hope now. And, in any case, the whole question was surely far too complex to be described with words like “angel” and “ghost,” which represented only the crude notions of uncomprehending mortals. Apparently I would have time to consider these sublime issues. There was even the possibility — I hardly dared formulate it in my mind — of some sort of immortality in my present form. Or at least of some existence of a duration incomparably greater than I could have expected in my previous form.
Come to think of it, how
would
I seek answers to these questions? Looking around me, the world seemed as opaque as ever, its ultimate meaning, if any, obscured by the trees and sky and other random things blocking my view — and by my own shifting moods and fragmentary thoughts. How would I learn of the conditions and responsibilities of my new existence? Would I be coming into contact with other immaterial beings? Also, how would I slake my awful thirst? With a pang of horror I thought that the thirst might be the beginning of some eternal punishment — for overindulgence, no doubt. I should try to find some water and see if I could drink. Could I move about? How? And if I could float in midair forty feet above the bottom of this crater, why not a hundred feet or ten feet?
My mood plummeted again. I was kneeling on a carpeted floor, and the rules for moving about on it were exactly the same as they had always been. Putting this hypothesis to the test, I leaned forward and explored the floor around me with my hands. Without any particular destination, I began to inch forward on all fours. Nothing to look at but the dizzying sight of the crater surface far below. I stopped and, bracing myself with my hands, carefully, slowly, raised myself to a standing position. I stood in place for several seconds, keeping my gaze fixed on the surface of the
But I could not have reached any sort of final destination. I was still at MicroMagnetics. The former site of MicroMagnetics. It flitted through my mind that MicroMagnetics, Inc., no longer had any financial prospects worth calculating. I was right here where my life had been brought to an end. It must be, I reasoned, that I was whatever it is that people call a ghost. I knew even less about ghosts than about heaven and hell. An image of the Flying Dutchman floating off the Jersey coast formed and dissolved in my mind. Ruddigore. As far as I can remember there has never been a time, even in my earliest childhood, when I believed in ghosts. I could never abide people who believed, or pretended to believe, in ghosts. I have never understood the appeal of ghost stories. In fact, I have never understood the point of ghosts. Usually they seem to be doomed to wander the earth restlessly for ages — which, when you stop to think about it, is exactly the existence that most people choose for themselves insofar as longevity and wealth permit. Or else they are condemned to remain for centuries at the scene of some terrible event in their own lives. The latter fate seemed to fit my own immediate situation quite well, actually. Although to haunt New Jersey through the ages seemed an odd doom. Still, it was an improvement over the possibilities that had been running through my mind moments before. An extraordinary improvement. A world of difference.
My mood picked up a bit. My heart was still whirring like a wind-up toy and I was still trembling, but I felt as if I had struggled to the surface of the uncontrollable terror in which I had been drowning. The ghost hypothesis gave me some frame of reference, however distasteful. If I had to be an entity in which I had not previously believed, “angel” would have been more satisfactory. “Ghost” lacked theological dignity. But the status of angel was clearly beyond hope now. And, in any case, the whole question was surely far too complex to be described with words like “angel” and “ghost,” which represented only the crude notions of uncomprehending mortals. Apparently I would have time to consider these sublime issues. There was even the possibility — I hardly dared formulate it in my mind — of some sort of immortality in my present form. Or at least of some existence of a duration incomparably greater than I could have expected in my previous form.
Come to think of it, how
would
I seek answers to these questions? Looking around me, the world seemed as opaque as ever, its ultimate meaning, if any, obscured by the trees and sky and other random things blocking my view — and by my own shifting moods and fragmentary thoughts. How would I learn of the conditions and responsibilities of my new existence? Would I be coming into contact with other immaterial beings? Also, how would I slake my awful thirst? With a pang of horror I thought that the thirst might be the beginning of some eternal punishment — for overindulgence, no doubt. I should try to find some water and see if I could drink. Could I move about? How? And if I could float in midair forty feet above the bottom of this crater, why not a hundred feet or ten feet?
My mood plummeted again. I was kneeling on a carpeted floor, and the rules for moving about on it were exactly the same as they had always been. Putting this hypothesis to the test, I leaned forward and explored the floor around me with my hands. Without any particular destination, I began to inch forward on all fours. Nothing to look at but the dizzying sight of the crater surface far below. I stopped and, bracing myself with my hands, carefully, slowly, raised myself to a standing position. I stood in place for several seconds, keeping my gaze fixed on the surface of the
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