by James Hartley

When Sid looked down from the plane window, he saw angels skiing on the cloud banks below. Up until then, the flight had been normal – well, at least as normal as anything ever was in Sid's accident-prone life. But this was unusual even for Sid.

#

Sid's taxi'd had a flat tire on the way to the airport, which meant that Sid ended up arriving at the terminal barely on time. The girl behind the counter had been most unpleasant; when Sid had ended up fainting at the security checkpoint, he'd blamed the stress of the day. Then, he'd experienced a sudden, sharp pain in his chest – and blacked out.

When he came to, he was sitting on the floor looking up at several airport attendants. One of them asked, "How are you feeling? Are you OK? Should we call for an ambulance?" Several of them helped him to his feet, and the one who had been asking the questions took his ticket and inspected it. Handing it back to Sid, he said, "I'm certainly glad you're feeling better, Mr. Herbert, but it's a good thing I checked. You were heading for the wrong gate."

"Wrong gate?" protested Sid. He looked down at the ticket, and then up at the sign on the wall, wondering what was wrong this time. The numbers seemed to match. "No, look here. My ticket says gate eighty-four, flight 721 to Orlando. And the sign over there says gates eighty-one to ninety. This is my gate." But inside he had the usual sinking feeling. Probably the girl had written one thing and and said something different, or the computer printed the wrong thing. Or the sign painter had mislabeled the corridor. Sure, why not?

The attendant, who wore a badge bearing the name "Michael'" surrounded by a pair of feathery wings, nodded his head. "Yes, sir, but there has been a change. If you would care to look for yourself?" He pointed at a bank of TV monitors listing departures. The line for flight 721 to Orlando said gate eighty-four, but as Sid watched, the eighty-four faded out and was replaced by 1000.

"Gate one thousand? Gate one-zero-zero-zero? I've been in this airport hundreds of times, and I've never heard of a gate 1000." Sid could count the number of times he had actually flown on the fingers of one hand, but he had been in the airport hundreds of times. Waiting for flights canceled due to weather. Waiting for flights canceled due to engine trouble. Waiting for overbooked flights where he was always the one bumped, and never ending up with any compensation. Sid had wandered the corridors of the airport from one end to the other, and he had never seen a gate number higher than ninety-nine. "Is gate 1000 new?"

"No, sir, gate 1000 is not new. It's been around for a long time. A very long time." The attendant firmly but gently took Sid's arm and led him to a moving walkway. "Just go down this slidewalk, and when you come to a branch in the corridor, go right for gate 1000. Be sure not to go left, that leads to gate 666, and we wouldn't want to go there, now, would we, sir?" He chuckled as if sharing a joke with Sid, but Sid didn't have the faintest idea what he was talking about.

The attendant applied gentle pressure to Sid's arm, and Sid found himself moving down the slidewalk. A slidewalk, he noted mentally, that he had never seen, or at least never noticed, before this. Sure enough, there was a branch, and he followed instructions and went right, down another corridor, to gate 1000. At the end of this one was the usual waiting room full of chairs, but the girl at the desk waved him right through the door into the plane. He just had time to stow his bag and his jacket in the overhead compartment and take his seat before the pilot started to taxi out to the runway.

From that point on the flight was ordinary enough. They ran out of Coke one seat before they got to him, and he had to drink ginger ale, but at least there were enough meals. One time before he had gone hungry when they ran out. The flight remained ordinary until he looked down from the plane window and saw angels skiing on the cloud banks below.

Sid tried to tell the stewardess about the skiing angels, but just then the pilot announced that they were making their approach, and everyone was busy.

Sid checked his watch, as it seemed too early to have arrived at Orlando, but it had stopped, probably when he blacked out and fell. He looked out the window again, but now all he could see was clouds. Then, as the plane banked around for its approach, he saw the airport in the distance. It didn't look much like Orlando. Sid gave a sigh of resignation at the thought of ending up in the wrong city, and wondered where he was. This airport looked bigger than Orlando, much, much bigger. And it was a funny color, sort of gold.

Sid watched out the window as they approached. They were only feet off the ground when suddenly the plane's engines revved up to full speed and they started to climb. A 'go-round', something blocking the runway. It hardly ever happened, they said, but it had happened on every flight Sid had ever taken. They made a big circle around the airport, giving Sid a better look, and on the second attempt they managed to land. After they had taxied to a stop, Sid took his coat and bag from the overhead storage and walked to the exit.

As he came out of the boarding ramp into the gate area, Sid paused and looked around. This was definitely not Orlando. Everything was done in an iridescent white luster. Sid walked across the waiting area and was about to go looking for the baggage claim when he noticed two men arguing. With a start he realized that one was the airport attendant named Michael he had left behind in the other airport, but now wearing a pilot's uniform. The other man had a similar badge, with the name "Peter" flanked by the feathery wings, but his badge also had a narrow ellipse over the name. The two men were making no attempt to conceal their argument, so Sid stopped to listen.

"Michael, what in Cosmos happened on that landing? Why did you pull up suddenly at the last minute? Things like that make havoc of our schedules, as well as frightening the passengers."

"Look, Peter, don't blame me. It was the tower that called for a go-round. I was just following orders. The tower says go-round, I go-round."

"But Michael, don't you realize? That was the first go-round that has ever happened here. Something is wrong, seriously wrong. Perhaps the Adversary is getting a clawhold. We have to do something . . . . " His voice trailed off as he spotted Sid. He turned, suddenly all smiles, and said, "Welcome, Mr. Herbert. We're glad to have you here with us."

Sid looked at him nervously. Glad-handers were one of his worst jinxes, they always triggered some sort of trouble. But he needed a few answers. "Thank you, but where are we? This doesn't look like Orlando."

"Well, no, Mr. Herbert, this isn't Orlando. Just look around you," he said, waving his hand at the area in which they stood, and then at hundreds of similar areas up and down the corridor, all built from the same lustrous white material. "Don't you recognize the Pearly Gates?"

Sid started. "You mean I'm, I'm, I'm, ... dead? This is Heaven?"

"Yes, of course, Mr. Herbert. Welcome to Heaven. I'm sure you'll enjoy it –" His voice stopped suddenly as a huge piece of the pearly wall came loose and fell on him with a loud crash, just missing Sid. "Oh, Cosmos!" came a muffled curse from under the block, and then the piece of wall floated up to its previous spot. Peter stood there, unharmed. He gave Sid a long, searching look, and then, motioning Sid to wait, he went over to a nearby computer terminal and started typing. He spent several minutes at this, his frown deepening as he read. Finally he tore a sheet of paper from the printer and came back to Sid. "Mr. Herbert," he said, "I'm afraid there has been a mistake. Your unfortunate condition, your accident proneness, is a definite symptom of Original Sin. It's not your fault, but we can't have you here. You'll have to go to the Other Place."

The Other Place! Sid shivered at the thought. Being dead was bad enough, but to have to go down into eternal torture? "Wait a minute," he said. "If it's not my fault, why should I have to suffer? Can't I file an appeal, or something?"

"Mr. Herbert, I know it's very hard to understand, but here in Heaven we pride ourselves on perfection. Perfection is our main weapon against the Adversary. You, on the other hand, spread imperfection with your accident proneness. If we allow you to remain we weaken ourselves in the eternal struggle."

Peter had left his pencil sitting on top of the terminal. Now, suddenly, the pencil rolled down the sloping top and into a ventilation opening. There was a bright flash and a loud pop, and the terminal began to emit clouds of dense white smoke. Peter slapped the off-switch and grabbed a fire extinguisher.