"Are you sure about this?" asked Schneider. He wasn't wearing his trademark labcoat, just some shorts and a T-shirt with the phrase "Fuck Nobel, I'll make my own award" shoddily stamped on it, the 'N' in Nobel almost chipped out of existence.

"No, not by a long shot," replied Bob, his voice trailing off with a hint of anxiety. He kept fiddling around with his extravagantly bulbous red suit, nervously checking and re-checking seals, wristbands, valves and plugs. Schneider noticed what Bob was doing and gripped him by the shoulders pads, forcing Bob to make eye contact, an uncommon practice which almost everyone avoided.

"Don't. Touch. The Suit," said Schneider. His words carried strangely ominous undertones. He then smiled sharply, as if he had made a joke. The look on both their faces told them they knew it wasn't funny at all. Bob nodded his acknowledgement and stopped messing with the suit. Instead he sat motionless in The Chair, arms resting on its sides.

The slightly morose look on his face implied he might just as well have been shackled to that chair. The thought that he had actually done cartwheels when they'd told him he had been selected, brought a smile of irony to his face. But he still found it almost impossible to just sit tight and wait, so he repeated the same technique that had kept him calm throughout all the field testing: he started counting everything around him, once again.

There were forty-nine cooling lines, eighty-four power lines, one hundred and sixty-seven signal lines and twenty-three gaseous mixture lines. They were supported on two hundred and seventeen metal clips, poles, and columns. There was a metal grid with nine hundred and seventy-two panels, supporting the roof as well as the experiment's infrastructure.

There was himself, Schneider, fifty-seven technicians, thirteen PhD's, four Nobel-prize winners and two soon-to-be. All in all, seventy-eight people, or seventy-seven souls. Schneider insisted that he had sold his own to the devil. He always smiled every time he said that, a sight that always gave the impression he wasn't joking.

Bob gave up on counting the rest; it didn't seem to help this time around. This was the Big One, the real try, the make-or-break. He gave Schneider a wary look which went largely unnoticed. He then made a half-hearted attempt at bad humor, the sort which could only lead to nervous laughter at best:

"Hey! This Suit's a bit embarassing. Makes me look like Santa. What kind of impression would that make, eh? Shouldn't we have gone with something in, let's say, formal black?"

"It's the beryllium laminar coating on the outer two surface skins, Robert. There's no proper substitute for the photonic cohesion exhibited by quasi-crystallic beryllium films. I knew very little people actually read the technical documents, but I'd thought you'd be at least interested in the design outlines," said Schneider without pausing in his work. Bob rolled his eyes, realising he was trying to connect emotionally to someone who designed a robot as a pet when he was seven years old. He let out a sigh disquised as a deep exhale before replying unenthusiastically:

"It's supposed to be a joke, Kurt."

Schneider turned momentarily to smile at Bob, before adding:

"Well then, I hear black is out of fashion. Red, they say, is the new black."

And with that, he walked away briskly, focusing his attention on another mystifying calibration task, leaving bob to just sit and think what it would be like to be the first living man to experience the afterworld.

Bob's eyes wandered uncertainly before settling on the observation pane, a hundred feet away, and only three feet wide. It was large enough for the observers to gape into the Labyrinth, the Intrinsic Enthalpy Facility's pet name.

He suddenly deeply wished he could see Lisa behind that pane; but all the faces he could glimpse belonged to top brass; emotionless, unwavering, rigid. People that had no idea what all this was about, having simply been convinced that it was more than worth the money that could've bought them a mass-driver on the moon, or alternatively, a near-infinite supply of paperclips. They just wanted to see if Schneider would deliver the goods; the significance of what would be accomplished was totally lost on them.

Bob glimpsed the reflection of him on a cooling bank's chrome surface. The crisp touch of ice on his reflected image made him feel warm and comfortable inside the suit. His head though was still swimming in the haze from the drug soup he'd taken that morning. He called out to Schneider who was standing a dozen feet away, running last-minute diagnostics on yet another control panel himself:

"Uhm, Kurt? I think I'm nauseous."

"It's the tetra-di-cynocytin-based inhibitors. There's always some penta-thymo-ephedrin to counteract that, but it seems likely today you're a bit more anxious," replied Schneider coolly. He seemed to be handling everything as if this was just another dry run.

"I think I need some more of that ephedrin," said Bob somewhat weakly. Schneider shook his head slightly, indicating a terse 'no'. Bob tried to sound convincing when he said:

"I feel like throwing up."

"By all means, Robert. The Suit will administer fluids to balance the losses, nothing to worry."

Bob gave up, and started taking deep breaths with practiced self-discipline, forcing himself into a state of serene calmness. It was part of a well-rehearsed checklist, and quite contrary to his human, innate instinct of fear.

He ventured a look at the low-hung ceiling; the mess of cables, pipelines and ducts offering a dizzying spectacle. He continued his slow, deep, breathing pattern, muttering under his breath. When Schneider finished the last of his hands-on checks, he turned his attention on the Chair with renewed vigor. He noticed Bob had his eyes closed, mumbling inaudibly.

"Say it out loud if it makes you feel any better Bob. I know what you're saying anyway."

Bob shot an exasperated look at Schneider. He chased it up with a scoff:

"Reading minds already, Kurt?"

"Lips, actually. It works wonders at fund-raisers, especially with the ladies."

"Jesus, Kurt. Read it again: Fuck you. I've pissed inside this thing twice already. I've been stuck here for five hours. Are we gonna do this? Today?"

Schneider took a few steps closer to Bob. This time, he seemed to have his flippancy switched to 'off':

"Look, Bob. This isn't a dry run. This is the real thing. You can still back out. I've been waiting for this moment for almost twenty years. It's not like it's going to go away. There's always tomorrow. Piotr is practically gnawing at his Suit in E-3. He can take your place, recalibrate in under one hour."

Bob suddenly jerked himself upright, even with all the Suit's bulk. His eyes suddenly flared with the same gleam like five years before, when he had first entered the project, and laid eyes on the Chair. He didn't seem fond of Schneider's idea at all.

"Fuck Piotr! I've seen his stats. You don't need to goad me into doing this, Kurt. I want to. It's just too fucking much, you know? I'm scared, that's all."

Much to his chagrin, Schneider smiled, but Bob did not avert his gaze or indicate he felt uncomfortable. There were probably worse things than Schneider's smile where he was going.

"Just think about Lisa. We need you calm, not edgy. Do you have your music with you?" said Schneider

Bob made a half-hearted attempt at smiling before replying:

"I got Chopin, Liszt, Brahms, Vivaldi, Handel, Guns and Roses, W.A.S.P., I got -"

Schneider furrowed his brow and his attention was caught like a fish on a harpoon:

"Estranged and The Idol?" Schneider asked impatiently?

"Yes, yes! Jesus!"

"Good, good. Those two fit your deltas to a fault. Now let's run it down once more: Once we get past the Roetman-Schneider limit, you should -"

"You really love the sound of your name on everything, don't you?" interrupted Bob, pointing with his heavily gloved - almost armoured - hand at Schneider's T-shirt.

"I do. Now, once past that, you should -"

"Kurt, you've been designing this for twenty years. I've been eating, breathing, and shitting Intrinsic Enthalpy for the past five years. I've been wearing this god-awful Suit for two-and-a-half years. I got everything memorised. I'm sick of it. I want it to work, so please: flick that fucking switch of yours and leave the rest to me. Can you do that? Relinquish control for just a moment?"

Kurt shied away, took a few steps backwards. He simply nodded, without a smile or a quirky comment. He stepped down from the dais on which the Chair had been literally carved upon and ran his fingers over a small, insignificant-looking panel. Without bells and whistles, a five-minute counter had lit up on a large display hanging from the ceiling. People around the Labyrinth were slightly caught off-guard, but they quickly assumed their predefined posts in front of screens and key equipment. They heard Schneider's voice rise above the pervasive electrical humming:

"Making history in five minutes, people. Hope someone's brought something expensive to drink."

Nobody answered. As Schneider made his way down the controller's pit, he gazed at the tense faces, the rigid bodies. He looked up towards the observation window and saw nothing but blant eyes ceremoniously fixed on that counter display, approaching zero with a lack of effort that did this whole venture little justice.

Bob simply sat there, mumbling even louder than before, watching the minutes on the display flash by in red LEDs, like a hare frozen by headlights. He could hear himself now, and he bet Kurt could hear him too, smiling uncannily; 'I believe in one God, the Father almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all things visible and invisible... '

Slowly but ruthlessly the whirring noise of motors and circulation valves began to echo in the Labyrinth. The lighting became subdued, an array of spot lights illuminating the Chair alone, Bob squinting at the harsh white light before his eyes adjusted. A flurry of activity could be seen and heard: monitoring equipment had been switched on, capacitor banks were filled and ready to discharge unheard of amounts of power.

Bob had his senses focused entirely on the now, his lips moving as if of their own volition. His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else: ' ... begotten, not made, consubstantial with the Father; through him all things were made... ' The only thing rising above every other sound was Schneider's crisp voice over the PA system:

"Field alignment complete. Two minutes to Convergence. All monitors, sound off."

One by one, the various heads of stations answered, some voices more readily than others, but none without the unmistakable hint of anxiety. No-one seemed certain, no-one believed as much as Schneider, who spoke once more with improbable ease:

"All systems check, we've got green all over the board. It's like St. Patrick's day, right Bob?"

Bob did not answer, so intently focused inwards, disconnecting from the surrounding reality. His mouth kept wording the Creed: ' ... in accordance with the Scriptures. He ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead... '

Schneider smiled, even if it was only to himself. He then announced with a measure of formality:

"Permission to commit final actions, General."

A few still moments of awkward noise empty of human voice ensued. Then a gruff, stentorian voice answered tersely, making the hair on the backs of everyone in the Labyrinth rise involuntarily.

"Commence 'Sheol'. 'Sheol' is go."

"Thank you, General. Point of no return in forty-seven seconds and counting. Fields are aligned and cogent. Just waiting, really."

Some nervous, hesitant smiles could be seen on the faces in front of the monitors. But Bob wasn't smiling, he was praying, with more fervor than ever before: ' ... who with the Father and the Son is adored and glorified, who has spoken through the prophets... '.

Schneider's face had become a mask frozen in a mix of anticipation and glee. Even his eyes seemed out of focus, fixed on a distant point through and beyond the Chair. The finality of what was about to transpire echoed with overwhelming certainty in the crackling air of the Labyrinth. Schneider saw the psychosomatic properties of Bob flash white in the panel in front of him, everything in tune; Bob was reaching the required mind-state. Schneider's voice even though amplified by the PA could not be heard clearly above the full-blown sound of activity:

"Final emergence imminent. Enthalpy transubstantiation will be achieved in twenty seconds and counting. Are we recording all this?"

A slighlty cumbersome 'thumbs up' was given from the head of the Data monitor, but Schneider did not bother to respond in kind. Everyone's attention was focused on the Chair, even as Bob peered upwards, towards the blinding lamps that bathed him with a light as immaculate as fresh snow. Schneider started counting:

"Ten ... nine ... eight..."

Bob's voice insisted in Kurt's headset, a tiny little voice that quietly kept going:

" ... I confess one baptism for the forgiveness of sins..."

" ... seven ... six ... five..."

" ... and I look forward to the resurrection of the dead..."

" ... four ... three ... two..."

" ... and the life of the world to come. Amen."

" ... one ... zero. Convergence!"

Blinding white light seared everyone in the Labyrinth. Automatic shutters closed the observation pane, unable to keep the light from entering. It was as if a small sun had manifested itself in the Chair; no-one could stare at it, no-one could see where it emanated from. It was impossible to stare directly, hurtful; people cowering in their cubicles, averting their eyes from the light; an intense primal fear had overwhelmed everyone. Everyone except Kurt Schneider.

It was as if time had stopped right then and there, everyone feeling the blood in their veins freeze and their hearts stop. Not in awe, not in wonder and amazement, but in simple, primal fear, their instincts torn between running like hell and simply hiding away, melding with the floor, so as not to be found. Some had become one with the floor, others were kneeling low, poised to flee away from the light. Away from Schneider as well, who was smiling more brightly than ever before.

He paced himself to the light, with the determination and surety of a man who had prepared for this, who knew what he was looking at and welcomed it, instead of fleeing from it; he was not a lesser man. He answered to a greater calling, and these lesser humans had helped him, driven by lust, greed, and curiousity. 'How fitting, ' he thought to himself, while the standing form of Bob in his resplendent red Suit writhing with white and blue-hot flames motioned him to stop. Schneider complied, and fell on one knee:

"Hail, Giver of Light, Fallen One, Bringer of Change. I'm yours to command."

The answer came with a concussioning blow of foul wind that reeked of sulphur, death and the unmistakable smell of corroding iron, as if a lake of blood had been carried along with it:

"Et quasi meridianus fulgor consurget tibi ad vesperam et cum te consumptum putaveris orieris ut lucifer."

Schneider uttered the next words with trembling voice, as if his soul was being etched away from him, for real this time.

"Ave, Satanas."

And then the form from whence the blinding light emanated, spoke with the unmistakable timbre of Bob, shallow yet unreal enough:

"Finally."