Imagine the foyer as an amphitheatre: circular, tiered, big enough to deal with more travellers than all the airports of the world put together. And white. Very white. The powers that be are big on whiteness here.

Diametrically opposite each other are the two main portals. One is in the ascendant. The other, earning itself the predictable nickname "the Hellevator," goes all the way down. Between them is another opening: we in the know call it "the Threshold." As far as incoming souls are concerned, it's an entrance only. They come through it, the Gatekeeper tells them where to go. It's an either/or kind of deal. There's no turning back. And there's no in between.

Sorry if that's scotched any notions you might have had about purgatory.
And while I'm doing a celestial no-no and revealing trade secrets, try this on for size: the Threshold can be transgressed. Not that any of you mortals could ever do so — using it to return to earth is strictly limited to certain heavenly messengers.

By which I mean angels.

Guys like me, in other words.

There are different classes of angel, some higher, some lower. Officially, I'm at the lower end. Nonetheless, I'm probably the most unique kind of angel there is. In fact, there's only one of my kind.

My name's Carter, and I'm a private eye.

My office was next to the Gatekeeper's, about a mile and a half across from the Threshold. Sometimes the queues stretched right past my window. A nice ironic touch, I always used to think, given my usual lack of business.

Up until a fortnight ago, that is. It was a Wednesday and things turned less than usual very early on ...

The Gatekeeper knocked and entered. He had it down to a fine art — a rasp of the knuckles against frosted glass as he pushed through the door. By the time I said, "Come in," he'd draped himself on a spare chair, flicked a match into life with his thumbnail and lit up.

"Thanks," he said.

"What can I do you for?"

He blew smoke. "Bums me out," he mused. "I've got the busiest job in the world..."

"Which one?"

He ignored the question. "Incoming souls twenty-four seven. A switchboard that would turn an emergency services telephonist into a gibbering wreck inside of an hour. Paperwork that's got a black belt in origami..."

"Nice simile," I said.

He ignored the remark. "What have you got? The most client-free business in the world. And don't say 'which one.' You know perfectly friggin' well I'm talking about both of 'em."

The Gatekeeper was a glorified security guard, there to make sure people stood in line and didn't go wandering off where they shouldn't. He'd been pissed off by his lot in life (or rather, afterlife) as long as I could remember. He came in my office at least twice a day to have a smoke, bitch about the job and sometimes help himself from the bottle of bourbon I kept in the filing cabinet.

"Your point is?"

He sucked the cigarette down to the filter in two practiced drags. "My point is, while I'm rushing around like a blue-arsed fly, trying to keep on top of everything, the last thing I need is to be popping round your place delivering messages."

"What messages?"

"There was a call for you. Honestly, Carter, why you don't get a 'phone installed..."

"Don't like 'em. Ring too damn much."

"Yeah, right. Like you've clients calling you all the time!" He ground the cigarette out on the edge of my desk. "That bottle still in the filing cabinet?"

"You think I suddenly got some files?"

He grinned and helped himself. I kept a few paper cups with the bottle. They were the only paper the cabinet had ever seen.

"What messages, Gatekeep?" I asked.

"Oh yeah. It was just the one message, actually. One of the lower orders. Said her name was Laura. Sounded quite nice. Says she'll meet you above the Records Office."

I got up and put on my jacket. I took my grey fedora from the hatstand by the door. The Gatekeeper stayed where he was.

"Think I'll take a break," he said. "Maybe have another shot. If that's all right."

"Help yourself."

He nodded to the queue outside, a mile long, a dozen abreast. "Taking the portal?"

"You kidding?" I said. "I'm going in your place and using the service lift."

---

I stepped out the service lift into the Chamber of Arrival. Heavenbound souls await induction and training courses here. One of the Conductors (once-mortals assigned to shepherd new arrivals around for the first few days) came hurrying over, demanding to know who the hell I was and where the hell I thought I was going.

I flipped some ID and told him to remember where he was.

I walked through the Chamber of Arrivals, into the Hall of Deep Serenity. If you're wondering what these places look like, imagine Grand Central Station, in white and without the trains, giving onto the biggest library in the world, in white and without the posters and ad-ed leaflets but with the mother of all 'QUIET PLEASE' notices. Which isn't to say there was a notice. The Hall of Deep Serenity didn't need one. You went in there and you kept your lip zipped, that's all there was to it.

At the opposite end of the H. of D.S. was a stairway (no remarks from the peanut gallery, please) leading up to a viewing area overlooking the Records Office. The viewing area is a mezzanine level, circular openings in its floor, glass-plated, through which you can watch the clerks beavering away. They're happy, mostly. You'd be surprised how many people find it paradise being a clerk.