And Thereby Hangs a Tale

“So what’s the deal?” asked the chairman, folding his arms and looking at Mr. De Ath defiantly.

“I have the authority to allow you to change places with anyone you choose. For example, the young man working on the front desk in reception. Even though you’re scarcely aware of his existence and probably don’t even know his name.”

“And what does he get, if I agree to change places with him?” asked the chairman.

“He becomes you.”

“That’s not a very good deal for him.”

“You’ve closed many deals like that in the past and it’s never concerned you before. But if it will ease what passes for your conscience, when he dies, he will go up,” said De Ath, pointing toward the ceiling. “Whereas if you agree to my terms, you will eventually be coming down, to join me.”

“But he’s just a clerk on the front desk.”

“Just as you were forty years ago, although you rarely admit as much to anyone nowadays.”

“But he doesn’t have my brain—”

“Or your character.”

“And I know nothing about his life, or his background,” said the chairman.

“Once the change has taken place, he’ll be supplied with your memory, and you with his.”

“But will I keep my brain, or be saddled with his?”

“You’ll still have your own brain, and he’ll keep his.”

“And when he dies, he goes to Heaven.”

“And when you die, you’ll join me in Hell. That is, if you sign the contract.”

Mr. De Ath took the chairman by the elbow and led him across to the window, where they looked down on the City of London. “If you sign up with me, all this could be yours.”

“Where do I sign?” asked the chairman, taking the top off his pen.

“Before you even consider signing,” said Mr. De Ath, “my inferiors have insisted that because of your past record when it comes to honoring the words ‘legal and binding,’ I’m obliged to point out all the finer points should you decide to accept our terms. It’s part of the lower authority’s new regulations to make sure you can’t escape the final judgment.” The chairman put his pen down. “Under the terms of this agreement, you will exchange your life for the clerk at the reception desk. When he dies, he’ll go to Heaven. When you die, you’ll join me in Hell.”

“You’ve already explained all that,” said the chairman.

“Yes, but I have to warn you that there are no break clauses. You don’t even get a period in Purgatory with a chance to redeem yourself. There are no buy-back options, no due diligence to enable you to get off the hook at the last moment, as you’ve done so often in the past. You must understand that if you sign the contract, it’s for eternity.”

“But if I sign, I get the boy’s life, and he gets mine?”

“Yes, but my inferiors have also decreed that before you put pen to paper, I must honestly answer any questions you might wish to put to me.”

“What’s the boy’s name?” asked the chairman.

“Rod.”

“And how old is he?”

“Twenty-five next March.”

“Then I only have one more question. What’s his life expectancy?”

“He’s just been put through one of those rigorous medical examinations all your staff are required to undertake, and he came out with a triple A rating. He plays football for his local club, goes to the gym twice a week, and plans to run the London Marathon for charity next April. He doesn’t smoke, and drinks only in moderation. He’s what life assurance companies call an actuary’s dream.”

“It’s a no-brainer,” said the chairman. “Where do I sign?”