Immortality, Inc

19

As the bed crept toward him Blaine shouted for help in a voice that made the window rattle. His only answer was the poltergeist's high-pitched laugh.

Were they all deaf in the hotel? Why didn't someone answer?

Then he realized that, by the very nature of things, no one would even consider helping him. Violence was a commonplace in this world, and a man's death was entirely his own business. There would be no inquiry. The janitor would simply clean up the mess in the morning, and the room would be marked vacant.

His door was impassable. The only chance he could see was to jump over the bed and through the closed window. If he made the leap properly, he would fall against the waist-high fire escape railing outside. If he jumped too hard he would go right over the railing, and fall three stories to the street.

The chair beat him over the shoulders, and the bed rumbled forward to pin him against the wall. Blaine made a quick calculation of angles and distances, drew himself together and flung himself at the window.

He hit squarely; but he had reckoned without the advances of modern science. The window bent outward like a sheet of rubber, and snapped back into place. He was thrown against a wall, and fell dazed to the floor. Looking up, he saw a heavy bureau wobble toward him and slowly tilt.

As the poltergeist threw his lunatic strength against the bureau, the unwatched door swung open. Smith entered the room, his thick-featured zombie face impassive, and deflected the falling bureau with his shoulder.

“Come on,” he said.

Blaine asked no questions. He scrambled to his feet and grabbed the edge of the closing door. With Smith's help he pulled it open again, and the two men slipped out. From within the room he heard a shriek of baffled rage.

Smith hurried down the hall, one cold hand clasped around Blaine's wrist. They went downstairs, through the hotel lobby and into the street. The zombie's face was leaden white except for the purple bruise where Blaine had struck him. The bruise had spread across nearly half his face, pie-balding it into a Harlequin's grotesque mask.

“Where are we going?” Blaine asked.

“To a safe place.”

They reached an ancient unused subway entrance, and descended. One flight down they came to a small iron door set in the cracked concrete door. Smith opened the door and beckoned Blaine to follow him.

Blaine hesitated, and caught the hint of high-pitched laughter. The poltergeist was pursuing him, as the Eumenides had once pursued their victims through the streets of ancient Athens. He could stay in the lighted upper world if he wished, hag-ridden by an insane spirit. Or he could descend with Smith, through the iron door and into the darkness beyond it, to some uncertain destiny in the underworld.

The shrill laughter increased. Blaine hesitated no longer. He followed Smith through the iron door and closed it behind him.

For the moment, the poltergeist had not chosen to pursue. They walked down a tunnel lighted by an occasional naked light bulb, past cracked masonry pipes and the looming gray corpse of a subway train, past rusted iron cables lying in giant serpent coils. The air was moist and rank, and a thin slime underfoot made walking treacherous.

“Where are we going?” Blaine asked.

“To where I can protect you,” Smith said.

“Can you?”

“Spirits aren't invulnerable. Exorcism is possible if the true identity of the ghost is known.”

“Then you know who is haunting me?”

“I think so. There's only one person it logically could be.”

“Who?”

Smith shook his head. “I'd rather not say his name yet. No sense calling him if he's not here.”

They descended a series of crumbling shale steps into a wider chamber, and circled the edge of a small black pond whose surface looked as hard and still as jet. On the other side of the pond was a passageway. A man stood in front of it, blocking the way.

He was a tall husky Negro, dressed in rags, armed with a length of iron pipe. From his look Blaine knew he was a zombie.

“This is my friend,” Smith said. “May I bring him through?”

“You sure he's no inspector?”

“Absolutely sure.”

“Wait here,” the Negro said. He disappeared into the passageway.

“Where are we?” Blaine asked.

“Underneath New York, in a series of unused subway tunnels, old sewer conduits, and some passageways we've fashioned for ourselves.”

“But why did we come here?” Blaine asked.

“Where else would we go?” Smith asked, surprised. “This is my home. Didn't you know? You’re in New York's zombie colony.”

Blaine didn't consider a zombie colony much improvement over a ghost; but he didn't have time to think about it. The Negro returned. With him was a very old man who walked with the aid of a stick. The man's face was broken into a network of a thousand lines and wrinkles. His eyes barely showed through the fine scrollwork of sagging flesh, and even his lips were wrinkled.

“This is the man you told me about?” he asked.

“Yes sir,” said Smith. “This is the man. Blaine, let me introduce you to Mr. Kean, the leader of our colony. May I take him through, sir?”

“You may,” the old man said. “And I will accompany you for a while.”

They started down the passageway, Mr. Kean supporting himself heavily on the Negro's arm.

“In the usual course of events,” Mr. Kean said, “only zombies are allowed in the colony. All others are barred. But it has been years since I spoke with a normal, and I thought the experience might be valuable. Therefore, at Smith's earnest request, I made an exception in your case.”

“I'm very grateful,” Blaine said, hoping he had reason to be.

“Don't misunderstand me. I am not averse to helping you. But first and foremost I am responsible for the safety of the eleven hundred zombies living beneath New York. For their sake, normals must be kept out. Exclusivity is our only hope in an ignorant world.” Mr. Kean paused. “But perhaps you can help us, Blaine.”

“How?”

“By listening and understanding, and passing on what you have learned. Education is our only hope. Tell me, what do you know about the problems of a zombie?”

“Very little.”

“I will instruct you. Zombieism, Mr. Blaine, is a disease which has long had a powerful aura of superstition surrounding it, comparable to the aura generated by such diseases as epilepsy, leprosy, or St. Vitus’ Dance. The spiritualizing tendency is a common one. Schizophrenia, you know, was once thought to mean possession by devils, and hydrocephalic idiots were considered peculiarly blessed. Similar fantasies attach to zombieism.”

They walked in silence for a few moments. Mr. Kean said, “The superstition of the zombie is essentially Haitian; the disease of the zombie is worldwide, although rare. But the superstition and the disease have become hopelessly confused in the public mind. The zombie of superstition is an element of the Haitian Vodun cult; a human being whose soul has been stolen by magic. The zombie's body could be used as the magician wished, could even be slaughtered and sold for meat in the marketplace. If the zombie ate salt or beheld the sea, he realized that he was dead and returned to his grave. For all this, there is no basis in fact.

“The superstition arose from the descriptively similar disease. Once it was exceedingly rare. But today, with the increase in mind-switching and reincarnation techniques, zombieism has become more common. The disease of the zombie occurs when a mind occupies a body that has been untenanted too long. Mind and body are not then one, as yours are, Mr. Blaine. They exist, instead, as quasi-independent entities engaged in an uneasy cooperation. Take our friend Smith as typical. He can control his body's gross physical actions, but fine coordination is impossible for him. His voice is incapable of discrete modulation, and his ears do not receive subtle differences in tone. His face is expressionless, for he has little or no control over surface musculature. He drives his body, but is not truly a part of it.”

“And can't anything be done?” Blaine asked.

“At the present time, nothing.”

“I'm very sorry,” Blaine said uncomfortably.

“This is not a plea for your sympathy,” Kean told him. “It is a request only for the most elementary understanding. I simply want you and everyone to know that zombieism is not a visitation of sins, but a disease, like mumps or cancer, and nothing more.”

Mr. Kean leaned against the wall of the passageway to catch his breath. “To be sure, the zombie's appearance is unpleasant. He shambles, his wounds never heal, his body deteriorates rapidly. He mumbles like an idiot, staggers like a drunk, stares like a pervert. But is this any reason to make him the repository of all guilt and shame upon Earth, the leper of the 22nd century? They say that zombies attack people; yet his body is fragile in the extreme, and the average zombie couldn't resist a child's determined assault. They believe the disease is communicable; and this is obviously not so. They say that zombies are sexually perverted, and the truth is that a zombie experiences no sexual feelings whatsoever. But people refuse to learn, and zombies are outcasts fit only for the hangman's noose or the lyncher's burning stake.”

“What about the authorities?” Blaine asked.

Mr. Kean smiled bitterly. “They used to lock us up, as a kindness, in mental institutions. You see, they didn't want us hurt. Yet zombies are rarely insane, and the authorities knew it! So now, with their tacit approval, we occupy these abandoned subway tunnels and sewer lines.”

“Couldn't you find a better place?” Blaine asked.

“Frankly, the underground suits us. Sunlight is bad for unregenerative skins.”

They began walking again. Blaine said, “What can I do?”

“You can tell someone what you learned here. Write about it, perhaps. Widening ripples…”

“I'll do what I can.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Kean said gravely. “Education is our only hope. Education and the future. Surely people will be more enlightened in the future.”

The future? Blaine felt suddenly dizzy. For this was the future, to which he had travelled from the idealistic and hopeful 20th century. Now was the future! But the promised enlightenment still had not come, and people were much the same as ever. For a second Blaine's centuries pressed heavily on him. He felt disoriented and old, older than Kean, older than the human race — a creature in a borrowed body standing in a place it did not know.

“And now,” Mr. Kean said, “we have reached your destination.”

Blaine blinked rapidly, and life came back into focus. The dim passageway had ended. In front of him was a rusted iron ladder fastened to the tunnel wall, leading upward into darkness.

“Good luck,” Mr. Kean said. He left, supporting himself heavily on the Negro's arm. Blaine watched the old man go, then turned to Smith.

“Where are we going?”

“Up the ladder.”

“But where does it lead?”

Smith had already begun climbing. He stopped and looked down, his lead-colored lips drawn back into a grin. “We’re going to visit a friend of yours, Blaine. We’re going into his tomb, up to his coffin, and ask him to stop haunting you. Force him, maybe.”

“Who is he?” Blaine asked.

Smith only grinned and continued climbing. Blaine mounted the ladder behind him.

20

Above the passageway was a ventilation shaft, which led to another passageway. They came at last to a door, and entered.

They were in a large, brilliantly lighted room. Upon the arched ceiling was a mural depicting a handsome, clear-eyed man entering a gauzy blue heaven in the company of angels. Blaine knew at once who had modeled for the painting.

“Reilly!”

Smith nodded. “We’re inside his Palace of Death.”

“How did you know Reilly was haunting me?”

“You should have thought of it yourself. Only two people connected with you have died recently. The ghost certainly was not Ray Melhill. It had to be Reilly.”

“But why?”

“I don't know,” Smith said. “Perhaps Reilly will tell you himself.”

Blaine looked at the walls. They were inlaid with crosses, crescent moons, stars and swastikas, as well as Indian, African, Arabian, Chinese and Polynesian good-luck signs. On pedestals around the room were statues of ancient deities. Among the dozens Blaine recognized Zeus, Apollo, Dagon, Odin and Astarte. In front of each pedestal was an altar, and on each altar was a cut and polished jewel.

“What's that for?” Blaine asked.

“Propitiation.”

“But life after death is a scientific fact.”

“Mr. Kean told me that science has little effect upon superstition,” Smith said. “Reilly was fairly sure he'd survive after death; but he saw no reason to take chances. Also, Mr. Kean says that the very rich, like the very religious, wouldn't enjoy a hereafter filled with just anybody. They think that, by suitable rites and symbols, they can get into a more exclusive part of the hereafter.”

“Is there a more exclusive part?” Blaine asked.

“No one knows. It's just a belief.”

Smith led him across the room to an ornate door covered with Egyptian hieroglyphics and Chinese ideograms.

“Reilly's body is inside here,” Smith said.

“And we’re going in?”

“Yes, we have to.”

Smith pushed the door open. Blaine saw a vast marble-pillared room. In its very center was a bronze and gold coffin inlaid with jewels. Surrounding the coffin was a great and bewildering quantity of goods; paintings and sculptures, musical instruments, carvings, objects like washing machines, stoves, refrigerators, even a complete heliocopter. There was clothing and books, and a lavish banquet had been laid out.

“What's all this stuff for?” Blaine asked.

“The essence of these goods is intended to accompany the owner into the hereafter. It's an old belief.”

Blaine's first reaction was one of pity. The scientific hereafter hadn't freed men from the fear of death, as it should have done. On the contrary, it had intensified their uncertainties and stimulated their competitive drive. Given the surety of an afterlife, man wanted to improve upon it, to enjoy a better heaven than anyone else. Equality was all very well; but individual initiative came first. A perfect and passionless levelling was no more palatable an idea in the hereafter than it was on Earth. The desire to surpass caused a man like Reilly to build a tomb like the Pharaohs of ancient Egypt, to brood all his life about death, to live continually trying to find ways of preserving his property and status in the gray uncertainties ahead.

A shame. And yet, Blaine thought, wasn't his pity based upon a lack of belief in the efficacy of Reilly's measures? Suppose you could improve your situation in the hereafter? In that case, what better way to spend one's time on Earth than working for a better eternity?

The proposition seemed reasonable, but Blaine refused to believe it. That couldn't be the only reason for existence on Earth! Good or bad, fair or foul, the thing had to be lived for its own sake.

Smith walked slowly into the coffin room, and Blaine stopped his speculations. The zombie stood, contemplating a small table covered with ornaments. Dispassionately he kicked the table over. Then slowly, one by one, he ground the delicate ornaments into the polished marble floor.

“What are you doing?” Blaine asked.

“You want the poltergeist to leave you alone?”

“Of course.”

“Then he must have some reason for leaving you alone,” Smith said, kicking over an elaborate ebony sculpture.

It seemed reasonable enough to Blaine. Even a ghost must know he will eventually leave the Threshold and enter the hereafter. When he does, he wants his goods waiting for him, intact. Therefore fight fire with fire, persecution with persecution.

Still, he felt like a vandal when he picked up an oil painting and prepared to shove his fist through it.

“Don't,” said a voice above his head.

Blaine and Smith looked up. Above them there seemed to be a faint silvery mist. From the mist an attenuated voice said, “Please put down the painting.”

Blaine held on to it, his fist poised. “Are you Reilly?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you haunting me?”

“Because you’re responsible! Everything's your fault! You killed me with your evil murdering mind! Yes you, you hideous thing from the past, you damned monster!”

“I didn't!” Blaine cried.

“You did! You aren't human! You aren't natural! Everything shuns you except your friend the dead man! Why aren't you dead, murderer!”

Blaine's fist moved toward the painting. The thin voice screamed, “Don't!”

“Will you leave me alone?” Blaine asked.

“Put down the painting,” Reilly begged.

Blaine put it carefully down.

“I'll leave you alone,” Reilly said. “Why shouldn't I? There are things you can't see, Blaine, but I see them. Your time on Earth will be short, very short, painfully short. Those you trust will betray you, those you hate will conquer you. You will die, Blaine, not in years but soon, sooner than you could believe. You'll be betrayed, and you'll die by your own hand.”

“You’re crazy!” Blaine shouted.

“Am I?” Reilly cackled. “Am I? Am I?” The silvery mist vanished. Reilly was gone.

Smith led him back through narrow winding passageways to the street level. Outside the air was chilly, and dawn had touched the tall buildings with red and gray.

Blaine started to thank him, but Smith shook his head. “No reason for thanks! After all, I need you, Blaine. Where would I be if the poltergeist killed you? Take care of yourself, be careful. Nothing is possible for me without you.”

The zombie gazed anxiously at him for a moment, then hurried away. Blaine watched him go, wondering if it wouldn't be better to have a dozen enemies than Smith for a friend.

21

Half an hour later he was at Marie Thorne's apartment. Marie, without makeup, dressed in a housecoat, blinked sleepily and led him to the kitchen, where she dialed coffee, toast and scrambled eggs.

“I wish,” she said, “you'd make your dramatic appearances at a decent hour. It's six-thirty in the morning.”

“I'll try to do better in the future,” Blaine said cheerfully.

“You said you'd call. What happened to you?”

“Did you worry?”

“Not in the slightest. What happened?”

Between bites of toast Blaine told her about the hunt, the haunting, and the exorcism. She listened to it all, then said, “So you’re obviously very proud of yourself, and I guess you should be. But you still don't know what Smith wants from you, or even who he is.”

“Haven't the slightest idea,” Blaine said. “Smith doesn't, either. Frankly, I couldn't care less.”

“What happens when he finds out?”

“I'll worry about that when it happens.”

Marie raised both eyebrows but made no comment. “Tom, what are your plans now?”

“I'm going to get a job.”

“As a hunter?”

“No. Logical or not, I'm going to try the yacht design agencies. Then I'm going to come around here and bother you at reasonable hours. How does that sound?”

“Impractical. Do you want some good advice?”

“No.”

“I'm giving it to you anyhow. Tom, get out of New York. Go as far away as you can. Go to Fiji or Samoa.”

“Why should I?”

Marie began to pace restlessly up and down the kitchen. “You simply don't understand this world.”

“I think I do.”

“No! Tom, you've had a few typical experiences, that's all. But that doesn't mean you've assimilated our culture. You've been snatched, haunted, and you've gone on a hunt. But it adds up to not much more than a guided tour. Reilly was right, you’re as lost and helpless as a caveman would be in your own 1958.”

“That's ridiculous, and I object to the comparison.”

“All right, let's make it a 14th century Chinese. Suppose this hypothetical Chinaman had met a gangster, gone on a bus ride and seen Coney Island. Would you say he understood 20th century America?”

“Of course not. But what's the point?”

“The point,” she said, “is that you aren't safe here, and you can't even sense what or where or how urgent the dangers are. For one, that damned Smith is after you. Next, Reilly's heirs might not take kindly to you desecrating his tomb; they might find it necessary to do something about it. And the directors at Rex are still arguing about what they should do about you. You've altered things, changed things, disrupted things. Can't you feel it?”

“I can handle Smith,” Blaine said. “To hell with Reilly's heirs. As for the directors, what can they do to me?”

She came over to him and put her arms around his neck. “Tom,” she said earnestly, “any man born here who found himself in your shoes would run as fast as he could!”

Blaine held her close for a moment and stroked her sleek dark hair. She cared for him, she wanted him to be safe. But he was in no mood for warnings. He had survived the dangers of the hunt, had passed through the iron door into the underworld and won through again to the light. Now, sitting in Marie's sunny kitchen, he felt elated and at peace with the world. Danger seemed an academic problem not worthy of discussion at the moment, and the idea of running away from New York was absurd.

“Tell me,” Blaine said lightly, “among the things I've disrupted — is one of them you?”

“I'm probably going to lose my job, if that's what you mean.”

“That's not what I mean.”

“Then you should know the answer… Tom, will you please get out of New York?”

“No. And please stop sounding so panicky.”

“Oh Lord,” she sighed, “We talk the same language but I'm not getting through. You don't understand. Let me try an example.” She thought for a moment. “Suppose a man owned a sailboat —”

“Do you sail?” Blaine asked.

“Yes, I love sailing. Tom, listen to me! Suppose a man owned a sailboat in which he was planning an ocean voyage —”

“Across the sea of life,” Blaine filled in.

“You’re not funny,” she said, looking very pretty and serious. “This man doesn't know anything about boats. He sees it floating, nicely painted, everything in place. He can't imagine any danger. Then you look the boat over. You see that the frames are cracked, teredos have gotten into the rudder post, there's dry rot in the mast step, the sails are mildewed, the keel bolts are rusted, and the fastenings are ready to let go.”

“Where'd you learn so much about boats?” Blaine asked.

“I've been sailing since I was a kid. Will you please pay attention? You tell that man his boat is not seaworthy, the first gale is likely to sink him.”

“We'll have to go sailing sometime,” Blaine said.

“But this man,” Marie continued doggedly, “doesn't know anything about boats. The thing looks all right. And the hell of it is, you can't tell him exactly what is going to happen, or when. Maybe the boat will hold together for a month, or a year, or maybe only a week. Maybe the keel bolts will go first, or perhaps it'll be the mast. You just don't know. And that's the situation here. I can't tell you what's going to happen, or when. I just know you’re unseaworthy. You must get out of here!”

She looked at him hopefully. Blaine nodded and said, “You'll make one hell of a crew.”

“So you’re not going?”

“No. I've been up all night. The only place I'm going now is to bed. Would you care to join me?”

“Go to hell!”

“Darling, please! Where's your pity for a homeless wanderer from the past?”

“I'm going out,” she said. “Help yourself to the bedroom. You'd better think about what I told you.”

“Sure,” Blaine said. “But why should I worry when I have you looking out for me?”

“Smith's looking for you, too,” she reminded him. She kissed him quickly and left the room.

Blaine finished his breakfast and turned in. He awoke in the early afternoon. Marie still hadn't returned, so before leaving he wrote her a cheerful note with the address of his hotel.

During the next few days he visited most of the yacht design agencies in New York, without success. His old firm, Mattison & Peters, was long defunct. The other firms weren't interested. Finally, at Jaakobsen Yachts, Ltd., the head designer questioned him closely about the now-extinct Chesapeake Bay and Bahamas work boats. Blaine demonstrated his considerable knowledge of the types, as well as his out-of-date draftsmanship.

“We get a few calls for antique hulls,” the head designer said. “Tell you what. We'll hire you as office boy. You can do classic hulls on a commission basis and study up on your designing, which, frankly, is old-fashioned. When you’re ready, we'll upgrade you. What do you say?”

It was an inferior position; but it was a job, a legitimate job, with a fine chance for advancement. It meant that at last he had a real place in the world of 2110. “I'll take it,” Blaine said, “with thanks.”

That evening, by way of celebrating, he went to a Sensory Shop to buy a player and a few recordings. He was entitled, he thought, to a little basic luxury.

The sensories were an inescapable part of 2110, as omnipresent and popular as television had been in Blaine's day. Larger and more elaborate versions of the sensories were used for theater productions, and variations were employed for advertising and propaganda. They were to date the purest and most powerful form of the ready-made dream, tailored to fit anyone.

But they had their extremely vocal opponents, who deplored the ominous trend toward complete passivity in the spectator. These critics were disturbed by the excessive ease with which a person could assimilate a sensory; and in truth, many a housewife walked blank-eyed through her days, a modern-day mystic plugged into a continual bright vision.

In reading a book or watching television, the critics pointed out, the viewer had to exert himself, to participate. But the sensories merely swept over you, vivid, brilliant, insidious, and left behind the damaging schizophrenic impression that dreams were better and more desirable than life. Such an impression could not be allowed, even if it were true. Sensories were dangerous! To be sure, some valid artistic work was done in the sensory form. (One could not discount Verreho, Johnston or Telkin; and Mikkelsen showed promise.) But there was not much good work. And weighed against the damaging psychic effects, the lowering of popular taste, the drift toward complete passivity…

In another generation, the critics thundered, people will be incapable of reading, thinking or acting!

It was a strong argument. But Blaine, with his 152 years of perspective, remembered much the same sort of arguments hurled at radio, movies, comic books, television and paperbacks. Even the revered novel had once been bitterly chastised for its deviation from the standards of pure poetry. Every innovation seemed culturally destructive; and became, ultimately, a cultural staple, the embodiment of the good old days, the spirit of the Golden Age — to be threatened and finally destroyed by the next innovation.

The sensories, good or bad, were here. Blaine entered the store to partake of them.

After looking over various models he bought a medium-priced Bendix player. Then, with the clerk's aid, he chose three popular recordings and took them into a booth to play. Fastening the electrodes to his forehead, he turned the first one on.

It was a popular historical, a highly romantic rendition of the Chanson de Roland, done in a low-intensity non-identification technique that allowed large battle effects and massed movements. The dream began.

… and Blaine was in the pass of Roncesvalles on that hot and fateful August morning in 778, standing with Roland's rear guard, watching the main body of Charlemagne's army wind slowly on toward Frankland. The tired veterans slumped in their high-cantled, saddles, leather creaked, spurs jingled against bronze stirrup-guards. There was a smell of pine and sweat in the air, a hint of smoke from razed Pampelona, a taste of oiled steel and dry summer grass…

Blaine decided to buy it. The next was a high-intensity chase on Venus, in which the viewer identified fully with the hunted but innocent man. The last was a variable-intensity recording of War and Peace, with occasional identification sections.

As he paid for his purchases, the clerk winked at him and said, “Interested in the real stuff?”

“Maybe,” Blaine said.

“I got some great party records,” the clerk told him. “Full identification with switches yet. No? Got a genuine horror piece — man dying in quicksand. The murderers recorded his death for the specialty trade.”

“Perhaps some other time,” Blaine said, moving toward the door.

“And also,” the clerk told him, “I got a special recording, legitimately made but withheld from the public. A few copies are being bootlegged around. Man reborn from the past. Absolutely genuine.”

“Really?”

“Yes, it's perfectly unique. The emotions come through clear as a bell, sharp as a knife. A collector's item. I predict it'll become a classic.”

“That I'd like to hear,” Blaine said grimly.

He took the unlabeled record back to the booth. In ten minutes he came out again, somewhat shaken, and purchased it for an exorbitant price. It was like buying a piece of himself.

The clerk and the Rex technicians were right. It was a real collector's item, and would probably become a classic.

Unfortunately, all names had been carefully wiped to prevent the police from tracing its source. He was famous — but in a completely anonymous fashion.

22

Blaine went to his job every day, swept the floor emptied the wastepaper basket, addressed envelopes, and did a few antique hulls on commission. In the evenings he studied the complex science of 22nd century yacht design. After a while he was given a few small assignments writing publicity releases. He proved talented at this, and was soon promoted to the position of junior yacht designer, He began handling much of the liaison between Jaakobsen Yachts, Ltd., and the various yards building to their design.

He continued to study, but there were few requests for classic hulls. The Jaakobsen brothers handled most of the stock boats, while old Ed Richter, known as the Marvel of Salem, drew up the unusual racers and multi-hulls. Blaine took over publicity and advertising, and had no time for anything else.

It was responsible, necessary work. But it was not yacht designing. Irrevocably his life in 2110 was falling into much the same pattern it had assumed in 1958.

Blaine pondered this carefully. On the one hand, he was happy about it. It seemed to settle, once and for all, the conflict between his mind and his borrowed body. Obviously his mind was boss.

On the other hand, the situation didn't speak too well for the quality of that mind. Here was a man who had travelled 152 years into the future, had passed through wonders and horrors, and was working again, with a weary and terrible inevitability, as a junior yacht designer who did everything but design yachts. Was there some fatal flaw in his character, some hidden defect which doomed him to inferiority no matter what his environment?

Moodily he pictured himself flung back a million or so years, to a caveman era. Doubtless, after a period of initial adjustment, he would become a junior designer of dugouts. Only not really a designer. His job would be to count the wampum, check the quality of the tree trunks and contract for outriggers, while some other fellow (probably a Neanderthal genius) did the actual running of the lines.

That was disheartening. But fortunately it was not the only way of viewing the matter. His inevitable return could also be taken as a fine example of internal solidarity, of human steadfastness. He was a man who knew what he was. No matter how his environment changed, he remained true to his function.

Viewed this way, he could be very proud of being eternally and forever a junior yacht designer.

He continued working, fluctuating between these two basic views of himself. Once or twice he saw Marie, but she was usually busy in the high councils of the Rex Corporation. He moved out of his hotel and into a small, tastefully furnished apartment. New York was beginning to feel normal to him.

And, he reminded himself, if he had gained nothing else, he had at least settled his mind-body problem.

But his body was not to be disposed of so lightly. Blaine had overlooked one of the problems likely to exist with the ownership of a strong, handsome, and highly idiosyncratic body such as his.

One day the conflict flared again, more aggravated than ever.

He had left work at the usual time, and was waiting at a corner for his bus. He noticed a woman staring intently at him. She was perhaps twenty-five years old, a buxom, attractive red-head. She was commonly dressed. Her features were bold, yet they had a certain wistful quality.

Blaine realized that he had seen her before but never really noticed her. Now that he thought about it, she had once ridden a helibus with him. Once she had entered a store nearly on his footsteps. And several times she had been passing his building when he left work.

She had been watching him, probably for weeks. But why?

He waited, staring back at her. The woman hesitated a moment, then said, “Could I talk to you a moment?” Her voice was husky, pleasant, but very nervous. “Please, Mr. Blaine, it's very important.”

So she knew his name. “Sure,” Blaine said. “What is it?”

“Not here. Could we — uh — go somewhere?”

Blaine grinned and shook his head. She seemed harmless enough; but Orc had seemed so, too.

Trusting strangers in this world was a good way of losing your mind, your body, or both.

“I don't know you,” Blaine said, “and I don't know where you learned my name. Whatever you want, you'd better tell me here.”

“I really shouldn't be bothering you,” the woman said in a discouraged voice. “But I couldn't stop myself, I had to talk to you. I get so lonely sometimes, you know how it is?”

“Lonely? Sure, but why do you want to talk to me?”

She looked at him sadly. “That's right, you don't know.”

“No, I don't,” Blaine said patiently. “Why?”

“Can't we go somewhere? I don't like to say it in public like this.”

“You'll have to,” Blaine said, beginning to think that this was a very complicated game indeed.

“Oh, all right,” the woman said, obviously embarrassed. “I've been following you around for a long time, Mr. Blaine. I found out your name and where you worked. I had to talk to you. It's all on account of that body of yours.”

“What?”

“Your body,” she said, not looking at him. “You see, it used to be my husband's body before he sold it to the Rex Corporation.” Blaine's mouth opened, but he could find no adequate words.

23

Blaine had always known that his body had lived its own life in the world before it had been given to him. It had acted, decided, loved, hated, made its own individual imprint upon society and woven its own complex and lasting web of relationships. He could even have assumed that it had been married; most bodies were. But he had preferred not thinking about it. He had let himself believe that everything concerning the previous owner had conveniently disappeared.

His own meeting with Ray Melhill's snatched body should have shown him how naive that attitude was. Now, like it or not, he had to think about it.

They went to Blaine's apartment. The woman, Alice Kranch, sat dejectedly on one side of the couch and accepted a cigarette.

“The way it was,” she said, “Frank — that was my husband's name, Frank Kranch — he was never satisfied with things, you know? He had a good job as a hunter, but he was never satisfied.”

“A hunter?”

“Yes, he was a spearman in the China game.”

“Hmm,” Blaine said, wondering again what had induced him to go on that hunt. His own needs or Kranch's dormant reflexes? It was annoying to have this mind-body problem come up again just when it had seemed so nicely settled.

“But he wasn't ever satisfied,” Alice Kranch said. “And it used to make him sore, those fancy rich guys getting themselves killed and going to the hereafter. He always hated the idea of dying like a dog, Frank did.”

“I don't blame him,” Blaine said.

She shrugged her shoulders. “What can you do? Frank didn't have a chance of making enough money for hereafter insurance. It bothered him. And then he got that big wound on the shoulder that nearly put him under. I suppose you still got the scar?”

Blaine nodded.

“Well, he wasn't ever the same after that. Hunters usually don't think much about death, but Frank started to. He started thinking about it all the time. And then he met this skinny dame from Rex.”

“Marie Thorne?”

“That's the one,” Alice said. “She was a skinny dame, hard as nails and cold as a fish. I couldn't understand what Frank saw in her. Oh, he played around some, most hunters do. It's on account of the danger. But there's playing around and playing around. He and this fancy Rex dame were thick as thieves. I just couldn't see what Frank saw in her. I mean she was so skinny, and so tight-faced. She was pretty in a pinched sort of way, but she looked like she'd wear her clothes to bed, if you know what I mean.”

Blaine nodded, a little painfully. “Go on.”

“Well, there's no accounting for some tastes, but I thought I knew Frank's. And I guess I did because it turned out he wasn't going with her. It was strictly business. He turned up one day and said to me, ‘Baby, I'm leaving you. I'm taking that big fat trip into the hereafter. There's a nice piece of change in it for you, too.’ ”

Alice sighed and wiped her eyes. “That big idiot had sold his body! Rex had given him hereafter insurance and an annuity for me, and he was so damned proud of himself! Well, I talked myself blue in the face trying to get him to change his mind. No chance, he was going to eat pie in the sky. To his way of thinking his number was up anyhow, and the next hunt would do him. So off he went. He talked to me once from the Threshold.”

“Is he still there?” Blaine asked, with a prickling sensation at the back of his neck.

“I haven't heard from him in over a year,” Alice said, “so I guess he's gone on to the hereafter. The bastard!”

She cried for a few moments, then wiped her eyes with a tiny handkerchief and looked mournfully at Blaine. “I wasn't going to bother you. After all, it was Frank's body to sell and it's yours now. I don't have any claims on it or you. But I got so blue, so lonely.”

“I can imagine,” Blaine murmured, thinking that she was definitely not his type. Objectively speaking, she was pretty enough. Comely but overblown. Her features were well formed, bold, and vividly colored. Her hair, although obviously not a natural red, was shoulder length and of a smooth texture. She was the sort of woman he could picture, hands on hips, arguing with a policeman; hauling in a fishnet; dancing to a flamenco guitar; or herding goats on a mountain path with a full skirt swishing around ample hips, and peasant blouse distended.

But she was not in good taste.

However, he reminded himself, Frank Kranch had found her very much to his taste. And he was wearing Kranch's body.

“Most of our friends,” Alice was saying, “were hunters in the China game. Oh, they dropped around sometimes after Frank left. But you know hunters, they've got just one thing on their minds”

“Is that a fact?” Blaine asked.

“Yes. And so I moved out of Peking and came back to New York, where I was born. And then one day I saw Frank — I mean you. I could have fainted on the spot. I mean I might have expected it and all, but still it gives you a turn to see your husband's body walking around.”

“I should think so,” Blaine said.

“So I followed you and all. I wasn't ever going to bother you or anything, but it just, kept bothering me all the time. And I sort of got to wondering what kind of a man was… I mean, Frank was so — well, he and I got along very well, if you know what I mean.”

“Certainly,” Blaine said.

“I'll bet you think I'm terrible!”

“Not at all!” said Blaine. She looked him full in the face, her expression mournful and coquettish. Blaine felt Kranch's old scar throb.

But remember, he told himself, Kranch is gone. Everything is Blaine now, Blaine's will, Blaine's way, Blaine's taste…

This problem must be settled, he thought, as he seized the willing Alice and kissed her with an unBlainelike fervor…

In the morning Alice made breakfast. Blaine sat, staring out the window, thinking dismal thoughts.

Last night had proven to him conclusively that Kranch was still king of the Kranch-Blaine body-mind. For last night he had been completely unlike himself. He had been fierce, violent, rough, angry and exultant. He had been all the things he had always deplored, had acted with an abandon that must have bordered on madness.

That was not Blaine. That was Kranch, the Body Triumphant.

Blaine had always prized delicacy, subtlety, and the grasp of nuance. Too much, perhaps. Yet those had been his virtues, the expressions of his own individual personality. With them, he was Thomas Blaine. Without them he was less that nothing — a shadow cast by the eternally triumphant Kranch.

Gloomily he contemplated the future. He would give up the struggle, become what his body demanded; a fighter, a brawler, a lusty vagabond. Perhaps in time he would grow used to it, even enjoy it…

“Breakfast's ready,” Alice announced.

They ate in silence, and Alice mournfully fingered a bruise on her forearm. At last Blaine could stand it no longer.

“Look,” he said, “I'm sorry.”

“What for?”

“Everything.”

She smiled wanly. “That's all right. It was my fault, really.”

“I doubt that. Pass the butter please,” Blaine said.

She passed the butter. They ate in silence for a few minutes. Then Alice said, “I was very, very stupid.”

“Why?”

“I guess I was chasing a dream,” she said. “Thought I could find Frank all over again. I'm not really that way, Mr. Blaine. But I thought it would be like with Frank.“

“And wasn't it?”

She shook her head. “No, of course not.”

Blaine put down his coffee cup carefully. He said, “I suppose Kranch was rougher. I suppose he batted you from wall to wall. I suppose —”

“Oh, no!” she cried. “Never! Mr. Blaine, Frank was a hunter and he lived a hard life. But with me he was always a perfect gentleman. He had manners, Frank had.”

“He had?”

“He certainly had! Frank was always gentle with me, Mr. Blaine. He was — delicate, if you know what I mean. Nice. Gentle. He was never, never rough. To tell the truth, he was the very opposite from you, Mr. Blaine.”

“Uh,” said Blaine.

“Not that there's anything wrong with you,” she said with hasty kindness. “You are a little rough, but I guess it takes all kinds.”

“I guess it does,” Blaine said. “Yes, I guess it sure does.”

They finished their breakfast in embarrassed silence, Alice, freed of her obsessive dream, left immediately afterwards, with no suggestion that they meet again. Blaine sat in his big chair, staring out the window, thinking.

So he wasn't like Kranch!

The sad truth was, he told himself, he had acted as he imagined Kranch would have acted in similar circumstances. It had been pure autosuggestion. Hysterically he had convinced himself that a strong, active, hearty outdoors man would necessarily treat a woman like a wrestling bear.

He had acted out a stereotype. He would feel even sillier if he weren't so relieved at regaining his threatened Blaineism.

He frowned as he remembered Alice's description of Marie: Skinny, hard as nails, cold as fish. More sterotyping.

But under the circumstances, he could hardly blame Alice.

24

A few days later, Blaine received word that a communication was waiting for him at the Spiritual Switchboard. He went there after work, and was sent to the booth he had used previously.

Melhill's amplified voice said, “Hello, Tom.”

“Hello, Ray. I was wondering where you were.”

“I'm still in the Threshold,” Melhill told him, “but I won't be much longer. I gotta go on and see what the hereafter is like. It pulls at me. But I wanted to talk to you again, Tom. I think you should watch out for Marie Thorne.”

“Now Ray —”

“I mean it. She's been spending all her time at Rex. I don't know what's going on there, they got the conference rooms shielded against psychic invasion. But something's brewing over you, and she's in the middle of it.”

“I'll keep my eyes open,” Blaine said.

“Tom, please take my advice. Get out of New York. Get out fast, while you still have a body and a mind to run it with.”

“I'm staying,” Blaine said.

“You stubborn bastard,” Melhill said, with deep feeling. “What's the use of having a protective spirit if you don't ever take his advice?”

“I appreciate your help,” Blaine said. “I really do. But tell me truthfully, how much better off would I be if I ran?”

“You might be able to stay alive a little longer.”

“Only a little? Is it that bad?”

“Bad enough. Tom, remember not to trust anybody. I gotta go now.”

“Will I speak to you again, Ray?”

“Maybe,” Melhill said. “Maybe not. Good luck, kid.”

The interview was ended. Blaine returned to his apartment.

The next day was Saturday. Blaine lounged in bed late, made himself breakfast and called Marie. She was out. He decided to spend the day relaxing and playing his sensory recordings.

That afternoon he had two callers.

The first was a gentle, hunchbacked old woman dressed in a dark, severe uniform. Across her army-style cap were the words, “Old Church.”

“Sir,” she said in a slightly wheezy voice, “I am soliciting contributions for the Old Church, an organization which seeks to promote faith in these dissolute and Godless times.”

“Sorry,” Blaine said, and started to close the door.

But the old woman must have had many doors closed on her. She wedged herself between door and jamb and continued talking.

“This, young sir, is the age of the Babylonian Beast, and the time of the soul's destruction. This is Satan's age, and the time of his seeming triumph. But be not deceived! The Lord Almighty has allowed this to come about for a trial and a testing, and a winnowing of grain from chaff. Beware the temptation! Beware the path of evil which lies splendid and glittering before you!”

Blaine gave her a dollar just to shut her up. The old woman thanked him but continued talking.

“Beware, young sir, that ultimate lure of Satan — the false heaven which men call the hereafter! For what better snare could Satan the Deceiver devise for the world of men than this, his greatest illusion! The illusion that hell is heaven! And men are deceived by the cunning deceit, and willingly go down into it!”

“Thank you,” Blaine said, trying to shut the door.

“Remember my words!” the old woman cried, fixing him with a glassy blue eye. “The hereafter is evil! Beware the prophets of the hellish afterlife!”

“Thank you!” Blaine cried, and managed to close the door.

He relaxed in his armchair again and turned on the player. For nearly an hour he was absorbed in Flight on Venus. Then there was a knock on his door.

Blaine opened it, and saw a short, well-dressed, chubby-faced, earnest-looking young man.

“Mr. Thomas Blaine?” the man asked.

“That's me.”

“Mr. Blaine, I am Charles Farrell, from the Hereafter Corporation. Might I speak to you? If it is inconvenient now, perhaps we could make an appointment for some other —”

“Come in,” Blaine said, opening the door wide for the prophet of the hellish afterlife.

Farrell was a mild, businesslike, soft-spoken prophet. His first move was to give Blaine a letter written on Hereafter, Inc. stationery, stating that Charles Farrell was a fully authorized representative of the Hereafter Corporation. Included in the letter was a meticulous description of Farrell, his signature, three stamped photographs and a set of fingerprints.

“And here are my identity proofs,” Farrell said, opening his wallet and showing his heli license, library card, voter's registration certificate and government clearance card. On a separate piece of treated paper Farrell impressed the fingerprints of his right hand and gave them to Blaine for comparison with those on the letter.

“Is all this necessary?” Blaine asked.

“Absolutely,” Farrell told him. “We've had some unhappy occurrences in the past. Unscrupulous operators frequently try to pass themselves off as Hereafter representatives among the gullible and the poor. They offer salvation at a cut rate, take what they can get and skip town. Too many people have been cheated out of everything they own, and get nothing in return. For the illegal operators, even when they represent some little fly-by-night salvation company, have none of the expensive equipment and trained technicians that are needed for this sort of thing.”

“I didn't know,” Blaine said. “Won't you sit down?”

Farrell took a chair. “The Better Business Bureaus are trying to do something about it. But the fly-by-nights move too fast to be easily caught. Only Hereafter, Inc. and two other companies with government-approved techniques are able to deliver what they promise — a life after death.”

“What about the various mental disciplines?” Blaine asked.

“I was purposely excluding them,” Farrell said. “They’re a completely different category. If you have the patience and determination necessary for twenty years or so of concentrated study, more power to you. If you don't, then you need scientific aid and implementation. And that's where we come in.”

“I'd like to hear about it,” Blaine said.

Mr. Farrell settled himself more comfortably in his chair. “If you’re like most people, you probably want to know what is life? What is death? What is a mind? Where is the interaction point between mind and body? Is the mind also soul? Is the soul also mind? Are they independent of each other, or interdependent, or intermixed? Or is there any such thing as a soul?” Farrell smiled. “Are those some of the questions you want me to answer?”

Blaine nodded. Farrell said, “Well, I can't. We simply don't know, haven't the slightest idea. As far as we’re concerned those are religio-philosophical questions which Hereafter, Inc. has no intention of even trying to answer. We’re interested in results, not speculation. Our orientation is medical. Our approach is pragmatic. We don't care how or why we get our results, or how strange they seem. Do they work? That's the only question we ask, and that's our basic position.”

“I think you've made it clear,” Blaine said.

“It's important for me to do so at the start. So let me make one more thing clear. Don't make the mistake of thinking that we are offering heaven.”

“No?”

“Not at all! Heaven is a religious concept, and we have nothing to do with religion. Our hereafter is a survival of the mind after the body's death. That's all. We don't claim the hereafter is heaven any more than early scientists claimed that the bones of the first cavemen were the remains of Adam and Eve.”

“An old woman called here earlier,” Blaine said. “She told me that the hereafter is hell.”

“She's a fanatic,” Farrell said, grinning. “She follows me around. And for all I know, she's perfectly right.”

“What do you know about the hereafter?”

“Not very much,” Farrell told him. “All we know for sure is this: After the body's death, the mind moves to a region we call the Threshold, which exists between Earth and the hereafter. It is, we believe, a sort of preparatory state to the hereafter itself. Once the mind is there, it can move at will into the hereafter.”

“But what is the hereafter like?”

“We don't know. We’re fairly sure it's non-physical. Past that, everything is conjecture. Some think that the mind is the essence of the body, and therefore the essences of a man's worldly goods can be brought into the hereafter with him. It could be so. Others disagree. Some feel that the hereafter is a place where souls await their turn for rebirth on other planets as part of a vast reincarnation cycle. Perhaps that's true, too. Some feel that the hereafter is only the first stage of post-Earth existence, and that there are six others, increasingly difficult to attain, culminating in a sort of nirvana. Could be. It's been said that the hereafter is a vast, misty region where you wander alone, forever searching, never finding. I've read theories that prove people must be grouped in the hereafter according to family; others say you’re grouped there according to race, or religion, or skin coloration, or social position. Some people, as you've observed, say it's hell itself you’re entering. There are advocates of a theory of illusion, who claim that the mind vanishes completely when it leaves the Threshold. And there are people who accuse us at the corporation of faking all our effects. A recent learned work states that you'll find whatever you want in the hereafter — heaven, paradise, valhalla, green pastures, take your choice. A claim is made that the old gods rule in the hereafter — the gods of Haiti, Scandinavia or the Belgian Congo, depending on whose theory you’re following, Naturally a counter-theory shows that there can't be any gods at all. I've seen an English book proving that English spirits rule the hereafter, and a Russian book claiming that the Russians rule, and several American books that prove the Americans rule. A book came out last year stating that the government of the hereafter is anarchy. A leading philosopher insists that competition is a law of nature, and must be so in the hereafter, too. And so on. You can take your pick of any of those theories, Mr. Blaine, or you can make up one of your own.”

“What do you think?” Blaine asked.

“Me? I'm keeping an open mind,” Farrell said. “When the time comes, I'll go there and find out.”

“That's good enough for me,” Blaine said. “Unfortunately, I won't have a chance. I don't have the kind of money you people charge.”

“I know,” Farrell said. “I checked into your finances before I called.”

“Then why —”

“Every year,” Farrell said, “a number of free hereafter grants are made, some by philanthropists, some by corporations and trusts, a few on a lottery basis. I am happy to say, Mr. Blaine, that you have been selected for one of these grants.”

“Me?”

“Let me offer my congratulations,” Farrell said. “You’re a very lucky man.”

“But who gave me the grant?”

“The Main-Farbenger Textile Corporation.”

“I never heard of them.”

“Well, they heard of you. The grant is in recognition of your trip here from the year 1958. Do you accept it?”

Blaine stared hard at the hereafter representative. Farrell seemed genuine enough; anyhow, his story could be checked at the Hereafter Building. Blaine had his suspicions of the splendid gift thrust so unexpectedly into his hands. But the thought of an assured life after death outweighed any possible doubts, thrust aside any possible fears. Caution was all very well; but not when the gates of the hereafter were opening before you. “What do I have to do?” he asked.

“Simply accompany me to the Hereafter Building,” Farrell said. “We can have the necessary work done in a few hours.”

Survival! Life after death! “All right,” Blaine said. “I accept the grant. Let's go!”

They left Blaine's apartment at once.

25

A Helicab brought them directly to the Hereafter Building. Farrell led the way to the Admissions Office, and gave a photostatic copy of Blaine's grant to the woman in charge. Blaine made a set of fingerprints, and produced his Hunter's License for further identity. The woman checked all the data carefully against her master list of acceptances. Finally she was satisfied with its validity, and signed the admission papers.

Farrell then took Blaine to the Testing Room, wished him luck, and left him.

In the Testing Room, a squad of young technicians took over and ran Blaine through a gamut of examinations. Banks of calculators clicked and rattled, and spewed forth yards of paper and showers of punched cards. Ominous machines bubbled and squeaked at him, glared with giant red eyes, winked and turned amber. Automatic pens squiggled across pieces of graph paper. And through it all, the technicians kept up a lively shop talk.

“Interesting beta reaction. Think we can fair that curve?”

“Sure, sure, just lower his drive coefficient.”

“Hate to do that. It weakens the web.”

“You don't have to weaken it that much. He'll still take the trauma.”

“Maybe… What about this Henliger factor? It's off.”

“That's because he's in a host body. It'll come around.”

“That one didn't last week. The guy went up like a rocket.”

“He was a little unstable to begin with.”

Blaine said, “Hey! Is there any chance of this not working?”

The technicians turned as though seeing him for the first time.

“Every case is different, pal,” a technician told him. “Each one has to be worked out on an individual basis.”

“It's just problems, problems all the time.”

Blaine said, “I thought the treatment was all worked out. I heard it was infallible.”

“Sure, that's what they tell the customers,” one of the technicians said scornfully. “That's advertising crap.”

“Things go wrong here every day. We still got a long way to go.”

Blaine said, “But can you tell if the treatment takes?”

“Of course. If it takes, you’re still alive.”

“If it doesn't you never walk out of here.”

“It usually takes,” a technician said consolingly. “On everybody but a K3.”

“It's that damned K3 factor that throws us. Come on, Jamiesen, is he a K3 or not?”

“I'm not sure,” Jamiesen said, hunched over a flashing instrument. “The testing machine is all screwed up again.”

Blaine said, “What is a K3?”

“I wish we knew,” Jamiesen said moodily. “All we know for certain, guys with a K3 factor can't survive after death.”

“Not under any circumstances.”

“Old Fitzroy thinks it's a built-in limiting factor that nature included so the species wouldn't run wild.”

“But K3s don't transmit the factor to their children.”

“There's still a chance it lies dormant and skips a few generations.”

“Am I a K3?” Blaine asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Probably not,” Jamiesen said easily. “It's sort of rare. Let me check.”

Blaine waited while the technicians went over their data, and Jamiesen tried to determine from his faulty machine whether or not Blaine had a K3 factor.

After a while, Jamiesen looked up. “Well, I guess he's not K3. Though who knows, really? Anyhow, let's get on with it.”

“What comes next?” Blaine asked.

A hypodermic bit deeply into his arm.

“Don't worry,” a technician told him, “everything's going to be just fine.”

“Are you sure I'm not K3?” Blaine asked. The technician nodded in a perfunctory manner. Blaine wanted to ask more questions, but a wave of dizziness overcame him. The technicians were lifting him, putting him on a white operating table.

When he recovered consciousness he was lying on a comfortable couch listening to soothing music. A nurse handed him a glass of sherry, and Mr. Farrell was standing by, beaming.

“Feel OK?” Farrell asked. “You should. Everything went off perfectly.”

“It did?”

“No possibility of error. Mr. Blaine, the hereafter is yours.”

Blaine finished his sherry and stood up, a little shakily. “Life after death is mine? Whenever I die? Whatever I die of?”

“That's right. No matter how or when you die, your mind will survive after death. How do you feel?”

“I don't know,” Blaine said. It was only half an hour later, as he was returning to his apartment, that he began to react. The hereafter was his!

He was filled with a sudden wild elation. Nothing mattered now, nothing whatsoever! He was immortal! He could be killed on the spot and yet live on!

He felt superbly drunk. Gaily he contemplated throwing himself under the wheels of a passing truck. What did it matter? Nothing could really hurt him! He could berserk now, slash merrily through the crowds. Why not? The only thing the flathats could really kill was his body!

The feeling was indescribable. Now, for the first time, Blaine realized what men had lived with before the discovery of the scientific hereafter. He remembered the heavy, sodden, constant, unconscious fear of death that subtly weighed every action and permeated every movement. The ancient enemy death, the shadow that crept down the corridors of a man's mind like some grisly tapeworm, the ghost that haunted nights and days, the croucher behind corners, the shape behind doors, the unseen guest at every banquet, the unidentified figure in every landscape, always present, always waiting —

No more.

For now a tremendous weight had been lifted from his mind. The fear of death was gone, intoxicatingly gone, and he felt light as air. Death, that ancient enemy, was defeated!

He returned to his apartment in a state of high euphoria. The telephone was ringing as he unlocked the door.

“Blaine speaking!”

“Tom!” It was Marie Thorne. “Where have you been? I've been trying to reach you all afternoon.”

“I've been out, darling,” Blaine said. “Where in the hell have you been?”

“At Rex,” she said. “I've been trying to find out what they’re up to. Now listen carefully, I have some important news for you.”

“I've got some news for you, sweetheart,” Blaine said.

“Listen to me! A man will call at your apartment today. He'll be a salesman from Hereafter, Inc., and he will offer you free hereafter insurance. Don't take it.”

“Why not? Is he a fake?”

“No, he's perfectly genuine, and so is the offer. But you mustn't take it.”

“I already did,” Blaine said.

“You what?”

“He was here a few hours ago. I accepted it.”

“Have they treated you yet?”

“Yes, Was that a fake?”

“No,” Marie said, “of course it wasn't. Oh Tom, when will you learn not to accept gifts from strangers? There was time for hereafter insurance later… Oh, Tom!”

“What's wrong?” Blaine asked. “It was a grant from the Main-Farbenger Textile Corporation.”

“They are owned completely by the Rex Corporation,” Marie told him.

“Oh… But so what?”

“Tom, the directors of Rex gave you that grant. They used Main-Farbenger as a front, but Rex gave you that grant! Can't you see what it means?”

“No. Will you please stop screaming and explain?”

“Tom, it's the Permitted Murder section of the Suicide Act. They’re going to invoke it.”

“What are you taking about?”

“I'm talking about the section of the Suicide Act that makes host-taking legal. Rex has guaranteed the survival of your mind after death, you've accepted it. Now they can legally take your body for any purpose they desire. They own it. They can kill your body, Tom!”

“Kill me?”

“Yes. And of course they’re going to. The government is planning action against them for illegally transporting you from the past. If you’re not around, there's no case. Now listen. You must get out of New York, then out of the country. Maybe they'll leave you alone then. I'll help. I think that you should —” The telephone went dead.

Blaine clicked the receiver several times, but got no dial tone. Apparently the line had been cut.

The elation he had been filled with a few seconds ago drained out of him. The intoxicating sense of freedom from death vanished. How could he have contemplated berserking? He wanted to live. He wanted to live in the flesh, upon the Earth he knew and loved. Spiritual existence was fine, but he didn't want it yet. Not for a long time. He wanted to live among solid objects, breathe air, eat bread and drink water, feel flesh surrounding him, touch other flesh.

When would they try to kill him? Any time at all. His apartment was like a trap. Quickly Blaine scooped all his money into a pocket and hurried to the door. He opened it, and looked up and down the hall. It was empty.

He hurried out, ran down the corridor, and stopped.

A man had just come around the corner. The man was standing in the center of the hall. He was carrying a large projector, which was levelled at Blaine's stomach. The man was Sammy Jones. “Ah, Tom, Tom,” Jones sighed. “Believe me, I'm damned sorry it's you. But business is business.” Blaine stood, frozen, as the projector lifted to level on his chest.

“Why you?” Blaine managed to ask.

“Who else?” Sammy Jones said. “Aren't I the best hunter in the Western Hemisphere, and probably Europe, too? Rex hired every one of us in the New York area. But with beam and projectile weapons this time. I'm sorry it's you, Tom.”

“But I'm a hunter, too,” Blaine said.

“You won't be the first that got gunned. It's the breaks of the game, lad. Don't flinch. I'll make it quick and clean.”

“I don't want to die!” Blaine gasped.

“Why not?” Jones asked. “You've got your hereafter insurance.”

“I was tricked! I want to live! Sammy, don't do it!”

Sammy Jones’ face hardened. He took careful aim, then lowered the gun. “I'm growing too soft-hearted for this game,” Jones said. “All right, Tom, start moving. I guess every Quarry should have a little head start. Makes it more sporting. But I'm only giving you a little.”

“Thanks, Sammy,” Blaine said, and hurried down the hall.

“But Tom — watch your step if you really want to live. I'm telling you, there's more hunters than citizens in New York right now. And every means of transportation is guarded.”

“Thanks,” Blaine called, as he hurried down the stairs.

He was in the street, but he didn't know where to go. Still, he had no time for indecision. It was late afternoon, hours before darkness could help him. He picked a direction and began walking.

Almost instinctively, his steps were leading him toward the slums of the city.

26

He walked past the rickety tenements and ancient apartment houses, past the cheap saloons and night clubs, hands thrust in his pockets, trying to think. He would have to come up with a plan. The hunters would get him in the next hour or two if he couldn't work out some plan, some way of getting out of New York.

Jones had told him that the transportation services were being watched. What hope had he, then? He was unarmed, defenceless —“

Well, perhaps he could change that. With a gun in his hand, things would be a little different. In fact, things might be very different indeed. As Hull had pointed out, a hunter could legally shoot a Quarry; but if a Quarry shot a hunter he was liable for arrest and severe penalties.

If he did shoot a hunter, the police would have to arrest him! It would all get very involved, but it would save him from the immediate danger.

He walked until he came to a pawnshop. In the window was a glittering array of projectile and beam weapons, hunting rifles, knives and machetes. Blaine went in.

“I want a gun,” he said to the moustached man behind the counter.

“A gun. So. And what kind of a gun?” the man asked.

“Have you got any beamers?”

The man nodded and went to a drawer. He took out a gleaming handgun with a bright copper finish.

“Now this,” he said, “is a special buy. It's a genuine Sailes-Byrn needlebeam, used for hunting big Venusian game. At five hundred yards you can cut through anything that walks, crawls or flies. On the side is the aperture selector. You can fan wide for close-range work, or extend to a needle point for distance shooting.”

“Fine, fine,” Blaine said, pulling bills from his pocket.

“This button here,” the pawnbroker said, “controls length of blast. Set as is, you get a standard fractional jolt. One click extends time to a quarter second. Put it on automatic and it'll cut like a scythe. It has a power supply of over four hours, and there's more than three hours still left in the original pack. What's more, you can use this weapon in your home workshop. With a special mounting and a baffle to cut down the power, you can slice plastic with this better than with a saw. A different baffle converts it into a blowtorch. The baffles can be purchased —”

“I'll buy it,” Blaine broke in.

The pawnbroker nodded. “May I see your permit, please?”

Blaine took out his Hunter's License and showed it to the man. The pawnbroker nodded, and, with maddening slowness, filled out a receipt.

“Shall I wrap it?”

“Don't bother. I'll take it as is.”

The pawnbroker said. “That'll be seventy-five dollars.” As Blaine pushed the money across the counter, the pawnbroker consulted a list on the wall behind him.

“Hold it!” he said suddenly.

“Eh?”

“I can't sell you that weapon.”

“Why not?” Blaine asked. “You saw my Hunter's License.”

“But you didn't tell me you were a registered Quarry. You know a Quarry can't have weapons. Your name was flashed here half an hour ago. You can't buy a legal weapon anywhere in New York, Mr. Blaine.”

The pawnbroker pushed the bills back across the counter. Blaine grabbed for the needle-beam. The pawnbroker scooped it up first and levelled it at him.

“I ought to save them the trouble,” he said. “You've got your damned hereafter. What else do you want?”

Blaine stood perfectly still. The pawnbroker lowered the gun.

“But that's not my job,” he said. “The hunters will get you soon enough.”

He reached under the counter and pressed a button. Blaine turned and ran out of the store. It was growing dark. But his location had been revealed. The hunters would be closing in now.

He thought he heard someone calling his name. He pushed through the crowds, not looking back, trying to think of something to do. He couldn't die like this, could he? He couldn't have come 152 years through time to be shot before a million people! It just wasn't fair!

He noticed a man following close behind him, grinning. It was Theseus, gun out, waiting for a clear shot.

Blaine put on a burst of speed, dodged through the crowds and turned quickly into a side street. He sprinted down it, then came to a sudden stop.

At the far end of the street, silhouetted against the light, a man was standing. The man had one hand on his hip, the other raised in a shooting position. Blaine hesitated, and glanced back at Theseus.

The little hunter fired, scorching Blaine's sleeve. Blaine ran toward an open door, which was suddenly slammed in his face. A second shot charred his coat.

With dreamlike clarity he watched the hunters advance, Theseus close behind him, the other hunter in the distance, blocking the way out. Blaine ran on leaden feet, toward the more distant man, over manhole covers and subway gratings, past shuttered stores and locked buildings.

“Back off, Theseus!” the hunter called. “I got him!”

“Take him, Hendrick!” Theseus called back, and flattened himself against a wall, out of the way of the blast.

The gunman, fifty feet away, took aim and fired. Blaine fell flat and the beam missed him. He rolled, trying to make the inadequate shelter of a doorway. The beam probed after him, scoring the concrete and turning the puddles of sewer water into steam.

Then a subway grating gave way beneath him.

As he fell, he knew that the grating must have been weakened by the lancing beam. Blind luck! But he had to land on his feet. He had to stay conscious, drag himself away from the opening, use his luck. If he went unconscious, his body would by lying in full view of the opening, an easy target for hunters standing on the edge.

He tried to twist in mid-air, too late. He landed heavily on his shoulders, and his head slammed against an iron stanchion. But the need to stay conscious was so great that he pulled himself to his feet.

He had to drag himself out of the way, deep into the subway passage, far enough so they couldn't find him.

But even the first step was too much. Sickeningly, his legs buckled under him. He fell on his face, rolled over and stared at the gaping hole above him.

Then he passed out.