Recalled to Life

Chapter V

Monseigneur Carteret’s private office reminded Harker somehow of Mart Raymond’s. Like Raymond’s, it was small, and like Raymond’s it was ringed round with jammed bookshelves. The furniture was unostentatious, old and well-worn. As a concession to die 21st Century, Carteret had installed a video pickup and a telescreen attachment to go with his phone. A small crucifix hung on the one wall not encumbered with books.

Carteret leaned forward and peered curiously at Harker. The priest, Harker knew, suffered from presbyopia. He was a lean man with the sharp facial contours of an ascetic: up-thrust cheekbones, lowering brows, grizzled close-cropped hair turning gray. His lips were fleshless, pale.

Harker said, “I have to apologize for insisting on such a prompt audience, Father.”

Carteret frowned reprovingly. “You told me yesterday it was an urgent matter. To me urgency means—well, urgency. My column for the Intelligencer can wait a few hours, I guess.”

His voice was dramatically resonant. He flashed his famous smile.

Harker said, “Fair enough. I’m here seeking an ecclesiastical opinion.”

“I’ll do my best. You understand that any real opinion on a serious matter would have to come from the Bishop, not from me—and ultimately from Rome.”

“I know that. I wouldn’t want this to get to Rome just yet. I want a private, off-the-record statement from you.”

“I’ll try. Go ahead.”

Harker took a deep breath. “Father, what’s the official Church position on resurrection of the dead? Actual physical resurrection here and now, I mean.”

Carteret’s eyes twinkled. “Officially? Well, I’ve never heard Jesus being condemned for raising Lazarus. And on the third day after the crucifixion Jesus Himself was raised, if that’s what you mean. I don’t see—”

“Let me make myself clear,” Harker said. “The Resurrection of Jesus and of Lazarus both fall into the miracle category. Suppose—suppose a mortal being, a doctor, could take a man who had been dead eight or nine hours, or even a day, and bring him back to life.”

Carteret looked momentarily troubled. “You speak hypothetically, of course.” When Harker did not answer he went on, “Our doctrine holds that death occurs at the moment of ‘complete and definitive separation of body and soul.’ Presumably the process you discuss makes no provision for restoring the soul.”

Harker shrugged. “I’m not capable to judge that. Neither, I’d say, are the men who have developed this—ah—hypothetical process.”

“In that case,” Carteret said, “The official Church position would be that any human beings revived by this method would be without souls, and therefore no longer human. The whole procedure would be considered profoundly irreligious.”

“Blasphemous and sacrilegious as well?”

“No doubt.”

Harker was silent for a moment. He said at length, “How about artificial respiration, heart massage, adrenalin injections? For decades seemingly dead people have been brought back to life with these techniques. Are they all without souls too?”

Carteret seemed to squirm. His strong fingers toyed with a cruciform paperweight on his desk. “I recall a statement of Pius XII, eighty or ninety years ago, about that. The Pope admitted that it was impossible to tell precisely when the soul had left the body-and that so long as the vital functions maintained themselves, it could be held that the person in question was not dead.”

“In other words, if resuscitation techniques could be applied successfully, the patient is considered never to have been dead?”

Carteret nodded slowly.

“But if the patient had been pronounced dead by science and left in that state for half a day or more, and then reanimated by a hypothetical new technique-?”

“In that case there has been a definite discontinuity of the life-process,” Carteret said. “I may be wrong, but I can’t see how the Vatican could give such a technique its approval.”

“Ever?”

Carteret smiled. “Jim, it’s a verity that the Church is founded on a Rock, but that doesn’t mean our heads are made of stone. No organization lasts two thousand years without being susceptible to change. If in the course of time we’re shown that a reanimation technique restores both body and soul, no doubt we’ll give it approval. At present, though, I can foresee only one outcome.”

Harker knotted his fingers together tensely. The priest’s response had not been a surprise to him, but he had hoped for some wild loophole. If any loophole existed, Carteret would have found it.

Quietly he said, “All right, Father. I’ll put my cards on the table now. Such a process has been invented. I’ve seen it work. I’ve been retained as legal adviser for the group that developed it, and I’m shopping around for religious and secular opinions before I let them spring the news on the public.”

“You want my secular opinion, Jim, now that you’ve had the religious one?”

“Of course.”

“Drop it. Get out of this thing as fast as you can. You’re asking for trouble.”

“I know that. But I can only see this process as a force for good-for minimizing tragedy in everyday life.”

“Naturally. And I could offer you six arguments showing how it’ll increase suffering. Is it a complex technique requiring skilled operators?”

“Yes, but—”

“In that case it won’t be available to everybody right away. Are you going to decide who lives and who stays dead? Suppose you’re faced with the choice between a good and virtuous nobody or an evil but talented creative artist.”

“I know. I don’t have any slick answers to that, Father. But I still don’t think it’s any reason to suppress this thing.”

“Maybe not. On a purely secular level, though, I tell you it’s sheer dynamite. Not to mention the opposition you’re bound to get from religious groups. Jim, listen to me: you had a wonderful career once. You wrecked it. But now you’re continuing your headstrong ways right to the point of self-destruction.”

“Which is frowned upon by your Church,” Harker snapped, irritated. “But—”

“I’m not talking about my Church!” Carteret thundered. “I’m talking about you, your family, the rest of your life. You’re getting into very deep waters.” “I’ll shoulder the responsibility myself.” “I wish you could,” the priest murmured. “I wish any of us could. But we can’t ever do that, of course.”

He shrugged. “Go in peace, Jim. Any time you want to talk to me, just pick up the phone and call. I guarantee no proselytizing.”

“Of course everything we’ve just said is confidential, you understand.”

Carteret nodded. He lifted his arms, shaking the sleeves of his cassock back. “Observe. No concealed tape-recorders under my garments. No telespies in the wall.”

Chuckling, Harker opened the door and stood at the threshold a moment. “Thanks for talking to me, Father. Even if I can’t agree with you.”

“I’m used to disagreement,” Carteret said. “If everyone who came in here agreed with everything I said, I think I’d lose my faith. So long, Jim.” “Goodbye, Father.”

Harker emerged on the steps of the old cathedral where Carteret had his office, paused for a few deep breaths, and looked around. Fifth Avenue was humming with activity, here at noontime on a Tuesday in mid-month.

He thought: Tuesday, May 14, 2033. A pleasant late-spring day. And any time I decide to give the word, the entire nature of human philosophy will change.

Harker walked downtown to 43rd Street, stopped in for a quick coffee, and headed toward the Monorail Terminal.

Puffing businessmen clutching attache cases sped past him, each on some business of no doubt vital importance, each blithely shortening his life-span with each new ulcer and each new deposit of cholesterol in the arteries. Well, before long it would be possible to bring these fat executives back to life each time they keeled over, Marker thought. What a frantic speedup would result then!

He bought a round-trip ticket to Litchfield and boarded the slim graceful yellow-hulled bullet that was the New Jersey monobus. He sat back, cushioning himself against the first jolt of acceleration, and waited for departure.

The eleventh commandment: thou need not die. Harker shivered a little at the magnitude of the Beller project; each day he realized a little more deeply the true awesome nature of the whole breakthrough.

Mitchison was waiting for him at the Litchfield monobus depot in the big black limousine. Harker climbed in, sitting next to the public-relations man on the front seat.

“Well?” Mitchison jammed his cigar into one corner of his mouth. “What did the padre have to say?”

“Precisely what we all expected.”

“Nix?”

“His unofficial feeling is that the Church will condemn this thing the second it’s announced.”

“Umm. Take some heavy thinking to cancel that out. How about the politicos?”

The car pulled into the Beller Labs private road. Harker said, “I’m going to Albany later in the week to see Governor Winstead. After him I’ll go after Senator Thurman. Depending on what they say—”

“The hell with that,” Mitchison growled. “When do you figure we can release this thing to the public?”

Harker turned round in his seat. In a level voice he said, “When you’re planning to touch off a fusion bomb, you look around first and make sure you won’t get scragged yourself. Same here. This project’s been kept under wraps for eight years, and I’m damned if I’ll release anything now until I see exactly where we all stand.”

“And you’ll pussyfoot around for months?”

“What do you care?” Harker demanded. “Are you getting paid by the week or by the amount of publicity you send out?”

Mitchison grunted something but made no intelligible answer. They pulled up at the roadblock and Marker got out at the right; the guards nodded curtly to him this time but made no attempt to interfere as he headed toward the administration building. Mitchison took his car to the parking-area.

Knocking at Raymond’s door, Harker said, “You there, Mart?”

The door opened. A diminutive hatchet-faced man peered up at him. “Hello, Harker.”

Taken off balance, Harker blinked a moment, then said, “Hello. I don’t think we’ve met.”

“You’ve seen my name. At the bottom of your check. I’m Barchet. Administrator of the Beller Fund.”

Harker smiled at the little man and looked past him to Raymond. He shook his head. “It’s no go, Mart. The Father says the Church will oppose us.”

Raymond shrugged. “We could have figured on that, I guess. You see Winstead on Friday?”

Harker nodded. “I hope for better luck there.” “Doubtful,” Barchet snorted. His voice was an annoying saw-edged whine. Harker wondered whether the little man was going to be around the Litchfield labs very often; he had a deep dislike for moneymen.

Ignoring Barchet’s comment, Harker said to Raymond, “Mart, how solid is the tenure of the people in this organization?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do all the affiliated men have verbal contracts like me, or are some inked in black-and-white?” “Most of the research men have verbal agreements.” “How about Mitchison?”

Barchet turned to peer at Harker. Raymond frowned and said, “Why Mitchison?”

“I’ll be blunt,” Harker said. “I’d like to bounce him. He doesn’t seem very capable and he’s awfully trigger-happy about releasing data on the project. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to bring in a couple of the boys who handled my gubernatorial campaign. They—”

Interrupting icily, Barchet said, “It seems to me we have more than enough people of radical political affiliation working for us now. Anyone who handled a Nat-Lib campaign would be no asset to our work.”

Harker goggled. “I was a Nat-Lib Governor! You hired me, and you think that two press-agents—”

“I might as well tell you,” Barchet said. “You were hired over my definite objections, Mr. Harker. Your party happens to be the one in power, but it definitely does not represent the main ideological current of American enterprise. And if we succeed in our aims, I like to think it will be despite your presence on our team, not because of it.”

“Huh? Who the hell—”

“Wait a minute, Jim,” Raymond cut in. “And you too, Simeon. I don’t want any fighting in here!”

“I’m simply stating views that I expound regularly at our meetings,” Barchet said. “For your information, Mr. Harker, Cal Mitchison is the best publicity-agent money can buy. I will not consent to his dismissal.”

“You may have to consent to my resignation, then,” Harker said angrily. “Dammit, Mart, if I knew this outfit was run by—”

“Watch yourself, Mr. Harker,” Barchet warned.

“Calm down, Jim.” Raymond disengaged himself from his desk and, glowering down at Barchet, said, “Simeon, you know damned well Harker was approved by a majority of the shareholders. You have no business raising a squabble like this now. He was hired and given free rein-and if he wants to fire Mitchison, it’s within his province.”

“I insist on bringing the matter before the Board-and if Mitchison is dismissed without full vote, I’ll cause trouble. Good day, Dr. Raymond.”

The little man sailed past Harker without a word and slammed the door. Harker grinned and said, “What was he so upset about?”

Raymond slumped wearily behind his desk. “Barchet’s the official voice of old Beller in this outfit-and Beller was as conservative as they come. He thinks you’re an arch-radical because you held office for the Nat-Libs. And the little bugger carries a lot of weight on the Board, so we have to humor him.”

Harker nodded. He understood now what Raymond had meant when he said he had been “outvoted” in the matter of hiring Harker as first choice. It did not increase his opinion of Beller Research Laboratories.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you quit today,” Raymond said suddenly. “With Mitchison on pins and needles to give the word to the public, and that idiot Klaus battling for my job because he’s tired of enzyme work—”

“Klaus? But he’s just a kid!”

“He’s twenty-nine, and for an ex-prodigy that’s ancient. Degree from Harvard at fifteen, that sort of thing. I have to keep close watch on him or he’ll put a scalpel in my back.”

“Why not fire him?” Harker suggested.

“Two reasons. He’s got a contract, for one-and for another I’d rather have him with us than agin’ us, if you know what I mean. Lesser of two evils.”

Raymond sighed. “Great little place we have here, Jim. Sometimes I feel like closing the windows and turning up the gas.” He shook his head reflectively. “But it wouldn’t work. Someone would drag me next door and bring me back to life again, I guess.”

He reached into the bookshelf and produced the liquor bottle. “One quick shot apiece,” he said. “Then I want to take you round back to show you the rest of the lab.”