To Live Again

Chapter 11

“Send in Donahy,” Mark Kaufmann said. The door of his inner office flickered open, and the Scheffingprocess technician stumbled in. He looked awed to the point of collapse. His huge bushy eyebrows were thrust up to the top of his wide pale forehead, and his hands plucked tensely at the fringes of his tunic. Within the confines of the Scheffing Institute building, men like Donahy taped the personae of the rich and mighty with little deference, blandly relying on their array of intricate equipment to give them the upper hand. But here, on the home ground of so potent a person as Mark Kaufmann, Donahy was devoid of confidence, a cipher, a twitching pleb smitten with terror, wholly unable to imagine why he had been singled out and summoned here.

Kaufmann said, “We’re all alone in here, Donahy. There’s no one with us, no one watching us, no mini-viewers, no monitor of any kind. Whatever’s said in here remains absolutely private, between the two of us. Sit down.”

Donahy remained standing. He shifted his weight from leg to leg.

“You don’t trust me?” Kaufmann asked. He opened a panel on his desk and unclipped a microspool monad. “Do you see this? It’s a spy detector. It’s programed to set off an alarm if any outside entity taps into this room. So long as it quietly glows green like this, we can say what we please, we can plot to blow up the universe, and no one will know. So relax. Sit down and have a drink. I don’t bite.”

“I can’t understand why you’ve asked me to come here.”

“Because I want you to do something for me, obviously,” Kaufmann said. He extended the tray of drinks as Donahy nervously lowered himself into the chair at last. Silently they went through the ritual of the drink. By every motion Donahy showed his fear and uncertainty. He’ll be tugging at his forelock next, Kaufmann thought.

On Kaufmann’s desk sat a small portrait of Uncle Paul, one of the many in his possession. He thrust it forward and let Donahy contemplate the patrician features, the sly, veiled eyes, the magnificent chin.

“Do you know this man, Donahy?” A nod. “It’s Paul Kaufmann, isn’t it?”

“Yes. My late uncle. He’ll soon be back in carnate form, I believe.”

“I don’t know anything about that, sir.”

“The information I have is that Administrator Santoliquido intends shortly to approve the transplant of my uncle’s persona to John Roditis.”

Donahy looked blank. Kaufmann realized that he was speaking beyond the technician’s comprehension; Roditis and Santoliquido and old Paul were simply not part of Donahy’s world except as friezes on some titanic facade far overhead. They were demigods, and Donahy did not concern himself with their wishes, conflicts, or plans.

Kaufmann said, “How would you like to be earning twenty thousand bucks fish a year, Donahy?”

“Sir?”

“I need a favor. You’re in a position to grant it. I could have picked any one of a hundred technicians to handle the job for me, but I’ve dealt with you before and I know you’re capable and trustworthy. And I assume you could always use more money. What do you get paid, anyway?”

“Seven thousand, sir. With an annual increment of two hundred fifty.”

“Which means that if you stick to your job and don’t make any conspicuous mistakes, you’re likely to be making as much as ten thousand by the time you’re middle-aged, right? And there you stick until you retire and die. Well, I’m offering you an extra twenty thousand, on a lifetime annuity. Out of that you should be able to put aside enough money to make the down payment on a Scheffing persona recording. Would you like to live again, Donahy?”

The man looked utterly sick now. Rivulets of perspiration streamed down his face. He reached impulsively toward the tray of drinks, and then, as if deciding that it was impolite to serve himself without being asked, drew back, his fingers quivering.

Kaufmann smiled. “Go on. Have another. Have two. If you’re tense, why not?”

Donahy jabbed the snout of a drink tube against his arm. When he spoke, he had difficulty framing his words.

“Could-could you be more specific, Mr. Kaufmann?”

“Certainly. I’m sure you know that the Scheffing Institute retains all persona recordings it makes, storing them in various depots around the world. For example, John Roditis is shortly going to receive a transplant of my uncle’s persona recorded last December, but there’s also a Paul Kaufmann persona that was recorded last spring, and one made the year before that, and so on over quite a span of time. And these previous recordings remain in dead storage. Are you aware of that?”

“Yes.”

“Now, then, suppose you were to locate the whereabouts of my uncle’s last-but-one recording, which shouldn’t be too difficult for you to find, and remove it from storage. Then, suppose you were to bring this recording with you to a certain lamasery in San Francisco which is in the process of setting up its own soul bank. They’ve already installed enough equipment to do transplants and make recordings. What if you were to supervise the transplant of this borrowed persona at the lamasery? And then you’d undergo a blanking that would wipe all this incriminating evidence from your mind, so that no one could possibly prove that you had done any of these things. When you came to, you wouldn’t know what you had been up to, but you’d discover you had suddenly become the recipient of an annuity which automatically transferred twenty thousand bucks fish into your credit balance each year. That’s the equivalent of half a million dollars invested at four percent which is considerable capital. With that kind of stake, you’d be able to buy yourself onto the wheel of rebirth. The risk is very small and the reward is infinite. What do you say, Donahy?”

“I’ve always been a law-abiding man, Mr. Kaufmann.”

“I know that. But would you give up your chance of eternal life for the sake of respecting the regulations? Look, Donahy, the rules about transplants aren’t graven on tablets of stone. They don’t represent basic moral commandments. If you kill a man, that’s evil, I agree. If you molest a child and warp its life, that’s evil. If you mutilate another human being for arbitrary amusement, that’s evil. But the regulations governing the Scheffing Institute don’t grow out of fundamental ethical constructs. They’re just working rules set up to avoid confusion and possible conflicts. I don’t say that they ought to be disregarded lightly, but they mustn’t be looked upon as immutable. When there’s a chance to have rebirth by winking at the rules for a moment it’s suicidal to be a stickler for the letter of the law.”

Donahy appeared to be impressed by that argument. But he was not altogether tempted.

“How can I be sure that this isn’t some kind of trap?” he asked.

“Trap?” Kaufmann exploded. “Trap? You mean that I’ve had you hauled over here for purposes of entrapment? That I’ve given you this much of my time simply for the sake of finding out whether your loyalty to the rules is unshakable? Don’t be absurd.”

“I’ve got to look at this thing from my own viewpoint. You don’t know me at all, Mr. Kaufmann, except that I’ve worked on your recordings at the Institute. All of a sudden you send for me and offer me a fantastic reward if I’ll do something wrong. I can’t begin to understand any of this.”

“Let me spell it out for you, then. I’ll give you some insight into my motives. The recipient of the transplant will be myself.”

“You?”

“Me. I’m determined not to let John Roditis gain advantage on me by taking on my uncle’s persona. I’ll have a slightly earlier persona, slightly less complete, but good enough to match him anyway. That’ll nullify what he gains by getting Uncle Paul.”

Donahy was drawn back in his chair as though gripped by total panic. His eyes bulged; a muscle in his cheek danced about. Clearly he had no wish to be privy to these secrets of the great.

Kaufmann said, “Now you understand what’s at stake, Will you help me?”

“What would happen to me if I refused?”

“I’d have you mindpicked and blanked to get all the details of this conversation out of your head. Then I’d send you back to your apartment and have another Scheffing technician brought here, and I’d make the same offer.”

“I see.”

“What’s your answer, Donahy?”

“Can I have a little time to think things over, sir?”

“Of course.” Kaufmann looked at his watch. “Take sixty seconds, if you like.”

“I meant several days, Mr. Kaufmann.”

“You can’t have several days. You’ve heard the terms of the offer. I’ll shield you from all consequences and give you an annuity that will make you a rich man. What do you say?”

Donahy let nearly a full minute spill away before he replied. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes. I’ll do it! But you’ve got to protect me!”

“You have my assurance,” said Kaufmann. He stood up. “One of my associates will accompany you to your home. He’ll remain with you overnight. In the morning you’ll arrange to get access to the archive of old persona recordings. At the close of your working day you’ll be picked up and taken to San Francisco with the recording. I’ll meet you there tomorrow evening and you’ll perform the transplant. When you report for work in New York the day after tomorrow, your part will be complete and you’ll be blanked to protect you against possible interrogation. Your annuity payments will begin to accrue to your account that day. Is it a deal?”

Donahy nodded numbly. “Your hand,” Kaufmann said. He grasped the limp, cool fingers in his own. Then he buzzed for an aide to take the technician away. Donahy would not be alone again until the work was finished.

Moodily, Kaufmann let the tension ebb from his system. The interview had gone about as well as he could have expected. He disliked the shady nature of what he was doing; but at this stage he was compelled to take these protective steps. Above all else, a Kaufmann was bound by honor, yes. But if honor dictated that he preserve the family’s position no matter by what means, he could hardly afford to boggle at shady doings. Normal concepts of honor were not framed to include the existence of a Roditis.

He flipped the retrofile, triggering it to see what calls might have come in while he spoke with Donahy. Risa’s Image appeared. The file told him that she was waiting in London to speak with him.

“Put her on,” he said, transferring the call to the large screen. A moment passed; then Risa appeared, life-size, on the screen. She looked frayed and weary. It was after midnight in London. No doubt this legal business involving her persona was taking a heavy toll of her energy.

“Well?” he said. “How does it go?”

“It’s moving very fast, Mark. The autopsy report on Tandy came in this morning.”

“And?”

“She was almost four weeks pregnant at the time of her death.

That checks with the mindpick information they got out of Claude Villefranche’s dybbuk.”

“I see,” Mark said. “She went to Claude and told him she was pregnant and wanted him to marry her, and he refused, and they had a fight over it and he killed her.”

Risa laughed. “Oh, no! The way you tell it, it’s straight out of one of the old melodramas. Tandy wouldn’t have tried to use a pregnancy to blackmail a man into marrying her. Especially not a man like Claude.”

“What’s the story, then?”

“The gene tests show that she was pregnant by Stig The Swede, her other lover. Sometime between the time Tandy made her last persona recording in June and the time she died in August, she decided that it would be interesting to have a baby, I guess. So she stopped the pill and Stig filled her up. She knew that Stig would be willing to marry her. He’s a decent sort. Claude excited her more, but she didn’t trust him. Then she went off to Switzerland to have her last fling with Claude. At St. Moritz she broke the news to him that this was where he got off. He was furious and told her to have the fetus aborted, to forget about getting mated to Stig.”

“But you said that Claude wasn’t interested in marrying her,” Mark said, puzzled.

“He wasn’t. But he wasn’t about to let Stig have her either. Or put a child in her. He saw that as an attack on his reputation for virility. He was wild with jealousy. So they had a fight, and finally they went out on the ski slope and he took the feeder pin out of her gravity repulsor, and down she went. If he couldn’t run her life, she had to die. It’s all there in the persona he last recorded. He made the recording two months after the killing.”

“Didn’t anyone think of examining her skis after the accident?”

“They were badly damaged, Mark. It was impossible to determine anything.”

“And there was no autopsy?”

Risa shrugged. “When a girl is smashed up in a hundred-meter fall, there’s no real point in an autopsy, is there? No one suspected she might be pregnant.”

“What happens to this dybbuk now?”

“Claude? Well, they’ve got him on a double murder charge. The mindpick evidence shows that he killed Tandy, and there’s also the little matter of what he did to his host. So the quaestorate has requested a complete erasure. They’re going to blot him out entirely. He’s being shipped to New York tomorrow and the job will be done at the Scheffing Institute. They’ll clean him out of his host’s mind and also destroy all his existing persona records.”

“You must feel very proud of yourself, Risa, exposing this criminal.”

“Well, actually, I could never have done it without Tandy. She was the one who guessed she’d been murdered, and she put the finger on Claude as a dybbuk. After that it was just a matter of seeing what was in his mind.”

“And in Tandy’s uterus,” Kaufmann observed. “Yes, that too. Well, now it’s over, anyway.”

“I’m glad. Risa, are you all through playing detective?”

“I think so. Why?”

“It would be nice if you’d stay closer to home for a while, with this business settled.”

“I’ll be home in about a week,” she said. “Is that all right?”

“Fine,” said Kaufmann. “Do you have enough money?”

“I’m drawing on the general family balance. All right?”

“Have mercy,” he told her. “I will. I’ll see you soon.” Out of her tired eyes there twinkled a look of warmth, love, kinship He smiled at her. She was a fine girl, he decided. A credit to their line. She had the promise of true greatness. He blew her a kiss, and the screen darkened.

A pity she was a girl, he thought. Of course, they had had an option to fix that. But Kaufmann’s wife was delicate, and he hadn’t cared to dabble in uterine adjustments. He had taken his chances, and had had a girl, and there had been no more children after that. Risa was masculine enough in her thinking, at any rate. A time would come when she’d enter the family enterprises as a full partner, and Kaufmann knew she’d do well. His only objection to her sex was an esthetic one: a woman in business was in some way an unattractive sight, no matter how beautiful she might be. That was archaic foolishness, he knew, but he could not escape the thought that it was somehow ugly to watch a woman at work in front of a data console, making executive decisions involving millions of dollars. Women should be gentler creatures. But there was nothing gentle about Risa, female or not. It would be interesting to follow her progress down the generations as they leapfrogged from one carnate trip to the next.

He turned back to his ticker. Three quick trades produced a handsome profit for him. A cheerful omen.

By the end of this week he’d have all the shrewdness of Paul Kaufmann to add to his own. At last. At last. Naturally, he’d have to go warily, lest anyone find out that he carried an illegal persona. But Roditis would be perplexed when he discovered that each of his new strategic thrusts, inspired by Paul’s persona, was being countered by strategies just as shrewd. Would he suspect that a second Paul Kaufmann was at work to thwart him? Would it occur to Roditis that such a thing was possible — a duplicated transplant? Few people were even aware that old recordings were preserved. Mark himself had not known it, despite his wide range of information, until Santoliquido had told him. So Roditis, though he was naturally suspicious, would have no inkling of the truth. He would just wonder how it was that his rival stayed abreast of him. Of course, after Mark’s death the next possessor of Mark’s persona would discover the secret when he unexpectedly found Paul in his skull as well. But he was not likely to make the news public. Revelation of the irregularity would most likely bring about the erasure of both Kaufmann personae; the lucky man who had received two Kaufmanns for the price of one would make every effort to hide the fact.

Kaufmann laughed softly. His phone lit up. He keyed in, and the monitor said, “Francesco Santoliquido is calling.”

Surprised, Kaufmann accepted the call at once. “Yes, Frank?” Santoliquido looked younger, more carefree than he had appeared for many weeks. The living jewelry at his throat, the cage of tiny crustaceans, seemed to be leaping about jauntily in reflection of his changed mood. “I’ve reached a decision about your uncle’s persona,” said Santoliquido briskly.

Kaufmann remained calm. Donahy’s assurance of co-operation was his bulwark against any possibility. “Yes?” he said easily. “Who’s the lucky man? Roditis, as expected, eh?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I’ve weighed this a million times, Mark. I’ve come around to your way of thinking: that Roditis has such power already that it would be a grave mistake to let him have Paul. That would set up an extraordinary concentration of ability in one individual, with unpredictable results.”

“Of course.”

“I’ve also taken into account the objections of the Kaufmann family, as voiced through you.”

“Kind of you, Frank. But what will you do with old Paul, then? There can’t be many others around you could safely award him to. I suppose it’s best simply to leave him in storage a few years, until he’s so far out of touch with events that he can be let loose again as someone’s persona. I—”

“Oh, he’ll be transplanted soon, though.”

“To whom?” Kaufmann asked, taken aback. “We have a rare event scheduled to take place here shortly,” said Santoliquido. “The erasure of a dybbuk who’s guilty not only of ejecting his host but of deliberately causing the discorporation of a young woman.”

“The Tandy Cushing case. Yes, of course. Risa’s given me all the details. But what does this have to do with—”

“Once Claude Villefranche has been obliterated, Mark, we’ll be left with the empty but living body of Martin St. John, a young man of good family and decent health. Have you considered the status of a blanked-out body of that sort?”

“Why,” Kaufmann said, “just take out one of St. John’s own recorded personae and imprint it on his own brain. Isn’t that the logical solution?”

“It’s logical, but it won’t work. That’s called an autoimprint, and autoimprints can’t be made. The brain rejects its own abstracted persona. There are complex reasons for this, partly having to do with the technique of the process, partly with the physiology of the autonomic nervous system, partly with the psychology of the persona. I won’t trouble you with the details. But we can’t put Martin St. John’s persona back into Martin St. John’s body. However, there’s nothing stopping us from installing some other persona in that vacant, healthy body—” Mark Kaufmann saw where Santoliquido was leading. The impact of comprehension was swift and violent. “You’ll put Paul in there?”

“Yes,” said Santoliquido smugly. “But that’ll create an instant dybbuk! It’ll be Paul Kaufmann operating Martin St. John’s body!” Kaufmann cried hoarsely.

“True. However, there’s no specific regulation prohibiting such a transplant. We have blank bodies so infrequently that there are no precedents. Paul himself is something of a precedentsetter, too, since his mind is uniquely dynamic and overbearing, and he’s almost certain to turn any host he gets into a dybbuk. With a few possible exceptions, such as Roditis. And yourself. But we have a moral obligation to return Paul’s persona to carnate form. If we give him an orthodox transplant, and a dybbuk results, the quaestors will insist on mandatory erasure again, If we put him into a wholly empty body, though, so that there’s no charge of an unethical takeover of another intelligence, he won’t be breaking any laws. In effect, your uncle will return to the world as an independent entity, truly reborn.”

Kaufmann was staggered by the idea. He saw the complacence in Santoliquido’s face, and knew that the Scheffing administrator had engineered this most cunningly, as a way of immobilizing both Roditis and himself. Handing the disputed persona to a third party, a zero, a blank, neatly cut the ground from under both of them. Roditis could storm and rant, but unless he found some legal flaw in the transfer, he could not oppose it. And Mark, having put up a successful battle to keep Paul out of Roditis’ mind, could not now very well presume to interfere with Santoliquido’s further freedom of action.

It was ironic that Risa had provided Santoliquido with the solution to his dilemma. Very conveniently, she had helped to make a blank body available to him at the critical moment. Zip, zip, and Paul Kaufmann would walk the earth again, not merely as a silent persona, nor even as an unlawful dybbuk that had wrested control from a victimized host, but as a true rebirth, given a body of his own with the blessings of the Scheffing Institute!

“What do you say, Mark?” Santoliquido asked coyly. Shaken, Kaufmann replied, “This is very sudden. It brings up all kinds of complications. What, for example, would be the legal status of this carnate form? Paul’s dead. His estate is going through probate.”

“Legally, the new entity would assume the property and status of Martin St. John,” said Santoliquido. “I’ve already had a ruling on that. He’d be St. John, carrying the Paul Kaufmann persona. Of course, in effect he’d simply be Paul in St. John’s body, but that doesn’t give him any title to Kaufmann status. I assume that you’d accept him into your family circle as Paul and find room for him in your business enterprises, but that’s strictly up to you. You could just as easily let him try to make his way as St. John.

Knowing Paul, I think he’d do all right.”

“Yes,” said Kaufmann hollowly. “I think he would.”

“So what do you say? I’ve saved you from the monstrous threat of a Roditis in your bosom! That’s a relief, eh, Mark? Isn’t it? You look a bit uncertain.”

The initial shock was wearing off. Kaufmann had begun to see past his amazement at Santoliquido’s coup to the deeper implications. Paul would return to life, yes, as shrewd and as energetic as ever, and with the extra benefit of residing in the body of a young man. That posed something of a threat to Mark’s own status as head of the Kaufmann clan.

But no Kaufmann could really accept the reborn Paul as a true Kaufmann. The family would draw upon his reserve of experience and wisdom, but could never accord him full status. At best he’d be a secondary focus of power.

I can handle him, Mark thought. After all, what Santoliquido doesn’t know is that I’ll have Paul’s persona myself. That’ll enable me to cope, in case it comes to a show-down between Paul and me. And I should be able to count on Paul’s support in the struggle against Roditis.

Kaufmann envisioned the possibility of a three-cornered rivalry: himself, the new Paul, and Roditis. But in such a conflict he would invariably emerge on top, since he’d be Mark-plusPaul, and thus at least one notch ahead of Paul alone, and two notches ahead of Roditis.

He said, “Yes. Very clever of you, Frank. I approve. Have you broken the news to Roditis yet?”

“No. I thought I’d wait another day or two, until the transplant has actually been carried out. I’d prefer to present it to him as a fait accompli.”

“That’s probably best,” said Kaufmann. He chuckled. “I imagine Roditis is going to be surprised.”