To Live Again

“That’s it, then.” Mark said. “She let him in, and he killed St. John.”

—There’s no proof. It’s all circumstantial, Mark. Where’s the weapon? Where are the witnesses? St. John might have been killed by someone else before Noyes ever got here, for all your records show. A blowdart through a window, maybe.

“It’s enough to authorize a mindpick, Paul. And a mindpick will show Noyes’ guilt. I’ve got to get him picked before anyone thinks of mindpicking me, or they’ll find you.” — You might try talking to Elena, Paul suggested. But Elena did not answer when he called her apartment. Curiously, she had not even left a forwarding number. Mark buzzed her i

He phoned Santoliquido next. As usual, it was a slow, bothersome job to get through to him. When Santoliquido appeared, his quizzical expression showed that he had heard the news.

“Where have you been, Mark?”

“Away on business since late Wednesday. And when I got backSt. John—”

“I know. The quaestors notified me.”

“What is this all about Frank?”

“I haven’t any idea. But of course I have my suspicions.”

“Such as?”

“Never mind,” said Santoliquido. “They’re unfounded at present. The important thing is that your uncle is discorporate again, and we have to start the whole process from the begi

Mark felt a secret pleasure at the knowledge that his uncle was far from discorporate. He heard the old man’s silent, complacent chuckle within him.

To Santoliquido he said, “Do you expect Roditis to reapply?”

“Why shouldn’t he? The persona’s available again.”

“And you’ve run out of ways to avoid giving it to him.” Santoliquido nodded. “For the moment at least”

“Listen to me, Frank, I want one last favor. Stall him off. If only for a few days. I can’t explain now, but I’ve got reason to think you’ll be wasting everyone’s time if you give Paul to Roditis now. Will you wait at least until the report of the quaestors is issued?”

“I’ll do that, yes,” Santoliquido agreed. “Good.” Mark paused a moment. Then, in a carefully more relaxed tone, he said, “You haven’t seen Elena lately, have you?”

With the same deliberate casualness Santoliquido replied, “Lately? Well, let’s see … I had lunch with her yesterday. Is that lately enough?”

“I meant today.”

“No. The last I saw of her was one in the afternoon yesterday. You’ve phoned her apartment?”

“Of course,” Mark said. “I suppose she’s taken a little trip. I imagine I’ll be hearing from her soon.”

Roditis said, “So it’s all done, and you’re back here, and no one’s the wiser, Charles. Was that so bad?”

Kravchenko attempted to keep his facial muscles fixed in the bland, idiotic expression of benignity that he imagined Charles Noyes customarily to have worn. He was on edge, here in Roditis’ Indiana headquarters, for this was the first test of his dybbukhood. If he failed to fool Roditis, he’d be on the scrapheap by nightfall.

He said carefully, “Well, John, I don’t deny I was uneasy about it But it went off more smoothly than I dared hope.

“And now we’ll get you blanked, and splice in a set of phony memories for last night, and you’ll be safe.

“Yes, John.”

“Want to take a little workout first? Get yourself back into shape?”

“I think we’d better tend to the blanking first,” said Kravchenko. “I’ve got a few things on my mind that I’m better off without.”

Roditis nodded. “Right. Come with me.” Kravchenko followed the stocky little financier through the maze of the building. He did not much like the idea of submitting to a blanking; he hated to surrender consciousness, hated to go under the machine. But so long as he still carried around memories of the discorporation of Martin St. John, he ran serious risks. Noyes, whom he pretended to be, might well be under suspicion of that discorporation. It they picked him up, ran a routine mindpick on him, and found the evidence, all would be up not only for Noyes — whose personae would be destroyed because of his crime — but for Kravchenko as well, since the routine mindpick would be followed by a deep pick that would reveal who was actually ru

Technicians were readying the blanking apparatus. Kravchenko studied it warily. A blanking was something like getting a persona transplant-in reverse. Instead of having taped information poured into your receptive brain, you yielded information. Instead of being doped with mnemonic drugs to damp out memory decay, they washed your mind with a selective memory suppressant, carefully measured to obliterate a certain chronological segment of the memory bank Kravchenko distrusted all this fiddling with the brain. Yet he admitted the necessity of it.

“Will you lie down here?” a technician said. Kravchenko waited. They gave him injections. They strapped electrodes to his skull. They took EEG readings of Noyes” brain waves. Silently they bustled about while Roditis hovered somberly in the background.

“Ready, now,” someone said. A helmet was lowered over his head. “Don’t worry about a thing. Charles,” came Roditis’ confident voice. “We’ll clean you up in no time.”

“Now,” said a technician.

Kravchenko went tense, imagining that switches were being thrown and contacts made. He could see nothing. His drugged mind grew foggy. Abruptly he heard what sounded like a colossal explosion, and in the same instant a burst of intolerably bright lightning shot through his brain. He felt as though his skull had split apart Chaos enfolded him. He was swept away by a terrible tide — down, down, down-out of control-helpless-and with his last conscious thought he asked himself how this could be happening, when a blanking was supposed to be such a trivial thing. Then he was swallowed up in darkness.

This was her moment, Elena thought. Jim was downstairs undergoing his blanking; afterwards, he’d be resting for a few hours. Now was her chance to add Roditis to her collection.

She hadn’t felt like telling Jim that one of her motives in accompanying him to Evansville was to seduce John Roditis. Newly returned to corporate status by her scheming, Kravchenko would not understand that he was not going to be the only man in her life. She loved him passionately; but she wanted Roditis. Two hours ago, when she and Kravchenko had arrived here, Elena had met Roditis for the first time. They had exchanged perhaps ten words; Roditis had hardly seemed to take notice of her. He was too preoccupied with the maneuvers surrounding the St John discorporation, as was only natural. But she had taken notice of him. That muscular, powerful body held promise of physical delight; and the strength of the man was unmistakable. To Elena, a co

She said, “I’ve always been curious about you. It’s strange we never had occasion to meet before.”

“I don’t move in your high-society circles.” Roditis seemed distant even bored. “You really should, you know. We aren’t such ogres. A man of your vigor, your enterprise — you’d inject some new vitality into our group.” Surreptitiously she moved closer to him. Elena regretted that she was not dressed for her purpose; she had flown to Evansville in workaday travel clothes, and there had been no chance to change into something more clinging, something more revealing. In this drab garb she felt as though locked into armor. Yet it was a handicap she felt she could overcome.