To Live Again

“I’d like to begin. How old were you when you got your first?”

“Twenty,” Mark told her. “And it was a mistake. I had to have it erased. We were incompatible. Can you imagine it, Risa, despite all the testing and matching I took on the persona of an ardent anti-Semite? And of course he woke up and found himself in a circumcised body and nearly went berserk.”

“How did you pick him?”

“He was a man I had admired. An architect, one of the great builders. I wanted his pla

“That must have been unfortunate for you,” Risa said. “But it’s getting off the subject. I’m old enough for a transplant. It’s unreasonable of you to deny your consent. It isn’t as if we can’t afford it, or as if I’m unstable, or anything like that. You just don’t want to let me, and I can’t understand why.”

“Because you’re so young! Look, Risa, sixteen is also the minimum legal age for getting mated, but if you came to me and said you wanted to—”

“But I haven’t. A transplant isn’t a marriage.”

“It’s far more intimate than a marriage,” Mark said. “Believe me. You won’t merely be sharing a bed. You’ll be sharing your brain, Risa, and you can’t comprehend how intimate that is.”

“I want to comprehend it,” she said. “That’s the whole point. I’m hungry for it, Mark. It’s time I found out, time I shared my life a little, time I began to experience. And there you stand like Moses saying no.”

“I honestly think you’re too young.” Her eyes flashed. “I’ll translate that for you, dearest. You want me to stay too young, because that way you stay young too. So long as I remain a little girl in your estimation, your whole time scheme stays fixed. If I’m eight years old, you’re thirty-two, and you’d like to be thirty-two. But I’m past sixteen, Mark. And you won’t see forty again. I can’t make you accept the second, but I wish you’d stop denying the first.”

“All your cruelty is exposed today, Risa.”

“I feel like going naked today. Physically and emotionally. I won’t hide anything.” Languidly Risa selected a second drink for herself; then, as an afterthought, she offered her father the tray. As she pressed the capsule’s snout to her pale skin she said, “Will you sign my consent form or won’t you?”

“Let’s put it off till July, shall we? The market’s so unsettled these days—”

“The market is always unsettled, and in any event it has nothing to do with my getting a transplant. Today is April 11. Unless you give in, I’m going to bear an illegitimate child on or about next January 11.”

Mark gasped. “You’re pregnant?”

“No. But I will be, three hours from now, unless you sign the form. If I can’t experience a transplant, I’ll experience a pregnancy. And a scandal.”

“You devil!” She was afraid she might have pushed her father too far. This was a raw threat, after all, and Mark didn’t usually respond kindly to threats. But she had calculated all this quite nicely, figuring in a factor of his appreciation for her inherited ruthlessness. She saw a smile clawing at the edges of his mouth and knew she had won. Mark was silent a long moment. She waited, graciously allowing him to come to terms with his defeat.

At length he said, “Where’s the form?”

“By an odd coincidence—” She handed it to him. He sca

“I never intended to. Unless you called my bluff, of course. Then I would have had to go through with it. I’d much rather have a transplant. Honestly.”

“Get it, then. How did I raise such a witch?”

“It’s all in the genes, darling. I was bred for this.” She put the precious paper away, and they stood up. She went to him. Her arms slid round his neck; she pressed her smooth cheek to his. He was no more than an inch taller than she was. He embraced her, tensely, and she brushed her lips against his and felt him tremble with what she knew was suppressed desire. She released him. Softly she whispered her thanks.

He went out. Risa laughed and clapped her hands. Her robe went whirling to the floor and she capered naked on the thick wine-red carpet. Pivoting, she came face to face with the portrait of Paul Kaufma

She winked at Uncle Paul. It seemed to her that Uncle Paul winked back.

Mark Kaufma

He walked briskly into the library. Elena stood by the fireplace, beneath the brooding, malevolent portrait of the late Uncle Paul. She looked displeased.

“I’m sorry,” Kaufma

“Why does she hate me so much?”

“Because you’re not her mother, I suppose.”

“Don’t be a fool, Mark. She’d hate me even more if I were her mother. She hates me because I’ve come between herself and you, that’s all.”

“Don’t say that, Elena.”

“It’s true, though. That child is monstrous!” Kaufma

Elena regarded him coldly. “What a terrible tragedy for you that she’s your own daughter, isn’t it? She’d make a wonderful wife for you in a few years, when she’s ripe. Or a mistress. But incest is not one of the family business techniques.”

“Elena—”

“I have a suggestion,” Elena purred. “Have Risa killed and transplant her persona to me. That way you can enjoy both of us in one body, quite lawfully, gaining the benefit of my physical advantages joined to the sharp personality you seem to find so endearing in her.”

Kaufma

“Where do we eat lunch? You talked yesterday about Florida House for clams and squid.”

“We’ll eat here,” said Kaufma

“Business! Another ten millions to make before nightfall!”