That morning James Harker was not expecting anything unusual to
happen. He had painstakingly taught himself, these six months since
the election, not to expect anything. He had returned to private law
practice, and the Governorship and all such things were now bright
memories, growing dimmer each month.
_Morning of an Ex-Governor._ There was plenty to do: the Bryant
trust-fund business was due for a hearing next Thursday, and before
that time Harker had to get his case in order. A pitiful thing: old
Bryant, one of the glorious pioneers of space travel, assailed by
greedy heirs in his old age. It was enough to turn a man cynical,
Harker thought, unless a man happened to be cynical already.
He reached across his desk for the file-folder labeled BRYANT:
Hearing 5/16/33. The sound of the outer-office buzz trickled into
the room, and Harker realized he had accidentally switched on the
inter-office communicator. He started to switch it off; he stopped
when he heard a dry, thin voice say, "Is the Governor in?"
His secretary primly replied, "Do you mean Mr. Harker?"
"That's right."
"Oh. He--he doesn't like to be called the Governor, you know. Do you
have an appointment with him?"
"I'm afraid not. Terribly foolish of me--I didn't realize I'd need one.
I don't live in New York, you see, and I'm just here for a few hours--"
"I'm extremely sorry, sir. I cannot permit you to see Mr. Harker
without an appointment. He's _extremely_ busy."
"I'm quite aware of that," came the nervous, oddly edgy voice. "But
it's something of an emergency, and--"
"Dreadfully sorry, sir. Won't you phone for an appointment?"
To the eavesdropping Harker, the conversation sounded like something
left over from his Albany days. But he was no longer Governor of New
York and he was no longer the fair-haired boy of the National Liberal
Party. He wasn't being groomed for the Presidency now. And, suddenly,
he found himself positively yearning to be interrupted.
He leaned forward and said, "Joan, I'm not very busy right now. Suppose
you send the gentleman in."
"Oh--uh--Mr. Harker. Of course, Mr. Harker." She sounded startled and
irritated; perhaps she wanted to scold him for having listened in.
Harker cut the audio circuit, slipped the Bryant file out of sight,
cleared his desk, and tried to look keenly awake and responsive.
A timid knock sounded at his office door. Harker pressed the _open_
button; the door split laterally, the segments rising into the ceiling
and sliding into the floor, and a man in short frock coat and white
unpressed trousers stepped through, grinning apologetically. A moment
later the door snapped shut behind him.
"Mr. Harker?"
"That's right."
The visitor approached Harker's desk awkwardly; he walked as if his
body were held together by baling wire, and as if his assembler had
done an amateur job of it. His shoulders were extraordinarily wide for
his thin frame, and long arms dangled loosely. He had a wide, friendly,
toothy grin and much too much unkempt soft-looking brown hair. He
handed Harker a card. The lawyer took it, spun it around right-side-up
so he could read it, and scanned the neat engraved characters. It said:
BELLER RESEARCH
LABORATORIES
Litchfield, N. J.
_Dr. Benedict Lurie_
Harker frowned in concentration, shook his head, and said, "I'm sorry,
Dr. Lurie. I'm afraid I've never heard of this particular laboratory."
"Understandable. We don't seek publicity. I'd be very surprised if you
_had_ heard of us." Lurie's head bobbed boyishly as he spoke; he seemed
about as ill-at-ease a person as Harker had ever met.
"Cigarette?" Harker asked.
"Oh, no--never!"
Grinning, Harker took one himself, squeezed the igniting capsule with
his index-finger's nail, and put the pack away. He leaned back. Lurie's
awkwardness seemed to be contagious; Harker felt strangely fidgety.
"I guess you're wondering why I came here to see you, Mr. Harker."
"I guess I am."
Lurie interspliced his long and slightly quivering fingers, then, as if
dissatisfied, separated his hands again, crossed his legs, and gripped
his kneecaps. He blinked and swiveled his chair slightly to the left.
Sensing that the sun slanting through the window behind the desk was
bothering Lurie, Harker pressed the _opaque_ button and the room's
three windows dimmed.
Lurie said finally, "I'll begin at the beginning, Mr. Harker. The
Beller Research Laboratories were established in 2024 by a grant from
the late Darwin F. Beller, of whom you may have heard."
"The oil magnate," Harker said. _And a notorious crank._ The lawyer
began to regret his impulsive action in inviting the gawky stranger in
to see him.
"Yes. Beller of Beller Refineries. Mr. Beller provided our group with
virtually unlimited funds, established us in a secluded area in New
Jersey, and posed us a scientific problem: could we or could we not
develop a certain valuable process? I'll be more specific in a moment.
Let me say that many of the men Mr. Beller assembled for the project
were openly skeptical of its success, but were willing to try--a
triumphant demonstration of the scientific frame of mind."
_Or of the willingness to grab a good thing when it comes along_,
Harker thought. He had had little experience with scientists, but
plenty with human beings. Lurie's speech sounded as if it had been
carefully rehearsed.
"To come to the point," Lurie said, uncrossing his legs again. "After
eight years of research, our project has reached the point of success.
In short, we've developed a workable technique for doing what we had
hoped to do. Now we need a legal adviser."
Harker became more interested. "This is where _I'm_ to come in, I
suppose?"
"Exactly. Our process is, to say the least, a controversial one. We
foresee multitudes of legal difficulties and other problems."
"I'm not a patent lawyer, Dr. Lurie. That's a highly specialized field
of which I know very little. I can give you the name of a friend of
mine--"
"We're not interested in a patent," Lurie said. "We want to give our
process to mankind without strings. The problem is, will mankind accept
it?"
A little impatiently Harker said, "Suppose you get down to cases, then.
It's getting late, and I have a lot of work to do before lunch-time."
A funny little smile flickered at the corners of Lurie's wide mouth.
He said, flatly, "All right. We've developed a process for bringing
newly-dead people back to life. It works if there's no serious organic
damage and the body hasn't been dead more than twenty-four hours."
* * * * *
For a long moment there was silence in Harker's office. Harker sat
perfectly still, and it seemed to him he could hear the blood pumping
in his own veins and the molecules of room-air crashing against his
ear-drums. He fought against his original instincts, which were to
laugh or to show amazement.
Finally he said, "I'll assume for the sake of discussion that what you
tell me is true. If it is, then you know you're holding down dynamite."
"We know that. That's why we came to you. You're the first prominent
figure who hasn't thrown me out of his office as soon as I told him why
I had come."
Sadly, Harker said, "I've learned how to reserve judgment. I've also
learned to be tolerant of crackpots or possible crackpots. I learned
these things the hard way."
"Do you think I'm a crackpot, Mr. Harker?"
"I have no opinion. Not yet, anyway."
"Does that mean you'll take the case?"
"Did I say that?" Harker stubbed his cigarette out with a tense
stiff-wristed gesture. "It violates professional ethics for me to ask
you which of my colleagues you approached before you came to me, but
I'd like to know how many there were, at least."
"You were fourth on the list," Lurie said.
"Umm. And the others turned you down flat, I take it?"
Lurie's open face reddened slightly. "Absolutely. I was called a zombie
salesman by one. Another just asked me to leave. The third man advised
me to blow up the labs and cut my throat. So we came to you."
Harker nodded slowly. He had a fairly good idea of whom the three
others were, judging from the nature of their reactions. He himself
had made no reaction yet, either visceral or intellectual. A year ago,
perhaps, he might have reacted differently--but a year ago he had been
a different person.
He said, "You can expect tremendous opposition to any such invention.
I can guess that there'll be theological opposition, and plenty of
hysterical public outbursts. And the implications are immense--a
new set of medical ethics, for one thing. There'll be a need for
legislation covering--ah--resurrection." He drummed on the desk with
his fingertips, "Whoever agrees to serve as your adviser is taking on a
giant assignment."
"We're aware of that," Lurie said. "The pay is extremely good. We can
discuss salary later, if you like."
"I haven't said I'm accepting," Harker reminded him crisply. "For all I
know right now this is just a pipe-dream. Wishful thinking on the part
of a bunch of underpaid scientists."
Lurie smiled winningly. "Naturally we would not think of asking you
to make a decision until you've seen our lab. If you think you're
interested, a visit could be arranged sometime this week or next--"
Harker closed his eyes for a moment. He said, "If I accepted, I'd be
exposing myself to public abuse. I'd become a storm-center, wouldn't I?"
"You should be used to that, Mr. Harker. As a former national political
figure--"
The _former_ stung. Harker had a sudden glaring vision of his rise
through the Nat-Lib Party ranks, his outstanding triumph in the 2024
mayoralty contest, his natural ascension to the gubernatorial post four
years later--and then, the thumping fall, the retirement into private
life, the painful packing-away of old aspirations and dreams--
He nodded wearily. "Yes, I know what it's like to be on the spot. I was
just wondering whether it's worthwhile to get back on the firing line
again." He moistened his lips. "Look, Dr. Lurie, I have to think about
this whole business some more. Is there someplace I can call you this
afternoon?"
"I'm staying at the Hotel Manhattan," Lurie said. He retrieved his
calling-card with surprising deftness and scribbled a phone number on
it, then a room number, and handed it back to Harker. "I'll be there
most of the afternoon, if you'd like to call."
Harker pocketed the card. "I'll let you know," he said.
Lurie rose with typical lack of grace and shambled toward the door.
Harker pressed the _open_ button and the two halves of the door moved
into their slots. Rising from the desk, he accompanied Lurie through
the door and into the outer office. The scientist's stringy frame
towered five or six inches over Harker's compact, still-lean bulk.
Harker glanced up at the strangely soft eyes.
"I'll call you later, Dr. Lurie."
"I hope so. Thank you for listening, Governor."
Harker returned to the office, reflecting that the final _Governor_
had either been savagely unkind or else a bit of unconscious
absent-mindedness. Either way, he tried to ignore it.
He dumped himself behind his desk, frowning deeply, and dug his thumbs
into his eyeballs. After a moment he got up, crossed to the portable
bar, and dialed himself a whiskey sour. He sipped thoughtfully.
_Resurrection._ A crazy, grotesque idea. A frightening one. But science
had come up with a method for containing the hundred-million-degree
fury of a fusion reaction; why not a method for bringing the recent
dead back to life?
No, he thought. He wasn't primarily in doubt of the possibility of the
process. It was dangerous to be too skeptical of the potentialities of
science.
It was his own part in the enterprise that made him hold back. What
Lurie evidently had in mind was for him to act as a sort of public
advocate, arguing their case before the courts of law and of human
opinion. It was a frighteningly big job, and if the tide swept against
him he would be carried away.
Then he smiled. _What have I to lose?_
He eyed the tri-dims of his wife and sons that occupied one corner of
his desk. His political career, he thought, couldn't be any deader
than it was now. His own party had cast him loose, refusing to name
him for a second term when he indiscreetly defied the state committee
in making a few appointments. His law practice did well, though not
spectacularly; in any event, he was provided for financially by his
investments.
He had nothing to lose but his good name, and he had already lost most
of that in the political mess. And he had a whole world to win.
Revival of the dead? _How about a dead career_, Harker wondered. _Can I
revive that too?_
Rising from his desk, he paced round the office, pausing to depolarize
the windows. Bright morning sunshine poured in. Through his window
he could see the playground of the public school across the street.
Thin-legged girls of nine or ten were playing a punchball game; he
could hear the shrieks of delight and anguish even at this distance.
A sudden sharp image came to him: himself, nine years before, standing
spread-legged on the beach at Riis Park, with Lois staring white-faced
at him and three-year-old Chris peeking strangely around her legs. It
was a blisteringly hot day; his skin, to which sand had adhered, was
red, raw, tender. He heard the booming of the surf, the overhead _zoop_
of a Europe-bound rocket, the distant cry of refreshment-venders and
the nearer laughter of small girls.
He was not laughing. He was holding a small, cold, wet bundle tight,
and he was crying for the first time in twenty years. He huddled his
drowned five-year-old daughter to him, and tried to pretend it had not
happened.
It _had_ happened, and Eva was dead--the girl-child who he had planned
would be America's darling when he reached the White House, fifteen
years or so from now.
That had been nine years ago. Eva would have been nearly fifteen,
now, flowering into womanhood. He had no daughter. _But she could have
lived_, Harker thought. _Maybe._
He returned to his desk and sat quietly for a while. After twenty
minutes of silent thought he reached for the phone and punched out
Lurie's number.