Harker's shock reaction was violent, instinctive, and brief. He
quivered uncontrollably, put his hands to his face, and started to lose
his balance. Raymond was right there; he caught him, held him upright
for a moment, and released him. Harker wobbled and grinned shamefacedly.
"That's strong stuff," he said.
"I've got stronger stuff in my office. Come on."
He and the lab director returned to the adjoining room. Raymond closed
the door and clicked it; Lurie and Klaus remained in the lab. Raymond
reached into his bookcase, pushed a thick black-bound volume to one
side, and withdrew a half-empty bottle of Scotch. He poured a double
shot for Harker, a single for himself, and replaced the bottle.
"Drink up. Straight."
Harker swallowed the liquor in two frantic gulps. He gasped, grinned
again, and shakily set down the glass. "God. I'm roasting in my own
sweat."
"It isn't a pleasant sight the first time, I guess. I wish I could
share some of your emotional reaction, but I'm blocked out. My dad was
a biochemist, specialty life-research. He had me cutting up frogs when
I was three. I'm numb to any such reactions by now."
"Don't let that trouble you," Harker said. He shivered. "I could live
very happily without seeing another demonstration of your technique,
you know."
Raymond chuckled. "Does that mean you're convinced we aren't quacks?"
Harker shrugged. "What you have is heap big medicine. I wonder if I've
got the voltage needed to handle the job you want me to do."
"You wouldn't be here if we didn't think so."
"I was fourth on the list," Harker said. "Lurie told me."
"You were my personal choice. I was outvoted. But I knew you'd accept
and the other three would turn us down without even coming out here to
investigate."
"I haven't said I've accepted," Harker pointed out.
"Well? Do you?"
Harker was silent for a moment, his mind returning to the impact of the
scene he had just witnessed. There was still plenty he had to know, of
course: the corporate set-up of this lab, including knowledge of the
powers that had "outvoted" the director; the financial resources behind
him; the possible bugs in the technique.
A dozen implications unfolded. His mind was already at work planning
the campaign. He was thinking of people to see, wires to pull, angles
to check.
"I guess I accept," he said quietly.
Raymond smiled and reached into his desk. He handed Harker a check
drawn on a Manhattan bank for $2,400, payable to James Harker, and
signed _Simeon Barchet, Treasurer_.
"What's this?"
"That's four weeks salary, in advance. Barchet's the trustee who
administers the Beller Fund. I had him write the check yesterday. I was
pretty confident you'd join us, you see."
* * * * *
Harker spent a quietly tense weekend at home with his family. He told
Lois about the assignment, of course; he never kept things from her,
even the most unpleasant. She was dubious, but willing to rely on his
judgment.
He worked off some of his physical tension by playing ball in the
backyard with his sons. Chris, entering adolescence, was developing an
athlete's grace; seven-year-old Paul did not yet have the coordination
needed for catching and throwing a baseball, but he gave it a good try.
On Sunday the four of them drove upstate to a picnic ground, ate out,
even went for a brief swim though it was really too early in the season
for that. Harker splashed and laughed with his sons, but there was an
essential somberness about him that Lois quietly pointed out.
"I know," he admitted. "I'm thinking."
"About the Beller Labs business?"
He nodded. "I keep finding new angles in it. I try to guess what the
reaction of the organized churches will be, and what political capital
will be made. More likely than not the parties will take opposite
stands. Somebody will dig up the fact that I used to be a National
Liberal bigwig, and that'll enter into the situation. After a while
it'll become so confused by side-issues that--" He stopped. "I don't
sound very enthusiastic about this job, do I?"
"No," Lois said. "You don't."
"I guess I really haven't made up my mind where I stand," he said.
"There are too many tangential things I don't know about yet."
"Like what?"
Harker shook his head. "I'm trying not to think about them. This is my
day off, remember?"
* * * * *
On Monday he polished off his routine work early, by half-past-ten, and
stepped out of his office. He walked down the beige corridor to the
door inscribed WILLIAM F. KELLY and knocked sharply.
"Bill? Me, Jim."
"Come on in, boy."
Kelly was sitting back of an impeccably clear mahogany desk, looking
well-barbered, well-manicured, well-fed. He was the senior partner of
the law firm that now called itself Kelly, Harker, Portobello, and
Klein. In his late fifties, ruddy-faced, quick-witted, Kelly was by
religion a loyal Catholic and by politics a determined maverick.
He said, "How's the ex-Governor this morning?"
Harker grinned. Kelly was the one man who could not offend him with
those words. "A washed-up has-been, as usual. Bill, I've got a big
offer to do some work for a Jersey outfit. I think it's going to tie me
up for the next few months. I thought I'd let you know."
Kelly blinked, then grinned, showing even white teeth. "Full-time?"
"Pretty near."
"How about your pending cases?"
Harker said, "I'm keeping the Bryant case. Fuller and Heidell will have
to be handed over to someone else, I'm afraid."
"I guess you know what you're doing, Jim. Who's the big client?"
"Hush-hush. Nice pay, though."
"Can't even tell old Bill, eh? Well, I know better than to pry. But how
come you're telling me all this, anyway? I don't give a damn what work
you take on, Jim. You're a free agent here."
Calmly Harker said, "I thought I'd let you know because the account's
a controversial one. I want you to realize that I'm doing it on my own
hook and not as a member of K.H.P. & K. When and if the boomerang comes
around and hits me in the face, I don't want you and Mike and Phil to
get black eyes too."
Dead seriousness replaced the amiable grin on Kelly's pink face. "Have
I ever backed off a hot item, Jim?"
"You might back off this one."
Kelly leaned forward and turned on all his considerable personal charm.
"Look here, son, I'm a decade older than you are and a damned sight
cagier. Maybe you better talk this thing out with me. If you're free
for lunch--"
"I'm not," Harker said doggedly. "Bill, let's drop the whole thing. I
know what I'm getting into and I didn't come here for advice. Okay?"
Kelly began to chuckle. "You said the same damn thing the night you
were elected Governor. Remember, when you started telling me about how
you were going to turn the whole State machine upside-down? I warned
you, and I warn you again, but you don't learn. The only thing that got
turned upside-down was you."
"So I'm a fool. But at least I'm a _dedicated_ fool."
"That's the worst kind," Kelly drawled amiably. As Harker started
to leave the older man's office Kelly added, "Good luck, anyway, on
whatever you're getting your fool feet tangled up in."
"Thanks, Bill. Sorry I have to be so tight-mouthed."
On his way back to his office he passed the reception-desk; Joan looked
up at him and said, "Oh, Mr. Harker--call just came in for you. Mr.
Jonathan Bryant's on the phone. He's waiting."
"Switch it into my office," Harker told her. His brows contracted.
_Jonathan? What does that particular vulture want?_
Harker cut round the desks in the outer office and let himself into
his sanctum. He activated the phone. There was the usual three-second
circuit-lag, and then the gray haze of electronic "noise" gave way to
the fishbelly face of Jonathan Bryant.
"Hello, Harker," he said abruptly. "Just thought I'd call you up to let
you know that I've obtained a stay of the hearing on my father's will.
It's being pushed up from the 16th to the 23rd."
Harker scowled. "I don't have any official notice of that fact yet."
"It's on its way via court messenger. Just thought I'd let you know
about it."
"Go ahead," Harker said. "Gloat all you want, if it gives you pleasure.
Your father's will is unbreakable, and you know it damn well. All this
stalling--"
"Legal delay," Jonathan corrected.
"All this stalling is just a waste of everybody's time. Sure, I know
you're hoping the old man will die before the hearing, but I assure you
that can't influence the outcome. If you're that anxious to collect,
stop obtaining postponements and just pull the old man's feeding-plugs
out. It'll save a lot of heartache for all of us, him included."
"Harker, you lousy politico, you should have been debarred twenty years
ago."
"The word you want to use is _disbarred_," Harker said coldly.
"Suppose you get off my line and stop bothering me now? I'd call you a
filthy jackal except that I'm too busy for slander suits just now, even
suits that I'd win."
Angrily he snapped off contact and the screen blanked. _Nuisance_, he
thought, referring both to Jonathan and to the postponement of the
hearing. He didn't seriously believe that the Bryant heirs were going
to upset the old man's will, and the quicker he got the case off his
personal docket the faster he would be free for full-time work on the
Beller Labs account.
* * * * *
He took a doodlepad from his desk and scrawled three names on it:
_Winstead._
_Thurman._
_Msgnr. Carteret._
Leo Winstead was the man who had succeeded him in the Governor's
mansion in Albany--a steady, reliable National-Liberal party-line man,
flexible and open in his views but loyal to the good old machine. He
would be one of the first men Harker would have to see; Winstead would
give him the probable Nat-Lib party line on the resurrection gimmick,
and he could be trusted to keep things to himself until given the
official release.
Clyde Thurman was New York's senior Senator, a formidable old ogre
of a man with incalculable influence in Washington. Harker had been a
Thurman protege, fifteen years ago; publicly old Clyde had soured on
Harker since his futile attempt at political independence, but Harker
had no idea where the old man stood privately. If he could win Thurman
over to his side, Senate approval of revivification legislation was a
good bet. The Nat-Libs controlled 53 seats in the 123rd Congress; the
American-Conservatives held only 45, with the other two seats held down
by self-proclaimed Independents. In the House, it was even better: 297
to 223, with 20 Independents of variable predictability.
Harker's third key man was Monseigneur Carteret. The Father was a
highly-respected member of New York's Catholic hierarchy, shrewd and
liberal in his beliefs, and already (at the age of 38) considered a
likely candidate for an Archepiscopacy and beyond that the red hat.
Harker had met Father Carteret through Kelly. While he was no Catholic
himself, nor currently a member of any other organized group, Harker
had struck up a close friendship with the priest. He could rely on
Carteret to give him an accurate and confidential appraisal of the
possible Church reaction to announcement of a successful technique for
resuscitating the dead.
Harker ripped the sheet off the doodlepad and pocketed it. He hung
poised over his desk, deep in thought, his active mind already
picturing the interviews he might be having with these people.
After a moment he reached for his phone and punched out the coordinates
of Father Carteret's private number. Might as well begin with him,
Harker thought.
A pleasantly monkish face appeared on the screen after several rings.
"Yes? May I help you?"
"I'd like to speak to Father Carteret, please. My name is James Harker."
"Pardon, Mr. Harker. Father Carteret is in conference with Bishop
O'Loughlin. Would you care to have him call you when he's free?"
"When will that be?"
"A half hour, I'd say. Is your matter urgent?"
"Reasonably. Tell the Monseigneur I'd like to make an appointment to
see him some time today or tomorrow, and ask him to call me at my
office."
"Does he have your number?"
"I think so. But you'd better take it anyway, just to make sure.
MON-4-38162."
He blanked the screen, waited a moment, and dialed the number Raymond
had given him to use when calling the laboratory. The pale, goggle-eyed
face of David Klaus appeared on the screen.
"I'd like to talk to Raymond."
"Dr. Raymond's busy in the hormone lab," Klaus said sharply. "Try again
in an hour or so."
Harker frowned impatiently; he had taken an immediate dislike to this
jittery little enzyme researcher. He said, "You tell Raymond--"
"Just a minute," a new voice said. There was confusion on the screen
for an instant; then Klaus' face disappeared and the precise, tranquil
features of Martin Raymond took their place.
"I thought you were busy in the hormone lab," Harker said. "Klaus told
me so."
Raymond laughed without much humor behind it. "Klaus is frequently
inaccurate, Mr. Harker. What's on your mind?"
"Thought I'd let you know that I'm getting down to immediate operation.
I'm lining up interviews with key people for today and tomorrow as a
preliminary investigation of your legal situation."
"Good. By the way--Mitchison's prepared some publicity handouts on the
process. He wants you to okay them before we send them to the papers."
Harker repressed a strangled cough. "Okay them? Listen, Mart, that's
exactly why I called. My first official instruction is that the present
wrap of ultra-security is to continue unabated until I'm ready to lift
it. Tell that to Mitchison and tell him in spades."
Raymond smiled evenly. "Of course--Jim. All secrecy wraps on until you
give the word. I'll let Mitchison know."
"Good. I'll be out at the lab sometime between here and Wednesday to
find out some further information. I'll keep in touch whenever I can."
"Right."
Harker broke contact and stared puzzledly at the tips of his fingers
for a moment. His uneasiness widened. His original suspicion that
behind the smooth facade of the Beller Research Laboratories lay
possible dissension was heightened by Klaus' peculiar behavior on the
phone--and the idea of Mitchison doing anything as premature as sending
out press handouts now, before the ground had been surveyed and the ice
broken, gave him the cold running shudders.
It was going to be enough of a job putting this thing across as it
was--without tripping over the outstretched toes of his employers.