Harker had thought Idlewild was in a state of confusion, but he
realized he still had a lot to learn about ultimate chaos when he
reached Litchfield, an hour later. Cars clogged the highway for a
quarter of a mile on each side of the private road leading to the
laboratories. He saw television cameras, sound trucks, men who looked
like reporters.
He ducked through the milling mob and tried to slip unobtrusively along
the spruce-bordered dirt road to the administration building. But it
was a foolhardy attempt; he hadn't taken more than ten steps before
someone yelled: "Hey! There's Governor Harker!"
A dozen of them surrounded him in a minute. Harker recognized a few
of the faces from his mayoralty days--a _Times_ man, one from the
_Star-Post_, one from the Hearst combine. Harker strode doggedly along,
trying to ignore them, but they blocked his path.
"What are _you_ doing here, Governor?"
"What's your opinion on the reanimation bit? You think they're serious?"
"How will the Nat-Libs react?"
"Do you figure there'll be a congressional investigation?"
They crowded around him, waving their minirecorders and notebooks. In a
loud voice Harker said, "Hold on, all of you! Quiet down!"
They quieted.
"In answer to half a dozen of your questions, I'm here because I'm
legal adviser to Beller Laboratories. The statement that was released
to the press earlier today was an unofficial and possibly inaccurate
one. I'll have an official statement for you as soon as things are
under control here."
"Does that mean the reanimation process doesn't actually exist?"
"I repeat: I'll have an official statement later." It was the only
way to handle them. He spun, pushed his way forcefully but with care
between the _Times_ and Scripps-Howard-Cauldwell, and made his way up
the hill.
The road-block still functioned--only this time there were five guards
there instead of two, and three of them held multishot rifles, the
other two machine-pistols. Harker approached and said, "How come the
fire-arms?"
"It's the only way we can keep them back, Mr. Harker. You better go in.
Dr. Raymond wants to see you."
Harker nodded grimly and stepped through the cordon. He half-trotted
the rest of the way.
Raymond's office was crowded. Barchet was there, and Lurie, and two or
three of the other researchers. Raymond, his face gray and stony, sat
quietly back of his desk.
"Here," he said. "Read this. It's the text of the handout Mitchison
released."
Harker scanned it.
_Litchfield, N.J., 20 May (for immediate release)--Security wraps
today came off an eight-year-old project that will be the greatest
boon to mankind since the development of modern medicine. A process
for bringing the dead back to life has left the experimental stage
and is now ready for public demonstration, according to famous
biochemist David Klaus, 29, a Harvard graduate who has spearheaded
the project in recent months._
_Klaus stated, "The technique developed at this laboratory will
make possible restoration of life in all cases where death has
taken place no more than twenty-four hours before the reanimation
attempt, provided no serious organic damage was the cause of death.
A combination of hormone therapy and electrochemical stimulation
makes this astonishing and miraculous process possible."_
_The Beller Research Laboratories of Litchfield, established in
2024 by a grant from the late Darwin F. Beller, were the birthplace
for this scientific breakthrough. Further details to come.--Cal
Mitchison, publicity._
Harker dropped the sheet contemptuously to Raymond's desk. "Bad
grammar, bad writing, bad thinking--not even a good mimeograph job.
Mart, how the dickens could a thing like this have happened?"
"Klaus and Mitchison must have cooked it up last night or early this
morning. They handed copies of it to the local press-service stringers
in town, and phoned it in to all the New York area newspapers."
"We didn't even have time to fire him," Harker muttered. "Well? Where
is he now?"
Raymond shrugged. "He and Klaus are gone. I sent men looking for them
as soon as I found out about the newsbreak, but no sign of them."
"Operation Barn Door," Harker snapped. "Most likely they're in
Manhattan getting themselves interviewed on video. I see Mitchison
didn't bother to mention anyone's name but Klaus' in this alleged
handout."
"What would you expect?"
Harker whirled on Barchet, who looked very small and meek suddenly,
with none of his earlier blustery self-assurance. "_You!_ You're the
one who brought Mitchison into this outfit!"
In a tiny voice Barchet said, "Recriminations are useless now, Mr.
Harker."
"The hell with that. Did you tell Mitchison I was going to have him
sacked?"
"Mr. Harker, I--"
"_Did you?_"
Helplessly Barchet nodded. Harker glared at him, then turned to Raymond
and said, "There you have it, Mart. Mitchison heard he was getting
canned, so he whipped this thing out now, while he could get fat on us.
Well, we're stuck with this statement. There are two million reporters
on the front lawn waiting for official word from us."
Raymond had not shaved that morning. He ran his fingers through a
blue-stubbled growth of beard and then locked his hands over his
forehead. In a sepulchral voice he said, "What do you suggest? Deny the
Mitchison release?"
"Impossible," Harker said. "The word has gone out. If we nix it, the
public will never believe a further word we say. Uh-uh."
"What then?"
"Don't worry about it. First thing is to prepare a release saying that
the early announcement was premature, that Mitchison and Klaus are no
longer connected with this organization--"
"Klaus has a contract."
"The contract has a clause in it about insubordination or else it isn't
worth a damn. Have somebody send a special-delivery letter to Klaus
informing him that his contract is voided. Keep a couple of carbons.
Send a letter of dismissal to Mitchison, too."
Harker paused to wipe sweat from his face. In the small room, the air
conditioners had little effect.
He went on, "Next thing: I'll draft a release confirming the fact that
you've developed this technique, and I'll sign my name to it. When I'm
done, have it mimeographed and distributed to everybody out there.
That cancels out Mitchison's poop, anyway. After that"--he frowned--"do
you have any human cadavers around the place? Revivable ones, I mean?"
Raymond shook his head.
"Too bad. Find one. We'll give a demonstration of the technique to any
of the pressmen who have strong enough stomachs to want to watch. And
then--"
"Don't you think that's a little risky?" Lurie asked mildly.
"What? The demonstration?"
Lurie nodded, grinning foolishly. "Well, I mean, something might go
wrong--"
"Like what?"
"There are flaws in the process," Raymond cut in. "We haven't fully
perfected it. I was meaning to talk about them to you, but of course,
this thing coming up makes it impossible to iron the bugs out in time,
and--"
"Hold it," Harker said. He felt a chill start to rise up his back. In
a flat voice he said, "You gave me the impression that this process
worked all the time. That if the body was in good enough shape to live,
and hadn't started to decay, you could revive it. Suppose you tell me
about these so-called 'bugs'--right here and now."
* * * * *
There was a brief, ominous silence in the room. Harker saw Raymond
glare sourly at Lurie, who cowered; the other staff researcher looked
uneasy, and Barchet nibbled at his nails.
At last Raymond said, "Jim, I'm sorry. We didn't play it square with
you."
"Go on. Bare your soul to me now, Raymond. I want to know everything."
"Well--ah--the process _doesn't_ always work. About one out of twenty
times, we can't bring the patient back to life."
"Understandable. If that's the whole trouble--"
"It isn't. Jim, you have to understand that death is a tremendous shock
to the nervous system--the biggest shock there is. That goes without
saying. Sometimes the shock is so great that it short-circuits the
brain, so to speak. And so even though we can achieve physiological
reanimation, the mind--ah--the mind is not always reanimated with the
body."
Harker was stunned as if by a physical blow. He took one step backward,
groped for a chair, and lowered himself into it. Forcing himself to
keep calm he said, "Just how often does this happen?"
"About one out of every six tries, so far."
"I see." He drew in his breath sharply, cleared his throat, and fought
to hang on to his self-control. The whole thing had taken on an unreal
dreamlike atmosphere in the past two hours. And this was the crusher.
So one out of six revivifications produced a live idiot? _Great_,
Harker thought. _So a public demonstration will be like a game of
Russian Roulette. One-chance-out-of-six that the whole show will blow
up in our faces._
"How long will it take you to iron this thing out?" he asked.
"All I can say is that we're working toward it."
"Okay. Forget the demonstration. We don't dare try it until things calm
down. Remind me to cut your throat for this, Mart. Later."
There was a knock on the door. Harker nodded to Barchet, who opened it.
One of the laboratory guards stood outside.
"The reporters are getting out of hand," he said. "They want to know
when they're getting their statement."
Harker stood up and said, "It's five minutes to eleven now. Tell them
that I'll have a statement for them before noon."
"Yes, sir."
"Get me a typewriter," Harker said to Raymond.
A typewriter was produced. Harker fed a sheet of paper in, switched on
the current, and began to type. He composed a hasty 250-word statement
disowning Mitchison, crediting Raymond as head of the project, and
declaring that full details of the technique would be released as soon
as they were ready.
He signed it _James Harker_, and added parenthetically. (_Former
Governor of New York--now legal adviser to Beller Research
Laboratories._)
"Here," he said, handing the release to Raymond. "Read this thing
through and approve it, Mart. Then get it mimeographed and distributed
to that wolfpack out there. Is there a vidset around anywhere?"
"In A Lounge," Lurie offered.
A Lounge was in the small dormitory in back. Harker said, "I'm going
there to pick up the news reports. Lurie, I'm requisitioning you to
set up office space for me someplace in Dormitory A. I want a phone,
a vidset, a radio, and a typewriter. And I don't care who has to get
pushed out of the way."
"Yes, sir."
"Good."
He jogged across the clearing toward Dormitory A, pausing only to look
back briefly at the horde of newsmen straining at the barrier down the
hill. A Lounge was packed with lab researchers, clustered around the
video. They moved to one side as Harker entered.
He recognized Vogel and said to the bearded surgeon, "Has there been
much about us on yet?"
Vogel laughed. "_Much_ about us? Hardly anything but!"
Harker stared at the screen. A newscaster's solemn face stared back.
"_... a discovery of staggering importance, if we can credit this
morning's release. Further details will be brought to you as bulletins
the moment information is received at the network newsroom._"
Harker wrenched the channel-selector dial one turn to the left. A
new voice, equally crisp and solemn, was saying: "_... called for an
immediate Senate investigation. The cry was echoed by Nat-Lib Senator
Clyde Thurman, who declared that such a scientific finding would have
to be placed under careful Federal regulation._"
A third channel offered: "_... the President had no comment on the
news, pending further details. Vice-President Chalmers, attending a
meeting in Detroit, commented: 'This is not as incredible a development
as superficial appearances would indicate. Science has long had the
power to save human lives; this is merely the next step. We should not
lose our sense of proportion in considering this matter'._"
Harker felt a sudden need for fresh air. He muscled his way through the
crowded lounge and out onto the dormitory porch.
Confusion reigned everywhere. His tentative plans for making a careful
survey of the situation had gone up in one puff of press-agentry; from
now on, he would have to improvise, setting his course with desperate
agility.
He tried to tell himself that things would quiet down before long, once
the initial impact had expended itself. But he was too well schooled in
the study of mass human behavior to be able to make himself believe any
such naive hope.
The man in the street could only be thinking one thing now: that the
power of death over humanity had ended. In future days, death would
have no dominion.
But how would they react? Jubilantly, or with terror? What would
they say when they learned that five times out of six, life could be
restored--but the sixth time a mindless idiot was the product?
Fear and trembling lay ahead, and days of uncertainty. Harker let
the warm mid-May sun beat down on him; he stared up at the sky as if
looking into tomorrow.
The sky held no answers. Confusion would be tomorrow's watchword. And
there was no turning back, now, not for any of them.