As the hearing ground along into its third day, and its fourth, and
then its fifth and sixth, things grew even worse. The "zombie" phrase
became a favorite, not only of the press and the public, but even of
Brewster and Vorys. The fact that seven of seventy-three reanimation
subjects had been revived sans intellect had become the main issue. In
his rare moments of relaxation, Harker wondered how the world would
react if it were ever learned that one of those seven had been none
other than the missing Senator Thurman.
Very much as Harker had expected, the American-Conservative Party
intensified its previous belief in "caution" into what amounted to
condemnation of the whole process. Maxwell of Vermont, the Senate
Minority Leader, delivered an off-the-cuff but probably carefully
rehearsed speech at a Chicago gathering of American-Conservative
committeemen, in which he referred to reanimation as "That mess
engineered by a one-time lame duck of a National-Liberal, that unholy
conspiracy against human dignity."
Later the same day, the chairman of the Nat-Lib national committee
was quick to announce that James Harker had voluntarily severed his
party connections in January, was now a private citizen, and in no way
represented the membership of the National-Liberal Party. It was a neat
disavowal that took the Nat-Libs off the hook in case the reaction
against reanimation grew stronger, but left them an avenue of entry
just in case public opinion should swing back in favor of Harker.
Work at the lab had come practically to a standstill. "If we only had
a few more weeks," Raymond mourned, "we might be able to lick the
remaining defects and get public approval. But they won't leave us
alone to work."
A delegation of FBI men and the four investigating senators visited
the laboratory a week after the hearings had begun, and Raymond and
Harker reluctantly showed them the data on the revivifications so
far--excluding that of Senator Thurman, which had not been recorded in
any way whatever.
They checked through the photos, compared them with those of Wayne
Janson, and left. That night the FBI issued an official statement which
read, in part, "_Examination of the Beller Laboratories' records does
not indicate that the late Mr. Janson ever received treatment there.
Since there is nothing in Janson's own private papers that leads us to
believe he as much as knew of the existence of the Beller organization
prior to its public announcement, we must conclude that no reanimation
did take place._"
This left Jonathan Bryant in an ambiguous position, since he continued
to maintain that Janson _had_ undergone reanimation, and had suffered a
severe change in personality as a result, leading to his suicide.
"This ought to settle Jonathan for good," Harker crowed when the text
of the FBI exoneration reached him. After all, it had to be obvious
to everyone that Bryant had perpetrated a hoax designed solely to
discredit reanimation and arouse popular fears against it.
But again Harker was wrong. The day after publication of the FBI
statement, Jonathan Bryant was subpoenaed to appear before the
investigating committee. The questioner was Senator Vorys. The
interchange between Bryant and Vorys was widely reported in the late
editions that day:
SENATOR VORYS: _You knew the late Wayne Janson well?_
BRYANT: _I was his closest friend._
VORYS: _When did he first mention reanimation to you?_
BRYANT: _About January. He said his doctor had told him about the
experiments going on in Litchfield._
VORYS: _What is the name of this doctor?_
BRYANT: _I'm sorry, I don't know, Senator Vorys._
VORYS: _Very well. Go ahead._
BRYANT: _Well, Wayne suffered a stroke in February and he told me
that he was going to Litchfield, that he felt close to death and
was volunteering for reanimation._
VORYS: (Interrupting) _The FBI did check and found that Janson had
been away from home during February and March._
BRYANT: _Yes, sir. Well, Janson came home late in March and told
me of his experiences. He seemed moody, depressed, very different
from usual. I tried without success to cheer him up. Then one night
several weeks ago he phoned me and said he was going to end it all,
to jump off the George Washington Bridge. In his conversation he
attributed his desire for death to a morbid change that had come
over his mind as a result of the Beller treatment._
VORYS: _You're aware, are you not, of the FBI statement which says
that to the best of their knowledge Janson never had any contact
with the Beller people?_
BRYANT: _Of course. The key phrase there is "to the best of their
knowledge." I have no doubt that the Beller people have suppressed
this case as they've suppressed so many other things since James
Harker started running them._
The ten-minute colloquy between Vorys and Bryant, widely quoted and
republished everywhere, served not only to discredit the FBI statement
utterly, but to convince the public that Harker had indeed suppressed
the records of the Janson reanimation.
A magnificent scientific discovery discredited because of a ten
percent imperfection. An FBI investigation thrown into the rubbish-heap
because of one man's bitter determination to crush an old enemy.
Harker studied the newspapers each day with increasing bitterness.
The original importance of the Beller process seemed to be getting
lost under the welter of side-issues, the jackal-like snapping of
Klaus-Mitchison and Bryant, the political fencing of the two great
parties, the hysteria of the people when faced with something new and
beyond easy acceptance.
Only one issue had not been raised yet--luckily, for it was the
deadliest of all, having a basis of truth. No one had accused the
Beller people of murdering Senator Thurman.
It was a logical accusation, against the background of insane charges
already raised. After all, Thurman had been the most vigorous and most
important of the enemies of reanimation, and he had disappeared on
the eve of the hearings themselves! It seemed obvious to Harker that
_someone_ would think of implying that the Beller group had done away
with their tough, intractable enemy.
But no one raised the cry, perhaps because it was too obvious. A
thousandth time, Harker was grateful for that momentary impulse
of steely purposefulness that had led him to condemn Barchet to
continuing death. Of the six people who had known the fate of Senator
Thurman, only Barchet was likely to crack and reveal the truth--and
Barchet was out of the picture now.
* * * * *
The eighth day of the hearing came and went; Vorys grilled poor Luric
mercilessly on minor scientific details, while Brewster got Vogel to
explain some of the surgical fine points of the reanimation technique.
"You have to admire those two boys," Harker said after that session.
"They've really brushed up on the pertinent subjects."
"I haven't had a quizzing like that since I left medical school," Vogel
said, nervously tugging at the dark strands of his beard.
"And for what?" Raymond wanted to know. "Just to use up the taxpayers'
money. They've found out all they want to know about us."
Harker nodded gloomily. You only had to pick up any newspaper, listen
to any reasonably right-wing news commentator, attend any church, even
walk in the street and talk to people at random.
The response was the same. Fear.
Fear of reanimation, fear of that one-chance-out-of-six that the result
would be a so-called zombie. Desperately Harker tried to counteract the
swelling tide of fear. He scraped up money for a full-page ad in the
_Times_, headed, THROW OUT THE BABY WITH THE BATHWATER?
His line of argument was that the reanimation process should not be
condemned for its failures, but praised for its successes. It was in
the early stages, the experimental years. What if aviation had been
suppressed because of the early crashes? Research had to go on.
The response to the advertisement was a lessening of hysteria in
responsible places; the _Times_ itself echoed his feelings in its own
editorial the next day. But he sensed he was not reaching the people.
And the people feared reanimation. There was no doubt of that, now.
The hearing rolled along into early June, and then one day Dixon
announced that this was the last week; the committee would enter
private deliberations preparatory to delivering its findings to the
Senate as a whole.
Harker approached Senator Dixon privately and said, "Tell me,
Senator--how are our chances?"
The Wyoming liberal frowned quizzically. "Hard to say. The Committee's
deadlocked two-and-two, you see. We may fight all summer about it."
"Vorys and Brewster are dead against it?"
"Absolutely. They heed the voice of the people, you see. Every
minority party has to. It's the way they become a majority again."
Harker said doubtfully, "How's the feeling in high Nat-Lib circles?"
Dixon shrugged. "Right now, the feeling runs toward taking the
Beller labs over and continuing reanimation research under federal
supervision--with you and Raymond still in charge, of course."
"Fine!"
"Not so fast," Dixon warned. "We've got a Congressional majority, but
that doesn't mean a thing. The way the people are murmuring, it looks
pretty bad for getting that measure through."
"You mean you may have to switch your stand?"
Dixon nodded. "Jim, you know all about political expediency. You tried
to knock down the stone wall when you were Governor, and got nowhere.
If the people say, 'Junk reanimation,' then we'll have to junk it."
Hotly Harker said, "Junk it? The way I was junked as Governor?"
Dixon smiled. "I'm afraid so. It's this business of the seven idiots,
Jim. That scares people more than you can imagine."
"But we can lick that problem--eventually!"
"Maybe you can. But the voters don't believe that. All they see is the
short-range possibility. And they're more afraid of having a loved one
turn into a zombie than they are of death. After all, you can't very
well kill your wife or son or father if you've had him reanimated and
he turns out to be an idiot. You have to go on supporting him. It's
pretty frightening."
Doggedly Harker said, "I think we can get over that particular hump."
"Then reanimation's in. Jim, I'm not so foolish as to think that we
can ever go back to where we were two months ago. The Beller process
exists; it can't be destroyed. But it can be batted around in committee
and side-channelled and circumvented until the time is ripe for popular
acceptance. And the Party may have to do that to you, though I hope it
doesn't happen."
"Do you think it will, though?"
Again the sad smile. "Read the newspapers, man. Read your mail!"
* * * * *
Harker read his mail.
He ploughed through hundreds of vicious, sweat-provoking letters. He
sorted them out: favorable on one side, unfavorable on the other. The
_unfavorable_ pile grew so high it toppled over, and he started a new
one; the pile of encouraging letters was no more than three inches
thick.
They were letters of raw hate, most of them.
The kind of thing that went, _My beloved
mother/father/sister/brother/son/daughter/aunt/uncle/grandmother/grandfather
died last week, and I want to tell you she/he had a decent Christian
burial and went to his/her eternal repose. Naturally I feel sorrow at
my loss, but I'd rather be dead myself than let a loved one of mine get
into your hands. Sure, maybe you'll bring him/her back to life--but who
wants to see the hollow mindless shell of someone you once loved? Not
me, brother. Not me._
It was an enlarging experience to read those letters. Even when he had
held public office, Harker had never received so many, nor such loaded
ones.
It was astonishing. They gloated in the triumph of death, they thanked
God they had not allowed their beloved ones to be reanimated, they
extended curses for Harker and his whole family. _He_ was the target of
their hate, the symbol for reanimation.
At first he was irritated, then angered; anger passed, and turned into
compassion. Perhaps some of these same people had written to him a
month ago, pleading to have a loved one restored to them by the new
miracle of science. Now, confused by the haze of conflicting tales, of
lies and partial truths, their earlier willingness turned to repulsion.
Harker wearily baled the letters up again, and left Litchfield to
spend some time with his puzzled, unhappy family. They were accustomed
to seeing their father's name in the headlines; it was old stuff to
them. But this public hatred was new to them, and difficult for them to
understand.
It was not too late, Harker thought. The forces of confusion could be
put to rout; the dominion of death could at last have boundaries staked
out.
But the public faith had to be regained. Some spectacular
demonstration, some act of faith that would capture their imagination
and end the dominating sway of ignorance.
But what? How?
Harker had no answer.