_It's a darned shame that just when we get past the experimental
stage and learn how to have fun, the old body starts wearing out.
Now what if there were spare parts for sale? What if you could get
them installed on demand? A new heart, a new liver, a new--well,
just suppose!_
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Fantastic October 1956.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"The trouble with bodies," said the new rub-down specialist at the
Gotham Baths, "is that after a while they just wear out."
"Glmph," said Hugh Horner as the skin-sleeking oil was applied
liberally to his face, making a drawn-out reply impossible.
"Ain't it funny, though," the rub-downer said, "how you can buy a new
set of piston rings for your car or a mainspring for your wristwatch or
a new gizmo for the old lady's mix-master, but you can't even buy a new
appendix, if you should need one, for yourself."
The quick hands left Horner's face and began to knead the sagging
muscles in his pectoral region. "If you look at it that way," Horner
said, "you have a point." He was alone in the massage room with the
attendant. He felt worn and drained out, as he always did at the end of
a heavy week's work at the office. A steam bath and a massage helped,
but he had to admit it: he wasn't as young as he used to be.
"Of course I have a point, Mr. Horner," said the attendant. "Folks
spent all that money on machines, what I mean, and almost nothing
on themselves. Tell me what happens when a guy develops a bad
ticker--Wait, I'll tell you what happens. He sits somewhere in a soft
chair, on a porch maybe, sucking on a dry pipe and waiting for the next
attack, which will probably kill him."
"I've heard pleasanter talk," Hugh Horner said in sudden distaste.
"What's the matter? Afraid of the truth?"
"Now really!" said Horner.
"How old are you, Mr. Horner? Forty-five?"
"I'm forty-seven," Horner admitted. His age, thus objectively stated
in his own voice, came as a mild shock. Forty-seven! He was virtually
middle-aged.
"Forty-seven! How many years before you change the car's battery?"
"Why, two or three, I guess."
"The tires?"
"Every twenty-five thousand miles. That would be about three years."
The attendant leaned down over him, still kneading the flesh of his
chest. "How much you got in the bank, Mr. H.?" he asked in a tight
whisper.
"I don't see where that's any business of yours," Horner replied in a
shocked voice.
"You get a car on time, it's the finance company's business, isn't it?
You take out a mortgage, it's the bank's business--right?"
"Yes, but--"
"How much, then?"
"Well, er, six thousand dollars."
"Joint account with your wife?"
"Y-yes."
"Happily married?"
"Now, just a minute!"
"Are you or aren't you?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"You suppose so!"
"Yes, I'm happily married. Naturally, Jane isn't exactly the same girl
she was twenty years ago, when we were married. She's put on some
weight and she's got wrinkles and she's not exactly a sweater girl--"
"I see. Any children?"
"No, we were never blessed--"
"Blessed, is it? Well, that's good. No children. I think you'll do, Mr.
Horner."
* * * * *
"Do? Do for what?"
"Congratulations, sir," the rub-down man said, smacking some oil on
Horner's abdomen and squashing the flesh around to show Horner how soft
he'd become.
Horner said, "Say, what happened to George, anyway." George was
Horner's usual attendant at the Gotham Baths.
"George wised up. He's out getting a body job."
"Oh, something happen to George's car?"
"Not his car."
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
"He's getting a body job," said the attendant. "He's getting a new
body."
The hands went slap-slap against Horner's abdomen. He could hear the
attendant's heavy, regular breathing. "Ha-ha," he said. "You're pulling
my leg."
"I just now explained--"
"You said George was out getting a new body. That's a joke, isn't it?"
"It's no joke to George. It's costing him four thousand dollars, all
the money he has. But he thinks it's worth it. Wouldn't you?"
"A new, er, body, you mean?"
"Yes. To start life at age twenty-five again, aware of all your
mistakes, your short-comings, your--"
"All right," Horner said finally, "that's enough. I've been lying here
and listening because I've had no choice, understand? But you've worn
that joke out, fellow. I wish you'd stop."
* * * * *
The masseur mumbled something under his breath, then said, "Well, that
does it on the front side. Care to roll over?"
"Yes," said Horner dutifully, and did so. He thought: funny, the way
this bird delivered that new body pitch. Such a straight face. So
utterly serious, almost as if he were interviewing me. The silence
stretched. Horner regretted having asked the attendant to stop his yarn
about new bodies. He finally said, in defeat, "Er, about what you were
saying--"
"You want an appointment? That's what I'm here for."
"An appointment? With whom?"
The attendant wiped his hands on a large towel and tossed its twin to
Horner. From somewhere, he plucked a neat white business card and gave
it to Horner. The card said: