"Euthanasia." Maine was definite. "There seems tittle point in waiting unless, that is, you wish to undergo the experience to its fullest. I cannot recommend it. The danger with painful and violent death—self-induced death, that is, though the danger is always potential—is that the Death Trauma is so intensified that Breakthrough sometimes becomes impossible." He sighed. "It is something I wish these loopers would understand. The danger of crippling yourself is hardly worth a new experience."

  "I'm no looper." Brad leaned forward, crushed out his cigarette, met the lifeman's eyes. "When I was resurrected I understood that I was completely whole and cured. You discharged me on that understanding. I agreed to your charges on that belief. Now you tell me that I'm dying of the same complaint I suffered when I first entered the Cradle. It seems to me that someone isn't playing fair."

  "I don't understand." Maine was stiff. Brad snarled.

  "I figure that I've been cheated. By you. By the Institute. Is that plain enough?"

  The room became very quiet. Only the slight noise made by the attendant novice as he adjusted his weight broke the stillness. Brad caught the sound but didn't look at the young man. Maine was in no danger of physical attack—he didn't need a bodyguard, but Brad wondered how often a patient went berserk. Often enough, that was obvious, or there would have been no need for the watchful attendant. Then Maine sighed.

  "You wouldn't know," he said quietly. "I must excuse your insult on the grounds of ignorance. You cannot know what you are saying."

  Brad recognized his anger and realized that he had gone too far. He had, in essence, spat in the face of the King. Or accused a nun of being a harlot. But he still had to be satisfied.

  "I'm sorry." He looked down at his hands, not trusting his eyes. "I did not mean to offend. But you can appreciate the shock. I thought I was cured. When I left here I was convinced of it. And now—"

  "I understand." Maine could afford to be gracious. "I accept your apology."

  "Then," said Brad tightly, "perhaps you will be good enough to explain?"

  "The explanation is simple. When you left here you displayed no sign of cancer. I did mention that the present outbreak must be from previously dormant foci. In that case, of course, they would not have been recognizable."

  "Dormant!" Brad stared his disbelief. "When I entered the Cradle," he said distinctly, "I had advanced cancer of the stomach and lower bowel. It was inoperable—that's why they put me away, to wait for a time when such things could be cured. And now you sit there and tell me that you spotted no signs of such a condition? Did you look?"

  "We looked."

  "Are you sure? Helen and Carl, the other two, they had suffered from over-exposure to radiation. Time would cure them. Did you automatically assume that I suffered from the same complaint?"

  He had been shouting. He realized it as the novice rose and stepped toward him, realized too that he must seem like a man about to lose his temper, perhaps to go berserk. To kill and die killing in the compulsive need for emotional release.

  "All right," said Maine quietly. He wasn't talking to Brad. "Resume your seat."

  The novice hesitated, then obeyed. Maine didn't look at him; his eyes held Brad's.

  "We have here," he said in the same quiet tone, "a problem. Two sets of opposed facts. Let us assume that both are true. You displayed unmistakable signs of advanced cancer when you entered the Cradle. I found no such signs. Something, then, must have happened to produce that effect. It is remotely possible that your body managed to repair itself—such things can happen during long periods of complete rest and quiet. But cancer is not a disease in the true sense of the word. It is a violent and uncontrolled growth of normal cells which are harmful, not beneficial to the body. It is not an organic disease or a malfunction of bodily chemistry. You understand?"

  Brad nodded.

  "Let us progress. What was said to you as you entered the Cradle?"

  "Uh?"

  "What was said to you? What were the last words you heard?"

  "I …" Brad frowned, trying to remember. "I think it was something like 'You've nothing to worry about,' " he said. "Something like 'You'll soon be better.' "

  "Are you certain?" Maine was very intense. "Please be precise."

  "I think—no!" Brad remembered the smiling face touched with concern. Doctor Lynne trying to be cheerful. What had he said? "I remember now," said Brad. "It was 'When you wake your troubles will be over.' "

  "Are you positive?"

  "Yes."

  "I see." Maine relaxed. He was smiling. "When you wake your troubles will be over," he mused. "You were under sedation, of course. Your body completely relaxed. Your mind tranquil. In a perfect condition for a hypnotic command. Your subconscious accepted the words as such and, when you woke, your troubles were over. You no longer displayed signs of cancer. It is possible that the original outbreak had dissipated in some way, the rogue cells assimilated into the body, unwanted tissue which the subcellular blueprint of the body had disposed of. You know, Stevens, this is all very interesting. Given a long enough period and strong enough hypnosis, who can tell what might be accomplished?"

  "Not me." Brad couldn't share the other's enthusiasm. "And I don't really care. All I know is that I'm dying of cancer."

  "True." Maine returned his attention to his patient. "Perhaps the original foci retained their life or other foci could have been stimulated into activity. The point is academic." He slipped the sheaf of reports back into their folder. "Well, I'm glad that we've managed to clear that up, Stevens. Did you want to see me about anything else?"

  "Wait," snapped Brad. "I still want to live. What can be done? How about regrafts?"

  "Body-replacements?" Maine nodded. "It is always possible but I must be frank. In your case there would be complications."

  "Money?"

  "That isn't my department," said Maine stiffly. "I was talking from the viewpoint of operative procedure. Your original cancer was caused by exposure to radiation which, in a sense, seeded you with cancerous foci. Now, in order for a regraft to be effective the natural resistance of the body to what is, in a biological sense, a foreign body must be overcome. This is done by extensive irradiation. You see the danger?"

  "I see it." Brad fumbled for a cigarette, lit it, found comfort in the familiar smoke. "The irradiation could easily set up new foci so that I'd be back where I started."

  "Exactly. And there is another factor to be taken into consideration. The world isn't as you knew it, Stevens. The race has changed. The years following the Debacle did much to eliminate certain traits and weaknesses. Diabetes, hemophilia, epilepsy are unknown now. Only the strong could survive. There was a period of ruthless culling and the establishment of affinitive types. And there was a lot of radiation with consequent mutation. In short—it may not be easy to find suitable regrafts for your body."

  "But they could be found? It isn't hopeless?"

  "No," Maine admitted. "But it may take time—and it will be expensive."

  "Yes, I suppose so." Brad tasted blood and realized that he had bitten his lip. "But, damn it, there's a chance!"

  It was all that mattered.

  The Life Institute was fronted by a broad flight of steps sweeping up to the huge, ever-open doors. They made fine seats if you didn't mind the hardness and the curious glances of the passers-by. Brad cared for neither. Locked in his own world he sat and stared into the distance and, though the sun was warm, he couldn't rid himself of an inner chill.

  He was going to die.

  He had always been going to die but now it was different. Now he had to count life in days instead of years, hours even, he couldn't be sure. He could only be certain of one thing. Without morphine he was going to suffer the agony of the damned—and he had no morphine.

  The accountant had been adamant.

  "I'm sorry, but really, your debt is already far too large for us to be able to extend further credit. After all, we are carrying you to the further extent of your examination and consultation."

  "That's generous of you."

  "Amazingly so." The accountant had missed the sarcasm. "It is only because Master Maine feels a certain sense of responsibility toward you that agreement was reached, but that is as far as we can go."

  "Am I suppose to drag out what's left of my life in agony?"

  "Of course not, we aren't savages. Euthanasia is free in such cases as yours. Your debt, in that case, well—" The man had tried a little humor, "—we can't win all the time, can we? Every organization has some bad debts—yours will be one of them. Now I don't suppose you want to wait too long. Shall we make an appointment for euthanasia now?"

  Brad hadn't made the appointment. He hadn't managed to gain credit for morphine either. Money could buy it at any drug store but he didn't have money. Money could do so many things. It could even buy him the chance of continued life.

  He glowered and lit another cigarette.

  The worst part was how they had all managed to make him feel stupid and a little peculiar. The receptionist, the attendants in the wards, Maine, the accountant, even his fellow patients once the word had gotten around. He was dying and instead of pity, they had only displayed a controlled impatience. He was dying—so what?

  Where's the problem?

  It was a natural enough reaction—for them. He would have felt the same toward a medieval man in need of an appendectomy. What was there to worry about? Just have the operation and get it over. It's just a sleep and a wakening. But to such a man, an operation of that nature would be tantamount to death. He simply wouldn't have been able to believe that he would wake again. It was just a question of viewpoint.

  Brad was still a medieval man.

  The cigarette burned his fingers and he threw away the butt, watching it fall, the thin column of smoke rising from the damp cylinder, wavering as it neared extinction. Automatically he reached into his pocket for another cigarette. His fingers touched pasteboard and he drew it out and looked at it.

  It was the card Velda had given him. Marc Veldon's card.

  Veldon—who was rich.

  XIV

  THE ROOM WAS AN inverted bowl of tinted glass, the air tanged with the scent of pine, the carpet so deep and rich that it was like walking on a cloud. Baroque statuary lined the walls interspersed with fragments of decaying art. Small tables bore other pieces of craftsmen's skill; a set of chessmen carved from amber, a scattering of Victorian paperweights, a figurine of hammered brass.

  Brad wandered among them, finally pausing to pick up a piece of jade, running his fingers over the cunningly shaped surface, a little surprised at the tactile pleasure it gave.

  "A beautiful piece," said a voice behind him. "It is an endless pity that it represents a lost art."

  Marc Veldon smiled at Brad as he turned. He was of medium height, stooped, thin. His face was creased, his mouth a gash, his eyes peered from beneath bushy brows. A mane of white hair fell down to his collar. He looked a worn sixty-five but was probably older.

  "Ninety-eight," he said, and lifted a hand. "No, I am not a telepath, but I have lived long enough to learn how to read expression. Your curiosity was apparent."

  "Satisfy it some more. Why did you want to see me?"

  "Perhaps I too am curious. It isn't often that I have the opportunity of talking with a man older than myself. Does that answer your question?"

  "No," snapped Brad. "I would suggest that you had some other reason."

  "Of course." Veldon shrugged. "That must be obvious. But I forget myself. Would you like some refreshment? Tea, coffee, alcohol—morphine?"

  "No, thank you." Brad felt himself tense. How much did this man know?

  "As you wish." A glint appeared in the deep-set eyes. "I hope that you are not going to prove to be a difficult man, Stevens. I expected you long before this."

  "I came when I was ready," said Brad evenly. "You probably know why I was delayed."

  "I know. But I am not accustomed to being kept waiting—not even when matters seem to have a higher priority. It would be as well for you to remember that."

  The ghoul, thought Brad grimly, was typical of his class. Then he remembered his own desperate need and swallowed his pride.

  "I apologize," he said. "I didn't realize the matter was urgent."

  He had said the right thing. Veldon, mollified, waved him to a chair.

  "Let us talk." He waited until they were seated. "As you guessed, I did not send for you to assuage idle curiosity. As it happens I have seen all three of you sleepers before and know one quite well." He made a peculiar hissing sound as if laughing inwardly at some secret joke. "Very well indeed."

  "You are talking of Carl Holden?"

  "Who else? He is strong, healthy, a little willful and very much of a fool, but that is the fault of his brain, not of his body. How long would you say he has to live?"

  "What?" Brad was startled by the question. "I'm not certain. About fifty years. The life expectancy of my time was about eighty."

  "Eighty years," said Veldon softly. "How fortunate you were—and how foolish to throw away so much. You know, Stevens, when I was born I could look forward to, with luck, no more than fifty years of life."

  "The Debacle?"

  "Yes. The poisons spread then are only slowly dying and cellular disintegration caused by radiation has a direct bearing on age. People now do not live as long as they did."

  "But," said Brad dryly, "there are exceptions. You, for example."

  "I am a ghoul. Most of my body originally belonged to other men, but there is a point beyond which regrafts are no longer possible." Veldon paused. "I have reached that point."

  "Then you will die?"

  "No!"

  He was defiant and, as he rose and paced the floor, Brad realized that, to Veldon, the prospect of death was intolerable. The man read his expression.

  "You wonder why I should fear death," he said quietly. "I am not a cripple. I know that I have lived before and will live again. But as what?" His gesture took in the room, the furnishings, his whole personal empire. "Will I be as rich? As powerful?"

  "Does it matter?" Brad couldn't understand the man's mania. Surely life was more important than money. "You could always rebuild."

  They left the chamber roofed with glass and entered another lined with luminescent panels. The pine scent of the air gave way to a raw, animal-like odor. A monkey squatted in a cage. Veldon leaned against it, blocking the animal from view.

  "We spoke of death," he said. "Ordinary, physical death, but why should men have to die at all? That is a question I have been trying to answer for thirty years."

  "Have you found the answer?"

  "I have. It is merely an extension of regrafting techniques. If a man can give me his stomach to replace my own then what is to stop him giving me his entire body? That is the problem I set my lifemen and technicians. How to successfully transplant a human brain from one body to another. The results are in this cage."

  Veldon stepped to one side and gestured toward the interior. The monkey squatted in one corner aimlessly plucking at its fur. A thin cicatrice ran around its shaven skull.

  "Look at it," urged Veldon. "Tell me what you think."

  "It seems to be in fine condition," said Brad cautiously. He wondered what the man was trying to prove. He scratched at the bars of the cage and the animal turned to look at the sound. The eyes were wild and without focus. "How are the reflexes?"

  "Slow."

  "Motor coordination?"

  "Perfect. Don't judge wholly by what you see. The animal has been kept under sedation but the tests are conclusive. The operation has been perfectly successful."

  "How many?"

  "Operations?" Veldon shrugged. "I can't really say. We had many failures, naturally, but this is the tenth consecutive success. This particular operation is now merely a matter of routine."

  "I see." Slowly Brad straightened and looked at the other man. "And now, I suppose, you carry it on to its logical development. You try it on a higher order of life."

  "On men," said Veldon. "Naturally."

  "Men!" Brad drew a deep breath. "Where can you find such volunteers?"

  "I don't. There is no need. I buy what is required."

  "Of course," said Brad. He thought of Weston and knew now why the man had run.

  "You seem disturbed," said Veldon. "Some coffee?"

  They had returned to the chamber roofed with glass where refreshments stood on a table and the air was heavy with culture and good taste.

  "Thank you." Brad accepted the cup. "Do you intend escaping physical death by having your brain transplanted into another man's body?"

  "Of course."

  "Holden's?"

  "So you guessed." Veldon smiled as he helped himself to more coffee. "Delancy is an associate of mine and was perfectly willing to sell me Holden's debt. At a profit, naturally. More coffee?"

  "Not at the moment."

  "You are calm," said Veldon. "I like that. I had half-expected some foolish emotional outburst but Velda was correct in her estimate of you. You did well to come to me, Stevens."

  "Perhaps. Does it have to be Holden?"

  "Yes. His nucleic acids match mine to a favorable degree and there are other advantageous factors which cannot be denied."

  "His potential longevity?"

  "That, too, is important," agreed Veldon. He sniffed at his coffee. "I'll be frank, Stevens. Holden is the best subject I could hope to find. I do not intend losing him."

  "You may have no choice." Brad felt an overwhelming desire to shatter the man's arrogant confidence. "Carl has ideas of his own. You may not be able to foreclose on his debts."

  "You are talking of his enterprises," smiled Veldon. "They are doomed to failure. I control the companies and speculations in which he is interested. A year, two years, I can give him that. I shall not be ready before then." His smile grew wider. "Of course, you could attempt to warn him, but I think you will be wasting your time. Holden is an optimist."

  And he would have a wife who would keep him rigidly in line. Brad could see where Velda fitted into the pattern. He wondered about himself.

 

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