Robert Silverberg - Recalled to Life

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 roadblock still functioned-only this time there were five guards there instead of two, and three of them held mul-tishot rifles, the other two machine-pistols. Harker approached and said, “How come the firearms?”

“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 Better Research Laboratories of Litchfield, established in 2024 by a grant from the late Darwin F. Seller, was 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 500 hundred 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 deny 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. Even in the small room, the airconditioners 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 researchers 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.