Robert Silverberg - Recalled to Life

Even more hellish than watching the slow ebb of life from a dying person, Harker thought, must be the wait while the hours pass after death, and the time for reanimadon passes with them. New torments had been loosed upon the world, he saw. He felt like a man riding a tiger that grew larger with each day.

He picked up another one:

.... you may remember I mentioned my wife mother of our four children who was close to death from cancer. Well she died the night I wrote to you, and not having heard from you yet I suppose you can not help me in this matter. I understand revival must be done on day of death, since she has now been gone two days I am arranging, for her burial. Though I am unhappy and disappointed I do not hold bitterness in my heart against you, may God forgive you for having let Lucy die. . . .

Harker remembered that one: Mikkelsen, from Minnesota. The implied accusation of murder, cloaked as it was by the prayer for God’s forgiveness, chilled him. He put the letters away, phoned across the lab to Raymond, and said he was going home for the day.

“Good luck with that hearing tomorrow,” Raymond said.

“Thanks.”

The air was clean and warm as he stepped outside; at five in the afternoon of an almost-summer day, the sun was still bright, the sky blue and curiously transparent. Harker tried to blot away the network of human suffering whose vortex he had apparently become; he drew in a deep breath, expanded his chest, swung his arms loosely at his sides.

A yellow dart crossed the sky and was gone; after it came the abrupt blurp of sound. It was a southbound rocket to Florida. No doubt it would be landing in Miami before he had reached his own home.

He remembered the legal fight when rocket service had been instituted on a commercial basis, almost thirty years ago. The jetlines had fought tooth and nail against introduction of rocket service; yet, today, both jets and rockets served the cause of transportation amicably enough.

There had been the Moon wrangle too, back in the trouble-wracked twentieth century. He had cut his legal teeth on the suits and countersuits; they were standard fare in every law-school. The Moon had been reached almost simultaneously by America and Russia in the early 1960’s, during a period of international conflict and danger, The Socialist revolution in Russia in 1971 had ended the threat of atomic war, but even so it had not been until 1997 that the United States agreed to join forces with the Federated Socialist States in making the Moon base truly international in character.

There, too, forces of reaction had fought the merger on grounds that seemed to them just and necessary. They had been defeated, ultimately—and now, the Moon base and its newer companion on Mars were hailed as triumphs of the harmony of mankind.

Now reanimation. The old struggle was joined again. Harker told himself that the force of history was on his side, that ultimate victory would be his. But what sacrifices would be made, what campaigns fiercely fought, before then?

He reached his home at six-fifteen. Lois had the video set on, and even as he stood in the doorway the words of a newscaster drifted toward him:

“Senator Thurman of New York and four colleagues today visited the Seller Laboratories and witnessed an actual human reanimation which was successful. Senator Thurman later commented, and I quote, There is no doubt that a restoration of life took place. What is in doubt is whether this power is one that mankind should permit to be used, end quote. Senator Thurman will head a committee to study the implications of reanimation. Hearings begin Monday in Washington —”

Thurman was chairman, and Thurman had already indicated opposition. It was not a good omen. Harker kissed his wife wearily and said to Chris, “Get me something strong to drink, lad. I’ve had a tough day.”

The headline the next morning, black against the faint green of the paper, was, THURMAN TO OPPOSE LEGALIZED REANIMATION. Harker read the story at breakfast; it seemed the veteran senator had had a chance to think things over, and his conclusion was that reanimation was unmitigatedly evil and should be suppressed.

Harker tried to pretend he had not seen it. It was a staggering setback; it negated any possible gains they might make at the hearing next week. With the vote of the tie breaking chairman already committed to their opposition, Harker thought, what chance did they stand?

He glanced quickly over the rest of the front page. Riot in Des Moines; accusation of reanimation leads to attack on doctor in Missouri. And—Harker nearly choked on his breakfast coffee—what was this?

RETURN TO LIFE A FAILURE PATIENT SUICIDES

New York — Police are searching the Hudson River this morning for the body of 58-year-old Wayne Janson, who allegedly jumped to his death from the lower level of the George Washington Bridge late last night. “Wayne was in a state of despondency since sub-nutting, to the Seller reanimation technique two months ago,” said Jonathan Bryant, of 312 W. 19th St., a close friend of the dead man. “He suffered a stroke in February and placed himself in the hands of the Better people. 1 was notified of his death and reanimation early in March, but when he returned to Manhattan he seemed to be entirely changed. His whole personality had changed. He—

“Excuse me,” Harker muttered to his wife. Clutching the paper, he ran to the phone and tapped out Mart Raymond’s number.

“Mart? Jim. Have you seen this Wayne Janson thing in the paper?”

“What’s that?”

Harker rapidly read the article. Raymond was silent for a moment, then said, “Huh? Who does he think he’s kidding?”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve never had anyone of that name here. Bryant’s obviously fabricating something.”

“I figured that when I saw his name in the article. You better check the records, though. We’ve got grounds for a suit if you’re right.”

“Jim, I tell you we’ve never carried out any reanimations on anyone named Wayne Janson. Bryant is obviously trying to smear us.”

“Smear me,” Harker corrected. “But I guess it amounts to the same thing.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Nothing yet,” Harker said. “I’ll wait until the police find the body and then demand proof from Bryant.”

“But there is no body, Jim! It’s just a hoax!”

Grimly Harker said, “It may be a hoax, but I’m willing to bet there’s a body. Jonathan isn’t that foolish!”

The long delayed Richard Bryant will hearing took place at last at half past ten that morning, in the gray-walled, luminolit chambers of District Judge T. H. Auerbach. The affair was almost a farce; it lasted no more than twenty minutes.

Jonathan Bryant was not there. His sister Helen was the official representative of the Bryant children, and she explained curtly that Jonathan was “overcome with grief at the death of a very dear friend last night” and would not attend.

Six other Bryants were in court, all of them hungry for the old man’s millions. They had retained a lawyer named Martinson who briefly and concisely explained that the old man had not been in sound mind at the time of making the will, and that it was therefore invalid.

It was a flimsy stand, and Harker said so. He spoke for no more than ten minutes. Judge Auerbach smiled politely, said he had studied the briefs from both sides with care, and ruled in favor of upholding the will.

Just as simple as that. Helen Bryant tossed Harker a glance of molten hatred and flounced out, followed by her younger brothers and sisters. Auerbach leaned forward from his bench and said to Harker, “I’m glad that’s over with. One more delaying injunction—”