Arthur Clarke - The Ghost from the Grand Banks

“Oh yes—the lager—it’s genuine, straight from Munich! And it cost us rather more than three pence per tankard. Even more than six.

“Enjoy yourselves, ladies and gentlemen. We’ll be topside in just one hour.”

It had not been easy to arrange, and had taken months of arguing across the border. However, the joint funeral services had gone smoothly enough; for once, sharing the same tragedy, Christian could talk politely to Christian. The fact that one of the dead had come from Northern Ireland helped a good deal; coffins could be lowered into the ground simultaneously in Dublin and Belfast.

As the “Lux aeterna” of Verdi’s Requiem Mass ebbed softly away, Edith Craig turned to Dolores and asked: “Should I tell Dr. Jafferjee now? Or will he think I’m crazy again?”

Dolores frowned, then answered in that lilting Caribbean accent that had once helped to reach the far place where Edith’s mind was hiding:

“Please, dear, don’t use that word. And yes, I think you should. It’s about time we spoke to him again—he’ll be getting worried. He’s not like some doctors I could mention—he keeps track of his patients. They’re not just case numbers to him.”

Dr. Jafferjee was indeed pleased to receive Edith’s call; he wondered where it was coming from, but she did not enlighten him. He could see that she was sitting in a large room with cane furniture (ah, probably the tropics—Dolores” home island?) and was happy to note that she seemed completely relaxed. There were two large photographs on the wall behind her, and he recognized both—Ada, and “Colleen.”

Physician and ex-patient greeted each other with warmth; then Edith said, a little nervously: “You may think I’m starting on another hopeless quest—and you may be right. But at least this time I know what I’m doing—and I’ll be working with some of the world’s top scientists. The odds may be a million to one against success. But that’s infinitely—and I mean infinitely—better than… than… finding what you need in the M-Set.”

Not what you need, thought Dr. Jafferjee: what you want. But he merely said, rather cautiously: “Go ahead, Edith. I’m intrigued—and completely in the dark.”

“What do you know about cryonics?”

“Not much. I know a lot of people have been frozen, but it’s never been proved that they can be—Oh! I see what you’re driving at! What a fantastic idea!”

“But not a ridiculous one?”

“Well, your million-to-one odds may be optimistic. But for such a payoff—no, I wouldn’t say it was ridiculous. And if you’re worried that I’ll ask Dolores to put you on the first plane back to the clinic, you needn’t be. Even if your project doesn’t succeed, it could be the best possible therapy.”

But only if, Jafferjee thought, you aren’t overwhelmed by the almost inevitable failure. Still, that would be years ahead…

“I’m so glad you feel that way. As soon as I heard that they were going to keep Colleen in the hope of identifying her, I knew what I had to do. I don’t believe in destiny—or fate—but how could I possibly turn down the chance?”

How could you, indeed? thought Jafferjee. You have lost one daughter; you hope to gain another. A Sleeping Beauty, to be awakened not by a young prince, but an aging princess. No—a witch—a good one, this time!—possessing powers utterly beyond the dreams of any Irish lass born in the nineteenth century.

If— if ! —it works, what a strange new world Colleen will face! She would be the one to need careful psychological counseling. But this was all the wildest extrapolation.

“I don’t wish to pour cold water on the idea,” Jafferjee said. “But surely, even if you can revive the body—won’t there be irreversible brain damage after a hundred years?”

“That’s exactly what I was afraid of, when I started thinking about it. But there’s a great deal of research that makes it very plausible—I’ve been quite surprised. More than that—impressed. Have you ever heard of Professor Ralph Merkle?”

“Vaguely.”

“More than thirty years ago, he and a couple of other young mathematicians revolutionized cryptography by inventing the public-key system—I won’t bother to explain that, but it made every cipher machine in the world, and a lot of spy networks, obsolete overnight.

“Then, in 1990—sorry, 1989—he published a classic paper called ‘Molecular Repair of the Brain’—”

“Oh, that fellow!”

“Good—I was sure you must have heard of his work. He pointed out that even if there had been gross damage to the brain, it could be repaired by the molecule-sized machines he was quite certain would be invented in the next century. Now. ”

“And have they been?”

“Many of them. Look at the computer-controlled microsubs the surgeons are using now, to ream out the arteries of stroke victims. You can’t watch a science channel these days without seeing the latest achievements of nanotechnology.”

“But to repair a whole brain, molecule by molecule! Think of the sheer numbers involved!”

“About ten to the twenty-third. A trivial number.”

“Indeed.” Jafferjee was not quite sure whether Edith was joking; no—she was perfectly serious.

“Very well. Suppose you do repair a brain, right down to the last detail. Would that bring the person back to life? Complete with memories? Emotions? And everything else—whatever it is—that makes a specific, self-conscious individual?”

“Can you give me a good reason why it wouldn’t? I don’t believe the brain is any more mysterious than the rest of the body—and we know how that works, in principle if not in detail. Anyway, there’s only one way to find out—and we’ll learn a lot in the process.”

“How long do you think it will take?”

“Ask me in five years. Then I may know if we’ll need another decade—or a century. Or forever.”

“I can only wish you luck. It’s a fascinating project—and you’re going to have lots of problems beside the purely technical ones. Her relations, for example, if they’re ever located.”

“It doesn’t seem likely. The latest theory is that she was a stowaway, and so not on the passenger list.”

“Well, the church. The media. Thousands of sponsors. Ghost writers who want to do her autobiography. I’m beginning to feel sorry for that poor girl already.”

And he could not help thinking, though he did not say it aloud: I hope Dolores won’t be jealous.

Donald, of course, had been both astonished and indignant: husbands (and wives) always were on such occasions.

“She didn’t even leave any message?” he said unbelievingly.

Dr. Jafferjee shook his head.

“There’s no need to worry. She’ll contact you as soon as she’s settled down. It will take her a while to adjust. Give her a few weeks.”

“Do you know where she’s gone?”

The doctor did not answer, which was answer enough.

“Well, are you quite sure she’s safe?”

“No doubt of it; she’s in extremely good hands.” The psychiatrist made one of those lengthy pauses which were part of his stock-in-trade.

“You know, Mr. Craig, I should be quite annoyed with you.”

“Why?” asked Donald, frankly astonished.

“You’ve cost me the best member of my staff—my right-hand woman.”

“Nurse Dolores? I wondered why I’d not seen her—I wanted to thank her for all she’d done.”

Another of those calculated pauses; then Dr. Jafferjee said: “She’s helped Edith more than you imagine. Obviously, you’ve never guessed, and this may be a shock to you. But I owe you the truth—it will help you with your own adjustment.