Robert Silverberg - To Live Again

“Claude is dead too. He died in December, swimming at night on the Great Baffler Reef. He can tell you nothing. Nothing. Unless you can get information from his persona, wherever it may be.”

Francesco Santoliquido said with obviously forced heartiness, “It’s good to see you again, John. I’m always delighted when you drop in.”

Roditis took the proffered hand. It was soft, warm, not precisely a flabby hand but certainly the hand of a man who welcomed all comforts. The door of Santoliquido’s office did not argue that he had spartan tastes. “Drink?”

“Certainly, Frank.” They touched ultrasonic snouts to their arms. Santoliquido beamed. “You’ve kept well, John. Still a demon for exercise, are you?”

“I get only one body to inhabit,” said Roditis. “I keep it with respect.”

“Naturally.” A wary expression crept into Santoliquido’s eyes. Roditis suspected that the older man was afraid of him, and he liked that, for Santoliquido was very high in the system of the world, very high indeed. He wondered just what Elena had been saying to Santoliquido about him, and what the response had been.

Roditis said, “The statue looks as splendid as ever.”

“The Kozak? Yes. Yes, a masterpiece.” Santoliquido chuckled. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten you have Anton Kozak sitting back of your eyes. Has he led you to take up sonic sculpture yet?”

“He tries,” said Roditis. “But I know my limitations.”

“A wise man.”

“I lack the skills of Kozak. I would not defame him by plying his art. His mind cannot drive my muscles.”

“Of course not,” conceded Santoliquido. “He is glad to see that piece again. He tells me it’s one of his favorites. A brilliant artist, Frank. I compliment myself many times for having chosen him. You know, a man like me, a man of dollars, I didn’t get much chance to learn how to appreciate beauty. Kozak has taught me. Now I know what the balance of line means: what the harmony of form is. I’m much richer.”

“That’s the purpose of the Scheffing process,” Santoliquido said sententiously. “To enhance, to enrich. Doubtless he’s greatly widened your horizons of perceptions. But tell me, John: how does Kozak find it, seeing the world through the eyes of a billionaire financier?”

“He enjoys it, I believe. He makes no complaints. His world is enriched too. He moved much too much in the company of esthetes; now he sees a different facet of existence. I’m sure that when he makes his next carnate trip he’ll try to express some of that new knowledge in art, if he’s lucky enough to be acquired by someone with the right skills for practicing sonic sculpture.”

“That’s far in the future,” said Santoliquido nervously. “You look quite healthy, John, and there’ll be no new carnate trip for you or your personae for a long time to come, I’m sure”

“I hope so.”

“And Walsh? Old Elio? He’s thriving too?”

“Oh, yes,” Roditis said. “We’re kindred spirits. He built a network of power-transmission stations; I’ve built a network of a different sort of power. He finds his present place quite rewarding. And I regard him as indispensable.” Roditis smiled, and held the smile just slightly too long, intentionally. Then he said, “I’m sure you realize that I didn’t ask for this appointment so I could discuss my existing personae.”

“Of course.”

“You realize why I’m here?”

“Naturally.”

“Shall I name it or will you?”

“Paul Kaufmann,” Santoliquido said. “Yes?”

“Yes. The old man’s been dead since the turn of the year. It’s nearly May now. There’s no reason for keeping him in storage any longer, is there?”

“We’re nearing a decision, John.”

“I’ve been hearing that phrase for weeks. I’d like to know how long you plan to go on nearing that decision’

“I’m approaching it rapidly,” said Santoliquido. “And asymptotically?”

“John, you don’t appreciate the complexity of what’s involved. Here’s the persona of one of the world’s most powerful men, perhaps the most powerful of his age, a uniquely vigorous personality, a man of colossal wealth, of the highest family connections. It takes time to evaluate the applicants for his persona. The decision can have far-reaching consequences.”

“How many other applicants are there?” Roditis asked.

“Hundreds.”

“And how many of them do you seriously think are qualified to handle a persona of such force?”

“Several,” Santoliquido said. Instantly Roditis knew that he was lying. But he did not dare force the situation beyond this point. Obviously Elena’s ministrations had clinched nothing yet. Santoliquido was still reluctant to surrender the Paul Kaufmann file.

Roditis said, “It’s not my intention to put pressure on you. I feel you owe it to the world to restore Paul Kaufmann to carnate existence, and I’m offering myself as the vehicle for that. As time passes, you know, his persona gets out of touch with the flow of events. We’ll forfeit his abilities to evaluate situations if we let the world become incomprehensible to him.”

“But do you think you’re an adequate vehicle, John?”

Surprised, Roditis answered, “Has anyone ever doubted that I am?”

“The Kaufmann persona is a powerful one.”

“I realize that. I’m prepared and capable. You’ve tested my capacity.”

“Yes. Even so, I remain uneasy. A man like Paul Kaufmann could so easily break through to dybbuk—”

“No one,” said Roditis stiffly, “is going to reach dybbuk at my expense. Not even Paul Kaufmann.”

“There are times,” Santoliquido murmured, “when I feel it would be best to leave that old man in storage forever.”

“That would be a crime against his persona! You have no right!”

“I didn’t say I would. But it’s a temptation. Otherwise we run the risk of loosing him on the world again. A buccaneer. A cannibal. A marauder.”

“He was merely a shrewd and aggressive businessman,” Roditis said. “Give him to me and he’ll be under control every minute of the day. I’ll harness him.”

“You’re very confident of yourself, John. Come with me.”

“Where?”

“To the main storage vault. I’ll give you a closer view of Kaufmann.”

Roditis had been in the storage vault before. But yet it never failed to strike pangs of awe in him as he moved through the low-roofed vestibule with its assortment of wary scanners and into the huge gloomy cavern of canned souls. They reached a sampling booth. Santoliquido requisitioned one of the storage caskets and cradled it firmly under one arm.

Looking about the colossal room, with its tier upon tier of racks and urns, Roditis said softly, “Do you know the eleventh book of the Odyssey? Odysseus goes to the Halls of Hades to seek advice of the soul of Teiresias.” His hand swept along the dully gleaming balcony. “Here we are. The Halls of Hades, the City of Perpetual Mist. We beach our boat and make our way along the banks of the River of Ocean. Odysseus draws his sword, digs a trench, pours libations to the dead. Honey and milk, wine, water. He sprinkles white barley. He cuts the throats of sheep. The dark blood pours into the trench, and now the souls of the dead come swarming up from below. He sees his unburied friend Elpenor. He is approached by his mother, but waves her away to speak with Teiresias. Then he meets others. The mother of Oedipus. The wife of Amphitryon. Ariadne. Poseidon. These are the Halls of Hades, Santoliquido. We can summon up departed souls.”

“You know your Homer well,” Santoliquido said. “I am a Greek,” said Roditis calmly. “Are you surprised?”