Robert Silverberg - To Live Again

“No, there’s more time than that. The quaestorate hasn’t finished the autopsy. And then they’ll have to move through channels, deciding if they dare to arrest me, swearing out the warrant, arranging the mindpick. I’ve got at least twenty-four hours.” Paul did not reply. His head aching, Mark attempted to reconstruct the sequence of events. He had seen Donahy Tuesday afternoon. That same day Santoliquido had called to announce his intention of transplanting Paul’s persona into the vacated St. John body. On Wednesday, Mark had inspected the St. John body, then had flown to San Francisco. Also on Wednesday, Donahy had abstracted last year’s persona recording of Paul Kaufmann from the archives. Wednesday night, in San Francisco, Donahy had transplanted the persona into Mark. Mark had remained out there on Thursday, resting and adapting to the powerful new persona. Meanwhile, in New York on Thursday, the most recent Paul Kaufmann persona had been transplanted into the St. John body, and St. John had been taken to Mark’s apartment for recuperation. Sometime late Thursday night St. John had been murdered.

Now it was Friday afternoon, and Mark, back from San Francisco, found himself in deep trouble. Just when everything had been going so well, too. He and Paul had adjusted to one another remarkably smoothly. There had been none of the tests of strength, none of the jockeying and probing that might have been anticipated when strong-willed old uncle entered strong-willed nephew’s mind. Paul had been delighted at getting a new carnate trip, fascinated by the shady way Mark had obtained his persona, and absolutely overjoyed to learn that a second and later version of himself was also going to be at large in dybbuk form. He showed no resentment of the fact that the provision in his will barring transplant to a member of his family had been circumvented, possibly because that codicil had been added after this particular persona had been recorded. Recognizing Roditis as the real family enemy, Paul was willing to aid his nephew in every way, while at the same time helping to isolate and immobilize the dybbuk-Paul whom Santoliquido had spawned. Of course, Mark was prepared for conflict with his uncle sooner or later, possibly even a sneaky attempt to go dybbuk at his expense. But for now, at least, their mutual adaptation was splendid, and Mark reveled at having the crusty, indomitable old brigand finally safe in his mind.

Then, to fly home and walk into this — Well, there were certain obvious first steps to take. The most obvious of all was to check last night’s scanner records and see who had been in his apartment. He had a pretty good idea. There weren’t many people who had even conditional access, and the only one with full access, Risa, was still in Europe, so far as he knew.

The scanner file gave him the quick answer. Elena had been here. She had applied for admission just before eleven last night, and the robots had let her in. Mark saw her on the tape, and there was nothing unusual about her expression, as there might have been if she had come to commit a discorporation.

But who was this who had come in with her? This tall, blond fellow with the taut, edgy look in his eyes?

Noyes? Charles Noyes? Noyes of Roditis Securities?

Elena had brought him here?

—There’s your killer, Paul said. He must be. “Not so fast,” Mark muttered. “Noyes is Roditis’ man, sure, but Roditis doesn’t do foolish things. If he wanted to kill St. John, he wouldn’t send someone like Noyes here to do the job. It’s too transparent.”

—What do you know about Noyes? I recall that he’s not too stable.

“No, not very.” — Then perhaps Roditis picked a bungler. Run the tape a little further.

Mark moved it along. The figures of Elena and Noyes appeared at the door again some ten minutes later. Noyes looked more tense than ever, almost close to collapse. And Elena, now, gave every impression of hysteria. Obviously something significant had happened in those ten minutes — such as the murder of Martin St. John. The two figures were exchanging hurried conversation at the door. Mark could not read their lips, nor was there any audio on the scanner tape, but he knew that a simple computer analysis of lip patterns would tell him what they were saying. He watched Noyes hurry from the apartment. Then Elena disappeared from the door. About twenty minutes later she left looking calmer. That concluded the Thursday night record. The file of outgoing calls showed none until one in the morning, when a robot had noticed St. John dead and had summoned the quaestors.

“That’s it, then.” Mark said. “She let him in, and he killed St. John.”

—There’s no proof. It’s all circumstantial, Mark. Where’s the weapon? Where are the witnesses? St. John might have been killed by someone else before Noyes ever got here, for all your records show. A blowdart through a window, maybe.

“It’s enough to authorize a mindpick, Paul. And a mindpick will show Noyes’ guilt. I’ve got to get him picked before anyone thinks of mindpicking me, or they’ll find you.” — You might try talking to Elena, Paul suggested. But Elena did not answer when he called her apartment. Curiously, she had not even left a forwarding number. Mark buzzed her inner number, thinking that perhaps she had posted a forwarding number for limited distribution to close friends, but that drew a blank too. Where was she? She never went anywhere without notifying him first. And she surely knew that he was due back in New York sometime today.

He phoned Santoliquido next. As usual, it was a slow, bothersome job to get through to him. When Santoliquido appeared, his quizzical expression showed that he had heard the news.

“Where have you been, Mark?”

“Away on business since late Wednesday. And when I got backSt. John—”

“I know. The quaestors notified me.”

“What is this all about Frank?”

“I haven’t any idea. But of course I have my suspicions.”

“Such as?”

“Never mind,” said Santoliquido. “They’re unfounded at present. The important thing is that your uncle is discorporate again, and we have to start the whole process from the beginning.”

Mark felt a secret pleasure at the knowledge that his uncle was far from discorporate. He heard the old man’s silent, complacent chuckle within him.

To Santoliquido he said, “Do you expect Roditis to reapply?”

“Why shouldn’t he? The persona’s available again.”

“And you’ve run out of ways to avoid giving it to him.” Santoliquido nodded. “For the moment at least”

“Listen to me, Frank, I want one last favor. Stall him off. If only for a few days. I can’t explain now, but I’ve got reason to think you’ll be wasting everyone’s time if you give Paul to Roditis now. Will you wait at least until the report of the quaestors is issued?”

“I’ll do that, yes,” Santoliquido agreed. “Good.” Mark paused a moment. Then, in a carefully more relaxed tone, he said, “You haven’t seen Elena lately, have you?”

With the same deliberate casualness Santoliquido replied, “Lately? Well, let’s see … I had lunch with her yesterday. Is that lately enough?”

“I meant today.”

“No. The last I saw of her was one in the afternoon yesterday. You’ve phoned her apartment?”

“Of course,” Mark said. “I suppose she’s taken a little trip. I imagine I’ll be hearing from her soon.”

Roditis said, “So it’s all done, and you’re back here, and no one’s the wiser, Charles. Was that so bad?”

Kravchenko attempted to keep his facial muscles fixed in the bland, idiotic expression of benignity that he imagined Charles Noyes customarily to have worn. He was on edge, here in Roditis’ Indiana headquarters, for this was the first test of his dybbukhood. If he failed to fool Roditis, he’d be on the scrapheap by nightfall.