Xchange

by Stan Mason

  ‘Now hold on a minute!’ snapped Preston angrily, becoming nervous by the threat when the situation really had nothing to do with him. ‘Just watch what you’re saying, Da Silva. You’re going to open a can of worms pointing the finger at people and causing needless trouble.’

  ‘I’m not going to pull any punches, Mr. Preston,’ rattled the Doctor fiercely. ‘I intend to put in a paper to the authorities on the matter but first I shall contact my Member of Parliament demanding an immediate investigation into the matter. If he can’t make any headway I shall go to the Press and the media. They have a very good nose for finding out the truth. One thing’s certain. I can’t continue to close my eyes to something I don’t understand... something strange and very odd!’

  ‘Why can’t you leave the matter with me?’ suggested Preston, hoping to delay the Doctor in his endeavours. ‘Let me make some enquiries. I mean I’m on the inside. I can find out much more than you on the outside.’

  Da Silva thought about the offer for a few moments without speaking and then conceded. ‘Very well,’ he returned, ‘but don’t hang me out to dry. I want an answer shortly... say one week. After that, I’ll be obliged to take the matter into my own hands.’

  He passed a business card to the Governor who placed it neatly on his desk. Then, after shaking hands, the Doctor left being chaperoned by the warder out of the prison. Without delay, Preston picked up the telephone receiver and dialled Jordan’s number.

  ‘We have a problem, Mr. Jordan,’ he began sombrely.

  ‘What is it?’ asked the government agent cautiously.

  ‘I’ve just had a visit from a Dr. Da Silva who has been carrying out autopsies on the prisoners who died after their exchange. Nor surprisingly, his suspicions are aroused by the fact that all the corpses have old people’s bodies. He says that if no one give him a cogent explanation, he’s going public with it.’

  ‘Dr. Da Silva!’ repeated Jordan slowly, turning over the pages of his diary. ‘Yes... I have his name and address here. The pathologist. Okay... leave it with me, Preston. I’ll handle it.’

  The line went dead and the Governor replaced the telephone receiver into its cradle, staring hard at the business card. He stood quite still for a while, his brain moving like a computer as he tried to work out how Jordan was going to appease the pathologist. He considered it to be no mean task as the Doctor had the bit between his teeth. He returned to his private room, removed his clothes, and lay on the bed for a while and thought about the visit. Da Silva was determined to find out the truth, and who could blame him? It was his job... it was his duty! It was obvious that something wasn’t right. However his attitude was entirely wrong. Instead of closing his eyes to the anomaly, he had threatened to go public after discussing the matter with his Member of Parliament. In addition, he had threatened to name all the Governors he had seen naming them in a conspiracy. It was well-known that whistle-blowers always suffered severely, some even fatally. How was Jordan going to deal with Da Silva, that was the question. Preston had enough on his plate without getting involved in murder for that was the only way they could stop the Doctor from revealing the truth.

  Preston knew that it was against all the laws of nature to contact the Doctor but his conscience thought otherwise. Five days passed before he made the decision to do so. All that he could do was to tell the man that he needed more time before going back to Jordan to find out what he intended to do. Naively thinking that he was doing the right thing, he rang the number on the business card to hear the voice of a woman at the other end of the line.

  ‘May I speak with Dr. Da Silva,’ he requested calmly, believing that he was speaking to the receptionist.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ came the unexpected reply. ‘He’s dead. He was killed by a hit-and-run driver three days ago. I’m his sister. Can I help you in any way?’

  Preston rudely ended the conversation without saying another word and replaced the telephone receiver into its cradle. So this was how Jordan dealt with people who threatened to expose the exchange programme. The secret was so important that he had no option but to murder anyone who endangered the programme, The Governor felt anger surge through him as he asked himself what right the government agent had to act as God in such matters. He had deliberately arranged for someone to kill the Doctor with no compassion whatsoever considering him to be an inconvenience. What difference did it make to him of the Doctor died in a motor vehicle accident? After all, he could always be replaced by someone else. Preston felt a bitter taste in his mouth as he digested the news. Surely the exchange programme couldn’t be worth the loss of human lives... the murder of innocent people by those who were not serving life sentences for murder!

  ***

  The old adage goes that it never rains but it pours and that’s exactly how it torrented down the following week. Before it happened, it was apparent that prisoners were being exchanged on a regular basis according to the scheduled programme., The numbers were increasing day by day and all seemed to be going well. However Fate had a way of changing things in an instant. As everything was going to plan, Jordan decided to take a day off to drive to a golf course and play a round with one of his colleague. He had just struck his golf ball off the tee, dropping it no less than six inches from the flag some one-hundred-and-eighty yards away when a man could be seen racing across the greens holding an envelope in his hand. He reached Jordan puffing and panting leaning forward to pass the message to the government agent.

  ‘This just came through for you on the telephone,’ he managed to say, his chest heaving with the effort.

  Jordan placed his club into the golf bag, took the envelope, and tore it open with a frown appearing on his face. It turned out to be a message from the scientist Wilson asking him to make contact immediately. Jordan made his apologies to the other golf player and sped to the Club House wondering what could be so urgent.

  ‘There’s been another mishap, Mr. Jordan,’ the scientist told him point-blank.

  ‘What is it now?’ demanded the government agent tiredly. He had been so set on enjoying a day playing golf and now it was clearly being spoilt.

  ‘There’s been another death,’ explained Wilson flatly.

  ‘What’s so important about that?’ snapped Jordan with an element of anger in his voice. ‘It’s not the first time. There’s been a number of them so far!’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ continued the scientist apprehensively. ‘This time it wasn’t a prisoner. Cosmo James was once an Olympic discus champion. He was eighty-two. We placed him in the cubicle as usual with the metal coat around him but after we turned on the current, he passed away. This time, it wasn’t the prisoner who died but the recipient.’

  Jordan paused at the other end of the line trying to absorb the information. ‘Maybe it was his turn to die before the exchange took place. After all, he was eighty-two.’

  ‘I don’t believe that,’ retorted the scientist. ‘He was medically examined before the exchange and passed fit. I think there’s a flaw in the operation.’

  ‘I’m not going to suspend the programme on a hunch like that, Wilson,’ commented Jordan bluntly. ‘Every day the programme isn’t working will work very much against us. You see it’s my belief that word of the programme will eventually become public. The more people we can pass through until that happens the better. As long as medical examinations take place before the participants go into the cubicles we’re in the clear.’

  There was a long pause before Wilson continued. ‘There’s chaos in the laboratory,’ he revealed hesitatingly. ‘I think you ought to come here to sort it out as soon as possible.’

  The government agent screwed up his face in ostensible anger. With a request of that nature, there was no means by which he could continue playing golf that day. He rued the fact that his day had been entirely undermined by the news. Without delay, he parked his golf club in his car and dr
ove to ASA Headquarters to sort out the mess. When he arrived there, he discovered that all exchanges had been suspended pending an enquiry into the reason why the old athlete had died.

  ‘Why has everything stopped?’ asked Jordan with grave concern.

  ‘We’re not certain whether the equipment caused the death,’ stated Wilson solemnly. ‘If so, many more recipients will die while being processed.’

  ‘How long will this enquiry take?’ demanded the government agent fearing the worst.

  ‘I’ve arranged for a complete overhaul of the system but you need to understand that it’s very complex It could take days... maybe weeks.’

  ‘Surely this was a one-off situation,’ muttered Jordan irritated by the delay. ‘Other than the prisoners, everyone is old. They’re all old men! Death is bound to happen before and after the exchange takes place.’

  ‘We can’t take changes, Mr. Jordan,’ remarked the scientist.

  ‘Why not?’ came the question. ‘On the one hand we have prisoners serving life sentences. There’s no hardship if they die. Their lives were forfeit anyway. On the other hand we have dignitaries and famous people who would die within a short tie anyway. What difference does it make if there’s a few hiccups with the programme?’

  ‘It’s far too risky to press on ahead hoping that everything will work out all right. It’s necessary to take every precaution available.’

  The government agent stood quite still thinking through the dilemma. ‘My God!’ he exclaimed suddenly. ‘I’ll have to inform every Governor to stop sending prisoners here for the exchange to take place.’ He turned sharply to the scientist. ‘Wait here. I’ll be back shortly!‘

  He left Wilson to go to one of the offices in the building, heading directly to a fax machine. He typed out a short message which he sent to all the Governors involved in the exchange programme. However before he pressed the key to send the message to them all, he hesitated to reflect the situation. If he sent the message, they would immediately halt all transfers of the prisoners to the Headquarters. He suddenly realised that he was reacting far too quickly to the issue. He needed time to think... time to consider all the options... time to establish whether on not the old Olympic athlete had died as a result of the exchange process. Subsequently, he removed the message from the machine without sending it and returned to Wilson who was sitting down drinking a cup of coffee.

  ‘Mr. Wilson,’ he began. ‘I want an autopsy carried out on Cosmo James... and I want it done now! We need to find out the reason why he died. I want to see his medical records as soon as possible because it may be that he was dying before he came here. If that’s the case, the equipment’s in perfect order and we can continue accordingly.’

  ‘Right,’ returned the scientist, making a note of the orders. First, the autopsy. Second, the medical records.’ He turned on his heel, still holding the cup of coffee, and he disappeared from the room.

  Jordan sat down on a chair deep in thought. There was every chance that the old Olympic athlete had been dying long before he arrived at the Headquarters. A dose of the highly-charged current would have finished off his weakened body. He considered it to be correct for every participant to be medically examined before undertaking the process. Normally, any ailments to one of the bodies would be switched to the other body. In this particular case, death occurred before the transfer could take place.

  ‘What rotten luck!’ he thought to himself. ‘It would have been only a matter of a few minutes before the exchange took place, in which case it would have been the prisoner who died in the cubicle.’ He shook his head slowly at the fickle finger of Fate. Sometimes it worked in favour of a person; sometimes it failed to do so. He remained in the laboratory for a period of half-an-hour, staring bleakly at the two empty cubicles before Wilson returned with a file in his hands.

  ‘Here’s the medical note of the dead man plus those of the pathologist,’ he said, passing the file to the other man.

  Jordan opened the cover to read the contents, nodding his head as he did. ‘He had cancer of the lungs,’ he muttered bitterly. ‘He died of a pulmonary embolism while being placed into the cubicle which had nothing to do with the exchange process.’ He stood up as though he had grown wings and he handed the file back to the scientist. ‘Right!’ he uttered firmly. ‘The process can continue without delay!’

  ‘Do you really want to take responsibility for any adverse situations that may occur?’ challenged the scientist.

  ‘I’m already responsible!’ came the stern reply. ‘Get the system operating again and make it fast. We’ve already wasted enough time.’

  Wilson shrugged his shoulders in dismay, unhappy with the decision. It seemed to him the most appropriate thing to do but he was being overridden by the government agent. They would continue sailing close to the edge in the hope that everything would work out right. It was a dangerous ploy to take when safety was the real consideration, but those in charge deemed otherwise!

  ***

  In Victorian times, when class-distinction was all important in Britain to families, there was always a vast difference between the ordinary people, tradesmen and those with higher eminent qualifications. In the modern age, that difference has blurred into insignificance whereby it is identified only by the rich and the poor. Charles Wilkins was both a fashion retailer and an industrialist. He had built up an empire which consisted of two hundred-and-sixty retail shops, selling ladies fashions throughout the country supported by a number of factories which manufactured the goods. A multi-millionaire, he started his career in the East End of London as a boy who swept the floor of the factory and helped to make the tea. When he was nineteen years old, he was able to cut and design the cloth used to make the products, operate the sewing machines, as well as the Hoffman Press. Shortly afterwards, he borrowed a small amount of money deciding to open up a tiny factory of his own making ladies overcoats which were sold at two local stores. His skill in fashion design allowed him to take on more staff but he still had to work seventeen hours each day for seven days a week. Life was extremely hard and all his time was spent either working or sleeping. There was no time for leisure but it paid off. As the business grew and he expanded his operations, he met Hugh Dawson who operated a much larger factory. They merged their interests and, in time, they bought a number of other small companies expanding into a fairly sizeable operation. Then an opportunity arose to purchase a brand name with a company which was quoted on the London Stock Exchange. However their joy was shortly lived because Dawson contract nephritis, a kidney disease, and he died soon afterwards. He was unmarried and had no next of kin so Wilkins inherited the whole business. From then onwards, he opened up more shops, delivering ladies fashions from numerous factories, creating a massive empire. Retiring at seventy years of age, he passed the business to his son Roger. He was now eighty-seven years of age living with Ruth, his wife, who was just one year younger.

  He literally viewed his days as being numbered. After all, how many years can a man of eighty-seven expect to be ahead of him in life? His days were spent sleeping, watching television and keeping regular contact with his son with regard to the business. His wealth meant that he could employ a woman to live in whereby she could cook and clean for himself and his wife, make the beds and generally look after the house. However having worked so hard from a young age, he recognised that there was no longer any excitement in his life. He was old... he was tired... his body was spent like an old worn-out motor car. Life had become quite miserable and he often thought of advancing the role of the Reaper with the scythe to send himself into the next world but he was a survivor and it was not in his ‘ nature to do so.

  Therefore it was very much a surprise when he received an invitation from the authorities to attend a dinner at Lytham St. Annes. He had never heard of the organisation before but it didn’t really matter because it was something to brighten up his day. When he arri
ved there, he mixed with a group of senior citizens each of whom had made his mark in one field or another during their lives and, at the end of the dinner, their attention was held by a speaker who informed them about the exchange process.

  ‘All of you have the opportunity to relive your lives again,’ explained the Chief Scientist at the end of the long table. ‘You will retain your looks and your brains of course but your bodies will be exchanged with those of much younger men. Hence, instead of being in your eighties, you’ll be in your forties. How do you feel about that?’

  The chance of regaining their youthfulness naturally interested those attending the dinner. It was almost like the story of Faust only they didn’t have to sell their souls to the Devil. Of course thee were no guarantees but the captive audience was told that it would work out in their favour if they agreed to participate as the success rate was practically one hundred per cent. The opportunity tf a new lease of life was very exciting to someone riddled with arthritis or some other ageing disease who would dispose of the pain and discomfort by obtaining another body. Wilkins was the first man to sign for the exchange, followed by the rest of the diners.

  Wilkins had thrown caution to the winds and he exposed his arm to the hypodermic needle before staggering into one of the cubicles. He reckoned that he had nothing to lose. No one would miss him if the experiment went wrong. His son had controlled the business for almost seventeen years while his wife was in her dotage... a completely different person to the one whom he had married sixty-two years earlier. However, in his case there was one particular distinction that had not been evident before. One summer, twenty-five years earlier, on a yachting holiday at Cowes in the Isle of Wight, a metal rope came loose on the boat during a stormy passage and it severed Wilkins’s left arm just above the elbow. After the exchange had taken place, he was astonished to find that he had two arms again and the body of a forty-four year old man. Suddenly life became attractive again. His bodily functions were restored and he even had sexual feelings for a new and much younger woman than his wife.