To Live Again

by Robert Silverberg

  “He’ll cut himself to bits,” David Loeb said.

  “And the blood in the water—there’ll be sharks soon,” Santoliquido observed.

  Within Noyes, Kravchenko laughed.

  —See? See? Just wait!

  “No,” Noyes whispered. “You’ll never do that to me!”

  Risa Kaufmann broke from the group. She had been standing silently by, visibly disturbed by Owens’ irrational behavior, and now, a tanned nude streak, she ran lithely across the beach, entered the water, and sped toward the reef, swimming nearly submerged, now breaking the water with a kicking ankle, now with an upturned buttock, now a shoulderblade. She reached Owens. He stood upright in water only a few feet deep, readying himself for another lunatic dash against the reef. Deep-hued blood welled steadily through the coarse mat of hair on his body. Risa clambered up beside him, caught him, spun him around, gripped him tightly. The contact of her bell-like little breasts against his hairy fleshiness seemed revolting. But, with brisk efficiency, the girl propelled the dazed, bleeding man away from the coral knives of the reef and drew him into the clear green water closer to shore. He was safe. A cheer went up.

  In that same instant Noyes felt the heavens explode and the sun fall at his feet. He snatched it up and devoured it, and as the hallucination overwhelmed him he plunged to the ground, jerking and yammering, seized by an uncontrollable attack. The world grew dark. His limbs lashed the ground. Kravchenko howled in pleasure.

  He felt warmth against him. Tender female flesh.

  “Easy, easy, easy. You’ll be all right.”

  Elena Volterra was cradling him. He pillowed his head against the ripe, lush mounds of her breasts and sobbed.

  “Give him air,” a voice said.

  Noyes closed and opened his eyes several times. He clung to Elena desperately. “My name’s Kravchenko,” he said. “James Kravchenko.”

  “Kravchenko is dead,” Elena told him. “You’re Charles Noyes.”

  “Yes. Yes. Charles Noyes. Kravchenko’s dead.”

  “Rest now,” Elena whispered. “Easy, easy, easy.”

  “Rest. I am Charles Noyes. Yes.”

  “You’ll feel better in a little while.”

  A cool ultrasonic snout touched his arm. Not a drink but an anesthetic, Noyes realized. He saw the Buddha-Heruka, with three heads, six hands, and four feet firmly postured, the right face being white, the left red, the central dark-brown; the body emitting flames of radiance; the nine eyes widely opened; the eyebrows quivering like lightning; the protruding teeth glistening and set over one another. “I am Charles Noyes,” Noyes said.

  —Give Elena a great big kiss for me.

  Noyes’ eyes closed. He felt no more pain.

  6

  It was Tuesday morning. Risa entered Francesco Santoliquido’s office and stood just within the door. He was busy, using a data machine with his left hand while tapping out computer instructions with his right.

  At length he looked up and said, “There she is. Our little heroine. Come in, come in, sit down.”

  “You got a good tan this weekend,” Risa observed.

  “There’s nothing like the tropical sun. It was a splendid party, Risa. My congratulations to you and your father. Of course, there were some unusual events—”

  “They’ve taken Owens to the therapy satellite. He’ll be there a month, floating in nullgrav until he’s healthy.”

  Santoliquido scowled. “Sad, very sad. But nullgrav’s not the therapy for him. He’s a candidate for erasure.”

  “I didn’t think you used that word here!”

  “I’m not speaking in the political sense,” said Santoliquido. “Strictly the medical. That man’s got more than he can handle under his skull.”

  “Much more.” Risa was flattered that busy Santoliquido would take the time to discuss Owens’ problems with her. It was a tacit recognition that she was now an adult. She said, “Is there any provision in the law for mandatory erasure?”

  “Well, yes, when the presence of the persona threatens the security and integrity of the host.”

  “Certainly that’s true here.”

  Santoliquido’s eyes twinkled. “But Nat Owens has influence. I’d hesitate to ship him off for erasure against his will. We’ll see how he feels when he gets back from his float. Possibly we can get him to give up two or three of the least compatible personae, the ones at war with one another.”

  Solemnly Risa said, “That would be best. It was scary, out on the reef. Big strips of skin hanging loose on him, and he didn’t even seem to know what he was doing, just hurling himself against that sharp coral again and again.”

  “It was brave of you to rescue him.”

  She giggled. “I didn’t stop to think. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t have done anything. But it just seemed like the right thing to do. I mean, I knew I could get out there and pull him away from the reef, and so I went and did it, and then there was time to be nervous afterward. Especially when I came ashore and found the other man having a fit too, Charles Noyes—”

  “It was a wild moment,” Santoliquido agreed. “Noyes has been in stasis these last two days, hasn’t he?”

  “I think they let him out. He’s calm again.”

  “Tell me, Risa. Now that you’ve seen two men run wild at once, because they found their transplants too difficult to control, have you changed your mind at all about your own transplant?”

  “Of course not,” she said instantly. “Oh, I admit I’ve been a little uneasy, but I wouldn’t be here unless I meant to go through with it. What happened to them isn’t any concern of mine. Owens was asking for trouble when he took on that mob of personae. And Noyes is an unstable character, they tell me. I’m ready.”

  “Good girl.” Santoliquido pressed a buzzer. “We’ll get going, then. You’ve chosen the persona you want?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tandy Cushing?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I knew,” said Santoliquido. “Ask your father. I predicted the choice you’d make.” He opened his desk, came through it, took her by the hand, and lifted her to her feet. “I won’t be seeing you again as you are now, Risa. You’ll leave my office as Risa Kaufmann, but the next time we meet, you’ll be Risa plus Tandy. I hope you find it an enriching experience.”

  “I know I will,” she said.

  Her lips brushed his. She liked him; he was so much like a jolly uncle to her. Though of course she knew it was a mistake to take a patronizing attitude toward a man as powerful as Francesco Santoliquido. He was so kind to her only because she was Mark Kaufmann’s daughter, and it was rash to forget it.

  A black-smocked technician appeared at the office door. “This way, please, Miss Kaufmann.”

  She waved goodby to Santoliquido.

  Here we go, she thought. Hello, Tandy Cushing!

  She followed the technician toward the transplant room. It was a long trip, spanning many levels of the building, and tension grew within her as the moment drew near. She eased her fears by studying the technician. He was young, hardly any older than her cousin Rod, and he seemed plainly in awe of her. It was his job to deal with the rich and mighty, to pump new personae into their receptive brains, but Risa suspected that he himself left this palace of wonders each night to return to some dismal little hovel, full of cockroaches and squalling babies, where he waited tensely for the next day’s excursion into fantasy. How brutal it must be to live in the real world, she thought, earning perhaps a thousand dollars fissionable a month, never able to afford anything, and faced with the terrible knowledge that after death comes…nothing!

  “We go in here,” said the technician.

  “What’s your name?” Risa asked.

  “Leonards, Miss Kaufmann.”

  “Is that a first name or a last?”

  “Last.”

  Last. No doubt he had a first name too, but wasn’t supposed to give it. He was merely a piece of walking equipment. Leonards. He was good-looking, in h
is own worried way, too pale, pinch lines already forming between his eyebrows, but tall and sturdily built. Are you married yet, Leonards? Where do you live? What are your dreams and ambitions? Isn’t it frustrating for you to work in the soul bank and never have any hope of receiving a transplant yourself, or of being recorded? Wouldn’t you like enough money so you could put your persona on file, Leonards? Suppose I had your account credited with half a million dollars fissionable. Would that be enough? I’d never miss it. I’d tell Mark I gave it to charity. Your life would be altogether different. Or how would you like to meet me when this is over, Leonards, and go to bed with me? Would that please you, sleeping with a Kaufmann? I’m good, too. Ask Rod Loeb. Ask a lot of people. I’m young, but I learn fast.

  Together they entered the booth.

  She kept her face rigid, masklike, hiding her thoughts from the young man. It would never do for him to know what she had been thinking. He might get upset and bungle the transplant somehow. Let him stay calm and cool at least until the work is done. Afterwards, maybe, I’ll have a little fun with him.

  The transplant room was a rectangular cubicle, perhaps nine feet by twelve, warm, well lit. It had windows along two walls, one facing the outer corridor, one looking into an inner access room that was part of the spine of the building. Risa saw a couch, a computer terminal, and a cluster of gleaming equipment.

  Opaquing the hall window, Leonards said, “Please lie down. Make yourself comfortable.”

  “Shall I remove my clothing?” Risa asked.

  Her hands went to the discard stud. Leonards’ facial muscles rippled in shock at the mere suggestion that she was willing to disrobe before him, and it was a moment before he recovered his poise and said, “That won’t be necessary. Kick off your shoes, if you like.”

  She stretched out, shoeless. Leonards grasped a bronze knob and a mass of equipment swung free of the wall. He drew it toward her. “This is a diagnostat,” he told her. “We simply wish to check your physical condition before we proceed with the transplant. It’s important that your health and body tone be at the top of their cycle. This part just takes a minute—there.” The diagnostat hummed and clicked and was silent. Leonards pressed an eject stud. A copper-colored capsule dropped out, and he flipped it into a transfer hatch that would take it to some scanning instrument within the building’s computer bank. He looked more nervous than she was. After a moment, a light went on in the access room, and through a slot in the wall came a yellow slip. Risa craned her neck but could not see what it said.

  “You’re in fine shape,” Leonards reported. “Where did you get those skin abrasions, though?”

  “In the West Indies on Saturday. A man was in trouble on a coral reef and I pulled him free and got cut up a little. They’re healing fast.”

  “In any case, there’s no effect on your receptivity to the transplant. Now, I suppose you’re familiar with the Scheffing process, but I know you want to keep up with me on each phase of the transplant, so I’m likely to tell you a few things you already know. For example, the first step is the drug treatment, to enhance your memory receptivity. We inject a nucleic acid booster, coupled with one of the mnemonic drugs. A mnemonic drug—”

  “Am I getting picrotoxin or one of the pentylenetetrazol derivatives?” Risa asked.

  Leonards looked shaken. “You’ve been doing some homework!”

  “Which do I get?”

  “It’ll be the pentylene,” he said. “We get better response curves on it with women under thirty. Picrotoxin blocks presynaptic inhibition, and some of the others block postsynaptic inhibition, but pentylenetetrazol doesn’t interfere with either. It excites the nervous system by decreasing neuronal recovery time, without reference to inhibitory pathways. Thus it prevents memory decay and significantly increases the response latencies. Still following me?”

  “Yes,” Risa lied. She was damned if she’d let his deliberately accelerated flow of gibberish upset her. “The result is to make me more receptive to the imprint from the recording. All right. I’m ready whenever you are.”

  He produced a thick, stubby, phallic-looking ultrasonic injector. While he fumbled with the dial settings Risa casually disengaged her tunic, baring the lower part of her body to the groin. Leonards was slow to notice, but when he finally looked at her he was so rattled he nearly dropped the injector.

  Staring rigidly at her chin, he said, “Why did you uncover yourself?”

  “I understood that the injection was given in the upper part of the thigh.”

  “No.”

  “In the backside, then?” She grinned kittenishly and rolled over.

  “The arm will do.”

  She pouted. “Well, all right.”

  He was sweating and flushed. She figured she had paid him back well enough for that burst of postsynaptic inhibitions and response latencies. Chastely she covered herself again, not wanting him to jab the injector into the wrong place while he was so shaken. He took a deep breath and put the snout to her arm. There was an ultrasonic whirr.

  “We allow one hour for the nucleic acid booster to reach the brain. By then the mnemonic drug will have already taken effect. I’ll leave you to relax until the next phase can begin. Perhaps you’d like to look through this information leaflet.”

  He made his escape from the transplant room, looking visibly relieved.

  Risa sprawled on the couch and examined the booklet.

  SOME FACTS ABOUT THE SCHEFFING PROCESS, it was headed. She glanced through it without interest. It told her things she already knew: how her brain was prepared for the persona to come, how the recordings were made, how transplants were effected. Toward the back was some material of more direct importance: tips on making the transition after your first transplant.

  You will have complete access to the memories and life experiences of your imprinted persona, the booklet told her. As with your own memories, some of the experiences you receive will be blurred or distorted and not immediately retrievable. During the period of adjustment you may feel occasional confusions of identity, particularly if the new persona was noted for strength of character in its previous carnate existence. THIS SHOULD NOT BE CAUSE FOR ALARM. After a few days you will establish a satisfactory working relationship with the persona. Your new companion will enhance and support your responses to your environment. You will have the advantage of extra perspective and an additional set of life experiences on which to base your judgments. Think of the persona as a guest, a friend, a partner. It is the most intimate possible human relationship, and represents the finest accomplishment of our era.

  A few pages on, Risa found information on how to communicate directly with the persona. At any time, she could simply reach into the pool of experience and memory that was being transplanted to her brain, and haul out whatever was useful to her immediate situation. But if she wanted to speak to the persona, to address her as an individual, she would have to talk out loud. At least at first, though the booklet said it was possible after a while to talk to the persona via the interior neural channels. Meanwhile the persona, having no other communication access, was able to key herself right into the brain and make her thoughts known.

  Did a persona have thoughts, Risa wondered?

  A persona was nothing but a set of memories. It didn’t have real existence. You couldn’t see a persona, any more than you could see an abstract concept. And the persona was dead, a closed account with all totals drawn. How could a transplanted persona think and react and have things to say?

  Judging by the behavior of adults she had observed, a persona was not dead at all—merely suspended from the time of recording to the time of transplant. Then, jacked into the nervous system of its host, it could perceive and respond as if literally reincarnated. That was the whole point of the Scheffing process. It assured the participants everlasting life, with occasional interruptions between transplants. At the same time it provided the living with the benefit of the experiences of the dead. Nothing was lost, except th
e souls of the poor fish like Leonards who never took part in the rebirth game at all. That was ninety percent of mankind, at present. But did they matter?

  As her final hour of independence ticked away, Risa inevitably began to wonder if she really wanted to go through with this enterprise.

  No doubt everyone wonders about that, waiting for it to begin, she told herself. At least the first time.

  And of course it would be eerie, carting about someone else’s soul in her head. Risa was accustomed to privacy when she wanted it. An only child, wealthy enough to isolate herself from the world, never called upon to share anything with anyone—and now she’d have to make room in her head for Tandy Cushing. Strange, strange, strange! Yet appealing, too. She had been alone so long. In a world where everyone she knew carried two or three personae, Risa felt pallid and childlike in her solitude. Now she would be like the others. In one bound she’d shed the last vestiges of immaturity. Merely sleeping around hadn’t brought her far enough into the adult world, but this transplant would, especially with worldly, sophisticated Tandy Cushing like an older sister inside her mind.

  As the booklet pointed out, it was irrational to fear or mistrust the persona. The persona wasn’t going to get any charge out of snooping on you, any more than you could snoop on yourself. The persona would be you, and herself as well, a joined identity. Risa’s mind whirled a little at that concept. She thought she understood it, but of course she knew she did not, could not. No one who did not have a persona already transplanted could really comprehend what it was like. This was a new thing in the world, a fundamental break with the human condition. No longer were people walled up alone in their own skulls. They could have company.

  What if she didn’t care for Tandy Cushing’s company?

  Cast her out like a demon. That could be done, for a price. Her own father had had a persona erased when he was young. Of course, a lot of people preferred to suffer along with their personae even when incompatibility was obvious. Just the way, Risa thought, people will stick with a hopeless marriage, or fight to prevent the amputation of a diseased limb, purely because they can’t bring themselves to give up anything that has been part of themselves, no matter how much harm it’s doing them.