Reborn Again

by Robert Sheckley

  And there was Leiber, a possible agent contact.

  Of course, Leiber was not a friend of Grelich’s, but Ritchie owed the meeting to his association—or amalgamation? —with Grelich.

  Ritchie also had a well-developed sense of fairness. It didn’t seem right for him to bring about the death of the man whose presence had helped him meet Leiber, a man who, if he was a real agent, could change his life.

  Despite that, he hated the idea of Grelich being in his head with him. Was he maybe even snooping on Ritchie’s memories?

  Grelich was acting correctly, however. He didn’t stop them from going to the MMT office to find out about his aborted death, even though with his superior control of the body—after all, he was the original occupant—he could have prevented the move, could have made them both stay in the apartment all day, or walk in the park, or see a movie.

  Instead, they taxied down to 23rd Street.

  ***

  Grelich, with Ritchie aboard, entered the offices of MMT and told the receptionist that he wanted to see Sven Mayer, the president.

  They waited while the receptionist whispered into the phone. Ritchie was expecting they’d be told Mayer wasn’t in, they would have to talk with some flunky who would tell them he knew nothing about this but would get back to him “as soon as possible.”

  But no such thing happened. The receptionist told them that Mr. Mayer was in his office, expecting them—last on the left at the end of the corridor.

  Mayer was a short, stocky white-haired man. “Come in,” he called when they knocked at the door. “Mr. Grelich! And Mr. Castleman is in there with you?”

  “I am,” Ritchie said. “And I demand an explanation.”

  “Of course you do,” Mayer said. “Come in, have a seat. Coffee? Something stronger?”

  “Coffee, black, no cream,” Grelich said.

  Mayer said a few words into the phone. “It’s on its way. Gentlemen, I am so sorry... “

  “You didn’t return our calls,” Ritchie said.

  “I apologize. Miss Christiansen, our regular receptionist, left early when Nathan didn’t show up at the lab. She didn’t come in today. The one outside is a temp. When I reached Miss Christiansen today by phone, she claimed she didn’t know anything about the situation.”

  “Hah!” said Grelich.

  Mayer went on, “So far I have been unable to locate Nathan, the lab tech, the one who actually did your operation. Or botched it, I should say.”

  “Nathan,” Grelich said darkly.

  “He is the one we will have to talk to, the only one likely to have an explanation for how this sorry situation came to pass.”

  “But where is this Nathan?” Ritchie asked.

  Mayer shrugged. “I phoned his boarding house, he wasn’t there. I talked with his rabbi, whom he gave as his main reference when he applied for this job. His Rabbi, Zvi Cohen, said he hadn’t spoken with Nathan in over a week. I went myself to the handball courts at 92nd and Riverside, at the rabbi’s suggestion. None of the players had seen Nathan in several days.”

  “Have you notified the police yet?”

  “I shall have to, if he doesn’t show up very soon. I have no other way to trace him.”

  Ritchie asked, “What about my own body? The Castleman body?”

  “I’m afraid it didn’t survive the transfer,” Mayer said. “As we expected. It has been disposed of according to your instructions.”

  Hearing that his body was irrevocably gone gave Ritchie a pang of regret. It hadn’t been a particularly nice body, but it had been his for a long time. And now he had no physical body. Except for Grelich’s body, and Grelich didn’t seem so keen on giving it up any longer.

  ***

  Back at his apartment, Ritchie decided it was time to find Nathan Cohen, the missing tech who was probably responsible for the whole megillah, a word that Grelich supplied him with.

  But before he could get started with that, he got a telephone call, which Grelich didn’t prevent him from answering.

  “Ritchie Castleman here,” he said.

  Mr. Castleman? I am Edward Simonson. Mr. Mayer has recently hired me to run the lab. I am a graduate of CCNY, fully accredited and certified. I worked for two years at the Zeitgeist Institute in Zurich. If you want—”

  Grelich said, “What is this?”

  “This is Mr. Grelich speaking now?”

  “Yes, it is. What do you want?”

  “I am authorized by Mr. Mayer to tell you that if you wish to return to the lab, we assure you that the operation and removal will be properly conducted at this time, and at no cost to you.”

  “You’ll make sure I die this time?” Grelich said.

  “Well... Yes, that was your original intention in coming to MMT, was it not?”

  “That was then and now is now.”

  “Does that mean you’ve changed your mind?”

  “I’m thinking it through again,” Grelich said. “Look, we’re not interested right now. We have a few matters to sort out first. We’ll get back to you.”

  Grelich hung up. Ritchie was glad Grelich hadn’t immediately accepted this offer to correct his bungled suicide. He didn’t want to see Grelich die. But he wasn’t too happy that he was going to have to continue sharing a body with a near stranger.

  Grelich said to Ritchie, “We need to find out what went wrong.”

  “Of course,” Ritchie said.

  The telephone rang again. This time Grelich picked it up.

  Mr. Castleman?” a female voice asked.

  “This is Grelich.”

  “Mr. Grelich, this is Rachel Christiansen. I’m the regular receptionist at the MMT Company. I wanted to call and apologize for what I have done to you—not on purpose, I assure you—I never imagined—”

  “What did happen?” Ritchie broke in.

  “It’s such a complicated story I really think we should meet—that is, if you have the time... “

  “I got the time!” Ritchie said. “Where? When?”

  “There’s a sort of coffee shop near where I live. That’s in The Bronx, or maybe it’s upper Manhattan—I’m new in the city and I only know how to get to work and back.”

  “What’s the place called?”

  “The Brown something or other. Cow? Sheep? I’m not sure. I never go in there. It looks—shady.”

  “Address?”

  “Let me see, I get on the subway at 167th Street and Jerome Avenue, and the Brown whatever it is is two blocks downtown from the entrance, that would be at 165th Street, on the east side of Jerome Avenue. Unless it’s two blocks uptown—forgive me, I’m usually much more together than this—but recent events—”

  “I know,” Ritchie said. “I understand. Look, we’ll get a cab. Probably take half an hour to get to you in the Bronx. Is that OK?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Castleman. It’s the least I owe you. Though I’m not sure the place is entirely savory—”

  “How bad can a coffee shop be?” Grelich broke in. “We’ll be there.”

  Grelich hung up the phone.

  “I was going to ask for her home address and telephone number,” Ritchie said.

  “Don’t complicate matters, she’ll be there.”

  ***

  The taxi ride was a trip in itself, and not without its own share of humor and pathos. But it doesn’t bear on our story, so we skip it, mentioning only that they found the Brune Vache on 166th Street and Jerome Avenue, and left a Cuban taxi driver wondering why a well-dressed guy like Ritchie was going to a place that was known to serve the worst coffee in the five boroughs. Must be Mafia-related, the driver decided.

  Rachel Christiansen was inside, at a table near the door, a cup of tea in front of her. The place was dark, and nearly empty. Rachel was an over-weight, sweet-faced woman in her late twenties. Her face was framed in fluffy light brown hair. She stood up when Castleman walked in.

  “Mr. Castleman? I am Rachel Christiansen. I am so sorry for what happened. Believe me, I had no idea
... “

  “What happened?” Ritchie asked.

  “Well, I can only guess. It might be something else entirely.”

  “Just tell me what you think.”

  “Well, as I said, I really don’t know. But Nathan was very conflicted about the work he had been hired to do. Or would be doing. You were his first subject. But the very idea of taking a human life—even with the consent of the owner of that life—seemed to him sacrilegious.”

  “So what was he doing in the job?” Ritchie asked.

  “Well, at the start he didn’t really know it would involve taking a human life. I mean, he knew but I guess he blocked that part out. He needed the job so. He had just arrived here from San Antonio, Texas, to attend Rabbi Tomasi’s Torah studies class. Rabbi Tomasi also came from San Antonio. I believe he knows Nathan’s parents.”

  “Was Nathan studying for the rabbinate?” Grelich asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Did he want to become a rabbi?”

  “I would prefer he answer that himself,” Rachel said. “It is a little personal. And anyhow, I don’t really know. I think he had been planning to, but was having second thoughts. He came to one of our meetings, you know, and asked our pastor some questions.”

  “Meetings?” Grelich asked.

  “At the International Circle of Christian Friendship of Fort Wayne, Indiana, which has a branch here on 173rd Street.”

  “What sort of questions did he ask?” Ritchie asked.

  “They had to do with the proper relations between God and man in our secular age. Obviously, our pastor didn’t approve of murder.”

  “Suicide is not exactly murder,” Grelich said.

  “Murder of the self is still murder,” Rachel said. “And it’s still a sin, even if Mr. Nietzsche did approve of it.”

  “How did Nietzsche get into this?” Grelich asked.

  “Nathan was always quoting him. And Camus.”

  “Aha!” Grelich said. “He must have been quoting the Camus who says that whether or not to suicide is the only real question.”

  “That must have been the one,” Rachel said.

  “And he talked about an old Greek. Sissy-something?”

  “Sisyphus?” Grelich guessed.

  “This Nathan sounds like a man after my own heart,” Grelich said.

  “Do you really think so, Mr. Castleman?” Rachel asked, her disapproving attitude evident.

  “This is Grelich speaking,” Grelich said. “I’m here, too, due to your boyfriends’ change of heart or failure of nerve or whatever it was.”

  “This is so bewildering,” Rachel said. “You’re the one with the deeper voice?”

  “Yes, and the imaginary payes. Never mind. What else did Nathan talk about?”

  “I scarcely know... One time he talked about the moneychangers in the temple. I think he was referring to Mr. Mayer. Anyhow, he didn’t approve.”

  “Money changers have to earn a living, too,” Grelich said.

  “Let’s not get off the subject,” Ritchie said. “Rachel, why do you think you’re responsible?”

  “I encouraged Nathan to follow his conscience. I told him that was the truest voice of God within him. I think I had some influence over him. But believe me, I never dreamed he would take matters into his own hands—if that’s what he did.”

  “Do you know where we can find Nathan Cohen?” Ritchie asked.

  Rachel opened her purse and took out a slip of paper. “Here is his address, and his rabbi’s address. That’s all I know, all I can do for you. Oh, one thing more. Nathan is very fond of chess. He took me to a chess club once. I don’t remember where it was. Midtown? Downtown? It was very nice.”

  ***

  Nathan wasn’t at the Marshall, but they found him at the Manhattan Chess Club on West 9th Street in Greenwich Village. The director pointed him out—he was the tall, skinny, pale, dark-haired young man hunched behind a Nimzoindian defense on board 1. The Hungarian grandmaster, Emil Bobul, was playing white. Bobul had dropped in for a casual game, but it had become a hard-fought contest. Nathan was bent over the board, one hand propping his jaw, the other hand touching the chess clock.

  After a while Nathan looked up, recognized Grelich, thought for a minute, pursed his lips, shook his head and leaned over and whispered something to Bobul. Bobul shook his head. Nathan murmured something else. Bobul shrugged. Nathan turned down his king, got up, and walked over to Grelich.

  “Mr. Grelich,” he said, “I believe I owe you an explanation.”

  “If you would be so kind,” Grelich said.

  ***

  Over coffee in a nearby coffee shop, Nathan tried to explain why he had aborted the operation.

  “I knew I shouldn’t do anything to screw this up,” Nathan said, referring to the transfer operation. “Suicide and body-transfer are legal, you don’t fool around with government-sanctioned procedures. I transferred Mr. Castleman without moral difficulty. If Grelich wanted to share his body with Castleman, it was no skin off my nose. But when it came time to turn Grelich off—to shatter his electro-chemical connections—assign him to death—well, I hesitated. My hesitation turned into a long delay. And finally I just walked out of there. I reminded myself that I took this job to turn the dials and press the buttons. But now it was getting too personal. They want me to play executioner. Consciously, that is. That was too much. I got out of there.”

  ***

  It was after eleven at night when Grelich and Ritchie got back to Ritchie’s apartment. They stopped for dinner first at an Irish bar nearby. Despite Grelich’s vegetarianism, he made no objection when Ritchie ordered a corned beef sandwich, home fries, a small green salad, and a pint of Killian’s Red.

  “I hope you don’t object to this,” Ritchie said, gesturing with his sandwich.

  “Why should I object? I sold you my body. If you want to fill it with treif junk food, that’s your business.”

  “Another beer?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Ritchie didn’t order another. He was afraid he’d be going to the bathroom all right. He had been wondering about how the night would go. Last night had been easy, he’d been exhausted. But tonight? It was like the first time. He felt uncomfortable, having to sleep with Grelich, even though there was just one body involved. Would he be able to sleep at all? Last night he had been exhausted and in shock. But tonight? He hoped the body would sleep when it was ready.

  But whose body was it? Did this body even know which mind it belonged to? Had the body itself—neither Castleman nor Grelich, but a representative of the body only—had this body witnessed the change of title?

  At the apartment, Grelich took a shower, then found a set of Ritchie’s pajamas, and undressed and put them on. Without discussing it with Ritchie, he lay down on the bed, turned off the bedside lamp, tucked his arm under the pillow, and fell asleep.

  Ritchie lay there, uncomfortable, wide-awake, watching lights and shadows cross the ceiling from cars in the street far below.

  He tried to resign himself to a sleepless night. He watched the play of light and shadow across the ceiling—a weaving, hypnotic pattern. He felt miserable that he didn’t have a body of his own, so that he could get up, fix himself a sandwich, watch some television, or play a game on his computer. Instead, with Grelich in control of the body, he had to lie here maybe all night watching the lights on the ceiling. He couldn’t even get up and fix himself a drink. He’d have to talk to Grelich about that, if this situation went on much longer. Which he fervently hoped it would not... How could he sleep in an unfamiliar body, sharing his headspace with a man he scarcely knew? Given the circumstances, anyone would have insomnia. So thinking, he fell asleep.

  He began to dream. In his dream he was walking down a long dark corridor toward a closed door with light coming from under it.

  The door swung open. Ritchie walked in.

  He was in a small, dark room. The ceiling slanted down. It seemed to be an attic room. In front
of him was a plain wooden table. On it was a lighted candle in a pewter holder.

  Behind the table, at the end of the room, he could see a tall window. It had no shade or curtain, and through the glass Ritchie could see the darkness of a city night, a darker shade than the darkness in the room.

  Now he made out the middle distance. There were two men seated behind the table facing him. The one to his right, near the end of the table, wore dark, shapeless clothes, and had a yarmulke on his head. He was old, with a skinny, stubbly face. He had wire spectacles pushed up on his forehead. There was a parchment on the table in front of him, and he had a steel-nibbed pen in his right hand.

  The other man was also old, but he was large and hearty looking. He wore dark clothes, a black beaver hat, and black horn-rimmed glasses. He had a sort of shawl thrown over his shoulders. He had a white beard that came down to his mid-chest.

  He looked up when Ritchie entered the room. “So come in. It’s time, already. Did you bring the katubah?”

  The skinny man said, “I have it, rabbi.” Turning to Ritchie, he said, “I am the scribe. It’s customary for the plaintiff to bring his own writing instruments and parchment. But in this modern age of ours, who’s got? So I make you a gift of my pen and parchment. Maybe you’ll be good enough to loan them to me so I can make out the document?”

  “Yeah, sure, OK,” Ritchie said, not sure what was going on.

  The rabbi said, “You’re not Jewish yourself, are you, Mr. Castleman?”

  “No, I’m not,” Ritchie said. The rabbi didn’t give him any particular look, but Ritchie felt it was somehow not OK for him not to be Jewish. He restrained himself from apologizing.

  “Let’s get on with the ceremony,” the rabbi said. He coughed and cleared his throat. “It has been brought to my attention that you wish to be separated from Moses Grelich, your mind mate. If this is so, please state it.”

  “You got it,” Ritchie said. “I wish to be separated from Moses Grelich.”

  The rabbi picked up a little memorandum pad, opened it and indicated that Ritchie should repeat after him. “Moses Grelich sold me his body, to be my exclusive possession. A medical ceremony was made, but I didn’t get the unencumbered body. When I got in, Grelich was still there. Despite this breach in the arrangement, I let him reside in the body with me while he made other arrangements. It is now time for him to vacate.”