Think Yourself to Death

by Robert Shea

Kovandaswamy asked.

  Mayhem swallowed. "Curare," he said.

  "Curare! A poison!"

  "Paralysis," said Mayhem quickly. "Muscular paralysis. You die becauseyou stop breathing. Painless ... and...."

  "But--"

  "Call your technicians ... new body ... ready...." Gasping, the Siriangentleman, hardly Johnny Mayhem now, fell to the floor.

  Trembling, Kovandaswamy pressed a button on his desk. A few momentslater, two white-coated technicians entered the office.

  "Project M," Kovandaswamy said.

  Grimly the technicians went to work.

  * * * * *

  Mayhem awoke.

  Ordinarily it was his _elan_ alone which journeyed between the worlds,his _elan_ which was fed the information it would need in hypno-sleepwhile the frozen body was thawed out. Sometimes, however, he came thenormal way in a body which still had some of its thirty days left, as hehad come to Ophiuchus IX in the Sirian gentleman.

  Darkness. The body felt young and healthy. Mayhem wondered vaguely howit had died, then decided it did not really matter. For the next thirtydays the body would live again, as Johnny Mayhem.

  Recessed lighting glowed at the juncture of walls and ceiling. Mayhemwas reclining on a cot. A loin cloth and a large shawl had been laid outfor him. On the far wall of the room was a tinted mirror. Mayhem got upand went over there.

  What his new body looked like hardly mattered, he told himself. Youth,health, strength--these were important. He could sense them internally.He could....

  He stared at the image in the mirror. His face turned beet red. He wentfor the shawl and the loin cloth and put them on. Cursing, he went tofind Kovandaswamy.

  "Is this supposed to be a joke?" Mayhem demanded.

  "You never asked what the--" Kovandaswamy began.

  "How am I supposed to find out anything--like this?"

  "It's a young body, a healthy body. It is also the one we were givenwhen the Galactic League first came here. It is the only one we weregiven."

  "Take it or leave it, eh?"

  "I'm afraid so, Mayhem."

  "All right. All right, I guess I shouldn't complain. It could probablyoutrun and outfight and outthink the dyspeptic old Sirian gentleman, andthings turned out well enough on Sirius III. But it'll probably takemost of my time just getting used to it, Kovandaswamy. I'm supposed tobe conducting an investigation."

  "At least as an Ophiuchan you won't arouse suspicion."

  Mayhem nodded slowly, with reluctance. There was nothing else to say. Heshook hands with Kovandaswamy and, wearing the loin cloth and the shawl,left the Galactic League building.

  With, of course, a completely new identity.

  Mayhem walked a mile and a half through hot, arid country. The Leaguebuilding was isolated, as if its inmates might contaminate the nativeOphiuchans. Along the dusty road Mayhem passed a _guru_, the name for awise man or a holy man first in India and now here on Ophiuchus IX. Theguru sat in contemplation of the tip of his nose, legs crossed, soles offeet up, eyes half-closed. The guru remained that way, without moving,until Mayhem was out of sight. Then the guru behaved in a veryun-guru-like manner.

  The guru got up quite nimbly, joints creaking, skin dry and cracked.Three strides brought him to a tree with a partly hollow trunk. Helifted a radio transmitter and began to talk.

  * * * * *

  In twenty generations, the initially small population of Ophiuchus IX,all colonists from India on Earth, had increased geometrically. Thecolonized planet, now, was as over-populated as the teemingsub-continent which long ago had sent the colonists seeking a new home.As a result, unemployment was chronic, discontent widespread, andwhatever inner serenity mysticism might bring was widely sought after.This did not stop the non-mystics, however, of whom there were many,from seeking jobs that could pay money that could fill empty bellies....

  The crazed mob was bent upon rapine and murder.]

  A long line gathered outside the employment office of Denebian Exportsthe morning after Mayhem had left the League building in his new body.Denebian Exports was the largest outworld company currently onOphiuchus, a company which had solved the outworlder-suicide problemquite simply by hiring no one but natives. Still, hoots and catcallssurrounded those on the employment line. Other jobless Ophiuchans,apparently preferring near-starvation to working for the outworlders,threatened to make the situation dangerous.

  Pandit Gandhi Menon, a lean, handsome Ophiuchan of perhaps thirty years,wished there was some way he could shut his ears to the abuse. He neededwork. His father and mother were ill, his child was starving, his wifealready dead. The gurus offered their own unique solution, of course.The body is nothing, they said. The mind is everything. But thus had thegurus spoken for four thousand years, on Earth and on Ophiuchus. Thegreat majority of Ophiuchans, Pandit Gandhi Menon included, preferredfood for the body to food for mystic thought. Still, the crowds wereugly, threatening to break up the line of job-seekers if DenebianExports didn't open its doors soon....

  An unkempt little man, not old but with a matted growth of beard, anunwashed body which gave the impression of wiry strength, and wild eyes,abruptly flung himself at the young woman in line in front of Pandit.

  Shouting, "Not our women, too!" the little man attacked the girl, tryingto drag her from the line. "It is bad enough our men, but not ourwomen!"

  * * * * *

  Pandit caught the fanatic's wiry arm and brought it behind his scrawnyback in a hammerlock. "Leave her alone," he said. "If you try thatagain, I'll break your arm."

  The fanatic looked at Pandit with hate in his eyes, but stepped back andstood to one side mouthing invective.

  The girl, who was about twenty-five years old, had a livid mark on herarm. She wore loin cloth and shawl, the usual garb. She was, Panditobserved for the first time, quite pretty.

  "Thank you," she said. "I--I'm not sure I like working for theoutworlders. But I need the money."

  "Don't we all," Pandit told her. "But we're not hired yet. I am PanditGandhi Menon."

  "Sria Krishna," the girl said, smiling at him. "What sort of work isit?"

  "Don't you know, Sria Krishna?"

  The girl shook her head and Pandit said: "Actually, I guess I don'tknow, either. But there are rumors the outworlders want jet-pilots. Notfor rocketry. For jets. To fly to the Empty Places."

  * * * * *

  "The Empty Places? Why?"

  Pandit shrugged. "Because they are empty, perhaps. Because they are toodry and too arid to support life. Because Denebian Export can claimwhatever it found there, for free export. So go the rumors. But surelyyou can't pilot a jet."

  "Can you?"

  "Yes," Pandit said promptly with a faint show of pride.

  "My father taught me. I want to thank you for what--"

  "Nothing. Anyone in my position would have done it. This rabble--"

  The rabble was still noisy. Occasionally they hurled offal at thestragglers joining the rear of the long line. But Pandit and SriaKrishna stood in the forefront, and presently the door opened. In a fewminutes Pandit watched the girl disappear inside. He waited nervously,licking dry lips with a parched tongue. It was early morning, butalready very hot. He needed the work. Any work. He needed the moneywhich outworlders could pay so abundantly for honest work. He wonderedif the fanatic gurus ever thought of that. Then the door in front of himopened again and a fat, unctuous-looking Ophiuchan came out. He seemedto be an official of sorts.

  "One more!" he said. "Only one! The rest of you begone."

  Behind Pandit there was a general press of bodies, but he was first inline and did not surrender his position. The unctuous-looking manadmitted him, half-expecting a bribe. Pandit passed him by; he didn'thave a single copper.

  He approached a desk. The crowd noise outside was loud, those who hadnot joined the line crowing because most of those on it had been turnedaway. Behind the
desk sat a small Denebian man of middle years. Helooked nervous.

  "Can you fly?" he asked in a voice almost desperately thin.

  "Yes," Pandit said. Then the rumors were right.

  "How much experience?"

  "Five years on and off."

  "You have a license?"

  "There are no licenses on Ophiuchus IX," Pandit pointed out.

  "Yes, of course. I'm sorry. Habit. You people don't lie."

  "We try not to."

  "Your name?"

  Pandit told him. The Denebian wrote it down on a form and said: "You'lldo. Pay is twenty credits a mission." It wasn't much, but it was morethan Pandit had expected.

  "What do we fly?" he asked. Questions didn't seem