To Live Again and the Second Trip: The Complete Novels

by Robert Silverberg

  —Can’t your family help you?

  “Of course. Of course, that’s the answer!” She hurried to the offices of Kaufmann et Cie, in a gilded building on the esplanade just below the Hotel de Paris. The bank was operated by the European branch of the family, and actually there were no Kaufmanns currently involved in its management; the directors now were entirely Loebs and Schiffs. Yet Mark Kaufmann’s only daughter was certain to get a hospitable welcome. Risa, dressed chastely and sweetly, presented herself to M. Pierre Schiff, her cousin by some intricate prank of genealogy, and explained her problem.

  The banker was fifty, portly, staid. He paid Risa the courtesy of addressing her in English; she felt obliged to speak to him in French, which made for an odd conversation.

  “I remember the incident,” he said. “Last winter, yes. I believe he was a client of ours.”

  “I’ve asked the soul bank in Paris for information on him. They wouldn’t tell me a thing.”

  “You gave your name?”

  “Yes. It didn’t matter.”

  “Let me try,” said Pierre Schiff. He asked his telephone for a number, and did not bother with the vision element. Quickly he made contact. He spoke in rapid, slurred French, pitching his voice so low that Risa could not follow the words. The soft flesh of his face creased into deepening frowns; after a few moments he dropped the phone into his cradle.

  He said, “The persona of Claude Villefranche was taken from storage in February and implanted.”

  “In whom?”

  “The name was not available. Even to me. Even to me.” He studied his pudgy palm as though it held the answer. “They are quite secretive, those people. But of course there are ways of dealing with them. They are in need of constant credit for the expansion of their services, and we—” He smiled eloquently. “My son will help you. Let me summon him.”

  An hour later, Risa found herself on a balcony overlooking the sea, lunching with Jacques Schiff, who was also her cousin, apparently, and far less portly than his father. She had changed from her chaste girlish clothes into something more likely to please Cousin Jacques: a scalloped shell of sprayon that lanced across her slender body to reveal a flawless shoulder, a small firm breast, and a rounded hip. Cousin Jacques was twenty-five, unmarried, tall, attractive. His eyes had a Gallic sparkle, brighter even than the sunlight dancing through the golden-yellow wine they drank with their oysters.

  “I knew this Villefranche, yes,” he said. “Was he a friend of yours?”

  “Of my persona,” Risa said.

  “Ah! Yes, so. Do you think I knew her?”

  “You didn’t know her personally. If you did, she’s got no recollection of you, and I doubt that she’d have forgotten you, Jacques. Tandy Cushing.”

  “Yes. So. I knew her by name. Claude described her to me. A beautiful, beautiful girl, he said. With—ah—” He laughed awkwardly. “Very adequate body. She is dead?”

  “She was discorporated at St. Moritz last summer. A skiing accident. Claude was with her at the time. She’d like to know more about what happened.”

  “But Claude himself has since been discorporated too,” Jacques mused. “It is a sad world, even now. Dangers lie everywhere for the young, the strong, the rich. Only the poor live long lives.”

  “But they live only once,” Risa pointed out.

  “True. True.” Jacques steepled his fingers. “After lunch,” he said, “I will trace Claude’s persona for you.”

  They ate well. For her main course Risa had a mousse of sole, and vegetables of some unfamiliar sort braised in a sauce that was clearly Venusian in origin. Yet the wine that flowed so copiously throughout the luncheon was quite Terrestrial, a lively Chablis four years old. Elderly men passing beneath the veranda paused and looked up at them and made mental calculations, wondering who it was who might be lunching with Pierre Schiff’s son, that pale girl in the revealing costume. Did any of them realize that it was not Pierre Schiff’s son but Mark Kaufmann’s daughter who should concern them on that veranda? Risa enjoyed her anonymity here.

  After they had eaten, Jacques suggested that they go to his office while he made the necessary calls. Risa nodded toward the nearby hotel.

  “My room is closer,” she said.

  He looked startled for a moment, but only for a moment. At his insistence, though, they entered the hotel through different doorways. She left the door to her room unsealed, and he slipped through it a moment after she arrived. The large, cavernous room was dark. Jacques produced a portable cesium-powered MHD torch and set it on the ornate dresser. Then he settled in a chair before the old-fashioned telephone and punched out a number.

  “This will take a while,” he said.

  She went into the bathroom, removed her clothing, and stepped under the vibrator. When she felt thoroughly clean, she wrapped herself in a cloud of grayish mist and emerged. Jacques still sat at the telephone, taking notes. At length he grunted in satisfaction and hung up.

  “Any luck?” she asked.

  He turned to look at her. He frowned, and his eyes pierced the quasi-concealing mist to survey the essential points of her body. “Yes,” he said absent-mindedly. “I have the details. His persona was awarded to Martin St. John, a resident of London, several months ago.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The third son of Lord Godwin. Here is his address. I have requisitioned his photograph, and it will be coming by slow transmission in a few moments.”

  “I’m very grateful to you, Jacques. You’ve done me a great service.”

  “Say nothing of it,” he replied.

  But he seemed willing enough to be rewarded for his activities on her behalf. His body was supple, lean, and skilled. It was the first time Risa had made love since taking on Tandy Cushing’s persona, and when she slipped into Jacques’ arms she felt a sudden wild surge of embarrassment, for there was something enormously public about this lovemaking, with Tandy watching everything through her eyes. Risa was not accustomed to feeling inhibited. After a moment she realized that it was not the lack of privacy that troubled her, but rather that she sensed the much more experienced Tandy sitting as a judge of her erotic performance. Tension gripped her.

  —Loosen up, Tandy said. Are you always like this?

  Risa felt a flood of encouragement coming from within. She ceased to think of Tandy as a critical observer; Tandy was a participant, a cooperative entity. That made it much more interesting for her. Risa wriggled prettily; she put her lips to Jacques’; she surrendered to him with that mixture of kittenish girlishness and precocious womanhood that she knew was the best weapon in her armory. Tandy guided her. Without her help, Risa might not have been so successful in meeting Jacques’ sophisticated approach.

  When it was over, and Jacques had donned his banker’s solemn garb and was gone, Risa lay sprawled pleasantly on the rumpled bed, recapitulating with Tandy what had taken place, enjoying an amiable post mortem on her responses. It was wonderful to be able to speak so frankly and to know that every thought was perfectly understood.

  “I feel so good having you with me,” Risa said. “To know that I’ll never be alone again. I wish I could reach out and hug you, Tandy.”

  —Why not?

  Risa laughed. She thrust her arms about herself and squeezed tight, twisting on the bed as though she were in another’s embrace. Then she relaxed. She waved her legs playfully about.

  —We ought to get going, Risa.

  “Where to?”

  —London. To find Martin St. John.

  “What’s the hurry?” Risa asked.

  But Tandy insisted. And so Risa phoned for reservations on the next flight to London, due to leave at five that afternoon. She just barely made it to the airport in time. En route, she studied the photo of Martin St. John that had come from the data file. Though only a flat, it gave a fair likeness: a man in his early thirties, light-haired, pale-eyed, with a soft face of no particular character. Flabby chin, loose sensual lips, pasty cheeks. Tandy was
shocked. She sent up an image of the late Claude Villefranche for comparison: the hard face, the cruel eyes, the tight skin, the thin, curved line of the lips, all were the direct contradiction of the physiognomy of Martin St. John. Could Claude be happy in such a slack, soft-bodied individual?

  Moments after she landed at London, Risa put through a call to Martin St. John. It was gratifying to find him at home. Peering at the three-square-inch screen of the airport telephone, though, Risa was struck by his lack of resemblance to the man in the photo. This Martin St. John looked tougher, harder, leaner. He’s been sick lately, Risa guessed. He’s lost a lot of weight. That must be it.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “I’m Risa Kaufmann. You don’t know me, but we’ve got a great deal in common.”

  “How so?”

  “You carry the persona of Claude Villefranche,” she said. “I’m carrying the persona of Tandy Cushing.”

  Martin St. John’s lips flickered, but he said nothing.

  Risa went on, “I know it isn’t proper to talk persona-to-persona. But Tandy’s very eager to get some information from Claude. If we could meet, and transmit through ourselves the contact between them, it would make Tandy and me very happy.”

  “I don’t know if we should do that.”

  “Please,” Risa said meltingly. “I’ve chased all over Europe to find you. Don’t refuse me now. Give me just half an hour of your time—”

  “Very well.”

  “This evening?”

  “If you insist.”

  “It’s very kind of you.”

  He gave her the address of a coffee shop in the Finchley Road. Risa caught a hopter and was there within the hour. The place was a dark, oblong room, decorated in an arty fake twentieth-century style, with lots of plastic flowers and other foolishness. He sat alone at a table just within the door.

  His appearance was unexpected. There was no trace of the flabbiness of feature and expression that characterized the photograph. This man was brusque, taut, and dynamic. His eyes, though a washed-out light blue in tone, were fixed and gleaming, and burned with a feverish intensity. His lips were tense, with the muscles poised in a way that minimized their natural fullness. There was little excess flesh on his face, and apparently none on his body, but about his chin and eyelids there were indications that he had recently lost perhaps forty pounds, for the skin had not yet completely adopted its new outline. When he rose to greet her, his motions were swift and aggressive.

  He took her hand in the continental manner. His smile was the briefest of flickers, on and off.

  He said in a harsh voice, “Claude Villefranche sends greetings to Tandy Cushing.”

  Risa was taken aback by the unconventionality of that welcome. “It’s good to have located you finally, Mr. St. John. I won’t trouble you for long.”

  “What will you drink?”

  “Would you care to recommend something?”

  “There’s a filtered rum punch here. It’s excellent. I’ll order two.”

  Risa said, “I’d love it.”

  He turned to place the order. But there were no servitors in sight. Then one appeared, moving behind their table without appearing to notice him. St. John called out, and still was ignored. He rose from his seat, turning, and his motion was clumsy for a moment, but then he seemed to change gears inwardly; he uncoiled and nearly sprang at the servitor, his hand pouncing down at the robot’s nearest limb to spin it about.

  “Will you give me some service?” he demanded.

  It was an amazing performance, a show of temper, agility, and impatience that was as impressive as it was unexpected. Tandy had remained silent thus far in Risa’s meeting with Martin St. John, but now she reacted. Waves of sheer terror rose from the persona and washed through Risa’s mind.

  “What’s wrong?” Risa whispered.

  —Can’t you see? There’s nothing left of Martin St. John! Claude’s ejected him! Claude’s gone dybbuk!

  It was only a guess, a quick flash of intuition. Yet Risa was convinced. Tandy seemed clearly to recognize the characteristic inflections and responses of Claude Villefranche, not veiled and distorted as they would be if Claude were only a persona reaching them indirectly through the mind of Martin St. John, but overt and definite, immediate, direct.

  Still, caution was advised. Risa could hardly sound an alarm and call in the quaestors this early to arrest and mindpick the alleged Martin St. John.

  Over filtered rum punches she said, “Tandy’s memory line ends in June of last year. She died in August. What she wishes to know is how she came about her discorporation.”

  “Her skis failed as she was crossing a ravine. It happened rapidly and without warning.”

  “Claude was with her?”

  “They started down the slope together. They were in the air together over the ravine. Then—suddenly—she was no longer with him. It was a terrible experience.”

  “It must have been,” said Risa. “I can see that you’re moved by it, and you weren’t even there.”

  “My persona was there, though,” St. John pointed out.

  Risa nodded. It seemed odd to her that the memories of Tandy’s death should he so near the surface of St. John’s mind. He did not give the appearance of reaching into a persona’s crowded memory bank for the details, but rather of reading them right off his own backlog of experience.

  She said, “What happened after the accident?”

  “Claude saw that she had fallen. He turned upslope to find her. But she was gone from sight. It took a great deal of work to uncover her body. Claude was demoralized. He went off to Australia to forget what had happened. And there, as you perhaps know, he met discorporation last December.”

  “Can you tell me anything about Tandy’s last few weeks with Claude?”

  St. John shrugged. His eyes never wavered from Risa’s, making her feel acutely uncomfortable. “They met in Zurich at the end of July. After a week there they went on to St. Moritz, for the summer skiing. They were both in high spirits. Occasionally they quarreled a bit, nothing serious, lovers’ tiffs.”

  “They were in love?”

  “Oh, yes. The second week in August Claude asked her to marry him.”

  —That’s a lie, came Tandy’s furious denial. Claude would never have married anyone!

  “Did she accept him?” Risa asked.

  “She hesitated. She told him she would have to wait until later in the year to make up her mind. But of course there never was any later in the year for her.”

  “I wonder if they would have been happy together.”

  “I’m sure of it,” said St. John. His nostrils widened with some inner tension. “Investigate her earlier memories of him. You’ll see how powerfully she was drawn to him.”

  That was true in its way, Risa knew. Certainly Tandy’s feelings toward Claude had been far more powerful than what she felt for the detached, cool Stig Hollenbeck. But she had feared Claude as well as loving him.

  “What about you?” Risa said. “Did you know Claude at all when he was alive?”

  “We never met. It simply seemed to me his persona would be of interest to me. I needed someone more vigorous than myself, someone with athletic interests. It is always best to choose one’s complement, of course.”

  “He seems to have had quite an effect on you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Risa hesitated. “Well—that is, when I began to trace you, I received a photo of you. With—I don’t mean offense—a very different appearance. You looked softer, more plump.”

  “Do you have this photo? May I see it?”

  She produced it. He studied it intently, his forehead furrowing, his lips curling in a feral scowl. At length he said, “It was taken about a year ago. I’ve lost a good deal of weight. I’ve been taking more exercise. Claude’s helped me shed all that jelly.” St. John glanced up and smiled for the first time. “I feel I’m the better man for having him aboard. Another rum punch?”

  �
�I’d rather not.”

  “Must you be going?”

  “I have—family to visit,” Risa said lamely.

  “They can wait. Let me show you London. We’ll do the town tonight. After all, as you said, we have a great deal in common. Even though we’re strangers, a bond of love unites us vicariously. We owe it to Claude and Tandy to come together.”

  Wavering, Risa felt herself captured. For all his ominous coldness and enigmatic intensity, this man had an undeniable appeal. She was always willing to have an adventure. And with Tandy’s lover lurking behind those pale blue eyes—

  St. John excused himself to pay the bill.

  —Now’s your chance. Get out of here, said Tandy.

  “Why?”

  —He’s dangerous. You don’t want to fool with a dybbuk. Find a quaestor and have him mindpicked!

  “We’ve got no proof.”

  —Don’t you think I know Claude? His way of speaking, his movements, his facial expressions? He can fool the whole world, but he can’t fool me. He’s done a countererasure on his host and taken over. First he murdered me, then he murdered Martin St. John. And if you give him a chance tonight, you’ll be taking a new carnate trip too. Get out of here!

  St. John was returning from the billing plate now. Abruptly, Risa scrambled to her feet.

  She rushed from the coffee shop. St. John came after her, calling her name. But he did not pursue her beyond the front of the building.

  A thin, acrid smell was in her nostrils: fear. Risa rushed to the corner, shouldering past pedestrians uncaringly. Time seemed to accelerate oddly for her, so that she was unaware of individual moments. In a blur of panic she came to a message box on the corner and opened the speaker hood.

  “Quaestor!” she blurted. “I want to report a dybbuk!”

  It took only an instant for the robots of the quaestorate to get a fix on the street. Two personnel hopters appeared, and gleaming figures dropped from them. Risa pointed back toward the coffee shop. “Martin St. John,” she said. “There he goes!”

  The robots surrounded him. Risa saw the man struggling in vain.

  —They’ve got him, Tandy cried. Come on! We’ll have to testify.