“Don’t damage him,” Orc said to the men, wooden-faced.
A rag was pushed over Blaine’s mouth and nose, and he smelled something sickeningly sweet that fogged his mind. His last recollection was of Melhill, his face ashen, standing at the barred door.
CONTINUED NEXT MONTH
TIME KILLER
Second of Four Parts
Keeping his head was the least of Blaine’s worries in this deadliest of skin games . . . aimed to fleece him of his borrowed body!
SYNOPSIS
THOMAS BLAINE, a young yacht designer, is driving hack to New York when his car goes out of control and crashes into a passing car. Blaine is killed. He comes to life 152 years in the future, in a completely different body. Technicians are recording his reactions. He is being questioned by
MR. REILLY, a choleric old man, president of the Rex Corporation, which, has snatched Blaine’s mind into the future and set it into a host-body. When Reilly learns Blaine’s name, he is almost uncontrollably angry. The wrong man has been saved from 1958 and a perfectly good body wasted! The situation is explained further by
MARIE THORNE, a cold and beautiful young woman, employed by Reilly, and in charge of the project that saved Blaine. From her, Blaine learns about
HEREAFTER, INC., of which Rex is a subsidiary. This corporation guarantees, for a very high fee, the absolute certainty of life after death. Blaine learns that some people survive naturally and pass on to the hereafter. But tor the majority, the mind disintegrates with the death of the body—unless strengthened by Hereafter Inc.’s treatment. Blaine finds out more about the life after death. The most understandable part of it is
THE THRESHOLD, an interface region between Earth and the hereafter. Friendly spirits—such as Reilly’s dead grandfather—inhabit this region and advise the living; and in the Threshold there are minds which have gone insane during the death trauma, and which sometimes appear on Earth as ghosts.
But even with proofs, the organized religions do not accept the scientific hereafter. Reilly hoped to crack this large potential market by bringing a religious leader from 1958 to 2112. This man’s mind would pass through the Threshold, then be pulled into a host body. He would have seen the hereafter for himself and be able to endorse the product.
BUT the experiment failed. Instead they have Blaine—who remembers nothing about the Threshold. Blaine is, therefore, an embarrassment to Rex. Reilly offers him the expensive hereafter treatment free if Blaine will consent to commit suicide. Blaine refuses. Reilly hopes Blaine will change his mind when he witnesses a reincarnation.
By reincarnating, Reilly plans to be reborn in a younger man’s body. Reincarnation is dangerous, but Reilly fears going to the hereafter even more.
FITZSIMMONS, whose body Reilly is going to take over, has sold himself on the open market, in return for the precious hereafter treatment. The reincarnation begins, but there is interference from a spirit who fights Reilly for possession of Fitzsimmons’ body, and wins.
The new possessor of the host body can’t remember who he is. He is barely able to control the corpselike host, which has been dead too long for a successful integration of mind and body. A person in this state is referred to as a zombie.
The zombie is led away. As he passes Blaine, he seems to recognize him. He promises—or threatens—to see Blaine again, once he manages to recover his memory.
Marie Thorne takes Blaine away from Rex for his safety, and turns him over to
CARL ORC, tor safekeeping. This tall, amiable Westerner takes Blaine on a round of New York’s notorious pleasure spots. In a bar, they meet
JOE, a steerer for Transplant. This is an illegal sex game which employs a technique whereby one can temporarily inhabit the body of another man, woman, or animal. Blaine refuses. When he finishes his drink, he realizes too late that Orc has slipped him a knockout drop. Blaine recovers consciousness in a guarded room. There is another prisoner there named
RAY MELHILL, who tells him that they have been captured by Orc’s gang of body-snatchers. Although there is an open market in host bodies, the supply is always scarce and costly. The body-snatchers sell to rich men who wish to attempt reincarnation.
When Orc and his men come for him, Blaine tries to resist. But he is seized, chloroformed, and carried away.
9.
THOMAS Blaine’s first act of consciousness was to find out whether he was still Thomas Blaine and still occupying his own body. The proof was there, apparent in the asking. They hadn’t wiped his mind out yet.
He was lying on a divan, fully dressed. He sat up and heard the sound of footsteps outside, coming toward the door.
They must have overestimated the strength of the anesthetic. He still had a chance!
He moved quickly behind the door. It opened, and someone walked through. Blaine stepped out and swung.
He managed to check the blow, but there was still plenty of force left when his big fist struck Marie Thorne on the side of her shapely chin.
He carried her to the divan. It took a while before she recovered and looked fuzzily at him.
“Blaine,” she said, “you’re an idiot.”
“I didn’t know who it was,” said Blaine. Even as he said it, he realized it wasn’t true. He had recognized Marie Thorne a fractional second before the blow was launched; and his well-machined, responsive body could have recalled the punch even then. But an unperceived, uncontrollable fury had acted beneath his sane, conscious, morally aware level; fury had cunningly used urgency to avoid responsibility, had seized the deceiving instant to smash down the cold and uncaring Miss Thorne.
The act hinted at something Blaine didn’t care to know about himself. He said, “Miss Thorne, what in hell is going on?”
“I’m sorry, Blaine. Orc apparently didn’t understand why I was turning you over to him. He thought I wanted you disposed—well, I got you back from him as soon as I found out.”
“Thanks,” Blaine said. “Why are you doing this, anyhow?”
“For one thing, I knew the former owner of your body. For another—no, skip that.”
She fingered her jaw, which was discolored and slightly swollen. “Well, shall we consider ourselves even? Or do you want another clout at me?”
“One was enough, thank you,” Blaine said.
SHE stood up, somewhat unsteadily. Blaine put an arm around her to steady her and was momentarily disconcerted. He had visualized that trim body as whipcord and steel, but in fact it was flesh, firm, resilient, surprisingly soft. So close, he could see stray hairs escaping her tight coiffure, and a tiny mole on her forehead near the hairline. At that moment, Marie Thorne ceased as an abstraction for him and took shape as a human being.
“I can stand by myself,” she said.
“Of course,” said Blaine, but it took a long moment to release her.
“Under the circumstances,” she said, looking at him steadily, “I think our relationship should remain on a strictly business level.”
Wonder after wonder! She had suddenly begun viewing him as a human being, too; she was aware of him as a man, and disturbed by it. The thought gave him great pleasure. It was not, he told himself, that he liked Marie Thorne, or even desired her particularly. But he wanted very much to throw her off balance, scratch enamel off the facade, jar that damnable poise.
He said, “Why, certainly, Miss Thorne.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” she told him. “Because, frankly, you’re not my type.”
“What is your type?”
“I like tall, lean men,” she said. “Men with a certain grace, ease and sophistication.”
“But-”
“Shall we have lunch?” she asked easily.
He followed her out of the room, raging inwardly. Had she been making fun of him? Tall, lean, graceful, sophisticated men? That’s what he had been! And under this blond beefy wrestler’s body, he still was, if only she had eyes to see it!
And who was jarring whose poise?
B
LAINE suddenly remembered. “Melhill!”
“What?”
“Ray Melhill, the man I was locked up with! Look, Miss Thorne, could you possibly get him out? I’ll pay for it as soon as I can. He’s a damned nice guy.”
She looked at him curiously. “I’ll see what I can do.”
She left the room. Blaine waited, rubbing his hands together, wishing he had Carl Orc’s neck between them. Marie Thorne returned in a few minutes.
“I’m very sorry,” she said. “I contacted Orc. Mr. Melhill was sold an hour after you were removed. I really am sorry. I didn’t know.”
“I was afraid we wouldn’t make it in time,” said Blaine sickly. “I think I’d like a drink.”
“You need it,” she agreed. “I’ll take you to my place.”
Marie’s apartment was large, airy, pleasingly feminine, and furnished with a certain dramatic flair. There was more bright color than Blaine would have thought compatible with Miss Thorne’s somber personality, but perhaps the vivid yellows and sharp reds expressed a wish of some sort, a compensation for the restraint of her business life. Or perhaps it was just the prevailing style. The apartment contained the sort of gadgetry that Blaine associated with the future: self-adjusting lighting and air-conditioning, self-conforming armchairs, and a pushbutton bar that produced a very adequate martini.
Marie Thorne went into one of the bedrooms. She returned in a high-collared lounging dress and sat down on a couch opposite him.
“Well, Blaine, what are your plans?”
“I thought I’d ask you for a loan.”
“Certainly. Glad to help out.”
“In that case, my plan is to find a hotel room and start looking for a job.”
“It won’t be easy,” she said, “but I know some people who might—”
“I hope this doesn’t sound too silly, but I’d rather find a job on my own.”
“No, it doesn’t sound silly. I just hope it’s possible. How about some dinner?”
“Fine. Do you cook, too?”
“I set dials,” she replied. “Let’s see. How would you like a genuine Martian meal?”
“No, thanks,” Blaine said. “Martian food is tasty, but you’re hungry an hour later. Would you happen to have a steak around the place?”
MARIE set the dials and her auto-chef did the rest, selecting the foods from pantry and freezer, peeling, unwrapping, washing and cooking them, sniffing and tasting them, seasoning and serving them, and ordering new items to replace those used. The meal was perfect, but Marie seemed oddly embarrassed about it. She apologized to Blaine for the completely mechanical operation. After all, he came from an age in which women had opened their own cans and done their own tasting; but they’d probably had more leisure time too.
The sun had set by the time they finished their coffee. Blaine said, “Thank you very much, Miss Thorne. Now if you could lend me that money, I’ll get started.” She looked surprised. “At night?”
“I’ll find a hotel room. You’ve been very kind, but I wouldn’t want to presume any further—”
“You’re not presuming. You can start on your own tomorrow.”
“All right,” Blaine said. His mouth was suddenly dry and his heart was pounding with suspicious rapidity. He knew there was nothing personal in her invitation, but his body didn’t seem to understand. It insisted upon reacting hopefully, expectantly even, to the controlled and antiseptic Miss Thorne.
She gave him a bedroom and a pair of green pajamas. Blaine closed the door when she left, undressed and got into bed. The light went out when he told it to.
In a little while, just as his body had counted on, Miss Thorne came in wearing something white and gossamer.
They lay side by side in silence. Marie Thorne moved closer to him.
He said, “I thought you weren’t attracted to my type.”
“Not exactly. I said I preferred tall, lean men.”
“I was once a tall, lean man.”
“I suspected it,” she said.
They were both silent. Blaine began to grow uncomfortable and apprehensive. What did this mean? Had she some fondness for him? Or was this simply a custom of the age, a sort of Eskimo hospitality?
“Miss Thorne,” he said, “I wonder if—”
“Oh, be quiet!” she said, suddenly turning toward him, her eyes enormous in the shadowy room. “Do you have to question everything, Tom?”
Later, she said dreamily, “Under the circumstances, I think you can call me Marie.”
IN the morning, Blaine showered, shaved and dressed. Marie dialed a breakfast for them. After they had eaten, she gave him a small envelope.
“I can lend you more when you need it,” she said. “Now about finding a job—”
“You’ve helped me very much,” said Blaine. “The rest I’d like to do on my own.”
“If possible. My address and telephone number are on the envelope. Please call me as soon as you have a hotel.”
“I will,” Blaine promised, watching her closely. There was no hint of the Marie of last night. It might have been a different person entirely. But her studied self-possession was reaction enough for Blaine. Enough, at least, for the moment.
At the door, she touched his arm. “Tom, please be careful. And call me.”
“I will, Marie,” Blaine said.
He went down into the city happy and refreshed, intent upon conquering the world.
10.
BLAINE’S first idea had been to make a round of the yacht-design offices. But he decided against it simply by picturing a yacht designer from 1806 walking into an office in 1958.
The quaint gentleman might be very talented, but how would that help him when he was asked what he knew about metacentric shelf analysis, flow diagrams, centers of effort, and the best locations for RDF and sonar? What company would pay him while he learned the facts about reduction gears, exfoliating paints, tank testing, propeller pitch, heat exchange systems, synthetic sailcloth and all the rest of the advances made in a century and a half of scientific progress?
Not a chance, Blaine decided. He couldn’t walk into a design office 152 years behind the times and ask for a job. A job as what? Perhaps he could study and catch up to 2110 technology. But he’d have to do it on his own time.
Right now, he’d take anything he could get.
He went to a newsstand and purchased a microfilm Times and a viewer. He walked until he found a bench, sat down and turned to the classified ads. Quickly he skipped past the skilled categories, where he couldn’t hope to qualify, and came to unskilled labor. He read:
“Set-up man wanted in autocafeteria. Requires only basic knowledge of robotics.”
“Hull wiper granted, Mar-Coling liner. Must be Rh positive and fortified anticlaustrophobiac.”
“List man needed for hi-tensile bearing decay work. Needs simple jenkling knowledge. Meals included.”
It was apparent to Blaine that even the unskilled labor of 2110 was beyond his present capacity.
Turning the page to Employment for Boys, he read:
“Wanted, young man interested in slic-trug machinery. Good future. Must know basic calculus and have working knowledge Hootean Equations.”
“Young Men wanted, salesmen’s jobs on Venus. Salary plus Commission. Knowledge basic French, German, Russian and Ourescz.”
“Delivery, Magazine, Newspaper boys wanted by Eth-Col agency. Must be able to drive a Sprening. Good knowledge of City required.” So he couldn’t even qualify as a newsboy!
It was a depressing thought. Finding a job was going to be more difficult than he had imagined. Didn’t anyone dig ditches or carry packages in this city? Did robots do all the menial work, or did you need a Ph.D even to lug a wheelbarrow? What sort of world was this?
HE turned to the front page of the Times for an answer, adjusted his viewer and read the news of the day:
A new spacefield was under construction at Oxa, New South Mars.
A poltergeist was believed responsibl
e for several industrial fires in the Chicago area. Exorcism proceedings were under way.
Rich copper deposits had been discovered in the Sigma-G sector of the Asteroid Belt.
Doppelganger activities had increased in Berlin.
A new survey was being made of octopi villages in the Mindanao Deep.
A mob in Spenser, Alabama, lynched and burned the town’s two local zombies. Legal action was being taken against the mob leaders.
A noted anthropologist declared the Tuamoto Archipelago in Oceania to be the last stronghold of 20th century simplicity.
The Atlantic Fish Herders’ Association was holding its annual convention at the Waldorf.
A werewolf was unsuccessfully tracked in the Austrian Tyrol. Local villages were warned to keep a twenty-four-hour watch for the beast.
A bill was introduced into the House of Representatives to outlaw all hunts and gladiatorial events. It was defeated.
A berserker took four lives in downtown San Diego.
Helicopter fatalities reached the one million mark for the year.
Blaine put the newspaper aside, more depressed than ever. Ghosts, doppelgangers, werewolves, poltergeists . . .
He didn’t like the sound of those vague, grim ancient words which today seemed to represent actual phenomena. He had already met a zombie. He didn’t want to encounter any more of the dangerous side-effects of the hereafter.
He started walking again. He went through the theater district, past glittering marquees, posters advertising the gladiatorial events at Madison Square Garden, billboards heralding solidovision programs and sensory shows, flashing signs proclaiming overtone concerts and Venusian pantomime. Sadly, Blaine remembered that he might have been part of this dazzling fairyland if only Reilly hadn’t changed his mind. He might be appearing at one of those theaters now, billed as the Man from the Past . . .
Of course! A Man from the Past, Blaine suddenly realized, had a unique and indisputable novelty value, an inherent talent. The Rex Corporation had saved his life in 1958 solely in order to use that talent. But they had changed their minds. Then what was to prevent him from using his novelty value for himself? And, for that matter, what else could he do? Show business looked like the only possible business for him.
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