Mr. Kean leaned against the wall of the passageway to catch his breath. “To be sure, the zombie’s appearance is unpleasant. He shambles, his wounds never heal, he mumbles like an idiot, staggers like a drunk, stares like a pervert. But is this any reason to make him the repository of all guilt and shame upon Earth, the leper of the 22nd century? They say that zombies attack people; yet his body is fragile in the extreme, and the average zombie couldn’t resist even a very young child’s determined assault.
“They believe the disease is communicable and this is obviously not so. They say that zombies are sexual monsters, whereas the truth is that a zombie experiences no sexual feeling whatsoever. But people refuse to learn, and zombies are outcasts fit only for the hangman’s noose or the lyncher’s burning stake.”
“What about the authorities?” asked Blaine.
MR. Kean smiled bitterly.
“They used to lock us up, as a kindness, in mental institutions. You see, they didn’t want us hurt. Yet zombies are rarely insane and the authorities knew it! So now, with their tacit approval, we occupy these abandoned subway tunnels and sewer lines.”
“Couldn’t you find a better place?” Blaine asked.
“Frankly, the underground suits us. Sunlight is bad for unregenerative skins.”
They began walking again. Blaine said, “What can I do?”
“You can tell what you learned here. Write about it, perhaps. Widening ripples . . .”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Kean said gravely. “Education is our one hope. Education and the future. Surely people will be more enlightened in the future.”
The future? Blaine felt suddenly dizzy. For this was the future, to which he had traveled from the idealistic and hopeful 20th century. Now was the future! But the promised enlightenment still had not come and people were much the same as ever. He felt disoriented and old, older than Kean, older than the human race—a creature in a borrowed body standing in a place it did not know.
“And now,” Mr. Kean said, “we have reached your destination.” Blaine blinked rapidly and life came back into focus. The dim passageway had ended. In front of him was a rusted iron ladder fastened to the tunnel wall, leading upward into darkness.
“Good luck,” said Mr. Kean. He left, supporting himself heavily on the Negro’s arm.
Blaine watched the old man go, then turned to Smith. “Where are we going?”
“Up the ladder.”
“But where does it lead?” Smith had already begun climbing. He stopped and looked down, his lead-colored lips drawn back into a grin. “We’re going to visit a friend of yours, Blaine. We’re going into his tomb, up to his coffin, and ask him to stop haunting you. Force him, maybe.”
“A friend of mine?” Blaine repeated worriedly. “Who is he?” Smith only grinned and continued climbing. Blaine mounted the ladder behind him.
18.
ABOVE the passageway was a ventilation shaft, which led to another passageway. They came at last to a door and went in.
They were in a large, brilliantly lighted room. Upon the arched ceiling was a mural depicting a handsome, clear-eyed man entering a gauzy blue heaven in the company of angels. Blaine knew at once who had sat for the painting.
“Reilly!”
Smith nodded. “We’re inside his Palace of Death.”
“How did you know Reilly was haunting me?”
“Only two people connected with you have died recently. The ghost certainly was not Ray Melhill. It had to be Reilly.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know,” Smith said. “Perhaps Reilly will tell you himself.”
Blaine looked at the walls. They were inlaid with crosses, crescent moons, stars and swastikas, as well as Indian, African, Arabian, Chinese and Polynesian good-luck signs. On pedestals around the room were statues of ancient deities. Among the dozens, Blaine recognized Zeus, Apollo, Damballa, Odin and Astarte. In front of each pedestal was an altar, and on each altar was a cut and polished jewel.
“What’s that for?” Blaine asked.
“Propitiation.”
“But life after death is a scientific fact.”
“Mr. Kean maintains that science has little effect upon superstition,” Smith said. “Reilly was fairly sure he’d survive after death, but he saw no reason to take chances. Also, Mr. Kean says that the very rich, like the very religious, wouldn’t enjoy a hereafter filled with just anybody. They think that, by suitable rites and symbols, they can get into a more exclusive part of the hereafter.”
“Is there a more exclusive part?”
“No one knows. As I said, Reilly was taking no chances.”
Smith led him across the room to an ornate door covered with Egyptian hieroglyphics and Chinese ideographs.
“Reilly’s body is inside here,” Smith said.
“And we’re going in?”
“We have to.”
SMITH pushed the door open.
Blaine saw a vast marble-pillared room. In its very center was a bronze and gold coffin inlaid with jewels. Surrounding the coffin was a great and bewildering quantity of goods—paintings and sculptures, musical instruments, carvings, objects like washing machines, stoves, refrigerators, even a complete helicopter. There were clothing and books, and a lavish banquet had been laid out.
“What’s all this stuff for?” Blaine asked.
“The essence of these goods is intended to accompany the owner into the hereafter. It’s an old belief.”
“And that?” Blaine pointed to a high marble altar in a corner of the room. Upon the altar’s broad surface was a mound of gray ashes and a few charred bones.
“That’s where the Rex Corporation officials make the weekly burnt offerings to Reilly.”
“Why do they bother?”
“It’s the only way they can pay Reilly’s ghost for looking into the future and advising the corporation on business matters. The burnt offerings are supposed to confer special maria—power—on the spirit and help free him from the Wheel of Things. With no sacrifices, Reilly would fear being pulled back into a descending order of reincarnation and being reborn as a toad, perhaps, or a pig. The doctrine of the transmigration of souls is firmly believed among the rich.”
Blaine’s first reaction was one of pity. The scientific hereafter hadn’t freed men from the fear of death, as it should have done. On the contrary, it had intensified their uncertainties and stimulated their competitive drive.
Given the surety of an afterlife, man wanted to improve upon it, to enjoy a better heaven than anyone else. Equality was all very well, but individual initiative came first. A perfect and passionless leveling was no more palatable an idea in the hereafter than it was on Earth. The desire to surpass caused a man like Reilly to build a tomb like the Pharaohs of ancient Egypt, to brood all his life about death, to live continually trying to find ways of preserving his property and status in the gray uncertainties ahead.
A shame. And yet, Blaine thought, wasn’t his pity based upon a lack of belief in the efficacy of Reilly’s measures? Suppose you could improve your situation in the hereafter? In that case, what better way to spend one’s time on Earth than working for a better eternity?
The proposition seemed reasonable, but Blaine refused to believe it. That couldn’t be the only reason for existence on Earth! Good or bad, fair or foul, the thing had to be lived for its own sake.
AS Smith walked slowly into the coffin room, Blaine stopped his speculations. The zombie stood contemplating a small table covered with ornaments. Dispassionately, he kicked the table over. Then slowly, one by one, he ground the delicate ornaments into the polished marble floor.
“What are you doing?” Blaine gasped.
“You want the poltergeist to leave you alone, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Then he must have some reason for leaving you alone,” Smith said, kicking over an elaborate ebony sculpture.
It seemed reasonable enough to Bla
ine. Even a ghost must know he will eventually leave the Threshold and enter the hereafter. When he does, he wants his goods waiting for him, intact. Therefore fight fire with fire, persecution with persecution.
Still, he felt like a vandal when he picked up an oil painting and prepared to shove his fist through it.
“Don’t!” ordered a voice above his head.
BLAINE and Smith looked up.
Above them there seemed to be a faint silvery mist. From the mist, an attenuated voice said, “Please put down the painting.”
Blaine held onto it, his fist poised. “Are you Reilly?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you haunting me?”
“Because you’re responsible! Everything’s your fault! You killed me with your evil murdering mind! Yes, you, you hideous thing from the past, you damned monster!”
“I didn’t!” Blaine cried.
“You did! You aren’t human! You aren’t natural! Everything shuns you except your friend the dead man! Why aren’t you dead, murderer!”
Blaine’s fist moved toward the painting. The thin voice screamed, “Don’t!”
“Will you leave me alone?” Blaine persisted.
“Put down the painting,” Reilly begged.
Blaine put it carefully down.
“I’ll leave you alone,” Reilly promised. “Why shouldn’t I? There are things you can’t see, Blaine, but I see them. Your time on Earth will be short, very short, painfully short. Those you trust will betray you; those you hate will conquer you. You will die, Blaine, not in years but sooner than you could believe. You’ll be betrayed and you’ll die by your own hand.”
“You’re crazy!” Blaine frightenedly shouted.
“Am I?” Reilly cackled. “Am I? Am I?”
The silvery mist vanished. Reilly was gone.
Smith led him back through narrow winding passageways to the street level. Outside, the air was chilly and dawn had touched the tall buildings with red and gray.
Blaine started to thank him, but Smith shook his head. “No reason for thanks. After all, I need you, Blaine. Where would I be if the poltergeist killed you? Take care of yourself, be careful. Nothing is possible for me without you.”
The zombie gazed anxiously at him for a moment, then hurried away.
Blaine watched him go, wondering if it wouldn’t be better to have a dozen enemies than Smith for a friend.
19.
LESS than an hour later, he was at Marie Thorne’s apartment. Marie, without makeup, dressed in a housecoat, blinked sleepily and led him to the kitchen, where she dialed coffee, toast and scrambled eggs.
“I wish,” she said, “you’d make your dramatic appearances at a decent hour. It’s six-thirty in the morning.”
“I’ll try to do better in the future,” Blaine replied cheerfully.
“You said you’d call. What happened to you?”
“Did you worry?”
“Not in the least. What happened?”
Between bites of toast, Blaine told her about the hunt, the haunting, and the exorcism. She listened to it all, then said, “So you’re obviously very proud of yourself, and I guess you should be. But you still don’t know what Smith wants from you, or even who he is.”
“Haven’t the slightest idea,” Blaine said. “Smith doesn’t, either. Frankly, I couldn’t care less.”
“What happens when he finds out?”
“I’ll worry about that when it happens.”
Marie raised both eyebrows but made no comment. “Tom, what are your plans now?”
“I’m going to get a job.”
“As a hunter?”
“No. Logical or not, I’m going to try the yacht design agencies. Then I’m going to come around here and bother you at reasonable hours. How does that sound?”
“Impractical. Do you want some good advice?”
“No.”
“I’m giving it to you anyhow. Tom, get out of New York. Go as far away as you can. Go to Fiji or Samoa.”
“Why should I?”
Marie began to walk restlessly around the kitchen. “You simply don’t understand this world.”
“I think I do.”
“No! You’ve had a few typical experiences, Tom—that’s all. But that doesn’t mean you’ve assimilated our culture. You’ve been snatched, haunted, and you’ve gone on a hunt. But it adds up to not much more than a guided tour. Reilly was right—you’re as lost and helpless as a caveman would be in your own 1958.”
“That’s ridiculous and I object to the comparison.”
“All right, let’s make it a 14th-century Chinese. Suppose this hypothetical Chinese had met a gangster, gone on a bus ride and seen Coney Island. Would you say he understood 20th-century America?”
“Of course not. But what’s the point?”
“The point,” she said, “is that you aren’t safe here, and you can’t even sense what or where or how urgent the dangers are. For one, that damned Smith is after you. Next, Reilly’s heirs might not take kindly to you desecrating his tomb; they might find it necessary to do something about it. And the directors at Rex are still arguing about what they should do about you. You’ve altered things, changed things, disrupted things. Can’t you feel it?”
“I can handle Smith,” Blaine said confidently. “To hell with Reilly’s heirs. As for the directors, what can they do to me?”
“Tom,” she told him earnestly, “any man born here who found himself in your shoes would run as fast as he could!”
HE was in no mood for warnings. He had survived the dangers of the hunt, had passed through the iron door into the underworld and won through again to the light. Now, sitting in Marie’s sunny kitchen, he felt elated and at peace with the world. Danger seemed an academic problem not worthy of discussion at the moment, and the idea of running away from New York was absurd.
“Tell me,” Blaine said lightly, “among the things I’ve disrupted—is one of them you?”
“I’m probably going to lose my job, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Then let’s not discuss it. Will you get out of New York?”
“No. And please stop sounding so panicky.”
“Oh, Lord,” she sighed, “we talk the same language, but I’m not getting through. You don’t understand. Let me try an example.” She thought for a moment. “Suppose a man owned a sailboat—”
“Do you sail? Blaine asked. “Yes, I love sailing. Tom, listen to me! Suppose a man owned a sailboat in which he was planning an ocean voyage—”
“Across the sea of life,” Blaine filled in.
“You’re not funny,” she said, looking very pretty and serious. “This man doesn’t know anything about boats. He sees it floating, nicely painted, everything in place. He can’t imagine any danger. Then you look the boat over. You see that the frames are cracked, teredos have gotten into the rudder post, there’s dry rot in the mast, the sails are mildewed, the keel bolts are rusted, and the fastenings are ready to let go.”
“Where’d you learn so much about boats?”
“I’ve been sailing since I was a kid. Will you please pay attention? You tell that man his boat is not seaworthy; the first gale is likely to sink him.”
“We’ll have to go sailing sometime,” Blaine said.
“But this man,” Marie continued doggedly, “doesn’t know anything about boats. The thing looks all right. And the worst of it is you can’t tell him exactly what is going to happen, or when. Maybe the boat will hold together for a month, or a year, of maybe only a week. Maybe the keel bolts will go first, or perhaps it’ll be the mast. You just don’t know. And that’s the situation here. I can’t tell you what’s going to happen or when. I just know you’re unseaworthy. You must get out of here!”
She looked at him hopefully. Blaine nodded and said, “You’ll make one hell of a crew.”
“So you’re not going?”
“No. I’ve been up all night. The only place I’m goi
ng now is to bed. Would you care to join me?”
“Go to hell!”
“Darling, please! Where’s your pity for a homeless wanderer from the past?”
“I’m going out,” she said. “Help yourself to the bedroom. But you’d better think about what I told you.”
“Sure,” said Blaine. “But why should I worry when I have you looking out for me?”
“Smith’s looking out for you, too,” she said, and left the kitchen.
BLAINE finished his breakfast and turned in. He awoke in the early afternoon. Marie still hadn’t returned, so before leaving he wrote her a cheerful note with the address of his hotel.
During the next few days, he visited most of the yacht design agencies in New York, without success. His old firm, Mattison & Peters, was long defunct. The other firms weren’t interested. Finally, at Jaakobsen Yachts, Ltd., the head designer questioned him closely about the now-extinct Chesapeake Bay and Bahamas work boats. Blaine demonstrated his considerable knowledge of the types, as well as his out-of-date draftsmanship.
“We get some calls for antique and exotic boats,” the head designer said. “There are always people who want to sail something different from what their neighbor’s got. We’ve turned out luggers, proas, sailing barges, junks, dhows, brigs, barks, and so forth. Some Chesapeake skipjacks and bug-eyes might go very well right now, and some of those 20th-century Bahamas jobs with the baggy sails. Hm. Tell you what. We’ll hire you as office boy. You can do 20th-century hulls on a commission basis and study up on your designing, which, frankly, is old-fashioned. When you’re ready, we’ll upgrade you. What do you say?”
It was an inferior position, but it was a job, a legitimate job, with a fine chance for advancement. It meant that at least he had a real place in the world of 2110.
“I’ll take it,” Blaine said, “with thanks.”
That evening, by way of celebration, he went to a Sensory Shop to buy a player and a few recordings. He was entitled, he thought, to a little basic luxury.
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