“Uh,” said Blaine.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with you,” she said with hasty kindness. “You are a little rough, but I guess it takes all kinds.”
“I guess it does,” Blaine said. “Yes, I guess it sure does.”
They finished their breakfast in embarrassed silence. Alice, freed of her obsessive dream, left for her own apartment immediately afterward, with no suggestion that they meet again. Blaine sat in his big chair, staring out the window, thinking.
So he wasn’t like Kranch!
The sad truth was, he told himself, he had acted as he imagined Kranch would have acted in similar circumstances. He had convinced himself that a strong, active, hearty outdoors man would necessarily treat a woman like a wrestling bear.
He had acted out a stereotype. He would feel even sillier if he weren’t so relieved at regaining his threatened Blaineism.
He frowned as he remembered Alice’s description of Marie: Skinny, hard as nails, cold as a fish. More stereotyping.
But, under the circumstances, he could hardly blame Alice.
22.
A FEW days later, Blaine re-received word that a communication was waiting for him at the Spiritual Switchboard. He went there after work and was sent to the booth he had used previously.
Melhill’s amplified voice said, “Hello, Tom.”
“Hello, Ray. I was wondering where you were.”
“I’m still in the Threshold,” Melhill told him, “but I won’t be much longer. I gotta go on and see what the hereafter is like. It pulls at me. But I wanted to talk to you again, Tom. I think you should watch out for Marie Thorne.”
“Now, Ray-”
“I mean it. She’s been spending all her time at Rex. I don’t know what’s going on there; they got the conference rooms shielded against psychic invasion. But something’s brewing over you and she’s in the middle of it.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open,” Blaine said.
“Tom, please take my advice. Get out of New York. Get out fast, while you still have a body, and a mind to run it with.”
“I’m staying,” said Blaine.
“You stubborn ape,” Melhill said, with deep feeling. “What’s the use of having a guardian spirit if you don’t even once take his advice?”
“I appreciate your help,” Blaine assured him. “I really do. But tell me truthfully, how much better off would I be if I ran?”
“You might be able to stay alive a little longer.”
“Only a little? Is it really that bad?”
“Bad enough. Tom, remember not to trust anybody. I gotta go now.”
“Will I speak to you again, Ray?”
“Maybe,” Melhill said. “Maybe not. Good luck, kid.”
The interview was ended. Blaine returned to his apartment.
THE next day was Saturday.
Blaine lounged in bed late, made himself breakfast and called Marie. She was out. He decided to spend the day relaxing and playing his sensory recordings.
That afternoon, he had two callers.
The first was a gentle, hunchbacked old woman dressed in a dark, severe uniform. Across her army-style cap were the words OLD CHURCH.
“Sir,” she said in a slightly wheezy voice, “I am soliciting contributions for the Old Church, an organization which seeks to promote faith in these dissolute and Godless times.”
“Sorry,” said Blaine, and started to close the door.
But the old woman must have had many doors closed on her. She wedged her foot between door and jamb and passionately continued talking.
“This, young sir, is the age of the Babylonian Beast and the time of the soul’s destruction. This is Satan’s age and the time of his seeming triumph. But be not deceived! The Lord Almighty has allowed this to come about for a trial and a testing, and a winnowing of grain from chaff. Beware the temptation! Beware the path of evil which lies wickedly and alluringly before you!”
Blaine gave her a dollar just to shut her up. The old woman thanked him but continued talking.
“Beware, young sir, that ultimate lure of Satan—the false heaven which men call the hereafter! For what better snare could Satan the Deceiver devise for the world of men than this, his greatest illusion! The illusion that hell is heaven! And men are deceived by the cunning deceit and willingly go down into it!”
“Thank you,” Blaine said, trying to shut the door.
“Remember my words!” the old woman shrilled, fixing him with a glassy blue eye. “The hereafter is evil! Beware the prophets of the hellish afterlife!”
“Thank you!” Blaine yelled, and managed to close the door.
He relaxed in his armchair again and turned on the player. For nearly an hour, he was absorbed in Flight on Venus. Then there was a knock on his door.
Blaine opened it and saw a short, well-dressed, chubby-faced, earnest-looking young man.
“Mr. Thomas Blaine?” the man asked.
“That’s me.”
“Mr. Blaine, I am Charles Farrell, from the Hereafter Corporation. Might I speak to you? If it is inconvenient now, perhaps we could make an appointment for some other—”
“Come in,” Blaine said, opening the door wide for the prophet of the hellish afterlife.
FARRELL was a mild, businesslike, soft-spoken prophet. His first move was to give Blaine a letter written on Hereafter, Inc., stationery, stating that Charles Farrell was a fully authorized representative of the Hereafter Corporation. Included in the letter was a meticulous description of Farrell, his signature, three stamped photographs and a set of fingerprints.
“And here are my identity proofs,” Farrell said, opening his wallet and showing his heli license, library card, voter’s registration certificate and government clearance card. On a separate piece of treated paper, Farrell impressed the fingerprints of his right hand and gave them to Blaine for comparison with those on the letter.
“Is all this necessary?” Blaine inquired.
“Absolutely,” Farrell told him. “We’ve had some unhappy occurrences in the past. Unscrupulous operators will try to pass themselves as Hereafter representatives among the gullible and the poor. They offer salvation at a cut rate, take what they can get and skip town. Too many people have been cheated out of everything they own and gotten nothing in return. For the illegal operators, even when they represent some little fly-by-night salvation company, have none of the expensive equipment and trained technicians that are needed.”
“I didn’t know,” Blaine said. “Won’t you sit down?”
Farrell took a chair. “The Better Business Bureaus are trying to do something about it. But the fly-by-nights move too fast to be easily caught. Only Hereafter, Inc., and two other companies with government-approved techniques are able to deliver what they promise—life after death.”
“What about the various mental disciplines?” asked Blaine.
“I was purposely excluding them,” Farrell said. “They’re a completely different category. If you have the patience and determination necessary for twenty years or so of concentrated study, more power to you. If you don’t, then you need scientific aid and implementation. And that‘s where we come in.”
“I’d like to hear about it,” Blaine said.
Mr. Farrell settled himself more comfortably in his chair. “If you’re like most people, you probably want to know what is life? What is death? What is a mind? Where is the interaction point between mind and body? Is the mind also soul? Is the soul also mind? Are they independent of each other, or interdependent, or intermixed? Or is there any such thing as a soul?” Farrell smiled. “Are those some of the questions you want me to answer?”
Blaine nodded.
FARRELL said, “Well, I can’t. We simply don’t know, haven’t the slightest idea. As far as we’re concerned, those are religio-philosophical questions which Hereafter, Inc., has no intention of even trying to answer. We’re interested in results, not speculation. Our orientation is medical. Our approach is pragmatic. We do
n’t care how or why we get our results or how strange they seem. Do they work? That’s the only question we ask, and that’s our basic position.”
“I think you’ve made it clear,” Blaine said.
“It’s important for me to do so at the start. So let me make one more thing clear. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that we are offering heaven.”
“No?”
“Not at all! Heaven is a religious concept and we have nothing to do with religion. Our hereafter is a survival of the mind after the body’s death. That’s all. We don’t claim the hereafter is heaven any more than early scientists claimed that the bones of the first cavemen were the remains of Adam and Eve.”
“An old woman called here earlier,” Blaine said. “She told me that the hereafter is hell.”
“She’s a fanatic,” Farrell replied, grinning. “She follows me around. And for all I know, she’s right.”
“What do you know about the hereafter?”
“Not very much,” Farrell told him. “All we know for sure is this: After the body’s death, the mind moves to a region we call the Threshold, which exists between Earth and the hereafter. It is, we believe, a sort of preparatory state to the hereafter itself. Once the mind is there, it can move at will into the hereafter.”
“But what is the hereafter like?”
“We don’t know. We’re fairly sure it’s non-physical. Beyond that, everything is conjecture. Some think that the mind is the essence of the body and therefore the essences, so to speak, of a man’s worldly goods can be brought into the hereafter with him. It could be so. Others disagree. Some feel that the hereafter is a place where souls await their turn for rebirth on other planets as part of a vast reincarnation cycle. Perhaps that’s true, too. Some feel that the hereafter is only the first stage of post-Earth existence and that there are six others, increasingly difficult to attain, culminating in a sort of nirvana. Could be.
“It’s been said that the hereafter is a vast, misty region where you wander alone, forever searching, never finding. I’ve read theories that say people must be grouped in the hereafter according to family; others state you’re grouped there according to race, or religion, or skin coloration, or social position. Some people, as you’ve observed, say it’s hell itself you’re entering. There are advocates of a theory of illusion, who claim that the mind vanishes completely when it leaves the Threshold. And there are people who accuse us at the corporation of faking all our effects.
“A recent learned work states that you’ll find whatever you want in the hereafter—heaven, paradise, valhalla, green pastures, take your choice. A claim is made that the old gods rule in the hereafter—the gods of Haiti, Scandinavia or the Belgian Congo, depending on whose theory you’re following. Naturally a counter-theory shows that there can’t be any gods at all. I’ve seen an English book declaring that English spirits rule the hereafter, and a Russian book claiming that the Russians rule, and several American books that say the Americans rule.
A book came out last year stating that the government of the hereafter is anarchy. A leading philosopher insists that competition is a law of nature and must be so in the hereafter, too. And so on. You can take your pick of any of those theories, Mr. Blaine, or you can make up one of your own.”
“WHAT do you think?” Blaine asked.
“Me? I’m keeping an open mind,” Farrell said. “When the time comes, I’ll go there and find out.”
“That’s good enough for me,” said Blaine. “Unfortunately, I won’t have a chance. I don’t have the kind of money you people charge.”
“I know,” Farrell said. “I checked into your finances before I called.”
“Then why-”
“Every year,” said Farrell, “a number of free hereafter grants are made, some by philanthropists, some by corporations and trusts, a few on a lottery basis. I am happy to say, Mr. Blaine, that you have been selected for one of these grants.”
“Me?”
“Let me offer my congratulations,” Farrell said. “You’re a very lucky man.”
“But who gave me the grant?”
“The Main-Farbenger Textile Corporation.”
“I never heard of them.”
“Well, they heard of you. The grant is in recognition of your trip here from the year 1958. Do you accept it?”
Blaine stared hard at the Hereafter representative. Farrell seemed genuine enough; anyhow, his story could be checked at the Hereafter Building. Blaine had his suspicions of the splendid gift thrust so unexpectedly into his hands. But the thought of an assured life after death outweighed any possible doubts, pushed aside any possible fears. Caution was all very well, but not when the gates of the hereafter were being opened for you.
“What do I have to do?” he asked.
“Simply accompany me to the Hereafter Building,” Farrell said. “We can have the necessary work done in a few hours.”
Survival! Life after death!
“All right,” Blaine said. “I accept the grant. Let’s go!”
They left Blaine’s apartment at once.
23.
A HELICAB brought them directly to the Hereafter Building. Farrell led the way to the Admissions Office and gave a photo copy of Blaine’s grant to the woman in charge. Blaine made a set of fingerprints and produced his hunter’s license for further identity. The woman checked all the data carefully against her master list of acceptances. Finally she was satisfied with its validity and signed the admission papers.
Farrell then took Blaine to the Testing Room, wished him luck, and left him.
In the Testing Room, a squad of young technicians ran Blaine through a gamut of examinations. Banks of calculators clicked and rattled and spewed forth yards of paper and showers of punched cards. Ominous machines bubbled and squeaked at him, glared with giant red eyes, winked and turned amber. Automatic pens squiggled across pieces of graph paper. And through it all, the technicians kept up a lively shop talk.
“Interesting beta reaction. Think we can fair that curve?”
“Sure, sure, just lower his drive coefficient.”
“Hate to do that. It weakens the web.”
“You don’t have to weaken it that much. He’ll still take the trauma.”
“Maybe. What about this Henlinger factor? It’s off.”
“That’s because he’s in a host body. It’ll come around.”
“That one didn’t last week. The guy went up like a rocket.”
“He was too damned unstable to begin with.”
Blaine said, “Hey! Is there any chance of this not working?”
The technicians turned as though seeing him for the first time.
“Every case is different, pal,” a technician told him.
“Each one has to be worked out on an individual basis.”
“It’s just problems, problems all the time.”
BLAINE said, “I thought the treatment was all worked out. I heard it was infallible.”
“Sure, that’s what they tell the customers,” one of the technicians said scornfully.
“Things go wrong here every so often. We still got a long way to go.”
Blaine said, “But can you tell if the treatment takes?”
“Of course. If it takes, you’re still alive.”
“If it doesn’t, you never walk out of here.”
“It usually takes,” a technician said consolingly. “On everybody but a K3.”
“It’s that lousy K3 factor that throws us. Come on, Jamiesen, is he a K3 or not?”
“I’m not sure,” Jamiesen said, hunched over a flashing instrument. “The testing machine is all bitched up again.”
Blaine said, “What is a K3?”
“I wish we knew,” Jamiesen said moodily. “All we know for certain, guys with a K3 factor can’t survive after death.”
“Not under any circumstances.”
“Old Fitzroy thinks it’s a built-in limiting factor that nature included so the species wouldn’t run wild.”
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“But K3s don’t transmit the factor to their children.”
“There’s still a chance it lies dormant and skips a few generations.”
“Am I a K3?” Blaine asked, trying to keep his voice steady. “Probably not,” Jamiesen said warily. “It’s not particularly common. Let me check.”
Blaine waited while the technicians went over their data, and Jamiesen tried to determine from his faulty machine whether or not Blaine had a K3 factor.
After a while, Jamiesen looked up. “Well, I guess he’s not K3. Though who knows, really? Anyhow, let’s get on with it.”
“What comes next?” asked Blaine.
A hypodermic bit deeply into his arm.
“Don’t worry,” a technician told him, “everything’s going to be just fine.”
“Are you sure I’m not K3?” Blaine insisted.
The technician nodded in a perfunctory manner. Blaine wanted to ask more questions, but a wave of dizziness overcame him. The technicians were lifting him, putting him on a white operating table.
WHEN he recovered consciousness, he was lying on a comfortable couch listening to soothing music. A nurse handed him a glass of sherry, and Mr. Farrell was standing by, beaming.
“Feel okay?” Farrell asked. “You should. Everything went off perfectly.”
“It did?”
“No possibility of error. Mr. Blaine, the hereafter is yours.”
Blaine finished his sherry and stood up, a little shakily. “Life after death is mine? Whenever I die? Whatever I die of?”
“That’s right. No matter how or when you die, your mind will survive after death. How do you feel?”
“I don’t know,” Blaine said.
It was only half an hour later, as he was returning to his apartment, that he began to react.
The hereafter was his!
He was filled with a sudden wild elation. Nothing mattered now, nothing whatsoever! He was immortal! He could be killed on the spot and yet live on!
He felt superbly drunk. Gaily, he contemplated throwing himself under the wheels of a passing truck. What did it matter? Nothing could really hurt him! He could berserk now, slash merrily through the crowds. Why not? The only thing the flathats could kill was his body!
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