“Is all this necessary?” Blaine asked.
“Absolutely,” Farrell told him. “We've had some unhappy occurrences in the past. Unscrupulous operators frequently try to pass themselves off 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 get 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 for this sort of thing.”
“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 — a life after death.”
“What about the various mental disciplines?” Blaine asked.
“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 don'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 said, grinning. “She follows me around. And for all I know, she's perfectly 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. Past that, everything is conjecture. Some think that the mind is the essence of the body, and therefore the essences 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 prove people must be grouped in the hereafter according to family; others say 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 proving that English spirits rule the hereafter, and a Russian book claiming that the Russians rule, and several American books that prove 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,” Blaine said. “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,” Farrell said, “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, thrust aside any possible fears. Caution was all very well; but not when the gates of the hereafter were opening before 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.
25
A Helicab brought them directly to the Hereafter Building. Farrell led the way to the Admissions Office, and gave a photostatic 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 took over and 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 Henliger 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 a little 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. “That's advertising crap.”
“Things go wrong here every day. 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 damned 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 screwed 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.”
“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 easily. “It's sort of rare. 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?” Blaine asked.
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 asked. 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 OK?” 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 really kill was his body!
The feeling was indescribable. Now, for the first time, Blaine realized what men had lived with before the discovery of the scientific hereafter. He remembered the heavy, sodden, constant, unconscious fear of death that subtly weighed every action and permeated every movement. The ancient enemy death, the shadow that crept down the corridors of a man's mind like some grisly tapeworm, the ghost that haunted nights and days, the croucher behind corners, the shape behind doors, the unseen guest at every banquet, the unidentified figure in every landscape, always present, always waiting —
No more.
For now a tremendous weight had been lifted from his mind. The fear of death was gone, intoxicatingly gone, and he felt light as air. Death, that ancient enemy, was defeated!
He returned to his apartment in a state of high euphoria. The telephone was ringing as he unlocked the door.
“Blaine speaking!”
“Tom!” It was Marie Thorne. “Where have you been? I've been trying to reach you all afternoon.”
“I've been out, darling,” Blaine said. “Where in the hell have you been?”
“At Rex,” she said. “I've been trying to find out what they’re up to. Now listen carefully, I have some important news for you.”
“I've got some news for you, sweetheart,” Blaine said.
“Listen to me! A man will call at your apartment today. He'll be a salesman from Hereafter, Inc., and he will offer you free hereafter insurance. Don't take it.”
“Why not? Is he a fake?”
“No, he's perfectly genuine, and so is the offer. But you mustn't take it.”
“I already did,” Blaine said.
“You what?”
“He was here a few hours ago. I accepted it.”
“Have they treated you yet?”
“Yes, Was that a fake?”
“No,” Marie said, “of course it wasn't. Oh Tom, when will you learn not to accept gifts from strangers? There was time for hereafter insurance later… Oh, Tom!”
“What's wrong?” Blaine asked. “It was a grant from the Main-Farbenger Textile Corporation.”
“They are owned completely by the Rex Corporation,” Marie told him.
“Oh… But so what?”
“Tom, the directors of Rex gave you that grant. They used Main-Farbenger as a front, but Rex gave you that grant! Can't you see what it means?”
“No. Will you please stop screaming and explain?”
“Tom, it's the Permitted Murder section of the Suicide Act. They’re going to invoke it.”
“What are you taking about?”
“I'm talking about the section of the Suicide Act that makes host-taking legal. Rex has guaranteed the survival of your mind after death, you've accepted it. Now they can legally take your body for any purpose they desire. They own it. They can kill your body, Tom!”
“Kill me?”
“Yes. And of course they’re going to. The government is planning action against them for illegally transporting you from the past. If you’re not around, there's no case. Now listen. You must get out of New York, then out of the country. Maybe they'll leave you alone then. I'll help. I think that you should —” The telephone went dead.
Blaine clicked the receiver several times, but got no dial tone. Apparently the line had been cut.
The elation he had been filled with a few seconds ago drained out of him. The intoxicating sense of freedom from death vanished. How could he have contemplated berserking? He wanted to live. He wanted to live in the flesh, upon the Earth he knew and loved. Spiritual existence was fine, but he didn't want it yet. Not for a long time. He wanted to live among solid objects, breathe air, eat bread and drink water, feel flesh surrounding him, touch other flesh.
When would they try to kill him? Any time at all. His apartment was like a trap. Quickly Blaine scooped all his money into a pocket and hurried to the
door. He opened it, and looked up and down the hall. It was empty.
He hurried out, ran down the corridor, and stopped.
A man had just come around the corner. The man was standing in the center of the hall. He was carrying a large projector, which was levelled at Blaine's stomach. The man was Sammy Jones. “Ah, Tom, Tom,” Jones sighed. “Believe me, I'm damned sorry it's you. But business is business.” Blaine stood, frozen, as the projector lifted to level on his chest.
“Why you?” Blaine managed to ask.
“Who else?” Sammy Jones said. “Aren't I the best hunter in the Western Hemisphere, and probably Europe, too? Rex hired every one of us in the New York area. But with beam and projectile weapons this time. I'm sorry it's you, Tom.”
“But I'm a hunter, too,” Blaine said.
“You won't be the first that got gunned. It's the breaks of the game, lad. Don't flinch. I'll make it quick and clean.”
“I don't want to die!” Blaine gasped.
“Why not?” Jones asked. “You've got your hereafter insurance.”
“I was tricked! I want to live! Sammy, don't do it!”
Sammy Jones’ face hardened. He took careful aim, then lowered the gun. “I'm growing too soft-hearted for this game,” Jones said. “All right, Tom, start moving. I guess every Quarry should have a little head start. Makes it more sporting. But I'm only giving you a little.”
“Thanks, Sammy,” Blaine said, and hurried down the hall.
“But Tom — watch your step if you really want to live. I'm telling you, there's more hunters than citizens in New York right now. And every means of transportation is guarded.”
“Thanks,” Blaine called, as he hurried down the stairs.
He was in the street, but he didn't know where to go. Still, he had no time for indecision. It was late afternoon, hours before darkness could help him. He picked a direction and began walking.
Almost instinctively, his steps were leading him toward the slums of the city.
26
He walked past the rickety tenements and ancient apartment houses, past the cheap saloons and night clubs, hands thrust in his pockets, trying to think. He would have to come up with a plan. The hunters would get him in the next hour or two if he couldn't work out some plan, some way of getting out of New York.
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