The Brain of Many Bodies

by E. A. Grosser

  CHAPTER IV

  UTOPIA!

  The officer left to obey. The Air Chief lay back weakly on the couch and rested quietly. He seemed to be summoning his last reserves of strength. And Wrane Randall could only wait helplessly for death to come.

  Guards came, took him back to the small hospital where his features had been changed. Orderlies took charge of him. In a moment, he was fastened securely to an operating table, and even though he felt his strength returning, he was helpless.

  He tried to move. His muscles responded, but he was clamped tight. He lay still, haunted by the thought that though he was to die, his body would live on.

  After what seemed hours, the Air Chief was brought in on a stretcher and gently placed on another table. Randall watched from the corners of his eyes, and saw the Air Chief turn to face him. An evil smile gleamed on the discolored face. Randall heard a husking whisper.

  “You only succeeded in hastening your end,” the Air Chief mocked. “It is now fifteen minutes to ten, as you Earthlings calculate time. The operation will proceed as soon as Dr. Brophy and Dr. Torvald arrive. I shall have to use him, but three of my guards will remain; and if I do not live—in your body—no one shall leave this room. And the rest of my guards shall wait outside to see that there is no interference. So you needn’t try to comfort yourself that we might both die.”

  “That wouldn’t be any comfort,” Randall replied. He was thinking rapidly. Judging from the manner in which the Air Chief spoke of Dr. Torvald, he didn’t know that both doctors were traitors. And he spoke of men as ‘Earthlings’!

  “What are you?” Randall asked. “You—your brain . . . that body you said was yours. . . . That wasn’t human!”

  “You are mistaken,” the Air Chief chuckled. “I am human—more human than you are. I am from Mars, as were your ancestors. Gradual adaptation over hundreds of thousands of years changed your bodies. I came to Earth a century ago when my last companion died. Mars is a dead world now. But I . . . I have outlived my world! I am greater than time! I am greater than all your world! I am greater than the gods! I am the last Martian!”

  Randall heard him choke. And from the corners of his eyes he saw the Air Chief’s face twist into an unholy mask of agony. Randall grinned. Now was the time!—if he could kill this monster, even though he himself died only a short time later.

  “You’ve lived a long time,” he taunted, “but only to die now. Dr. Brophy is a traitor to you, a scientist who cares for nothing but the privilege of unhampered research. So you made an enemy of him. But Dr. Torvald is the man you should fear!” Randall saw the Air Chief stiffen. The gray face turned to face him, eyes horribly alive with an alien intelligence.

  They heard the door open, but the Air Chief’s eyes remained fastened on Randall. Suddenly Randall feared that he had delayed too long. A number of people were entering. He heard the door close again.

  “Dr. Torvald is the man you should fear!” he shouted at the Air Chief. “He is an Irredentist! All he desires is your death, and it won’t matter to him if he has to die!”

  Randall heard a curse from the group near the door. It sounded like Torvald. But he was watching the Air Chief. As he had hoped, the information was too much for the Air Chief’s weak heart. The man stiffened spasmodically, quivered.

  One of the guards ran to the Air Chief’s side with a curse, then turned back to the two doctors.

  “Hurry! Damn you! Hurry! Maybe you can change his brain to this other body yet!”

  Randall saw the two doctors go to the Air Chief. Brophy lifted the lifeless hand. And as he waited, Randall wondered if the other guards had remained at the door. Then he felt a touch and rolled his eyes to see.

  Patricia Holden was standing beside him. She slipped something into his hand. It was a gun! He heard a muffled click and the clamps were loose.

  “Do whatever you think best,” Pat said softly. “I couldn’t see them go on.”

  The pistol lay comfortingly in his hand. Its heaviness balanced a lot of trouble from his mind. Once more he felt himself a firm believer in the adage, “If you want a thing done right, do it yourself.”

  “You’re a regular arsenal, baby,” he whispered. “It’s the Air Chief’s own pistol,” she replied hastily. “I stole it from his clothes.”

  He motioned her to step away from him, to get out of danger, but she lingered at his side. Randall looked at the others by turning his head slowly. There were two guards at the doorway and one with the doctors. It would take two shots.

  Dr. Brophy dropped the Air Chief’s hand. It struck the table at the side of the lifeless body with a soft thump.

  “It is too late,” he said. “Circulation has stopped. Before we could be half through, most of the delicate brain cells would be dead.”

  Torvald smiled happily and glanced at Pat Holden. Then he frowned that she didn’t seem happy. The guard at the doctors’ side glanced at his fellows near the door. He nodded.

  Their hands went to their pistols. Randall decided to take them first, even though the third guard would probably get him. He reached up, sent Pat reeling across the room and out of danger, then he rolled off the table to his feet as he shot at the men near the door.

  The weapon in his hand merely hummed, but the men went down like rag dolls. And as their pistols clattered on the floor, he swept his own weapon toward the remaining guard and the two doctors.

  The guard was struggling to draw his gun, but Dr. Brophy fought silently and efficiently. Randall’s pistol swept over him and Brophy slumped. The guard brought his pistol out of the holster, lifted it, then he too went down. A moment later Torvald fell like a northern pine. His shoulder struck the operating table on which the dead Air Chief lay, and they crashed to the floor.

  Randall covered the door and waited. If the crash had been heard, the guards would be streaming in.

  Evidently the sound hadn’t reached them. The door remained closed. Pat was climbing to her feet, frightened and resentful of his harsh treatment.

  “Get their arms,” Randall said, then was suddenly acutely conscious of his unclothed state. He snatched up the sheet from the floor where it had fallen, and draped it over his shoulders.

  Pat Holden glanced at him. “You look like Dr. Torvald,” she jibed.

  Randall looked quickly at the unconscious doctor, half-expecting to see the man chuckle.

  One of the guards was struggling to sit up before Pat could collect all the guns. Randall calmly shot the man again, and smiled to see him lay back tiredly and relax.

  Pat brought the guns to the table and stood at his side while they awaited the recovery of the men. He looked down at her.

  “I thought you were an Irredentist?”

  “I was; but I got to thinking of all the horrible things we do for political reasons and—and I got to wondering if it was worthwhile. I decided it wasn’t.”

  “When did you start wondering?” he asked. “Just after—” She halted, flushing crimson.

  Randall grinned. “So marrying me would be a horrible thing?” he said. “I feel sorry for you.”

  She kept her head averted as he moved toward her. Then she pointed to the door. “Look! He’s coming out of it.”

  Randall covered the guard with the pistol. “Get up!” he ordered.

  The guard looked around for his gun, then got slowly to his feet. Randall motioned to the table. “You won’t need it,” he assured.

  The two doctors and the guard in the second group shot down, were reviving and Randall forced them into a line. There was a short wait for the third man to revive, then Randall cleared his throat. “I’m only a rocketman,” he said, “but after seeing a few of you fellows who are supposed to have brains, I think I’m pretty good in that line too. I’m top dog now, and I intend to stay on top. You poor morons who are all brains haven’t got sense enough to run things, so I’m taking over.

  “You, Dr. Brophy, would have a Science Board of Three to rule the world. I’m not denying that they cou
ldn’t. But it wouldn’t be much of a world when they got started. Haven’t you any respect for a thing called liberty, or pursuit of happiness, to say nothing of life? Shut up! Of course you deny you’d have a machine world. But you would!

  “And you, Dr. Torvald . . . You are an Irredentist. You want the good old days. You think today with today’s science, but you’re living in the past. Have you ever stopped to think what those good old days were? Sure, some men had more liberty. But all civilization is, is giving up some of the smaller liberties so that you can guarantee everyone the greater ones. Your kind of liberty would be a jungle. The world has gone beyond that. Take your choice! It doesn’t matter which you choose; the fact remains. Remember all the little wars that nations used to have, and the big ones? God! Even the Air Chief was a blessing when you consider them. He wasn’t so bad in some ways. This central authority of Yss has possibilities of lifting the whole world to a new high. He wouldn’t; I will!”

  He stopped to look at them. Then he continued: “Remember, Brophy—there would be no organized science without a central authority. And you, Torvald, remember that there can be no liberty or happiness without some guarantee that the strong guys won’t step all over the weak ones.

  “You both better quit living in your little ivory towers. You’re a couple of hundred years behind the times. There’s only one way to prevent hell from breaking loose, and that is for all of you to play my game. I will take the place of the Air Chief and be the central authority—call it the executive branch. Maybe we can make it elective afterwards!

  “But, Brophy—there will be science, organized science. And we will give most of the results to the world, not hide them. We will only keep that knowledge we need to keep Yss in control—by force, if necessary.

  “And you, Torvald—you and others like you will be sent out into the world to organize elections. For a certain number of people—say, ten million— there will be one representative in the world- lawmaking body. And a judicial will be elected. Well? . . . What is your answer?”

  “How are you going to do all this?” growled Brophy.

  “Hell, man! I am the Air Chief—as long as I choose to be, and as long as you support me.”

  Still they hesitated. Torvald glanced at the guards. “I think we could trust you. If not, we can pull you down. Your intelligence isn’t as great as the Air Chief’s. You’re vulnerable. It is agreeable to me.”

  “And me,” echoed Brophy.

  They looked to the guards. The guards hesitated. No one seemed willing to speak.

  “We could kill them,” said Randall and smiled when Pat’s hand gripped his arm, “but those outside would do the same to us, if we come out without them. Right?” he asked, turning to them.

  “Right,” agreed one of them. “Orders were that we come out of here with the Air Chief in his new body, or that they shoot us down.”

  Torvald started to speak, but Randall waved him to silence. Then he faced the guard who had spoken.

  “We can’t give you anything you haven’t always had,” he admitted. “You’ve always had your jobs and your paydays. You’ve always been able to go out and blow your pay on a hell of a time, or have a family and raise that family as you wanted to. Sure, I know that. That’s called liberty. You have it now, but there are millions like you that haven’t. We all have a chance at liberty and a new world, and you will not lose what you already have. You will be giving others liberty like that. Are you going to pass up that chance?

  “Or are we all going to leave this room together and consider, and make others consider, the operation was a complete success—only one of the patients died? It is up to you . . . Take your choice. But do it quickly.”

  The guards looked at one another.

  “It’s better than dying.” “Let’s give it a whirl.”

  “Okay with me. I got a kid brother who couldn’t make the guards.”

  Randall straightened. He felt taller without the strain of doubt. “Then it’s settled,” he said, starting toward the door. “Let’s go!”

  “Wait a minute!” said Dr. Brophy. “We’re good surgeons here, but our patients don’t get up and walk away from us after a brain transplantation. You have to be sick for awhile, and there will have to be a scar.”

  “That is easily fixed,” said Torvald tersely and the guards grinned.

  Wrane Randall stepped back, unwilling, but he was greatly overruled. In a moment he found himself lying on the table again. Patricia Holden was standing near his head, ready for business and smiling with enjoyment. He looked up at her.

  “It’s a bad habit you’re forming,” she advised unsympathetically.

  Randall glared at her as Torvald approached with the anesthetic.

  “Do you remember what I said about doing my own chasing?” Randall asked her, and she nodded, flushing. “Well,” he advised, “you better start running now, because while my intentions are strictly honorable, I think I’ll start off with a good spanking.”

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