To Live Again And The Second Trip

by Robert Silverberg

“Today’s date.” She repeated it in a flat empty tone. As if he had asked her the name of the planet they were currently on.

  “Yes, please. The date. It’s important.”

  She shrugged. “The fourth of June, I think.”

  “Friday?”

  “Friday, yes.”

  He thanked her gravely and went out. His body was stiff and he moved gracelessly toward the car, arms flailing spastically, shoulders ramming the air. He and Hamlin evidently had different notions of physical coordination, and his muscles, having taken orders from another mind for eighteen hours or so, were reluctant to go back to the mode he preferred. Not surprising: Hamlin’s way was this body’s normal way, and his own was something imposed from without. He concentrated on reimposing it. Damned good thing Hamlin had only been running the show since last night, since that takeover during the mugging in the hallway of Lissa’s house. Macy had been afraid he might have been unconscious for a week or more before surfacing this morning. In which case he’d have an endless trail of Hamlin’s deeds and misdeeds to trace and follow.

  But no. It seemed that he had been awake for most of the period of Hamlin’s dominance, missing only the first eight hours or so after the takeover. Some comfort in that. Where had Hamlin been in those eight hours? Most likely at my place, getting some rest. And the mugging? It couldn’t have been too serious. Macy patted his pocket. Wallet gone. Okay, so he must have collapsed at the moment of takeover, the mugger cleaned him out, then Hamlin picked himself up and left unharmed. The wallet was no big loss. Identity papers, credit cards—all replaceable, all useless to the assailant Macy didn’t even need them himself, so long as he had a thumb with a fingerprint on it. Why, Hamlin had even managed to rent this car using only his thumbprint, not even his, my thumbprint. Ours, I guess. But the charge is debited to me. Macy felt vaguely sorry for the mugger, living a squalid lower-class life on a level of society where cash still called the tune. Fine lot of good it must have been for him to lift an executive’s wallet, the wallet of a thumb-tripper, five or six dollars in it at most. Oh, well.

  Moving more easily now, Macy reached the car and thumbed the doorplate. The door slid open. He got behind the controls and tentatively grasped the steering-stick. The prospect of having to drive scared him. Suddenly. They had taught him how to drive at the Rehab Center, a couple of years ago, but he hadn’t had much chance to practice lately; and just now there was the special risk that Hamlin might surface and screw him up on the highway. I hit him pretty hard when I grabbed control, but even so.

  Hamlin? You awake?

  No reply from the depths. Macy felt his other self’s presence, though: a tinny faint reverberation out of the far-below, like the cries of an angry djinn who has been conjured back into his bottle.

  Good. Stay like that. I don’t need any static from you while I’m driving.

  If only I can keep the goddam stopper in place on the bottle this time.

  He put his thumb to the ignition panel, and the car, scanning the print and finding it to be that of its duly licensed present master, came to life. Warily Macy let out the brake. Cautiously he rolled forward. The car responded well, great snorting beast under harness. Which way New York, now? Long afternoon shadows. The sun halfway down the sky on his right. Pick a direction, any direction. He found his way out of the residential area, cut off two drivers as he blurted into the business road, was rudely but deservedly screeched at, and discovered a green-on-white sign directing him to the city. Onward. Homeward. A ticklish trip. He survived it.

  He hoped to find Lissa waiting for him at his apartment, slouched in bed in her pleasant wanton way, music playing, her hair a tangle, the aroma of pot in the air. Throw himself wearily down on top of her, bury his aching head between her bouncy boobs. Some chance. The apartment, empty, deserted for a mere twenty-odd hours, had the forlorn and abandoned look of a fifth-rate catacomb. Off with the sweaty crumpled clothing. Shower. Shave. Vague thoughts of dinner. The last meal he remembered having eaten was lunch on Thursday. Now it was dinnertime on Friday. Had Hamlin bothered to refuel their body at all during his eighteen hours on top? Macy wasn’t particularly hungry. All this shuttling about of identities. It must have wrecked my appetite. Odd. You’d think that much mental exertion would have burned up a lot of energy. A drink might be in order, though.

  He poured himself a hefty bourbon and, naked, flopped down in a chair. A little of the liquor went sloshing out onto his thigh. Cold brown drops on the golden hairs. He felt not at all triumphant at having ousted Hamlin from control. What good was it, being in charge again? Who was he, anyway, that he needed so badly to live? An oppressive sense of having come to the end of the line grew in him. Paul Macy, born 1972 Idaho Falls, Idaho, father a propulsion engineer mother a school teacher, no brothers no sisters.

  False. False. False shit. I wasn’t born anywhere. I am a thing out of a testube: I am a golem, a dybbuk, a construct. Without friends, without family, without purpose. At least he was real. He’d fuck his kid sister, he’d steal toys from a baby, but he had an identity, a personality that he had earned by living. An artistic gift.

  What about it, Hamlin? You want to have it all back? Why do I insist on getting in your way? Maybe you’re right: maybe I should let you win.

  Hamlin respondeth not. Only the tinny echoes, de profundis. He must be dormant worn out by everything he was doing. Well, fuck him. He’s no good. His soul is full of poison. Damned if I’ll step aside for him, genius or no genius. The world has enough great artists. It’s only got one Paul Macy, for what that’s worth. This would be a good moment to go to the Rehab Center, while Hamlin’s groggy. Get him carved out of me for once and all. And if he surfaces? And if he gives me that coronary he’s been threatening? Fuck him. If he wants to, he can. So go ahead, coronary. So we’ll both be dead. Pax vobiscum. We shall sleep the eternal sleep, he and I. Anything would be better than this. Nodding solemnly, Macy reached for the phone to call Gomez.

  The phone rang with his arm still in midstretch.

  Lissa, he thought. Calling to find out where I’ve been, asking if she can come back!

  Joy. Excitement. That startled him: the intensity of his wish that it be Lissa calling. What was all this crap about dying? He wanted to live. He had someone to look after. And to look after him. They needed each other.

  “Hello?” he said eagerly.

  On the green screen bloomed the swarthy face of Dr. Gomez. The angel of death himself. Speak of the devil.

  “I’ve been phoning all day,” Gomez said. “Where the fuck have you been?”

  “Driving around the suburbs. Weren’t you supposed to be keeping me under surveillance?”

  “We lost track of you.”

  “Is that a fact?” Macy said harshly. “Well, let me be the first to tell you, then. Hamlin got me last night and kept control until late this afternoon.”

  Gomez made elaborate facial gestures of exasperation. “And did what?”

  “Visited his dealer, his old studio, and his former wife. Who he was in the process of raping when I got control again.”

  “He’s still a psychopath, you mean?”

  “He still gets a kick out of manhandling women, anyway.”

  “All right All right. Too fucking much, Macy. Taking you over, running around the countryside. I’m having the van sent for you. Sit tight and if Hamlin makes another try at you, fight him off somehow. We’ll have you safe inside the Center under sedation in an hour and a half, and then—”

  “No.”

  “What, no?”

  “Keep away from me if you want me to go on living. I tell you, Gomez, he’s a wild man. If he thinks you’re seriously after him he’ll shut off my heart.”

  “That isn’t a realistic fear.”

  “It’s realistic enough for me.”

  “I assure you, Macy, he wouldn’t do any such thing. We’ve let this situation drag on too long as it is. We’ll come and get you, and we’ll do a proper job of deconstructing Hamlin, an
d I assure you—”

  “Shove your assurances, Gomez. We’re talking about my survival that’s being gambled with. My survival. I refuse to let you have me. Where’s your authority for picking me up without my consent? Where’s your court order? No, Gomez. No. Keep away.”

  Gomez was silent a moment. A crafty look flickered into his eyes; he immediately tried to hide it, but not before Macy had picked it up. At length Gomez said in his heaviest I-know-this-will-hurt-but-it’s-for-the-general-welfare manner, “You realize, Macy, that your safety isn’t the only thing we have to consider here. A court has ruled that society must be protected against Nat Hamlin. The moment you notified me that Hamlin wasn’t entirely gone, it became my obligation to take him into custody and carry out the court’s sentence the right way. Okay, so you said you felt you were in jeopardy, you asked me to leave you alone until we worked out some sure-thing way of coping, and I let you have your way. It was against every rule, but I gave in. Out of friendship for you, Macy. Will you buy that? Out of friendship. Out of concern. And we’ve been trying since Monday to figure out a way of handling the situation without endangering you. But now you tell me that Hamlin actually regained command of his body for a little while, for long enough to commit an assault against a human being. Okay. Friendship can go only so far. Can you guarantee Hamlin won’t take you over again half an hour from now? Can you guarantee he won’t be out banging housewives tomorrow? We have to seize him now, Macy, we have to finish him off.”

  “Even if it entails danger for me?”

  “Even if it entails danger for you.”

  “I see,” Macy said. “You figure what the hell, I’m only a construct anyway and if I get wiped out, tough shit on me. The important thing is catching Hamlin. Nothing doing, doctor. I’m not going to be the innocent bystander who gets zapped while you and Hamlin shoot it out. Keep away from me.”

  “Macy—”

  Macy hung up. Gomez’ image shrank and vanished like a photo being sucked into a whirlpool. Macy gulped the last of his drink, dropped the glass, and looked around for some clothing. He understood that his conversation with Gomez had worked a significant and perilous change in his status. The Rehab man had served notice that they were going to come after Hamlin, no matter what risks were in it for anyone else who happened to be inhabiting Hamlin’s body. He could wait here meekly for the van, of course. Let himself be hauled off to the Rehab Center. Taking his chances that Gomez would be able to get Hamlin before Hamlin got him. But how chancy a chance that was! He knew Hamlin. They hadn’t shared a brain all these weeks for nothing. And he knew that if Hamlin surfaced and found himself at the Center, being readied for a new deconstruct job, he’d explode with destructive fury. Samson pulling the pillars down around his ears. If Hamlin couldn’t have the body, he’d see to it that no one would have it. So it didn’t make sense to surrender to Gomez, not now. His fatalism of half an hour ago had gone from him. He didn’t want to die or even to risk dying. He wasn’t sure what it was he had to live for, but even so. He would have to run. He was going to have to become a fugitive.

  Night had come. Everything was washed in a peculiar faded gray light. Out the side way, down the alley. Macy looked in all directions as he left the building. Feeling faintly absurd about it. This silly skulking, so melodramatic, so unreal. But what if Gomez had a man watching the main entrance? More than a touch of paranoia. They’ll have hovereyes searching for me, a ten-state alarm, all the airports being watched. And where can I go? Jesus, where can I go? Macy wanted to laugh. Some fugitive. What am I going to do, camp out in Central Park? Eat squirrels and acorns?

  He thought of going to the crumbling roominghouse where Lissa had lived. A double advantage to that: he might find her there, his only friend, his only ally, and in any case the place was such an armpit, such a ghastly hole, that he’d be beyond the reach of the slick computerized search processes of the contemporary age. Hiding deep down in a rotting pre-technological subterranea. But there was one huge disadvantage, too. Gomez, knowing about Lissa, knowing that her place was where he’d be most likely to go, would certainly set up a stakeout there. Waiting for him. Too risky. So where, then? He didn’t know.

  He walked north. Keeping close to the darkened buildings, trying to attract no attention. One shoulder higher than the other as if he might shield his face that way. Randomly north as night closed in. Or not so randomly. He realized that his feet were taking him up Broadway, across the bridge, into Manhattan North. Toward the only other point on his compass, the vicinity of the network office.

  Landmarks of his slender tattered past. Here he had walked that uneasy hopeful Maytime day. One-and-two-and-one-and-two. Step. Step. Feeling clumsy and uncertain within his own body. Trying to be natural about it. This is how Paul Macy walks. Proudly down the goddam street. Shoulders square. Belly sucked in. Opportunity beckons you. A second trip, a second start The bad dream is over; now you’re awake. Step. Step. Coming to an abrupt stop, he turned to his left and picked his reflection off the mirror-bright pilaster beside an office building’s entrance. Wide-cheeked, thin-lipped, standard sort of Anglo-Saxon face. And the girl, coming up behind him, caught short by his sudden halt, crashing into him. Nat, she said. Nat Hamlin, for God’s sake! The long cold needle slipping into his eye. Telling her politely but firmly, I’m sorry, but you’re mistaken. My name’s Paul Macy. People flowing smoothly around them. She was tall and slender, with long straight hair, troubled green eyes, fine features. Attractive in a tired, frayed way. Telling him not to play around with her: I know you’re Nat Hamlin, she said. Leaning toward him, fingertips clutching hard into the bones of his right wrist A baffling sensation in the top of his skull. A sort of intrusion. A tickling. A mild glow of heat. Along with it a disturbing blurring of identity, a doubling of self. The first surfacing of Hamlin, only he hadn’t known that then. Clinging to the side of the building with one hand and making a little shooing gesture at her with the other. Go on. Away. Out of my life. Whoever you were, there’s no room now.

  And he hurried on toward the network office. Block after block, and there it was. Grim black tower. Windowless walls. He didn’t go in, not now, certainly not now. Fredericks. Griswold. Loftus. My colleagues. Smith or Jones. The Hamlin over there. One of my favorites, Griswold said. A gift from my first wife, ten years back, when Hamlin was still an unknown. Coughing. If you don’t mind—some cold water. Forgive me. You know, it’s only my first day on the outside. The strain, the tension. No, we’ll keep away from the network office tonight.

  And here, the corner of Broadway and 227th, northeast side. Where he met her on a Monday evening. Pacing in a taut little circle. A self-contained zone of tension on the busy street. Looking at him in mingled amazement and delight. Color stippling her cheeks. Eyes fluttering: she’s scared of me, he realized. Oh, Nat, thank God you came! No, he said, let’s get this established once and for all. My name’s Paul Macy. What do you want? We can’t talk here, she said. Not in the middle of a crowd. Where, then? Your place? He shook his head. Absolutely not. Mine, then. We can be there in fifteen minutes. But everything’s filthy, she said, and he said, What about a restaurant? There’s a people’s restaurant two blocks from here, she said. I’ve been having lunch at it a lot. You know it? He didn’t. We could go there, she said. Yes.

  I could go there again, too. Now. Now. The sudden call of hunger. Two blocks. Macy walked quickly. One shoulder higher than the other. Reaching the restaurant. A spartan socialist front, a plain glass window. Within, a deep narrow room with tarnishing brass walls and a bunch of sputtering defective light-loops threaded through the thatchwork ceiling. All right Let’s get some dinner. In here he had dinner with Lissa that night. Standing up, turning, walking away from her. And her scream. No! Come back! Paul! Paul! Nat! Her words leaping across the gulf between them like a flight of arrows. Six direct hits. St. Sebastian stumbling in the restaurant aisle. His brain on fire. And Hamlin’s voice, quite distinct, from a point just above his left shoulder.—How
could you walk out on her like that, you snotty creep.

  So here is where he first manifested himself. Very well. Let’s go in.

  He thought he was hungry, and loaded his tray accordingly, stacking it with meat and vegetables and rolls and more. But when he had taken a seat at one of the long tables he found he had no desire for food. He nibbled a little. He let his eyes drift out of focus and disconnected himself from reality. How restful this is. I could sit here forever. But someone was touching his shoulder. A quick impertinent prod, a withdrawal, another prod. Why can’t people leave me alone? One of Gomez’ flunkies, maybe. If I pay no attention perhaps he’ll go away. He tried to sink deeper into disconnection. Another prod, more insistent. A hoarse harsh voice. “You. Hey, you, will you look at me a second? You stoned or something?” Reluctantly Macy let himself slip back into focus. A fat, stale-smelling girl in a gray dress stood beside him. Her face was as flat as a Mongol’s, but her skin was pasty white, her eyes did not slant. She said, “There’s a girl upstairs needs some help from you. You’re the one.”

  “Upstairs? Girl?”

  “You, yes. I know you. You were in here two, three weeks ago with that girl, that redhead, that Lisa. You’re the one who collapsed, fell flat on your sniffer, we had to carry you out, me and the redhead and the cabdriver. Lisa, her name is.”

  “Lissa,” Macy corrected, blinking.

  “Lisa, Lissa, I don’t know. Look, she helped you, now you help her.”

  A floating film of memory. Standing by the restaurant’s credit console at the end of the counter that other time, authorizing it to charge his account ten dollars for his dinner. And a fat flat-faced girl waiting behind him in line snorting contemptuously. Was he paying too much? Too little? This girl.

  “Where is she?” Macy asked.

  “I told you. Upstairs. She came in yesterday, she was crying a lot, a big fuss. Passed out, finally. We got her a room and she’s still there. Won’t eat. Won’t talk. You must know her, so you go look after her.”