"Good evening, Father," Tinbane said. "Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Hermes, and you too, Doctor." He glanced then at sour, taciturn Bob Lindy, and did not include him; turning, he walked off in the direction of his squad car. And was quickly off into the night, to patrol the rest of his beat.
Coming up to Father Faine, Sebastian said, "You know something? I--hear another one. Somebody very near to being reborn. A matter of days, possibly even hours." I catch a terrific, strong emanation, he said to himself. What must be a umquely vital personality very close by.
"I've got air down to her," Lindy declared; he ceased drilling, shut off the portable, much-depended-on rig, turned now to excavation equipment. "Get ready, Sign." He tapped the earphones which he had put on, the better to hear the person below. "She's very ill, this one. Chronic and acute." He snapped the autonomic scoops on, and they at once began to toss dirt from their exhaust.
As the coffin was lifted up by Sebastian, Dr. Sign and Bob Lindy, Father Faine read aloud from his prayer book, in a suitable commanding and clear voice, so as to be audible to the person within the coffin. "'The Lord rewarded me after my righteous dealing, according to the cleanness of my hands did he recompense me. Because I have kept the ways of the Lord, and have not forsaken my God, as the wicked dotb. For I have an eye unto all his laws, and will not cast out his commandments from me. I was also uncorrupt before him, and eschewed mine own wickedness. Therefore the Lord rewarded me after my righteous dealing, and according unto the cleanness of my hands in his eyesight. With the holy thou shalt be holy--" On and on Father Faine read, as the work progressed. They all knew the psalm by heart, even Bob Lindy; it was their priest's favorite on these occasions, being sometimes replaced, as for example by psalm nine, but always returning.
Bob Lindy rapidly unscrewed the lid of the coffin; it was cheap synthetic pine, lightweight, and the lid came right off. Instantly Dr. Sign moved forward, bent over the old lady with his stethoscope, listening, talking to her in a low voice. Bob Lindy started up the hot fan, keeping a stream of constant heat on Mrs. Tilly M. Benton; this was vital, this transfer of heat: the old-born were always terribly cold; had, in fact, an inevitable phobia about cold which, as in Sebastian's case, often lasted for years after their rebirth.
His part of the job temporarily over, Sebastian once again moved about the cemetery, among the graves, listening. Lotta this time tagged after him and insisted on talking. "Isn't it mystical?" she said breathlessly, in her little girl's awed voice. "I want to paint it; I wish I could get that expression they have when they first see, when the lid of the coffin is opened. That look. Not joy, not relief; no one particular thing, but a deeper and more--"
"Listen," he said, interrupting her.
"To what?" She obligingly listened, obviously hearing nothing. Not sensing what he sensed: the enormous _presence_ nearby.
Sebastian said, "We're going to have to keep a watch on this strange little place. And I want a complete list--absolutely complete--of everyone buried here." Sometimes, studying the inventory list, he could fathom which it was; he had a virtually psionic gift, this ability to sense in advance a forthcoming oldbirth. "Remind me," he said to his wife, "to call the authorities who operate this place and find out exactly who they have."
This invaluably rich storehouse of life, he thought. This onetime graveyard which has become instead a reservoir of reawakening souls.
One grave-and one alone-had an especially ornate monument placed above it; he shone his flashlight on the monument, found the name.
THOMAS PEAK
1921-1971
Sic igitur magni quoque circum
moeriia mundi expugnata dabunt
labem putresque ruinas.
His Latin was not good enough for him to translate the epitaph; he could only guess. A statement about the great things of the earth, all of which fell eventually into corruption and ruin. Well, he thought, that is no longer true, that epitaph. Not about the great things with souls; them especially. I have a hunch, he said to himself, that Thomas Peak--and he evidently had been somebody, to judge by the size and stone-quality of the monument--is the person I sense to be about to return, the person we should watch for.
"Peak," he said aloud, to Lotta.
"I've read about him," she said. "In a course I took on Oriental Philosophy. You know who he is--was?"
He said, "Was he related to the Anarch by that name?"
"Udi," Lotta said.
"That Negro cult? That's overrun the Free Negro Municipality? Run by that demagogue Raymond Roberts? The _Uditi?_ This Thomas Peak buried here?"
She examined the dates, nodded. "But it wasn't a racket, in those days, my teacher told us. There really is a Udi experience, I believe. Anyhow, so we were taught at San Jose State. Everyone merges; there's no you and no--"
"I know what Udi is," he said testily. "God, now that I know who he is I'm not so sure I want to help bring this one back."
"But when the Anarch Peak comes back," Lotta said, "he'll resume his position as head of Udi and it'll stop being a racket."
Behind them Bob Lindy said, "You could probably make a fortune by _not_ bringing him back to an unwilling, unwaiting world." He explained, "I'm now done with your job-call, here; Sign is inserting one of those hand-me-down electric kidneys and getting her on a stretcher and into his car." He lit a cigaret butt, stood smoking and shivering and meditating. "You think this fella Peak's about to return, Seb?"
"Yes," he said. "You know my intimations." Our firm operates at a profit because of them, he meditated; they're what keep us ahead of the big outfits, make it possible in fact to get any business at all... anything, anyhow, above and beyond what the city police throw to us.
Lindy said somberly, "Wait'll R.C. Buckley hears about this. He'll really go into action on this one; in fact, I suggest you call him right now. The sooner he knows, the sooner he can formulate one of those wild rizzle-drizzle promotion campaigns he concocts." He laughed sharply. "Our man in the graveyard," he said.
"I'm going to plant a bug here on Peak's grave," Sebastian said after a thoughtful pause. "One that'll both pick up cardiac activity and will transmit a notifying coded signal to us."
"You're that sure," Lindy said, nervously. "I mean, it's illegal; if the L.A. police find it, you know--maybe a suspension of our license to operate." His innate Swedish caution emerged, now, and his dubiousness regarding Sebastian's psionic intimations. "Forget it," he said. "You're getting as bad as Lotta." He plomped her friendlily on the back, meaning well. "I always say, I'm not going to let the atmosphere of these places get to me; it's a technical job having to do with exact location, adequate air supply, digging accurately so you don't saw it in half, then raising it up, getting Dr. Sign to patch its busted parts together." To Lotta he said, "You're too metaphysical about this, kid. Forget it."
Lotta said, "I'm married to a man who lay dead down below, once. When I was born, Sebastian was dead, and he remained dead until I was twelve years old." Her voice--odd for her-- was unyielding.
"So?" Lindy demanded.
"This process," she said, "has given me the only man in the world or on Mars or on Venus that I love or _could_ love. It has been the greatest force in my life." She put her arm around Sebastian, then, and hugged him, hugged his big bulk against her.
"Tomorrow," Sebastian said to her. "I want you to pay a visit to Section B of the People's Topical Library. Get all the information you can about the Anarch Thomas Peak. Most of it has probably gone into erad by now, but they may have a few terminal typescript manuscripts."