“And we’re going in?”
“Yes, we have to.”
Smith pushed the door open. Blaine saw a vast marble-pillared room. In its very center was a bronze and gold coffin inlaid with jewels. Surrounding the coffin was a great and bewildering quantity of goods; paintings and sculptures, musical instruments, carvings, objects like washing machines, stoves, refrigerators, even a complete heliocopter. There was clothing and books, and a lavish banquet had been laid out.
“What's all this stuff for?” Blaine asked.
“The essence of these goods is intended to accompany the owner into the hereafter. It's an old belief.”
Blaine's first reaction was one of pity. The scientific hereafter hadn't freed men from the fear of death, as it should have done. On the contrary, it had intensified their uncertainties and stimulated their competitive drive. Given the surety of an afterlife, man wanted to improve upon it, to enjoy a better heaven than anyone else. Equality was all very well; but individual initiative came first. A perfect and passionless levelling was no more palatable an idea in the hereafter than it was on Earth. The desire to surpass caused a man like Reilly to build a tomb like the Pharaohs of ancient Egypt, to brood all his life about death, to live continually trying to find ways of preserving his property and status in the gray uncertainties ahead.
A shame. And yet, Blaine thought, wasn't his pity based upon a lack of belief in the efficacy of Reilly's measures? Suppose you could improve your situation in the hereafter? In that case, what better way to spend one's time on Earth than working for a better eternity?
The proposition seemed reasonable, but Blaine refused to believe it. That couldn't be the only reason for existence on Earth! Good or bad, fair or foul, the thing had to be lived for its own sake.
Smith walked slowly into the coffin room, and Blaine stopped his speculations. The zombie stood, contemplating a small table covered with ornaments. Dispassionately he kicked the table over. Then slowly, one by one, he ground the delicate ornaments into the polished marble floor.
“What are you doing?” Blaine asked.
“You want the poltergeist to leave you alone?”
“Of course.”
“Then he must have some reason for leaving you alone,” Smith said, kicking over an elaborate ebony sculpture.
It seemed reasonable enough to Blaine. Even a ghost must know he will eventually leave the Threshold and enter the hereafter. When he does, he wants his goods waiting for him, intact. Therefore fight fire with fire, persecution with persecution.
Still, he felt like a vandal when he picked up an oil painting and prepared to shove his fist through it.
“Don't,” said a voice above his head.
Blaine and Smith looked up. Above them there seemed to be a faint silvery mist. From the mist an attenuated voice said, “Please put down the painting.”
Blaine held on to it, his fist poised. “Are you Reilly?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you haunting me?”
“Because you’re responsible! Everything's your fault! You killed me with your evil murdering mind! Yes you, you hideous thing from the past, you damned monster!”
“I didn't!” Blaine cried.
“You did! You aren't human! You aren't natural! Everything shuns you except your friend the dead man! Why aren't you dead, murderer!”
Blaine's fist moved toward the painting. The thin voice screamed, “Don't!”
“Will you leave me alone?” Blaine asked.
“Put down the painting,” Reilly begged.
Blaine put it carefully down.
“I'll leave you alone,” Reilly said. “Why shouldn't I? There are things you can't see, Blaine, but I see them. Your time on Earth will be short, very short, painfully short. Those you trust will betray you, those you hate will conquer you. You will die, Blaine, not in years but soon, sooner than you could believe. You'll be betrayed, and you'll die by your own hand.”
“You’re crazy!” Blaine shouted.
“Am I?” Reilly cackled. “Am I? Am I?” The silvery mist vanished. Reilly was gone.
Smith led him back through narrow winding passageways to the street level. Outside the air was chilly, and dawn had touched the tall buildings with red and gray.
Blaine started to thank him, but Smith shook his head. “No reason for thanks! After all, I need you, Blaine. Where would I be if the poltergeist killed you? Take care of yourself, be careful. Nothing is possible for me without you.”
The zombie gazed anxiously at him for a moment, then hurried away. Blaine watched him go, wondering if it wouldn't be better to have a dozen enemies than Smith for a friend.
21
Half an hour later he was at Marie Thorne's apartment. Marie, without makeup, dressed in a housecoat, blinked sleepily and led him to the kitchen, where she dialed coffee, toast and scrambled eggs.
“I wish,” she said, “you'd make your dramatic appearances at a decent hour. It's six-thirty in the morning.”
“I'll try to do better in the future,” Blaine said cheerfully.
“You said you'd call. What happened to you?”
“Did you worry?”
“Not in the slightest. What happened?”
Between bites of toast Blaine told her about the hunt, the haunting, and the exorcism. She listened to it all, then said, “So you’re obviously very proud of yourself, and I guess you should be. But you still don't know what Smith wants from you, or even who he is.”
“Haven't the slightest idea,” Blaine said. “Smith doesn't, either. Frankly, I couldn't care less.”
“What happens when he finds out?”
“I'll worry about that when it happens.”
Marie raised both eyebrows but made no comment. “Tom, what are your plans now?”
“I'm going to get a job.”
“As a hunter?”
“No. Logical or not, I'm going to try the yacht design agencies. Then I'm going to come around here and bother you at reasonable hours. How does that sound?”
“Impractical. Do you want some good advice?”
“No.”
“I'm giving it to you anyhow. Tom, get out of New York. Go as far away as you can. Go to Fiji or Samoa.”
“Why should I?”
Marie began to pace restlessly up and down the kitchen. “You simply don't understand this world.”
“I think I do.”
“No! Tom, you've had a few typical experiences, that's all. But that doesn't mean you've assimilated our culture. You've been snatched, haunted, and you've gone on a hunt. But it adds up to not much more than a guided tour. Reilly was right, you’re as lost and helpless as a caveman would be in your own 1958.”
“That's ridiculous, and I object to the comparison.”
“All right, let's make it a 14th century Chinese. Suppose this hypothetical Chinaman had met a gangster, gone on a bus ride and seen Coney Island. Would you say he understood 20th century America?”
“Of course not. But what's the point?”
“The point,” she said, “is that you aren't safe here, and you can't even sense what or where or how urgent the dangers are. For one, that damned Smith is after you. Next, Reilly's heirs might not take kindly to you desecrating his tomb; they might find it necessary to do something about it. And the directors at Rex are still arguing about what they should do about you. You've altered things, changed things, disrupted things. Can't you feel it?”
“I can handle Smith,” Blaine said. “To hell with Reilly's heirs. As for the directors, what can they do to me?”
She came over to him and put her arms around his neck. “Tom,” she said earnestly, “any man born here who found himself in your shoes would run as fast as he could!”