“What about the authorities?” Blaine asked.
Mr. Kean smiled bitterly. “They used to lock us up, as a kindness, in mental institutions. You see, they didn't want us hurt. Yet zombies are rarely insane, and the authorities knew it! So now, with their tacit approval, we occupy these abandoned subway tunnels and sewer lines.”
“Couldn't you find a better place?” Blaine asked.
“Frankly, the underground suits us. Sunlight is bad for unregenerative skins.”
They began walking again. Blaine said, “What can I do?”
“You can tell someone what you learned here. Write about it, perhaps. Widening ripples…”
“I'll do what I can.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Kean said gravely. “Education is our only hope. Education and the future. Surely people will be more enlightened in the future.”
The future? Blaine felt suddenly dizzy. For this was the future, to which he had travelled from the idealistic and hopeful 20th century. Now was the future! But the promised enlightenment still had not come, and people were much the same as ever. For a second Blaine's centuries pressed heavily on him. He felt disoriented and old, older than Kean, older than the human race — a creature in a borrowed body standing in a place it did not know.
“And now,” Mr. Kean said, “we have reached your destination.”
Blaine blinked rapidly, and life came back into focus. The dim passageway had ended. In front of him was a rusted iron ladder fastened to the tunnel wall, leading upward into darkness.
“Good luck,” Mr. Kean said. He left, supporting himself heavily on the Negro's arm. Blaine watched the old man go, then turned to Smith.
“Where are we going?”
“Up the ladder.”
“But where does it lead?”
Smith had already begun climbing. He stopped and looked down, his lead-colored lips drawn back into a grin. “We’re going to visit a friend of yours, Blaine. We’re going into his tomb, up to his coffin, and ask him to stop haunting you. Force him, maybe.”
“Who is he?” Blaine asked.
Smith only grinned and continued climbing. Blaine mounted the ladder behind him.
20
Above the passageway was a ventilation shaft, which led to another passageway. They came at last to a door, and entered.
They were in a large, brilliantly lighted room. Upon the arched ceiling was a mural depicting a handsome, clear-eyed man entering a gauzy blue heaven in the company of angels. Blaine knew at once who had modeled for the painting.
“Reilly!”
Smith nodded. “We’re inside his Palace of Death.”
“How did you know Reilly was haunting me?”
“You should have thought of it yourself. Only two people connected with you have died recently. The ghost certainly was not Ray Melhill. It had to be Reilly.”
“But why?”
“I don't know,” Smith said. “Perhaps Reilly will tell you himself.”
Blaine looked at the walls. They were inlaid with crosses, crescent moons, stars and swastikas, as well as Indian, African, Arabian, Chinese and Polynesian good-luck signs. On pedestals around the room were statues of ancient deities. Among the dozens Blaine recognized Zeus, Apollo, Dagon, Odin and Astarte. In front of each pedestal was an altar, and on each altar was a cut and polished jewel.
“What's that for?” Blaine asked.
“Propitiation.”
“But life after death is a scientific fact.”
“Mr. Kean told me that science has little effect upon superstition,” Smith said. “Reilly was fairly sure he'd survive after death; but he saw no reason to take chances. Also, Mr. Kean says that the very rich, like the very religious, wouldn't enjoy a hereafter filled with just anybody. They think that, by suitable rites and symbols, they can get into a more exclusive part of the hereafter.”
“Is there a more exclusive part?” Blaine asked.
“No one knows. It's just a belief.”
Smith led him across the room to an ornate door covered with Egyptian hieroglyphics and Chinese ideograms.
“Reilly's body is inside here,” Smith said.
“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!”