“Did I say that?” Harker stubbed his cigarette out with a tense stiff-wristed gesture. “It violates professional ethics for me to ask you which of my colleagues you approached before you came to me, but I’d like to know how many there were, at least.”
“You were fourth on the list,” Lurie said.
“Umm. And the others turned you down flat?”
Lurie’s open face reddened slightly. “Absolutely. I was called a zombie salesman by one. Another just asked me to leave. The third man advised me to blow up the labs and cut my throat. So we came to you.”
Harker nodded slowly. He had a fairly good idea of whom the three others were, judging from the nature of their reactions. He himself had made no reaction yet, either visceral or intellectual. A year ago, perhaps, he might have reacted differently—but a year ago he had been a different person.
He said, “You can expect tremendous opposition to any such invention. I can guess that there’ll be theological opposition, and plenty of hysterical public outbursts. And the implications are immense—a new set of medical ethics, for one thing. There’ll be a need for legislation covering—ah—resurrection.” He drummed on the desk with his fingertips. “Whoever agrees to serve as your adviser is taking on a giant assignment.”
“We’re aware of that,” Lurie said. “The pay is extremely good. We can discuss salary later, if you like.”
“I haven’t said I’m accepting,” Harker reminded him crisply. “For all I know right now this is just a pipe dream, wishful thinking on the part of a bunch of underpaid scientists.”
Lurie smiled winningly. “Naturally we would not think of asking you to make a decision until you’ve seen our lab. If you think you’re interested, a visit could be arranged some time this week or next—”
Harker closed his eyes for a moment. He said, “If I accepted, I’d be exposing myself to public abuse. I’d become a storm-center, wouldn’t I?”
“You should be used to that, Mr. Harker. As a former national political figure—”
The former stung. Harker had a sudden glaring vision of his rise through the Nat-Lib Party ranks, his outstanding triumph in the 2024 mayoralty contest, his natural ascension to the gubernatorial post four years later—and then, the thumping fall, the retirement into private life, the painful packing-away of old aspirations and dreams—
He nodded wearily. “Yes, I know what it’s like to be on the spot. I was just wondering whether it’s worth-while to get back on the firing line again.” He moistened his lips. “Look, Dr. Lurie, I have to think about this whole business some more. Is there someplace I can call you this afternoon?”
“I’m staying at the Hotel Manhattan,” Lurie said. He retrieved his calling-card and scribbled a phone number on it, then a room number, and handed it back to Harker. “I’ll be there most of the afternoon, if you’d like to call.”
Harker pocketed the card. “I’ll let you know,” he said.
Lurie rose and shambled toward the door. Harker pressed the open button and the two halves of the door dropped into their slots. Rising from the desk, he accompanied Lurie through the door and into the outer office. The scientist’s stringy frame towered five or six inches over Harker’s compact, still-lean bulk. Harker glanced up at the strangely soft eyes.
“I’ll call you later, Dr. Lurie.”
“I hope so. Thank you for listening, Governor.”
Harker returned to the office, reflecting that the final Governor had either been savagely unkind or else a bit of unconscious absent-mindedness. Eigher way, he tried to ignore it.
He dumped himself behind his desk, frowning deeply, and dug his thumbs into his eyeballs. After a moment he got up, crossed to the portable bar, and dialed himself a whiskey sour. He sipped thoughtfully.
Resurrection. A crazy, grotesque idea. A frightening one. But science had come up with a method for containing the hundred-million-degree fury of a fusion reaction; why not a method for bringing the recent dead back to life?
No, he thought. He wasn’t primarily in doubt of the possibility of the process. It was dangerous to be too skeptical of the potentialities of science.
It was his own part in the enterprise that made him hold back. What Lurie evidently had in mind was for him to act as a sort of public advocate, arguing their case before the courts of law and of human opinion. It was a frighteningly big job, and if the tide swept against him he would be carried away.
Then he smiled. What have I to lose?
He eyed the tridims of his wife and sons that occupied one corner of his desk. His political career, he thought, couldn’t be any deader than it was now. His own party had cast him loose, refusing to name him for a second term when he indiscreetly defied the state committee in making a few appointments. His law practice did well, though not spectacularly; in any event, he was provided for financially by his investments.
He had nothing to lose but his good name, and he had already lost most of that in the political mess. And he had a whole world to win.
Revival of the dead? How about a dead career, Harker wondered. Could I revive that too?
Rising from his desk, he paced round the office, pausing to depolarize the windows. Bright morning sunshine poured in. Through his window he could see the playground of the public school across the street. Thin-legged girls of nine or ten were playing a punchball game; he could hear the shrieks of delight or anguish even at this distance.
A sudden sharp image came to him: himself, nine years before, standing spreadlegged on the beach at Riis Park, with Lois staring whitefaced at him and three-year-old Chris peeking strangely around her legs. It was a blisteringly hot day; his skin, to which sand had adhered, was red, raw, tender. He heard the booming of the surf, the overhead zoop of a Europe-bound rocket, the distant cry of refreshment-venders and the nearer laughter of small girls.
He was not laughing. He was holding a small, cold, wet bundle tight, and he was crying for the first time in twenty years. He huddled his drowned five-year-old daughter to him, and tried to pretend it had not happened.
It had happened, and Eva was dead—the girl-child who he had planned would be America’s darling when he reached the White House, fifteen years or so from now.
That had been nine years ago. Eva would have been nearly fifteen, now, flowering into womanhood. He had no daughter. But she could have lived, Harker thought. Maybe.
He returned to his desk and sat quietly for a while. After twenty minutes of silent thought he reached for the phone and punched out Lurie’s number.
Chapter II
BARKER HAD an appointment to visit old Richard Bryant at three that afternoon. He was not looking forward to it. Since Bryant was confined to his home by doctor’s orders, it meant that Harker would have to visit the old man, and that meant entering a house where death seemed to hang heavy over the threshold, a house filled with graspingly impatient relatives of the venerable hero of space-travel’s infancy.
At half past two Harker notified his secretary that he was leaving; he gathered up the portfolio of relevant papers, locked his office, and took the gravshaft down to street level. He emerged on First Avenue, and walked quickly downtown toward 125th Street.
It was a bright, warmish, cloudless May afternoon. A bubble of advertising was the only blot on the otherwise flawless sky. The Manhattan air was clean, tingling, fresh. Harker never breathed it in without thinking of the vast dynamos of the puritron stations every ten blocks apart, gulping in tons and tons of city soot each second. In his second year as Mayor, the entire Brooklyn puritron assembly had “accidentally” conked out for four hours, thanks to some half-forgotten labor squabble. Harker remembered the uproar that had caused.