…I know what it is to have a loved one die, do you? (Yes, Harker thought.) But I would not want to touch the lips of one who was dead…
Harker paused a moment in thought as he read that last letter, wondering how he would feel had Eva been brought back to him there on the beach. He had assumed that he would welcome the idea, but now he remembered Lois’ doubtful answer to the question, and it seemed to him that he himself was doubtful too now. Would he be able to embrace a daughter who had died and had been reanimated. Could he—He shook his head in bitter self-contempt. I’m overtired, he thought. All this superstitious muck is contagious. The life process stops, it starts again—and is anything lost? Wake up, Harker. Of course you’d have hugged Eva if she had been brought back to life.
It had been a long day. He riffled through a few more letters, but the emotional impact was too great for him to bear after all the other conflicting events of the day. It was not easy to read letters from people who had pleaded for the re-animation of a loved one on Monday, and who now wrote bitterly to say that the period of grace had passed, and by their silence the reanimators had become murderers.
.... my fiancee Joan who was seventeen and electrocuted in a kitchen accident Sunday night could have been saved if you had been willing. But three days have gone by and now she is forever gone. . . .
Even more hellish than watching the slow ebb of life from a dying person, Harker thought, must be the wait while the hours pass after death, and the time for reanimadon passes with them. New torments had been loosed upon the world, he saw. He felt like a man riding a tiger that grew larger with each day.
He picked up another one:
.... you may remember I mentioned my wife mother of our four children who was close to death from cancer. Well she died the night I wrote to you, and not having heard from you yet I suppose you can not help me in this matter. I understand revival must be done on day of death, since she has now been gone two days I am arranging, for her burial. Though I am unhappy and disappointed I do not hold bitterness in my heart against you, may God forgive you for having let Lucy die. . . .
Harker remembered that one: Mikkelsen, from Minnesota. The implied accusation of murder, cloaked as it was by the prayer for God’s forgiveness, chilled him. He put the letters away, phoned across the lab to Raymond, and said he was going home for the day.
“Good luck with that hearing tomorrow,” Raymond said.
“Thanks.”
The air was clean and warm as he stepped outside; at five in the afternoon of an almost-summer day, the sun was still bright, the sky blue and curiously transparent. Harker tried to blot away the network of human suffering whose vortex he had apparently become; he drew in a deep breath, expanded his chest, swung his arms loosely at his sides.
A yellow dart crossed the sky and was gone; after it came the abrupt blurp of sound. It was a southbound rocket to Florida. No doubt it would be landing in Miami before he had reached his own home.
He remembered the legal fight when rocket service had been instituted on a commercial basis, almost thirty years ago. The jetlines had fought tooth and nail against introduction of rocket service; yet, today, both jets and rockets served the cause of transportation amicably enough.
There had been the Moon wrangle too, back in the trouble-wracked twentieth century. He had cut his legal teeth on the suits and countersuits; they were standard fare in every law-school. The Moon had been reached almost simultaneously by America and Russia in the early 1960’s, during a period of international conflict and danger, The Socialist revolution in Russia in 1971 had ended the threat of atomic war, but even so it had not been until 1997 that the United States agreed to join forces with the Federated Socialist States in making the Moon base truly international in character.
There, too, forces of reaction had fought the merger on grounds that seemed to them just and necessary. They had been defeated, ultimately—and now, the Moon base and its newer companion on Mars were hailed as triumphs of the harmony of mankind.
Now reanimation. The old struggle was joined again. Harker told himself that the force of history was on his side, that ultimate victory would be his. But what sacrifices would be made, what campaigns fiercely fought, before then?
He reached his home at six-fifteen. Lois had the video set on, and even as he stood in the doorway the words of a newscaster drifted toward him:
“Senator Thurman of New York and four colleagues today visited the Seller Laboratories and witnessed an actual human reanimation which was successful. Senator Thurman later commented, and I quote, There is no doubt that a restoration of life took place. What is in doubt is whether this power is one that mankind should permit to be used, end quote. Senator Thurman will head a committee to study the implications of reanimation. Hearings begin Monday in Washington—”
Thurman was chairman, and Thurman had already indicated opposition. It was not a good omen. Harker kissed his wife wearily and said to Chris, “Get me something strong to drink, lad. I’ve had a tough day.”
Chapter XIII
The headline the next morning, black against the faint green of the paper, was, THURMAN TO OPPOSE LEGALIZED REANIMATION. Harker read the story at breakfast; it seemed the veteran senator had had a chance to think things over, and his conclusion was that reanimation was unmitigatedly evil and should be suppressed.
Harker tried to pretend he had not seen it. It was a staggering setback; it negated any possible gains they might make at the hearing next week. With the vote of the tie breaking chairman already committed to their opposition, Harker thought, what chance did they stand?
He glanced quickly over the rest of the front page. Riot in Des Moines; accusation of reanimation leads to attack on doctor in Missouri. And—Harker nearly choked on his breakfast coffee—what was this?
RETURN TO LIFE A FAILURE PATIENT SUICIDES
New York—Police are searching the Hudson River this morning for the body of 58-year-old Wayne Janson, who allegedly jumped to his death from the lower level of the George Washington Bridge late last night. “Wayne was in a state of despondency since sub-nutting, to the Seller reanimation technique two months ago,” said Jonathan Bryant, of 312 W. 19th St., a close friend of the dead man. “He suffered a stroke in February and placed himself in the hands of the Better people. 1 was notified of his death and reanimation early in March, but when he returned to Manhattan he seemed to be entirely changed. His whole personality had changed. He—
“Excuse me,” Harker muttered to his wife. Clutching the paper, he ran to the phone and tapped out Mart Raymond’s number.
“Mart? Jim. Have you seen this Wayne Janson thing in the paper?”
“What’s that?”
Harker rapidly read the article. Raymond was silent for a moment, then said, “Huh? Who does he think he’s kidding?”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ve never had anyone of that name here. Bryant’s obviously fabricating something.”
“I figured that when I saw his name in the article. You better check the records, though. We’ve got grounds for a suit if you’re right.”
“Jim, I tell you we’ve never carried out any reanimations on anyone named Wayne Janson. Bryant is obviously trying to smear us.”