There was a statue by the fireplace, a bright silver statue of a girl. But it moved! It opened silver eyelids and looked at him. With pink-tinged lips, like metallic copper in a silver face, it said: "Who is this one?"
"Go in the other room!" the general barked. The silver statue shrugged and stood up. It was no statue but a girl; the motion revealed it as she stared at Ryeland and left.
Ryeland blinked. Dusted with silver to look like living metal, even her hair silver—the general had a remarkable private life. But it was no business of Ryeland's at this moment. He said briskly: "Sir, Colonel Gottling is about to destroy the spaceling. I'm afraid he is deliberately trying to sabotage the project."
Suddenly the general was no longer a cross, sleepy little fuss-budget. His cat's eyes slitted down, his face abruptly became stone. "Go on," he said after a second.
"Why—that's all there is, sir. Isn't it enough? If Colonel Gottling goes ahead with vivisection it will kill the creature, I'm certain. Miss Creery left specific orders—"
"Wait," said the general, but did not invite him to sit down. He turned his back to Ryeland and strode over to his desk. He pressed a button on his desk phone and leaned over to yell into it. "Gottling? Get down to my quarters. Ryeland's here."
Mumble-mumble from the desk phone. It was directional; Ryeland couldn't understand the words and wasn't meant to. "On the double!" the general barked, cutting off discussion, and broke the connection. Without looking at Ryeland he slumped in a chair, shading his eyes with his hands, and remained there until there was a crisp knock at the door.
Colonel Gottling walked in. He did not seem disturbed, not in the least. And he was not alone. Machine Major Chatterji came smiling and bowing behind him. "What a lovely room, General! Oh, really lovely. It takes exquisite taste to transform our dreary barracks into—"
"Shut up." General Fleemer stood. Ryeland waited, poised for whatever excuse Gottling might offer, ready to confront him with the facts as soon as the general began his accusation.
But the general did not begin. The general did not speak to Gottling at all. He said: "All right, Chatterji, have you got the orders?"
"Yes, General. Certainly! Here you are. I knew you'd be wanting them, so—" The general moved slightly and Chatterji was still. Fleemer took a sheet of teletype communication paper from the major's hand and passed it to Ryeland without comment. Ryeland glanced puzzledly at it.
Then he felt a sudden quick burning sensation, as though a knife had reached him unsuspected. The message said:
Information. Ryeland, Steven, Risk, change of status approved. Action. Subject will therefore be transported to stockpile HJK without delay.
"Stockpile HJK?" Ryeland repeated aloud. He shook his head, dazed. "But—there's got to be some mistake here, because, look, stockpile HJK is Heaven. I mean—"
"You mean the Body Bank, as it is otherwise known." General Fleemer nodded wisely. "That's correct, and that is where you're going. You were perfectly right about Gottling sabotaging the Project, you see. Your only mistake was in thinking that he was alone."
Heaven was on the island of Cuba.
The subtrain took nearly an hour to get there. Ryeland hardly noticed. They rode in a gray steel ball, far less luxurious than the Planner's private car. When they stopped, Ryeland, still dazed, still shocked, got out and blinked at a massive concrete archway over a steel gate.
The letter in the concrete read:
Resurrection under the Plan
The station was gray concrete. Air ducts blew a clammy breath at them. A guard in white, a red heart stitched on the breast of his tunic, came forward to take charge.
The major who had convoyed Ryeland's detail, twenty-two new cadavers for the Body Bank, turned them over gratefully and went back into the subtrain without a look. He didn't like this escort detail. No one did. It was a reminder of mortality; even a machine major could be made to realize that one bad blunder, or one bad break, could put him in Heaven too. "Come on!" bawled the guard, and apathetically the twenty-two walking collections of spare parts followed him through the gate.
A narrow corridor. A long rectangular room, with wooden benches. Ryeland sat and waited and, one by one, they were admitted to a smaller room. When it was his turn Ryeland walked through the door and a girl grasped his arm, thrusting it under the black-light. Her hair was red, the same bright red as the heart that was stitched on her uniform. Under the light his tattoo glowed faintly. She read off his name and number in a rapid drone. "Steven Ryeland," she said in the same continuous drone, "when you enter this gate you leave life behind as an individual you have failed to justify your place in the Plan the tissues of-"
She yawned sharply. She shook her head and grinned. "Excuse me. Where was I? The tissues of your body however may still serve the Plan before you enter have you anything to say?"
Ryeland thought. What was there to say? He shook his head.
"Go ahead, then. Through that door," said the girl.
Behind Ryeland the door clanged with a steel finality.
First there were tests.
Ryeland was stripped, scrubbed, weighed, measured, X-rayed, blood-tested, tissue-tested, ascaulted, palped and all but sniffed and tasted. A bit of his flesh was snipped and whisked to a complex bench where a team of girls put it through a process of staining and microscopy. From their studies a genetic map was made of his chromosomes, every allele and allomorph in place, and coded into binary symbols which were stamped on his coilar.
It was interesting. Transplants of body organs did not survive, not even with suppressants, if the donor and subject were too different in their genetic makeup. Antibodies formed. The new tissue was attacked by the environment it found itself in. It died. So, usually, did the patient. The more delicate the tissue involved, the closer the genetic resemblance had to be. It was an old story. Any cornea can be imbedded in any other eye; the tissues are crude and simple, mostly water. Millions of humans can transfer blood from one to another—blood is a tissue little more complex than the cornea.
But the more highly specialized members are transferable, without suppressants, only between identical twins. Suppressants—something like the allergy-controlling pharmaceuticals which once helped hold down hay fever—can make the range of tolerance broader; but, even so, genetic patterns must be matched as closely as possible. It was good that it was interesting. Ryeland was able to keep his mind on it. He did not find himself dwelling on the fact that he was now in the position of the spaceling under Gottling. He did not have to contemplate the prospect of what was essentially (however gentle, however carefully anesthetized for him) the Death of a Thousand Cuts.
And then they turned him loose, without warning.
He had expected a cell. He was given a millionaire's playground. He tripped over a tuft of grass and, blinking in warm Caribbean afternoon sun, found himself in a broad park, with trees and comfortable-looking cabins. He started forward, then happened to think of something and returned to the guard. "What do I do now? Who do I report to?"
"Nobody," said the guard, gently closing the door. "Nobody at all, any more."
Ryeland walked down a broad green lane toward the glint of water, it was as good a direction to go as any. He had never in all his life before had the experience of being without orders. It was almost more disturbing than the sure prospect of dismemberment that lay before him. He was so absorbed in the feeling that he hardly heard someone calling to him until the man raised his voice. "You! Hey, you new fellow! Come back here!"
Ryeland turned.
The man who was calling him was about fifty years old—the prime of life. He should have been a husky, bronzed creature with all his hair. Statistically he should hardly have needed even glasses. Forty good years should still be ahead of him at least.