As the booklet pointed out, it was irrational to fear or mistrust the persona. The persona wasn’t going to get any charge out of snooping on you, any more than you could snoop on yourself The persona would be you, and herself as well, a joined identity. Risa’s mind whirled a little at that concept. She thought she understood it, but of course she knew she did not, could not. No one who did not have a persona already transplanted could really comprehend what it was like. This was a new thing in the world, a fundamental break with the human condition. No longer were people walled up alone in their own skulls. They could have company.
What if she didn’t care for Tandy Cushing’s company? Cast her out like a demon. That could be done, for a price. Her own father had had a persona erased when he was young. Of course, a lot of people preferred to suffer along with their personae even when incompatibility was obvious. Just the way, Risa thought, people will stick with a hopeless marriage, or fight to prevent the amputation of a diseased limb, purely because they can’t bring themselves to give up anything that has been part of themselves, no matter how much harm it’s doing them.
Look at that Owens man, for example. Driven twitchy by all his personae, and yet he brags about them.
Or Charles Noyes. Right there on the beach, he had almost been engulfed and ejected by his own persona. Why didn’t he stop in for an erasure? Did he like to live dangerously, knowing that he might get kicked out of his mind at any moment?
Suppose Tandy tries that with me? It happened, Risa knew. It was a bit improper to speak of it, but she was aware that powerful personae sometimes overwhelmed and destroyed weak hosts, and took possession of their bodies. Dybbuks, they were called, after some medieval myth. According to the law, a dybbuk who had completely vanquished his host was a murderer, and subject to mandatory erasure. But most of them were too clever to fall into that trap. They continued to use the name of the dead host, keeping their dybbukhood a secret. Someone like James Kravchenko, if he finally succeeded in countererasing Charles Noyes, would probably go on calling himself Noyes for his own safety, and nobody might ever be the wiser.
Risa shuddered. Tandy, will you try to be a dybbuk?
Very strong individuals went in for such things. Waking up in a stranger’s brain, they found it intolerable to be relegated to the status of a mere persona. So they pushed the host out and took over. Essentially, they lived again, body and soul, real rebirth, if they got away with it.
Tandy was a strong individual, Risa knew. But so am I. So am I. If I were in Tandy’s place, I’d try to take over. But I’m in my place, and I won’t let her win if she tries anything like that.
The door opened. Leonards returned, carrying the oblong metal box that contained the persona of Tandy Cushing.
“How do you feel?” he asked. “Fine. Impatient.”
“I’m supposed to ask you if you’d like to cancel at this point.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Well, then. Here we go. I want to check to see how well the drug has worked.”
“I haven’t felt anything,” Risa said. “You shouldn’t.” He wheeled the diagnostat over and ran a test on her. When the report came, he nodded and smiled encouragingly. “You’re in maximum recept now.”
“That sounds dirty.”
“Does it?” he asked, embarrassed again. He leaned toward her and slipped a cool metal band around her forehead. “This isn’t for the transplant,” he said. “It’s merely to let you sample the persona. We take every precaution against an error. You’ve got to tell me that this persona is actually the one you’ve requested.”
“Go ahead,” Risa said. This part was familiar. He activated the sampler and Risa found herself once more in contact with Tandy Cushing. The memories were unchanged. After perhaps half a minute, Leonards disconnected the sampler.
“Yes,” said Risa. “You’ve got the right one.”
“Please sign this release, then.”
Risa grinned and thumbed the thermoplastic. Leonards dropped the sheet in the access hopper.
“Lie back,” he said. “Relax. Here we go on the actual transplant.” Panic seized her. Leonards was a step ahead of her, though, efficiently shackling her wrists and ankles to the couch, and telling her in a low, soothing tone, “We do this for your own safety, you understand. Some people find it a big impact and start thrashing around. You’ll be all right.”
She was stiff with fear, and that surprised her. Forcing a laugh, she looked down at her spreadeagled body and said, “How do I know you’re not going to torture me? Or rape me? This is a good position for a rape, isn’t it, Leonards?”
His laughter was even more forced than hers. He was in motion, never pausing, adjusting electrodes, manipulating scanners, balancing switches. Risa thought about the booklet she had read. Odd: it had been completely secular. No mantras, none of the Tibetan stuff, not even a quotation from the Book of the Dead. Nothing about sangsara or nirvana, the cycle of karma, all the other fashionable words people tagged to the Scheffing process. She realized the fundamental truth of something Nathaniel Owens had said on the beach Saturday at Dominica: the whole religious part of the rebirth business was external. It came after the fact, a moral justification, a dodge, a blind. The work of the Scheffing Institute went on serenely in a spiritual vacuum, and the mumbo-jumbo of the rebirth religion had no place within this building.
“Look up, please,” the technician said. “Open your eyes wide.” Twin spears of white light stabbed at her pupils. She could not close her eyes. She was frozen, immobile, penetrated by those sharp beams of brightness. It seemed to her that she heard a voice intone, “Now thou art experiencing the Radiance of the Clear Light of Pure Reality. Recognize it. 0 nobly-born, thy present intellect, in real nature void, not formed into anything as regards characteristics or color, naturally void, is the very Reality, the All-Good.”
She had summoned out of memory the words to welcome the newly dead into death. Surrender to the Clear Light and attain nirvana. Yes. Yes. So her words were directed to the persona of Tandy Cushing, emerging from that spinning reel of tape, but what she offered Tandy was not oblivion but rebirth. Yes. Yes. Now and at the hour of our birth. Come on, Tandy. I’m ready for you.
If only the light wasn’t in my eyes! Time ceased Eons passed between heartbeats. Risa could feel the blood creeping along her veins and arteries, impelled by the last spasm and not yet at its destination. She could not see. She could not hear.
The tension broke, and she heard a stranger’s voice whispering in her skull. — Where am I? What happened? “Hello, Tandy. Welcome aboard.” — Did I die? “Yes.” — When? How? Why? “I don’t know. I’m Risa Kaufmann. I’m your host.” — I know who you are. I just want to know how I got here. How long have I been dead?
“Since last August,” said Risa. “You were killed in a power-ski accident at St. Moritz.”
—That’s impossible! I’m an expert skier. And I had every safety device! I’m not dead! I’m not!
“Sorry, Tandy. You must be.” — I can’t remember anything past June. “That’s when you made your last recording. Two months before you were killed.” — Stop saying that! “If you’re not dead, what are you doing in my mind?”
—There’s been a mistake. They can transplant a persona even when the donor’s still alive. Sometimes they slip up.