“And in Tandy’s uterus,” Kaufmann observed. “Yes, that too. Well, now it’s over, anyway.”
“I’m glad. Risa, are you all through playing detective?”
“I think so. Why?”
“It would be nice if you’d stay closer to home for a while, with this business settled.”
“I’ll be home in about a week,” she said. “Is that all right?”
“Fine,” said Kaufmann. “Do you have enough money?”
“I’m drawing on the general family balance. All right?”
“Have mercy,” he told her. “I will. I’ll see you soon.” Out of her tired eyes there twinkled a look of warmth, love, kinship He smiled at her. She was a fine girl, he decided. A credit to their line. She had the promise of true greatness. He blew her a kiss, and the screen darkened.
A pity she was a girl, he thought. Of course, they had had an option to fix that. But Kaufmann’s wife was delicate, and he hadn’t cared to dabble in uterine adjustments. He had taken his chances, and had had a girl, and there had been no more children after that. Risa was masculine enough in her thinking, at any rate. A time would come when she’d enter the family enterprises as a full partner, and Kaufmann knew she’d do well. His only objection to her sex was an esthetic one: a woman in business was in some way an unattractive sight, no matter how beautiful she might be. That was archaic foolishness, he knew, but he could not escape the thought that it was somehow ugly to watch a woman at work in front of a data console, making executive decisions involving millions of dollars. Women should be gentler creatures. But there was nothing gentle about Risa, female or not. It would be interesting to follow her progress down the generations as they leapfrogged from one carnate trip to the next.
He turned back to his ticker. Three quick trades produced a handsome profit for him. A cheerful omen.
By the end of this week he’d have all the shrewdness of Paul Kaufmann to add to his own. At last. At last. Naturally, he’d have to go warily, lest anyone find out that he carried an illegal persona. But Roditis would be perplexed when he discovered that each of his new strategic thrusts, inspired by Paul’s persona, was being countered by strategies just as shrewd. Would he suspect that a second Paul Kaufmann was at work to thwart him? Would it occur to Roditis that such a thing was possible — a duplicated transplant? Few people were even aware that old recordings were preserved. Mark himself had not known it, despite his wide range of information, until Santoliquido had told him. So Roditis, though he was naturally suspicious, would have no inkling of the truth. He would just wonder how it was that his rival stayed abreast of him. Of course, after Mark’s death the next possessor of Mark’s persona would discover the secret when he unexpectedly found Paul in his skull as well. But he was not likely to make the news public. Revelation of the irregularity would most likely bring about the erasure of both Kaufmann personae; the lucky man who had received two Kaufmanns for the price of one would make every effort to hide the fact.
Kaufmann laughed softly. His phone lit up. He keyed in, and the monitor said, “Francesco Santoliquido is calling.”
Surprised, Kaufmann accepted the call at once. “Yes, Frank?” Santoliquido looked younger, more carefree than he had appeared for many weeks. The living jewelry at his throat, the cage of tiny crustaceans, seemed to be leaping about jauntily in reflection of his changed mood. “I’ve reached a decision about your uncle’s persona,” said Santoliquido briskly.
Kaufmann remained calm. Donahy’s assurance of co-operation was his bulwark against any possibility. “Yes?” he said easily. “Who’s the lucky man? Roditis, as expected, eh?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’ve weighed this a million times, Mark. I’ve come around to your way of thinking: that Roditis has such power already that it would be a grave mistake to let him have Paul. That would set up an extraordinary concentration of ability in one individual, with unpredictable results.”
“Of course.”
“I’ve also taken into account the objections of the Kaufmann family, as voiced through you.”
“Kind of you, Frank. But what will you do with old Paul, then? There can’t be many others around you could safely award him to. I suppose it’s best simply to leave him in storage a few years, until he’s so far out of touch with events that he can be let loose again as someone’s persona. I—”
“Oh, he’ll be transplanted soon, though.”
“To whom?” Kaufmann asked, taken aback. “We have a rare event scheduled to take place here shortly,” said Santoliquido. “The erasure of a dybbuk who’s guilty not only of ejecting his host but of deliberately causing the discorporation of a young woman.”
“The Tandy Cushing case. Yes, of course. Risa’s given me all the details. But what does this have to do with—”
“Once Claude Villefranche has been obliterated, Mark, we’ll be left with the empty but living body of Martin St. John, a young man of good family and decent health. Have you considered the status of a blanked-out body of that sort?”
“Why,” Kaufmann said, “just take out one of St. John’s own recorded personae and imprint it on his own brain. Isn’t that the logical solution?”
“It’s logical, but it won’t work. That’s called an autoimprint, and autoimprints can’t be made. The brain rejects its own abstracted persona. There are complex reasons for this, partly having to do with the technique of the process, partly with the physiology of the autonomic nervous system, partly with the psychology of the persona. I won’t trouble you with the details. But we can’t put Martin St. John’s persona back into Martin St. John’s body. However, there’s nothing stopping us from installing some other persona in that vacant, healthy body—” Mark Kaufmann saw where Santoliquido was leading. The impact of comprehension was swift and violent. “You’ll put Paul in there?”
“Yes,” said Santoliquido smugly. “But that’ll create an instant dybbuk! It’ll be Paul Kaufmann operating Martin St. John’s body!” Kaufmann cried hoarsely.
“True. However, there’s no specific regulation prohibiting such a transplant. We have blank bodies so infrequently that there are no precedents. Paul himself is something of a precedentsetter, too, since his mind is uniquely dynamic and overbearing, and he’s almost certain to turn any host he gets into a dybbuk. With a few possible exceptions, such as Roditis. And yourself. But we have a moral obligation to return Paul’s persona to carnate form. If we give him an orthodox transplant, and a dybbuk results, the quaestors will insist on mandatory erasure again, If we put him into a wholly empty body, though, so that there’s no charge of an unethical takeover of another intelligence, he won’t be breaking any laws. In effect, your uncle will return to the world as an independent entity, truly reborn.”
Kaufmann was staggered by the idea. He saw the complacence in Santoliquido’s face, and knew that the Scheffing administrator had engineered this most cunningly, as a way of immobilizing both Roditis and himself. Handing the disputed persona to a third party, a zero, a blank, neatly cut the ground from under both of them. Roditis could storm and rant, but unless he found some legal flaw in the transfer, he could not oppose it. And Mark, having put up a successful battle to keep Paul out of Roditis’ mind, could not now very well presume to interfere with Santoliquido’s further freedom of action.
It was ironic that Risa had provided Santoliquido with the solution to his dilemma. Very conveniently, she had helped to make a blank body available to him at the critical moment. Zip, zip, and Paul Kaufmann would walk the earth again, not merely as a silent persona, nor even as an unlawful dybbuk that had wrested control from a victimized host, but as a true rebirth, given a body of his own with the blessings of the Scheffing Institute!