“Will that confession be any good?” Risa asked. Mark nodded slowly. “The voiceprints will show that it was really Noyes speaking. The recording will show that he was nearly ejected by a dybbuk, fought back, blurted his story, and killed himself. It’ll be good enough to convince the quaestors that Roditis should be mindpicked.”
“And then?”
“They’ll erase him,” Kaufmann said. He felt little triumph, somehow. He took one more look at the ghastliness on the floor, and then went to put in a call to the quaestors.
Chapter 15
It was July now. A season of stifling weather had set in, beyond the capacity of the weather controllers to handle, and many people had fled to cooler climes. Risa remained in New York. The trial of John Roditis had just ended, and now there was a great deal for her to do.
Roditis had been found guilty, of course. Noyes’ recorded testimony had induced the quaestorate to seek a mindpick against him, and the motion had been granted. Roditis’ lawyers had undertaken a delaying action based on the ancient constitutional principle of freedom from self-incrimination; but the legality of the mindpick was firmly established, and Roditis was put to the test. His complicity in the deliberate discorporation of Martin St. John was undeniable after that.
The defense tactics shifted. Now the lawyers asserted that, while Roditis and Noyes had undoubtedly conspired to destroy the St. John body, there was no injured party, since St. John was not his own body’s tenant. The only occupant of the body, the persona of Paul Kaufmann, was legally dead and therefore not capable of suffering discorporation.
It was a fine point, and gave the jurists of the quaestorate considerable exercise. It caused a good deal of embarrassment for Francesco Santoliquido, too, since he was responsible for creating the anomaly of the deliberate dybbuk. In the end, the decision went against Roditis, but the charge was reduced from murder to antisocial actions of the first degree. Which, when Roditis was found guilty, resulted in these sentences:
Forfeiture of citizenship and Civic privileges. Mandatory destruction of any recorded Roditis personae on file with the Scheffing Institute.
Erasure of all present personae carried by Roditis, and their return to the soul bank for redistribution to others.
Five years of corrective therapy, including, if needed, a total reorientation of personality to remove aggressive impulses.
“He’s finished now,” Mark Kaufmann said to his daughter as the verdicts were announced. “He’ll come out of the therapy a broken man — polite, amiable, lacking in purpose and direction. A pleasant nobody. A nothing. A shell.”
“It seems like such a waste,” said Risa. “All that drive — all that energy thrown away—”
“He was too dangerous to remain as he was, Risa. He had a greatness, I’ll admit, but his ambitions weren’t tempered by the moral sense. He was without a governor.”
“And you? And Uncle Paul?” Kaufmann looked at her sharply. “We have our family traditions. We have our sense of what is honorable. Roditis was a wild beast. Now he’ll be tamed. There’s no comparison between a Roditis and one of us, Risa. None.”
Risa had private reservations about that. She had no wish to anger her father; but it seemed to her that the real difference between the shattered, defeated Roditis and the triumphant Mark Kaufmann was more a matter of luck and diplomacy than of breeding and honor. Roditis had overreached himself, and Mark had destroyed him. But Mark’s methods, though they stopped short at murder, had hardly been gentle.
Roditis disappeared behind the fortress walls of Belle Isle Sanatorium for corrective therapy. No one would ever again see the old John Roditis in public, that man seething with vitality and shrewdness. When Roditis emerged, several years hence, he would still be a wealthy man, but he would be an aimless, smiling ruin, cheerfully acquiescing in the decisions of the courtappointed trustees who managed his financial empire.
A great waste of dynamism, Risa decided. Perhaps, she thought, such a squandering might be in some way avoided.
On the hottest day of that July heat wave, soon after the sentencing of John Roditis, Risa brought her hopter down in the employee lot of the Scheffing Institute building. She parked it deftly and crossed the sweltering strip of ferroconcrete in a hurry. It was three in the afternoon the first shift of technicians was about to leave.
Within the building Risa picked up the first telephone she came to and requested to speak to a certain employee. Moments later, his face appeared on the screen.
He looked baffled. “Hello, Leonards. Remember me?” He was young, pale, good-looking, pinch lines forming between his eyebrows. He moistened his lips. “M-Miss Kaufmann?”
“That’s right, Leonards. Go to the head of the class.” He forced an uneasy smile. “Is there something wrong? Can I be of service?”
“No, there’s nothing wrong, and yes, you can be of service. You’re finished working for the day, aren’t you?”
“Good. My hopter’s parked in Employee Lot D. Meet me there right away and we’ll take a little trip.”
“But—”
“I’ll be waiting, Leonards!” He did not disappoint her. He did not dare. Looking mystified, he entered the hopter, taking his seat beside her as she indicated. The little craft lifted and headed north. Risa said, “You did an excellent job with my transplant, Leonards. Tandy and I are very happy together.”
“That’s good, Miss Kaufmann. Perhaps you could tell me—”
“Where we’re heading? Of course. We’re going uptown. To my apartment.”
He scarcely seemed to believe any of this was happening to him. His posture was rigid; he looked straight ahead, never venturing a glance in her direction. He was terrified of her.
She brought the hopter in for a smooth landing at her home lot. Minutes later, they entered her apartment.
“Take a good look around,” she told him. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Ever been in a place like this before?”
“N-no, Miss Kaufmann.”
“Call me Risa. Why are you so frightened, Leonards? You’re a big, handsome young fellow, aren’t you? A skilled technician, a man with a bright future? Are you married?”
“Yes, Miss Kaufmann.”
“Children?”
“One child. We’re going to have another after my next increment comes through.”
“Fine, Leonards. I’m sure you’re a wonderful family man. And I’m glad to know you’re so virile.” She put her hand to her shoulder, touched a stud. Her light summer clothing fell away in a rustling swirl. She stood before him incandescently nude, and, he gaped at the sudden sight.
He backed away from her, shielding his eyes. “Come here, Leonards,” she said in a husky voice Tandy Cashing had taught her how to use. “You’re not really afraid. You want me, don’t you? Admit it. I’m yours for the taking. The experience of a lifetime. A Kaufmann in your arms. Why run away?”
“Please — I don’t understand—” She swept up against him. She took his hand and put it to her small breasts. Her own hand traveled expertly over his body. Leonards gasped. Leonards moaned. Leonards shook his head and tried to push her away, but the attempt was not a success.
“I want you, Leonards! What’s your first name?”
“Harry.”
“Harry! Harry! Harry! Love me, Harry!” She tugged at him and they toppled to the floor. Her lithe body entwined itself with his. Urgently she awakened his desires and banished his timidity.
“Harry,” she whispered. “Harry!”
He made a sound that was half a protest, half an acceptance. And then, with sudden desperate willingness, he pulled her against him.
He was not very good, Risa concluded. But he was appealingly earnest.
When it was over, she slipped away from him and got nimbly to her feet. He lay still, rumpled and glassy-eyed.