Anyone interested in studying the evolution of a writer would do well to compare the story and the novel that grew out of it. The story is set in a universe of easy travel between stars, many centuries from now. The novel is set on Earth in the year 2011. The former identity of the Macy of the story is an interstellar jewel thief and smuggler, whose old confederates in crime want to force him back into their syndicate. The former identity of the Macy of the novel is a brilliant sculptor who happens also to be a psychopath, and who struggles to regain control of his body after it has been given to a newly created personality. In concept, in handling, in everything, the two works could not have been more different—and yet one plainly grew out of the other, twelve years later. The evidence of the characters’ names is there to prove that. The story is the work of a young man of 23, turning out material as fast as possible to fill the pages of a minor science-fiction magazine. The novel is the work of a mature writer of 35, who was devoting all the skill and energy at his command to the creation of a group of novels that would establish him as one of the leading s-f writers of his day. Reading the two works just a few months apart, as I did last year, was an extraordinary revelatory experience for me.
——————
The name they gave me at the Rehabilitation Center on Earth was Paul Macy. It was as good as any other, I guess. The name I was born with was Nat Hamlin, but when you become a Rehab you have to give up your name.
I didn’t mind that. What I did mind was the idea of having my face changed, since I was pretty well content with my looks the way they were. They gave me the option of choosing either a refacing job or else getting outside the Four Parsec Zone and staying there, and I opted to keep my face and leave Earth. This was how I happened to settle on Palmyra, which is Lambda Scorpii IX, 205 light-years from Earth. I met Ellen on Palmyra. And Dan Helgerson met me. I didn’t figure to run into Helgerson there, but it’s a smaller universe than you think.
Helgerson was a sometime business associate of Nat Hamlin’s—the late Nat Hamlin, because that was the way I thought of my former identity. Hamlin had been in the jewel-trading business. Also the jewel-stealing business, the jewelry-fencing business, and the jewelry-smuggling business, and toward the end of his varied career, after he had made contact with an enterprising Sirian who owned a fusion forge, the jewel-making business.
Hamlin was quite a guy. If it had to do with pretty pebbles, and if it happened to be illegal, you could bet Hamlin was mixed up in it. That was why the Galactic Crime Commission finally had to crack down, grab Hamlin, and feed him through the psychic meatgrinder that is the Rehabilitation Center. What came out on the other end, purged of his anti-social impulses and stuff like that, was Paul Macy.
Me.
Naturally they confiscated Hamlin’s wealth, which included a cache of gold in Chicago, a cache of pure iron on Grammas VI, a cache of tungsten on Sirius XIX, and a cache here and there of whatever was most precious to a particular planet. Hamlin had been a smart operator. He had been worth a couple of billions when they caught him. After they finished turning him into me, they gave me five thousand bucks in Galactic scrip—not a hell of a lot of money by Nat Hamlin’s standards—he used to carry that much as pocket-change for tips—but more than enough for Paul Macy to use in starting his new life.
The Rehab people found me a good job on Palmyra, as a minor executive in a canning factory. It was the sort of job where I could make use of Nat Hamlin’s organizational abilities, channeling them constructively into the cause of faster and more efficient squid-canning. Canned squid is Palmyra’s big industry. The fishermen bring them in from the wine-colored sea in the billions, and we ship them all over the universe.
I got good pay from the canning people and I found a nice bachelor home on the outskirts of Palmyra City. I found a nice girl, too—Ellen Bryce was her name, Earthborn, 24, soft violet hair and softer green eyes. She worked in the shipping department of our place. I started noticing her around, and then I started dating her, and then before I knew it I was starting to think of getting married.
But then one night after I left my office I stopped into the bar on the corner for a vraffa martini as a bracer, and I saw Dan Helgerson sitting at one of the tables.
I tried to pretend I didn’t see him. I hunched down at the bar and sipped at my cocktail.
But out of the corner of my eye I saw him get up and start sauntering over to me. Wildly I hoped I was mistaken, that this was not Helgerson but someone else.
It was Helgerson, all right. And when he slid in next to me, clapped me on the back, and said, “Hello, Nat. Long time no see,” I knew I was in trouble.
My hand tightened on the stem of my cocktail glass. I looked up at Helgerson and tried to keep my face blank, unrecognizing.
“There must be some mistake. My name isn’t Nat.”
“Come off it, pal. You’re Nat Hamlin or I’m drunker than I think I am. And I don’t get that drunk on one shot of booril.”
“My name is Paul Macy,” I said in a tight voice. “I don’t know you.”
Helgerson chuckled thickly. “You’re a damn good actor, Nat. Always were. But don’t push a joke too far. I’ve been looking for you for weeks.”
“Looking for me?”
“There’s a privacy booth over there, Nat. Suppose we go over and talk in there. I’ve got a proposition you might want to hear.”
I felt a muscle twanging in my cheek. I said, “Look, fellow, my name is Macy, not Nat Hamlin. I’m not interested in any propositions you might have.”
I shook my head. “No, Helgerson. Just keep away and leave me alone.”
A slow smile rippled out over Helgerson’s face. “If your name is Macy and you don’t know me, how come you know my name? I don’t remember introducing myself.”
It was like a kick in the ribs. I had blundered; it had been an accident. But it had happened before I could stop it. The Rehab treatment had altered Hamlin’s personality, but it hadn’t wiped out his old memories. As Paul Macy, I had no business knowing Helgerson’s name—but I did.
I scowled and said, “Okay. Let’s go over to the privacy booth and I’ll fill you in on the news.”
Scooping up my half-finished drink, I followed Helgerson across the room to the privacy booth. On the way I glanced at my watch. It was quarter after five. Ellen was expecting me at half past six at her place, for dinner. I had been figuring on a leisurely shower and shave first, but if it took too long to get rid of Helgerson I would probably have to skip everything and go straight out to Ellen’s.
He slipped a coin into the slot and the crackling blue privacy field built up around us, shielding our little booth in an electronic curtain impervious to spybeams and eavesdroppers. He said, “Okay, Nat. What’s this Paul Macy bit? Some new dodge?”
“No. No dodge.”
I reached into my breast pocket, and Helgerson’s jowly face twitched in momentary alarm, as if he half expected me to yank out a blaster. Instead I drew out my wallet and silently handed him my identity card—not the blue one that everyone has to carry, but the other one, the yellow card they had given me when I left the Rehabilitation Center.
He read both sides of it and when he handed it back to me his face was a lot different.
“So they got Nat Hamlin. Whaddya know. And they left your face alone?”
“I took the Four Parsec option. As long as I keep away from Earth I can wear my old face. I figured it was safe, on Palmyra. Nobody in our line operated on Palmyra.”
“We do now.”
It was my turn to twitch in alarm. “How?”
“We’re setting up an import chain. The Palmyrans are getting interested in owning pretty jewelry. They weren’t, before, but we’ve been working on them. It’s a virgin market, Nat.”
“My name is Macy.”
“Sorry. Anyway, we’re setting up a pipeline. And you’re the key man.”
The muscle in my cheek twanged again. “I’m not in the business any more, Helgerson.
”
“Listen to me, Nat—Macy, whatever you call yourself. I’ve checked up on you ever since I heard you were here. You got a good position—you’re respected—trusted. I figured you were setting something up for yourself. But I guess it was just because you were a Rehab. Well, anyway, it’s a natural. We could send the stones in wrapped up in those squid-cans—call them market returns, code the wrappers. All you have to do is grab the loaded cans and turn them over to me. I’ll guarantee you three quarters of a million a year for it.”
I felt sick. I wanted to get out of that booth fast. “I’m not in the business,” I said bleakly.
“Eight hundred thousand. Nat, this setup is a peach!”
“I told you—”
“I’ll go as high as a million.”
“Look,” I said. “I’m a Rehab. That means I’ve been through the Center, analyzed, monkeyed-with, headshrunk, rearranged. There isn’t a criminal molecule left in me. I can’t do it even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to.”
He smiled pityingly. “Don’t give me that crap, Nat. If you wanted to bad enough, you could break your conditioning. It’s been done before.”
“Maybe it has. But I don’t want to. Not even for a billion a year.”
“Nat—”
“The name is Macy. And I’m not interested.” I looked at my watch. It was getting late. I didn’t want to talk to Helgerson any more. Ellen was expecting me. I reached out and yanked the shutoff lever, and the privacy field died away with a faint whuffling sound. Helgerson was glaring at me and I glared back. “The answer is no. Finally and absolutely. And don’t bother me any more, Helgerson. I’ll run you in for violating the Rehab Code if you do.”
I got up and strode toward the door. Helgerson yelled something after me, but I was too angry to listen.
It was quarter of seven when I got to Ellen’s, which meant I was fifteen minutes late, and I hadn’t had time for that shower and shave, either. But Ellen didn’t make any acid remarks. That was how she differed from most of the women I knew; she could forgive and forget, and without making a fuss about it.
She was wearing a sprayed-on strylon dress that covered her body with a layer of plastic two molecules thick—enough to keep her within the bounds of maidenly decency, but also revealing enough to make her quite an eyeful. I held her against me for a minute or two, as if her nearness could drain away the inner tension Helgerson had provoked in me. It didn’t, but it was pleasant anyway.
Then she broke away, with the excuse that dinner would be spoiled. She had made roast seafowl with a garnishment of starflower sprouts, and cool white wine from Mellibor to wash it all down. We ate quietly; I was troubled over the Helgerson business. If a bunch of my old pals set up the trade on Palmyra, it was going to make life very hard for me here. Bitterly I asked myself why they had had to come here; I had had eight months of peace, but now it was to be shattered.
We dumped the dishes into the autowash. Ellen nuzzled against me playfully and said, “You’re quiet tonight, Paul. Worried. What’s bothering you?”
I tried to wear a cheerful grin. “Nothing much.”
I shrugged. “Plant business,” I lied. Telling even a small lie like that gave me a twinge of remorse, thanks to the built-in conscience the Rehab Center had given me. My conditioning didn’t prevent me from telling lies, but it made sure that I felt the effects of even a small one. “We had some trouble come up today. Nothing serious.”
“Shake it off, then! Let’s go for a drive, yes?”
We rode to the roof, where I had parked my aircar, and for the next two hours we soared through the Palmyran night. I drove out over the ocean, glittering with the reflection of a million stars and a quartet of bright moons, and then swooped down over the coastal plains, still mostly untouched by man’s hand. We said little, satisfied just to have each other near. When I was with Ellen I was glad I had been Rehabbed; Nat Hamlin had never trusted another human being, and so Nat Hamlin had never been in love. I had not only a different name but a different set of emotions, and that made all the difference in the universe.
It was nearly eleven when I brought the aircar lightly to rest on the roof of Ellen’s building. Our goodnights took half an hour, but they weren’t the sort of goodnights Nat Hamlin would have appreciated, because Paul Macy didn’t play the game as close as his predecessor in our body did. Ellen was passionate within bounds; she wanted to be my wife, not my mistress, and she knew the best way of achieving that goal. Which was all right with me. I could be patient a while longer.
I left her at half past eleven and drove home in a pleasantly euphoric state, having nearly forgotten about the ominous popping-up of Dan Helgerson. But when I entered my place, a little after midnight, I saw the red light on my autosec lit up.
I nudged the acknowledger to let the machine know I was home, and it said, “Mr. Helgerson called while you were out, sir. He left his number. Shall I call him back?”
“No. I’m tired and I don’t want to speak to him.”
“He said it was urgent, sir,” the autosec protested gently. “He said, quote, it would be too bad for you if you didn’t call him.”
There was a sour taste in my mouth and a knot of tension formed in my chest. I sighed. “All right. Call him back.”
Helgerson’s fleshy face formed in the depths of the screen. He wore an ugly smile. “Glad you decided to call back, Nat. You ran out on me so fast before that I didn’t have time to tell you all I wanted to tell you.”
“Well, spill it out now. Quick. It’s late and I don’t want to waste any more time on you than I have to.”
“I’ll come right to the point,” Helgerson said. “We want you to join our syndicate. You’re the key man; the whole thing revolves around your coming in. And if—”
“I told you I’m playing it straight. I’m not Nat Hamlin any more.”
“And if you turn down the offer,” Helgerson went on, ignoring the interruption, “we’re going to have to take steps to make you join us.”
I was quiet for a moment. “What sort of steps?”
“You have a girlfriend, Hamlin. I hear you’re pretty high on her. Plan to marry her, maybe. I’ve checked up a lot about you. How would your girlfriend react if she found out you were a Rehab?”
“She—I—” I closed my mouth and felt black anger ripple up through me. And with it came the sick feeling my conditioning supplied, to keep me from doing anything violent. I wanted to do something violent right then. I said instead, “People don’t discriminate against Rehabs. The Code says they’re to be treated as completely new individuals. Paul Macy didn’t commit Nat Hamlin’s crimes.”
“That’s what the Code says, yeah. But nobody really trusts a Rehab, deep down. There’s always the lingering suspicion that he might backslide.”
“Ellen would trust me even if she knew.”
“Maybe she would, maybe she wouldn’t. How about the people you work with? They don’t know, either—only the top bosses. And your friends. What’s going to happen if they suddenly find out you’ve been holding out on them, that you’re really a Rehab?”
I knew what would happen, and I felt bitter-tasting fear. Legally a Rehab is an innocent man and should be subject to no prejudice—but in practice there’s a certain coldness between most people and Rehabs, a lack of trust that goes deeper than the legal codes. My nice neat life on Palmyra would be smashed if Helgerson spread the word about.
But I couldn’t go in with him on the deal.
I said, “You wouldn’t pull a thing like that.”
“Not if you wised up and let me go back into business with you, Nat. You can overcome your conditioning if you fight it hard enough. Think it over, Nat. I’ll phone you tomorrow night. If the answer’s still no, the whole planet will know about you the next morning.”
The screen went blank.
I paced up and down my room for three hours, cursing Helgerson out and getting my blood pressure up. I realized I was boxed in.
Sur
e, I could break my conditioning and go back to Helgerson. It probably would mean a total nervous breakdown inside of a month and a permanent case of the shakes, but I could do it. I didn’t want to do it, though. They had fixed me so I liked being honest. Besides, a backsliding Rehab doesn’t get a third chance. If I got caught, it would mean total personality demolition—the death sentence for Macy-Hamlin. They would wipe out my mind and build a wholly new identity into my body, one that would have to be taught how to read and write and tie his shoelaces all over again.
No. Joining Helgerson was impossible.
But the alternative was having word of my Rehab status spread all over the place. Maybe Ellen would stick with me after she knew, maybe not; but either way I could never be happy on Palmyra again. The rumor would spread, and I couldn’t deny it, which would confirm it. And suddenly I would find myself persona non grata at a lot of places where I was welcomed right now.
I chewed it all out inside myself and saw the only thing I could do, under the circumstances. I couldn’t let Ellen find out about me from Helgerson. I would have to tell her myself. I had been meaning to tell her for months, but kept putting it off, postponing it, being afraid of her reaction. The time had come to let her know.
I activated the autosec and told it to phone Ellen. The time was past three in the morning, but I didn’t care.
Her head and shoulders appeared on the screen, blinking, sleepfogged, lovely. “What is it, Paul?”
“I’ve got to see you, Ellen. Got to talk to you.”
“Right now.”
“Right now,” I said.
I braced myself for the deluge, but it didn’t come. She shrugged, smiled, said, “You must have a good reason for it, darling. I’ll have coffee ready when you get here.”
The trip took me twenty minutes. I was jittery and tense, and words rolled around crazily in my mind, ways of explaining, ways to tell what I had to tell. Ellen kissed me warmly as I came in. She was wearing a filmy sort of gown and she was still squint-eyed from sleep.