"Is that him coming in?" Barefoot demanded.
"No," Herb admitted, thoroughly upset by now. It was, in fact, a bad sign.
"Keep trying," Barefoot said. But it was unnecessary to tell Herbert Schoenheit von Vogelsang that; he was struggling desperately, with all he had, with all his years of professional competence in this field. And still he achieved nothing; Louis Sarapis remained silent.
I'm not going to be successful, Herb realized in fear. I don't understand why, either. WHAT'S WRONG? A big client like this, and it has to get fouled up. He toiled on, not looking at Barefoot, not daring to.
At the radio telescope at Kennedy Slough, on the dark side of Luna, Chief Technician Owen Angress discovered that he had picked up a signal emanating from a region one light-week beyond the solar system in the direction of Proxima. Ordinarily such a region of space would have held little of interest for the U.N. Commission on Deep-Space Communications, but this, Owen Angress realized, was unique.
What reached him, thoroughly amplified by the great antennae of the radio telescope, was, faintly but clearly, a human voice.
"…probably let it slide by," the voice was declaring. "If I know them, and I believe I do. That Johnny; he'd revert without my keeping my eye on him, but at least he's not a crook like St. Cyr. I did right to fire St. Cyr. Assuming I can make it stick…" The voice faded momentarily.
What's out there? Angress wondered, dazedly. "At one fifty-second of a light-year," he murmured, making a quick mark on the deep-space map which he had been recharting. "Nothing. That's just empty dust-clouds." He could not understand what the signal implied; was it being bounced back to Luna from some nearby transmitter? Was this, in other words, merely an echo?
Or was he reading his computation incorrectly?
Surely this couldn't be correct. Some individual ruminating at a transmitter out beyond the solar system… a man not in a hurry, thinking aloud in a kind of half-slumbering attitude, as if free-associating… it made no sense.
I'd better report this to Wycoff at the Soviet Academy of Sciences, he said to himself. Wycoff was his current supervisor; next month it would be Jamison of MIT. Maybe it's a long-haul ship that -
The voice filtered in clearly once again. "…that Gam is a fool; did wrong to select him. Know better now but too late. Hello?" The thoughts became sharp, the words more distinct. "Am I coming back? – for god's sake, it's about time. Hey! Johnny! Is that you?"
Angress picked up the telephone and dialed the code for the line to the Soviet Union.
"Speak up, Johnny!" the voice from the speaker demanded plaintively. "Come on, son; I've got so damn much on my mind. So much to do. Convention's started yet, has it? Got no sense of time stuck in here, can't see or hear; wait'll you get here and you'll find out…" Again the voice faded.
This is exactly what Wycoff likes to call a "phenomenon," Angress realized.
And I can understand why.
II
On the evening television news, Claude St. Cyr heard the announcer babbling about a discovery made by the radio telescope on Luna, but he paid little attention: he was busy mixing martinis for his guests.
"Yes," he said to Gertrude Harvey, "ironic as it is, I drew up the will myself, including the clause that automatically dismissed me, canceled my services out of existence the moment he died. And I'll tell you why Louis did that; he had paranoid suspicions of me, so he figured that with such a clause he'd insure himself against being -" He paused as he measured out the iota of dry wine which accompanied the gin. "Being prematurely dispatched." He grinned, and Gertrude, arranged decoratively on the couch beside her husband, smiled back.
"A lot of good it did him," Phil Harvey said.
"Hell," St. Cyr protested. "I had nothing to do with his death; it was an embolus, a great fat clot stuck like a cork in a bottleneck." He laughed at the image. "Nature's own remedy."
Gertrude said, "Listen. The TV; it's saying something strange." She rose, walked over to it and bent down, her «ar close to the speaker.
"It's probably that oaf Kent Margrave," St. Cyr said. "Making another political speech." Margrave had been their President now for four years; a Liberal, he had managed to defeat Alfonse Gam, who had been Louis Sarapis' hand-picked choice for the office. Actually Margrave, for all his faults, was quite a politician; he had managed to convince large blocs of voters that having a puppet of Sarapis' for their President was not such a good idea.
"No," Gertrude said, carefully arranging her skirt over her bare knees. "This is – the space agency, I think. Science."
"Science!" St. Cyr laughed. "Well, then let's listen; I admire science. Turn it up." I suppose they've found another planet in the Orionus System, he said to himself. Something more for us to make the goal of our collective existence.
"A voice," the TV announcer was saying, "emanating from outer space, tonight has scientists both in the United States and the Soviet Union completely baffled."
"Oh no," St. Cyr choked. "A voice from outer space – please, no more." Doubled up with laughter, he moved off, away from the TV set; he could not bear to listen any more. "That's what we need," he said to Phil. "A voice that turns out to be – you know Who it is."
"Who?" Phil asked.
"God, of course. The radio telescope at Kennedy Slough has picked up the voice of God and now we're going to receive another set of divine commandments or at least a few scrolls." Removing his glasses he wiped his eyes with his Irish linen handkerchief.
Dourly, Phil Harvey said, "Personally I agree with my wife; I find it fascinating."
"Listen, my friend," St. Cyr said, "you know it'll turn out to be a transistor radio that some Jap student lost on a trip between Earth and Callisto. And the radio just drifted on out of the solar system entirely and now the telescope has picked it up and it's a huge mystery to all the scientists." He became more sober. "Shut it off, Gert; we've got serious things to consider."
Obediently but reluctantly she did so. "Is it true, Claude," she asked, rising to her feet, "that the mortuary wasn't able to revive old Louis? That he's not in half-life as he's supposed to be by now?"
"Nobody tells me anything from the organization, now," St. Cyr answered. "But I did hear a rumor to that effect." He knew, in fact, that it was so; he had many friends within Wilhelmina, but he did not like to talk about these surviving links. "Yes, I suppose that's so," he said.
Gertrude shivered. "Imagine not coming back. How dreadful."
"But that was the old natural condition," her husband pointed out as he drank his martini. "Nobody had half-life before the turn of the century."
"But we're used to it," she said stubbornly.
To Phil Harvey, St. Cyr said, "Let's continue our discussion."
Shrugging, Harvey said, "All right. If you really feel there's something to discuss." He eyed St. Cyr critically. "I could put you on my legal staff, yes. If that's what you're sure you want. But I can't give you the kind of business that Louis could. It wouldn't be fair to the legal men I have in there now."
"Oh, I recognize that," St. Cyr said. After all, Harvey's drayage firm was small in comparison with the Sarapis outfits; Harvey was in fact a minor figure in the 3-4 shipping business.
But that was precisely what St. Cyr wanted. Because he believed that within a year with the experience and contacts he had gained working for Louis Sarapis he could depose Harvey and take over Elektra Enterprises.
Harvey's first wife had been named Elektra. St. Cyr had known her, and after she and Harvey had split up St. Cyr had continued to see her, now in a more personal – and more spirited – way. It had always seemed to him that Elektra Harvey had obtained a rather bad deal; Harvey had employed legal talent of sufficient caliber to outwit Elektra's attorney… who had been, as a matter of fact, St. Cyr's junior law partner, Harold Faine. Ever since her defeat in the courts, St. Cyr had blamed himself; why hadn't he taken the case personally? But he had been so tied up with Sarapis business… it had simply not been possible.
>
Now, with Sarapis gone and his job with Atlas, Wilhelmina and Archimedean over, he could take some time to rectify the imbalance; he could come to the aid of the woman (he admitted it) whom he loved.
But that was a long step from this situation; first he had to get into Harvey's legal staff – at any cost. Evidently, he was succeeding.
"Shall we shake on it, then?" he asked Harvey, holding out his hand.
"Okay," Harvey said, not very much stirred by the event. He held out his hand, however, and they shook. "By the way," he said, then, "I have some knowledge – fragmentary but evidently accurate – as to why Sarapis cut you off in his will. And it isn't what you said at all."
"Oh?" St. Cyr said, trying to sound casual.
"My understanding is that he suspected someone, possibly you, of desiring to prevent him from returning to half-life. That you were going to select a particular mortuary which certain contacts of yours operate… and they'd somehow fail to revive the old man." He eyed St. Cyr. "And oddly, that seems to be exactly what has happened."
There was silence.
Gertrude said, at last, "Why would Claude not want Louis Sarapis to be resurrected?"
"I have no idea," Harvey said. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I don't even fully understand half-life itself. Isn't it true that the half-lifer often finds himself in possession of a sort of insight, of a new frame of reference, a perspective, that he lacked while alive?"
"I've heard psychologists say that," Gertrude agreed. "It's what the old theologists called conversion."
"Maybe Claude was afraid of some insight that Louis might show up with," Harvey said. "But that's just conjecture."
"Conjecture," Claude St. Cyr agreed, "in its entirety, including that as to any such plan as you describe; in actual fact I know absolutely no one in the mortuary business." His voice was steady, too; he made it come out that way. But this all was very sticky, he said to himself. Quite awkward.
The maid appeared, then, to tell them that dinner was ready. Both Phil and Gertrude rose, and Claude joined them as they entered the dining room together.
"Tell me," Phil Harvey said to Claude. "Who is Sarapis' heir?" St. Cyr said, "A granddaughter who lives on Callisto; her name is Kathy Egmont and she's an odd one… she's about twenty years old and already she's been in jail five times, mostly for narcotics addiction. Lately, I understand, she's managed to cure herself of the drug habit and now she's a religious convert of some kind. I've never met her but I've handled volumes of correspondence passing between her and old Louis."
"And she gets the entire estate, when it's out of probate? With all the political power inherent in it?"
"Haw," St. Cyr said. "Political power can't be willed, can't be passed on. All Kathy gets is the economic syndrome. It functions, as you know, through the parent holding company licensed under the laws of the state of Delaware, Wilhelmina Securities, and that's hers, if she cares to make use of it – if she can understand what it is she's inheriting."
Phil Harvey said, "You don't sound very optimistic."
"All the correspondence from her indicates – to me at least – that she's a sick, criminal type, very eccentric and unstable. The very last sort I'd like to see inherit Louis's holdings."
On that note, they seated themselves at the dinner table.
In the night, Johnny Barefoot heard the phone, drew himself to a sitting position and fumbled until his hands touched the receiver. Beside him in the bed Sarah Belle stirred as he said gratingly, "Hello. Who the hell is it?"
A fragile female voice said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Barefoot… I didn't mean to wake you up. But I was told by my attorney to call you as soon as I arrived on Earth." She added, "This is Kathy Egmont, although actually my real name is Mrs. Kathy Sharp. Do you know who I am?"
"Yes," Johnny said, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He shivered from the cold of the room; beside him, Sarah Belle drew the covers back up over her shoulders and turned the other way. "Want me to come and pick you up? Do you have a place to stay?"
"I have no friends here on Terra," Kathy said. "But the spaceport people told me that the Severely is a good hotel, so I'm going there. I started from Callisto as soon as I heard that my grandfather had died,"
"You made good time," he said. He hadn't expected her for another twenty-four hours.
"Is there any chance -" The girl sounded timid. "Could I possibly stay with you, Mr. Barefoot? It scares me, the idea of a big hotel where no one knows me."
"I'm sorry," he said at once. "I'm married." And then he realized that such a retort was not only inappropriate… it was actually abusive. "What I mean is," he explained, "I have no spare room. You stay at the Severely tonight and tomorrow we'll find you a more acceptable apartment."
"All right," Kathy said. She sounded resigned but still anxious. "Tell me, Mr. Barefoot, what luck have you had with my grandfather's resurrection? Is he in half-life, now?"
"No," Johnny said. "It's failed, so far. They're working on it."
When he had left the mortuary, five technicians had been busy at work, trying to discover what was wrong.
Kathy said, "I thought it might work out that way."
"Why?"
"Well, my grandfather – he was so different from everyone else. I realize you know that, perhaps even better than I… after all, you were with him daily. But – I just couldn't imagine him inert, the way the half-lifers are. Passive and helpless, you know. Can you imagine him like that, after all he's done?"
Johnny said, "Let's talk tomorrow; I'll come by the hotel about nine. Okay?"
"Yes, that's fine. I'm glad to have met you, Mr. Barefoot. I hope you'll stay on with Archimedean, working for me. Goodbye." The phone clicked; she had rung off.
My new boss, Johnny said to himself. Wow.
"Who was that?" Sarah Belle murmured. "At this hour?"
"The owner of Archimedean," Johnny said. "My employer."
"Louis Sarapis?" His wife sat up at once. "Oh… you mean his granddaughter; she's here already. What's she sound like?"
"I can't tell," he said meditatively. "Frightened, mostly. It's a finite, small world she comes from, compared with Terra, here." He did not tell his wife the things he knew about Kathy, her drug addiction, her terms in jail.
"Can she take over now?" Sarah Belle asked. "Doesn't she have to wait until Louis's half-life is over?"
"Legally, he's dead. His will has come into force." And, he thought acidly, he's not in half-life anyhow; he's silent and dead in his plastic casket, in his quick-pack, which evidently wasn't quite quick enough.
"How do you think you'll get along with her?"
"I don't know," he said candidly. "I'm not even sure I'm going to try." He did not like the idea of working for a woman, especially one younger than himself. And one who was – at least according to hearsay – virtually psychopathic. But on the phone she had certainly not sounded psychopathic. He mulled that over in his mind, wide-awake now.
"She's probably very pretty," Sarah Belle said. "You'll probably fall in love with her and desert me."
"Oh no," he said. "Nothing as startling as that. I'll probably try to work for her, drag out a few miserable months, and then give up and look elsewhere." And meanwhile, he thought, WHAT ABOUT LOUIS? Are we, or are we not, going to be able to revive him? That was the really big unknown.
If the old man could be revived, he could direct his granddaughter; even though legally and physically dead, he could continue to manage his complex economic and political sphere, to some extent. But right now this was simply not working out, and the old man had planned on being revived at once, certainly before the Democratic-Republican Convention. Louis certainly knew – or rather had known – what sort of person he was willing his holdings to. Without help she surely could not function. And, Johnny thought, there's little I can do for her. Claude St. Cyr could have, but by the terms of the will he's out of the picture entirely. So what is left? We must keep trying to revive old Louis, even if we have to visit every
mortuary in the United States, Cuba and Russia.
"You're thinking confused thoughts," Sarah Belle said. "I can tell by your expression." She turned on the small lamp by the bed, and was now reaching for her robe. "Don't try to solve serious matters in the middle of the night."
This must be how half-life feels, he thought groggily. He shook his head, trying to clear it, to wake up fully.
The next morning he parked his car in the underground garage of the Beverely and ascended by elevator to the lobby and the front desk where he was greeted by the smiling day clerk. It was not much of a hotel, Johnny decided. Clean, however; a respectable family hotel which probably rented many of its units by the month, some no doubt to elderly retired people. Evidently Kathy was accustomed to living modestly.
In answer to his query, the clerk pointed to the adjoining coffee shop. "You'll find her in there, eating breakfast. She said you might be calling, Mr. Barefoot."
In the coffee shop he found a good number of people having breakfast; he stopped short, wondering which was Kathy. The dark-haired girl with the stilted, frozen features, over in the far corner out of the way? He walked toward her. Her hair, he decided, was dyed. Without makeup she looked unnaturally pale; her skin had a stark quality, as if she had known a good deal of suffering, and not the sort that taught or informed one, made one into a "better" person. It had been pure pain, with no redemptive aspects, he decided as he studied her.
"Kathy?" he asked.
The girl turned her head. Her eyes, empty; her expression totally flattened. In a little voice she said, "Yes. Are you John Barefoot?" As he came up to the booth and seated himself opposite her she watched as if she imagined he would spring at her, hurl himself on her and – God forbid – sexually assault her. It's as if she's nothing more than a lone, small animal, he thought. Backed into a corner to face the entire world.
The color, or rather lack of it, could stem from the drug addiction, he decided. But that did not explain the flatness of her tone, and her utter lack of facial expression. And yet – she was pretty. She had delicate, regular features… animated, they would have been interesting. And perhaps they had been, once. Years ago.