Collected Short Fiction, page 403
“No,” Lois said. “You don’t.”
“I guess I really haven’t made up my mind where I stand,” he said. “There are too many tangential things I don’t know about yet.”
“Like what?”
Harker shook his head. “I’m trying not to think about them. This is my day off, remember?”
ON MONDAY he polished off his routine work early, by halfpast-ten, and stepped out of his office. He walked down the beige corridor to the door inscribed WILLIAM F. KELLY and knocked sharply.
“Bill? Me, Jim.”
“Come on in, boy.”
Kelly was sitting back of an impeccably clear mahogany desk, looking well-barbered, well-manicured, well-fed. He was the senior partner of the law firm that now called itself Kelly, Harker, Portobello, and Klein. In his late fifties, ruddy-faced, quickwitted, Kelly was by religion a loyal Catholic and by politics a determined maverick.
He said, “How’s the ex-Governor this morning?”
Harker grinned. Kelly was the one man who could not offend him with those words. “A washed-up has-been, as usual. Bill, I’ve got a big offer to do some work for a Jersey outfit. I think it’s going to tie me up for the next few months. I thought I’d let you know.”
Kelly blinked, then grinned, showing even white teeth. “Full-time?”
“Pretty near.”
“How about your pending cases?”
Harker said, “I’m keeping the Bryant case. Fuller and Heidell will have to be handed over to someone else, I’m afraid.”
“I guess you know what you’re doing, Jim. Who’s the big client?”
“Hush-hush. Nice pay, though.”
“Can’t even tell old Bill, eh? Well, I know better than to pry. But how come you’re telling me all this, anyway? I don’t give a damn what work you take on, Jim. You’re a free agent here.”
Calmly Harker said, “I thought I’d let you know because the account’s a controversial one. I want you to realize that I’m doing it on my own hook and not as a member of K.H.P. & K. When and if the boomerang comes around and hits me in the face, I don’t want you and Mike and Phil to get black eyes too.”
Dead seriousness replaced the amiable grin on Kelly’s pink face. “Have I ever backed off a hot item, Jim?”
“You might back off this one.”
Kelly leaned forward and turned on all his considerable personal charm. “Look here, son, I’m a decade older than you are and a damned sight cagier. Maybe you better talk this thing out with me. If you’re free for lunch—”
“I’m not,” Harker said doggedly. “Bill, let’s drop the whole thing. I know what I’m getting into and I didn’t come here for advice. Okay?”
Kelly began to chuckle. “You said the same damn thing the night you were elected Governor. Remember, when you started telling me about how you were going to turn the whole State machine upside-down? I warned you, and I warn you again, but you don’t learn. The only thing that got turned upside-down was you.”
“So I’m a fool. But at least I’m a dedicated fool.”
“That’s the worst kind,” Kelly drawled amiably. As Harker started to leave the older man’s office Kelly added, “Good luck, anyway, on whatever you’re getting your fool feet tangled up in.”
“Thanks, Bill. Sorry I have to be so tight-mouthed.”
On his way back to his office he passed the reception-desk; Joan looked up at him and said, “Oh, Mr. Harker—call just came in for you. Mr. Jonathan Bryant’s on the phone. He’s waiting.”
“Switch it into my office,” Harker told her. His brows contracted. Jonathan? What does that particular vulture want?
Harker cut round the desks in the outer office and let himself into his sanctum. He activated the phone. There was the usual three-second circuit-lag, and then the gray haze of electronic “noise” gave way to the fishbelly face of Jonathan Bryant.
“Hello, Harker,” he said abruptly. “Just thought I’d call you up to let you know that I’ve obtained a stay of the hearing on my father’s will. It’s being pushed up from the 16th to the 23rd.”
Harker scowled. “I don’t have any official notice of that fact yet.”
“It’s on its way via court messenger. Just thought I’d let you know about it.”
“Go ahead,” Harker said. “Gloat all you want, if it gives you pleasure. Your father’s will is unbreakable, and you know it damn well. All this stalling—”
“Legal delay,” Jonathan corrected.
“All this stalling is just a waste of everybody’s time. Sure, I know you’re hoping the old man will die before the hearing, but I assure you that can’t influence the outcome. If you’re that anxious to collect, stop obtaining postponements and just pull the old man’s feeding-plugs out. It’ll save a lot of heartache for all of us, him included.”
“Harker, you lousy politico, you should have been debarred twenty years ago.”
“The word you want to use is disbarred,” Harker said coldly. “Suppose you get off my line and stop bothering me now? I’d call you a filthy jackal except that I’m too busy for slander suits just now, even suits that I’d win.”
Angrily he snapped off contact and the screen blanked. Nuisance, he thought, referring both to Jonathan and to the postponement of the hearing. He didn’t seriously believe that the Bryant heirs were going to upset the old man’s will, and the quicker he got the case off his personal docket the faster he would be free for full-time work on the Beller Labs account.
HE TOOK a doodlepad from his desk and scrawled three names on it:
Winstead.
Thurman.
Msg nr. Carteret.
Leo Winstead was the man who had succeeded him in the Governor’s mansion in Albany—a steady, reliable National Liberal party-line man, flexible and open in his views but loyal to the good old machine. He would be one of the first men Harker would have to see; Winstead would give him the probable Nat-Lib party line on the resurrection gimmick, and he could be trusted to keep things to himself until given the official release.
Clyde Thurman was New York’s senior Senator, a formidable old ogre of a man with incalculable influence in Washington. Harker had been a Thurman protege, fifteen years ago; publicly old Clyde had soured on Harker since his futile attempt at political independence, but Harker had no idea where the old man stood privately. If he could win Thurman over to his side, Senate approval of revivification legislation was a good bet. The Nat-Libs controlled 53 seats in the 123rd Congress; the American-Conservatives held only 45, with the other two seats held down by self-proclaimed Independents. In the House, it was even better: 297 to 223, with 20 Independents of variable predictability.
Harker’s third key man was Monseigneur Carteret. The Father was a highly-respected member of New York’s Catholic hierarchy, shrewd and liberal in his beliefs, and already (at the age of 38) considered a likely candidate for an Archepiscopacy and beyond that the red hat.
Harker had met Father Carteret through Kelly. While he was no Catholic himself, nor currently a member of any other organized group, Harker had struck up a close friendship with the priest. He could rely on Carteret to give him an accurate and confidential appraisal of the possible Church reaction to announcement of a successful technique for resuscitating the dead.
Harker ripped the sheet off the doodlepad and pocketed it. He hung poised over his desk, deep in thought, his active mind already picturing the interviews he might be having with these people.
After a moment he reached for his phone and punched out the coordinates of Father Carteret’s private number. Might as well begin with him, Harker thought.
A pleasantly monkish face appeared on the screen after several rings. “Yes? May I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to Father Carteret, please. My name is James Harker.”
“Pardon, Mr. Harker. Father Carteret is in conference with Bishop O’Loughlin. Would you care to have him call you when he’s free?”
“When will that be?”
“A half hour, I’d say. Is your matter urgent?”
“Reasonably. Tell the Monseigneur I’d like to make an appointment to see him some time today or tomorrow, and ask him to call me at my office.”
“Does he have your number?”
“I think so. But you’d better take it anyway, just to make sure. MON-4-38162.”
He blanked the screen, waited a moment, and dialed the number Raymond had given him to use when calling the laboratory. The pale, goggle-eyed face of David Klaus appeared on the screen.
“I’d like to talk to Raymond.”
“Dr. Raymond’s busy in the hormone lab,” Klaus said sharply. “Try again in an hour or so.” Harker frowned impatiently; he had taken an immediate dislike to this jittery little enzyme researcher. He said, “You tell Raymond—”
“Just a minute,” a new voice said. There was confusion on the screen for an instant; then Klaus’ face disappeared and the precise, tranquil features of Martin Raymond took their place.
“I thought you were busy in the hormone lab,” Harker said. “Klaus told me so.”
Raymond laughed without much humor behind it. “Klaus is frequently inaccurate, Mr. Harker. What’s on your mind?”
“Thought I’d let you know that I’m getting down to immediate operation. I’m lining up interview’s with key people for today and tomorrow as a preliminary investigation of your legal situation.”
“Good. By the way—Mitchison’s prepared some publicity handouts on the process. He wants you to okay them before we send them to the papers.” Harker repressed a strangled cough. “Okay them? Listen, Mart, that’s exactly why I called. My first official instruction is that the present wrap of ultra-security is to continue unabated until I’m ready to lift it. Tell that to Mitchison and tell him in spades.”
Raymond smiled evenly. “Of course—Jim. All secrecy wraps on until you give the word. I’ll let Mitchison know.”
“Good. I’ll be out at the lab sometime between here and Wednesday to find out some further information. I’ll keep in touch whenever I can.”
“Right.”
Harker broke contact and stared puzzledly at the tips of his fingers for a moment. His uneasiness widened. His original suspicion that behind the smooth facade of the Beller Research Laboratories lay possible dissension was heightened by Klaus’ peculiar behavior on the phone—and the idea of Mitchison doing anything as premature as sending out press handouts now, before the ground had been surveyed and the ice broken, gave him the cold running shudders.
It was going to be enough of a job putting this thing across as it was—without tripping over the outstretched toes of his employers.
CHAPTER V
MONSEIGNEUR CARTERET’S private office reminded Harker of Mart Raymond’s. Like Raymond’s, it was small, and like Raymond’s it was ringed with jammed bookshelves. The furniture was unostentatious, old and well-worn. As a concession to the 21st century Carteret had installed a video pickup and a telescreen attachment to go with his phone. A small crucifix hung on the one wall not encumbered with books.
Carteret leaned forward and peered curiously at Harker. The priest, Harker knew, suffered from presbyopia. He was a lean man with the sharp facial contours of an ascetic: upthrust cheekbones, lowering brows, grizzled close-cropped hair turning gray. His lips were fleshless, pale.
Harker said, “I have to apologize for insisting on such a prompt audience, Father.”
Carteret frowned reprovingly. “You told me yesterday it was an urgent matter. To me urgency means—well, urgency. My column for the Intelligencer can wait a few hours, I guess.”
His voice was dramatically resonant. He flashed his famous smile.
Harker said, “Fair enough. I’m here seeking an ecclesiastical opinion.”
“I’ll do my best. You understand that any real opinion on a serious matter would have to come from the Bishop, not from me—and ultimately from Rome.”
“I know that. I wouldn’t want this to get to Rome just yet. I want a private, off-the-record statement from you.”
“I’ll try. Go ahead.”
Harker took a deep breath. “Father, what’s the official Church position on resurrection of the dead? Actual physical resurrection here and now, I mean, not the Last Trump.”
Carteret’s eyes twinkled. “Officially? Well, I’ve never heard Jesus being condemned for raising Lazarus. And on the third day after the crucifixion Jesus Himself was raised, if that’s what you mean. I don’t see—”
“Let me make myself clear,” Harker said. “The resurrections of Jesus and of Lazarus both fall into the miracle category. Suppose—suppose a mortal being, a doctor, could take a man who had been dead eight or nine hours, or even a day, and bring him back to life.”
Carteret looked momentarily troubled. “You speak hypothetically, of course.” When Harker did not answer he went on, “Our doctrine holds that death occurs at the moment of complete and definitive separation of body and soul. Presumably the process you discuss makes no provision for restoring the soul.”
Harker shrugged. “I’m not capable to judge that. Neither, I’d say, are the men who have developed this—ah—hypothetical process.”
“In that case,” Carteret said, “the official Church position would be that any human beings revived by this method would be without souls, and therefore no longer human. The whole procedure would be considered profoundly irreligious.”
“Blasphemous and sacrilegious as well?”
“No doubt.”
Harker was silent for a moment. He said at length, “How about artificial respiration, heart massage, adrenalin injections?
For decades seemingly dead people have been brought back to life with these techniques. Are they all without souls too?” Carteret seemed to squirm. His strong fingers toyed with a cruciform paperweight on his desk. “I recall a statement of Pius XII, eighty or ninety years ago, about that. The Pope admitted that it was impossible to tell precisely when the soul had left the body—and that so long as the vital functions maintained themselves, it could be held that the person in question was not dead.”
“In other words, if resuscitation techniques could be applied successfully, the patient is considered never to have been, dead?” Carteret nodded slowly.
“But if the patient had been pronounced dead by science and left in that state for half a day or more, and then reanimated by a hypothetical new technique—?”
“In that case there has been a definite discontinuity of the life-process,” Carteret said. “I may be wrong, but I can’t see how the Vatican could give such a technique its approval.”
“Ever?”
Carteret smiled. “Jim, it’s a verity that the Church is founded on a Rock, but that doesn’t mean our heads are made of stone. No organization lasts two thousand years without being susceptible to change. If in the course of time we’re shown that a reanimation technique restores both body and soul, no doubt we’ll give it approval. At present, though, I can foresee only one outcome.” Harker knotted his fingers together tensely. The priest’s response had not been a surprise to him, but he had hoped for some wild loophole. If any loophole existed, Carteret would have found it.
Quietly he said, “All right, Father. I’ll put my cards on the table now. Such a process has been invented. I’ve seen it work.
I’ve been retained as legal adviser for the group that developed it, and I’m shopping around for religious and secular opinions before I let them spring the news on the public.”
“You want my secular opinion, Jim, now that you’ve had the religious one?”
“Of course.”
“Drop it. Get out of this thing as fast as you can. You’re asking for trouble.”
“I know that. But I can only see this process as a force for good—for minimizing tragedy in everyday life.”
“Naturally. And I could offer you six arguments showing how it’ll increase suffering. Is it a complex technique requiring skilled operators?”
“Yes, but—”
“In that case it won’t be available to everybody right away. Are you going to decide who lives and who stays dead? Suppose you’re faced with the choice between a good and virtuous nobody or an evil but talented creative artist.”
“I know. The Doctor’s Dilemma. I don’t have any slick answers to that, Father. But I still don’t think it’s any reason to suppress this thing.”
“Maybe not. On a purely secular level, though, I tell you it’s sheer dynamite. Not to mention the opposition you’re bound to get from religious groups. Jim, listen to me: you had a wonderful career once. You wrecked it. But now you’re continuing your headstrong ways right to the point of self-destruction.”
“Which is frowned upon by your Church,” Harker snapped, irritated. “But—”
“I’m not talking about my Church!” Carteret thundered. “I’m talking about you, your family, the rest of your life. You’re getting into very deep waters.”
“I’ll shoulder the responsibility myself.”
“I wish you could,” the priest murmured. “I wish any of us could. But we can’t ever do that, of course.”
He shrugged. “Go in peace, Jim. Any time you want to talk to me, just pick up the phone and call. I guarantee no proselytizing.”
“Of course everything we’ve just said is confidential, you understand.”
Carteret nodded. He lifted his arms, shaking the sleeves of his cassock back. “Observe. No concealed tape-recorders under my garments. No telespies in the wall.”
Chuckling, Harker opened the door and stood at the threshold a moment. “Thanks for talking to me, Father. Even if I can’t agree with you.”
“I’m used to disagreement,” Carteret said. “If everyone who came in here agreed with everything I said, I think I’d lose my faith. So long, Jim.”
“Good-bye, Father.”
