Roditis said, “The statue looks as splendid as ever.”
“The Kozak? Yes. Yes, a masterpiece.” Santoliquido chuckled. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten you have Anton Kozak sitting back of your eyes. Has he led you to take up sonic sculpture yet?”
“He tries,” said Roditis. “But I know my limitations.”
“A wise man.”
“I lack the skills of Kozak. I would not defame him by plying his art. His mind cannot drive my muscles.”
“Of course not,” conceded Santoliquido.
“He is glad to see that piece again. He tells me it’s one of his favorites. A brilliant artist, Frank. I compliment myself many times for having chosen him. You know, a man like me, a man of dollars, I didn’t get much chance to learn how to appreciate beauty. Kozak has taught me. Now I know what the balance of line means; what the harmony of form is. I’m much richer.”
“That’s the purpose of the Scheffing process,” Santoliquido said sententiously. “To enhance, to enrich. Doubtless he’s greatly widened your horizons of perceptions. But tell me, John: how does Kozak find it, seeing the world through the eyes of a billionaire financier?”
“He enjoys it, I believe. He makes no complaints. His world is enriched too. He moved much too much in the company of esthetes; now he sees a different facet of existence. I’m sure that when he makes his next carnate trip he’ll try to express some of that new knowledge in art, if he’s lucky enough to be acquired by someone with the right skills for practicing sonic sculpture.”
“That’s far in the future,” said Santoliquido nervously. “You look quite healthy, John, and there’ll be no new carnate trips for you or your personae for a long time to come, I’m sure.”
“I hope so.”
“And Walsh? Old Elio? He’s thriving too?”
“Oh, yes,” Roditis said. “We’re kindred spirits. He built a network of power-transmission stations; I’ve built a network of a different sort of power. He finds his present place quite rewarding. And I regard him as indispensable.” Roditis smiled, and held the smile just slightly too long, intentionally. Then he said, “I’m sure you realize that I didn’t ask for this appointment so I could discuss my existing personae.”
“Of course.”
“You realize why I’m here?”
“Naturally.”
“Shall I name it or will you?”
“Paul Kaufmann,” Santoliquido said. “Yes?”
“Yes. The old man’s been dead since the turn of the year. It’s nearly May now. There’s no reason for keeping him in storage any longer, is there?”
“We’re nearing a decision, John.”
“I’ve been hearing that phrase for weeks. I’d like to know how long you plan to go on nearing that decision.”
“I’m approaching it rapidly,” said Santoliquido.
“And asymptotically?”
“John, you don’t appreciate the complexity of what’s involved. Here’s the persona of one of the world’s most powerful men, perhaps the most powerful of his age, a uniquely vigorous personality, a man of colossal wealth, of the highest family connections. It takes time to evaluate the applicants for his persona. The decision can have far-reaching consequences.”
“How many other applicants are there?” Roditis asked.
“Hundreds.”
“And how many of them do you seriously think are qualified to handle a persona of such force?”
“Several,” Santoliquido said.
Instantly Roditis knew that he was lying. But he did not dare force the situation beyond this point. Obviously Elena’s ministrations had clinched nothing yet. Santoliquido was still reluctant to surrender the Paul Kaufmann file.
Roditis said, “It’s not my intention to put pressure on you. I feel you owe it to the world to restore Paul Kaufmann to carnate existence, and I’m offering myself as the vehicle for that. As time passes, you know, his persona gets out of touch with the flow of events. We’ll forfeit his abilities to evaluate situations if we let the world become incomprehensible to him.”
“But do you think you’re an adequate vehicle, John?”
Surprised, Roditis answered, “Has anyone ever doubted that I am?”
“The Kaufmann persona is a powerful one.”
“I realize that. I’m prepared and capable. You’ve tested my capacity.”
“Yes. Even so, I remain uneasy. A man like Paul Kaufmann could so easily break through to dybbuk—”
“No one,” said Roditis stiffly, “is going to reach dybbuk at my expense. Not even Paul Kaufmann.”
“There are times,” Santoliquido murmured, “when I feel it would be best to leave that old man in storage forever.”
“That would be a crime against his persona! You have no right!”
“I didn’t say I would. But it’s a temptation. Otherwise we run the risk of loosing him on the world again. A buccaneer. A cannibal. A marauder.”
“He was merely a shrewd and aggressive businessman,” Roditis said. “Give him to me and he’ll be under control every minute of the day. I’ll harness him.”
“You’re very confident of yourself, John. Come with me.”
“Where?”
“To the main storage vault. I’ll give you a closer view of Kaufmann.”
Roditis had been in the storage vault before. But yet it never failed to strike pangs of awe in him as he moved through the low-roofed vestibule with its assortment of wary scanners and into the huge gloomy cavern of canned souls. They reached a sampling booth. Santoliquido requisitioned one of the storage caskets and cradled it firmly under one arm.
Looking about the colossal room, with its tier upon tier of racks and urns, Roditis said softly, “Do you know the eleventh book of the Odyssey? Odysseus goes to the Halls of Hades to seek advice of the soul of Teiresias.” His hand swept along the dully gleaming balcony. “Here we are. The Halls of Hades, the City of Perpetual Mist. We beach our boat and make our way along the banks of the River of Ocean. Odysseus draws his sword, digs a trench, pours libations to the dead. Honey and milk, wine, water. He sprinkles white barley. He cuts the throats of sheep. The dark blood pours into the trench, and now the souls of the dead come swarming up from below. He sees his unburied friend Elpenor. He is approached by his mother, but waves her away to speak with Teiresias. Then he meets others. The mother of Oedipus. The wife of Amphitryon. Ariadne. Poseidon. These are the Halls of Hades, Santoliquido. We can summon up departed souls.”
“You know your Homer well,” Santoliquido said.
“I am a Greek,” said Roditis calmly. “Are you surprised?”
“You don’t usually seem so—literary, John.”
“But this is Hades, isn’t it? Not a place of punishment, not Dante’s Inferno, simply a storage vault. As Homer tells it. Standing here looking into that darkness, Frank, don’t you feel it?”
“I’ve felt it many times. Though not in. Homer’s terms, exactly. We Romans have a poet of Hades too. Remember? ‘The descent into Hell is easy. Night and day he open the gates of death’s dark kingdom.’”
“Virgil?”
“Yes. Aeneas also sees the dead. He plucks a golden bough and inquires after his comrades. A deep, dark cave, with fumes coming up from its throat; he follows a path, he takes the ferry across the river, he encounters the shade of his steersman Palinurus. He finds Dido, weeping. And his father, Anchises. I’ve often thought of it, John.”
“Open Hades for me, then. Show me Paul Kaufmann.”
“Come inside the booth.”
They entered. Roditis was in a dark mood now; he stared at the coppery casket containing the persona of Paul Kaufmann, and a terrible desire came over him to seize it from plump Santoliquido and run off. But that was foolishness. He waited while Santoliquido set up the equipment.
“What are you going to do?” Roditis asked finally.
“Allow you to have a thirty-second peek at Paul Kaufmann. It’s a standard scanning. Once it begins, I’ll let it continue no
matter how you react, and afterward we’ll know how eager you really are to have him with you forever.”
“You don’t frighten me.”
“I don’t mean to. But I want you to realize that there are risks.”
“Go ahead,” said Roditis.
He accepted the electrodes. Through slitted eyes he observed the final preparations.
“Now,” Santoliquido said.
Roditis jerked and quivered in the first impact of union with the persona of Paul Kaufmann. It was as if he had plunged into a boiling, sulfurous lake, dropping straight to the bottom, engulfed in it, fighting for breath. But he did not drown. Within moments he was rising, finding his level, learning the art of swimming in this medium.
Incredible!
Such strength, such vitality, such intensity that old man had had! Roditis examined strands of memory; not tangled knotted ones, but firm hawsers of recollection, stretching across the void of years. He acknowledged a formidable mind when he met one. Had old Kaufmann ever forgotten anything? Had he ever blundered? Roditis stared in delight at serried rows of archives, at a comprehensive and flawlessly arranged memory bank. Kaufmann must not have been human, but some sort of computer. But no, he was human enough: here were lust, rage, avarice, triumph, all the passions, throbbing chords of emotion slashing in bright primary hues across the purpled backdrop of that powerful mind. To and fro Roditis moved, examining everything, passing freely down the frozen canyons of that awesome persona, admiring stalactites and stalagmites of desire, glittering crystals of achievement, the ropy fabric of maturity. Kaufmann at seventy had been a phenomenon, but not a sudden one; roving backward, Roditis saw the unity of the man, saw the same unbending purpose at forty, at twenty, even at ten. How could there be a man like this, all fire and ice at once? Having entered that realm of wonders, Roditis could not leave. He heard the sound of distant music, resonant, somber, a chromatic symphony of great power. He saw towering Gothic arches receding to infinity. In his nostrils was the scent of grandeur. Roditis planted his feet firmly on a broad plain beneath a black sky. He threw his head back and roared joyous laughter at the heavens.
The images dissolved. He sat in a small room, electrodes on his forehead, Santoliquido studying him with interest.
“Give him to me,” Roditis said at once.
“The risks—”
“There are no risks. I can handle him. He belongs to me! He must be mine!”
“You’re shaking all over,” Santoliquido pointed out.
Roditis discovered that it was so. He stared at his trembling fingers, his quaking knees. The harder he tried to regain muscular control, the more violent the tremors became. He said, “It’s nothing but a reaction to tension. I don’t pretend it was like nothing, scanning that mind. But I am well. I am strong. I have the right to receive that persona.”
“How do your own personae feel about it?”
Roditis realized that he had lost contact with Kozak and Walsh. He had to grope uncertainly in the recesses of his own mind a moment before he located them. Walsh seemed dazed; Kozak, sullen, withdrawn, wounded. As he probed them they stirred gradually, as if thawing after a freezing bath. They had not enjoyed their brief exposure to Paul Kaufmann, it appeared. Roditis tried to cheer them. They would get used to their new neighbor in his mind.
He said to Santoliquido, “Well, they’re a little shaken up, I suppose. He was a rough dose for them. But it’ll wear off.”
“I’m worried, John.”
“About them?”
“About you. If you took on Kaufmann, what the long-term effects might be. You’re an important man nowadays, with plenty of responsibility. If you should cave in under the weight of this new persona you want—”
“I won’t.”
“If,” said Santoliquido. “There could be serious economic consequences.”
“How many different ways do I have to put it? I’m capable of bearing up. Do you know, Frank, I feel such exultation now, having seen that man’s mind—such a sense of widening, after only half a minute. You’ve got to give him to me!”
Santoliquido’s tongue appeared and made a slow circuit of his lips. After a moment’s silence he rose and beckoned to Roditis. “Let’s take a walk,” he suggested. “If you’ve recovered from those tremors by now.”
Roditis stood up with exaggerated agility. Santoliquido put the Kaufmann persona back in its casket and stuffed it in a hopper slot; it vanished from sight, to Roditis’ sharp regret. They left the sampling booth. Santoliquido led him out on the catwalk that rimmed the circumference of the storage vault.
“We’re going to take a tour of Hades,” he said. “I want to show you some possible alternate personae.”
“I don’t—”
“At least consider them,” said Santoliquido. He tapped out digits on a data terminal. One of the sealed storage banks opened and he pulled out an urn, examined it, frowned, replaced it, removed the adjoining one. He held it up. “Elliot Sakyamuni,” he said. “You know him? An outstanding guru, one of the architects of the new religion, a truly powerful man. He died in March. We’ve had him here, waiting for the right recipient. John, if you were to take him on, you’d have the added spiritual depth, the extra dimension of wisdom, that only a fully trained guru of the highest degree could offer. You’re the first person I’ve suggested giving him to. Consider it.”
“In addition to Kaufmann?”
“In place of Kaufmann,” said Santoliquido. “I think the guru would be better for you.”
“No,” said Roditis. “I can get along without extra spiritual depth. I’ve got Noyes to recite mantras for me. Put Sakyamuni back.”
Santoliquido sighed and put the urn away. They climbed to another catwalk. Indicating a frosted glass panel, Santoliquido said, “The world-famous mathematician Horst Schaffhausen. He has waited nearly two years now to return to carnate form. A mind like yours would be well-suited—”
“Stop it, Frank.”
“You oughtn’t turn away from Schaffhausen that lightly. His unique powers would be of great value to you in—”
“I’ll take him three years from now,” said Roditis. “Give me a chance to digest Kaufmann first.”
Beads of sweat burst out on Santoliquido’s forehead. Hoarsely he said, “Won’t you get off that obsession, John? Kaufmann’s a burden for anyone. He’ll weigh you down.”
“I want him.”
“You and he are too much alike. In the Scheffing process we should seek for complements, not supplements. There’ll be war between you and Kaufmann over every business decision. He’ll want to do it his way, you’ll want to do it yours—”
“And I’ll win,” said Roditis. “I’m alive, he’ll just be carnate. I’ll use his judgment, but I won’t let him call the tunes for me.”
“If he goes dybbuk—”
“Impossible.”
Santoliquido said, “I offer you your free choice of any persona we have here, but that one.”
“Are you trying to torture me?”
In a low voice Santoliquido said, “It might even be possible to arrange something slightly irregular. Would a transsexual transplant interest you? What if I made available to you the persona of Katerina Andrabovna, say. An extraordinary combination of sensuality and intellect, a truly blazing woman—”
“Is it that bad?” Roditis asked. “Are you in such a mess, Frank, that you have to consider breaking the law? What hold do they have on you, anyway?”
“Who?”
“The Kaufmanns!”
“No one has any hold on me whatever,” said Santoliquido with obvious strain. Roditis was amazed at the anguish visible on the plump face. “I make my own decisions.”
“Mark Kaufmann doesn’t want me to get his uncle’s persona. He’s fixed things so I won’t. You’re willing to offer me the whole vault, if I please, so long as I keep away from old Paul. You’ve even offered me an abomination. So you must be really trapped. You’d like to make me happy, but you’re afraid to
offend Mark, and that leaves you ripping in half.” Roditis put his hand on Santoliquido’s shoulder. “I know what it must be like for you,” he said more gently. “But all I ask is that you do your duty. I’m the logical recipient of Paul Kaufmann. Mark would get reconciled to the idea after a while, once he finds out I’m not a monster.”
“We can’t talk about such things out here.”
“In your office, then.”
But even amid the Babylonian splendor of his office Santoliquido was ill at ease. He took several drinks in quick succession, paced the floor, stood for a long moment before the Kozak sonic sculpture. Finally he said, “I need more time, John.”
“You’re just stalling.”
“Maybe so. But I’m not ready to move. You know, I’ll have to live with my decision forever. Give me a few more weeks. By May 15 I’ll announce the disposal of the Kaufmann persona, all right?”
“I have no way of holding you to that,” Roditis noted.
“I pledge my word.”
Roditis let his eyes linger on Santoliquido’s. He knew that such a pledge meant a great deal to a man like Santoliquido, who had centuries of ancestors peering down at him all the time. A Roditis, a condottiere, might break a solemnly given word when it suited his needs; but not a Santoliquido. Or so Roditis tried to persuade himself.
“Very well,” he said. “Weigh your decision carefully, Frank. Don’t let Mark pressure you into doing something shortsighted.”
Outside the building, Roditis gave way to an access of rage. He sat in his hopter a long while, burning with fury, while angry spasms of heat ripped through him. So much for Elena’s help! So much for all Noyes’ scheming! The situation was right where it had been since Paul Kaufmann’s death…a stalemate. Santoliquido still equivocated. The administrator was all façade; beneath, he quivered with fright at the possibility of offending someone mighty, and so took no action.
When ten minutes had passed, and Roditis felt somewhat calmer, he ordered the hopter to lift and head out over the ocean, due east. The machine throbbed into the air.