THE DEFENSELESS DEAD

The dead lay side by side beneath the glass. Long ago, in a roomier world, these older ones had been entombed each in his own double-walled casket. Now they lay shoulder to shoulder, more or less in chronological order, looking up, their features clear through thirty centimetres of liquid nitrogen sandwiched between two thick sheets of glass.

Elsewhere in the building some sleepers wore clothing, formal costumery of a dozen periods. In two long tanks on another floor the sleepers had been prettied up with low-temperature cosmetics, and sometimes with a kind of flesh-colored putty to fill and cover major wounds. A weird practice. It hadn’t lasted beyond the middle of the last century. After all, these sleepers planned to return to life someday. The damage should show at a glance.

With these, it did.

They were all from the tail end of the twentieth century. They looked like hell. Some were clearly beyond saving, accident cases whose wills had consigned them to the freezer banks regardless. Each sleeper was marked by a plaque describing everything that was wrong with his mind and body, in script so fine and so archaic as to be almost unreadable.

Battered or torn or wasted by disease, they all wore the same look of patient resignation. Their hair was disintegrating, very slowly. It had fallen in a thick gray crescent about each head.

“People used to call them corpsicles, frozen dead. Or Homo sapiens. You can imagine what would happen if you dropped one.” Mr. Restarick did not smile. These

people were in his charge, and he took his task seriously. His eyes seemed to look through rather than at me, and his clothes were ten to fifty years out of style. He seemed to be gradually losing himself here in the past. He said, “We’ve over six thousand of them here. Do you think we’ll ever bring them back to life?” I was an ARM, I might know.

“Do you?”

“Sometimes I wonder.” He dropped his gaze. “Not Harrison Cohn. Look at him, torn open like that. And her, with half her face shot off; she’d be a vegetable if you brought her back. The later ones don’t look this bad. Up until 1989 the doctors couldn’t freeze anyone who wasn’t clinically dead.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Why not?”

“They’d have been up for murder. When what they were doing was saving lives.” He shrugged angrily. “Sometimes they’d stop a patient’s heart and then restart it, to satisfy the legalities.”

Sure, that made a lot of sense. I didn’t dare laugh out loud. I pointed. “How about him?”

He was a rangy man of about forty-five, healthy-looking, with no visible marks of death, violent or otherwise. The long lean face still wore a look of command, though the deep-set eyes were almost closed. His lips were slightly parted, showing teeth straightened by braces in the ancient fashion.

Mr. Restarick glanced at the plaque. “Leviticus Hale, 1991. Oh, yes. Hale was a paranoid. He must have been the first they ever froze for that. They guessed right, too. If we brought him back now we could cure him.”

“It’s been done.”

“Sure. We only lose one out of three. He’d probably take the chance himself. But then, he’s crazy.” I looked around at rows of long double-walled liquid nitrogen tanks. The place was huge and full of echoes, and this was only the top floor. The Vault of Eternity was ten stories deep in earthquake-free bedrock. “Six thousand, you said. But the Vault was built for ten thousand, wasn’t it?”

He nodded. “We’re a third empty.”

“Get many customers these days?”

He laughed at me. “You’re joking. Nobody has- himself frozen these days. He might wake up a piece at a time!”

“That’s what I wondered.”

“Ten years ago we were thinking of digging new vaults. All those crazy kids, perfectly healthy, getting themselves frozen so they could wake up in a brave new world. I had to watch while the ambulances came and carted them away for spare parts! We’re a good third empty now since the Freezer Law passed!”

That business with the kids had been odd, all right. A fad or a religion or a madness, except that it had gone on for. much too long.

The Freezeout Kids. Most of them were textbook cases of anomie, kids in their late teens who felt trapped in an imperfect world. History taught them (those that listened) that earlier times had been much worse. Perhaps they thought that the world was moving toward perfection.

Some had gambled. Not many in any given year; but it had been going on ever since the first experimental freezer vault revivals, a generation before I was born. It was better than suicide. They were young, they were healthy, they stood a better chance of revival than any of the frozen, damaged dead. They were poorly adapted to their society. Why not risk it?

Two years ago they had been answered. The General Assembly and the world vote had passed the Freezer Bill into law.

There were those in frozen sleep who had not had the foresight to set up a trust fund, or who had selected the wrong trustee or invested in the wrong stocks. If medicine or a miracle had revived them now, they would have been on the dole, with no money and no trace of useful education and, in about half the cases, no evident ability to survive in any society.

Were they in frozen sleep or frozen death? In law there had always been that point of indecision. The Freezer Law cleared it up to some extent. It declared any person in frozen sleep, who could not support himself should society choose to reawaken him, to be dead inlaw.

And a third of the world’s frozen dead, twelve

hundred thousand of them, had gone into the organ banks.

“You were in charge then?”

The old man nodded. “I’ve been on the day shift at the Vault for almost forty years. I watched the ambulances fly away with three thousand of my people. I think of them as my people,” he said a bit defensively.

“The law can’t seem to decide if they’re alive or dead. Think of them any way you like.”

“People who trusted me. What did those Freezeout Kids do that was worth killing them for?”

I thought: they wanted to sleep it out while others broke their backs turning the world into Paradise. But it’s no capital crime.

“They had nobody to defend them. Nobody but me.” He trailed off. After a bit, and with visible effort, he pulled himself back to the present. “Well, never mind. What can I do for the United Nations police, Mr. Hamilton?”

“Oh, I’m not here as an ARM agent. I’m just here to, to—” Hell, I didn’t know myself. It was a news broadcast that had jarred me into coming here. I said, “They’re planning to introduce another Freezer Bill.”

“What?”

“A second Freezer Bill. Naming a different group. The communal organ banks must be empty again,” I said bitterly.

Mr. Restarick started to shake. “Oh, no. No. They can’t do that again. They, they can’t.”

I gripped his arm, to reassure him or to hold him up. He looked about to faint. “Maybe they can’t. The first Freezer Law was supposed to stop organlegging, but it didn’t. Maybe the citizens will vote this one down.”

I left as soon as I could.

The second Freezer Bill made slow, steady progress, without much opposition. I caught some of it in the boob cube. A perturbingly large number of citizens were petitioning the Security Council for confiscation of what they described as “The frozen corpses of a large number of people who were insane when they died. Parts of these corpses could possibly be recovered for badly needed organ replacements . .”

They never mentioned that said corpses might someday be recovered whole and living. They often mentioned that said corpses could not be safely recovered now; and they could prove it with experts; and they had a thousand experts waiting their turns to testify.

They never mentioned biochemical cures for insanity. They spoke of the lack of a world-wide need for mental patients and for insanity-carrying genes.

They hammered constantly on the need for organ transplant material.

I just about gave up watching news broadcasts. I was an ARM, a member of the United Nations police force, and I wasn’t supposed to get involved in politics. It was none of my business.

It didn’t become my business until I ran across a familiar name, eleven months later.

Taffy was people watching. That demure look didn’t fool me. A secretive glee looked out of her soft brown eyes, and they shifted left every time she raised her dessert spoon..

I didn’t try to follow her eyes for fear of blowing her cover. Come, I will conceal nothing from you: I don’t care who’s eating at the next table in a public restaurant. Instead I lit a cigarette, shifted it to my imaginary hand (the weight tugging gently at my mind) and settled back to enjoy my surroundings.

High Cliffs is an enormous pyramidal city-in-a-building in northern California. Midgard is on the first shopping level, way back near the service core. There’s no view, but the restaurant makes up for it with a spectacular set of environment walls.

From inside, Midgard seems to be halfway up the trunk of an enormous tree, big enough to stretch from Hell to Heaven. Perpetual war is waged in the vast distances, on various limbs of the tree, between warriors of oddly distorted size and shape. World-sized beasts show occasionally: a wolf attacks the moon, a sleeping serpent coils round the restaurant itself, the eye of a curious brown squirrel suddenly blocks one row of windows . .

“Isn’t that Holden Chambers?”

“Who?” The name sounded vaguely familiar.

“Four tables over, sitting alone.”

I looked. He was tall and skinny, and much younger than most of Midgard’s clientele. Long blond hair, weak chin—he was really the type who ought to grow a beard. I was sure I’d never seen him before.

Taffy frowned. “I wonder why he’s eating alone. Do you suppose someone broke a date?”

The name clicked. “Holden Chambers. Kidnapping case. Someone kidnapped him and his sister, years ago. One of Bera’s cases.”

Taffy put down her dessert spoon and looked at me curiously. “I didn’t know the ARM took kidnapping cases.”

“We don’t. Kidnapping would be a regional problem. Bera thought—” I stopped, because Chambers looked around suddenly, right at me. He seemed surprised and annoyed.

I. hadn’t realized how rudely I was staring. I looked away, embarrassed. “Bera thought an organlegging gang might be involved. Some of the gangs turned to kidnapping about that time, after the Freezer Law slid their markets out from under them. Is Chambers still looking at me?” I felt his eyes on the back of my neck.

“Yah.”

“I wonder why.”

“Do you indeed.” Taffy knew, the way she was grinning. She gave me another two seconds of suspense, then said, “You’re doing the cigarette trick.”

“Oh. Right.” I transferred the cigarette to a hand of flesh and blood. It’s easy to forget how startling that can be: a cigarette or a pencil or a jigger of bourbon floating in mid-air. I’ve used it myself for shock effect.

Taffy said, “He’s been in the boob cube a lot lately. He’s the number eight corpsicle heir, worldwide. Didn’t you know?”

“Corpsicle heir?”

“You know what corpsicle means? When the freezer vaults first opened—”

“I know. I didn’t know they’d started using the word again.”

“Well, never mind that. The point is that if the second Freezer Bill passes, about three hundred thousand corpsicles will be declared formally dead. Some of those

frozen dead men have money. The money will go to their next of kin.”

“Oh. And Chambers has an ancestor in a vault somewhere, does he?”

“Somewhere in Michigan. He’s got an odd, Biblical name.”

“Not Leviticus Hale?”

She stared. “Now, just how the bleep did you know that?”

“Just a stab in the dark.” I didn’t know what had made me say it. Leviticus Hale, dead, had a memorable face and a memorable name.

Strange, though, that I’d never thought of money as a motive for the second Freezer Bill. The first Freezer Law had applied only to the destitute, the Freezeout Kids.

Here are people who could not possibly adjust to any time in which they might be revived. They couldn’t even adjust to their own times. Most of them weren’t even sick, they didn’t have that much excuse for foisting themselves on a nebulous future. Often they paid each other’s way into the Freezer Vaults. If revived they would be paupers, unemployable, uneducated by any possible present or future standards; permanent malcontents.

Young, healthy, useless to themselves and society. And the organ banks are always empty.

The arguments for the second Freezer Bill were not much different The corpsicles named in group two had money, but they were insane. Today there were chemical cures for most forms of insanity. But the memory of having been insane, the habitual thought patterns formed by paranoia or schizophrenia, these would remain, these would require psychotherapy. And how to cure them, in men and women whose patterns of experience were up to a hundred and forty years out of date to start with?

And the organ banks are always empty… Sure, I could see it. The citizens wanted to live forever. One day they’d work their way down to me, Gil Hamilton.

“You can’t win,” I said.

Taffy said, “How so?”

“If you’re destitute they won’t revive you because you

can’t support yourself. If you’re rich your heirs want the money. It’s hard to defend yourself when you’re dead.”

“Everyone who loved them is dead too.” She looked too seriously into her coffee cup. “I didn’t really pay much attention when they passed the Freezer Law. At the hospital we don’t even know where the spare parts come from: criminals, corpsicles, captured organleggers’ stocks, it all looks the same. Lately I find myself wondering.”

Taffy had once finished a lung transplant with hands and sterile steel, after the hospital machines had quit at an embarrassing moment. A squeamish woman couldn’t have done that. But the transplants themselves had started to bother her lately. Since she met me. A surgeon and an organ legger-hunting ARM, we made a strange pairing.

When I looked again, Holden Chambers was gone. We split the tab, paid and left.

The first shopping level had an odd outdoor-indoor feel to it. We came out into a broad walk lined with shops and trees and theatres and sidewalk cafes, under a flat concrete sky forty feet up and glowing with light. Far away, an undulating black horizon showed in a narrow band between concrete sky and firmament.

The crowds had gone, but in some of the sidewalk cafes a few citizens still watched the world go by. We walked toward the black band of horizon, holding hands, taking our time. There was no way to hurry Taffy when she was passing shop windows. All I could do was stop when she did, wearing or not wearing an indulgent smile. Jewellery, clothing, all glowing behind plate glass— She tugged my arm, turning sharply to look into a

furniture store. I don’t know what it was she saw. I saw a dazzling pulse of green light on the glass, and a puff of green flame spurting from a coffee table.

Very strange. Surrealistic, I thought. Then the impressions sorted out, and I pushed Taffy hard in the small of the back and flung myself rolling in the opposite direction. Green light flashed briefly, very near. I stopped rolling. There was a weapon in my sporran the size of a double barreled Derringer, two compressed air

cartridges firing clusters of anaesthetic crystal slivers.

A few puzzled citizens had stopped to watch what I was doing.

I ripped my sporran apart with both hands. Everything spilled out, rolling coins and credit cards and ARM ident and cigarettes and—I snatched up the ARM weapon: The window reflection had been a break. Usually you can’t tell where the pulse from a hunting laser might have come from.

Green light flashed near my elbow. The pavement

-cracked loudly and peppered me with particles. I fought an urge to fling myself backward. The afterimage was on my retina, a green line thin as a razor’s edge, pointing right at him.

He was in a cross street, posed kneeling, waiting for his gun to pulse again. I sent a cloud of mercy needles toward him. He slapped at his face, turned to run, and fell skidding.

I stayed where I was.

Taffy was curled in the pavement with her head buried in her arms. There was no blood around her. When I saw her legs shift I knew she wasn’t dead. I still didn’t know if she’d been hit.

Nobody else tried to shoot at us.

The man with the gun lay where he was for almost a minute. Then he 3tarted twitching.

He was in convulsions when I got to him. Mercy needles aren’t supposed to do that. I got his tongue out of his throat so he couldn’t choke, but I wasn’t carrying medicines that could help. When the High Cliffs police arrived, he was dead.

Inspector Swan was a picture-poster cop, tn-racial and handsome as hell in an orange uniform that seemed tailored to him, so well did he fit it. He had the gun open in front of him and was probing at the electronic guts of it with a pair of tweezers. He said, “You don’t

*have any idea why he was shooting at you?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re an ARM. What do you work on these days?”

“Organlegging, mostly. Tracking down gangs that have gone into hiding.” I was massaging Taffy’s neck and shoulders, trying to calm her down. She was still

shivering. The muscles under my hands were very tight. Swan frowned. “Such an easy answer. But he couldn’t

be part of an organlegging gang, could he? Not with that gun.”

“True.” I ran my thumbs around the curve of Taffy’s shoulder blades. She reached around and squeezed my hand.

The gun. I hadn’t really expected Swan to see the implications. It was an unmodified hunting laser, right off

the rack.-

Officially, nobody in the world makes guns to kill people. Under the Conventions, not even armies use them, and the United Nations police use mercy weapons, with the intent that the criminals concerned should be unharmed for trial—and, later, for the organ banks. The only killing weapons made are for, killing animals. They are supposed to be, well, sportsmanlike.

A ‘continuous-firing X-ray laser would be easy enough to make. It would chop down anything living, no matter how fast it fled, no matter what it hid behind. The beast wouldn’t even know it was being shot at until you waved the beam through its body: an invisible sword blade a mile long.

But that’s butchery. The prey should have a chance; it should at least know it’s being shot at. A standard hunting laser fires a pulse of visible light, and won’t fire again for about a second. It’s no better than a rifle, except in that you don’t have to allow for windage, the range is close enough to infinite, you can’t run out of bullets, it doesn’t mess up the meat, and there’s no recoil. That’s what makes it sportsmanlike.

Against me it had been just sportsmanlike enough. He was dead. I wasn’t.

“Not that it’s so censored easy to modify a hunting laser,” said Swan. “It takes some basic electronics. I could do it myself—”

“So could I. Why not? We’ve both had police training.”

“The point is, I don’t know anyone who couldn’t find someone to modify a hunting laser, give it a faster pulse or even a continuous beam. Your friend must have been afraid to bring anyone else into it. He must have had a

very personal grudge against you. You’re sure you don’t recognize him?”

“I never saw him before. Not with that face.”

“And he’s dead,” said Swan.

“That doesn’t really prove anything. Some people have allergic reactions to police anaesthetics.”

“You used a standard ARM weapon?”

“Yah. I didn’t even fire both barrels. I couldn’t have put a lot of needles in him. But there are allergic reactions.”

“Especially if you take something to bring them on.” Swan put the gun down and stood up. “Now, I’m just a city cop, and I don’t know that much about ARM business. But I’ve heard that organleggers sometimes take something so they won’t just go to sleep when an ARM anaesthetic hits them.”

“Yah. Organleggers don’t like becoming spare parts themselves. I do have a theory, Inspector.”

“Try me.”

“He’s a retired organlegger. A lot of them retired when the Freezer Bill passed. Their markets were gone, and they’d made their .pile, some of them. They split up and became honest citizens. A respected citizen may keep a hunting laser on his wall, but it isn’t modified. He could modify it if he had to, with a day’s notice.”

“Then said respected citizen spotted an old enemy.”

“Going into a restaurant, maybe. And he just had time to go home for his gun, while we ate dinner.”

“Sounds reasonable. How do we check it?”

“If you’ll do a rejection spectrum on his brain tissue, and send everything you’ve got to ARM Headquarters, we’ll do the rest. An organlegger can change his face and fingerprints as he censored pleases, but he can’t change his tolerance to transplants. Chances are he’s on record.”

“And you’ll let me know.”

“Right.”

Swan was checking it with the radio on his scooter while I beeped my clicker for a taxi. The taxi settled at the edge of the walkway. I helped Taffy into it. Her movements were slow and jerky. She wasn’t in shock, just depression.

Swan called from his scooter. “Hamilton!”

I stopped halfway into the taxi. “Yah?”

“He’s a local,” Swan boomed. His voice carried like an orator’s. “Mortimer Lincoln, ninety-fourth floor. Been living here since—” He checked again with his radio. “April, 2123. I’d guess that’s about six months after they passed the Freezer Law.”

“Thanks.” I typed an address on the cab’s destination board. The cab hummed and rose.

I watched High Cliffs recede, a pyramid as big as a mountain, glowing with light. The city guarded by Inspector Swan was all in one building. It would make his job easier, I thought. Society would be a bit more organized.

Taffy spoke for the first time in a good while. “Nobody’s ever shot at me before.”

“It’s all over now. I think he was shooting at me anyway.”

“I suppose.” Suddenly she was shaking. I took her in my arms and held her. She talked into my shirt collar. “I didn’t know what was happening. That green light, I thought it was pretty. I didn’t know what happened until you knocked me down, and then that green line flashed at you and I heard the sidewalk go ping, and I didn’t know what to do! I—”

“You did fine.”

“I wanted to help! I didn’t .know, maybe you were dead, and there wasn’t anything I could do. If you hadn’t had a gun—Do you always carry a gun?”

“Always.”

“I never knew.” Without moving, she seemed to pull away from me a little.

At one time the Amalgamation of Regional Militia had been a federation of Civil Defense bodies in a number of nations. Later it had become the police force of the ‘United Nations itself. They had kept the name. Probably they liked the acronym.

When I got to the office the next morning, Jackson Bera had already run the dead man to Earth. “No question about it,” he told me. “This rejection spectrum checks perfectly. Anthony Tiller, known organlegger, suspected member of the Anubis gang. First came on the scene around 2120; he probably had another name

and face before that. Disappeared April or May 2123.”

“That fits. No, dammit, it doesn’t. He must have been out of his mind. There he was, home free, rich and safe. Why would he blow it all to kill a man who never harmed a hair of his head?”

“You don’t really expect an organlegger to behave like a well-adjusted member of society.”

I answered Bera’s grin. “I guess not … Hey. You said Anubis, didn’t you? The Anubis gang, not the Loren gang.”

“That’s what it says on the hard copy. Shall I query for probability?”,

“Please.” Bera programs a computer better than I do. I talked while he tapped at the keyboard in my desk. “Whoever the bleep he was, Anubis controlled the illicit medical facilities over a big section of the Midwest. Loren had a piece of the North American west coast, smaller area, bigger population. The difference is that I killed Loren myself, by squeezing the life out of his heart with my imaginary hand, which is -a very personal thing, as you will realize, Jackson. Whereas I never touched Anubis or any of his gang, nor even interfered with his profits, to the best of my knowledge.”

“I did,” said Bera. “Maybe he thought I was you.” Which is hilarious, because Bera is dark brown and a foot taller than me if you include the hair that puffs out around his head like a black powder explosion. “You missed something. Anubis was an intriguing character. He changed faces and ears and fingerprints whenever he got the urge. We’re pretty sure he was male,’ but even that isn’t worth a big bet. He’s changed his height at least once. Full leg transplant.”

“Loren couldn’t do that. Loren was a pretty sick boy. He probably went into organlegging because he needed the transplant supply.”

“Not Anubis. Anubis must have had a sky-high rejection threshold.”

“Jackson, you’re proud of Anubis.”

Bera was shocked to his core. “The hell! He’s a dirty murdering organlegger! If I’d caught him I’d be proud of Anubis—” He stopped, because my desk screen was getting information.

The computer in the basement of the ARM building

gave Anthony Tiller no chance at all of being part of the Loren gang, and a probability in the nineties that he had run with the Jackal God. One point was that Anubis and the rest had all dropped out of sight around the end of April, 2123, when Anthony.. Tiler/Mortimer Lincoln changed his face and moved into High Cliffs.

“It could still have been revenge,” Bera suggested. “Loren and Anubis knew each other. We know that much. They set up the boundary between their territories at least twelve years ago, by negotiation. Loren took over Anubis’ territory when Anubis retired. And you killed Loren.”

I scoffed. “And Tiller the Killer gave up his cover to get me, two years after the gang broke up?”

“Maybe it wasn’t revenge. Maybe Anubis wants to make a comeback.”

“Or maybe this Tiller just flipped. Withdrawal symptoms. He hadn’t killed anyone for almost two years,. poor baby. I wish he’d picked a better time.”

“Why?”

“Taffy was with me. She’s still twitching.”

“You didn’t tell me that! She wasn’t hit, was she?”

“No, just scared.”

Bera relaxed. His hand caressed the interface where his hair faded into air, feather-lightly, in the nervous way another man might scratch his head. “I’d hate to see you two split up.”

“Oh, it’s not …” anything like that serious, I’d have told him, but he knew better. “Yah. We didn’t get much sleep last night. It isn’t just being shot at, you know.”

“I know.”

“Taffy’s a surgeon. She thinks of transplant stocks as raw material. Tools. She’d be crippled without an organ bank. She doesn’t think of the stuff as human … or she never used to, till she met me.”

“I’ve never heard either of you talk about it.”

“We don’t, even to each other, but it’s there. Most transplants are condemned criminals, captured by heroes such as you and me. Some of the stuff is respectable citizens captured by organleggers, broken up into illicit organ banks and eventually recaptured by said heroes. They don’t tell Taffy which is which. She works with

pieces of people. I don’t think she can live with me and not live with that.”

“Getting shot at by an ex-organlegger couldn’t have helped much. We’d better see to it that it doesn’t happen again.”

“Jackson, he was just a nut.”

“He used to be with Anubis.”

“I never had anything to do with Anubis.” Which reminded me. “You did, though, didn’t you? Do you remember anything about the Holden Chambers kidnapping?”

Bera looked at me peculiarly. “Holden and Charlotte Chambers, yah. You’ve got a good memory. There’s a fair chance Anubis was involved.”

“Tell me about it.”

“There was a rash of kidnappings about that time, all over the world. You know how organlegging works. The legitimate hospitals are always short of transplants. Some sick citizens are too much in a hurry to wait their turns. The gangs kidnap a healthy citizen, break him up into spare parts, throw away the brain, use the rest for illegal operations. That’s the way it was until the Freezer Law cut the market out from under them.”

“I remember.”

“Some gangs turned to kidnapping for ransom. Why not? It’s ‘just what they were set up for. If the family couldn’t pay off, the victim could always become a donor. It made people much more likely to pay off.

“The only strange thing about the Chambers kidnap was that Holden and Charlotte Chambers both disappeared about the same time, around six at night.” Bera had’ been tapping at the computer controls. He looked at the screen and said, “Make that seven. March 21, 2123. But they were miles apart, Charlotte at a restaurant with a date, Holden at Washburn University attending a night class. Now why would a kidnap gang think they needed them both?”

“Any ideas?”

“They might have thought that the Chambers trustees were more likely to pay off on both of them. We’ll never know now. We never got any of the kidnappers. We were lucky to get the kids back.”

“What made you think it was Anubis?”

“It was Anubis territory. The Chambers kidnap was only the last of half a dozen in that area. Smooth operations, no excitement, no hitches, victims returned intact after the ransom was paid.” He glared. “No, I’m not proud of Anubis. It’s just that he tended not to make mistakes, and he was used to making people disappear.”

“Uh huh.”

“They made themselves disappear, the whole gang, around the time of that last kidnap. We assume they were building up a stake.”

“How much did they get?”

“On the Chambers kids? A hundred thousand.”

“They’d have made ten times that selling them as transplants. They must have been hard up.”

“You know it. Nobody was buying. What does all this have to do with your being shot at?”

“A wild idea. Could Anubis be interested in the Chambers kids again?”

Bera gave me a funny look. “No way. What for? They bled them white the first time. A hundred thousand UN marks isn’t play money.”

After Bera left I sat there not believing it.

Anubis had vanished. Loren had acted immediately to take over Anubis’ territory. Where had they gone, Anubis and the others? Into Loren’s organ banks?

But there was Tifier/Lincoin. -

I didn’t like the idea that any random ex-organlegger might decide to kill me the instant he saw me. Finally I did something about it. I asked the computer for data on the Chambers kidnapping.

There wasn’t much Bera hadn’t told me. I wondered, though, why he hadn’t mentioned Charlotte’s condition.

When ARM police found the Chambers kids drugged on a hotel parking roof, they had both been in good physical condition. Holden had been a little scared, a little relieved, just beginning to get angry. But Charlotte had been in catatonic withdrawal. At last notice she was still in catatonic withdrawal. She had never spoken with coherence about the kidnapping, nor about anything else.

Something had been done to her. Something terrible. Maybe Bera had taught himself not to think about it.

Otherwise the kidnappers had behaved almost with

rectitude. The ransom had been paid, the victims had been returned. They had been on that roof, drugged, for less than twenty minutes. They showed no bruises, no signs of maltreatment … another sign that their kidnappers were organleggers. Organleggers aren’t sadists. They don’t have that much respect for the stuff.

I noted that the ransom had been paid by an attorney. The Chambers kids were orphans. If they’d both been killed the executor of their estate would have been out of a job. From that viewpoint it made sense to capture them both … but not all that much sense.

And there couldn’t be a motive for kidnapping them again. They didn’t have the money. Except— It hit me joltingly. The second Freezer Bill.

Holden Chambers’ number was in the basement computer. I was dialling it when second thoughts interrupted. Instead I called downstairs and set a team to locating possible bugs in Chambers’ home or phone. They weren’t to interfere with the bugs or to alert possible listeners. Routine stuff.

Once before the Chambers kids had disappeared. If we weren’t lucky they might disappear again. Sometimes the ARM business was like digging a pit in quicksand. If you dug hard enough you could maintain a noticeable depression, but as soon as you stopped .The Freezer Law of 2122 had given the ARM a field day. Some of the gangs had simply retired. Some had tried to keep going, and wound up selling an operation to an ARM plant. Some had tried to reach other markets; but there weren’t any, not even for Loren, who had tried to expand into the asteroid belt and found they wouldn’t have him either.

And some had tried kidnapping; but inexperience kept tripping them up. The name of a victim points straight at a kidnapper’s only possible market. Too often the ARMs had been waiting.

We’d cleaned them out. Organlegging should have been an extinct profession this past year. The vanished jackals I spent my days hunting should have posed no present threat to society.

Except that the legitimate transplants released by the Freezer Law were running out. And a peculiar thing was

happening. People had started to disappear from stalled vehicles, singles apartment houses, crowded city slidewalks.

Earth wanted the organleggers back.

No, that wasn’t fair. Put it this way: enough citizens wanted to extend their own lives, at any cost

If Anubis was alive, he might well be thinking of going back into business.

The point was that he would need backing. Loren had taken over his medical facilities when Anubis retired. Eventually we’d located those and destroyed them. Annbis would have to start over.

Let the second Freezer Bill pass, and Leviticus Hale would be spare parts. Charlotte and Holden Chambers would inherit . . how much?

I got that via a call to the local NBA news department. In one hundred and thirty-four years Leviticus Hale’s original three hundred and twenty thousand dollars had become seventy-five million UN marks.

I spent the rest of the morning on routine. They call it legwork, though it’s mostly done by phone and computer keyboard. The word covers some unbelievable long shots.

We were investigating every member of every Citizen’s Committee to Oppose the Second Freezer Bill in the world. The suggestion had come down from old man Gamer. He thought we might find that a coalition of organleggers had pooled advertising money to keep the corpsicles off the market. The results that morning

- didn’t look promising.

I half hoped it wouldn’t work out. Suppose those committees did turn out to be backed by organleggers? It would make prime time news, anywhere in the world. The second Freezer Bill would pass like that. But it had to be checked. There had been opposition to the first Freezer Bill, too, when the gangs had had more money.

Money. We spent a good deal of computer time looking for unexplained money. The average criminal tends to think that once he’s got the money, he’s home free, the game is over.

We hadn’t caught a sniff of Loren or Anubis that Way.

Where had Anubis spent his money? Maybe he’d just hidden it away somewhere, or maybe Loren had killed him for it. And Tiller had shot at me because he didn’t like my face. Legwork is gambling, time against results.

It developed that Holden Chambers’ environs were free of eavesdropping devices. I called him about noon.

There appeared within my phone screen a red-faced, white-haired man of great dignity. He asked to whom I wished to speak. I told him, and displayed my ARM ident. He nodded and put me on hold.

Moments later I faced a weak-chinned young man who smiled distractedly at me and said, “Sorry about that. I’ve been getting considerable static from the news lately. Zero acts as a kind of, ah, buffer.”

Past his shoulder I could see a table with things on it:

a tape viewer, a double handful of tape spools, a tape recorder the size of a man’s palm, two pens and a stack of paper, all neatly arranged. I said, “Sorry to interrupt your studying.”

“That’s all right. It’s tough getting back to it after Year’s-End. Maybe you remember. Haven’t I seen you

—? Oh. The floating cigarette.”

“That’s right.”

“How did you do that?”

“I’ve got an imaginary arm.” And it’s a great conversational device, an ice-breaker of wondrous potency. I was a marvel, a talking sea serpent, the way the kid was looking at me. “I lost an arm once, mining rocks in the Belt. A sliver of asteroidal rock sheared it off clean to the shoulder.”

He looked awed.

“I got it replaced, of course. But for a year I was a one-armed man. Well, here was a whole section of my brain developed to control a right arm, and no right arm. Psychokinesis is easy enough to develop when you live in a low-gravity environment.” I paused just less than long enough for him to form a question. “Somebody tried to kill me outside Midgard last night. That’s why I called.”

I hadn’t expected him to burst into a fit of the giggles. “Sorry,” he got out. “It sounds like you lead an active life!”

“Yah. It didn’t seem that funny at the time. I don’t suppose you noticed anything unusual last night?”

“Just the usual shootings and muggings, and there was one guy with a cigarette floating in front of his face.” He sobered before my clearly deficient sense of humor. “Look, I am sorry, but one minute you’re talking about a meteor shearing your arm off, and the next it’s bullets whizzing past your ear.”

“Sure, I see your point.”-

“I left before you did. I know censored well I did. What happened?”

“Somebody shot at us with a hunting laser. He was probably just a nut. He was also part of the gang that kidnapped—” He looked stricken. “Yah, them. There’s probably no connection, but we wondered if you might have noticed anything. Like a familiar face.”

He shook his head. “They change faces, don’t they?”

“Usually. How did you leave?”

“Taxi. I live in Bakersfield, about twenty minutes from High Cliffs. Where did all this happen? I caught my taxi on the third shopping level.”

“That kills it. We were on the first.”

“I’m not really sorry. He might have shot at me too.”

I’d been trying to decide whether to tell him that the kidnap gang might be interested in him again. Whether to scare the lights out of him on another long shot, or leave him off guard for a possible kidnap attempt. He seemed stable enough, but you never knew.

I temporized. “Mister Chambers, we’d like you to try to identify the man who tried to kill me last night. He probably did change his face—”

“Yah.” He was uneasy. Many citizens would be, if asked to look a dead man in the face. “But I suppose you’ve got to try it. I’ll stop in tomorrow afternoon, after class.”

So. Tomorrow we’d see what he was made of.

He asked, “What about that imaginary ann? I’ve never heard of a psi talking that way about his talent.”

“I wasn’t being cute,” I told him. “It’s an arm, as far as I’m concerned. My limited imagination. I can feel things out with my fingertips, but not if they’re further ‘away than an arm can reach. A jigger of bourbon is

about the biggest thing I can lift. Most psis can’t do nearly that well.” -

“But they can reach further. Why not try a hypnotist?”

“And lose the whole arm? I don’t want to risk that.” He looked disappointed in me. “What can you do with an imaginary arm that you can’t do with a real one?”

“I can pick up hot things without burning myself.”

“Yah!” He hadn’t thought of that.

“And I can reach through walls. (In the Belt I could reach through my suit and do precision work in vacuum.) I can reach two ways through a phone screen. Fiddle with the works, or—here, I’ll show you.”

It doesn’t always work. But I was getting a good picture. Chambers showed life-sized, in color and stereo, through four square feet of screen. It looked like I could reach right into it. So I did. I reached into the screen with my imaginary hand, picked a pencil off the table in front of him and twirled it like a baton.

He threw himself backward out of his chair. He landed rolling. I saw his face, pale gray with terror, before he rolled away and out of view. A few seconds later the screen went blank. He must have turned the knob from off-screen.

If I’d touched his face I could have understood it. But all I’d done was lift a pencil. What the hell?

My fault, I guessed. Some people see psi powers as supernatural, eerie, threatening. I shouldn’t have been showing off like that. But Holden hadn’t looked the type. Brash, a bit nervous, but fascinated rather than repulsed by the possibilities of an invisible, immaterial hand.

Then, terror.

I didn’t try to call him back. I dithered about putting a guard on him, decided not to. A guard might be noticed. But I ordered a tracer implanted in him.

Anubis might pick Chambers up at any time. He needn’t wait for the General Assembly to declare Leviticus Hale dead.

A tracer needle was a useful thing. It would be fired at Chambers from ambush. He’d probably never notice

the sting, the hole would be only a pinprick, and it would tell us just where he was from then on.

I thought Charlotte Chambers could use a tracer too, so I picked up a palm-size pressure implanter downstairs. I also traded the discharged barrel on my sidearm for a fresh one. The feel of the gun in my hand sent vivid green lines sizzling past my mind’s eye.’

Last, I ordered a standard information package, C priority, on what Chambers had been doing for the last two years. It would probably arrive in a day or so.

The. winter face of Kansas had great dark gaps in it, a town nestled in each gap. The weather domes of various townships had shifted kilotons of snow outward, to deepen the drifts across the flat countryside. In the light of early sunset the snowbound landscape was orange-white, striped with the broad black shadows of a few cities-within-buildings. It all seemed eerie and abstract, sliding west beneath the folded wings of our plane.

We slowed hard in midair. The wings unfolded, and we settled over downtown Topeka.

This was going to look odd on my expense account. All this way to see a girl who hadn’t spoken sense in three years. Probably it would be disallowed … yet she was as much a part of the case as her brother. Anyone planning to recapture Holden Chambers for re ransom would want Charlotte too.

Menninger Institute was a pretty place. Besides the twelve stories of glass and mock-brick which formed the main building, there were at least a dozen outbuildings of varied ages and designs that ran from boxlike rectangles to free-form organics poured in foam plastic. They were all wide apart, separated by green lawns and trees and flower beds. A place of peace, a place with elbow room. Pairs and larger groups passed me on the curving walks: an aide and a patient, or an aide and several less disturbed patients. The aides were obvious at a glance.

“When a patient is well enough to go outside for a walk, then he needs the greenery and the room,” Doctor Hartman told me. “It’s part of his therapy. Going outside is a giant step.”

“Do you get many agoraphobes?”

“No, that’s not what I was talking about. It’s the lock that counts. To anyone else that lock is a prison, but to many patients it comes to represent security. Someone else to make the decisions, to keep the world outside.”

Doctor Hartman was short and round and blond. A comfortable person, easy-going, patient, sure of himself. Just the man to trust with your destiny, assuming you were tired of running it yourself.,

I asked, “Do you get many cures?”

“Certainly. As a matter of fact, we generally won’t take patients unless we feel we can cure them.”

“That must do wonders for the record.”

He was not offended. “It does even more for the patients. Knowing that we know they can be cured makes them feel the same way. And the incurably insane

can be damned depressing.” Momentarily he seemed to sag under an enormous weight. Then he was himself again. “They can affect the other patients. Fortunately there aren’t many incurables, these days.”

“Was Charlotte Chambers one of the curables?”

“We thought so. After all, it was only shock. There was no previous history of personality disturbances. Her blood psychochemicals were near enough normal. We tried everything in the records. Stroking. Fiddling with her chemistry. Psychotherapy didn’t get very far. Either she’s deaf or she doesn’t listen, and she won’t talk. Sometimes I think she hears everything we say… but she doesn’t respond.”

We had reached a powerful-looking locked door. Doctor Hartman searched through a key ring, touched a key to the lock. “We call it the violent ward, but it’s more properly the severely disturbed ward. I wish to hell we could get some violence out of some of them. Like Charlotte. They won’t even look at reality, much less try to fight it… here we are.”

Her door opened outward into the corridor. My nasty professional mind tagged the fact: if you tried to hang yourself from the door, anyone could see you from either end of the corridor. It would be very public. -

In these upper rooms the windows were frosted. I suppose there’s good reason why some patients shouldn’t be reminded that they are twelve stories up. The room was small but well lighted and brightly painted, with a bed and a padded chair a tridee screen set flush with the wall. There wasn’t a sharp corner anywhere in the room.

Charlotte was in the chair, looking straight ahead of her, her hands folded in her la~ Her hair was short and not particularly neat. Her yellow dress was of some wrinkleproof fabric. She looked resigned, I thought, resigned to some ultimately awful thing. She did not notice us as we came in.

I whispered, “Why is she still here, if you can’t cure her?”

Doctor Hartman spoke in a normal tone. “At first we thought it was catatonic withdrawal. That we could have cured. This isn’t the first time someone has suggested moving her. She’s still here because I want to know what’s wrong with her. She’s been like this ever since they brought her in.”

She still hadn’t noticed us. The doctor talked as if she couldn’t hear us. “Do the ARMs have any idea what was done to her? If we knew that we might be better able to treat her.”

I shook my head. “I was going to ask you. What could they have done to her?”

He shook his head.

“Try another angle, then. What couldn’t they have done to her? There were no bruises, broken bones, anything like that—”

“No internal injuries either. No surgery was performed on her. There was the evidence of drugging. I understand ‘they were organleggers?”

“It looks likely.” She could have been pretty, I thought. It wasn’t the lack of cosmetics, or even the gaunt look. It was the empty eyes, isolated above high cheekbones, looking at nothing. “Could she be blind?”

“No. The optic nerves function perfectly.”

She reminded me of a wirehead. You can’t get a wirehead’s attention either, when house current is trickling down a fine wire from the top of his skull into the pleasure center of his brain. But no, ‘the pure egocentric joy of a wirehead ‘hardly matched Chariotte’s egocentric misery.

“Tell me,” said Doctor Hartman. “How badly could an organlegger frighten a young girl?”

“We don’t get many citizens back from organleggers. I … honestly can’t think of - any upper limit. They could have taken her on a tour of the medical facilities. They could have made her watch while they broke up a prospect for stuff.” I didn’t like what my imagination was doing. There are things you don’t think about, because the point is to protect the prospects, keep the Lorens and the Anubises from reaching them at all. But you can’t help thinking about them anyway, so you push them back, push them back. These things must have been in my head for a long time. “They had the facilities to partly break her up and put her back together again and leave her conscious the whole time. You wouldn’t have found scars. The only scars they can’t cure with modern medicine are in the bone itself. They could have done any kind of temporary transplant—and they must have been bored, Doctor. Business was slow. But—”

“Stop.” He was gray around the edges. His voice was weak and hoarse.

“But organleggers aren’t sadists, generally. They don’t have that much respect for the stuff. They wouldn’t play ‘that kind of game unless they had something special against her.”

“My Clod, you play rough games. How can you sleep nights, knowing what you know?”

“None of your business, Doctor. In your opinion, is it likely that she was frightened into this state?”

“Not all at once. We could have brought her out of it if it had happened all at once. I suppose she may have been frightened repeatedly. How long did they have

her?”-

“Nine days.”

Hartman looked worse yet. Definitely he was not ARM material.

I dug in my sporran for the pressure implanter. “I’d like your permission to put a tracer needle in her. I won’t hurt her.”

“There’s no need to whisper, Mr. Hamilton—”

“Was I?” Yes, dammit, I’d been holding my voice low, as if I were afraid to disturb her. In a normal voice I said, “The tracer could help us locate her in case she disappears.”

“Disappears? Why should she do that? You can see for yourself—”

“That’s the worst of it. The same gang of organleggers that got her the first time may be trying to kidnap her again. Just how good is your security…” I trailed off. Charlotte Chambers had turned around and was looking at me.

Hartman’s hand closed hard on my upper arm. He was warning me. Calmly, reassuringly~ he said. “Don’t worry, Charlotte. I’m Doctor Hartman. You’re in good hands. We’ll take care of you.”

Charlotte was half out of her chair, twisted around to search my face. I tried to look harmless. Naturally I knew better than to try to guess what she was thinking. Why should her eyes be big with hope? Frantic, desperate hope. When I’d just uttered a terrible threat.

Whatever she was looking for, she didn’t find it in my face. What looked like hope gradually died out of her eyes, and she sank back in her chair, looking straight ahead of her, without interest. Doctor Hartman gestured, and I took the hint and left.

Twenty minutes later he joined me in the visitor’s waiting room. “Hamilton, that’s the first time she’s ever shown that much awareness. What could possibly have sparked it?”

I shook my head. “I wanted to ask, just how good is your security?”

“I’ll warn the aides. We can refuse to permit her visitors unless accompanied by an ARM agent. Is that good enough?”

“It may be, but I want to plant a tracer in her. Just in case.”

“All right.”

“Doctor, what was that in her expression?”

“I thought it was hope. Hamilton, I will just bet it was your voice that did it. You may sound like someone she knows. Let me take a recording of your voice and we’ll see if we can find a psychiatrist who sounds like you.”

When I put the tracer in her, she never so much as twitched.

All the way home her face haunted me. As if she’d waited two years in that chair, not bothering to move or think, until I came. Until finally I came.

My right side seems weightless. It throws me off stride as I back away, back away. My right arm ends at the shoulder. Where my left eye was is an empty socket. Something vague shuffles out of the’ dark, looks at me with its one left eye, reaches for me with its one right arm. I back away, back away, fending it off with my imaginary arm. It comes closer, I touch it, I reach into it. Horrible! The scars! Loren’s pleural cavity is a patchwork of transplants. I want to snatch my hand away. Instead I reach deeper, and find his borrowed heart, and squeeze. And squeeze.

How can I sleep nights, knowing what I know? Well, Doctor, some nights I dream.

Taffy opened her eyes to find me sitting up in bed, staring at a dark wall She said, “What?”

“Bad dream.”

“Oh.” She scratched me under the ear, for reassurance.

“How awake are you?”

She sighed. “Wide awake.”-

“Corpsicle. Where did you hear the word corpsicle? In the boob cube? From a friend?”

“I don’t remember. Why?”

“Just a thought. Never mind. I’ll ask Luke Garner.” I got up and made us some hot chocolate with bourbon flavoring. It knocked us out like a cluster of mercy needles.

Lucas Garner was a man who had won a gamble with fate. Medical technology had progressed as he grew older, so that his expected lifespan kept moving ahead of him. He was not yet the oldest living member of the Struldbrugs’ Club, but he was getting on, getting on.

His spinal nerves had worn out long since, marooning him in a ground-effect travel chair. His face hung loose from his skull, in folds. But his arms were apishly strong, and his brain still worked. He was my boss.

“Corpsicle,” he said. “Corpsicle. Right. They’ve been saying it on tridee. I didn’t notice, but you’re right. It’s funny they should start using that word again.”

“How did it get started?”

“Popsicle. A popsicle was frozen sherbet on a stick. You licked it off.”

I winced at the mental picture that evoked. Leviticus Hale, covered with frost, a stake up his anus, a gigantic tongue— “A wooden stick.” Garner had a grin to scare babies.

Grinning, he was almost a work of art: an antique, a hundred and eighty-odd years old, like a Hannes Bok illustration of Lovecraft. “That’s how long ago it was. They didn’t start freezing people until the nineteen sixties or seventies, but we were still putting wooden sticks in popsicles. Why would anyone use it now?”

“Who uses it? Newscasters? I don’t watch the boob cube much.”

“Newscasters, yah, and lawyers … How are you making out on the Committees to Oppose the Second Freezer Bill?”

It took me a moment to make the switch. “No positive results. The program’s still running, and results are slow in some parts of the world, Africa, the Middle East

They all seem to be solid citizens.”-

“Well, it’s worth a try. We’ve been looking into the other side of it, too. If organleggers are trying to block the second Freezer Bill, they might well try to intimidate or kill off anyone who backs the second Freezer Bill. Follow me?”

“I suppose.”-

“So we have to know who to protect. It’s strictly business, of course. The ARM isn’t supposed to get involved in politics.”

Garner reached sideways to tap one-handed at the computer keyboard in his desk. His bulky floating chair wouldn’t fit under the keyboard. Tape slid from the slot, two feet of it. He handed it to me. -

“Mostly lawyers,” he said. “A number of sociologists and humanities professors. Religious leaders pushing their own brand of immortality; we’ve got religious factions on both sides of the question. These are the people who publicly back the second Freezer Bill. I’d guess they’re the ones who started using the word corpsicle.”

“Thanks.”-

“Cute word, isn’t it? A joke. If you said frozen sleep someone might take you seriously. Someone might even

wonder if they were really dead. Which is the key question, isn’t it? The corpsicles they want are the ones who were healthiest, the ones who have the best chance of being brought -back to life some day. These are the people they want revived a piece at a time. By me that’s lousy.”

“Me too.” I glanced down at the list. “I presume you haven’t actually warned any of these people.”

“No, you idiot. They’d go straight to a newscaster and tell him that all their opponents are organleggers.”

I nodded. “Thanks for the help. If anything comes of this—”

“Sit down. Run your eyes down those names. See if you spot anything.”

I didn’t know most of them, of course, not even in the Americas. There were a few prominent defense lawyers, and at least one federal judge, and- Raymond’ Sinclair the physicist, and a string of newscast stations, and— “Clark and Nash? The advertising firm?”

“A number of advertising firms in a number of countries. Most of these people are probably sincere enough, and they’ll talk to anyone, but the coverage has to come from somewhere. It’s coming ~from these firms. That word corpsicle has to be an advertising stunt. The publicity on the corpsicle heirs: they may have had a hand in that too. You know about the corpsicle heirs?”

“Not a lot.”

“NBA Broadcasting has been running down the heirs to the richest members of Group II, the ones who were committed to the freezer vaults for reasons that don’t harm their value as—stuff.” Garner spat the word. It was organlegger slang. “The paupers all went into the organ banks on the first Freezer Law, of course, so Group II boasts some considerable wealth. NBA found a few heirs who would never have turned up otherwise. I imagine a lot of them will be voting for the second Freezer Bill—” ~

“Yah.”

“Only the top dozen have been getting the publicity. But it’s still a powerful argument, isn’t it? If the corpsicles are in frozen sleep, that’s one thing. If they’re dead, then people are being denied their rightful inheritance.”

1 asked the obvious question. “Who’s paying for the advertising?”

“Now, we wondered about that. The firms wouldn’t say. We dug a little further.”

“And?”

“They don’t know either.” Garner grinned like Satan. “They were hired by firms that aren’t listed anywhere. A number of firms, whose representatives only appeared once. They paid their fees in lump sums.”

“It sounds like—no. They’re on the wrong side.”

“Right. Why would an organlegger be pushing the second Freezer Bill?”

I thought it over. “How about this? A number of old, sickly, wealthy men and women set up a fund to see to it that the public supply of spare parts isn’t threatened. It’s legal, at least; which dealing with an organlegger isn’t. With enough of them it might even be cheaper?’

“We thought of that. We’re running a program on it. I’ve been asking some subtle questions around the Struldbrugs’ Club, just because I’m a member. It has to be subtle. Legal it may be, but they wouldn’t want publicity.”

“And then I got your report this morning. Anubis and the Chambers kid, huh? Wouldn’t it be nice if it went a bit further than that?” -

“I don’t follow you.”

At this moment Garner looked like something that was ready to pounce. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if a federation of organleggers was backing the second Freezer Bill. The idea would be to kidnap all of the top corpsicle heirs just before the Bill passes. Most people worth kidnapping can afford to protect themselves. Guards, house alarms, wrist alarms.’ A corpsicle heir can’t do that yet.”

Garner leaned forward in his chair,’ doing the work with his arms. “If we could prove this, and give it some publicity, wouldn’t it shoot hell out of the second Freezer Law?”

There was a memo on my desk when I got back. The data package on Holden Chambers was in the computer memory, waiting for me. I remembered that Holden

himself would be here this afternoon, unless the arm trick had scared him off.

I punched for the package and read it through, trying to decide just how sane the kid was. Most of the information had come from the college medical center. They’d been worried about him too. -

The kidnapping had interrupted his freshman year at Washburn. His grades had dropped sharply afterward, then sloped back to a marginal passing grade. In September he’d changed his major from architecture to biochemistry. He’d made the switch easily. His grades had been average or better during these last two years.

He lived alone, in one of those tiny apartments whose furnishings are all memory plastic, extruded as needed. Technology was cheaper than elbow room. The apartment house did have some communal facilities—sauna, pool, cleaning robots, party room, room-service kitchen, clothing dispensary … I wondered why he didn’t get ~a roommate. It would have saved him money, for one thing. But his sex life had always been somewhat passive, and he’d never been gregarious, according to the file. He’d just about pulled the hole in after him for some months after the kidnapping. As if he’d lost all faith in humanity.

If he’d been off the beam then, he seemed to have recovered. Even his sex life had improved. That information had not come from the college medical center, but from records from the communal kitchen (breakfast for two, late night room service), and some recent recorded phone messages. All quite public; there was no reason for me to be feeling like a peeping Tom. The publicity on the corpsicle heirs may have done him some good, started girls chasing him for a change. A few had spent the night, but he didn’t seem to be seeing anyone steadily.

I had wondered how he could afford a servant. The answer made me feel stupid. The secretary named Zero turned out to be a computer construct, an answering

service..-‘

Chambers was not penniless. After the ransom was paid the trust fund had contained about twenty thousand marks. Charlotte’s care had eaten into that. The trustees were giving Holden enough to pay his tuition and still

live comfortably. There would be some left when he graduated, but it would be earmarked for Charlotte.

I turned off the screen and thought about it. He’d had a jolt. He’d recovered. Some do, some don’t. He’d been in perfect health, which has a lot to do with surviving emotional shock. If he was your friend today, you would avoid certain subjects in his presence.

And he’d thrown himself backward in blind terror when a pencil rose from his desk and started to pinwheel. How normal was that? I just didn’t know. I was too used to my imaginary arm.

Holden himself appeared about fourteen hundred.

Anthony Tiller was in a cold box, face up. That face had been hideously contorted during his last minutes, but it showed none of that now. He was as expressionless as any dead man. The frozen sleepers at the Vault of Eternity had looked like that Superficially, most of them had been in worse shape than he was.

Holden Chambers studied him with interest. “So that’s what an organlegger looks like.”

“An organlegger looks like anything he wants to.” He grimaced at that. He bent close to study the dead man’s face. He circled the cold box with his ‘hands clasped behind his back. He wanted to look, nonchalant, but he was still walking wide of me. I didn’t think the dead man bothered him.

He said the same thing I’d said two nights ago. “Nope. Not with that face.”

“Well, it was worth a try. Let’s go to my office. It’s more comfortable.”

He smiled. “Good.”

He dawdled in the corridors. He looked into open offices, smiled at anyone who looked up, asked me mostly intelligent questions in a low voice. He was enjoying himself: a tourist in ARM Headquarters. But he trailed back when I-tried to take the middle of the corridor, so that we wound up. walking on opposite sides. Finally I asked him about it.

I thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then, “It was that pencil trick.”

“What about it?”

He sighed, as one who despairs of ever finding the

right words. “I don’t like to be touched. I mean, I get along with girls all right, but generally I don’t like to be touched.”

“I didn’t—”

“But you could have. And without my knowing. I couldn’t see it, I might not even feel it. It just bothered the censored hell out of me, you reaching out of a phone screen like that! A phone call isn’t supposed to be that, that personal.” He stopped suddenly, looking down the corridor. “Isn’t that Lucas Garner?”

“Yah.”

“Lucas Garner!” He was awed and delighted. “He runs it all, doesn’t he? How old is ‘he now?”

“In his hundred and eighties.” I thought of introducing him, but Luke’s chair slid off in a different direction.

My office is’ just big enough for me, my desk, two chairs, and an’ array of spigots in the wall. I poured him tea and me coffee. I said, “I went to visit your sister.”

“Charlotte? How is she?”

“I doubt she’s changed since the last time you saw her. She doesn’t notice anything around her… except for one incident, when she turned around and stared at me.”

“Why? What did you do? What did you say?” he demanded.

Well, here it came. “I was telling her doctor that the same gang that kidnapped her once might want her again.”

Strange things happened around his mouth. Bewilderment, fear, disbelief. “What the bleep made you say that?”

“It’s a possibility. You’re both corpsicle heirs. Tiller the Killer could have been watching you when he spotted me watching you. He couldn’t have that.” -

“No, I suppose not …” He was trying to take it lightly, and he failed. “Do you seriously think they might want me—us—again?”

“It’s a possibility,” I repeated. “If Tiller was inside the restaurant, he could have spotted me by my floating cigarette. It’s more distinctive than my face. Don’t look so worried. We’ve got a tracer on you, we could track him anywhere he took you.”

“hi me?”, He didn’t like that much better—too personal?—but he didn’t make an issue of it.

“Holden, I keep wondering what they could have done to your sister—”

He interrupted, coldly. “I stopped wondering that, long ago.”

“—that they didn’t do to you. It’s more than curiosity. If the doctors knew what was done to her, if they knew what it is in her memory—”

“Dammit! Don’t you think I want to help her? She’s my sister!”

“All right.” What was I playing psychiatrist for, anyway? Or was it detective I was playing? He didn’t know anything. He was at the eye of several storms at once, and he must be getting sick and tired of it. I ought to send him home.

He spoke first. I could barely hear him. “You know what they did to me? A nerve block at the neck. A little widget taped to the back of my neck with surgical skin. I couldn’t feel anything below the neck, and I couldn’t move. They put that on me, dumped me on a bed and left me. For nine days. Every so often they’d turn me on again and let me drink and eat something and go to the bathroom.”

“Did anyone tell you they’d break you up for stuff if they didn’t get the ransom?”

He thought about it. “N-no. I Could pretty well guess it. They never said anything to me at all. They treated me like I was dead. They examined me for, oh, it felt like hours, poking and prodding me with their hands and their instruments, rolling me around like dead meat. I couldn’t feel any of it, but I could see it all. If they did that to Charlotte … maybe she thinks she’s dead.” His voice rose. “I’ve been through this again and again, with the ARMs, with Doctor Hartman, with the Washburn medical staff. Let’s drop it, shall we?”

“Sure. I’m sorry. We don’t learn tact in this business. We learn to ask’ questions. Any questions.”

And yet, and yet, the look on her face.

I asked him one more question as I was escorting him out. Almost offhanded. “What do you think of the second Freezer Bill?” ,

“I don’t have a UN vote yet.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He faced me belligerently. “Look, there’s a lot of money involved. A lot of money. It would pay for’ Charlotte the rest of her life. It would fix my face. But Hale, Leviticus Hale—” He pronounced the name accurately, and with no flicker of a smile. “He’s a relative, isn’t he? My great-to-the-third-grandfather. They could bring him back someday; it’s possible. So what do I do? If I had a vote I’d have to decide. But I’m not twenty-five yet, so I don’t have to worry about it.”

“Interviews.”

“I don’t give interviews. You just got the same answer everyone else gets. It’s on tape, on file with Zero. Goodbye, Mr. Hamilton.”

Other ARM departments had thinned our ranks during the lull following the first Freezer Law. Over the next couple of weeks they began to trickle back. We needed operatives to implant tracers in unsuspecting victims, and afterward to monitor their welfare. We needed an augmented staff to follow their tracer blips on the screens downstairs.

We were sore tempted to tell all of the corpsicle heirs what was happening, and have them check in with us at regular intervals. Say, every fifteen minutes. It would have made things much easier. It might also have influenced their votes, altered the quality of the interviews they gave out.

But we didn’t want to alert our quarry, the still hypothetical coalition of organleggers now monitoring the same corpsicle heirs we were interested in. And the backlash vote would be ferocious if we were wrong. And we weren’t supposed to be interested in politics.

We operated without the knowledge of the corpsicle heirs. There were two thousand of them in all parts of the world, almost three hundred in the western United States, with an expected legacy of fifty thousand UN marks or more—a limit we set for our own convenience, because it was about all we could handle.

One thing helped the manpower situation. We had reached another lull. Missing persons complaints had dropped to near zero, all over the world.

“We should have been expecting that,” Bera commented. “For the last year or so most of their customers must have stopped going to organleggers. They’re waiting to see if ‘the second Freezer Bill will go through. Now all the gangs are stuck with full organ banks and no customers. If they learned anything from last time, they’ll pull in their horns and wait it out. Of course I’m only guessing—” But it looked likely though. At any rate, we had the men we needed.

We monitored the top dozen corpsicle heirs twenty’ four hours a day. The rest we checked at random intervals. The tracers could only tell us where they were, not who they were with or whether they wanted to be there. We had to keep checking to see if anyone had disappeared.

We sat back to await results.

The Security Council passed the second Freezer Bill on February 3, 2125. Now it would go to the world vote in late March. The voting public numbered ten billion, of whom perhaps sixty percent would bother to phone in their votes.

I took to watching the boob cube again.

NBA Broadcasting continued its coverage of the corpsicle heirs and its editorials in favour of the bill. Proponents took every opportunity to point out that many corpsicle heirs still remained to be discovered. (And YOU might be one.) Taffy and I watched a parade in New York in favor of the bill: banners and placards (SAVE

THE LIVING, NOT THE DEAD… IT’S YOUR LIFE AT STAKE … CORPSICLES KEEP BEER COLD) and one’ censored big mob of chanting people. The transportation costs must have been formidable.

The various’ committees to oppose the bill were also active. In the Americas they pointed out that, although about forty percent of people in frozen sleep were in the Americas, the spare parts derived would go to the world at large. In Africa and Asia it was discovered that the Americas had most of the corpsicle heirs. In Egypt an analogy was made between the pyramids and the freezer vaults: both bids for immortality. It didn’t go over well.

Polls indicated that the Chinese sectors would vote” against the bill. NBA newscasters spoke of ancestor worship, and reminded the public that six ex-Chairmen

resided in Chinese freezer vaults, alongside a myriad lesser ex-officials. Immortality was a respected tradition in China.

The committees to oppose reminded the world’s voting public that some of the wealthiest of the frozen dead had heirs in the Belt. Were Earth’s resources to be spread indiscriminately among the asteroidal rocks? I started to hate both sides. Fortunately the UN cut that line off fast by threatening injunction. Earth needed Belt resources too heavily.

Our own results began to come in.

Mortimer Lincoln, alias Anthony Tiller, had not been at Midgard the night he tried to kill me. He’d eaten alone in his apartment, a meal sent from the communal kitchen. Which meant that he himself could not have been watching Chambers.

We found no sign of anyone lurking behind Holden Chambers, or behind any of the other corpsicle heirs, publicized or not, with one general exception. Newsmen. The media were unabashedly and constantly interested in the corpsicle heirs, priority based on the money they stood to inherit. We faced a depressing hypothesis: the potential kidnappers were spending all their time watching the boob cube, letting the media do their tracking for them. But perhaps the connection was closes.

We started investigating newscast stations.

In mid-February I pulled Holden Chambers in and had him examined for an outlaw tracer. It was a move of desperation. Organleggers don’t use such tools. They specialize in medicine. Our own tracer was still working, and it was the only tracer in him. Chambers was icily angry. We had interrupted his studying for a mid-term exam.

We managed to search three of the top dozen when they had medical checkups. Nothing.

Our investigations of the newscast stations turned up very little. Clark and Nash was running a good many one-time spots through ~NBA. Other advertising firms had similar lines of possible influence over other stations, broadcasting companies and cassette newszines. But we were looking for newsmen who had popped up from nowhere, with backgrounds forged or nonexistent. Ex-organleggers in new jobs. We didn’t find any.

I called Menninger’s one empty afternoon. Charlotte Chambers was still catatonic. “I’ve got Lowndes of New York working with me,” Hartman told me. “He has precisely your voice, and good qualifications too. Charlotte hasn’t responded yet. We’ve been wondering: could it have been the way you were talking?”

“You mean the accent? It’s Kansas with an overlay of west coast and Belter.”

“No, Lowndes has that too. I mean organlegger slang.”

“I use it. Bad habit.”

“That could be it.” He made a face. “But we can’t act on it. It might ,just scare her completely into herself.”

“That’s where she is now. I’d risk it.”

“You’re not a psychiatrist,” he said.

I hung up and brooded. Negatives, all negatives.

I didn’t hear the hissing sound until it was almost on me. I looked up then, and ~t was Luke Garner’s ground-effect travel chair sliding accurately through the door. He watched me a moment, then said, “What are you looking so grim about?”

“Nothing. All the nothing we’ve been getting instead of results.”

“Uh huh.” He let the chair settle. “It’s beginning to look like Tiller the Killer wasn’t on assignment.”

“That would blow the whole thing, wouldn’t it? I did a lot of extrapolating from two beams of green light. One ex-organlegger tries to make holes in one ARM agent, and now’ we’ve committed tens of thousands of man-hours and seventy or eighty computer-hours on the strength of it. If they’d been planning to tie us up they couldn’t have done it better.”

“You know, 1 think you’d take it as a personal insult if Tiller shot at you just because he didn’t like you.”

I had to laugh. “How personal can you get?”

“That’s better. Now will you stop sweating this? It’s just another long shot. You know what legwork is like. We bet a lot of man-effort on this one because the odds looked good. Look how many organleggers would have to be in on it if it were true! We’d have a chance to snaffle them all. But if it doesn’t work out, why sweat it?”

“The second Freezer Bill,” I said, as if he didn’t know.

“The Will of the People be done.”

“Censor the people! They’re murdering those dead men!”

Garner’s face twitched oddly. I said, “What’s slimy?” He let the laugh out. It sounded like a chicken screaming for ‘help. “Censor. Bleep. They didn’t used to be swear words. They were euphemisms. You’d put them in a book or on teevee, when you wanted a word they wouldn’t let you use.”

I shrugged. “Words are funny. Damn used to be a technical term in theology, if you want to look at it that way.”

“1 know, but they sound funny. When you start saying bleep and censored it ruins your masculine image.”

“Censor my masculine image. What do we do about the corpsicle heirs? Call off the surveillance?”

“No. There’s too much in the pot already.” Garner looked broodingly into one bare wall of my office. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could persuade ten billion people to use prosthetics instead of transplants?”

Guilt glowed in my right arm, my left eye. I said, “Prosthetics don’t feel. I might have settled for a prosthetic arm—” Dammit, I’d had the choice! “—but an eye? Luke, suppose it was possible to graft new legs on you. Would you take them?”

“Oh, dear, I do wish you hadn’t asked me that,” he said venomously.

“Sorry. I withdraw the question.”

He brooded. It was a lousy thing to ask a man. He was still stuck with it; he couldn’t spit it out.

I asked, “Did you have any special reason for dropping in?”

Luke shook himself. “Yah. I got the impression you were taking all this as a personal defeat. I stopped down to cheer you up.”

We laughed at each other. “Listen,” he said, “there are worse things than the organ bank problem. When I was young—your age, my child—it was almost impossible to get anyone convicted of a capital crime. Life sentences weren’t for life. Psychology and psychiatry, such as they were, were concerned with curing criminals, re-

turning them to society. The United States Supreme Court almost voted the death penalty unconstitutional.”

“Sounds wonderful. How did it work out?” -

“We had an impressive reign of terror. A lot of people got killed. Meanwhile transplant techniques were getting better and better. Eventually Vermont made the organ banks the official means of execution. That idea spread very damn fast.”

“Yah.” I remembered history courses.

“Now we don’t even have prisons. The organ banks are always short. As soon as the UN votes the death penalty for a crime, most people stop committing it. Naturally.”

“So we get the death penalty for having children without a license, or cheating on income tax, or running too many red traffic lights. Luke, I’ve seen what it does to people to keep voting more and more death penalties. They lose their respect for life.”

“But the other situation was just as bad, Gil. Don’t forget it.”

“So now we’ve got the death penalty for being poor.”

“The Freezer Law? I won’t defend it. Except that that’s the penalty for being poor and dead.”

“Should it be a capital crime?”

“No, but it’s not too bright either. If a man expects to be brought back to life, he should be prepared to pay the medical fees. Now, hold it. I know a lot of the pauper group had trust funds set up. They were wiped out by depressions, bad investments. Why the hell do you think banks take interest for a loan? They’re being paid for the risk. The risk that the loan won’t be paid back.”

“Did you vote for the Freezer Law?”

“No, of course not.”

“I must be spoiling for a fight. Fm glad you dropped by, Luke.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I keep thinking the ten billion voters will eventually work their way down to me. Go ahead, grin. Who’d want your liver?”

Garner cackled. “Somebody could murder me for my skeleton. Not to put inside him. For a museum.”

We left it at that.

The news broke a couple of days later. Several North American hospitals had been reviving corpsicles.

How they had kept the secret was a mystery. Those corpsicles who had survived the treatment—twenty-two of them, out of thirty-five attempts—had been clinically alive for some ten months, conscious f or shorter periods.

For the next week it was all the news there was. Taffy and I Watched interviews with the dead men, with the doctors, with members of the Security Council. The move was not illegal. As publicity against the second Freezer Bill, it may have been a mistake.

All of the revived corpsicles had been insane. Else why risk it?

Some of the casualties had died because their insanity was caused by brain damage. The rest were—cured, but only in a biochemical sense. Each had been insane long enough for their doctors to decide that there was no hope. Now they were stranded in a foreign land, their homes forever lost in the mists of time. Revivification had saved them from an ugly, humiliating death at the hands of most of the human race, a fate that smacked of cannibalism and ghouls. The paranoids were hardly surprised. The rest reacted like paranoids.

In the boob ‘cube they came across as a bunch of frightened mental patients.

One night we watched a string of interviews in the big screen in Taffy’s bedroom wall. They weren’t well handled. Too much ‘How do you feel about the wonders of the present?’ when the poor boobs hadn’t come out of their shells long enough to know or care. Many wouldn’t believe anything they were told or shown. Others didn’t care about anything but space exploration—a largely Belter activity which Earth’s voting public tended to ignore. Too much of it was at the level of this last one: an interviewer explaining to a woman that a boob Cube was not a cube, that the word referred only to the three-dimensional effect. The poor woman was badly rattled and not too bright in the first place.

Taffy was sitting cross-legged on the bed, combing out her long, dark hair so that it flowed over her shoulders in shining curves. “She’s an early one,” she said critically. “There may have been oxygen starvation of the brain during freezing.” ‘

“That’s what you see. All the average citizen sees is the way she acts. She’s obviously not ready to join society.”

“Dammit, Gil, she’s alive. Shouldn’t that be miracle enough for anyone?”

“Maybe. Maybe the average voter liked her better the other way.”

Taffy brushed at her hair with angry vigor. “They’re alive.”

“I wonder if they revived Leviticus Hale.”

“Leviti—? Oh. Not at Saint John’s.” Taffy worked there. She’d know.

“I haven’t seen him in the cube. They should have revived him,” I said. “With that patriarchal visage he’d make a great impression. He might even try the Messiah bit. ‘Yea, brethren, I have returned from the dead to lead you—’ None of the others have tried that yet.”

“Good thing, too.” Her strokes slowed. “A lot of them died in the thawing process, and afterward. From cell wall ruptures.”

Ten minutes later I got up and used the phone. Taffy showed her amusement. “Is it that important?”

“Maybe not.” I dialled the Vault of Eternity in New Jersey. I knew I’d be wondering until I did.

Mr. Restarick was on night watch. He seemed glad to’ see me. He’d have been glad to see anyone who would talk back. His clothes were the same mismatch of ancient styles, but they didn’t look as anachronistic now. The boob cube had been infested with corpsicles wearing approximations of their own styles.

Yes, he remembered me. Yes, Leviticus Hale was still in place. The hospitals had taken two of his wards, and both had survived, he told me proudly. The administrators had wanted Hale too; they’d liked his looks and his publicity value, dating as ‘he did from the last century but one. But they hadn’t been able to get permission from the next of kin.

Taffy watched me watching a blank phone screen. “What’s wrong?”

“The Chambers kid. Remember Holden Chambers, the corpsicle heir? He lied to me. He refused permission for the hospitals to revive Leviticus Hale. A year ago.”

“Oh.” She thought it over, then reacted with a charity

typical of her. “It’s a lot of money just for not signing a paper.”

The cube was showing an old flick, a remake of a Shakespeare play. We turned it to landscape and went to sleep.

I back away, back away. The composite ghost comes near, using somebody’s arm and somebody’s eye and Loren’s pleural cavity containing somebody’s heart and somebody’s lung and somebody’s other lung and I can feel it all inside him. Horrible. I reach deeper. Somebody’s heart leaps like a fish in my hand.

Taffy found me in the kitchen making hot chocolate. For two. I know damn well she can’t sleep when I’m restless. She said, “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“Because it’s ugly.”

“I think you’d better tell me.” She came into my arms, rubbed her cheek against mine.

I said to her ear, “Get the poison out of my system? Sure, and into yours.”

“All right.” I could take it either way.

The chocolate was ready. I disengaged myself and poured it, added meagre splashes of bourbon. She sipped reflectively. She said, “Is it always Loren?”

“Yah. Damn him.”

“Never—this one you’re after now.”

“Anubis? I never dealt with him. He was Bera’s assignment. Anyway, he retired before I was properly trained. Gave his territory to Loren. The market in stuff was so bad that Loren had to double his territory just to keep going.” I was talking too much. I ,was desperate to talk to someone, to get back my grip on reality.

“What did they do, flip a coin?”

“For what? Oh. No, there was never a question about who was going to retire. Loren was a sick man. It must have been why he went into the business. He needed the supply of transplants. And he couldn’t get out because he needed constant shots. His rejection spectrum must have been .a bad joke. Anubis was different.”

She sipped at her chocolate. She shouldn’t have to know this, but I couldn’t stop talking. “Anubis changed body parts at whim. We’ll never get him. He probably made himself over completely when he … retired.”

Taffy touched my shoulder. “Let’s go back to bed.”

“All right.” But my own voice ran on in my head. His

only problem was the money. How could he hide a fortune that size? And the new identity. A new personality

with lots of conspicuous money and, he tried to live somewhere else, a foreign accent too. But there’s less privacy here, and he’s known … I sipped the chocolate, watching the landscape in the boob cube.

What could he do to make a new identity convincing?

The landscape scene was night on some mountaintop, bare tumbled rock backed by churning clouds. Restful.

I thought of something ‘he could do.

I got out of bed and called Bera.

Taffy watched me in amazement. “It’s three in the morning,” she pointed out.

“I know.”

~Lila Bera was sleepy and naked and ready to kill someone. Me. She said, “Gil, it better be good.”

“It’s good. Tell Jackson I can locate Anubis.” Bera popped up beside her, demanded, “Where?” His hair was miraculously intact, a puffy black dandelion ready to blow. He was squint-eyed and grimacing with sleep, and as naked as… as I was, come to that. This thing superseded good manners.

I told him where Anubis was.

I had his attention then. I talked fast, sketching in the intermediate steps. “Does it sound reasonable? I can’t tell. It’s three in the morning. I may not be thinking straight.”

Bera ran both hands through his hair, a swift, violent gesture that left hi’s natural in shreds. “Why didn’t I think of that? Why didn’t anyone think of that?”

“The waste. When the stuff from one condemned axe murderer can ‘save a dozen lives, it just doesn’t occur to you—,’

“Right right right. Skip that. What do we do?”

“Alert Headquarters. Then call Holden Chambers. I may be able to tell just by talking to him. Otherwise we’ll have to go over.”

“Yah.” Bera grinned through the pain of interrupted ‘sleep. “He’s not going to like being called at three in the morning.”

The white-haired man informed me that Holden Chambers was not to be disturbed. He was reaching for a (mythical) cutoff switch when I said, “ARM business, life and death,” and displayed my ARM ident. He nodded and put me on hold.

Very convincing. But he’d gone through some of the same motions every time I’d called.

Chambers appeared, wearing a badly wrinkled cloth sleeping jacket. He backed up a few feet (wary of ghostly intrusions?) and sat down on the uneasy edge of a water bed. He rubbed his eyes and said, “Censor it, I was up past midnight studying. What now?”

“You’re in danger. Immediate danger. Don’t panic, but don’t go back to bed either. We’re coming over.”

“You’re kidding.” He studied my face in the phone screen. “You’re not, are you? A-a-all right, I’ll put some clothes on. What kind of danger?”

“I can’t tell you that. Don’t go anywhere.”

I called Bera back.

He met me in the lobby. We used his taxi. An ARM ident in the credit slot turns any cab into a police car. Bera said, “Couldn’t you tell?”

“No, he was too far back. I had to say something, so I warned him not to go anywhere.” -

“I wonder if that was a good ‘idea.”

“It doesn’t matter. Anubis only has about fifteen minutes to act, and even then we could follow him.”

There was no immediate answer to our ring. Maybe he was surprised to see us outside his door. Ordinarily you can’t get into the parking roof elevator unless a tenant lets you in; but an ARM ident unlocks most locks.

Bera’s patience snapped. “I think he’s gone. We’d better call—”

Chambers opened the door. “All right, what’s it all about? Come—” He saw our guns.

Bera hit the door hard and branched right; I branched left. Those tiny apartments don’t have many places to hide. The water bed was gone, replaced by an L-shaped couch and coffee table. There was nothing behind the couch. I covered the bathroom while Bera kicked the door open. -

Nobody here but us. Chambers lost his astonished look, smiled and clapped for us. I bowed.

“You must have been serious,” he said. “What kind of danger? Couldn’t it have waited for morning?”

“Yah, but I couldn’t have slept,” I said, coming toward him. “I’m going to owe you a big fat apology it this doesn’t work out.”

He backed away.

“Hold still. This will only take a second.” I advanced on him. Bera was behind him now. ‘He hadn’t hurried. His long legs give him deceptive speed.

Chambers backed away, backed away, backed into Bera and squeaked in surprise. He -dithered, then made ~a break for the bathroom.

Bera reached out, wrapped one arm around Chambers’ waist and pinned his arms with the other. Chambers struggled like a~ madman. I stepped wide around them, moved in sideways to avoid Chambers’ thrashing legs, reached out to touch his face with my imaginary hand.

He froze. Then he screamed.

“That’s what you were afraid of,” I told him. “You never dreamed I could reach through a phone screen to do this.” I reached into his head, felt smooth muscle and grainy bone and sinus cavities like bubbles. He tossed his head, but my hand went with it. I ran imaginary fingertips along the smooth inner surface of ‘his skull. It was there. A ridge of scar, barely raised above the rest of the bone, too fine for X-rays. It ran in a closed curve from the base of his skull up through the temples to intersect his eye sockets.

“It’s him,” I said.

Bera screamed in his ear. “You pig!”

‘Anubis went limp.

“I can’t find a joining at the brain stem. They must have transplanted the spinal cord too: the whole central nervous system.” I. found scars along the vertebrae. “That’s what they did, all right.”

Anubis spoke almost casually, as if ‘he’d lost a chess game. “All right, that’s a gotcha. I concede. Let’s sit down.”

“Sure.” Bera threw him at the couch. He hit it, more

or less. ‘ He adjusted’ himself, looking astonished at Bera’s bad behaviour. What was the man so excited about?

Bera told him. “You pig. Coring him like that, making a vehicle out of the poor bastard. We never thought of a brain transplant.”

“It’s a wonder I thought of it myself. The stuff from one donor is worth over a million marks in surgery charges. Why should anyone use a whole donor for one transplant? But once I thought of it, it made all kinds of sense. The stuff wasn’t selling anyway.”

Funny: they both talked as if they’d known each other a long time. There aren’t many people an organlegger will regard as people, but an ARM is one of them. We’re organleggers too, in a sense.

Bera was holding a sonic on him. Anubis ignored it. He said, “The only problem was the money.”

“Then you thought of the corpsicle heirs,” I said.

“Yah. I went looking for a rich corpsicle with a young, healthy direct-line heir. Leviticus Hale seemed made for the part. He was the first one I noticed.”

“He’s pretty noticeable, isn’t he? A healthy middle-aged man sleeping there among all those battered accident cases. Only two heirs, both orphans, one kind of introverted, the other… What did you do to Charlotte?”

“Charlotte Chambers? We drove her mad. We had to. She was the only one who’d notice if Holden Chambers suddenly got too different.”

“What did you do to her?”

“We made a wirehead out of her.”

“The hell. Someone would have noticed the contact in her scalp.”

“No, no, no. We used one of those helmets you find in the ecstasy shops. It stimulates a current in the pleasure center of the brain, by induction, so a customer can try it out before the peddler actually drops the wire into his brain. We kept her in the helmet for nine days, on full. When we stopped the current, she just wasn’t interested in anything anymore.”

“How did you know it would work?”

“Oh, we tried it out on a few prospects. It worked fine. It didn’t hurt them after they were broken up.”

“Okay.” I went to the phone and dialled ARM Headquarters.

“It solved the money problem beautifully,” he ran on. “I plowed most of it into advertising charges. And there’s nothing suspicious about ~Leviticus Hale’s money. When the second Freezer Bill goes through—well, I guess not. Not now. Unless—”

“No,” Bera said for both of us.

I told the man on duty where we were, and to stop monitoring the tracers, and to call in the operatives watching corpsicle heirs. Then I hung up.

“I. spent six months studying Chambers’ college courses. I didn’t want to blow his career. Six months! Answer me one,” said Anubis, curiously anxious. “Where did I go wrong? What gave me away?”

“You were beautiful,” I told him wearily. “You never went out of character. You should have been an actor. Would have been safer, too. We didn’t suspect anything until—” I looked at my watch.. “Forty-five minutes ago.”

“Censored dammit! You would say that. When I saw you looking at me in Midgard I thought that was it. That floating cigarette. You’d got Loren, now you were after me.”

I couldn’t help it. I roared. Anubis sat there, taking it. He was beginning to blush.

They were shouting something, something I couldn’t make out. Something with a beat. DAdadadaDAdadada…

There was just room for me and Jackson Bera and Luke Garner’s travel chair on the tiny balcony outside Garner’s office. Far below, the marchers flowed past the ARM building in half orderly procession. Teams of them carried huge banners. LET THEM STAY DEAD, one suggested, and another in small print: why not revive them a bit at a time? FOR YOUR FATHER’S ~ a third said with deadly logic.

They were roped off from the spectators, roped off into a column down the middle of Wilshire. The spectators were even thicker. It looked like all of Los Angeles had turned out to watch. Some of them carried placards

too. THEY WANT TO LIVE TOO, and ARE YOU A FREEZER VAULT HEIR?

“What is it they’re shouting?” Bera wondered. “It’s not the marchers, it’s the spectators. They’re drowning out the marchers.”

DAdadadaDAdadadaDAdadada, it rippled up to us on stray wind currents. -

“We could see it better inside, in the boob cube,” Garner said without moving. What held us was a metaphysical force, the knowledge that one is there, a witness.

Abruptly Garner asked, “How’s Charlotte Chambers?”

“I don’t know.” I didn’t want to talk about it. “Didn’t you call Menninger Institute this morning?” “I mean I don’t know how to take it. They’ve done a wirehead operation on her. They’re giving her just enough current to keep her interested. It’s working, I mean she’s talking to people, but…”

“It’s got to be better than being catatonic,” Bera said. “Does it? There’s no way to turn off a wirehead.

She’ll have to go through life with a battery under her hat. When she comes back far enough into the real world, she’ll find a way to boost the current and bug right out again.”

“Think of her as walking wounded.” Bern shrugged, shifting an invisible weight on his shoulders. “There isn’t any good answer. She’s been hurt, man!”

“There’s more to it ‘than that,” said Luke Garner.

“We need to know if she can be cured. There are more wireheads every day. It’s a new vice. We need to learn how to control it. What the bleep is happening down there?”

The bystanders were surging against the ropes. Suddenly they were through in a dozen places, converging on the marchers. It was a swirling mob scene. They were~ still chanting, and suddenly I caught it.

ORganleggersORganleggersORganleggers. . “That’s it!” Bera shouted in pleased surprise. “Annbis is getting too much publicity, It’s good versus evil!”

The rioters started to collapse in curved ribbon patterns. Copters overhead were spraying them with sonic stun cannon.

Bera said, “They’ll never pass the second Freezer Bill now.”

Never is a long time to Luke Gamer. He said, “Not

this time, anyway. We ought to start thinking about that.

A lot of people have been applying for operations.

There’s quite a waiting list. When the second Freezer

Bill fails—”

I saw it. “They’ll start going to organleggers. We can keep track of them. Tracers.”

“That’s what I had in mind.” ‘