Seconds by David Ely Page A

they don’t want to waste time, because you’re supposed to be found dead tonight.”
    Wilson sat up.
    â€œThe cadaver, of course,” she added, gently poking his chest to make him lie down.
    He remained sitting and took the thermometer from his mouth. “I understand that. But you said that’s the first stage. Is there a second, then?”
    â€œYou’re not worried, are you?”
    â€œNo, I just want to know.”
    â€œAren’t you feeling drowsy?”
    â€œNot a bit. Would you mind telling me—”
    â€œWell, all right. I must say you’re a sensitive type, though, Mr. Wilson.” She clucked at him again. “The second stage is cosmetic, naturally.”
    â€œI don’t quite grasp—”
    â€œCosmetic. You can’t go out into the world looking the way you do, you know. You’d be recognized at once.”
    Wilson sank back. “Of course,” he muttered.
    â€œBelieve me, Mr. Wilson, you’ll be amazed by what a little change here and there can do for a man. You’ll feel younger—and you’ll look younger, too. And that’ll mean you’ll be younger,” she went on, soothing him with little pats on the forehead as he lay staring up at the ceiling. “Don’t you want to be younger? Goodness, I wouldn’t mind a little tinkering like that myself, one of these days. You can just thank your lucky stars you can afford all of this. Not that you aren’t a fine-looking gentleman as it is, Mr. Wilson, but even the best of us can stand a weeny bit of improvement now and then . . .”
    Her voice was gentle and chatty, but it did not completely set his mind at ease. It occurred to him that it had been confoundedly unfair of Charley not to have mentioned this right away. But then, why hadn’t he thought of it himself before this? It was obvious enough.
    â€œLook here,” he said, interrupting the woman, “don’t I get a chance to, um, approve the . . . the final version, beforehand?”
    â€œWell, we used to do that, but we found that our clients could never really come to a decision. They kept adding a little here and wanting to take a wrinkle out there, and, really, it was a terrible nuisance, and so we dropped that feature.”
    â€œI’m not at all sure I like the idea.”
    â€œMr. Wilson, we aren’t going to have a little problem with you, are we now?” She shook her forefinger at him playfully, and Wilson was again impressed with the company’s slyness in assigning a woman to deal with him. As a gentleman, he could hardly make a violent protest in her presence, and besides, the idea of being given a more youthful appearance somewhat intrigued him, especially since it had been urged on him by a woman who was by no means unattractive; which, he assumed further, was still another evidence of the craftiness of the company, in placing this phase of his processing in the hands of a female.
    Nevertheless, his expression remained quite worried, and the woman regarded him anxiously.
    â€œDon’t you feel a little sleepy now?”
    â€œNo, I don’t think so.”
    â€œYou should, you know. From the pills. Goodness, Mr. Wilson,” she said, placing her hands on her hips and frowning down at him, “we can’t have you trundled off to Delivery all nervous like this.”
    â€œI’ll be all right.”
    â€œWe can’t take any chances on that. After all, it’s my responsibility. Well,” she added, rising from the chair beside the bed and going toward the bathroom, “we’ll just have to give you something more, to calm you down.”
    â€œReally—” Wilson began, but she had gone into the bathroom and had closed the door behind her. He sighed, and feeling in reality somewhat drowsy, turned over on his side, facing the wall, closed his eyes and waited for sleep to come, wondering indolently whether he would