silence. It was as if the girl had suddenly disintegrated.
“I’m counting to twenty,” he shouted, being now unable to hear the voice he used and not knowing if she heard it either. “If you are not back with some very convincing information by then, I’m going to blow. This I swear.”
He began to count to himself. One, two, three, four, five …
She came back at seventeen.
There was light; and he saw her black hair, her pale face, her golden tunic.
“It has been decided that you shall have the relevant facts. We hope that you will be able to accept them. You died approximately five thousand three hundred and seventy Earth-years ago, in the manner you recall. Your vessel, the
Dag Hammarskjold
was reduced to a derelict hulk by three major explosions which we can only assume were caused by people who wished to destroy it and its occupants. The wrecked vessel drifted beyond Mars orbit, even beyond the orbit of Pluto. It settled into an eccentric orbit more than six billion Earth miles from the sun. That is where we found it. By an extraordinary freak of fate, the top half of your body remained frozen and sealed perfectly in vacuum. Even more remarkable was the fact that brain damage was negligible. So you will understand that—”
“That I am nothing but a colony of cells in a life-support system.” He was amazed at how calm his synthetic voice sounded. He was amazed that he was not hysterical, that he did not weep, that he did not utter a great scream of horror.
“Is that not what every living creature is?” she countered.
“Good for you. Score one … The story becomes interesting. I like it. Five thousand three hundred and seventy years … Hey, maybe that’s a record! Tell me it’s a record. Then we can break open a case of booze and celebrate. Sorry, I forgot. I have no mouth … Now, let’s shoot for the big one. Where am I—woman whose lips I shall never touch, whose tits I shall never fondle—where have you and your unseen friends chosen to perform the resurrection-and-the-life trick?”
“You are on the tenth solar planet, Minerva. Captain Hamilton, do not be cynical. Many courageous and dedicated people have worked hard to restore you to consciousness and to give you the means of communication. Here is one of them.”
Another person came into his area of vision. An old man with white hair.
“Greetings, Idris Hamilton. I am your psycho-surgeon and you have been my life’s work. When you were brought to Minerva—no more than a handful of desiccated tissue—I was a young man. I dreamed the impossible dream. I dreamed of restoring you to full consciousness. I have spent my life to that end. It has been a long, hard task. There were many disappointments, many set-backs. It is strange, is it not, that a man should devote his life to bringing another man back from the dead? The ethical problems involved are insoluble. If I have done wrong, forgive me. I can only say that the project seemed worthwhile.”
Idris was silent for a while. Silent and humble. He tried to comprehend the immensity of nearly fifty-four centuries. He could not. He tried to visualize a young man who would devote decades of his own life to the task of establishing contact with the five-thousand-years-old brain of a dead spaceman.
At length, he said: “Sir, I am grateful. I am also angry, humiliated, horrified. My existence now is nightmarish, grotesque. Surely, you can understand that?”
The old man nodded. “It will not always be so. I ask you to be patient, to give us a little more time. If you stillbelieve that we have been wrong, that we have violated your right to oblivion, the project can be terminated.”
Idris laughed. “An interesting situation! The brain you have spent your life resurrecting is granted the right to suicide. But what if I am morally incapable of suicide? What if I simply continue to endure in anguish or madness. Have you the guts to murder me?”
The old man sighed. “We have considered
“I’m counting to twenty,” he shouted, being now unable to hear the voice he used and not knowing if she heard it either. “If you are not back with some very convincing information by then, I’m going to blow. This I swear.”
He began to count to himself. One, two, three, four, five …
She came back at seventeen.
There was light; and he saw her black hair, her pale face, her golden tunic.
“It has been decided that you shall have the relevant facts. We hope that you will be able to accept them. You died approximately five thousand three hundred and seventy Earth-years ago, in the manner you recall. Your vessel, the
Dag Hammarskjold
was reduced to a derelict hulk by three major explosions which we can only assume were caused by people who wished to destroy it and its occupants. The wrecked vessel drifted beyond Mars orbit, even beyond the orbit of Pluto. It settled into an eccentric orbit more than six billion Earth miles from the sun. That is where we found it. By an extraordinary freak of fate, the top half of your body remained frozen and sealed perfectly in vacuum. Even more remarkable was the fact that brain damage was negligible. So you will understand that—”
“That I am nothing but a colony of cells in a life-support system.” He was amazed at how calm his synthetic voice sounded. He was amazed that he was not hysterical, that he did not weep, that he did not utter a great scream of horror.
“Is that not what every living creature is?” she countered.
“Good for you. Score one … The story becomes interesting. I like it. Five thousand three hundred and seventy years … Hey, maybe that’s a record! Tell me it’s a record. Then we can break open a case of booze and celebrate. Sorry, I forgot. I have no mouth … Now, let’s shoot for the big one. Where am I—woman whose lips I shall never touch, whose tits I shall never fondle—where have you and your unseen friends chosen to perform the resurrection-and-the-life trick?”
“You are on the tenth solar planet, Minerva. Captain Hamilton, do not be cynical. Many courageous and dedicated people have worked hard to restore you to consciousness and to give you the means of communication. Here is one of them.”
Another person came into his area of vision. An old man with white hair.
“Greetings, Idris Hamilton. I am your psycho-surgeon and you have been my life’s work. When you were brought to Minerva—no more than a handful of desiccated tissue—I was a young man. I dreamed the impossible dream. I dreamed of restoring you to full consciousness. I have spent my life to that end. It has been a long, hard task. There were many disappointments, many set-backs. It is strange, is it not, that a man should devote his life to bringing another man back from the dead? The ethical problems involved are insoluble. If I have done wrong, forgive me. I can only say that the project seemed worthwhile.”
Idris was silent for a while. Silent and humble. He tried to comprehend the immensity of nearly fifty-four centuries. He could not. He tried to visualize a young man who would devote decades of his own life to the task of establishing contact with the five-thousand-years-old brain of a dead spaceman.
At length, he said: “Sir, I am grateful. I am also angry, humiliated, horrified. My existence now is nightmarish, grotesque. Surely, you can understand that?”
The old man nodded. “It will not always be so. I ask you to be patient, to give us a little more time. If you stillbelieve that we have been wrong, that we have violated your right to oblivion, the project can be terminated.”
Idris laughed. “An interesting situation! The brain you have spent your life resurrecting is granted the right to suicide. But what if I am morally incapable of suicide? What if I simply continue to endure in anguish or madness. Have you the guts to murder me?”
The old man sighed. “We have considered
Similar Books
