existed, or even that there might be supplementary soul banks elsewhere, but both were logical enough. An implication struck him.
“If there are duplicates,” he said slowly, “then it should be possible to transplant one man’s persona into more than one recipient at the same time, yes? You could give Uncle Paul to Roditis, and Uncle Paul minus the last six months to someone else, and so on.”
“Technically possible. But wholly unethical and unlawful. We keep the reserves as reserves. They’ve never been used that way and never will.” Santoliquido looked agitated at the possibility. “Never.”
Kaufmann nodded. The intensity of Santoliquido’s reply unsettled him. He closed the casket and handed it back.
“Now do you believe he’s dead?” Santoliquido asked.
“Well, of course, I’ve got no evidence that the tape in this box has anything to do with Uncle Paul.”
“Would you like to sample it?”
“Me? Are you proposing a temporary transplant?”
“I’ll give you thirty seconds of Uncle Paul,” Santoliquido offered. “Just as if you were shopping for a new persona. Then you can decide for yourself whether he’s on that tape. Come along. In here.”
They entered a cubicle with dark translucent walls. It contained a reclining seat, a console of equipment, a row of jeweled scanners. Santoliquido removed the tape from the box and clipped it into the grips of one of the scanners. He beckoned Kaufmann to the reclining seat.
They were in a sampling booth now. This apparatus was used strictly for checking and testing. What Kaufmann would experience was not in any way a transplant, not even a temporary; Santoliquido was just going to tune him in on the recorded thought waves of his late uncle and let him swim in them for half a minute.
Kaufmann watched, chilled and apprehensive, as Santoliquido adjusted his scanners and placed cold electrodes against his forehead. The plump man looked somber too; he had already tasted this experience, thought Kaufmann, and obviously it had been no pleasure for him. An amber warning light went on. Santoliquido tugged at a knife-switch.
Mark Kaufmann winced as his uncle came flooding into his brain.
It was a torrent, an avalanche, a cascade. Uncle Paul swept through his synapses with violent impact. A tide of raw sensuality came first; then a sudden stab of gastric pain; then a set of precise, instantaneous, all-encompassing calculations for the purchase, lease-back, and depreciation of a four-square-mile area in Shanghai’s northern suburbs. On top of that came an overlay of family scheming, a nest of intricate and poisonous interpretations of taut relationships. In the first ten seconds of contact with his uncle’s soul, Kaufmann thought his mind would burn out. In the second ten seconds he struggled for equilibrium like a man caught in rough surf and dashed again and again to the sand. In the third ten seconds he found that equilibrium, gaining purchase of sorts and discovering a strength within himself that he had not suspected. He realized that he could meet his dead uncle as an equal. The old man had the advantage of greater age, but not really of greater force; the Kaufmann genes had traveled from uncle to nephew in a knight’s move of inheritance, and for all the unshackled power of Paul’s furious mind, Mark knew that he could handle it indefinitely, if he had to.
The contact broke.
Kaufmann’s eyes opened. He slipped the electrodes free and put his hands to his temples. Phantom calculations danced through his skull—the old man’s arbitrage schemes, realty enterprises, testamentary codicils, percentage plans, all whirled together in a wild dance of dollars.
“Well?” Santoliquido asked. “Do you know your uncle better now?”
“The ruthless old bastard!” Kaufmann said in admiration. “The wonderful pirate! What a tragedy that he’s gone!”
“He’ll be back.”
“Yes. Yes.” Kaufmann clutched the arms of the chair. “I’d give
“If there are duplicates,” he said slowly, “then it should be possible to transplant one man’s persona into more than one recipient at the same time, yes? You could give Uncle Paul to Roditis, and Uncle Paul minus the last six months to someone else, and so on.”
“Technically possible. But wholly unethical and unlawful. We keep the reserves as reserves. They’ve never been used that way and never will.” Santoliquido looked agitated at the possibility. “Never.”
Kaufmann nodded. The intensity of Santoliquido’s reply unsettled him. He closed the casket and handed it back.
“Now do you believe he’s dead?” Santoliquido asked.
“Well, of course, I’ve got no evidence that the tape in this box has anything to do with Uncle Paul.”
“Would you like to sample it?”
“Me? Are you proposing a temporary transplant?”
“I’ll give you thirty seconds of Uncle Paul,” Santoliquido offered. “Just as if you were shopping for a new persona. Then you can decide for yourself whether he’s on that tape. Come along. In here.”
They entered a cubicle with dark translucent walls. It contained a reclining seat, a console of equipment, a row of jeweled scanners. Santoliquido removed the tape from the box and clipped it into the grips of one of the scanners. He beckoned Kaufmann to the reclining seat.
They were in a sampling booth now. This apparatus was used strictly for checking and testing. What Kaufmann would experience was not in any way a transplant, not even a temporary; Santoliquido was just going to tune him in on the recorded thought waves of his late uncle and let him swim in them for half a minute.
Kaufmann watched, chilled and apprehensive, as Santoliquido adjusted his scanners and placed cold electrodes against his forehead. The plump man looked somber too; he had already tasted this experience, thought Kaufmann, and obviously it had been no pleasure for him. An amber warning light went on. Santoliquido tugged at a knife-switch.
Mark Kaufmann winced as his uncle came flooding into his brain.
It was a torrent, an avalanche, a cascade. Uncle Paul swept through his synapses with violent impact. A tide of raw sensuality came first; then a sudden stab of gastric pain; then a set of precise, instantaneous, all-encompassing calculations for the purchase, lease-back, and depreciation of a four-square-mile area in Shanghai’s northern suburbs. On top of that came an overlay of family scheming, a nest of intricate and poisonous interpretations of taut relationships. In the first ten seconds of contact with his uncle’s soul, Kaufmann thought his mind would burn out. In the second ten seconds he struggled for equilibrium like a man caught in rough surf and dashed again and again to the sand. In the third ten seconds he found that equilibrium, gaining purchase of sorts and discovering a strength within himself that he had not suspected. He realized that he could meet his dead uncle as an equal. The old man had the advantage of greater age, but not really of greater force; the Kaufmann genes had traveled from uncle to nephew in a knight’s move of inheritance, and for all the unshackled power of Paul’s furious mind, Mark knew that he could handle it indefinitely, if he had to.
The contact broke.
Kaufmann’s eyes opened. He slipped the electrodes free and put his hands to his temples. Phantom calculations danced through his skull—the old man’s arbitrage schemes, realty enterprises, testamentary codicils, percentage plans, all whirled together in a wild dance of dollars.
“Well?” Santoliquido asked. “Do you know your uncle better now?”
“The ruthless old bastard!” Kaufmann said in admiration. “The wonderful pirate! What a tragedy that he’s gone!”
“He’ll be back.”
“Yes. Yes.” Kaufmann clutched the arms of the chair. “I’d give
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