Zelazny, Roger - Novel 05 by Today We Choose Faces

was nothing wrong with me, why
should I rest?
                   And I was unable to rest, of course. How could
I? I had just been murdered.
                   I was quite frightened and very puzzled. How
could anyone do such a thing? And, as an afterthought, why should they?
                   As I lay there, surrounded by antiseptic
whiteness, alternately perspiring and shivering, I knew that I had to go, I
wanted to go, to see what had been done to me, to cover it over quickly. But I
also experienced a tremendous revulsion and physical fear of the sight, the
evidence of the act. This occupied me for a long while, and I made no effort to
depart. I was sufficiently rational to realize that I would be useless until
these initial feelings had eased.
                   So I rode with them, forced myself to think
about them. Murder. It was virtually unheard of these days. I could not recall
when last a murder had been committed, anywhere, and I was in a better position
than most to be aware of such matters. Early conditioning and plenty of
violence-aggression surrogation had a lot to do with it, as well as
considerable medical expertise when it came to patching up the victim of a
pathological outburst. But a cool, premeditated killing, such as mine had been
... No, it had been an awfully long while. Some more cynical ghost of an
earlier self whispered in my ear that it just might be that the real cool,
premeditated ones were so well done that they did not even look like murder. I
quickly banished him to the oblivion he had earned long ago. Or so I thought.
With the quality of information maintained on everyone in the House, it was next
to impossible.
                   It was especially unfortunate that it had to
be me. I was now required to do what I had just dismissed as inconceivable in
another. That is, find a way of concealing the fact that it had occurred. But
after all, I was a special case. I did not really count—
                   The chuckle unnerved me, coming as it did from
my own throat.
                   "Well said, old mole!" I decided
within me. "I suppose there is a certain element of irony involved."
                   Crap! You have no sense of humor at all,
Langet
                   "I appreciate the incongruity of my
position. But I do not consider murder a laughing matter."
                   Not when we are the victim, eh?
                   "You employ the wrong pronoun.”
                   No, but have it your way. You are as
red-handed as any.
                   "I am not a killer! I have never murdered
anyone!"
                   I suppressed the beginnings of another
chuckle.
                   What about suicide? What about me?
                   "A man has the right to do as he would
with himself! You? You are nothing! You do not even exist!"
                   Then why are you so disturbed? Psychotic,
perhaps? No, Lange. I am real. You killed me. You murdered me.
                   But I am real. And there will come a time when
I will be resurrected. By your own hand.
                   "Never!"
                   It will be because you will need me. Soon!
                   Choking with fury, I rebanished my sire to his
well-deserved limbo.
                   For several moments I cursed the fact that I
was what I was, realizing simultaneously that this, too, was a pathological
outburst brought about by the death-trauma. Before very long, it passed. I knew
that so long as people remained people, it was necessary that I endure, in
whatever form the day required.
                   We should be waiting for me to move. I knew
that, too. Waiting and covering. The longer it took me to act, the more
difficult things could become in the normal course of human surveillance. We
all knew that, but