"Yes sir," Herb said to him, with an affable smile. "I'll take your stub personally."
"It's an elderly lady," the customer said. "About eighty, very small and wizened. I didn't want just to talk to her; I wanted to take her out for a while." He explained, "My grandmother."
"Only a moment," Herb said, and went back into the bin to search out number 3054039-B.
When he located the correct party he scrutinized the lading report attached; it gave but fifteen days of half-life remaining. Automatically, he pressed a portable amplifier into the hull of the glass casket, tuned it, listened at the proper frequency for indication of cephalic activity.
Faintly from the speaker came, "…and then Tillie sprained her ankle and we never thought it'd heal; she was so foolish about it, wanting to start walking immediately…"
Satisfied, he unplugged the amplifier and located a union man to perform the actual task of carting 3054039-B to the loading platform, where the customer could place her in his 'copter or car.
"You checked her out?" the customer asked as he paid the money due.
"Personally," Herb answered. "Functioning perfectly." He smiled at the customer. "Happy Resurrection Day, Mr. Ford."
"Thank you," the customer said, starting off for the loading platform. When I pass, Herb said to himself, I think I'll will my heirs to revive me one day a century. That way I can observe the fate of all mankind. But that meant a rather high maintenance cost to the heirs, and no doubt sooner or later they would kick over the traces, have the body taken out of quick-pack and – God forbid – buried.
"Burial is barbaric," Herb murmured aloud. "Remnant of the primitive origins of our culture."
"Yes sir," his secretary Miss Beasman agreed, at her typewriter. In the bin, several customers communed with their half-lifer relations, in rapt quiet, distributed at intervals along the aisles which separated the caskets. It was a tranquil sight, these faithfuls, coming as they did so regularly, to pay homage. They brought messages, news of what took place in the outside world; they cheered the gloomy half-lifers in these intervals of cerebral activity. And – they paid Herb Schoenheit von Vogelsang; it was a profitable business, operating a mortuary.
"My dad seems a little frail," a young man said, catching Herb's attention. "I wonder if you could take a moment to check him over. I'd really appreciate
it."
'Certainly," Herb said, accompanying the customer down the aisle to his deceased relative. The lading report showed only a few days remaining; that explained the vitiated quality of cerebration. But still – he turned up the gain, and the voice from the half-lifer became a trifle stronger. He's almost at an end, Herb thought. It was obvious that the son did not want to see the lading, did not actually care to know that contact with his dad was diminishing, finally. So Herb said nothing; he merely walked off, leaving the son to commune. Why tell him? Why break the bad news?
A truck had now appeared at the loading platform, and two men hopped down from it, wearing familiar pale blue uniforms. Atlas Interplan Van and Storage, Herb realized. Delivering another half-lifer, or here to pick up one which had expired. He strolled toward them. "Yes, gentlemen," he said.
The driver of the truck leaned out and said, "We're here to deliver Mr. Louis Sarapis. Got room all ready?"
"Absolutely," Herb said at once. "But I can't get hold of Mr. St. Cyr to make arrangements for the schedule. When's he to be brought back?"
Another man, dark-haired, with shiny-button black eyes, emerged from the truck. "I'm John Barefoot. According to the terms of the will I'm in charge of Mr. Sarapis. He's to be brought back to life immediately; that's the instructions I'm charged with."
"I see," Herb said, nodding. "Well, that's fine. Bring him in and we'll plug him right in."
"It's cold, here," Barefoot said. "Worse than the auditorium."
"Well of course," Herb answered.
The crew from the van began wheeling the casket. Herb caught a glimpse of the dead man, the massive, gray face resembling something cast from a break-mold. Impressive old pirate, he thought. Good thing for us all he's dead finally, in spite of his charity work. Because who wants charity? Especially his. Of course, Herb did not say that to Barefoot; he contented himself with guiding the crew to the prearranged spot.
"I'll have him talking in fifteen minutes," he promised Barefoot, who looked tense. "Don't worry; we've had almost no failures at this stage; the initial residual charge is generally quite vital."
I suppose it's later," Barefoot said, "as it dims… then you have the technical problems."
"Why does he want to be brought back so soon?" Herb asked.
Barefoot scowled and did not answer.
"Sorry," Herb said, and continued tinkering with the wires which had to be seated perfectly to the cathode terminals of the casket. "At low temperatures," he murmured, "the flow of current is virtually unimpeded. There's no measurable resistance at minus 150. So -" He fitted the anode cap in place. "The signal should bounce out clear and strong." In conclusion, he clicked the amplifier on.
A hum. Nothing more.
"Well?" Barefoot said.
"I'll recheck," Herb said, wondering what had gone afoul.
"Listen," Barefoot said quietly, "if you slip up here and let the spark flicker out -" It was not necessary for him to finish; Herb knew.
"Is it the Democratic-Republican National Convention that he wants to participate in?" Herb asked. The Convention would be held later in the month, in Cleveland. In the past, Sarapis had been quite active in the behind-the-scenes activities at both the Democratic-Republican and the Liberal Party nominating conventions. It was said, in fact, that he had personally chosen the last Democratic-Republican Presidential candidate, Alfonse Gam. Tidy, handsome Gam had lost, but not by very much.
"Are you still getting nothing?" Barefoot asked.
"Um, it seems -" Herb said.
"Nothing. Obviously." Now Barefoot looked grim. "If you can't rouse him in another ten minutes I'll get hold of Claude St. Cyr and we'll take Louis out of your mortuary and lodge charges of negligence against you."
"I'm doing what I can," Herb said, perspiring as he fiddled with the leads to the casket. "We didn't perform the quick-pack installation, remember; there may have been a slip-up at that point."
Now static supervened over the steady hum.
"Is that him coming in?" Barefoot demanded.
"No," Herb admitted, thoroughly upset by now. It was, in fact, a bad sign.
"Keep trying," Barefoot said. But it was unnecessary to tell Herbert Schoenheit von Vogelsang that; he was struggling desperately, with all he had, with all his years of professional competence in this field. And still he achieved nothing; Louis Sarapis remained silent.
I'm not going to be successful, Herb realized in fear. I don't understand why, either. WHAT'S WRONG? A big client like this, and it has to get fouled up. He toiled on, not looking at Barefoot, not daring to.
At the radio telescope at Kennedy Slough, on the dark side of Luna, Chief Technician Owen Angress discovered that he had picked up a signal emanating from a region one light-week beyond the solar system in the direction of Proxima. Ordinarily such a region of space would have held little of interest for the U.N. Commission on Deep-Space Communications, but this, Owen Angress realized, was unique.
What reached him, thoroughly amplified by the great antennae of the radio telescope, was, faintly but clearly, a human voice.
"…probably let it slide by," the voice was declaring. "If I know them, and I believe I do. That Johnny; he'd revert without my keeping my eye on him, but at least he's not a crook like St. Cyr. I did right to fire St. Cyr. Assuming I can make it stick…" The voice faded momentarily.