To Live Again by 
Robert Silverberg 
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This novel is fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are prod-ucts of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to 
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© 1999 by Billy Tackett 
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For Damon and Kate Knight 
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Table of Contents 
CHAPTER PAGE 
1............................................................................... 11 
2............................................................................... 23 
3............................................................................... 39 
4............................................................................... 49 
5............................................................................... 67 
6............................................................................... 85 
7............................................................................. 101 
8............................................................................. 119 
9............................................................................. 137 
10 ............................................................................ 151 
11 ............................................................................ 169 
12 ............................................................................ 183 
13 ............................................................................ 203 
14 ............................................................................ 223 
15 ............................................................................ 237 
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10 
There is therefore but one comfort left, that though it be in the power of the weakest arm to take away life, it is not in the strongest to deprive 
us of death: God would not exempt himself from that; the misery of immortality in the flesh he undertook not, that was in it immortal. 
Sir Thomas Browne: Religio Medici 

Chapter 1 The lamasery rose steeply from the top of the bluff on the Marin 
County side of the Golden Gate. Feeling a faint cramp in his left 
calf, John Roditis got out of the car near the toll plaza and, stretch-ing 
and kicking, looked across the water at the gleaming yellow 
building, windowless, sleek, ineffably holy as a fountainhead of 
good karma. It was an extraordinarily warm day. San Francisco 
had been gripped by an unaccustomed heat wave throughout 
the four days of Roditis' visit. Hot weather in the psychological 
sense did not trouble Roditis; he thrived on it, in fact. But when 
heat came to him not as a function of metaphor but as a blazing 
golden eye staring from above, he longed to switch on the air 
conditioner. 
There was no way for him to change the outdoor environment 
to that degree. At least, not yet. Given enough minds in one skull, 
though, who was to say what limits a man might have? 
Roditis gestured at the lamasery. "I hope it's cooler in there, 
eh?" 
"It will be," Charles Noyes said. "The guru is cool." 
Roditis scowled at his associate's pun. "Still infested with the 
antique slang?" 
"Not me. It'sÑ Kravchenko." As he spoke the name of the per-sona 
who shared his body, Noyes' grin turned to a grimace, and 
he clung to the polished railing just before him. His long body 
sagged. His elbows trembled and beat against his ribs. "Damn 
him! Damn him!" Noyes grunted. 
"Have him erased," Roditis suggested. 
11 
12 To Live Again 
"You know I can't!" 
"When an unruly persona threatens the integrity of the host, 
he ought to be expelled," said Roditis crisply. "If Kozak made 
trouble for me I'd throw him out in a minute, and he knows it. 
Or Walsh. Either of them. I can't afford to have a troublemaker 
in my head. Can you?" 
"Stop it, John." 
"I'm just talking common sense." 
"Kravchenko doesn't like it. He's giving me a hard time." 
Noyes' arm came up from the railing in a fitful jerk. 
"He's fighting me. He's trying to speak." 
"You won't be satisfied," said Roditis, "until he goes dybbuk on 
you. Throws you out of your own body." 
"I'd kill him and me both first!" 
Roditis scowled. "You're becoming an unstable bastard, you 
realize it? If I weren't so fond of you I'd let you go. Come on: into 
the car. Mustn't keep the cool guru waiting, or he'll get hot un-der 
the toga. Or whatever he wears." 
Roditis, chuckling, opened the car door and pulled Noyes away 
from the railing. There was momentary confusion as Noyes 
struggled to regain full control of his limbs. Then Roditis thrust 
his companion into the car, got in beside him, and slammed the 
door. 
"Finish the route as programed," Roditis said to the car. 
The generator thrummed and the car backed out of the plaza 
area, swung around, and headed for the tollbooths. The actu-arial 
sign over the row of booths announced the day's vehicle 
toll: 83¢. As the car passed through a booth, a brief data inter-change 
took place between the bridge computer and the car, 
and Roditis' central bank account was automatically billed for 
that amount. Onward sped the car over the elderly bridge and 
toward the yellow shaft of the lamasery just beyond. 
Within the cool depths of the car, Roditis flecked perspiration 
from his corrugated brow and regarded the other man uneasily. 
12 
To Live Again 13 
He was growing more and more worried about Noyes, who per-haps 
was becoming a risky liability. It would be a pity to have to 
let Noyes go, after a relationship that had lasted so long and 
worked so well. 
They had met in college, nineteen years before. Their roles 
had been reversed then: Noyes was the campus leader, tall and 
dashing, appropriately Anglo-Saxon, with the fair hair and blue 
eyes of the highest caste, and seven generations of respectable 
money behind him, while Roditis, the immigrant shoemaker's 
son who looked the part, was short, thick-bodied, dark, a schol-arship 
student, a nobody. 
But Noyes had a gift for dissipating his many assets, Roditis a 
gift for capitalizing on what little he had. It was an attraction of 
opposites, instant, permanent. Now Roditis controlled an em-pire, 
and Noyes was a cog in that vast wheel. Poor Noyes. He 
hadn't been able to handle his own wealth, couldn't deal with a 
fine wife, was even making a mess of his persona transplant. 
Roditis hated to patronize anyone, but he couldn't help a certain 
feeling of smugness as he contemplated his own position vis-à-vis 
Noyes. Sad. Sad. 
The car purred to a halt in the gravelly parking oval adjoining 
the lamasery. The men got out. It seemed to be at least ten de-grees 
hotter on this side of the bridge. Reflected heat from the 
lamasery's polished sides, Roditis wondered? He looked up, and 
felt Anton Kozak within him responding affirmatively to the 
chaste elegance of the architecture. Roditis had become infinitely 
more aware of esthetic matters since taking on Kozak's persona. 
It had seemed odd to some that a businessman like Roditis would 
choose a sonic sculptor for his second transplant, but Roditis 
knew what he was going toward. He was assembling a portfolio 
of personae as another man might assemble a portfolio of com-mon 
stocks-for diversity, and for ultimate high profit. 
"Feeling better?" Roditis asked. 
"Much," said Noyes. 
13 
14 To Live Again 
"Kravchenko is pushed way down?" 
"I think so. He's had his exercise for the day." 
"If there's more trouble while we're here, ask the guru to help 
you. He'll run a few simple exorcisms, I'm sure." 
Looking pale, Noyes said, "It won't be necessary, John," and 
they approached the building. 
Sensors scanned them. They were expected; the tall Gothic 
doorway peeled open, admitting them. Within, all was dark, cool, 
reflective. Roditis caught glimpses of saffron-robed monks scut-tling 
to and fro in the rear arcades. A great deal of money had 
gone into the building of this lamasery; some of the best families 
had contributed to the fund. They said that the late Paul 
Kaufmann had donated over a million dollars fissionable. it was 
funny to imagine a rich Jew contributing that much money to a 
Buddhist monastery's construction fund; but, Roditis reminded 
himself, Kaufmann had not been a terribly orthodox Jew, any 
more than these monks were terribly orthodox Buddhists. And 
what had a million dollars more or less mattered to Paul 
Kaufmann? The crafty old banker had had his motives. Roditis 
saw a kindred spirit in Kaufmann. He himself had reached wealth 
too late to aid in this place's construction fund, but now he was 
here to make amends for that and for what he thought were 
much the same motives. 
Two shaven-headed monks emerged from inner rooms. They 
made appropriate pseudo-Buddhist gestures, tracing mandalas 
in the air, touching cardinal points of their bodies, murmuring 
gentle welcoming mantras. Roditis, unsmiling, flicked a glance 
at Noyes. The tall man seemed as awed as though he stood at 
the threshold of God's throneroom. Once upon a time, Roditis 
would have envied Noyes his ability to don such a goddam sin-cere 
expression of respect, as contrasted to Roditis' own look of 
impassive, poker-faced piety. But now Roditis was not at all sure 
whether Noyes was faking anything. In these latter troubled 
years, old Chuck might well have turned into a believer. Stranger 
14 
To Live Again 15 
things had happened. 
"The guru will be with you shortly," said one of the monks. 
"Will you remove your worldly coverings and join us in prayer?" 
He indicated a room where they might change. Within, Roditis 
stripped away his sweat-stained clothing and gratefully shucked 
his shoes. His body, at thirty-seven, was tight-muscled and solid, 
a compact bullet of flesh still traveling unswervingly on its de-signed 
trajectory. Noyes, who was no older, still gave the illu-sion 
of lanky grace, but it was only an illusion. Beneath his clothes 
the tall man was thickening at the paunch, going flabby at thigh 
and rump. Such weakness of the flesh struck Roditis as a symp-tom 
of the decay of the will. He judged men harshly in this re-spect. 

Arrayed now in loose, billowing robe and soft sandals, Roditis 
said, "It's certainly more comfortable this way. If men were saner 
they'd dress like this all the time." 
"It wouldn't be practicable." 
"No," Roditis agreed. "It leads to undue relaxation. A slacken-ing 
of striving. Are we supposed to wait here for them to come 
back and get us?" 
"I suppose," said Noyes. 
The room was bare of furniture, but for the two saddle-backed 
benches on which they had left their worldly clothes. The walls 
were of some dark, highly reflective stone, slabs of black marble, 
perhaps, or possibly onyx. If onyx could be had in such quanti-ties, 
Roditis thought. There was an inscription in inlaid letters of 
gold leaf on each wall. The one facing Roditis said: 

If so far you have been deaf to the teaching, listen to it now! An overpowering craving will come over you for the sense-experiences 
which you remember having had in the past, and which through your lack of sense organs you cannot now have. Your desire for rebirth be-comes 
more and more urgent; it becomes a real torment to you. This desire now racks you; you do not, however, experience it for what it is, 
but feel it as a deep thirst which parches you as you wander along, harassed, among deserts of burning sands. Whenever you try to take 
15 
16 To Live Again 
some rest, monstrous forms rise up before you. Some have animal heads on human bodies, others are gigantic birds with huge wings and claws. 

Their howlings and their whips drive you on, and then a hurricane carries you along, with those demonic beings in hot pursuit. Greatly 
anxious, you will look for a safe place of refuge. 
They read it in silence. Roditis said, "That's a lot of gold to 
waste on such nonsense. Recognize it?" 
"The Bardo Thödol, of course." 
"Yes. The good old Book of the Dead, eh? A hot line of revela-tion 
straight from the Himalayas? ' 
Noyes pointed to the inscription on the rear wall. "What do 
you make of that one?" 
Roditis turned, narrowing his-eyes. It read: 

He who lacketh discrimination, whose mind is unsteady and whose heart is impure, never reacheth the goal, but is born again. But he who 
hath discrimination, whose mind is steady and whose heart is pure, reacheth the goal, and having reached it is born no more. 

A muscle twitched in Roditis' cheek. He said bleakly, "It's pure 
nirvana-propaganda. Subversion. I thought they didn't try to push 
that concept in the Western world." 
"They can't help allowing a little of the orthodox theory to sur-vive," 
Noyes said, sounding apologetic. 
"Why not? We've adapted all that Oriental foolishness to our 
own purposes. And our own purposes don't include nirvana at 
all. To be swallowed up in the cosmic all? To be born no more? 
That's not our object at all. To live again, that's what we want. 
Again and again and again. So why do they put that up?" 
"They pose as the heirs to Eastern mysticism," said Noyes. "Ca-tering 
to Western pragmatism. In theory, rebirth is undesirable, 
freedom from the wheel of existence is the highest goal. Yes?" 
"Yes. In theory. Not for me." 
A monk entered. "The guru now will see you," he murmured. 
Roditis shuffled forward through clouds of incense, his san-dals 
sliding on the smooth stone floor. Over the arch of the door 
16 
To Live Again 17 
he found another slogan in letters of gold: 
It is appointed unto man once to die. 

Yes, he thought. Once to die: I'll grant that. But many times to 
be reborn. He felt the warm presence within him of Anton Kozak 
and Elio Walsh, who lived again because he had chosen their 
personae from the soul bank. Had they hungered for nirvana's 
sweet oblivion? Of course not! They had bided their time in cold 
storage, and now they walked the world again, passengers in a 
busy, well-stocked, active mind. Roditis would leave nirvana to 
real Buddhists. He preferred the Westernized version of the creed. 
The guru looked like a salesman of motel appliances who had 
seen the light. Not even his shaven skull and saffron robes could 
conceal the blunt, earthily American features, the jutting jaw, 
the prominent lips, the glossy, somewhat hyperthyroid blue eyes, 
the domed vault of the forehead. He was squat of physique, even 
shorter and stockier than Roditis, and was perhaps sixty years 
old, though it was difficult to be certain of that. The only creases 
in the holy man's face were those of its youthful geography made 
deeper: the deep valleys alongside the strong nose. His skull, 
newly mown, was pink and smooth. It had a curious occipital 
bulge. 
Taking Roditis' hand with his left, Noyes' with his right, the 
guru offered a blessing and a wish for many lives for them both. 
Roditis was reassured. He had no interest in being fobbed off to 
nirvana while reincarnations were available. 
"To my study?" the guru suggested. 
Hideous Tibetan scrolls defaced the walls. Roditis eyed them 
with displeasure; within him, Anton Kozak surged with delight, 
but Elia Walsh, the bluff old philistine, voiced distaste even stron-ger 
than Roditis'. There was a desk, and on it a very secular-looking 
telephone with vision and data-transmitting attachments. 
Beside the telephone lay a book expensively bound in full mo-rocco. 
The guru, smiling as he noticed Roditis' interest in the 
17 
18 To Live Again 
volume, handed it to him. 
"A priceless first edition," said the holy man. "Evans-Wentz, 
the original translation of the Bardo, 1927. You won't find many 
of these about." 
Roditis caressed the book. Its cool binding held a sensual ap-peal 
for him. Opening it with care, as though he expected pages 
to spring free of their own will, he eyed the familiar text with its 
lengthy burden of prefaces, its endless table of contents. He 
turned to the first section, the Chikhai Bardo. "HEREIN LIETH 
THE SETTING-FACE-TO-FACE TO THE REALITY IN THE IN-TERMEDIATE 
STATE: THE GREAT DELIVERANCE BY HEAR-ING 
WHILE ON THE AFTER-DEATH PLANE, FROM THE PRO-FOUND 
DOCTRINE OF THE EMANCIPATING OF THE CON-SCIOUSNESS 
BY MEDITATION UPON THE PEACEFUL AND 
WRATHFUL DEITIES." 
Nonsense, Roditis knew, and Elio Walsh echoed the sharp judg-ment 
while Kozak registered mild annoyance. On a different level 
of his mind Roditis admitted that it was useful nonsense, in its 
way. How mumbo-jumbo from the icy plateaus of the yak coun-try 
could be a guide to American man was a complex matter, but 
so it had befallen, and Roditis, comforted by his multiple per-sonality, 
was flexible enough to accept and reject in the same 
moment. 
"It's a beautiful volume," he said. 
"A gift from Paul Kaufmann," the guru replied. "One of his 
many kindnesses to our establishment. His loss is truly a great 
one." 
"Luckily, only temporary," Roditis pointed out. "It can't be long 
before a transplant of his persona will be awarded." 
"Quite soon, now, I understand." 
"Oh?" Roditis lurched tensely forward. "What do you know 
about that?" 
The guru looked startled at Roditis' eagerness. "Why, nothing 
official. But he has been dead several months now. The family 
18 
To Live Again 19 
period of mourning is over. Surely they have processed the ap-plicants 
for Kaufmann's persona by now, and a decision soon 
will come. So I assume. I have not been told anything." 
Relaxing, Roditis saw Noyes' quick glower of disapproval. He 
knew he had acted in bad form, blurting like that. Too damned 
bad. Noyes had nicer manners; but Noyes wasn't hungry for Paul 
Kaufmann's persona. Sometimes there was a strategic advan-tage 
to a seemingly accidental tipping of your hand. Let the guru 
know what he wanted. It couldn't hurt. 
Roditis said, "Kaufmann was a great man and a great banker. 
I don't know which aspect of him I admire more." 
"For us his greatnesses were combined. He favored us with 
many donations and sometimes with his presence at our rites. 
Shall we pray?" 
A couple of sandaled monks had slipped into the room. Roditis 
heard the soft chanting of the great mantra: "Om mani padme 
hum." Beside him Noyes' voice took it up. Roditis, too, 
unselfconsciously began to repeat the catch-phrase. They said it 
was the essence of all happiness, prosperity, and knowledge, and 
the great means of liberation. Om. The liberation they talked 
about was one Roditis did not seek: nirvana, oblivion. Mani. No 
one sought that, really, except possibly in places like India, where 
rebirth meant yet another breaking on the wheel of karma. 
Padme. Hum. Om. Who wanted liberation from existence? First 
a man wanted nourishment, and then strength, and then power, 
and then long life. And then rebirth so he could savor the cycle 
once more. Om mani padme hum. Roditis participated in the 
chant but not in any wish that the chant be fulfilled, and he sus-pected 
that of those about him only Noyes might seriously feel 
otherwise. Om. 
The religious interlude was over. 
It was time to talk business. 
His voice tougher, less ethereal now, the guru said, "I'm glad 
you took the trouble to visit us, Mr. Roditis. Some men a whole 
19 
20 To Live Again 
lot less important than you can't be bothered to pay a personal 
call even on their own philanthropies." 
Roditis shrugged. "I've been curious about this place for a long 
time. And since I had to be in San Francisco anywayÑ" 
"Was it a successful trip?" 
"Very. We closed the contracts for the entire Telegraph Hill 
redevelopment. Five years from now there'll be a hundred-story 
tower on top of that hill, the biggest thing that's been put up 
anywhere since '96. It'll be the Pacific headquarters of Roditis 
Securities." 
"I look forward to blessing the site," said the guru. 
"Naturally. Naturally." 
"In our humble way we have our own building program here, 
Mr. Roditis. Would you care to view our grounds?" 
They stepped through an irising gate of burnished beryllium 
steel and entered a broad spade-shaped garden several hundred 
yards deep. The rear was planted in blue flowers, delphinium, 
lupine, convolvulus, several others of varying heights, sur-mounted 
by a massive wistaria whose tentacles reached in all 
directions. Cascades of flowers dangled from the many limbs of 
the wistaria. Closer by were humbler flowers, and it dawned 
slowly on Roditis that the entire garden was laid out in the shape 
of some vast mandala, circles within circles, an esoteric signifi-cance 
of the highest degree of solemn phoniness. The thought 
came from Kozak; Roditis himself had not perceived the pattern. 
Beyond the garden lay rocky, uncleared land sloping down the 
hillside. 
"There is to be our refectory," said the guru. "Here, the library. 
On the far side, overlooking the bridge, we anticipate building a 
guidance center for the uninformed. 
"And just here to our left we will establish a soul bank." 
"Your own soul bank?" 
"For storing the personae of the chapter members. Obviously 
we can't allow our own people's personae to be thrown into the 
20 
To Live Again 21 
general bank. We must remain in control of each incarnation. 
So we propose to establish a complete Scheffing-process instal-lation 
here and carry out every stage of rebirth." 
"That'll cost you a fortune!" Roditis said. 
"Exactly." 
Noyes said, "When do you expect to build it?" 
"Within the next several years. It depends on our receipt of funds, 
of course. We have the basic equipment for a pilot plant now. We've 
already had a fine contribution from the estate of Paul Kaufmann. 
And I understand his young nephew Mark is planning to match it." 
"Mark. Yes." Roditis sucked his belly in sharply at the painful 
mention of his enemy. "He would. A very generous man, Mark 
Kaufmann." 
"A generous family," said the guru. 
"Quite. Quite. They all recognize the obligation of the wealthy 
to repay the society that has treated them so well. As do I," Roditis 
said a moment later. "As do I." 
Noyes looked pained. Roditis kicked pebbles at his ankle. A 
rich man does not need to be subtle, he told himself, except where 
subtlety pays. 
They received the full tour. They were handed rare Tibetan 
manuscripts, prayer wheels, and associated sacred artifacts. They 
visited the young lamas in their chambers. They received samples 
of the lamasery's publications, its painstaking theological sub-structure 
for the modern materialistic cult of rebirth. Noyes fidg-eted, 
but Roditis calmly followed the guru about, asking ques-tions, 
nodding in frequent response, showing utter concentra-tion 
and complete patience. The shadows lengthened. Twilight 
was creeping across the continent. The guru made no request 
for a contribution; Roditis offered none. At the end, they were 
back in the guru's own chamber for farewells. 
"May you attain your heart's desire," said the guru, "whatever 
it may be. I'm right to assume that a man of your station has 
some unfulfilled desires, even now?" 
21 
22 To Live Again 
Roditis laughed. "Many." 
"I have no doubt that some of them will be gratified shortly." 
"That's kind of you," said Roditis. "I'm grateful for your spar-ing 
us so much of your time today. The visit was fascinating." 
"Our pleasure," said the guru. 
A youthful lama with a bony face took them to the room where 
they had left their clothing. They dressed and departed from the 
lamasery in silence. Noyes seemed to have a powerful headache. 
Probably good old Jim Kravchenko was hammering on the in-side 
of Noyes' skull again. 
They got into the car. 
"In the morning," said Roditis, "transfer a million dollars fis-sionable 
to their account." 
"That much?" 
"Kaufmann gave them a million and then some, didn't he? Can 
I afford to do less?" 
"You're not Kaufmann," Noyes pointed out. 
"Not yet," said Roditis. 
22 
To Live Again 23 
Chapter 2 Risa Kaufmann was sixteen years old: old enough for her first 
persona transplant. She had come of age, so far as the Scheffing 
process was concerned, three months earlier, in January. But 
that had been the time of old Paul's death, and it was bad taste 
for her to bring up the matter of the transplant just then. Now 
things were quieter. The black armbands had gone into the 
drawer; the rabbis had stopped bothering them; family life had 
reverted to normal. Talk of transplants was very much in the air. 
Everybody in the family was worried about who was going to get 
old Paul. They didn't speak about it much in front of her, be-cause 
they still assumed she was a child, but she knew what was 
up. Her father was sizzling with fear that John Roditis would get 
Paul. That would be a funny one, Risa thought It would serve 
everybody right for being so rude to the little Greek. But of course 
Risa knew that her father would fight like a demon to keep Paul 
Kaufmann's persona from finding its way into Roditis' mind. 
She giggled at the thought. Touching a shoulder stud, she 
caused her gown to drop away, and, naked, she stepped out on 
the terrace of the apartment. 
A thousand feet below, traffic madly swirled and bustled. But 
up here on the ninety-fifth floor everything was serene. The April 
air was cool, fresh, pure. The slanting sunlight of midmorning 
glanced across her body. She stretched, extended her arms, 
sucked breath deep. The view down to the Street did not dizzy 
her even when she leaned far out. She wondered how some pass-erby 
would react if he stared up and saw the face and bare breasts 
of Risa Kaufmann hovering over the edge of a terrace. But no 
one ever did look up, and anyway they couldn't see anything 
from down there. Nor was there any other building in the area 
tall enough so that she was visible from it. She could stand out 
23 
24 To Live Again 
here nude as much as she liked, in perfect privacy. She half hoped 
someone would see her, though. A passing copter pilot, cruising 
low, doing a loop-the-loop as he spied the slinky naked girl on 
the balcony. 
Risa laughed. This building belonged to the Paul Kaufmann 
estate. Once they got the will straightened out, title would pass 
to her father, Paul's nephew and chief heir. And one day, Risa 
thought, this building will be mine. 
She let her unbound hair stream free in the morning breeze. 
She was a tall girl, close to six feet tall, with a slim, agile body, 
dark hair, dark, sparkling eyes, and what she liked to think of as 
a Semitic nose. It pleased her to pretend she was a Yemenite 
Jew, a lively daughter of the desert, a descendant in a straight 
line from the stock of Abraham and Sarah. Certainly she looked 
like some Bedouin princess; but the sad genetic truth was that 
the Kaufmann line could be traced back to twentieth-century 
London, to nineteenth-century Stuttgart, to eighteenth-century 
Kiev, and then became lost in nameless Russian peasantry. She 
clung to her tribal fantasy anyway. She began to touch her toes, 
rapidly, not bending her knees. Hup. Hup. Hup. She could do it a 
hundred times, if she had to. Her small breasts bobbled and 
jiggled as she moved down, up, down, up. Risa was profoundly 
glad she hadn't sprouted a pair of meaty udders, even though 
bosoms were becoming fashionable again lately. She went in a 
good deal for nudity in her costume, and small girlish breasts 
were more pleasing to the eye, she thought than full heavy ones. 
Of course, she might get bigger later on, but she didn't think so. 
She hadn't grown much, in height or bust or anything else, since 
she had turned fourteen. Hup. Hup. She lay down on the terrace, 
cool tile against her back and buttocks, and lashed her heels 
through the air. 
It might be interesting, she thought, to find out what it was 
like to be bosomy. To know what it is to carry all that meat below 
your clavicles. Risa made a mental note to request some top-
24 
To Live Again 25 
heavy breasty wench when she applied for her first persona trans-plant. 
By checking through the memories she inherited, she'd 
get a notion of what voluptuousness was like without the bother 
of gaining all that nasty weight. 
When will I get the transplant, though? 
That was the frustrating part. At sixteen she was medically old 
enough for the Scheffing process, but not legally competent to 
apply for it. She needed her father's consent. It had been simpler 
last year when Risa decided it was time for her to part with her 
virginity; she merely took the next rocket to Cannes, picked out 
a likely stud, and surrendered. But they'd throw her out of the 
soul bank, Kaufmann or not, if she walked in without the proper 
consent form. 
She looked over her shoulder and saw figures moving on the 
far side of the sliding glass door between the living room and 
the terrace. Risa got to her feet. Her father was coming toward 
her. His girl friend, the Italian bitch, Elena Volterra, was with 
him. Smiling, Risa lounged against the wall of the terrace and 
waited for them to come out to her. 
Her father was wearing some sort of sprayon business suit, 
very chic, very shiny. His long black hair was slicked down across 
his skull in a style that highlighted the savage cragginess of his 
features, the hard thrust of the cheekbones, the vulpine chin, 
the corvine nose. Somehow he managed to be handsome, Mark 
did, despite the collection of outcroppings and bladed planes that 
was his face. Risa was desperately in love with him, and they 
both knew it of course. And hid the fact, as they must. His eyes 
barely flickered over his daughter's angular nakedness. 
"Looking to visit the hospital?" he asked. "April's too early in 
the season for sunbathing in this latitude." 
"It's warm enough out here, Mark," she said sullenly. 
"Put something on." 
"Why should I if I'm not cold?" 
"All right," Mark said. "Don't. But I don't have to talk to you, 
25 
26 To Live Again 
either. Not while you're bare." 
"How bourgeois of you. Mark. Since when have you enforced 
the nudity taboo?" 
"This has nothing to do with taboos, Risa. Simply with your 
health. Now and then I have to take some sort of interest in your 
physical welfare, don't I? AndÑ" 
"Very well," Risa said. "We'll talk inside." 
Defiantly naked, she sauntered past them, through the glass 
door, and slung herself down in the abstract webfoam cradle 
near the great screen-window, wrapping her hands about an 
upraised knee. Her eyes passed from her father to Elena, who 
was clearly annoyed by the interchange. Good. Let her stew. 
Elena had the sort of body Risa had been thinking about a short 
while back. Fleshy. Indeed. Full hips, solid thighs, high, bulky 
breasts. And always dressed to display her assets. Risa didn't envy 
her father's mistress her figure. Usually Elena kept herself 
cosseted with stays and braces so that the flesh made its intended 
effect; but it was easy for Risa to summon the memory of that 
beach party last year when they had all been swimming naked, 
and poor Elena had jiggled and bounced so dreadfully. A body 
like that was designed for the nakedness of the bed, or the 
semibareness of formal dress, but not for casual outdoor nudity. 
Risa asked herself if, should Elena die tomorrow, she would re-quest 
her persona on a transplant. She doubted it. It would be a 
pleasantly spiteful thing to do to Elena, but Risa didn't think she 
cared to have the woman in her mind, even as a temporary. 
Mark and Elena came in from the terrace. Risa chuckled. She 
had won that round by a dozen points. Her father had come up 
here with Elena because he knew it annoyed her to see the two 
of them together, but he had found her nude, which annoyed 
him because it awakened the nasty Electra thing in him and hu-miliated 
him before Elena, so he had made a fuss about her catch-ing 
pneumonia in the cold outdoors. Whereupon she had come 
obediently inside, but remained nude, compounding the effect 
26 
To Live Again 27 
of rebellion and provocation. Mark was smiling too; he knew 
that he'd been beaten by an expert, and he couldn't help being 
proud of her. 
His apartment was a floor below hers. She had left a message 
for him, asking that he come up and see her when he came home 
for lunch. 
She said, "I wanted this to be a private conference, Mark." 
"You can talk in front of Elena. She's practically a member of 
the family." 
"That's odd. I didn't see her at Uncle Paul's funeral." 
Mark winced. Risa chalked up another cluster of points. She 
was really sharp this morning. Elena was fuming! 
Huskily, Elena said, "If this is a family conference and I'm in-trudingÑ" 

"I'd just like to talk to my father a little while," Risa said. "If it's 
all right with the two of you. I hate to come between you, butÑ" 
Mark shrugged a dismissal. Elena snorted in a way that made 
the pounds of flesh above her neckline ripple and dance. 
Wigwagging her hips, she stalked from the apartment. 
"Now will you put something on?" Mark asked. 
"Does my body make you that uncomfortable, Mark?" 
"Risa, it's been a difficult morning, andÑ" 
"Yes. Yes, all right" She knew when it was time to cash in her 
winnings. She picked up a robe, wrapped it about herself, and 
politely offered her father a tray of drinks. He chose one capsule 
and pressed it to his arm. Risa did not hesitate to select a golden 
liqueur herself, administering it expertly and shivering a little 
as the ultrasonic spray drove the delicious fluid into her blood-stream. 
She eyed her father carefully. He was tense, wary; this 
Roditis thing had him worried, no doubt. Or perhaps it was merely 
the complexity of unraveling Uncle Paul's will that keyed him 
up. 
She said, "I think you know what I want to ask you about? ' 
"Summer vacation on Mars?" 
27 
28 To Live Again 
"No." 
"You need money?" 
"Of course not." 
"ThenÑ" 
"You know." 
He scowled. "Your transplant?" 
"My transplant," Risa agreed. "I'm well past sixteen. Uncle 
Paul's funeral is out of the way. I'd like to sign up. Can I have 
your consent?" 
"What's your hurry, Risa? You've got a whole lifetime to add 
new personae." 
"I'd like to begin. How old were you when you got your first?" 
'Twenty," Mark told her. "And it was a mistake. I had to have it 
erased. We were incompatible. Can you imagine it, Risa, despite 
all the testing and matching I took on the persona of an ardent 
anti-Semite? And of course he woke up and found himself in a 
circumcised body and nearly went berserk." 
"How did you pick him?" 
"He was a man I had admired. An architect, one of the great 
builders. I wanted his planning skills. But I had to take his lu-nacy 
with his greatness, don't you see, and after three months of 
sheer hell for both of us I had him erased. It was several years 
before I dared apply for another transplant." 
"That must have been unfortunate for you," Risa said. "But it's 
getting off the subject. I'm old enough for a transplant. It's un-reasonable 
of you to deny your consent. It isn't as if we can't 
afford it, or as if I'm unstable, or anything like that. You just don't 
want to let me, and I can't understand why." 
"Because you're so young! Look, Risa, sixteen is also the mini-mum 
legal age for getting mated, but if you came to me and said 
you wanted toÑ" 
"But I haven't. A transplant isn't a marriage." 
"It's far more intimate than a marriage," Mark said. "Believe 
me. You won't merely be sharing a bed. You'll be sharing your 
28 
To Live Again 29 
brain, Risa, and you can't comprehend how intimate that is." 
"I want to comprehend it," she said. "That's the whole point. 
I'm hungry for it, Mark. It's time I found out, time I shared my 
life a little, time I began to experience. And there you stand like 
Moses saying no." 
"I honestly think you're too young." 
Her eyes flashed. "I'll translate that for you, dearest. You want 
me to stay too young, because that way you stay young too. So 
long as I remain a little girl in your estimation, your whole time 
scheme stays fixed. If I'm eight years old, you're thirty-two, and 
you'd like to be thirty-two. But I'm past sixteen, Mark. And you 
won't see forty again. I can't make you accept the second, but I 
wish you'd stop denying the first." 
"All your cruelty is exposed today, Risa." 
"I feel like going naked today. Physically and emotionally. I 
won't hide anything." Languidly Risa selected a second drink 
for herself; then, as an afterthought, she offered her father the 
tray. As she pressed the capsule's snout to her pale skin she said, 
"Will you sign my consent form or won't you?" 
"Let's put it off till July, shall we? The market's so unsettled 
these daysÑ" 
"The market is always unsettled, and in any event it has noth-ing 
to do with my getting a transplant. Today is April 11. Unless 
you give in, I'm going to bear an illegitimate child on or about 
next January 11." 
Mark gasped. "You're pregnant?" 
"No. But I will be, three hours from now, unless you sign the 
form. If I can't experience a transplant, I'll experience a preg-nancy. 
And a scandal." 
"You devil!" 
She was afraid she might have pushed her father too far. This 
was a raw threat, after all, and Mark didn't usually respond kindly 
to threats. But she had calculated all this quite nicely, figuring in 
a factor of his appreciation for her inherited ruthlessness. She 
29 
30 To Live Again 
saw a smile clawing at the edges of his mouth and knew she had 
won. Mark was silent a long moment. She waited, graciously 
allowing him to come to terms with his defeat. 
At length he said, "Where's the form?" 
"By an odd coincidenceÑ" 
She handed it to him. He scanned the printed sheet without 
reading it and brusquely scrawled his signature at the bottom. 
"Don't have any babies just yet, Risa." 
"I never intended to. Unless you called my bluff, of course. 
Then I would have had to go through with it. I'd much rather 
have a transplant. Honestly." 
"Get it, then. How did I raise such a witch?" 
"It's all in the genes, darling. I was bred for this." She put the 
precious paper away, and they stood up. She went to him. Her 
arms slid round his neck; she pressed her smooth cheek to his. 
He was no more than an inch taller than she was. He embraced 
her, tensely, and she brushed her lips against his and felt him 
tremble with what she knew was suppressed desire. She released 
him. Softly she whispered her thanks. 
He went out. 
Risa laughed and clapped her hands. Her robe went whirling 
to the floor and she capered naked on the thick wine-red carpet. 
Pivoting, she came face to face with the portrait of Paul Kaufmann 
that hung over the mantel. Portraits of Uncle Paul were stan-dard 
items of furniture in any home inhabited by a Kaufmann; 
Risa had not objected to adding him to her décor, because, natu-rally, 
she had loved the grand old fox nearly as deeply as she 
loved his nephew, her father. The portrait was a solido, done a 
couple of years back on the occasion of Paul's seventieth birth-day. 
His long, well-fleshed face looked down out of a rich, flow-ing 
background of green and bronze; Risa peered at the hooded 
gray eyes, the thin lips, the close-cropped hair rising to the 
widow's peak, the lengthy nose with its blunted tip. It was a 
Kaufmann face, a face of power. 
30 
To Live Again 31 
She winked at Uncle Paul. 
It seemed to her that Uncle Paul winked back. 

Mark Kaufmann took the dropshaft one floor to his own apart-ment, 
emerged in the private vestibule, put his thumb to the 
doorseal, and entered. From the vestibule, the apartment spread 
out along three radial paths. To his left were the rooms in which 
he had installed his business equipment; to his right were his 
living quarters; straight ahead, directly below his daughter's 
smaller apartment, lay the spacious living room, dining room, 
and library in which he entertained. Kaufmann spent much of 
his time in his Manhattan apartment, though he had many homes 
elsewhere, at least one on each of the seven continents and sev-eral 
offplanet. At each, he could summon a facsimile of the com-forts 
he enjoyed here. But these twelve rooms on East 118th Street 
comprised the center of his organization, and often he did not 
leave the building for days at a time. 
He walked briskly into the library. Elena stood by the fireplace, 
beneath the brooding, malevolent portrait of the late Uncle Paul. 
She looked displeased. 
"I'm sorry," Kaufmann told her. "Risa was simply in a bitchy 
mood, and she took it out on you." 
"Why does she hate me so much?" 
"Because you're not her mother, I suppose." 
"Don't be a fool, Mark. She'd hate me even more if I were her 
mother. She hates me because I've come between herself and 
you, that's all." 
"Don't say that, Elena." 
"It's true, though. That child is monstrous!" 
Kaufmann sighed. "No. She isn't a child, as she's just finished 
explaining to me in great detail. And she's not even monstrous. 
She's just an apt pupil of the family business techniques. In a 
way, I'm terribly pleased with her." 
Elena regarded him coldly. "What a terrible tragedy for you 
31 
32 To Live Again 
that she's your own daughter, isn't it? She'd make a wonderful 
wife for you in a few years, when she's ripe. Or a mistress. But 
incest is not one of the family business techniques." 
"ElenaÑ" 
"I have a suggestion," Elena purred. "Have Risa killed and 
transplant her persona to me. That way you can enjoy both of us 
in one body, quite lawfully, gaining the benefit of my physical 
advantages joined to the sharp personality you seem to find so 
endearing in her." 
Kaufmann closed his eyes a moment. He often wondered how 
it had happened that he had surrounded himself with women 
who had such well-developed gifts of cruelty. Steadier for his 
pause, he ignored Elena's thrust and said simply, "Will you ex-cuse 
me? I have some calls to make." 
"Where do we eat lunch? You talked yesterday about Florida 
House for clams and squid." 
"We'll eat here," said Kaufmann. "Have Florida House send 
over whatever you'd like to have. I won't be able to go out until 
later. Business." 
"Business! Another ten millions to make before nightfall!" 
"Excuse me," he said. 
He left Elena arrayed like a fashionable piece of sculpture in 
the library and made his way to his office. He touched the 
doorseal, full palm here, not merely thumb. The thick tawny 
oaken door, inset with twining filaments of security devices, 
yielded to him, an obedient wife that would surrender only to 
the right caress. Within, Kaufmann consulted the stock ticker 
the way an uneasy medieval might have searched for answers 
in the sortes of Virgil, or perhaps in a random stab into the Tal-mud. 
The market was off six points; the utilities averages were 
up, finance steady, interworld transport a little shaky. Kaufmann's 
fingers tapped the console as he executed two swift trades for 
ritualistic purposes. He closed out at 94 a thousand shares of 
Metropolitan Power purchased that morning at 89 3 Ú4, and an in-
32 
To Live Again 33 
stant later accepted a realized loss of half a point on a lot of eight 
hundred Königin Mines. The net effect on his central credit bal-ance 
was inconsequential, but Kaufmann had learned the thera-peutic 
value of making small trades in times of stress from his 
uncle, long ago. 
Next he switched on the neutron flux scanner with which he 
monitored Risa's apartment. There was little of the voyeur in his 
psychological makeup; he merely regarded it as good sense to 
keep an eye on his increasingly more unruly daughter. Espe-cially 
when, as today, she had blackmailed him into giving his 
consent to a transplant by the elegantly simple method of threat-ening 
to get pregnant. Now that she had voiced the notion, he 
knew he had to guard against it. He was well aware of Risa's 
sexual adventures of the past year, and had no objections to them, 
but a pregnancy was beyond the scope of the acceptable. 
He watched her for a few moments. 
She was naked again, rushing about the apartment, getting 
ready to go out. No doubt to make the preliminary arrangements 
for her transplant. Kaufmann allowed himself the pleasure of 
admiring her coltish grace, her long-limbed sleekness. Then he 
switched the scanner over to record and let it run; it would moni-tor 
her apartment so long as he wished. 
Swinging around to his desk, he activated the telephone. 
"I want my daughter traced wherever she goes today," he said. 
"I expect her to visit the soul bank, and don't interfere with that 
but tell me where she goes afterwards. Especially if she goes to 
any of her friends. Male friends. No, no interceptions; just sur-veillance." 

He suspected he was being overcautious. Nevertheless, he 
would have her watched, at least today. If necessary, he'd order 
surreptitious external contraceptive measures as an extra pre-caution. 
Risa could sleep around all she liked, but he had no 
intention of allowing her to get more than a few days into any 
premarital pregnancies just yet. 
33 
34 To Live Again 
Kaufmann said to the telephone, "Get me Francesco 
Santoliquido." 
It took more than a minute. Even Mark Kaufmann had to be 
patient about getting a call through to Santoliquido, who was 
not merely an important man, as chief administrator of the soul 
bank, but also a very busy one. Whole light-years of secretarial 
barricades had to be penetrated before Santoliquido could dis-cover 
who was calling and was able to free himself long enough 
to respond. 
Then the amiable face blossomed on the screen. Santoliquido 
was about fifty, ruddy of skin, white-haired, with a large, com-manding 
oval face. He was a man of considerable wealth who 
had entered the bureaucracy out of a sense of mission. 
"Yes, Mark?" 
"Frank, I wanted you to know that my daughter will soon be 
on her way down to your bank to pick out a persona." 
"You broke down, then!" 
"Let's say Risa broke me down." 
Santoliquido shook with pleasant laughter. "Well, she's a 
strong-willed girl. Strong enough to handle a transplant I'd say. 
What shall I give her? A Mother Superior? A lady banker?" 
"On the contrary," said Kaufmann. "Someone softly feminine, 
to balance all the aggression in her. Someone who died young, 
quite sadly, after a life of suffering for love. Preferably a girl of 
an opposite physical type, too, less athletic, less masculine of 
build. You follow?" 
"Certainly. And what if Risa isn't interested in a person of those 
specifications?" 
"I think she will be, Frank. But if she isn't, give her what she 
wants, I suppose. I'll leave the final decisions up to the two of 
you." 
"You'll have to," said Santoliquido. His eyes regarded Kaufmann 
with some amusement. "You know, Mark, you were supposed to 
come to the bank yourself this month. You haven't been recorded 
34 
To Live Again 35 
in nearly a year." 
"I've been so damned busy. Paul's death, and everythingÑ" 
"Yes, I know. But you shouldn't neglect the semiannual re-cording. 
A man of your statureÑ you owe it to the world, to the 
future inheritors of your persona, to keep yourself up to date, to 
etch all the new experiences into the recordÑ" 
"All right. You sound like a recruiter." 
"I am, Mark. We've been expecting you for weeks." 
"What if I come tomorrow, then? I wouldn't want to be there 
today. If I ran into Risa, she'd think her horrible old father was 
spying on her." 
"True. Tomorrow, then," Santoliquido said. "Is there anything 
else, Mark?" 
"Just one thing." Kaufmann hesitated. "The question of Paul's 
persona." 
"No decision's been taken yet. None. We've had dozens of ap-plicants." 

"Roditis among them?" 
"I couldn't say." 
"You could say. Maybe you won't say, but that's a different thing. 
I know Roditis is hungry to add Paul to his collection of trans-plants. 
I'd merely like to emphasize that such a transplant would 
be distasteful and offensive not only to the immediate Kaufmann 
family, but toÑ" 
Santoliquido's ringed hand swept across the screen. "I'm aware 
of your feelings," he said gently. "However, family wishes can-not 
be binding upon us. The decisions of the soul bank are made 
strictly on an impersonal basis, taking into account the stability 
of the recipient and the merit of his application, and you know 
very well that we regard it as desirable to go outside the genetic 
group whenever possible." 
"Meaning that you favor giving Paul to Roditis?" 
"I said nothing of the kind." Santoliquido's geniality began to 
ebb. "We're still weighing all applicants." 
35 
36 To Live Again 
"I wish I could take Uncle Paul myself, and keep him out of 
the skull of thatÑ that fishmonger!" 
"What about the consanguinity laws?" Santoliquido asked. "Not 
to mention your uncle's own will? He'll have to go outside the 
family, Mark. And I suspect we won't be giving him to any Schiffs 
or Warburgs or Lehmans or Loebs, either. Can we drop the sub-ject, 
now?" 
"I suppose? ' 
Santoliquido smiled again. "I'll see you tomorrow. And then, 
Saturday, your party, Dominica." 
"Yes. Dominica on Saturday" 
The screen went dark. Kaufmann felt cross; he had played his 
hand poorly, making that frontal attack on Santoliquido just now. 
Risa had upset him, clearly, shaking his tactical faculties. Or was 
it Roditis? Roditis. Roditis. For ten years, now, Kaufmann had 
watched that grasping little man accumulate first wealth, then 
power, and then some measure of social prestige. Now the au-dacious 
upstart wished to thrust himself deep into the core of a 
fine old family, making up for his own lack of ancestry by seiz-ing 
the available persona of the late Paul Kaufmann. Mark 
scowled. He was less of a snob than he had a right to he, consid-ering 
who and what he was, but nevertheless the thought of 
Roditis lying down on a pallet in the soul bank and emerging 
with Uncle Paul was intolerable to him. He had to be blocked. 
Kaufmann's own three personae stirred and squirmed. Ordi-narily 
they were mild, passive, guiding him without making their 
presence known, but the tensions of this hideous morning were 
seeping into their place of repose. He put his hands to his fore-head. 
I'm sorry, friends, he told the three captive souls beneath 
his scalp. We'll all relax on Saturday. I'm genuinely sorry about 
this. 
Damn Roditis! 
Kaufmann turned back to the ticker. The market was rallying, 
but now the utilities were weak. He scanned the tape, made a 
36 
To Live Again 37 
quick velocity projection of Pacific Coast Power, and went five 
thousand shares short at 43. Moments later it came across the 
tape on high volume at 45 1 Ú2. Not my day, Kaufmann thought, 
and covered his sale for a rapid loss. Not my day at all. 
37 
38 To Live Again 
38 
To Live Again 39 
Chapter 3 Charles Noyes awoke slowly, reluctantly, fighting the return 
to the waking world. He lay alone in a bed that was just barely 
long enough for his lanky body. His arms twitched; his eyelids 
fluttered. Morning was here. Time to rise, time to toil. He fought 
it. 
ÑCome on, you cowardly bastard, said James Kravchenko 
within his mind. Wake up! 
Noyes moaned. He jammed his eyelids together. "Let me 
alone." 
ÑUp, up, up! Greet the morning's glow. 
"You aren't supposed to talk to me, Kravchenko. You're just 
supposed to be there." 
ÑLook, I didn't ask to be pushed into your brain. Anytime you'd 
like to let me out, you know where to go. 
"You don't mean that. You're only bluffing. You want to stay 
right where you are, Kravchenko. Until you can take me over 
entirely, and run me like a puppet" 
Kravchenko did not reply. Several minutes passed, and the per-sona 
remained silent. Once again Noyes considered getting out 
of bed, but waited, convinced that Kravchenko would nag him 
again, and willing to arise only when nagged. But in the contin-ued 
silence he knew the onus was on him to get their shared 
body up. He pushed back the covers and disconnected the night 
monitor. 
Beside his bed lay the deadly flask of carniphage. Noyes eyed 
it tenderly. His first thought upon arising, like his last at night, 
was of suicide. No. Duicide. When he went he would take 
Kravchenko with him. He picked up the flask and cradled it in 
his hand, stroking it with affection. 
Within the fragile container lay a lethal quantity of beta-13 
39 
40 To Live Again 
viral DNA, a replicative molecule whose action it was to per-suade 
the cells of the body to release autolytic enzymes, certain 
acid hydrolases, from the lysosomes or "suicide bags" within 
themselves. Moments after ingestion, the carniphage created 
such a cascading wave of autolysis that the body literally fell 
apart; cell death was general and consecutive, and as each cell 
in turn succumbed to the flow of fatality, the carniphage devoured 
it. It was a swift but unusually agonizing way to die, since the 
body turned to slime from the digestive tract outward, and as 
much as eight or ten minutes might pass before the nerve cen-ters 
were no longer able to register the pain of dissolution. But 
the splendor of the poison lay in its total irreversibility. There 
was no known antidote, nor even a conceivable one; neither could 
a stomach pump or any sort of similar device halt the process 
once it had begun to affect even a few cells. Let that cascade of 
destruction begin, and the victim was irrevocably doomed. Noyes 
sometimes thought of it as the Humpty Dumpty effect 
He set the carniphage down. 
ÑGo on, gulp it, why don't you! 
"Very funny, Kravchenko." 
ÑI mean it. Do you think you frighten me, waving that suicide 
juice around? I'll get a new body soon enough, once you're gone. 
Maybe you'll be right in there with me, when I'm transplanted 
the second time. 
Noyes reached for the flask. 
ÑJust put it to your lips and go crunch. It's easy. 
"No, damn you! I'll do it when I want to. Not to amuse you!" 
It seemed to him that he heard Kravchenko's ghostly laughter. 
Putting the flask aside again, Noyes shed his nightclothes and 
began his morning rituals. 
Religious observance. He reached for the Bardo. Untold gen-erations 
of Episcopalian ancestors whirred like turbines in their 
New England tombs as the last and least scion of the Noyeses 
opened the barbarous Tibetan holy book. He turned, as usual, to 
40 
To Live Again 41 
the Bardo of the dying, the early section, before the demons ap-pear, 
when nirvana is still within reach. In a low voice he read: 

O nobly-born, listen. Now thou art experiencing the Radiance of the Clear Light of Pure Reality. Recognize it. 0 nobly-born, thy present in-tellect, 
in real nature void, not formed into anything as regards charac-teristics or color, naturally void, is the very Reality, the All-Good. Thine 
own intellect, which is now voidness, yet not to be regarded as the void-ness of nothingness, but as being the intellect itself, unobstructed, shin-ing, 
thrilling, and blissful, is the very consciousness, the All-good Bud-dha. 

Cleanliness. He stood in the vibrator field for a minute. 
Nutrition. He programed an austere breakfast. 
Bodily hygiene. Grunting a bit, he performed the eleven 
stretchings and the seven bendings. 
He ate. He dressed. The time was ten in the morning. He had 
returned with Roditis from San Francisco the night before, and 
he was still living on Pacific Standard Time, which made his 
awakening even more difficult than it normally was. Activating 
the screen, Noyes saw that the outer world looked cheerful and 
sunny, and the sunlight was the yielding light of April, not the 
harsh winter light that had engulfed this part of the world so 
long. He lived in a small apartment in the Wallingford district of 
Greater Hartford, Connecticut, close enough both to Manhattan 
and to his ancestral Boston. He tried to keep away from Massa-chusetts, 
but old compulsions drew him there periodically. One, 
at least, was external: at Roditis' insistence, the two of them at-tended 
their Harvard class reunion each year. That was painful. 
Any window into the past was a source of pain. Anything that 
reminded him of a time when he had been young, with pros-pects 
before him: a legal career, a fruitful marriage, a fine home, 
the joys of tradition. He had flunked out of law school. Flunked 
out of marriage, too. Today he was a wealthy man, but only be-cause 
Roditis had picked him up from the junkheap and stuffed 
money in his pockets, as the price of his soul. Noyes' credit bal-
41 
42 To Live Again 
ance was high, but he spent little and lived in a kind of genteel 
poverty, not out of miserliness but merely because he refused to 
believe that the largesse Roditis had showered upon him was 
real. 
"Charles! Charles, are you up yet?" 
ÑHis master's voice, said Kravchenko slyly. 
"I'm here, John," Noyes called into the other room, while send-ing 
a subliminal shout of fury at his persona. "I'm coming!" 
One entire wall of the sitting room bore a viewscreen that was 
hooked into Roditis' master communications circuit. No matter 
where Roditis was, at any station along the territory of his far-flung 
empire, he could activate that circuit and introduce him-self, 
life-size, three dimensions, into Noyes' apartment. Noyes 
presented himself before the screen and confronted the blocky 
figure of his friend and employer. The furniture surrounding 
Roditis was that of his office in Jersey City: stock tickers, com-puter 
banks, data filters, the huge green eye of an analysis ma-chine. 
Roditis looked wide awake. He said, "Feeling better?" 
"Passable, John." 
"You were in lousy shape when we got back last night I was 
worried about you." 
"A night's sleep, that's all I needed." 
"The acknowledgment on the lamasery gift just came in. Want 
to see what the guru's got to say?" 
"I suppose." 
Roditis gestured. His image shattered and vanished, and for a 
moment a cloudy blueness filled the screen; then came the sharp 
snap of a message flake being thrust into a holder, followed by 
the appearance in Noyes' sitting room of the holy man from San 
Francisco. Noyes had the illusion that he smelled incense. The 
guru, all smiles, poured forth a honeyed stream of praise and 
gratitude for Roditis' generous gift. Noyes sat through it impa-tiently, 
wondering why Roditis was bothering to inflict these few 
minutes of fatuity on him. Of course the guru was going to sound 
42 
To Live Again 43 
grateful, after having been handed a million dollars; of course 
he was going to say that Roditis was blessed among men in wis-dom, 
and worthy of many rebirths. Noyes had the uneasy suspi-cion 
that Roditis genuinely believed what the guru was sayingÑ 
that he felt it was praise earned through merit, not merely bought 
for cash. It was something like a sonic sculptor who bribed the 
Times critic to give him a rave, then called up all his friends and 
proudly read them the glowing review. Not a day passed on which 
Noyes failed to rediscover the core of naïveté that lay within John 
Roditis' energetic, shrewd, ruthless spirit. 
The guru reached his peroration and vanished from the screen. 
Roditis returned, beaming. 
"What did you think of that?" 
"Fine, John. Wonderful." 
"He really sounded happy about the gift" 
"I'm sure he was. It was very handsome." 
"Yes," said Roditis. "I'll give him some more, by and by. I'll 
make them name a whole damn wing of that place after me. 
The John Roditis Soul Bank for Departed Lamas, or something. 
Onward and upward, yes? Om mani padme hum, fella." 
Noyes said nothing. Kravchenko seemed to chuckle; Noyes felt 
it as a tickling in his frontal lobes. 
Then, as though experiencing some inner shifting of gears, 
Roditis lost his look of jovial self-satisfaction, and a glimmer of 
strain showed through his carefully abstract expression. He said, 
"Mark Kaufmann is giving a party Saturday at his Dominica es-tate." 

"He's coming out of mourning, then?" 
"Yes. This is the first social thing he's done since old Paul was 
gathered to repose. It's going to be a big, noisy, expensive af-fair." 

"Are you invited?" Noyes asked. 
Roditis looked scornful. "Me? The filthy little nouveau riche 
with delusions of grandeur? No, of course I'm not invited! It's 
43 
44 To Live Again 
mainly going to be a party for various Kaufmanns and their Jew-ish 
banking relatives." 
"John, you know you shouldn't use that phrase." 
"Why? Does it make me seem a bigot? You know I've got noth-ing 
against Jews. Can I help it if the Kaufmanns are related to 
the other big Jewish bankers?" 
"When you say it, somehow, it comes out like a sneer," Noyes 
dared to tell him. 
"Well, I don't mean it as a sneer. You don't sneer at a social 
and cultural elite. What you hear in my voice isn't anti-Semitism, 
Charles, it's simple envy without any neurotic irrational mani-festations 
attached. There'll be a mess of Lehmans and Loebs at 
that party. There won't be any John Roditis. Frank Santoliquido 
is going to be there, too." 
"He's not Jewish." 
Roditis looked annoyed. "No, dolt, he isn't! But he's important, 
and he's socially well-placed besides, and Mark Kaufmann is try-ing 
to buy his support in this business of the old man's persona. 
Santoliquido and his girl friend are flying down on Mark's own 
jet; that's how tight things are getting. And you can bet that Mark 
is going to spend the whole day letting Santo know how impor-tant 
it is to keep Uncle Paul out of my clutches. That's got to be 
counteracted somehow. Which is why you're going to go to the 
party, too." 
"Me? But I'm not invited!" 
"Get yourself invited." 
"Impossible, John. Kaufmann knows I'm connected to your 
organization, and if you're on the dead list, you can bet that IÑ" 
"You're also connected to the Loebs, aren't you?" 
"Well, my sister married a Loeb, yes." 
"Damn right, she did. Won't she be at the party?" 
"I suppose she's been invited, at any rate." 
"I know she has. I've got the complete guest list right here. 
Mr. and Mrs. David Loeb. That's your sister, right?" 
44 
To Live Again 45 
"Right." 
"Fine. Now, what happens if she phones Kaufmann and says 
she's in the air over Cuba, say, and she'll be landing in five min-utes, 
and she's happened to bring her kid brother Charlie along 
for the party? Is Kaufmann going to say no, send the scoundrel 
home?" 
"He'll be furious, John." 
"Let him be furious, then. He'll have to maintain decorum, 
though. It's not the sort of formal party where one extra guest 
throws the whole thing out of balance, and he can't very well 
refuse you permission to attend with your sister. You'll be admit-ted. 
The worst that'll happen is you'll get a few sour stares from 
Kaufmann. But socially you'll be among your equals, and every-body 
else will be glad to see you, and there'll be no hard feel-ings." 

Noyes' fingers began to tremble. Kravchenko scrabbled deri-sively 
against the walls of his cranium. Carefully, Noyes reached 
to his left, out of the range of the sensors relaying his image to 
Roditis, and scooped a drink capsule from a tray. He activated 
the capsule and let the fluid flow into his arm. That was better. 
But not good enough. He felt sick. The idea of muscling his way 
into a party like this, parlaying his own tattered status and his 
sister's connections by marriage into Roditis' advantage, chilled 
and saddened him. 
He said, "Assuming I succeed in crashing the party, John, what's 
the purpose of my going there?" 
"Mainly to get next to Santoliquido and work on him." 
"About the Paul Kaufmann persona? ' 
"What else? You can be subtle. You can be indirect. He's going 
to make up his mind about the transplant any day now. I want it 
so bad I can taste it, Charles. Do you realize what I could do with 
Paul Kaufmann inside my head? The doors that would open for 
me, the plans I could bring off? And it's all up to Santo. He'll be 
down there, relaxed, out in the sunshine, drinking too much. 
45 
46 To Live Again 
And you can work on him. Use the old charm. That's what I pay 
you for, the old Episcopalian Anglo-Saxon charm. Turn it on!" 
"All right," Noyes muttered. 
"And even if you don't get anywhere immediately with him, 
perhaps you can find a plan of action. Some vulnerable spot in 
his makeup. Some opening wedge that we can get leverage on." 
Appalled, Noyes said, "Are you thinking of blackmailing 
Santoliquido into approving your request?" 
"Now, did I say that? What a terribly crude suggestion, Charles! 
I expect more finesse from you." Roditis laughed heavily. "Call 
your sister. Get everything set up. OhÑ Charles? How's Jimmy-boy?" 

"Kravchenko? I think he's asleep." 
"I'm sure he'll appreciate going to the party too. He'll see many 
of his old friends there. Call your sister, Charles." 
The screen darkened. 
Noyes looked at the floor. He knelt and dug his fingers into the 
carpet, trying to steady himself. His head seemed to be splitting 
into segments. 
ÑCall your sister, Charles. Didn't you hear the man? 
"I won't!" 
ÑYou'd better. You don't dare defy him. 
"It's filthiness! To crash a party so he can use me to suck up to 
SantoliquidoÑ" 
ÑHe wants the old Kaufmann persona, doesn't he? It's his ticket 
to social respectability. Your job is to help him get what he wants. 
"Not at the cost of my integrity." 
ÑYou got rid of that a long time ago. Come on, Chuck. He's 
right: I want to go to that party. At least three of my wives ought 
to be there. I'd love to see how they're aging. 
"I'll kill myself first!" 
ÑIf you had the guts, I suppose you would. Pick up the phone. 
Call your sister. 
Noyes heard mocking laughter in his skull. 
46 
To Live Again 47 
He returned to the bedroom and eyed the carniphage flask. 
But, as ever, it was only a dramatic gesture, fooling neither him-self 
nor the demonic persona he harbored. Defeat dragged at 
his muscles. He seized the phone and jabbed out the numbers. 
Moments later, his sister's privacy code appeared on the little 
gray screen. She's taking her morning bath, Noyes thought. He 
said, "It's me, Gloria, just Charlie. Your wombmate." 
The screen cleared, and the face and shoulders of Gloria Loeb 
appeared. She wore some sort of flimsy wrap, and her cheeks 
and forehead were glossy with whatever mystic preparation she 
favored to keep her complexion eternally young. She was three 
years older than Noyes, and looked at least a dozen years younger. 
They had never liked one another. Her marriage to David Loeb 
had been a stunning social event sixteen years ago, a grandiose 
blowout, as was appropriate for the union of old New England 
aristocracy with old Jewish aristocracy. That was the fashion-able 
sort of marriage these days, rapidly creating a tribe of Anglo-Saxon 
Hebrews whose formidable bloodlines linked them se-curely 
to Plantagenets on one hand, Solomon and David on the 
other, an unbeatable combination. Noyes had become very drunk 
at his sister's wedding; in a way, his decline and fall had begun 
that evening, a few weeks after he had turned twenty-one. 
She said coolly, "How good to hear from you again, Charles. 
You look well." 
"That's a polite lie. I look terrible, and you can feel free to let 
me know about it." 
Her lips quirked impatiently. "Is something the matter? Are 
you all right?" 
Noyes took a deep breath and said, "I need a tiny favor, Gloria." 
47 
48 To Live Again 
48 
To Live Again 49 
Chapter 4 The building housing the soul bank rose in stunning tiers from 
a broad plaza three superblocks in area. The site had been cho-sen 
with an eye toward deliberate ostentation, at Manhattan's 
southern tip in an area thick with historic associations. Here, 
Peter Minuit had haggled with Indian braves and bought a world 
for a handful of beads; here, Pegleg Stuyvesant had tromped in 
choleric efficiency; Washington had walked these streets, as had 
J. P. Morgan, Jay Gould, Thomas Edison, Bet-a-Million Gates, 
Joseph P. Kennedy, Paul Kaufmann, and Helmut Scheffing, along 
with others. Few traces of that history remained. A block of eigh-teenth-
century buildings had been preserved as a sort of mu-seum; 
the seventeenth-century New York was gone, as was the 
nineteenth, and all that survived of the twentieth in this neigh-borhood 
were a few scruffy, faded curtain-wall skyscrapers put 
up by the big banks during the boom of the midcentury, shortly 
before the panic. Serene, isolated, set apart from its neighbors 
by thousands of priceless square feet of pink noctilucent tile, 
rose the glowing shaft of the Scheffing Institute tower: eighty 
stories, then a setback and forty stories more, and a twenty-story 
cap tipped with black granite. The tower was easily visible from 
Brooklyn, from Queens, from Staten Island, from New Jersey, 
and especially from Jubilisle, the floating pleasure dome in New 
York harbor. One looked up from the sins and gaming tables of 
Jubilisle to see the reassuring bulk of the Scheffing Institute at 
the edge of land, offering the promise of rebirth beyond rebirth, 
and it was comforting. The architects had taken all that into ac-count 
when planning the building. 
To the Scheffing Institute that Friday morning came Mark 
Kaufmann to renew his lease on life. His small hopter landed as 
programed on the flight deck at the tower's first setback, and 
49 
50 To Live Again 
waiting guards hustled him inside to see Santoliquido. The morn-ing 
was cool; he had chosen a thick-fibered tunic that sparkled 
with dark brown and red highlights. 
Francesco Santoliquido's office was deep, high, consciously 
impressive. In one corner stood a sonic sculpture, the work of 
Anton Kozak: a beautiful piece, all flowing lines and delicate 
rhythms, emitting a gentle white hiss that swiftly infiltrated it-self 
into one's consciousness and became rooted there. 
Kaufmann's pleasure in the lovely work was marred by his aware-ness 
that Anton Kozak, who had died nine years ago, had re-turned 
to the corporate form as one of the implanted personae 
of John Roditis. 
Santoliquido's desk split obediently and the administrator came 
through the sections to greet Kaufmann. He was a bulky man, 
heavier than the fashion prescribed, but he carried himself well. 
His thick fingers glittered with the rings that betrayed 
Santoliquido's innocent predisposition toward vanity. At his throat 
hung a cluster of small beady-eyed crustaceans, violet and green 
and azure, within a crystal container: products of the mutagenetic 
art, elaborate little baroques that moved through their prison in 
an unending stately dance. Santoliquido's shirt was green, his 
epaulets vermilion. In the blaze of color his white, slicked-back 
hair took on a compelling vividness. 
The two men touched hands. Santoliquido returned to his desk, 
extended a tray of drinks, took part with Kaufmann in the mo-ment 
of pleasure. Shafts of sunlight danced across the room. The 
window, a vaulted arch, was wholly transparent. From where he 
stood Kaufmann enjoyed a superb view of the harbor, and peer-ing 
down into gay Jubilisle from this height was like staring into 
a prismatic image from some unimaginable protonic 
subuniverse. 
"Well," said Santoliquido, "we had the pleasure of your lovely 
daughter's company here yesterday. She seems hard to please, 
though. We unrolled our best carpets for her, but there was no 
50 
To Live Again 51 
deal." 
"Not yet. She'll be back." 
"Yes, certainly. Next Tuesday. She's choosing among three in-teresting 
alternatives." 
"I'd like to scan them," said Kaufmann. 
"That would be a little irregular." 
"I know." 
Santoliquido smiled elegantly. Kaufmann had always had a 
good working relationship with this man; they had participated 
in several joint ventures, most notably a power scheme in the 
Antarctic, and always Santoliquido had come out of them with 
his considerable fortunes considerably enhanced. Reciprocal 
favors were not impossible. 
The pitch of the Kozak piece altered perceptively, growing 
more definite, more passionate. Once Kaufmann had had sev-eral 
Kozaks. After Roditis had received the sculptor's persona, 
Kaufmann had found occasions to bestow the works on delighted 
friends. 
Kaufmann said, "Nothing new on Uncle Paul since Wednes-day?" 

"Nothing new. 
"I'd like to see him, too." 
"Really? ' 
"You'll satisfy my curiosity, won't you?" Kaufmann leaned for-ward 
at the waist and fingered an amber rubbing stone on 
Santoliquido's desk. "There's a therapeutic reason. I find it hard 
to believe that the old man's really dead. You know, he rose above 
the whole family like such a colossusÑ 
"So that when you see him taped and carded, you'll finally ac-cept 
that he's gone?" 
"Yes." 
"It's not the first time I've heard something like that Mark." 
Santoliquido clasped his hands over his belly and laughed. "Paul 
was quite the titan, wasn't he? I'll admit I ran his persona off 
51 
52 To Live Again 
myself, after the funeral, just to get some feel for the man. And I 
was awed. Let me tell you, Mark, I don't awe easily, but I was 
awed." 
"Toying with the idea of taking him on yourself?" 
Santoliquido looked displeased, and even the crustaceans at 
his throat rapidly changed hues, as if somehow attuned to the 
flavor of his thoughts. "I have no desire whatever to have that 
terrible old man mixing in my nervous system," said Santoliquido 
firmly. "And in any event, considering the demand for his per-sona, 
it would be a grave breach of trust if I were to appropriate 
him for my own use. Yes?" 
"Of course. Of course." 
The look of affability returned. "Anyone who wants your uncle's 
persona is welcome to it, so far as I care personally. What a pow-erhouse! 
He'd overwhelm nine out of ten who took him on." 
"Just as he overwhelmed us all in life," said Kaufmann. "He 
reduced my father to a hollow shell, an errand-boy. Me he had a 
harder time with, but he gave me twenty years of hell before 
he'd recognize me as a worthy heir. And the others! Of course, 
we all loved him. He was simply too dynamic to hate. But when 
he died, Frank, I felt as though a hand had been removed from 
my throat." 
"I can understand that." 
"One more thing. None of us could accept the news, when he 
had the stroke. I mean, he was still a young man, hardly past 
seventy. We assumed he'd be around at least fifty more years. 
But his own vitality must have burned him out." 
"He'll be back among us all soon enough," said Santoliquido. 
"As a persona, yes. That's not quite the same as having Uncle 
Paul striding through the rooms booming out orders." 
"Time will tell about that. It'll take a strong man to hold him 
down, Mark." 
"You're expecting Paul to take over his host?" 
"I'm not expecting anything, officially. I'm merely a bureau-
52 
To Live Again 53 
crat, and it's not my business to expect. Come. I'll take you to see 
your uncle." 
"And Risa's three possible personae," Kaufmann reminded him. 
"Those too," said Santoliquido. 
Kaufmann followed him from the office into a private dropshaft 
that moved so serenely he was unaware of motion; even the tug 
of gravity was absent. Here in this monstrous house of death 
and rebirth Kaufmann always felt ill at ease and badly orien-tated. 
He had no real notion of the contents of the infinity of 
offices on these hundred forty floors, nor did he even know how 
deep into bedrock the structure extended, what possible maze 
of stories lay out of sight. Within this too conspicuous edifice 
were filed the personae of the notable dead, some eighty million 
of them that had died since the introduction of the Scheffing pro-cess 
as a commercial fact. Yet the storage even of eighty million 
personae, Kaufmann knew, could be accomplished in modest 
space. There were many rooms in this building where persona 
recordings were made, and other rooms in which the transplants 
took place, but a great deal of the building's volume was unac-countable 
to him. 
He did not know where in the tower Santoliquido had taken 
him now, whether toward the soaring summit or deep into the 
bowels. He merely followed, through silent passageways agleam 
with living light. 
The Scheffing Institute was a quasipublic corporation, closely 
regulated by the Government, its administrators chosen by Con-gress, 
its board of directors containing a specified quota of Gov-ernment 
appointees. Its schedule of fees and services was sub-ject 
to Federal supervision. In effect, the Institute was a public 
utility of death and rebirth. No common stock was available for 
purchase; its frequently issued debt securities were offered only 
to municipal and institutional investors; its profits, which were 
great, went primarily into renewed research, once amortization 
payments were made. Important as the Institute was, its exist-
53 
54 To Live Again 
ence impinged only marginally on the lives of most of Earth's 
nine billion people. Merely a minority could afford the costs of 
escaping oblivion. There was a stiff fee for registration; the fee 
payable each time one recorded one's persona was not small; a 
registrant was expected, though not required, to make a new 
recording at least once every six months. The cost of receiving a 
persona transplant was formidableÑ more than the average man 
could hope to earn in a lifetime. In theory, anyone who had the 
money and was certifiably stable could receive a new persona 
each year of his adult life, superimposed above the earlier ones. 
But in practice most people were content with two or three trans-plants, 
if they could afford that many. No one, to Kaufmann's 
knowledge, had ever taken more than nine. Though he could 
well afford any number of additional identities himself, he had 
not applied for a new one in more than a decade. He found three 
quite enoughÑ not counting the youthful indiscretion that had 
had to be erased. 
It was anything but cheap to erase a persona, also. The Insti-tute 
turned its profit at every stage of the process. 
Kaufmann followed Santoliquido into the vestibule of the main 
storage vault. It was a long, low-roofed tunnel whose far end 
was plugged by a security door almost comical in its paranoid 
massiveness. Through apertures in the glossy blank roof came 
colored lights of scanners: a blue ray, a green, a turquoise, a 
pale yellow. 
"What are they checking?" Kaufmann asked. 
"Everything imaginable. Your blood type's going on tape, your 
retinal pattern, your DNA-RNA, and several other matters too 
intimate to mention. If you ever came through here bent on lar-ceny, 
you'd be picked up within minutes after you left the build-ing." 

"What if the scanners get through and find I'm too disrepu-table 
to admit?" 
"It'll be unpleasant." 
54 
To Live Again 55 
Kaufmann envisioned a cage of pressure tape springing from 
the ceiling and trapping him. Whirling blades slashing him into 
hamburger. A trapdoor opening to hurl him to limbo. But in fact 
the colored lights vanished, and with solemn ponderousness the 
great door began to open. Santoliquido nodded. They stepped 
out onto the grand concourse of the main storage vault. 
It was a room perhaps a thousand feet high and three hun-dred 
feet wide from wall to wall. At the very top, far above his 
head, Kaufmann saw banks of light-globes affixed to the fabric 
of the building; but only a fraction of that light made its way 
down to the midlevel on which they stood, and below him were 
levels of Stygian bleakness. Motes of dust hovered in the vast 
central cavity of the room. Along the walls were ladders, cat-walks, 
a spiderweb of metal pathways. Staring across the gulf, 
Kaufmann made out racks of shelves, paneled urns, shadows in 
the darkness. All this has been done for effect, he told himself. 
Surely the Institute could afford better lighting, if it wanted it. 
"Come," said Santoliquido. 
They moved along the tier. Silent figures in white smocks tra-versed 
private paths on other levels, and robots with blunt heads 
rolled on soundless treads from tier to tier, inserting something 
here, withdrawing there. Santoliquido paused in front of a sealed 
bank of urns and dialed a computer code. The bank opened. 
Reaching in, he withdrew a shining coppery casket some six 
inches wide, four inches long, two inches high. 
"In this," he said, "is the persona of Paul Kaufmann." 
Kaufmann took it from him and examined it with more awe 
than he cared to reveal. 
"May I open it?" 
"Go ahead." 
"I don't see howÑ ah. There." He pressed a projecting lever 
and the casket's top rose. Within lay a tightly coiled reel of black 
tape, smaller across than Kaufmann's palm, and a stack of data 
flakes. "This?" he said. "This is Uncle Paul?" 
55 
56 To Live Again 
"His memories. His experiences. His aggressions. His frailties. 
The women he loved, the men he hated. His business coups. His 
childhood ailments. The graduation speech; the cramped muscle; 
the wedding night. All there. This was recorded in December. It 
takes him from childhood to the edge of the grave." 
"Suppose I reached over the balcony and hurled all this down 
there," Kaufmann said. "The flakes would scatter. The tape would 
he ruined. That would he the end of Uncle Paul, wouldn't it?" 
"Why do you think so?" Santoliquido asked. "Your uncle was 
here every six months for more than thirty years. We have many 
replicas on file of what you hold in your hand." 
Kaufmann gasped. "You keep the old ones after a re-record-ing?" 

"Naturally. We have an extensive library of your uncle's per-sonae. 
You have the latest one, the most complete; but if any-thing 
happened to it, we could make use of the last but one, 
which would lack only six months of his life experience. And so 
on backward. Of course, we always use the most recent record-ing 
for transplant purposes. The rest are kept as emergencies, a 
redundancy control, so to speak." 
"I never knew that!" 
"We don't make a point of announcing it." 
"So you have sixty-odd recordings of Uncle Paul in this build-ing! 
And a couple of dozen of me! AndÑ" 
"Not in this building, necessarily," said Santoliquido. "We have 
many storage vaults, Mark, well decentralized. We guard against 
calamities. We have to." 
Kaufmann considered that. It had never occurred to him that 
such surrogate recordings 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 pos-sible 
to transplant one man's persona into more than one recipi-ent 
at the same time, yes? You could give Uncle Paul to Roditis, 
56 
To Live Again 57 
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 un-settled 
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 of-fered. 
"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 con-tained 
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 experi-ence 
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 fore-head. 
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. 
57 
58 To Live Again 
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 sensual-ity 
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 equilib-rium 
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 him-self 
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 inher-itance, 
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 skullÑ the old man's arbitrage schemes, realty en-terprises, 
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 
anything to have him myself," he said in a low voice. "I'm the 
58 
To Live Again 59 
one best qualified to have him. Paul and I were a superb team, 
these last few years. Think how much better we'd be, working 
together in one mind!" 
"I hope you're joking, Mark." 
"Not really. Paul and I belong together. I know, I know, it's 
against the law to transplant a persona to so close a relative." 
"Don't forget that your uncle directly requested in his will that 
he not be transplanted to any member of his own family." 
"As though he didn't know about the law," said Kaufmann. 
"Or as though he expected that someone like you would cir-cumvent 
it." 
Kaufmann flushed. "But what are you going to do with him? 
Give him to Roditis? Put those two together and they'll steal the 
universe!" 
"Roditis can handle your uncle's persona," said Santoliquido. 
"He's got the strong personality that's necessary. What we must 
guard against is giving Paul to someone who'll be overwhelmed. 
The host must always remain in command. Roditis would." 
"But he's got no scruples. He's nothing but an unprincipled 
buccaneer. And Paul was a principled buccaneer. Bring them 
into harmony andÑ" 
"No decision has been taken," Santoliquido said brusquely. "Do 
you wish to inspect the three potential personae your daughter 
has selected?" 
"Yes," Kaufmann murmured. "I might as well." 
Santoliquido opened an information line and uttered a request. 
Moments later three persona caskets clattered out of a delivery 
slot. Santoliquido inserted Paul Kaufmann's casket in the same 
slot and sent it on its way back to storage. Then, turning, he said, 
"All these three young women died violently before the age of 
thirty. All three were quite beautiful, I understand. Risa had cer-tain 
very specific anatomical and sexual qualifications, which of 
course we were able to meet, since the range of available perso-nae 
is so great. To preserve the privacy of the dead, I'll call these 
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60 To Live Again 
three simply X, Y, and Z. Thirty seconds of each should be enough 
to gratify your curiosity. Have you ever sampled a female per-sona 
before, Mark?" 
"You know I've never done anything like that." 
"Of course. Of course. Well, it's an amusing novelty. I often 
think our prejudice against transsexual transplants is foolish. If 
a man could incorporate at least one female persona, or a woman 
at least one male one, there'd be far less anguish in this world. 
But I suppose we're not yet ready for that radical a step. And I 
suppose few people are really eager to allow their personae to 
come to life in a body of alien sex. Oh, they'd like to try it for a 
few days, but as for making it permanentÑ" As he spoke, 
Santoliquido was deftly inserting one of Risa's choices into the 
scanning equipment. Once more the electrodes touched 
Kaufmann's skull. He felt vaguely uncertain about doing this, 
but then he reflected that his exhibitionistic daughter would cer-tainly 
not mind his peeking into her personae, and also that he 
had already spied on his daughter in many matters nearly as 
intimate. 
The apparatus hummed. 
"This is X," said Santoliquido. "Killed last year in a power-ski 
accident at St. Moritz, age twenty-four." 
In the thirty seconds that followed, Mark Kaufmann learned a 
great many surprising things. He discovered what it was like to 
have breasts; he sampled the sensations of the penetrated in-stead 
of those of the penetrator, he felt the ebb and flow of femi-nine 
biology impinge on him; he scented a new perfume of flesh; 
he experienced the texture of his own smooth female body. He 
also generated an instant and electric dislike for the personality 
of the unknown X. 
Giving him no pause for evaluation, Santoliquido said, "And 
now Y. Drowned off Macao last summer, age twenty-eight." 
More of the same: the slow throb of the flesh, the lazy tremor 
of vaginality. In his brief contact with the mind of the dead girl, 
60 
To Live Again 61 
Kaufmann ran imaginary hands over silken imaginary thighs, 
yawned, stretched, yearned for pleasure. This was a more re-laxed 
spirit than X's; in that first persona there had tingled some 
disturbing undercurrent, some sort of hunger for an unclear ven-geance, 
while in this girl was merely a generalized appetite for 
gratification, far less intense, far less vivid. Her recorded soul 
winked and glittered and was gone. 
"Z," said Santoliquido. "Twenty-six years old. Pushed or 
jumped, eighty stories up." 
Pushed, Kaufmann decided, after only an instant of contact 
with Z. This girl had not had the vitality to commit suicide. She 
was placid, passive, soft within and without. Now that the nov-elty 
of peering into female souls had worn off, Kaufmann found 
himself swiftly bored by this one. She was a void, a hollowness, 
and the thirty seconds dragged abysmally. 
"You may find yourself slightly impotent tonight," Santoliquido 
was saying. "I suppose I should have warned you. There's a kind 
of sexual confusion that sets in after you've done some trans-sexual 
sampling. But it wears off in a day or so. How did you find 
it, being female?" 
"Interesting. Not very appealing, though." 
"Well, of course, these were young, shallow girls. I could find 
you female personae that would give you a real jolt of character. 
But the outward manifestations are unusual, aren't they? You 
never dreamed it was like that, so different, to belong to the other 
sex?" 
"I'm glad to have had the opportunity. I can't say I'm impressed 
by any of my daughter's choices." 
"Which would you prefer her to take? She's going to pick one, 
you know." 
Kaufmann nodded. "Z was nothing but a cow. Risa would be 
as bored with her company as I was. Y was neutral, good-na-tured, 
most likely fun in bed. And X was utterly hateful. Vicious, 
nasty, selfish, hardly human. Risa wouldn't want a bitch like that 
61 
62 To Live Again 
in her head. I suppose that Y is the least of the three evils." 
"She's going to pick X," said Santoliquido. 
"Did she tell you that?" 
"She didn't. But X is the obvious one. She's got the right com-bination 
for RisaÑ strength of character and voluptuousness. Why 
did you hate her so?" 
"I don't know. I can't find any particular reason. Just an ab-sence 
of sympathy. Looking back, I can't pinpoint any single ugly 
thought from her, but yet I know I loathed her." 
"A pity," said Santoliquido. "From Tuesday on, she'll be living 
in Risa, unless I miss my guess. Do you want to withdraw your 
consent for the transplant?" 
Kaufmann thought it over. It was within his power to prevent 
Risa from taking this persona on; but he saw the futility of the 
attempt at once. If thwarted, Risa would merely apply more pres-sure, 
and she was an expert at getting her way. He knew he had 
to adjust to the changed Risa that would come forth, that it was 
idle to try to block and control her. 
He waved his hand. "Let her do as she likes. But I hope she'll 
take Y." 
"Your hope will he disappointed," said Santoliquido. He looked 
at his watch. "I'm afraid I must leave you now, Mark. I'll turn 
you over to a technician who'll see to it that your new persona 
recording gets made right away. That is why you came here to-day, 
I'm sure you remember." 
"Yes," Kaufmann said dryly. "All this spying was only the ap-petizer. 
Now for the main course." 
Santoliquido produced a young, earnest technician named 
Donahy, with black hair so dark it seemed to have purple high-lights, 
and startling, bushy eyebrows slashing across his too white 
forehead. Kaufmann bade Santoliquido farewell, thanked him 
for his favors, looked forward to his presence on Dominica the 
next day. 
"If you'll come this wayÑ" said Donahy. 
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To Live Again 63 
Shortly Kaufmann was out of the storage section of the build-ing 
and back on familiar ground, in the public area where per-sona 
recordings were made. Here there was none of the care-fully 
cultivated gloom of that great central vault. Everything was 
bright, glowing, radiant; the tiles gleamed, the air had a vibrant 
tingle. This was the place where one came to purchase one's 
claim to immortality, and its gaiety mirrored the moods of those 
wealthy enough and determined enough to preserve their per-sonae 
for future transplants. 
He had been here many times. He had left a trail of recordings 
stretching back to the youthfully restless, ambitious Mark 
Kaufmann of twenty. And, he now knew, all those recordings 
still existed in some remote but accessible archive. A biogra-pher, 
given the right influence, could trace the unfolding of his 
development from youth to decisive manhood, stage by stage. 
Now the latest Mark Kaufmann would be added to the cache. 
Since he had been neglectful about reporting to be taped, nearly 
a full year's experiences were to be incorporated in the file now. 
It had been a more eventful year than usual, marked by his uncle's 
death, by his own increasingly complex relationship with his 
daughter, by several turns of his dealings with Elena Volterra, 
and nowÑ in the final hours of the recordÑ by this quartet of 
new experiences, his moment of entry into his uncle's persona 
and the three samplings of female personae. Those most recent 
events had left their imprint on him most clearly, and they would 
now become the potential property of the future recipient of his 
persona. 
"Will you lie down here?" Donahy asked. 
Kaufmann reclined. The Scheffing process had two phases-record 
and transplantÑ and the recording phase was the essence 
of simplicity. The sum of a human soulÑ hopes and strivings, 
rebuffs, triumphs, pains, pleasuresÑ is nothing more than a se-ries 
of magnetic impulses, some shadowed by noise, others clear 
and easily accessible. The beautiful Scheffing process provided 
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64 To Live Again 
instant mechanical duplication of that web of magnetic impulses. 
A spark leaping across a gap, so to speak: the quick flight of a 
persona from mind to tape. A lifetime's experience transformed 
into information that can be transcribed, billions of bits to the 
square millimeter, on magnetic tape; and then, to play safe and 
provide an extra dimension of realism, the same information 
translated and inscribed on data flakes as well. There was noth-ing 
to it. A transplant, involving the imprinting of all this mate-rial 
on a living human brain, was much more difficult, requiring 
special chemical preparation of the recipient. 
The telemetering devices went into position. Kaufmann looked 
up into a tangle of gleaming coils and struts. Sensors checked 
his physical well-being, monitored the flow of blood through the 
capillaries of his brain, peered through the irises of his eyes, 
noted his respiration, digestive processes, tactile responses, and 
vascular dilation. 
"You haven't been with us for a while," observed Donahy, mak-ing 
an entry in his dossier. 
"No, I haven't. I suppose I've been too busy." 
The technician shook his head. "Too busy to preserve your 
own persona! You must have really been busy, then. You know, 
you never would forgive yourself if you suddenly woke up as a 
transplant and found a year-long chunk of your life missing from 
your package of experience." 
"Absolutely right," Kaufmann said. "It's unutterably stupid to 
neglect this obligation." 
"Well, now, at least you'll be up to date again. But we hope 
you'll come to see us more regularly in the future. Here we go, 
nowÑ lift your head a littleÑ fine, fineÑ" 
The helmet was in place. Kaufmann waited, seeking as al-ways 
to determine the precise moment at which his soul leaped 
from his brain, impressed a replica of itself on the tape, and hur-ried 
back into its proper house. But as ever, the moment was 
imperceptible. His concentration was broken by the voice of the 
64 
To Live Again 65 
technician, saying, "There we are, Mr. Kaufmann. Your central 
will be billed, as usual. Thank you for coming, and I hope we 
have the pleasure of recording you many more times in years to 
come." 
Kaufmann left the building and entered his hopter. According 
to the ticker, the market had risen sharply; he had profited not a 
little while wandering within the maze of the Scheffing Insti-tute. 
And he had fulfilled his obligation to his future recipient by 
extending the unique and irreplaceable record of his life. Com-plete 
with a trifle of Uncle Paul's persona, and minute slices of 
the lives of three unknown girls. 
Within his mind his own resident personae made their pres-ence 
felt. They reminded him of other duties of this day, still 
undone. Planning for the party; a realty closing; a conference in 
Washington. Busy, busy, busy. But at least his conscience was 
clear for the moment. And tomorrow he could relax. 
65 
66 To Live Again 
66 
To Live Again 67 
Chapter 5 The island of Dominica rises like a great many-humped green 
beast out of the blue Caribbean, well down the chain of the 
Antilles. Trade winds blow steadily; a tropic sun keeps watch; 
the lofty mountainous spine intercepts rainfall and keeps the 
island constantly moist. Here in this still unspoiled island the 
Kaufmanns had assembled a lordly estate. Industry had come to 
most of the neighboring isles of the West Indies, but the rain 
forests of Dominica remained as green and glistening as in pri-mordial 
times, and in its humid lowlands the banana planta-tions 
spread from stream to stream. The arrangement, a quasi-feudal 
one, did not greatly please the Dominicans, who hun-gered 
for the prosperity experienced by Martinique and St. Lucia 
and Barbados and the rest. But their island was safe from defile-ment, 
whether they willed it or not. 
The Kaufmann property lay in the northwest quadrant of the 
island, between Point Round and the thriving town of Portsmouth. 
There the family had purchased a series of waterfront tracts en-compassing 
not only a majestic crescent arc of white beach, but 
also a string of the humbler dark beaches of black volcanic sand. 
Their holdings ran inland, up the rising slope of Morne Diablotin, 
Dominica's highest mountain, and so they sampled the avail-able 
environments from the dry shoreline to the riverine inte-rior 
to the mysterious cloud forest of the mountain. It had taken 
three generations of haggling and title search to put the estate 
together, and no one could venture to guess what its true value 
might be in a world where such tracts no longer could be had at 
all. 
Risa liked to think of it as her own property, due to descend to 
her in time. In fact that was untrue; the estate belonged commu-nally 
to the Kaufmann family association. It was administered 
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68 To Live Again 
on behalf of the family by her father, but that did not put her in 
line to inherit it. Each of her many cousins and aunts and uncles 
and more distant relatives had a share in the property. But Risa 
thought of herself as belonging to the main line of the Kaufmanns, 
and since she was her father's only child, she saw herself as the 
point of convergence toward which all the family wealth flowed. 
It was midday, now: the most dangerous hour under the hos-tile 
sun. She stood nude in hip-deep water on the crescent beach, 
relaxing before more guests arrived. About a dozen were here 
already. Risa and her father had flown down from New York late 
the previous night to oversee the preparations for the party. Look-ing 
up and don the beach, she eyed the early arrivals. They were 
scattered like flotsam on the pink-white sand, sunning, dozing. 
Four Kaufmanns, a pair of Lehmans, and a trio of Kinsolvings. 
Some of them bare, others-not modest but aware of the esthetics 
of ungainliness-covering selected portions of their bodies. Not 
one was less than fifteen years her senior. Risa wished her cous-ins 
would arrive. 
Turning her back to the beach, she waded seaward. 
Her body glistened. She had oiled it to protect herself from the 
sun. Her eyes were lensed against the salt water. She dug her 
toes into the sandy bottom, kicked forward, and began to swim, 
cutting a lean swathe through the green, glass-clear water. She 
liked the touch of it against her breasts and belly. The sunlight 
made sparkling patterns on the ocean floor, five feet below her. 
Soon she was past the sandy zone and out above the coral reef 
that lay a hundred yards off shore. Gnarled, twisted coral heads 
jutted from the bottom. Fish of a thousand hues danced and 
played between the stony orange and green slabs. Malevolent 
black sea urchins twitched their spines hopefully at her. Risa 
sucked air, dived, plucked a sand dollar from the bottom. 
In time she lost interest in the reef. When she swam back to 
shore, she found that another dozen guests or more had arrived-among 
them, finally, someone of her own generation. Her cousin 
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To Live Again 69 
Rod Loeb stood at the water's edge: eighteen, brawny, tanned, 
vain. She knew him well and liked him. He wore only a taut red 
loinstrap. His eyes passed easily over her slender nakedness as 
she emerged from the water. 
"Just get here?" she asked. 
"Half an hour ago. There was hopter trouble at the airport and 
we were delayed. You're looking good. Risa." 
"And you. Let's walk." 
They strolled through the slapping surf toward a cluster of 
jagged, metallic-looking rocks piled at the north end of the beach. 
Risa felt the noon warmth probing her skin for some vulnerable 
place to singe and blister; but the molecule-thick coating of cream 
protected her. She reveled in her nudity. She broke into a trot, 
her small breasts barely swaying. If Elena tried to run like this, 
Risa thought, she'd hit herself in the face with all that swinging 
meat. 
They reached the rocks, neither of them short of breath. The 
white turrets of barnacles sprouted on the lower surfaces, licked 
by the waves. Rod said, "I hear you've had a transplant." 
"News travels fast if it's reached Majorca already." 
"Gossip moves at the speed of light in this family. Is it true?" 
"Partly. I've applied for one. Mark gave his consent a few days 
ago. I went to the soul bank and tried a few personae out, and on 
Tuesday I'll have the transplant." 
"Who'll it be? ' 
"I'm not sure yet. I'm deciding between some different types. 
Whichever it is, it'll be a girl who died young and sexy. Maybe 
even someone you've slept with." 
Rod laughed. "Is that incest? If you pick up a persona with a 
memory of having been to bed with me, I mean? ' 
"I don't know. I don't care-Is there anything so special about 
going to bed with you?" 
"Try me and see," Rod said. "Without filtering it through a trans-plant." 
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70 To Live Again 
She eyed his loinstrap. "Right out here on the beach, or should 
we go to your cottage?" 
"Why not right here?" he asked. 
"All right," said Risa. She stretched out on a flat palm of stone, 
flexed her knees, drew her legs apart. Anyone on the beach could 
see them from here. She propped her fist against her chin. "Go 
ahead," she said. "I'm waiting." 
"I almost think you're serious," Rod said. 
"I sin. And you are too, aren't you? That strap doesn't hide 
much. You want me. You've been hinting about it long enough. 
So here's your chance. Get on top of me." 
His eyes sparkled maliciously. "I wouldn't take advantage of a 
child." 
"Monster! I'm past sixteen." 
"Chronologically. But only a child would want to put on a sick 
exhibition like that in front of everybody. It's tasteless, Risa. If 
you really want to have sex with me, get up and we'll go some-where 
private and I'll oblige you. But just to show everyone that 
you're old enough to sin a littleÑ" 
"Would I be the first to make love at one of these parties?" 
"Stop it," he said. He swung himself down beside her and lightly 
slapped the outside of her left thigh. "Can I change the subject? 
What do you know about Uncle Paul's transplant? Who's going 
to get him?" 
Disgruntled by his casual disregard of her wanton mood, Risa 
closed her thighs and said, "How should I know?" 
"The story I hear is that he's going to go to John Roditis." 
"Not if my father has anything to say about it" 
"That would be a blow, wouldn't it?" Rod said. "Roditis is big 
enough as he is. With Uncle Paul, he'd be a titan. He'd have the 
business mind of the century." 
Risa yawned. She swiveled around, dipping her toes in the wa-ter. 
A gray ghostly crab scuffled along the sand and vanished, 
digging down with startling swiftness. Risa said, "My father 
70 
To Live Again 71 
doesn't want Roditis to have Uncle Paul. My father's a good friend 
of Santoliquido, and Santoliquido decides. See?" 
Rod nodded. "You make it sound very open and shut." 
"It has to be. Why, if Roditis got Uncle Paul, he'd be able to 
come to our family gatherings, he'd have a wedge right into our 
whole group. Wouldn't that be horrible? That nasty, aggressive 
little man sitting right there on the beach, sipping a drink, mak-ing 
us be polite to him for Uncle Paul's sake? But it won't hap-pen." 

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." 
"It won't." 
"If it isn't going to happen," Rod said, "what's Roditis' private 
secretary doing here?" 
"Where?" 
"Look," Rod said, pointing. 
Risa peered back and saw a group of new arrivals descending 
to the beach from the cabanas. Leading the way came Elena 
Volterra, wearing next to nothing, her oiled body agleam, fusion 
nodes glistening in her skin, her heavy breasts artfully cantile-vered 
into position by a wisp of sprayon support. Beside her, pink 
and fleshy, walked Francesco Santoliquido. A pace behind them 
came an attractive couple whom Risa recognized as David and 
Gloria Loeb, and on Gloria's right was a very tall, very thin, ex-tremely 
pale and fair-haired man who indeed closely resembled 
Charles Noyes, a well-known associate of John Roditis. 
His appearance on the beach was exciting comment from many 
quarters. Heads were turning; whispers buzzed. Noyes himself 
looked ill at ease. He was thickly lathered to protect his skin 
from the sun, but even so he continually wrinkled his back as if 
to make sure he was suffering no harm. 
"What could he be doing here?" Risa muttered. 
"Maybe Roditis is here too," said Rod. "Having a little discus-sion 
with your father in the main house." 
"No. No." Risa looked for Mark Kaufmann and failed to see 
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72 To Live Again 
him. This was impossible, she told herself. Then she recalled: 
"Noyes is Gloria's brother. He must have just come along for the 
ride. This doesn't have a thing to do with Roditis." 
"Let's hope you're right. But it seems odd, having a Roditis 
man right in our midst. Like Death at the feast." 
"I want to go over and find out more? ' 
"Go ahead," Rod said. "I'm going swimming. I'll get all the 
gossip from you later." 
He sprang from the rocks and hit the water in mid-stroke, 
heading outward toward the reef. Risa, disturbed, crossed di-agonally 
to the new little group standing on the sandy crest of 
the beach at the midpoint of the crescent. She greeted Elena 
curtly and took Santoliquido's hand. She smiled at David Loeb, a 
tall, courtly-looking man of about forty-five to whom she was 
related in some incomprehensible way, and embraced his lean, 
leggy blonde wife Gloria. Risa had never known either of them 
very well. Gloria looked tense and somehow irritated; but she 
turned smoothly and said, "Risa, I don't think you know my 
brother. Charles Noyes. Risa Kaufmann. Mark's daughter." 
"A pleasure," Noyes said. It didn't sound to Risa as though he 
meant it. His large blue eyes raced in all directions, as if trying 
to avoid any direct confrontation of her girlish nakedness; then, 
with an obvious effort, he smiled at her. 
"I've heard so much about you from Gloria," Risa lied sweetly. 
"It must be so exciting to work with Mr. Roditis. Tell me, is he 
coming to our party too?" 
"No, he-ahÑ won't be here," Noyes said. 
"Pity. I'd love to meet him. Will you excuse me?" Risa grinned 
icily and went jogging across the hot sand, up onto the lawn and 
into the main house, where the servants were programing the 
buffet lunch. She looked for her father and found him, as she 
expected, in the bamboo-paneled study, on the telephone. She 
could not see the face in the screen. He hung up after a moment 
and looked at her. 
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To Live Again 73 
"Do you know who's here?" she asked. 
She could tell from his sour, hooded expression that he did. 
"Yes. Gloria's little surprise package. She should have had better 
taste than that!" 
"Why'd you let him in?" 
"He's her guest. I can't refuse him, even if he is Roditis' right 
hand. It's permissible to bring one's brother to a party like this." 
"But what does he want here? Spying for Roditis? Trying to 
soften us up?" 
Kaufmann relaxed and allowed himself to laugh. "Why are 
you so worked up over it, Risa? It's my problem. You go out in the 
sun and have a good time." 
"If I'm a Kaufmann, it's my problem too. We have certain fam-ily 
standards to uphold!" 
"They'll be upheld, love. I'll deal with Mr. Noyes." 
It was a dismissal. Mark still refused to accept her as an adult. 
He was patting her on the head and telling her to run off and 
play. Risa's nostrils flared, but she kept her anger unvoiced and 
quickly left the building, narrowly avoiding tripping over a ro-bot 
crawler that was polishing the patio floor. 
Hands on hips, she stood at the edge of the patio, looking down 
at the guests. Rod had emerged from the water and was talking 
to Noyes and the Loebs. Santoliquido and Elena, oddly, were off 
by themselves near the rocks where Risa had tried to seduce her 
cousin with so little success. Overhead, three huge brown peli-cans 
wheeled and folded their wings, plummeting into the wa-ter 
to snatch up fish; they had been treated with adrenergic drugs, 
Risa knew, so they'd stay hungry all afternoon and stage a good 
show for the guests. Suddenly furious, Risa whirled and ran to-ward 
the small cottage, one of thirty behind the main house, 
where she was staying on this visit. She flung herself down on 
the bed, sobbing sulkily. 
Minutes later the doorscreen announced a visitor. She looked 
up and saw Rod's image. 
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74 To Live Again 
"Come in," she called. 
The door slid open. He stepped in, sticking his feet into the 
vibrator to rid them of sand. "I've got the word on Noyes," he 
said. "He's not here on account of Roditis. He happened to drop 
in on Gloria and Dave just as they were leaving for the party, 
and they couldn't get rid of him, so Gloria had to say, sure, get in 
the hopter with us, and here he is. Your father must be burning." 
"I'm not concerned with my father's feelings just now," Risa 
said thinly. "Or with Noyes. Or with Roditis. They can all go to 
hell." 
"HeyÑ" 
Tears ebbed from her eyes. "And you can go there with them!" 
"What's wrong? What did I do?" 
"It's what you didn't do," Risa said. 
Rod stared at her strangely. His eyes traveled the length of her 
body as though he had never seen her before. Risa trembled 
expectantly. It was almost time for lunch. But firstÑ 
His eyes met hers. Her gaze was steady. He nodded. 
He stepped toward the bed. 

Noyes thought his brain would melt under that hellish sun. He 
recited mantras of self-possession and liberation, dug his toes 
into the scorching sand, watched the nude and near-nude 
Kaufmanns, their friends, and relatives, flit by, and wished fer-vently 
that he were almost anywhere else. It was bad enough 
that Roditis had pitchforked him into this gathering where he 
was so little wanted; he also had to tolerate tropical heat, and 
that was beyond the call of duty. Would the protective cream 
really protect him? Or would he be parboiled by nightfall? 
He felt Kravchenko's jeers. 
ÑTake it like a man, friend. 
"Very amusing. But you won't feel the sunburn." 
ÑThat's part of the business of being dead. You don't feel the 
pain, you don't feel the pleasure either. Say, say, say, what's 
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To Live Again 75 
Santoliquido up to? 
Noyes looked down the beach. He hadn't noticed it, but his 
persona had; Santoliquido was deep in conversation with Elena 
Volterra. And Elena was known to be Mark Kaufmann's mistress. 
In the midst of his discomfort Noyes analyzed this situation in 
terms of Roditis' needs. Was Elena at this moment doing a hatchet 
job on Roditis, filling the soul bank administrator's receptive mind 
with reasons why the Paul Kaufmann persona should not go to 
him? Or, contrariwise, was Santoliquido attempting to bring 
Elena into his orbit while Mark was elsewhere? The first possi-bility 
held no promise of leverage, but the second did. 
Trying to seem casual about it, Noyes edged toward the dis-tant 
pair. That Elena was certainly a splendid woman, he thought: 
all that tawny flesh, so well tanned, so opulent, so nicely dis-played. 
He suspected that Elena might easily look sloppy with 
her breasts unbound, and that if she gained another five pounds 
her ampleness would turn to grossness. But as she was, she was 
quite attractive. And Santoliquido's sensual tastes, Noyes real-ized, 
inclined toward women of Elena's sort, Latin and statu-esque. 
It would be quite useful to Roditis' cause if Santo worked 
himself into some kind of compromising position with Elena this 
weekend. 
He got no closer than a hundred yardsÑ still beyond lip-read-ing 
range. Then a robot carrying trays of refreshments rolled 
across his path, and, as he turned to help himself, Noyes was 
intercepted by a short, gushing woman with golden eyes and an 
aggressively jutting chin. "Charles," she said. "I haven't seen you 
in a thousand years. Come meet my new husband!" 
He sorted through foggy family memories. She was an Adams, 
yes, that was clear, and she had attended his sister's wedding to 
David Loeb, and he remembered dimly that she had been mar-ried 
for a while to one of the Schiffs. He smiled uncertainly. 
"You don't remember me?" she asked. 
"It's been a long timeÑ Donna, Donna Adams, is it?" 
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76 To Live Again 
"Donna's my sister. I'm Rowena. How could you forget a name 
like that? You should take your memory drugs more often, 
Charles. I don't believe I'll ever forget the way you carried on at 
Gloria's wedding! YouÑ" 
"I didn't catch your mated name now," Noyes cut in quickly. 
"Owens. Yes, you were going to meet my husband. Nathaniel 
Owens. He's right over here. A most extraordinary man. Can 
you imagine it, Charles, he carries seven personae! Seven!" 
But he doesn't carry them very well, Noyes decided a moment 
later, when he had been introduced to Nathaniel Owens. Owens 
was burly and barrel-chested, flaunting a thick mat of body hair 
as though perversely proud of its ugly coarseness, and his square, 
harsh-planed face looked as though it had been constructed from 
random components. He was about sixty, Noyes guessed. His eyes 
were black and not quite focused, and when he spoke his voice 
soared confusingly through an octave or more before settling on 
its pitch. 
"My wife been telling you a lot of nonsense about us?" Owens 
demanded truculently. 
"Not at all. She simply said you're carrying seven personae." 
Owens blinked and twitched. "Damned right I am! You see 
anything wrong with that?" 
"If you can handle the strainÑ" 
"He can handle anything, chum," Owens said in a strangely 
altered voice, a basso growl. "He's the original übermensch. You 
just have to ask and he'll tell you." 
Noyes was still attempting to understand why Owens had sud-denly 
spoken of himself in the third person when Owens blurted 
in a much higher voice, "Shut your goddam mouth!" 
"It's your goddam mouth I'm talking through," came the deeper 
voice. 
"Our mouth, you sniveling idiot!" It was a third voice, bland, 
silky. "We're all in this cage together!" 
Noyes realized, stunned, that Owens' personae had seized con-
76 
To Live Again 77 
trol of the man and were carrying on an argument through his 
vocal apparatus. Owens himself stood stupefied, long arms dan-gling 
at his sides, shoulders lifting and hitching in oddly auto-matic 
motions. His eyes rolled. His wife, seeing what had hap-pened, 
grabbed a drink from a roboservitor's tray and plunged 
it, dagger-fashion, against Owens' thick-muscled arm. His twist-ing 
facial muscles subsided. He looked abashed. 
"Nathaniel hasn't had much sleep lately," Rowena Owens ex-plained 
to the little group that had gathered. "Sometimes he finds 
it difficult to exert the proper authority when he's tired. Feeling 
better now, darling?" 
"I'm all right, yes," Owens said. "I'm in full command again." 
His voice was neutral; he had ceased to twitch. 
Noyes stared, stricken with horror. It seemed to him that he 
saw his own fate mirrored in Owens' eyes. The man's personae 
had for the moment ejected him from control of his body and 
had transformed him into a prisoner in his own skull, assailed 
by dybbuks. Just as James Kravchenko ceaselessly attempted to 
do to him. Kravchenko had not yet succeeded even in grabbing 
the power of vocalization; when he spoke, it was still only an 
Inward murmur. But he was trying all the while. It did not soothe 
Noyes to reflect that he had merely the problem of keeping one 
persona under control, while Owens wrestled with a whole team 
of them. 
Owens took Noyes' shocked silence for disapproval, evidently. 
He said with belligerence, "What's the matter? Don't you believe 
in Scheffing transplant?" 
"Well, IÑ" 
"I know. You're one of the Erasure people. You feel it's all an 
evil, sinister manifestation of cultural decay, and you want all 
the personae rubbed out. Right? And here I stand with seven of 
them under my roof, and to you I'm the embodiment of Satan. 
Right? Right?" 
"It isn't that way at all," Noyes murmured. 
77 
78 To Live Again 
"As a matter of fact, my brother isn't part of the Erasure group 
in the least. Are you, Charles?" Gloria had appeared from some-where 
and now stood at Owens' elbow, looking fair and lovely, 
as much a willowy girl as she had been on her wedding day. 
"Of course not," Noyes managed to say. "I've got a persona 
myself, you know. What gives you the idea I'm against trans-plant?" 

Owens looked mollified. "I suppose I leaped to the conclusion. 
You know, there are so many of me that I tend to make snap 
judgments. We assess the evidence as a team, and sometimes 
we assess it too fast." He thrust out his hand. "Who are you, any-way?" 

"Charles Noyes. I'm with Roditis Securities." 
"Oh. Yes. Sure." The hand enfolded his. Just as contact was 
made, Owens twitched again, and a kind of convulsion ran the 
length of his arm, forcing him to pull his hand back. Noyes 
watched uncomfortably as the spasm traveled down the entire 
right side of Owens' body. 
Gloria said quickly, "Charles is also an authority on Buddhist 
reincarnation theory. He and Mr. Roditis have just returned from 
a pilgrimage to the lamasery in San Francisco. HeÑ" 
"You believe in that crap?" Owens asked. 
Noyes faltered, astonished by the hairy man's capacity for start-ing 
trouble. Rowena Owens bit her lip. As quietly as he could, 
Noyes said, "I think the teachings form a valuable guide to exist-ence 
in a world where reincarnation is a practical fact. We must 
know the art of dying if we're to master the art of living." 
"I say it's crap," Owens repeated loudly. "It's an artificial move-ment 
grafted onto a materialistic society for reasons of guilt. 
Those of us who take part in the transplant program are set apart 
from ordinary humanity, from the clods, if you like, and because 
in effect we've become immortal we need to console ourselves 
with a new religion. So we've borrowed this prayer-wheel gar-bage 
from the Himalayas, only we've turned it upside down, since 
78 
To Live Again 79 
in its original form it's inapplicable to our society. ItÑ" 
"You sound a little like Mr. Roditis now," Noyes began. "HeÑ" 
"Let me finish! The whole idea of the Buddhists is to break the 
chain of incarnations and go off to nirvana, isn't it? Born no more? 
And our whole idea is to grab as many incarnations as possible, 
down through the centuries. For us, good karma leads to re-birth. 
Is that Buddhism? That's a perversion of Buddhism! I know. 
I've got a guru right here inside me, one of the best, a real theo-logian. 
Murtaugh, from the Baltimore group. You know of him?" 
Awed, Noyes said, "Why, of course. He wrote The Art of Right 
Dying." 
"And he died right himself, and I got him! So you better not 
argue theology with me. I've got it straight from the source, Noyes. 
Om mani padme hum. And I know how cynical the entire move-ment 
is. I've got collective karma." Owens twitched again. He 
was losing control once more. "I tell you, only a tired persona 
wants off the wheel of sangsara. The rest of us hunger to go 
round and round and round again. WeÑ" A scabrous obscenity 
slipped from Owens' lips. He paused, astonished, and hammered 
his fist against his left cheekbone. He trembled. 
It was sickening to watch him being pulled apart this way. 
Recovering, Owens. said, "Sometimes it's difficult to hang on 
to the reins." 
"Why did you set such a challenge for yourself?" Noyes asked. 
"Seven transplantsÑ" 
"Actually, only four transplants," Owens said. "Murtaugh's per-sona 
brought two transplants of his own along, and one of my 
others already had one. Three hitchhikers, four transplants. Quite 
a crowd. Quite. A. Crowd." 
Noyes understood. Such hitchhikers were known as second-ary 
personae: those that existed as part of the recording of some-one 
subsequently transplanted to another person. The problem 
of the secondary personae was becoming acute, now that the 
Scheffing process was more than a generation old. Everyone who 
79 
80 To Live Again 
carried a persona in addition to his own now handed it on when 
he was recorded, and some of these crowded minds were being 
picked up by recipients. In another few years, virtually every 
transplant would bring the recipient two or three secondary per-sonae 
for each primary one. Then every transplant would cre-ate 
a babbling mob within the brain, even though the secondary 
personae were much less vivid than primaries. 
There were ways around it, Noyes knew. The simplest was to 
accept as a transplant only a persona with no secondaries at-tached, 
as he had done. Kravchenko had not gone in for the 
Scheffing process until quite recently, and the recording of him 
that had been on file at his death had been made before the trans-plant, 
so it included no trace of Kravchenko's inherited persona. 
But of course that method soon would be impossible, since ev-eryone 
took a transplant young these days, and incorporated the 
persona in his earliest records. 
Another way was to have any secondaries deleted from the 
persona before adopting it. The erased secondaries thus went 
back into the soul bank and could be rerecorded as primaries 
for new recipients. Noyes preferred that idea. However, perso-nae 
meant prestige, and multiple personae meant multiple pres-tige. 
People nowadays seemed to want to clutter their minds. 
When one took on a transplant, one desired to take that persona's 
whole package of secondaries, thus getting the full benefit of 
the transplanted soul in all its complexity. 
Which was fine if one could handle it, Noyes thought. But it 
would be instructive for each potential transplantee to spend 
five minutes with Nathaniel Owens and find out what it was like 
to be too greedy. 
"Ñ it might be better if none of this transplanting business had 
ever begun," David Loeb was saying. "And no, I don't believe in 
erasure either. I've got my personae too. But stillÑ" 
"It's our salvation. It's our hope of immortality." That was 
Owens, speaking in one of his milder voices. "I've recorded my-
80 
To Live Again 81 
self with this entire tribe of passengers, and I look forward to my 
next turn on the cycle, in another body, whenÑ" 
"Nat! Your arm!" Rowena yelped. 
As he spoke, his left arm had reached out in seeming indepen-dence 
of his body to seize Gloria Loeb's thigh. Gloria winced as 
the stubby fingers dug in. Owens blurted something apologetic, 
but did not let go. David Loeb and Noyes went to the rescue 
simultaneously; Noyes grasped Owens' wrist, and his brother-in-
law pried at Owens' fingers. The hand came away. Purpling 
blotches appeared on Gloria's pale flesh. 
Owens did not seem to comprehend what he had done. There 
was a long moment of silence while this group of well-bred 
people struggled to find a well-bred way of covering the gaffe. 
Owens solved the problem himself. He said hoarsely, "I think I 
better go swimming now. Work off this charge of energy and get 
everything in order." 
He ran down toward the water, a lumbering, clumsily power-ful 
figure, stumbling once as some subsidiary persona fought 
him for control even while he ran. But he managed to hit the 
water in a smooth dive. Head down, arms pinwheeling, he swam 
like a torpedo out to the reef. 
Noyes closed his eyes. The sun suddenly seemed immense over 
his head, a great molten ball, dripping flame. Within him 
Kravchenko sounded his silent mocking laughter. 
ÑTake a good look, Charlie. That's what I'm going to do to 
you one of these days. I don't need six pals to push you aside. I'll 
do it myself. 
Noyes turned away from the others. In order to speak directly 
to Kravchenko he had to vocalize his words, and he did not want 
anyone aware that he was talking to himself. He murmured, "You 
won't get away with it. The instant you start trouble I'll kill both 
of us, Kravchenko." 
ÑAh. The carniphage threat again. Where's the flask, Charlie? 
In your swimsuit? 
81 
82 To Live Again 
"Let me alone." 
ÑWhy don't we go over and talk to Elena? There's a woman! 
You're hungry for her, and I'll sit back and watch. I knew her 
when I was carnate. She wasn't Kaufmann's mistress then. Elena 
and I can reminisce. Put me in control, Charlie, and I'll seduce 
her for you. 
"Stop it!" 
ÑThat would be a good deal for both of us. I'll make Elena, 
and your body will enjoy the fun. 
Noyes shivered. Instead of threatening, Kravchenko now 
sought to tempt; but the goal was the same. It might happen at 
any time: the persona winning command of the shared body, 
even a countererasure that would wipe Noyes out entirely and 
leave Kravchenko in undisputed possession, a dybbuk. That was 
the true rebirth: to take over your host, to have a body of your 
own again, to walk in the world, freely sampling the sensory 
intake. Noyes was determined not to have Kravchenko victimize 
him in that way. 
The sun was turning into a flask of carniphage. 
Reach up, Noyes thought. Grab it, bite on it. Show him a thing 
or two. 
Trails of sweat ran down his body. He felt his skin puckering 
and blistering, his bones beginning to melt into rubber. People 
looked at him worriedly as he swayed. Smiling, bowing, Noyes 
grinned at his sister, at Elena, at Rowena Owens. I'm all right. 
Perfectly all right. Maybe a touch of the sun, but nothing seri-ous, 
quite all right, no need for fear. 
Someone screamed. 
Noyes thought at first that they were screaming about him, 
that in his weakened state he had collapsed or split apart or 
melted or seized the sun. But no, he was still on his feet, and no 
one was looking at him. They were all pointing toward the wa-ter. 
With colossal effort he swung himself around to see what 
the matter was. 
82 
To Live Again 83 
"He's out of control !" Rowena Owens cried. "Help him, some-body, 
help him!" 
Noyes saw that Nathaniel Owens had reached the reef, swim-ming 
to that patch of brownish coral a hundred yards off shore 
that lay just beneath the surface and broke it to jut up in several 
places. And there, the warring, incompatible personae within 
him had rebelled. Now Owens thrashed and leaped about on the 
reef like a hooked tarpon, flying from the water, smashing down 
on the razor-keen coral, kicking his legs in the air, vanishing 
from sight for a moment,, then erupting again to crash into an-other 
part of the reef. Already long red gashes streaked his skin. 
Again and again he flung himself at the reef, now mounting one 
strip of it and doing a wild, frenzied dance along its upper rim. 
"He'll cut himself to bits," David Loeb said. 
"And the blood in the water-there'll be sharks soon," 
Santoliquido observed. 
Within Noyes, Kravchenko laughed. 
ÑSee? See? Just wait! 
"No," Noyes whispered. "You'll never do that to me!" 
Risa Kaufmann broke from the group. She had been standing 
silently by, visibly disturbed by Owens' irrational behavior, and 
now, a tanned nude streak, she ran lithely across the beach, en-tered 
the water, and sped toward the reef, swimming nearly sub-merged, 
now breaking the water with a kicking ankle, now with 
an upturned buttock, now a shoulderblade. She reached Owens. 
He stood upright in water only a few feet deep, readying himself 
for another lunatic dash against the reef. Deep-hued blood welled 
steadily through the coarse mat of hair on his body. Risa clam-bered 
up beside him, caught him, spun him around, gripped him 
tightly. The contact of her bell-like little breasts against his hairy 
fleshiness seemed revolting. But, with brisk efficiency, the girl 
propelled the dazed, bleeding man away from the coral knives 
of the reef and drew him into the clear green water closer to 
shore. He was safe. A cheer went up. 
83 
84 To Live Again 
In that same instant Noyes felt the heavens explode and the 
sun fall at his feet. He snatched it up and devoured it, and as the 
hallucination overwhelmed him he plunged to the ground, jerk-ing 
and yammering, seized by an uncontrollable attack. The 
world grew dark. His limbs lashed the ground. Kravchenko 
howled in pleasure. 
He felt warmth against him. Tender female flesh. 
"Easy, easy, easy. You'll be all right." 
Elena Volterra was cradling him. He pillowed his head against 
the ripe, lush mounds of her breasts and sobbed. 
"Give him air," a voice said. 
Noyes closed and opened his eyes several times. He clung to 
Elena desperately. "My name's Kravchenko," he said. "James 
Kravchenko." 
"Kravchenko is dead," Elena told him. "You're Charles Noyes." 
"Yes. Yes. Charles Noyes. Kravchenko's dead." 
"Rest now," Elena whispered. "Easy, easy, easy." 
"Rest. I am Charles Noyes. Yes." 
"You'll feel better in a little while." 
A cool ultrasonic snout touched his arm. Not a drink but an 
anesthetic, Noyes realized. He saw the Buddha-Heruka, with 
three heads, six hands, and four feet firmly postured, the right 
face being white, the left red, the central dark-brown; the body 
emitting flames of radiance; the nine eyes widely opened; the 
eyebrows quivering like lightning; the protruding teeth glisten-ing 
and set over one another. "I am Charles Noyes," Noyes said. 
ÑGive Elena a great big kiss for me. 
Noyes' eyes closed. He felt no more pain. 
84 
To Live Again 85 
Chapter 6 It was Tuesday morning. Risa entered Francesco Santoliquido's 
office and stood just within the door. He was busy, using a data 
machine with his left hand while tapping out computer instruc-tions 
with his right. 
At length he looked up and said, "There she is. Our little hero-ine. 
Come in, come in, sit down." 
"You got a good tan this weekend," Risa observed. 
"There's nothing like the tropical sun. It was a splendid party, 
Risa. My congratulations to you and your father. Of course, there 
were some unusual eventsÑ" 
"They've taken Owens to the therapy satellite. He'll be there a 
month, floating in nullgrav until he's healthy." 
Santoliquido scowled. "Sad, very sad. But nullgrav's not the 
therapy for him. He's a candidate for erasure." 
"I didn't think you used that word here!" 
"I'm not speaking in the political sense," said Santoliquido. 
"Strictly the medical. That man's got more than he can handle 
under his skull." 
"Much more." Risa was flattered that busy Santoliquido would 
take the time to discuss Owens' problems with her. It was a tacit 
recognition that she was now an adult. She said, "Is there any 
provision in the law for mandatory erasure?" 
"Well, yes, when the presence of the persona threatens the 
security and integrity of the host." 
"Certainly that's true here." 
Santoliquido's eyes twinkled. "But Nat Owens has influence. 
I'd hesitate to ship him off for erasure against his will. We'll see 
how he feels when he gets back from his float. Possibly we can 
get him to give up two or three of the least compatible personae, 
the ones at war with one another." 
85 
86 To Live Again 
Solemnly Risa said, "That would be best. It was scary, out on 
the reef. Big strips of skin hanging loose on him, and he didn't 
even seem to know what he was doing, just hurling himself 
against that sharp coral again and again." 
"It was brave of you to rescue him." 
She giggled. "I didn't stop to think. Maybe if I had, I wouldn't 
have done anything. But it just seemed like the right thing to do. 
I mean, I knew I could get out there and pull him away from the 
reef, and so I went and did it, and then there was time to be 
nervous afterward. Especially when I came ashore and found 
the other man having a fit too, Charles NoyesÑ" 
"It was a wild moment," Santoliquido agreed. "Noyes has been 
in stasis these last two days, hasn't he?" 
"I think they let him out. He's calm again." 
"Tell me, Risa. Now that you've seen two men run wild at once, 
because they found their transplants too difficult to control, have 
you changed your mind at all about your own transplant?" 
"Of course not," she said instantly. "Oh, I admit I've been a 
little uneasy, but I wouldn't be here unless I meant to go through 
with it. What happened to them isn't any concern of mine. Owens 
was asking for trouble when he took on that mob of personae. 
And Noyes is an unstable character, they tell me. I'm ready." 
"Good girl." Santoliquido pressed a buzzer. "We'll get going, 
then. You've chosen the persona you want?" 
"Yes." 
"Tandy Cushing?" 
"How did you know that?" 
"I knew," said Santoliquido. "Ask your father. I predicted the 
choice you'd make." He opened his desk, came through it, took 
her by the hand, and lifted her to her feet. "I won't be seeing you 
again as you are now, Risa. You'll leave my office as Risa 
Kaufmann, but the next time we meet, you'll be Risa plus Tandy. 
I hope you find it an enriching experience." 
"I know I will," she said. 
86 
To Live Again 87 
Her lips brushed his. She liked him; he was so much like a 
jolly uncle to her. Though of course she knew it was a mistake to 
take a patronizing attitude toward a man as powerful as 
Francesco Santoliquido. He was so kind to her only because she 
was Mark Kaufmann's daughter, and it was rash to forget it. 
A black-smocked technician appeared at the office door. "This 
way, please, Miss Kaufmann." 
She waved goodby to Santoliquido. 
Here we go, she thought. Hello, Tandy Cushing! 
She followed the technician toward the transplant room. It was 
a long trip, spanning many levels of the building, and tension 
grew within her as the moment drew near. She eased her fears 
by studying the technician. He was young, hardly any older than 
her cousin Rod, and he seemed plainly in awe of her. It was his 
job to deal with the rich and mighty, to pump new personae into 
their receptive brains, but Risa suspected that he himself left 
this palace of wonders each night to return to some dismal little 
hovel, full of cockroaches and squalling babies, where he waited 
tensely for the next day's excursion into fantasy. How brutal it 
must be to live in the real world, she thought, earning perhaps a 
thousand dollars fissionable a month, never able to afford any-thing, 
and faced with the terrible knowledge that after death 
comes Énothing! 
"We go in here," said the technician. 
"What's your name?" Risa asked. 
"Leonards, Miss Kaufmann." 
"Is that a first name or a last? ' 
"Last." 
Last. No doubt he had a first name too, but wasn't supposed to 
give it. He was merely a piece of walking equipment. Leonards. 
He was good-looking, in his own worried way, too pale, pinch 
lines already forming between his eyebrows, but tall and stur-dily 
built. Are you married yet, Leonards? Where do you live? 
What are your dreams and ambitions? Isn't it frustrating for you 
87 
88 To Live Again 
to work in the soul bank and never have any hope of receiving a 
transplant yourself, or of being recorded? Wouldn't you like 
enough money so you could put your persona on file, Leonards? 
Suppose I had your account credited with half a million dollars 
fissionable. Would that be enough? I'd never miss it. I'd tell Mark 
I gave it to charity. Your life would be altogether different. Or 
how would you like to meet me when this is over, Leonards, and 
go to bed with me? Would that please you, sleeping with a 
Kaufmann? I'm good, too. Ask Rod Loeb. Ask a lot of people. I'm 
young, but I learn fast. 
Together they entered the booth. 
She kept her face rigid, masklike, hiding her thoughts from 
the young man. It would never do for him to know what she had 
been thinking. He might get upset and bungle the transplant 
somehow. Let him stay calm and cool at least until the work is 
done. Afterwards, maybe, I'll have a little fun with him. 
The transplant room was a rectangular cubicle, perhaps nine 
feet by twelve, warm, well lit. It had windows along two walls, 
one facing the outer corridor, one looking into an inner access 
room that was part of the spine of the building. Risa saw a couch, 
a computer terminal, and a cluster of gleaming equipment. 
Opaquing the hall window, Leonards said, "Please lie down. 
Make yourself comfortable." 
"Shall I remove my clothing?" Risa asked. 
Her hands went to the discard stud. Leonards' facial muscles 
rippled in shock at the mere suggestion that she was willing to 
disrobe before him, and it was a moment before he recovered 
his poise and said, "That won't be necessary. Kick off your shoes, 
if you like." 
She stretched out, shoeless. Leonards grasped a bronze knob 
and a mass of equipment swung free of the wall. He drew it to-ward 
her. "This is a diagnostat," he told her. "We simply wish to 
check your physical condition before we proceed with the trans-plant. 
It's important that your health and body tone be at the top 
88 
To Live Again 89 
of their cycle. This part just takes a minuteÑ there." The 
diagnostat hummed and clicked and was silent. Leonards pressed 
an eject stud. A copper-colored capsule dropped out, and he 
flipped it into a transfer hatch that would take it to some scan-ning 
instrument within the building's computer bank. He looked 
more nervous than she was. After a moment a light went on in 
the access room, and through a slot in the wall came a yellow 
slip. Risa craned her neck but could not see what it said. 
"You're in fine shape," Leonards reported. "Where did you get 
those skin abrasions, though?" 
"In the West Indies on Saturday. A man was in trouble on a 
coral reef and I pulled him free and got cut up a little. They're 
healing fast." 
"In any case, there's no effect on your receptivity to the trans-plant. 
Now, I suppose you're familiar with the Scheffing process, 
but I know you want to keep up with me on each phase of the 
transplant, so I'm likely to tell you a few things you already know. 
For example, the first step is the drug treatment, to enhance 
your memory receptivity. We inject a nucleic acid booster, 
coupled with one of the mnemonic drugs. A mnemonic drugÑ" 
"Am I getting picrotoxin or one of the pentylenctetrazol de-rivatives?" 
Risa asked. 
Leonards looked shaken. "You've been doing some home-work!" 

"Which do I get?" 
"It'll be the pentylene," he said. "We get better response curves 
on it with women under thirty. Picrotoxin blocks presynaptic in-hibition, 
and some of the others block postsynaptic inhibition, 
but pentylenetetrazol doesn't interfere with either. It excites the 
nervous system by decreasing neuronal recovery time, without 
reference to inhibitory pathways. Thus it prevents memory de-cay 
and significantly increases the response latencies. Still fol-lowing 
me?" 
"Yes," Risa lied. She was damned if she'd let his deliberately 
89 
90 To Live Again 
accelerated flow of gibberish upset her. "The result is to make 
me more receptive to the imprint from the recording. All right. 
I'm ready whenever you are." 
He produced a thick, stubby, phallic-looking ultrasonic injec-tor. 
While he fumbled with the dial settings Risa casually disen-gaged 
her tunic, baring the lower part of her body to the groin. 
Leonards was slow to notice, but when he finally looked at her 
he was so rattled he nearly dropped the injector. 
Staring rigidly at her chin, he said, "Why did you uncover your-self?" 

"I understood that the injection was given in the upper part of 
the thigh." 
"No." 
"In the backside, then?" She grinned kittenishly and rolled over. 
"The arm will do." 
She pouted. "Well, all right." 
He was sweating and flushed. She figured she had paid him 
back well enough for that burst of postsynaptic inhibitions and 
response latencies. Chastely she covered herself again, not want-ing 
him to jab the injector into the wrong place while he was so 
shaken. He took a deep breath and put the snout to her arm. 
There was an ultrasonic whirr. 
"We allow one hour for the nucleic acid booster to reach the 
brain. By then the mnemonic drug will have already taken ef-fect. 
I'll leave you to relax until the next phase can begin. Per-haps 
you'd like to look through this information leaflet." 
He made his escape from the transplant room, looking visibly 
relieved. 
Risa sprawled on the couch and examined the booklet. 
SOME FACTS ABOUT THE SCHEFFING PROCESS, it was 
headed. She glanced through it without interest. It told her things 
she already knew: how her brain was prepared for the persona 
to come, how the recordings were made, how transplants were 
effected. Toward the back was some material of more direct im-
90 
To Live Again 91 
portance: tips on making the transition after your first transplant. 
You will have complete access to the memories and life experi-ences 
of your imprinted persona, the booklet told her. As with your 
own memories, some of the experiences you receive will be blurred 
or distorted and not immediately retrievable. During the period 
of adjustment you may feel occasional confusions of identity, par-ticularly 
if the new persona was noted for strength of character in 
its previous carnate existence. THIS SHOULD NOT BE CAUSE 
FOR ALARM. After a few days you will establish a satisfactory 
working relationship with the persona. Your new companion will 
enhance and support your responses to your environment. You 
will have the advantage of extra perspective and an additional 
set of life experiences on which to base your judgments. Think of 
the persona as a guest, a friend, a partner. It is the most intimate 
possible human relationship, and represents the finest accomplish-ment 
of our era. 
A few pages on, Risa found information on how to communi-cate 
directly with the persona. At any time, she could simply 
reach into the pool of experience and memory that was being 
transplanted to her brain, and haul out whatever was useful to 
her immediate situation. But if she-wanted to speak to the per-sona, 
to address her as an individual, she would have to talk out 
loud. At least at first, though the booklet said it was possible af-ter 
a while to talk to the persona via the interior neural chan-nels. 
Meanwhile the persona, having no other communication 
access, was able to key herself right into the brain and make her 
thoughts known. 
Did a persona have thoughts, Risa wondered? 
A persona was nothing but a set of memories. It didn't have 
real existence. You couldn't see a persona, any more than you 
could see an abstract concept. And the persona was dead, a closed 
account with all totals drawn. How could a transplanted per-sona 
think and react and have things to say? 
Judging by the behavior of adults she had observed, a persona 
91 
92 To Live Again 
was not dead at allÑ merely suspended from the time of record-ing 
to the time of transplant. Then, jacked into the nervous sys-tem 
of its host, it could perceive and respond as if literally rein-carnated. 
That was the whole point of the Scheffing process. It 
assured the participants everlasting life, with occasional inter-ruptions 
between transplants. At the same time it provided the 
living with the benefit of the experiences of the dead. Nothing 
was lost, except the souls of the poor fish like Leonards who 
never took part in the rebirth game at all. That was ninety per-cent 
of mankind, at present. But did they matter? 
As her final hour of independence ticked away, Risa inevitably 
began to wonder if she really wanted to go through with this 
enterprise. 
No doubt everyone wonders about that, waiting for it to begin, 
she told herself. At least the first time. 
And of course it would be eerie, carting about someone else's 
soul in her head. Risa was accustomed to privacy when she 
wanted it. An only child, wealthy enough to isolate herself from 
the world, never called upon to share anything with anyone-and 
now she'd have to make room in her head for Tandy Cushing. 
Strange, strange, strange! Yet appealing, too. She had been alone 
so long. In a world where everyone she knew carried two or 
three personae, Risa felt pallid and childlike in her solitude. Now 
she would be like the others. In one bound she'd shed the last 
vestiges of immaturity. Merely sleeping around hadn't brought 
her far enough into the adult world, but this transplant would, 
especially with worldly, sophisticated Tandy Cushing like an older 
sister inside her mind. 
As the booklet pointed out, it was irrational to fear or mistrust 
the persona. The persona wasn't going to get any charge out of 
snooping on you, any more than you could snoop on yourself 
The persona would be you, and herself as well, a joined identity. 
Risa's mind whirled a little at that concept. She thought she un-derstood 
it, but of course she knew she did not, could not. No 
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To Live Again 93 
one who did not have a persona already transplanted could re-ally 
comprehend what it was like. This was a new thing in the 
world, a fundamental break with the human condition. No longer 
were people walled up alone in their own skulls. They could 
have company. 
What if she didn't care for Tandy Cushing's company? 
Cast her out like a demon. That could be done, for a price. Her 
own father had had a persona erased when he was young. Of 
course, a lot of people preferred to suffer along with their perso-nae 
even when incompatibility was obvious. Just the way, Risa 
thought, people will stick with a hopeless marriage, or fight to 
prevent the amputation of a diseased limb, purely because they 
can't bring themselves to give up anything that has been part of 
themselves, no matter how much harm it's doing them. 
Look at that Owens man, for example. Driven twitchy by all 
his personae, and yet he brags about them. 
Or Charles Noyes. Right there on the beach, he had almost 
been engulfed and ejected by his own persona. Why didn't he 
stop in for an erasure? Did he like to live dangerously, knowing 
that he might get kicked out of his mind at any moment? 
Suppose Tandy tries that with me? 
It happened, Risa knew. It was a bit improper to speak of it, 
but she was aware that powerful personae sometimes over-whelmed 
and destroyed weak hosts, and took possession of their 
bodies. Dybbuks, they were called, after some medieval myth. 
According to the law, a dybbuk who had completely vanquished 
his host was a murderer, and subject to mandatory erasure. But 
most of them were too clever to fall into that trap. They contin-ued 
to use the name of the dead host, keeping their dybbukhood 
a secret. Someone like James Kravchenko, if he finally succeeded 
in countererasing Charles Noyes, would probably go on calling 
himself Noyes for his own safety, and nobody might ever be the 
wiser. 
Risa shuddered. Tandy, will you try to be a dybbuk? 
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94 To Live Again 
Very strong individuals went in for such things. Waking up in 
a stranger's brain, they found it intolerable to be relegated to the 
status of a mere persona. So they pushed the host out and took 
over. Essentially, they lived again, body and soul, real rebirth, if 
they got away with it. 
Tandy was a strong individual, Risa knew. 
But so am I. So am I. If I were in Tandy's place, I'd try to take 
over. But I'm in my place, and I won't let her win if she tries 
anything like that. 
The door opened. Leonards returned, carrying the oblong 
metal box that contained the persona of Tandy Cushing. 
"How do you feel?" he asked. 
"Fine. Impatient." 
"I'm supposed to ask you if you'd like to cancel at this point." 
"Don't be silly." 
"Well, then. Here we go. I want to check to see how well the 
drug has worked." 
"I haven't felt anything," Risa said. 
"You shouldn't." He wheeled the diagnostat over and ran a 
test on her. When the report came, he nodded and smiled en-couragingly. 
"You're in maximum recept now." 
"That sounds dirty." 
"Does it?" he asked, embarrassed again. He leaned toward her 
and slipped a cool metal band around her forehead. "This isn't 
for the transplant," he said. "It's merely to let you sample the 
persona. We take every precaution against an error. You've got 
to tell me that this persona is actually the one you've requested." 
"Go ahead," Risa said. 
This part was familiar. He activated the sampler and Risa found 
herself once more in contact with Tandy Cushing. The memo-ries 
were unchanged. After perhaps half a minute, Leonards dis-connected 
the sampler. 
"Yes," said Risa. "You've got the right one." 
"Please sign this release, then." 
94 
To Live Again 95 
Risa grinned and thumbed the thermoplastic. Leonards 
dropped the sheet in the access hopper. 
"Lie back," he said. "Relax. Here we go on the actual trans-plant." 

Panic seized her. Leonards was a step ahead of her, though, 
efficiently shackling her wrists and ankles to the couch, and tell-ing 
her in a low, soothing tone, "We do this for your own safety, 
you understand. Some people find it a big impact and start thrash-ing 
around. You'll be all right." 
She was stiff with fear, and that surprised her. Forcing a laugh, 
she looked down at her spreadeagled body and said, "How do I 
know you're not going to torture me? Or rape me? This is a good 
position for a rape, isn't it, Leonards?" 
His laughter was even more forced than hers. 
He was in motion, never pausing, adjusting electrodes, ma-nipulating 
scanners, balancing switches. Risa thought about the 
booklet she had read. Odd: it had been completely secular. No 
mantras, none of the Tibetan stuff, not even a quotation from 
the Book of the Dead. Nothing about sangsara or nirvana, the 
cycle of karma, all the other fashionable words people tagged to 
the Scheffing process. She realized the fundamental truth of 
something Nathaniel Owens had said on the beach Saturday at 
Dominica: the whole religious part of the rebirth business was 
external. It came after the fact, a moral justification, a dodge, a 
blind. The work of the Scheffing Institute went on serenely in a 
spiritual vacuum, and the mumbo-jumbo of the rebirth religion 
had no place within this building. 
"Look up, please," the technician said. "Open your eyes wide." 
Twin spears of white light stabbed at her pupils. 
She could not close her eyes. She was frozen, immobile, pen-etrated 
by those sharp beams of brightness. It seemed to her 
that she heard a voice intone, "Now thou art experiencing the 
Radiance of the Clear Light of Pure Reality. Recognize it. 0 no-bly-
born, thy present intellect, in real nature void, not formed 
95 
96 To Live Again 
into anything as regards characteristics or color, naturally void, 
is the very Reality, the All-Good." 
She had summoned out of memory the words to welcome the 
newly dead into death. Surrender to the Clear Light and attain 
nirvana. Yes. Yes. So her words were directed to the persona of 
Tandy Cushing, emerging from that spinning reel of tape, but 
what she offered Tandy was not oblivion but rebirth. Yes. Yes. 
Now and at the hour of our birth. Come on, Tandy. I'm ready for 
you. 
If only the light wasn't in my eyes! 
Time ceased Eons passed between heartbeats. Risa could feel 
the blood creeping along her veins and arteries, impelled by the 
last spasm and not yet at its destination. She could not see. She 
could not hear. 
The tension broke, and she heard a stranger's voice whisper-ing 
in her skull. 
ÑWhere am I? What happened? 
"Hello, Tandy. Welcome aboard." 
ÑDid I die? 
"Yes." 
ÑWhen? How? Why? 
"I don't know. I'm Risa Kaufmann. I'm your host." 
ÑI know who you are. I just want to know how I got here. 
How long have I been dead? 
"Since last August," said Risa. "You were killed in a power-ski 
accident at St. Moritz." 
ÑThat's impossible! I'm an expert skier. And I had every safety 
device! I'm not dead! I'm not! 
"Sorry, Tandy. You must be." 
ÑI can't remember anything past June. 
"That's when you made your last recording. Two months be-fore 
you were killed." 
ÑStop saying that! 
"If you're not dead, what are you doing in my mind?" 
96 
To Live Again 97 
ÑThere's been a mistake. They can transplant a persona even 
when the donor's still alive. Sometimes they slip up. 
"No, Tandy. Get used to it." 
ÑIt isn't easy. 
"I'll bet it isn't. But you've got no choice." 
ÑIf it's a mistake? 
"Even if it is, that doesn't affect you. Assuming Tandy Cushing 
is still walking around alive somewhere, you're still where you 
are. A persona in my skull. You aren't Tandy, you're just an iden-tity 
of Tandy's memories up to the day she recorded you. Well, 
now you're off the shelf and in a body again. You're lucky, I'd say. 
And in any case Tandy is dead. You're all that's left of her." 
There was silence within. The persona was digesting all that. 
Risa, too, made adjustments. She still lay shackled. The light 
had gone out, and she could not tell if Leonards was still in the 
room. Cautiously, gingerly, she made contact with the persona 
at a variety of points. She picked up a memory of her late body, 
tall, dark-haired, with high, firm, heavy breasts. A man's hand 
ran lightly over those breasts, hefting them, savoring their bulk. 
His fingertip flicked across her nipples. So that was what it was 
like, Risa thought. You're less aware of them than I expected. 
Suddenly she darted back along Tandy's timeline and was eleven 
years old, staring in a mirror at her budding little chest and frown-ing. 
And then, coming forward five years, Risa saw Tandy soar-ing 
on personnel jets eighty yards above the Sahara, a strong, 
dark-haired man beside her as they flew. 
I have never done that, Risa thought. Yet I know what it's like. 
I am Tandy! 
She did not go deeper. There was time to explore the depths of 
the persona later. For Risa the world was suddenly tinged with 
wonder, all objects taking on new hues, extra dimensions. She 
saw through four eyes, and she had never seen such colors be-fore, 
such greens and reds and yellows, nor had she tasted wine 
so sweet scented flowers so pungent. 
97 
98 To Live Again 
"Tandy?" she said. "How is it now?" 
ÑBetter. So you're a Kaufmann? 
"Yes. Lucky you." 
ÑWhy did you pick me? 
"You seemed interesting." 
ÑYou're very young for this. 
"I'm past sixteen, you know." 
ÑYes, I know. But I was twenty-four, and I hadn't had my first 
persona yet. 
"Don't you wish you had?" 
ÑI was waiting until I was twenty-five. 
"I never wait," Risa said. "Not for anything." 
ÑI see that. We've got so much to talk about. 
"We've got all the time in the world. You'll be with me forever, 
Tandy." 
ÑForever? 
"Of course. The next time I record myself, your persona will 
be added to mine. Someday I'll need rebirth, and you'll be going 
along to the next carnate with me." 
ÑPeople can get awfully bored with each other like that. 
"We won't," Risa said. "I promise you, we won't." 
The shackles dropped away. Risa sat up, feeling a little shaky. 
Leonards was eyeing her hesitantly. 
"You've made a good adjustment," he said. 
"Is that so? Fine." 
"How does it go?" 
"I'm very pleased," said Risa. "What happens now?" 
"We take you to a rest booth. You can lie down, relax. get to 
know your persona. After an hour you can leave the building." 
"You've been very kind, Leonards." 
"Thank you." 
"Maybe we can get together after hours." 
He looked smitten with confusion. "I'm afraid-that is ÑI mean 
to sayÑ" 
98 
To Live Again 99 
"All right. Take me to the rest booth." 
She lay down on a comfortable webfoam cradle, closed her 
eyes, sent her mind roaming through the treasury of Tandy 
Cushing's experiences. Risa felt faintly uncomfortable, seeing 
the older girl so nakedly exposed. But she told herself that she 
had every right to explore that material. At this very instant, 
wasn't Tandy peering into her own soul? By definition they now 
were one person. They would share everything. 
Risa felt no regrets. Her fears had evaporated. She felt only 
tremendous relief, for she had accepted a transplant and it was 
good. 
She smiled. She said softly to Tandy, "I'll record the two of us 
in a week or two. Just to be on the safe side." 
ÑGood. And then I want you to help me find out how I really 
died. 
99 
100 To Live Again 
100 
To Live Again 101 
Chapter 7 "Come to Jubilisle!" the barker called. "Games, thrills, plea-sure! 
Three bucks fish, the round trip! Jubilisle, Jubilisle, 
Jubilisle!" And globes of living light drifted free over Battery Park, 
soft indigo bursts tipped with yellow, reinforcing the shouted 
message with subtler pleas, many-hued whispers, Jubilisle, 
Jubilisle, JubilisleÉ 
It was night. The hydrofoil ferry waited at the pier. Crowds 
shouldered past, hustling toward it, people in rough, low-caste 
clothes, some of them even waving cash in their fists. Watchful 
quaestors stood by, ready to make arrests if the mob got out of 
hand. Charles Noyes experienced a sudden dizzying spasm of 
resistance. Everything about this outing repelled him all at once: 
the shouts of the barker, the faces of the people rushing past 
him, the too sleek hull of the waiting ferry, the quaestors. He 
turned to the handsome woman at his side. 
"Let's not go," he begged. "I'll take you somewhere else, Elena." 
"But you promised!" 
"Can't I change my mind?" 
"I've wanted to go to Jubilisle for months. Mark won't take 
me. And now youÑ" 
Sweat rolled down his face. "I've only been out of stasis for a 
few days. The noise, the tumultÑ it's upsetting me." 
She looked at him, wounded. "Before you say yes, now it's no. 
That's your name, isn't it? No-yes? Don't disappoint me like this, 
Charles!" 
ÑPull yourself together, man, came Kravchenko's voice. She 
won't like it if you back out. 
"Ferry leaving now for Jubilisle," roared the barker. "Hurry, 
hurry, hurry! Thrills! Gaines! Pleasure! Three bucks fish, that's 
all it costs!" 
101 
102 To Live Again 
Elena silently pleaded. She looked radiantly beautiful, her opu-lent 
body sheathed in glittering scales of some dark green mate-rial 
that followed every contour of her majestic thighs and breasts 
and buttocks. Her black, glossy hair tumbled to her bare shoul-ders. 
In this crowd she stood out so vividly that even the jostling 
plebs stepped back in automatic deference. Noyes peered into 
the dark, large, soft eyes. He observed the small, flawless nose, 
the full, shining lips. 
Kravchenko obligingly sent one of his own choice memories 
bubbling up from the storehouse: Elena nude in Kravchenko's 
bachelor apartment in Rome, sprawled on a divan like a Venus 
by Titian, one hand coyly resting on the plump mons, the eyes 
beckoning, the breasts heaving, the dark-hued nipples erect, the 
firm flesh tense and taut with anticipation. 
ÑYou'll never get anywhere with her if you let her down now, 
pal. It's now or never, and she holds grudges. 
"All right," Noyes said. "I won't go back on my word. Jubilisle 
for us, Elena!" 
"I'm so glad, Charles." 
He slid his arm around her waist. The scales of her gown 
pricked his skin. He felt the roll of meat at her hip. Sweeping her 
forward, he joined the flow of pleasure-seekers rushing aboard 
the ferry. A robot ticket-vendor held out a hand as though ex-pecting 
Noyes to put cash in it. Noyes shook his head and of-fered 
his thumb instead. The robot, adapting smoothly and with-out 
comment, rang up the credit transfer, billing Noyes' account 
for six dollars, and the barrier dropped, admitting them to the 
ferry. Minutes later they were speeding across New York Harbor 
toward the pleasure dome. Ahead lay the bright glow of Jubilisle; 
behind rose the majestic black-capped somberness of the 
Scheffing Institute tower, with the rest of the Lower Manhattan 
skyline behind it. Noyes looked from island to tower. Those who 
could not buy rebirth at one could purchase distraction at the 
other. 
102 
To Live Again 103 
He and Elena found a place at the rail for the ten-minute jour-ney 
to the anchored artificial island. She stood close to him. The 
warmth of her body on this cool spring evening was welcome, 
and the fragrance of her perfume helped obliterate the rank 
stench of the mob all about them. She had been kind to him last 
week at Dominica, when he had had that awful convulsion at 
Kaufmann's beach party; a touch of the sun, she said, deftly con-cealing 
the truth, which was that he had suffered a sudden and 
nearly successful rebellion by Kravchenko. She was kind, yes. 
Tender, almost motherly, though she was several years younger 
than he was. That vast bosom of hers, he thought. It makes her 
seem the mother of us all. 
But his interest in her was not at all filial. He had Kravchenko's 
testimony that Elena was seducible, and her own willingness to 
make herself available for this night on the town backed him 
up. Furthermore, she was Kaufmann's mistress and probably 
Santoliquido's as well, so that it enhanced Noyes' own sense of 
self to be out with her. Lastly, Roditis approved. In the final analy-sis, 
what mattered to Noyes was how well or how poorly each of 
his actions served the interests of John Roditis, and in squiring 
Elena Volterra to Jubilisle he was in a position to serve Roditis 
handsomely. 
Elena said, "I imagined you came here often. Isn't Jubilisle 
one of Roditis' properties?" 
"Yes, of course. One of his most successful. But I don't think 
I've been here more than three times in the ten years it's been 
open." 
"Don't you like amusement parks?" 
"There are amusements and amusements," Noyes said. He low-ered 
his voice. "It happens that Jubilisle is designed mainly to 
please plebs. I'm not being snobbish when I tell you that; it's the 
truth. That's why we put it here, right in the shadow of the 
Scheffing building, so these people could look up and see the 
tower and think deep thoughts about rebirth. Which, since they 
103 
104 To Live Again 
can't have it unless they've got lots of money, will inspire them 
to gamble heavily here, making John Roditis a little wealthier." 
"Very clever." Elena glanced around. "Now that you mention 
it, I see that we're a trifle out of place here. Most of them were 
paying cash to get aboard." 
"You noticed that." 
"It fascinated me. I don't think I've ever touched cash myself, 
not even once. I wouldn't recognize a bill if I found it in the street. 
Why do they bother?" 
"They like the feel of money," Noyes said. "The central com-puter 
balance is a little impersonal for them. HereÑ I always carry 
a bill with me, just for luck. Would you like to see it?" 
He slipped his wallet out and found his hundred-dollar bill. It 
was a slender plastic card which bore the atom symbol, a serial 
number, the Arabic numeral 100 in black type, and the inscrip-tion, 
The Bank of the United States Government has on deposit 
One Hundred Dollars Fissionable Material as security for this note. 
Legal Tender. Elena studied the bill as though it might be a 
mounted butterfly from another planet. "Fascinating," she said 
at last, handing it back. "Can you get me one?" 
"Of course," he said. 
He took her by the hand and led her across the deck to a re-freshment 
stand where an automatic servitor was dispensing soft 
drinks. When the scanner beam flashed in his direction Noyes 
said, "Give me a hundred-dollar bill." He put his thumb to the 
charge plate. A bill popped through the slot and he handed it 
gravely to Elena, who examined it a moment grinned dazzlingly, 
and slipped the little card into the deep valley between her 
breasts. Onlookers gaped in astonishment. 
"Thank you," she said, as they returned to the rail. "I'll trea-sure 
this little souvenir." 
"You'll certainly keep it warm," Noyes said, and they both 
laughed. 
The ferry was nearing Jubilisle's approach slip, now. The great 
104 
To Live Again 105 
arching dome of the pleasure island rose precipitously before 
them, topped with a layer of living light that pulsed from one 
end of the spectrum to the other. A hundred acres of area, six 
separate levels, the capacity to amuse half a million people at 
onceÑ that was Jubilisle, and Noyes could not deny it was an 
impressive sight. Even Elena looked moved. 
"Roditis owns it all?" she asked in a whisper. 
"Through a nominee corporation, yes. I helped plan the fi-nancing 
soon after I joined his organization. It was his first great 
coup." 
"It must have cost billions!" 
"It did. And of course Roditis didn't have that kind of money 
yet, so we had to juggle. He pledged everything as collateral. 
Paul Kaufmann was willing to put up a construction loan of two 
billion, but he wanted a fifty-percent equity. Roditis said no. 
Kaufmann was so astonished he lent the two billion anyway. At 
ten percent, but he lent it. And Roditis kept the full equity. He 
owns the place outright. The last debenture was paid off in Janu-ary. 
He's thinking of arranging a mortgage, now. Say, about seven 
billion, from a consortium of banks, and using the money to fi-nance 
Jubilisle Canton and Jubilisle Rio. Eventually he'll have a 
dozen of them on every continent. Am I boring you with all this 
money talk?" 
"Not at all," Elena said. She did look genuinely enthralled. "I'm 
very much interested. Roditis must be a terribly exciting man. 
I'd love to meet him." 
"You never have?" 
"Never. We just haven't crossed paths. You know, I spend so 
much of my time with Mark, and Mark is so hostile to Roditis." 
"Yes. Yes, of course." 
"But I think one day I will happen to meet Roditis. And he and 
I will both find the meeting rewarding." 
"Powerful men intrigue you, eh, Elena?" 
"Why not?" 
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106 To Live Again 
"Mark KaufmannÑ SantoliquidoÑ" 
She looked startled. "Santo and I are just good friends." 
"Is that all?" He saw the color rising in her cheeks. Laughing, 
he said, "Very good friends, I imagine." 
"What are you getting at?" 
"Nothing. Nothing." 
The ferry was at rest. The gangways extruded themselves and 
the crowd started ashore. Noyes and Elena let the flow carry 
them along. 
A brilliant directory board in at least six colors confronted them. 
Twenty feet high, thirty feet wide, the board provided a detailed 
map of Jubilisle's offerings. Noyes paused to study it, but Elena 
tugged him along. "Let's just wander," she said. "One level's as 
good as another." 
"That's not true. They're aimed for different sectors of the popu-lation." 

"What does that matter? We're slumming tonight!" 
He shrugged and yielded, and they stepped aboard the mov-ing 
ramp leading to Level D. Noyes was hazily familiar with the 
structure of Jubilisle from his past visits; he recalled that the 
island was cunningly laid out in a series of mazes and dead ends, 
so that the bemused visitor might roam for hours without arriv-ing 
at any clear knowledge of how much remained to be seen. 
The intention was to prod the clientele into realizing that it was 
impossible to see more than a small fraction of Jubilisle on any 
one visit, and thus one must return again and again. 
The island was devised to offer something to every economic 
stratum, from those who lived off government credit to those 
who could afford a dozen persona transplants. Generally, the 
pull of Jubilisle was stronger in the lower middle brackets, those 
people who could not afford to traffic in the Scheffing process 
but who had enough disposable income to part with some here. 
There was no admission charge at Jubilisle; Roditis made his 
106 
To Live Again 107 
money, partly from the ferry ride, but mainly from the income of 
the booths and concessions. Noyes had seen the analysis: each 
visitor spent some fifteen dollars fissionable per trip, on which 
Roditis' net profit was about thirty-five percent. With half a mil-lion 
visitors at any one time, and perhaps three or four million 
on a busy Saturday night between sunset and dawn, it was easy 
to see the source of Roditis' affluence. Jubilisle had competitors 
now, of course, but it was the first of its kind, and the most suc-cessful. 
The powerful Kaufmann interests, having missed their 
chance to gain an equity investment in the original Jubilisle, 
had not deigned to open an imitation, much to Roditis' pleasure. 
Officially, it was because they had no desire to pander to the 
debauched tastes of the ignorant, but Noyes thought it was more 
likely the Kaufmanns stayed out of the pleasure-island business 
out of fear that they would not meet Roditis' level of success. 
The inner core of the island provided the highest-priced de-lights. 
Those who came specifically to gamble large sums, to 
purchase costly sexual experiences, or to indulge in the illicit 
sensory stimulations of forbidden drugs, generally proceeded by 
a direct route to that area of Jubilisle. But Noyes had come merely 
as a casual sightseer, as had Elena, and they moved without plan 
down the glowing halls and galleries and chambers. 
At a gambling pavilion, close to the perimeter of the island, 
the rhythms of exploding atoms determined the payoffs. A barker 
claimed that the process was completely random and so must 
be utterly honest. "Everyone stands an equal chance, folks. I don't 
mind telling you that some games favor the house, but not here, 
not here, not here! Step right up É" 
"Can that be so?" Elena asked. "A truly random game of 
chance?" 
"Maybe so," Noyes told her. "Notice that it's on the outside of 
the island. If people win steadily here, they're encouraged to try 
the games within. Which are not quite so impartial." 
"But Roditis must lose money on this, even so." 
107 
108 To Live Again 
Noyes shook his head. "Not if it's truly random. He'll break 
even, and all he'll lose is his overhead, which isn't consequen-tial. 
Call it a promotional loss. Let's try it?" 
"All right." 
They stepped up. You could pay cash, and most did, but of 
course Elena had no cash except the souvenir nestling between 
her breasts, and Noyes thumbed the plate to establish a gam-bling 
balance for her. The game was intricate; he scarcely un-derstood 
its workings himself, and those about him must be 
wholly baffled by it. In the center of the platform lay what pur-ported 
to be a block of polonium, flanked by a comically ornate 
gamma detector; an array of tubes and pipettes emerged from it, 
filled with scintillating colored fluids. A turquoise fluorescence 
paid off at 3 to 1; carmine yielded 8 to 1; a yellow streak in the 
ebony fluid produced a 10 to 1 payoff. The barker chanted rhyth-mically; 
the polonium atoms disgorged their component particles; 
the lights lit and went out. The crowd pressed close. A bell rang 
and a certificate dropped from a hopper. 
"You've won ten dollars," Noyes said. 
"Glorious! I want to play again!" 
"There's much else to see," he reminded her. 
They moved on. At a fortune-telling booth a spectral hooded 
figure predicted long life for them both, and numerous children. 
Then, looking Noyes over cunningly, the prophet added, "You 
will have many rebirths." Noyes tapped the plate and added a 
dollar to the soothsayer's credit balance. 
"How did he know we were recorded?" Elena asked. 
"He guessed. He saw how well-dressed we were and figured 
we were wealthy, and if we were wealthy we must be on file 
with the Scheffing people. In any case, it's flattery to wish us 
rebirths, even if we're not in the class that lives again." 
"Perhaps he recognized us," Elena suggested. 
"I doubt it." 
"I'd like a mask, in any case." 
108 
To Live Again 109 
"Many of the fairgoers were masked, particularly the women. 
Girls bare to the hips tripped along, cloaked only by striped domi-noes. 
At Elena's insistence Noyes took her to a masking booth 
and purchased a concealment for her: a dark band of 
pseudoliving glass that took possession of her face in a kind of 
caress, slipping snakelike into place from ear to ear. They 
laughed. She pulled him close and kissed him fleetingly on the 
lips. "Buy a mask yourself," she said. 
He did. Hidden now from the stares of the curious, they moved 
through the gallery, taking a dropshaft to the one below on a 
sudden whim. Noyes felt buoyant, relaxed. Within him 
Kravchenko was dormant for once, and Elena, warm and excit-ing 
on his arm, seemed to promise eventual ecstasies. The 
evening was going well after a poor start. The giddiness of 
Jubilisle had broken through his habitual melancholy. Yet there 
was always the memento mori not far below the surface; they 
paused in a closed arcade to embrace, and Noyes drew Elena so 
tightly against him that the soft mound of her left breast felt the 
impress of the flask of lethal carniphage that he carried always 
with him. When they separated, she touched the bruised place 
tenderly and said, "You hurt me. Something in your pocketÑ" 
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize you'd feel it." 
"What do you have there, a gravity bomb?" 
"Just a flask of carniphage," he told her pleasantly, "In case a 
suicidal mood hits me." 
Of course she did not believe that, and so she showered a sil-very 
cascade of laughter over him. 
A flamboyant sign declared: WELCOME TO THE HOUSE OF 
HALF-LIFE. 
"What's this?" she asked. "More radioactive games?" 
"I have no idea. Shall we go in?" 
They entered. A fee of a dollar fissionable was extracted from 
each of them. Swiftly they discovered that the House of Half-Life, 
despite its name, did not traffic in neutrons and alpha par-
109 
110 To Live Again 
ticles; the half-life offered here was biological, hybrid creatures 
raised from fused cell nuclei. Behind an electrified barrier stunted 
beings shuffled around, while a pre-programed speaker recited 
their identities. "Here we have mouse and cat, folks, one of the 
most popular hybrids. And this is dog and tiger, believe it if you 
can! Next you see snake and frog." 
The hybrid animals bore little resemblance to any of their sup-posed 
ancestors. They tended to be neutral, unspecialized in 
form, evolutionary prototypes lacking in clear characteristics. 
Most were less than two feet in length, moving about on small 
uncertain legs. The dog-tiger had patches of gray fur. The snake-frog 
was squat and glistening, with pulsating pouches of flesh. 
"Man and mouse, ladies and gentlemen, man and mouse!" came 
the disembodied voice. "You think the Scheffing people work 
miracles? What of this? Infect them with the Sendai virus, blend 
the nuclei in a centrifuge, toss in a dash of nucleic acid, yes, yes, 
man and mouse!" A dozen distorted things, neither mouse nor 
man, moved into the arena. Their eyes were pink and beady, 
their hands were claws, they could not walk erect. Elena stared 
in rigid attention. 
A shill sidled up to them, proffering a handful of explosive 
darts. He said silkily. "You look like expensive folk out for a night's 
fun. Would you like to kill some of the hybrids? A hundred bucks 
fish a dart." 
"Sorry," Noyes said. "No, thanks." 
"Try your aim. Some folk your class come back often. We've 
got a room in back, lots of hybrids to throw at. They aren't rare, 
really." 
"Shall we?" Elena asked him. 
Noyes looked at her in amazement. Her eyes were gleaming. 
Kravchenko awakened and offered a warning: 
ÑDon't refuse her anything if you're smart. 
Sighing, Noyes gave in. They went to the back room. He low-ered 
his credit balance by five hundred dollars fissionable and 
110 
To Live Again 111 
Elena took a cluster of darts in her delicate hand. On a platform 
before them, half a dozen pitiful bluish things, half squirrel, half 
otter, moved in ragged circles. They were slow, awkward ani-mals 
with lengthy hairless tails and large flippered feet. 
Elena aimed and threw. Her breasts quivered beneath the cov-ering 
of green scales; her arm moved jerkily, a stiff throw from 
the elbow. To Noyes' relief, she missed, and missed also on the 
second and third casts, the darts landing and igniting in quick 
incandescent puffs. But on the fourth she struck one of the hap-less 
hybrids at the base of its twisted spine, and the odor of singed 
fur drifted toward them. When the smoke cleared Noyes saw the 
remnants of the creature. Elena looked exhilarated; a deep crim-son 
flush appeared beneath her dark, tawny skin, making her 
appear disturbingly more sensual than before. She handed him 
the remaining dart. He thrust it back at her. 
"Go on," she cried. "Throw it! It's fun!" 
"To kill?" 
"Those things come out of test tubes. They're not really alive. 
They're better off dead." She joggled his arm. The nearness of 
her perspiring flesh maddened him. "Throw it!" 
Desperately Noyes hurled the dart. It cleared the platform by 
ten feet and smashed harmlessly against the backdrop. Then he 
seized her by the hand and pulled her through a side exit lip 
ahead, a cocktail lounge could be seen, and they entered it. 
"Don't you care for hunting?" Elena asked him. 
"Not really. But hunting is sport. There's nothing sporting about 
throwing darts at mutated monstrosities." 
She laughed. The tip of her tongue flicked out. "There was a 
grand hunt in Italy six years ago. We chased partridges across 
the campana south of Rome. You must have a memory of it." 
"I?" 
"Jim Kravchenko was there. If he's truly your persona, you 
have the memory." 
Kravchenko promptly thrust the memory up into view. A misty 
111 
112 To Live Again 
October morning; the shattered remains of a Roman aqueduct 
gaunt against the gray sky; handsomely dressed young men and 
women, riding power carts, pursuing the terrified birds across 
the rolling plain. Laughter, the occasional burst of needlefire, 
the squawk of the prey, the autumn fragrances. Elena beside 
him, looking a trifle slimmer, chastely garbed in hunting attire, 
wielding her needlegun to deadly effect and hissing with delight 
each time she registered a kill. Then, afterward, the tang of iced 
champagne, the pleasure of spicy foods imported from the 
outworlds, the easy flow of light conversation in a palazzo at the 
edge of the city. And Elena in his arms, still clad in her hunting 
clothes, the pleated skirt pulled up, the white thighs exposed, 
the hips thrusting, thrusting É 
"Yes," Noyes gasped. "I remember now." 
"You must have many interesting memories. Jim and I were 
quite fond of one another." 
"I haven't done much checking," said Noyes. "Somehow it 
seems unfair. It overbalances our relationship, Elena. I mean, I 
carry intimate recollections of you, so you have few secrets from 
me, but you have no such insight into me." 
She looked startled. "Why do we take on personae if not to 
gain advantage? I don't understand you, Charles. If in your mind 
you hold Jim's memories of me, why not enjoy them?" 
ÑBecause you're a damned masochist, Kravchenko suggested. 
Noyes winced. To Elena he said, "You're right. I'm being fool-ish." 

He searched the archive Kravchenko had brought with him 
into his mind. He was lying, in a way, for he had already done a 
good deal of peering at Elena's relationship with Kravchenko. 
He knew that they had been lovers for about two years, on and 
off, nothing serious on either side. Kravchenko had many women, 
and, Noyes gathered. Elena rarely confined her attentions to one 
man at a time. Within his mind was Elena's entire repertory of 
passion; he had merely to sort it out and study it. 
112 
To Live Again 113 
Elena said, "I find it hard to believe that Jim's really dead. He 
was such an exciting man. Do you and he get along well?" 
"No." 
"So I've understood. Why is that? Why did you select him, if 
there were incompatibilities?" 
Noyes ordered drinks for them. "We came from the same gen-eral 
background," he explained. "I was playing it cautious when 
I picked a persona. I could have had a financier, a university 
professor, a starman. Instead I chose a rich playboy, because I 
was just a rich playboy myself, and I wanted more of the same. 
Well, I got it. He gives me no peace." 
"You don't have to keep a persona you don't like," she said. 
"I know. Perhaps one day I'll ask for erasure and start all over." 
ÑThat'll be the day, Charlie-boy. 
"It might be best for both of you," said Elena. "It would give 
Jim a second chance too. Is he your only persona?" 
"Yes. I didn't think I ought to risk another." 
"Possibly a second one would have calmed him a little." 
"Possibly. What about you, Elena? You're such a mystery 
woman. How many personae are you carrying?" 
"Four," she said coolly. 
He was dumbstruck. He had calculated her for one, or per-haps 
two personae, no more. Few women undertook four. But 
Noyes realized he had made the mistake of assuming that be-cause 
she was beautiful, she must also be of limited intellect. 
Evidently Elena could handle four personae, since she spoke 
clearly, with no signs of internal conflict. 
"One secondary, three primaries," she amplified. "It's an amus-ing 
group. We get along well. I took on the first ten years ago, 
the last only in November. I may add others. I've talked to 
Santoliquido about a possible new transplant." 
"Someone in particular?" 
"No," Elena said. "Not yet. That is, if I can't have Paul 
KaufmannÑ" 
113 
114 To Live Again 
Noyes sputtered. "You want him too?" 
"I'm merely joking. They haven't legalized transsexual imprint-ing, 
have they? But I imagine it would be fun to have him. I know 
Mark would be astounded. Mark worshiped that terrible old man. 
Strong as he is, Mark never could withstand his uncle's wishes 
in anything. And if I walked into the house one day and opened 
my mouth and spoke to him with the Words of Paul KaufmannÑ 
" Elena giggled. "A delightful picture. It calls for another drink." 
Noyes found it difficult to see the humor in it. He summoned 
the drinks; then, slowly, he said, "Do you have any idea who's 
really going to get the Paul Kaufmann Persona?" 
"How should I know?" 
"You spent time with Santoliquido at Mark's party." 
"I don't discuss Santoliquido's administrative decisions at par-ties," 
Elena said. "Why do you ask? Are you thinking of apply-ing?" 

"For Paul Kaufmann? He'd burn me out in ten minutes. But 
John Roditis is interested." 
"Interested isn't the right word, from what I hear. Desperate is 
more appropriate." 
"Desperate, then. It's no secret. Roditis feels he's qualified to 
handle a potent persona like Paul Kaufmann, and he also be-lieves 
that the two of them acting together can have much to 
offer society. The two greatest business minds of the century, 
blended into a dynamic team. Honestly. I think so, too. I pro-foundly 
wish Roditis would be granted the persona." 
"Do you know who else wants Paul?" Elena asked. 
"Who?" 
"His nephew Mark." 
"That's impossible! A transplant within the familyÑ" 
"Illegal, I know. Mark knows it too. He has no hope of actually 
getting the transplant. But he has business ambitions too, and 
they'd be well served if he had the use of his uncle's experi-ences. 
Besides, he's eager to keep the old man out of Roditis' 
114 
To Live Again 115 
possession. 
"Why does Mark hate Roditis so much?" 
"He regards him as an upstart. It's quite simple, Charles. The 
Kaufmanns are aristocrats by birth. They have ancestry. As do 
you. As do I. As does Santo. We have more than wealth; we have 
pedigrees back into the twentieth century, even to the earlier 
centuries. Roditis can tell you his father's name, but that's all. 
Now, with a Kaufmann persona, he'd have social access to our 
group, access that he can't buy with all his billions. Mark is de-termined 
not to let Roditis force his way in. He regards it as blas-phemy 
for a man like that to have his uncle's persona." 
"We were all upstarts once," Noyes pointed out. "Take the 
Kaufmann line back far enough and you find peasants. Go back 
farther and you find apes." 
Elena's laughter tinkled across the lounge. "Of course, of 
course! But it's the distance between the peasant and the banker 
that marks the social prestige. Your Roditis is too close. Perhaps 
his great-grandchildren will rule society, but Mark won't toler-ate 
it now." 
"Mark can't have his uncle's persona. He'd be wise to give in 
gracefully and let Roditis have it. Bury the hatchet, forge a mighty 
alliance of wealth." 
"That's not how Mark operates," said Elena. 
"He could. Elena, I'd be grateful if you'd suggest that to him. 
Point out the advantages of combining with Roditis instead of 
battling him." 
"You want me to serve as a go-between, passing Roditis' mes-sages?" 

He colored. "You put it very bluntly." 
"We are on the island of truth, Charles. This is what you want 
from me, is it not? To push Roditis' case with Mark?" 
"Yes." 
"And perhaps even to talk to Santo?" 
"Yes." 
115 
116 To Live Again 
"Is there anything else you want from me, Charles?" 
He could barely look at her. The carniphage flask throbbed 
against his breastbone. He felt bitterly ashamed that she would 
humiliate him before Kravchenko this way. But he had asked for 
it. 
"There's one more thing I want," he said. 
"Name it." 
He touched the warmth of her shoulder. "An hour with you in 
the bedchambers of the inner level." 
"Certainly," she said, as though he had asked her to tell him 
the correct time. 
They left the cocktail lounge and passed through a hail of gaudy 
nightmare fantasies, and crossed an arena in which the prod-ucts 
of teratogenetic surgery performed a grotesque dance, and 
rose on a circular ladder leading beyond a pool of slippery cepha-lopods 
engaged in a stately ballet, and at length they came to 
one of the blocs of bedchambers that were scattered at frequent 
intervals through the galleries of Jubilisle. For fifty dollars he 
rented an hour's use of a room. 
Within, Elena activated a device that cast a kaleidoscopic pat-tern 
on the ceiling above the circular bed. Then she disrobed. 
Beneath the scaly gown she wore only an elastic strip around 
her hips, and another that bound her breasts, thrusting them 
upward and close to each other. His hundred-dollar bill was 
wedged in that deep cleft. She snapped the elastic strips; her 
massive breasts tumbled free, and the banknote fluttered to the 
floor. Ignoring it, she faced him, displaying her nudity for his 
inspection, and without a word arranged herself on the bed. 
ÑYour big moment, Kravchenko told him. 
Furiously Noyes dug into the darkest corners of the persona to 
learn the secrets of unlocking Elena's passion. The information 
was all there: the proper zones, the proper words, the timing. 
Kravchenko had most diligently done the research for him years 
ago. 
116 
To Live Again 117 
Noyes joined Elena on the bed. Their bodies met. Their flesh 
touched and exchanged warmth. 
He made the rewarding discovery that she was easily aroused 
and that she was satisfying in her frenzy. At the climactic mo-ment 
she dug her heels into the backs of his legs and shivered in 
authentic ecstasy, but then, amid the stream of wordless syllables 
of joy that issued from her lips, it seemed to Noyes that he heard 
her saying, "Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim!" 
117 
118 To Live Again 
118 
To Live Again 119 
Chapter 8 John Roditis listened with flickering patience to all that Noyes 
had to tell him. They sat at the edge of a wide veranda overlook-ing 
Roditis' Arizona ranch; before them stretched an infinite acre-age 
of harsh brown turf, tufted here and there by grayish-purple 
islands of sage. Roditis had been in Arizona all week, supervis-ing 
the preliminary negotiations for a power project encompass-ing 
the region south of Tucson and well over the Mexican bor-der. 
He had had Noyes fly to him that morning, four days after 
Noyes' interlude with Elena Volterra. 
Noyes said, "Elena will speak to Santoliquido on your behalf. 
Probably she's spoken to him already." 
"Is she his mistress?" 
"She's everybody's mistress, sooner or later. Mainly she lives 
with Mark Kaufmann. But she spends time with Santoliquido 
too. She's quite intimate with him." 
Roditis knotted his thick fingers together and peered past Noyes 
into the cloudless, harsh blue sky. "Is Kaufmann aware that 
Santoliquido is trifling with his woman?" 
"I imagine so," Noyes said. "Neither of them bothered to con-ceal 
it much. And Mark's no fool." 
"Has it occurred to you, then, that Kaufmann has deliberately 
winked at that relationship-so that by lending Santoliquido Elena, 
he can influence the destination of his uncle's persona?" 
"You mean, making Elena the price for Santoliquido's coop-eration 
in keeping Paul Kaufmann out of your clutches, John?" 
"Something like that" 
Noyes took a deep breath. "I've considered it, yes. But I don't 
think it's the case. What's going on between Elena and 
Santoliquido isn't happening at Mark's instigation, any more than 
Mark had anything to do with what took place between Elena 
119 
120 To Live Again 
and me. And I believe that Elena will serve your interests in deal-ing 
with Santoliquido." 
"Why should she?" 
"Because I asked her to." 
"How much money did she want?" 
"Elena's not interested in money," said Noyes. "At least, not in 
any realistic sense. She's got all she needs, and any time she 
wants more she can get it from Kaufmann just for the asking. 
What fascinates her is power. She likes to be close to strong men. 
She likes to be at the core of intrigue." 
"She's not unique in that," Roditis remarked. 
"Elena wants to meet you, John. I suspect that she wants to 
become your mistress. And she knows that the best way to make 
an impression on you is to help you get the one thing in the 
universe you most want and can't obtain by yourself, which is 
Paul Kaufmann's persona. So she'll use her influence with 
Santoliquido to get it for you, and then she'll try to cash in by 
throwing herself into your bed." 
"It would infuriate Mark Kaufmann if I took away both his 
woman and his uncle, wouldn't it?" Roditis said quietly. 
"It would madden him." 
"I'm not sure I want to madden him that much," Roditis said 
thoughtfully. 
"You want the persona, don't you?" 
"Of course." 
"Elena will help you gain it. What happens after that between 
the two of you is entirely up to you." 
"Why are you so confident that Elena will cooperate?" 
"I've explained," Noyes said. Rising, he stepped off the veranda 
and scuffed at the desert sand beyond its margin. "There's an-other 
reason that I haven't mentioned yet." 
"Go on." 
"Elena knew Jim Kravchenko very well. They were lovers in 
Italy five or six years ago." 
120 
To Live Again 121 
"Yes," Roditis said. "So?" 
"Elena was very fond of Kravchenko. She wants to please him, 
now that she's found him again inside me. She believes that by 
helping me win status with you, she'll be doing her old friend 
Kravchenko a good turn." 
"That's an intricate line of reasoning, Charles. Kravchenko's 
dead. If she's reaching through you to him, she can't have a very 
high opinion of you." 
"She doesn't. She hates me. And this is how she shows it." 
Roditis spat. "There are times when I wonder why I work so 
hard to get involved with you society people. You're nothing but 
beasts, really. You disembowel one another like ballet dancers 
with tusks, and you find the most complicated possible reasons 
for doing what you do." 
"Inbreeding, perhaps," Noyes suggested. 
"Yes, that. And more. Mere money doesn't interest you; your 
great-grandfathers have made enough for the whole tribe. Mere 
status is of no importance; you had that before you were old 
enough to be housebroken. You inherit power and rank. So you 
turn your lives into a kind of Byzantine intrigue to keep from 
going crazy with boredom. Rebirth makes it all the more inter-esting. 
You can switch back and forth across the generations, 
opening old wounds, keeping ancient feuds alive, scarring each 
other, using sex like a dagger." Roditis' eyes glittered. "Let me 
tell you something, Charles. I'm a real Byzantine. I don't prac-tice 
intrigue for intrigue's own sake. I'm looking to put it to prac-tical 
ends. And so while the whole bunch of you go on 
backstabbing and clawing, I'm going to move right in and take 
everything over. Just the way my ancestors moved in and took 
over Rome. By and by, the language of the Roman Empire was 
Greek, remember? That's how a Byzantine works. Watch me." 
"I've never stopped watching you, John." 
"Good. We'll see about Elena's conference with Santoliquido 
in a little while. Come take exercise with me, now." 
121 
122 To Live Again 
"I'm a little tired, John. The flight from New YorkÑ" 
"Come take exercise with me," Roditis repeated. "If you kept 
in shape, you wouldn't be worn out by a little thing like a flight 
from New York." 
They entered the house, passing through corridors lined with 
smooth white stucco walls, and descended to the cool basement 
where Roditis had installed a gymnasium. Quietly he adjusted 
the gravity control to a boost of ten percent. That was unfair to 
Noyes, but no matter; Roditis had little desire to waste his exer-cise 
session by imposing an insufficient challenge on himself. 
Usually he boosted the pull by twenty percent or more. When 
things went badly, he had sometimes worked under double grav, 
straining every fiber, pushing heart and lungs and muscles to 
their limits for the sake of extending those limits another notch. 
Stripping, Roditis said, "Would you like to recite a mantra of 
exertion, Charles?" 
"I'm not sure there is one. 
"Give us a pious phrase or two, at any rate. Then get out of 
your clothes." 
Noyes said, "When, by the power of evil karma, misery is be-ing 
tasted, may the tutelary deities dissipate the misery. When 
the natural sound of Reality is reverberating like a thousand thun-ders, 
may they be transmuted into the sounds of the Six Syllables." 
Roditis belched. "Om mani padme hum. Excuse me." 
"It's all nonsense to you, isn't it, John?" 
"Western Buddhism? Well, it has its place. I've studied the arts 
of right dying, you know. I mean to leave a well-prepared per-sona 
for my next carnate trip." 
"How will it feel, I wonder, being a passenger in someone else's 
brain?" 
Roditis stared levelly at Noyes. "I won't be a passenger for long, 
Charles. You must realize that, of course. I play the game to win, 
all the time. If I can't win trough to dybbuk, I don't deserve re-birth." 
122 
To Live Again 123 
"I pity the man who picks your persona." 
"He'll live comfortably enough. He just won't be supreme in 
his own body, is all." Roditis laughed boomingly. "All this is sixty, 
seventy years away, though. Right now we're here for exercise, 
not speculation on my discorporate existence. Om mani padme 
hum. Wake up, Charles!" 
Roditis activated the vertical trampolines. They were two flex-ible 
screens, mounted upright about fifteen feet apart and mov-ing 
in a flagellatory oscillation on their mountings. He stepped 
between them and jumped diagonally against the left-hand 
screen, keeping his ankles pressed close together. The screen 
batted him away, and he pivoted neatly in midair, directing his 
feet at the other screen, striking it squarely, rebounding, pivot-ing 
again. For twenty cycles he let himself be shuttled back and 
forth between the screens, never once touching the floor de-spite 
the enhanced pull of gravity. Then he resisted the elasticity 
of the screens by tensing his body, and dropped lithely to his feet 
at his staffing point. 
"Your turn," he said to Noyes. 
"John, IÑ" 
"Come on!" 
Noyes looked dubious. He stepped between the pulsating 
screens and leaped. His feet touched the center of the webwork 
to his left, and the screen hurled him away, slamming him shoul-der-
first to the floor. He stood up, rubbing himself. 
"Again," said Roditis. "You're growing fat, Charles. Sleek-headed, 
and you sleep o'nights. Let me have men about me with 
a lean and hungry look." 
Noyes leaped again, angrily. As he struck the screen, he flexed 
his knees, trying hard to achieve the correct propulsive effect 
that would send him arcing toward the opposite screen. But his 
feet came in contact with the screen a fraction of a second apart 
from one another, and he gathered no momentum. Instead he 
trickled to the floor, striking his cheekbone and the side of his 
123 
124 To Live Again 
lower lip. He was bruised and bleeding when he arose. 
"I'm sorry, John. I'm simply not in shape for this kind of thing, 
and by the time I get in shape it'll probably kill me," he said 
thinly. 
"I'll make it easier for you." 
Roditis seized the gravity control and cranked it to half level. 
Beneath the floorboards there was a rumbling sound as the 
straining magnetodynamic field made the adjustment, and 
shortly Roditis felt the pressure lift. 
"Try again," he said. 
Noyes moved into position and jumped. In the suddenly lighter 
gravity, he hit the screen too high, but it made no difference; he 
was hurled across to the facing screen, landing belly first, 
bounced back, made another cycle, all the time floundering, kick-ing 
his long legs about, waving his arms desperately, like a giant 
Sancho Panza tossing on his blanket. Roditis watched for more 
than a minute as Noyes slammed back and forth through the air. 
Then, feeling irritated and amused all at once, he restored the 
gravity to normal plus ten, and Noyes dropped heavily to the 
floor. He was slow to get up this time. His face was reddened and 
his chest heaved. 
"Enough of that," said Roditis mercifully. "Should I call an am-bulance, 
or will you try other exercise?" 
Noyes shrugged. Roditis picked up a medicine ball and gently 
tossed it to him, underarm. Noyes caught it and flipped it back, 
and for a few minutes they played catch, Roditis surreptitiously 
stepping up the force of his throws until the heavy ball traveled 
with considerable velocity. At last Noyes' trembling fingers failed 
to hold it, and the ball rocketed into the pit of his stomach, roll-ing 
away while he gagged and retched. Roditis did not smile. 
They played power-shuffleboard, which Noyes found more to 
his liking. They swam. They climbed ropes. Roditis took another 
turn on the trampolines. Then he relented, and they went up-stairs 
to dress. Lunch followed. 
124 
To Live Again 125 
Roditis was in a restless, surging mood. His business enter-prises 
were going well; but the one thing that was of highest 
importance, the Paul Kaufmann project, seemed stalemated and 
stagnant. He wished he did not need to act through intermediar-ies 
in gaining Santoliquido's favor. Especially intermediaries he 
did not even know, such as this woman Elena Volterra, famous 
for her beauty and for her promiscuity as well, an unlikely am-bassador 
indeed. He had sent Noyes off to Dominica to make 
contact with Santoliquido; instead, Noyes had reached this Elena. 
Perhaps she would serve him well, after all, if Noyes' tortuous 
reasoning had any merit to it. But Roditis itched to be handling 
the deal himself. The groundwork had been laid; now was the 
moment to fly to New York, corner Santoliquido in his den, and 
make full, formal, and final request for the transplant of the 
Kaufmann persona. Time was passing. It was unreasonable of 
Santoliquido to withhold his decision any longer, and Roditis did 
not know of any other qualified applicant. Possibly Mark 
Kaufmann had the capacity to handle the persona of his uncle, 
but Mark was barred by law and the old man's direct wish from 
taking it. Which leaves only me, thought Roditis. 
That afternoon he closed the power transaction with the Mexi-cans. 
His computer produced the final specifications for the trans-mission 
pylons; the Mexican computer produced the final esti-mates 
of allowable cost. There was brief negotiation between 
the computers, and by three o'clock the contract was ready for 
signing. Roditis affixed his thumbprint, the chairman of the Mexi-can 
Power Authority delivered an eloquent speech in confused 
English, and substantial quantities of tequila were served. 
An hour later, Roditis was eighty thousand feet in the air, bound 
for New York. 

The world had become a strange and infinitely complex place 
for Risa Kaufmann in the eight days since she had acquired the 
persona of Tandy Cushing. At a single stroke, her stock of life 
125 
126 To Live Again 
experiences had been more than doubled; her perceptions of 
human relationships had become more intense; her attitude to-ward 
herself, her father, and the world in general had grown 
more tolerant. The presence of the persona had provided her 
with a sense of parallax. She had two viewpoints from which to 
observe events, and that made a vast difference. 
She felt a trifle guilty about her former self's wanton bitchiness. 
Risa plus Tandy looked upon Risa alone as an insufferable little 
minx, obsessively self-indulgent, petty, exhibitionistic, with a 
wide streak of sadism in her makeup. Together, they understood 
what had created that constellation of undesirable character traits 
in her: her impatience to erupt into the adult world, which had 
seemed in no hurry to accept her. Now that she had made that 
passage safely, it ceased to be important for her to externalize 
her frustration by tormenting those about her. 
Tandy, too, had had her shortcomings. Risa clearly recognized 
the persona's flaws: laziness, shallowness, lack of discipline. 
Tandy came from a moneyed family, one of the old New England 
lines, but it was a family in which no one had done any work in 
at least five generations. To a Kaufmann such an attitude was 
abhorrent and almost incomprehensible. Kaufmanns worked. 
They might flit about the world to a dozen parties a week, they 
might go off to Venus for a month if the mood took them, they 
might spend a fortune on clothing or furnishings or illuminated 
portraits of Uncle Paul or additional personae. Their great wealth 
entitled them to any luxury they chose, save only the luxury of 
idleness. Risa's father devoted many hours of his day to business 
activities that could just as easily be run through hired manag-ers, 
or even left entirely to the computer services. Risa herself 
had a keen understanding of the uses of the business cycle, and 
had every intention of taking her place in the Kaufmann bank-ing 
hierarchy. But Tandy had no training, no interest in anything 
but sensuality, no marketable skills. If for some reason the 
Cushing estate had failed, she would have had no choice but to 
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To Live Again 127 
go into prostitution. 
Risa disapproved of Tandy's flightiness. Tandy disapproved of 
Risa's aggressiveness. They had much to offer one another, by 
way of countervailing forces. 
During their first few days of life together they spent long hours 
sorting through each other's memory files. Risa withdrew to her 
apartment for what would have seemed to an outsider as pas-sive 
meditation, but which was in fact an exciting, vivid, and 
unending colloquy of the most intimate kind. All in a rush she 
entered Tandy's backlog of events, the love affairs, the trips, the 
parties. It was like gaining eight extra years of past in a moment. 
Tandy, at twenty-four on the date of her final persona recording, 
had done everything that Risa in her first sixteen years had done, 
and had gone beyond those first tentative experiments to a full-blown 
erotic career. Risa had had a few affairs, impulsive, frag-mentary, 
hesitant, the fleeting curiosities of a girl on the edge of 
womanhood. Tandy had known love, or what she regarded as 
love, and the record of emotional storm and fervor, of sunrise 
and sunset, lay accessible to Risa. 
She knew now the sensations of lying naked to couple in the 
Antarctic snows. She tasted strange cocktails in a hotel on the 
slopes of Everest. She experienced orgasm in free fall. She quar-reled 
with lovers, raked their faces with clawed hands, kissed 
away the salty tricklings of blood. 
Risa sensed that it would not take her very long to exhaust 
Tandy's stock of incident. Oh, there would always be interesting 
formative events to return to, yes, and there would always be 
the useful presence of a second mind within hers, but Risa knew 
that the present keen stimulation of having Tandy with her would 
wear off in a year or two, and their relationship would settle into 
coziness, a marriage that had consumed its passion. Tandy sim-ply 
did not have the complexity of personality that would permit 
indefinite mining of her experiences, colorful as those experi-ences 
had been. By the time Risa reached Tandy's final age, she 
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128 To Live Again 
would be far beyond the point Tandy had reached at her death. 
Then it would be time to add another persona. An older woman, 
Risa thought. From Tandy she had acquired voluptuousness, a 
sense of physicality that her own lean body would never provide 
for her. From the next persona Risa wanted an advanced course 
in avarice and shrewdness. It would be useful to have the ben-efit 
of age to draw upon as she entered the larger world of con-flict 
and achievement. 
But that was for the future. For now, Risa had exactly what she 
wanted. 
"You're satisfied?" her father asked her. 
Spring sunlight flooded Risa's apartment. She wore an airy 
gown that might have been made of woven cobwebs. "Very sat-isfied. 
It's all I dreamed it would be." 
"The change in you is very pronounced." 
"A change for the better?" 
"I think so," Kaufmann said. 
"Then why did you fight me, Mark? Why couldn't you have 
given your consent when I asked for it the first time?" 
He looked sheepish, an expression she had never seen on his 
face before. "Sometimes I miscalculate too, Risa. It seemed to 
me you weren't ready. I was wrong. I admit it. You and Tandy are 
good friends, eh?" 
"Extremely." 
"What's she like?" 
"Very much like me, only eight years older, and much more 
relaxed about things. With one exception." 
"And that is?" 
"The manner of her death. Tandy's obsessed with that. She's 
convinced she was murdered." 
"She died in a power-ski accident last summer, didn't she?" 
"That's the official verdict," Risa said. "Tandy tells me that it 
couldn't have happened that way. She was an expert skier, and 
her equipment had safety devices anyhow." 
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To Live Again 129 
"Safety devices fail. Does she have any recollection of her last 
moments?" 
"How could she?" Risa laughed. "She recorded her persona 
two months before she was killed! They don't take recordings of 
dying girls at the scenes of accidents!" 
Mark looked sheepish again. "Stupid of me. But does she have 
any basis for thinking she was murdered, or is it simply an irra-tional 
obsession?" 
"Since she's got no evidence, it has to be considered irratio-nal," 
Risa said. "But she's asked me to do a little checking, and I 
will." 
"Checking? What sort of checking?" 
"Detective work. Reconstructing her last day of life. Finding 
the man she was skiing with." 
Frowning, Mark said, "You could get yourself into trouble do-ing 
that, Risa. If you like, I'll have a man assigned toÑ" 
"No. I'll handle it, Mark. I'm curious about it too." 
It was time to get started on that project, Risa told herself. She 
had hesitated to make any outward moves, in this week of ori-entation; 
but now there was no further reason for waiting. She 
prodded Tandy for details of her final memories. 
"Who would you have gone to St. Moritz with?" 
ÑI'm not sure. Perhaps Claude. Or maybe Stig. 
"They were both power-skiers?" 
ÑYes. And I was seeing both of them last spring. You know 
that much already. 
"Did you have any plans for power-skiing with either of them 
at St. Moritz?" 
ÑHow would I know? 
Risa studied Tandy's recollections of her two escorts. Claude 
Villefranche was a Monegasque, a citizen of that anomalous little 
Mediterranean principality that so stubbornly retained its sov-ereignty 
in a day when such notions were long obsolete. Fil-tered 
though Tandy's eyes, he was tall, wide-shouldered, dark, 
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130 To Live Again 
moderately sinister-looking, with a tapering sharp nose and thin, 
easily scowling lips. He was about thirty, it seemed, athletic, 
wealthy, a man of strong tastes and a somber, brooding nature. 
As for Stig Hollenbeck, the Swede, he was Claude's comple-ment: 
sunny and open, a slender, lithe man in his late twenties, 
blond, fair, looking somewhat as Risa imagined Charles Noyes 
must have looked when younger, though not so tall and lanky. 
His family had shipbuilding money; Stig himself, like nearly ev-eryone 
in the late Tandy Cushing's orbit, was a non-worker. 
Tandy had been sexually intimate with each of them on many 
occasions in the last two years of her life. Each had been aware 
of her interest in the other; neither had shown any flicker of 
jealousy. There was nothing in Tandy's view of either one that 
led Risa to think they were capable of murder. Yet Tandy had a 
powerful conviction that one or the other of them had accompa-nied 
her to St. Moritz last August and had chosen to sabotage 
her equipment with intent to kill. 
"I'll look them up and find out if they can tell me anything 
about your final two months," Risa said. "Which one should I 
begin with?" 
ÑStig. 
"Why?" 
ÑBecause Claude's got such an ominous face. He's the kind of 
man who looks like a murderer. So we ought to begin with the 
less obvious suspect. 
Risa was amused by that. But she humored Tandy; this entire 
enterprise struck Risa as frivolous, and so there was no point in 
trying to impose rational judgment on any segment of it. Murder 
was a rarity in the world Risa knew. Since everyone had a recent 
persona recording on file, and thus could be said always to be in 
transition from one carnate existence to the next, it was point-less 
to risk erasure by committing that crime. If you took life 
intentionally, your own recordings were destroyed and you were 
barred forever from participation in the rebirth program. Who 
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To Live Again 131 
would risk such a dread punishment? Why jeopardize one's own 
eternal life for the sake of bringing a temporary interruption to 
another's span? 
Yet Tandy was convinced she had been murdered, doubtless 
because she could not accept the notion that some clumsiness 
of her own had led to her early death in the snows of St. Moritz. 
Risa dialed the master directory and requested information on 
the whereabouts of Stig Hollenbeck. To her surprise and relief, 
it turned out that Stig was currently living on his family estate 
just outside Stockholm. She placed a call to him the following 
morning, when it was early evening in Sweden. 
His calm, appealing face smiled out of the screen at her, the 
eyes friendly, a little puzzled. He looked much like Tandy's im-age 
of him, though younger and a trifle more lean. 
"Yes?" 
"I'm Risa Kaufmann. I'd like to talk to you about Tandy Cushing, 
if I might." 
He lowered his eyes. "Tandy, yes. A great tragedy. Were you a 
friend of hers?" 
"I've obtained transplant of her persona." 
Hollenbeck's reaction was vivid: a sudden spasm of the muscles 
of the throat, a lifting of the eyes, a quick and involuntary turn-ing 
of the head several inches to the left Risa, watching closely, 
wondered whether this was the response of a guilty man taken 
by surprise, or whether, perhaps, he simply was startled by the 
knowledge that Tandy's persona was at large in the world again 
and looking at him through Risa's eyes. 
At length he said, "I had not heard that she was back." 
"Quite recently. Last week. She suggested I get in touch with 
you. There are questions I'd like to ask." 
"Very well. If I can be of any serviceÑ" 
"Not by phone. May I visit you in Stockholm tomorrow?" 
"As you wish. It would be a great pleasure for me to meetÑ 
ahÑ Tandy's new friend. Shall you be coming from America?" 
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132 To Live Again 
"From New York, yes." As she spoke, Risa requested a time-table 
over her data line, and discovered there was space avail-able 
on a flight leaving at nine the following morning. "We could 
have lunch together," Risa said. 
They arranged to meet at the airport. When she stepped 
through the immigration scanners, he was there, looking pale 
and rather more fragile than she had imagined. They embraced 
in the courtly manner prescribed between strangers at their first 
meeting. As he held her, he peered into her eyes, and it seemed 
to her that his cold blue eyes were trying to stare through her at 
the Tandy lurking within. A muscle throbbed in his cheek. Risa 
doubted that this man had committed murder. 
ÑHe's changed, Tandy commented. He looks older, quieter. 
Almost shy. 
"I have reserved a lunch for us," he said to Risa. "My hopter is 
waiting." 
Within minutes they were in a sumptuous building many hun-dreds 
of years old that stood at the edge of a lovely park in met-ropolitan 
Stockholm. He had arranged for their meal to be served 
in a private chamber, upstairs, at the inn. At face value, that might 
seem to be an invitation to a seduction; but Risa sensed that he 
had no physical interest in her. She was good at detecting the 
radiations of desire, and there were none forthcoming from him. 
Evidently he preferred the more robust, fleshy physique of a 
Tandy. She wondered if he knew Elena Volterra. 
A robot servitor brought them cold aquavit and tapering flasks 
of chilled golden beer. Then a table of delicacies was wheeled 
into their room, and she followed him about selecting bits of 
aromatic herring, snippets of smoked reindeer, lush strips of 
salmon. A huge window admitted a maximum of sunlight: a 
scarce commodity at this latitude, and so highly prized. 
Tandy fluttered and palpitated within her. It excited her terri-bly 
to be in the presence of her former lover. She seemed eager 
to go to bed with him once more, even vicariously. Without speak-
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To Live Again 133 
ing, Risa attempted to communicate to the persona Stig's lack of 
yearning for her. 
As they ate, Stig said, "You wish to ask questions about Tandy?" 
"You were very close to her, weren't you?" 
He smiled. "Surely you must know that I was." 
"Yes. I do. I'm sorry to have voiced the obvious. Can you tell 
me when you last saw her?" 
"Last summer," he said. "Some time before her-death." 
"How long before?" 
"Let me think. In the spring we were together at Veracruz. 
April and part of May. Then she returned to Europe, to Monte 
Carlo and Claude. You know of Claude?" 
"Of course." 
"Well, then. It must have been at the end of June that I saw her 
again." 
ÑAfter I made my last recording, said Tandy. 
"Where was this?" Risa asked. 
"We met in Lisbon. We traveled together as far as Stockholm, 
where I had family obligations. She continued on into SuomiÑ 
into Finland. I joined her there in mid-July. We journeyed 
through the arctic regions together, down to Kiev again, and flew 
to Zurich. In Zurich I left her. Several weeks later she was dead." 
"You didn't see her at all after the end of last July?" 
"Unhappily, no." He indicated Risa's empty plate. "Shall we 
proceed to the warm food, or do you wish more fish?" 
"I'd like to try some of the other kinds of herring." 
"As do I." He grinned, the first sign of warmth she had had 
from him. They filled fresh plates. At a signal, the robot pro-duced 
more beer. Risa resisted more aquavit. 
"About TandyÑ" 
"When she left me in Zurich, I understand she met Claude 
again. They went to St Moritz" His countenance darkened. "I did 
not hear of her death until October. I assumed she was still trav-eling 
with him." 
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134 To Live Again 
"What can you tell me about her death?" 
"This is a wintry subject for such a sunny day." 
"Please," Risa said. "It's important for me to know. ForÑ us to 
know. Don't you see, Tandy has no information about it. Her last 
recording was made in June. She's trying to reconstruct her fi-nal 
eight weeks, and particularly the events of herÑ of her death. 
Can you help?" 
"As I say, my information is secondhand. I'm told she was ski-ing 
with Claude. They were on the high slope, making a rapid 
descent, one of the long jumps. She was crossing a crevasse, one 
hundred meters in the air. Suddenly her equipment failed. The 
gravity repulsors failed to hold. She fell. I understand they did 
not recover her body until the following week." 
Risa felt a quiver of shock. "I hope it was a swift death." 
"One can hope so, yes. 
They were silent. Risa saw Stig searching her face, and knew 
that he must still be seeking some way to speak through her, 
directly to Tandy. But of course it was a grievous breach of eti-quette 
to address someone's resident persona. One spoke only 
to the living, not to the merely carnate. Stig could not possibly 
commit a blunder so gross; yet clearly he ached to seize Risa's 
arms and find himself embracing Tandy. 
"I loved her very deeply," he said after a while. "I doubt that 
she realized it. We were always so elaborately casual, after the 
approved manner. I would have wanted to have a child by her. I 
would have wanted to share her life. But I never let her see any 
of that, and so all we shared was a bed. I regret that." 
"Will you be offended if I tell you that Tandy was more aware 
of your feelings than you thought?" Risa asked. 
He smiled faintly. But he did not look convinced. 
They scarcely touched the rest of their meal. Afterward, they 
walked in the garden of the inn, both of them quiet. The indirect 
conversation between Stig and Tandy had left Risa drained and 
numb. She had, at least, settled one thing to the satisfaction of 
134 
To Live Again 135 
herself and the persona within. If Tandy had indeed died through 
malevolence, Stig Hollenbeck had had nothing to do with it. 
At the airport, he said as she dismounted from his hopter, "I 
wish I could have been of more assistance to you." 
"You were extremely helpful. We're both grateful." 
"Where will you go now?" 
"To see Claude," Risa said. "We didn't know which one of you 
had been with Tandy at the end, you see. Things are much more 
clear now. Do you happen to know where I'm likely to find him? 
By this time I suppose he's over the shock, and willing to talk 
about the accident." 
Stig winced, reacting almost as sharply as he had when Risa 
had told him she possessed Tandy's persona. 
"You do not know?" he asked. 
"Know what?" 
"Claude is dead too. He died in December, swimming at night 
on the Great Baffler Reef. He can tell you nothing. Nothing. Un-less 
you can get information from his persona, wherever it may 
be." 
135 
136 To Live Again 
136 
To Live Again 137 
Chapter 9 Francesco Santoliquido said with obviously forced heartiness, 
"It's good to see you again, John. I'm always delighted when you 
drop in." 
Roditis took the proffered hand. It was soft, warm, not pre-cisely 
a flabby hand but certainly the hand of a man who wel-comed 
all comforts. The door of Santoliquido's office did not ar-gue 
that he had spartan tastes. 
"Drink?" 
"Certainly, Frank." 
They touched ultrasonic snouts to their arms. Santoliquido 
beamed. "You've kept well, John. Still a demon for exercise, are 
you?" 
"I get only one body to inhabit," said Roditis. "I keep it with 
respect." 
"Naturally." A wary expression crept into Santoliquido's eyes. 
Roditis suspected that the older man was afraid of him, and he 
liked that, for Santoliquido was very high in the system of the 
world, very high indeed. He wondered just what Elena had been 
saying to Santoliquido about him, and what the response had 
been. 
Roditis said, "The statue looks as splendid as ever." 
"The Kozak? Yes. Yes, a masterpiece." Santoliquido chuckled. 
"Don't think I've forgotten you have Anton Kozak sitting back of 
your eyes. Has he led you to take up sonic sculpture yet?" 
"He tries," said Roditis. "But I know my limitations." 
"A wise man." 
"I lack the skills of Kozak. I would not defame him by plying 
his art. His mind cannot drive my muscles." 
"Of course not," conceded Santoliquido. 
"He is glad to see that piece again. He tells me it's one of his 
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138 To Live Again 
favorites. A brilliant artist, Frank. I compliment myself many 
times for having chosen him. You know, a man like me, a man of 
dollars, I didn't get much chance to learn how to appreciate 
beauty. Kozak has taught me. Now I know what the balance of 
line means: what the harmony of form is. I'm much richer." 
"That's the purpose of the Scheffing process," Santoliquido said 
sententiously. "To enhance, to enrich. Doubtless he's greatly wid-ened 
your horizons of perceptions. But tell me, John: how does 
Kozak find it, seeing the world through the eyes of a billionaire 
financier?" 
"He enjoys it, I believe. He makes no complaints. His world is 
enriched too. He moved much too much in the company of es-thetes; 
now he sees a different facet of existence. I'm sure that 
when he makes his next carnate trip he'll try to express some of 
that new knowledge in art, if he's lucky enough to be acquired 
by someone with the right skills for practicing sonic sculpture." 
"That's far in the future," said Santoliquido nervously. "You 
look quite healthy, John, and there'll be no new carnate trip for 
you or your personae for a long time to come, I'm sure" 
"I hope so." 
"And Walsh? Old Elio? He's thriving too?" 
"Oh, yes," Roditis said. "We're kindred spirits. He built a net-work 
of power-transmission stations; I've built a network of a 
different sort of power. He finds his present place quite reward-ing. 
And I regard him as indispensable." Roditis smiled, and held 
the smile just slightly too long, intentionally. Then he said, "I'm 
sure you realize that I didn't ask for this appointment so I could 
discuss my existing personae." 
"Of course." 
"You realize why I'm here?" 
"Naturally." 
"Shall I name it or will you? ' 
"Paul Kaufmann," Santoliquido said. "Yes?" 
"Yes. The old man's been dead since the turn of the year. It's 
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To Live Again 139 
nearly May now. There's no reason for keeping him in storage 
any longer, is there?" 
"We're nearing a decision, John." 
"I've been hearing that phrase for weeks. I'd like to know how 
long you plan to go on nearing that decision' 
"I'm approaching it rapidly," said Santoliquido. 
"And asymptotically?" 
"John, you don't appreciate the complexity of what's involved. 
Here's the persona of one of the world's most powerful men, 
perhaps the most powerful of his age, a uniquely vigorous per-sonality, 
a man of colossal wealth, of the highest family connec-tions. 
It takes time to evaluate the applicants for his persona. 
The decision can have far-reaching consequences." 
"How many other applicants are there?" Roditis asked. 
"Hundreds." 
"And how many of them do you seriously think are qualified 
to handle a persona of such force?" 
"Several," Santoliquido said. 
Instantly Roditis knew that he was lying. But he did not dare 
force the situation beyond this point. Obviously Elena's minis-trations 
had clinched nothing yet. Santoliquido was still reluc-tant 
to surrender the Paul Kaufmann file. 
Roditis said, "It's not my intention to put pressure on you. I 
feel you owe it to the world to restore Paul Kaufmann to carnate 
existence, and I'm offering myself as the vehicle for that. As time 
passes, you know, his persona gets out of touch with the flow of 
events. We'll forfeit his abilities to evaluate situations if we let 
the world become incomprehensible to him." 
"But do you think you're an adequate vehicle, John?" 
Surprised, Roditis answered, "Has anyone ever doubted that I 
am?" 
"The Kaufmann persona is a powerful one." 
"I realize that. I'm prepared and capable. You've tested my 
capacity." 
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140 To Live Again 
"Yes. Even so, I remain uneasy. A man like Paul Kaufmann 
could so easily break through to dybbukÑ" 
"No one," said Roditis stiffly, "is going to reach dybbuk at my 
expense. Not even Paul Kaufmann." 
"There are times," Santoliquido murmured, "when I feel it 
would be best to leave that old man in storage forever." 
"That would be a crime against his persona! You have no right!" 
"I didn't say I would. But it's a temptation. Otherwise we run 
the risk of loosing him on the world again. A buccaneer. A can-nibal. 
A marauder." 
"He was merely a shrewd and aggressive businessman," Roditis 
said. "Give him to me and he'll be under control every minute of 
the day. I'll harness him." 
"You're very confident of yourself, John. Come with me." 
"Where?" 
"To the main storage vault. I'll give you a closer view of 
Kaufmann." 
Roditis had been in the storage vault before. But yet it never 
failed to strike pangs of awe in him as he moved through the 
low-roofed vestibule with its assortment of wary scanners and 
into the huge gloomy cavern of canned souls. They reached a 
sampling booth. Santoliquido requisitioned one of the storage 
caskets and cradled it firmly under one arm. 
Looking about the colossal room, with its tier upon tier of racks 
and urns, Roditis said softly, "Do you know the eleventh book of 
the Odyssey? Odysseus goes to the Halls of Hades to seek advice 
of the soul of Teiresias." His hand swept along the dully gleam-ing 
balcony. "Here we are. The Halls of Hades, the City of Per-petual 
Mist. We beach our boat and make our way along the 
banks of the River of Ocean. Odysseus draws his sword, digs a 
trench, pours libations to the dead. Honey and milk, wine, wa-ter. 
He sprinkles white barley. He cuts the throats of sheep. The 
dark blood pours into the trench, and now the souls of the dead 
come swarming up from below. He sees his unburied friend 
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To Live Again 141 
Elpenor. He is approached by his mother, but waves her away to 
speak with Teiresias. Then he meets others. The mother of Oe-dipus. 
The wife of Amphitryon. Ariadne. Poseidon. These are 
the Halls of Hades, Santoliquido. We can summon up departed 
souls." 
"You know your Homer well," Santoliquido said. 
"I am a Greek," said Roditis calmly. "Are you surprised?" 
"You don't usually seem so-literary, John." 
"But this is Hades, isn't it? Not a place of punishment, not 
Dante's Inferno, simply a storage vault. As Homer tells it. Stand-ing 
here looking into that darkness, Frank, don't you feel it?" 
"I've felt it many times. Though not in Homer's terms, exactly. 
We Romans have a poet of Hades too. Remember? "The descent 
into Hell is easy. Night and day lie open the gates of death's dark 
kingdom. '" 
"Virgil?" 
"Yes. Aeneas also sees the dead. He plucks a golden bough 
and inquires after his comrades. A deep, dark cave, with fumes 
coming up from its throat; he follows a path, he takes the ferry 
across the river, he encounters the shade of his steersman 
Palinurus. He finds Dido, weeping. And his father, Anchises. I've 
often thought of it, John." 
"Open Hades for me, then. Show me Paul Kaufmann." 
"Come inside the booth." 
They entered. Roditis was in a dark mood now; he stared at 
the coppery casket containing the persona of Paul Kaufmann, 
and a terrible desire came over him to seize it from plump 
Santoliquido and run off. But that was foolishness. He waited 
while Santoliquido set up the equipment. 
"What are you going to do?" Roditis asked finally. 
"Allow you to have a thirty-second peek at Paul Kaufmann. It's 
a standard scanning. Once it begins, I'll let it continue no matter 
how you react, and afterward we'll know how eager you really 
are to have him with you forever." 
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142 To Live Again 
"You don't frighten me." 
"I don't mean to. But I want you to realize that there are risks." 
"Go ahead," said Roditis. 
He accepted the electrodes. Through slitted eyes he observed 
the final preparations. 
"Now," Santoliquido said. 
Roditis jerked and quivered in the first impact of union with 
the persona of Paul Kaufmann. It was as if he had plunged into a 
boiling, sulfurous lake, dropping straight to the bottom, engulfed 
in it, fighting for breath. But he did not drown. Within moments 
he was rising, finding his level, learning the art of swimming in 
this medium. 
Incredible! 
Such strength, such vitality, such intensity that old man had 
had! Roditis examined strands of memory; not tangled knotted 
ones, but firm hawsers of recollection, stretching across the void 
of years. He acknowledged a formidable mind when he met one. 
Had old Kaufmann ever forgotten anything? Had he ever blun-dered? 
Roditis stared in delight at serried rows of archives, at a 
comprehensive and flawlessly arranged memory bank. 
Kaufmann must not have been human, but some sort of com-puter. 
But no, he was human enough: here were lust, rage, ava-rice, 
triumph, all the passions, throbbing chords of emotion slash-ing 
in bright primary hues across the purpled backdrop of that 
powerful mind. To and fro Roditis moved, examining everything, 
passing freely down the frozen canyons of that awesome per-sona, 
admiring stalactites and stalagmites of desire, glittering 
crystals of achievement, the ropy fabric of maturity. Kaufmann 
at seventy had been a phenomenon, but not a sudden one; rov-ing 
backward, Roditis saw the unity of the man, saw the same 
unbending purpose at forty, at twenty, even at ten. How could 
there be a man like this, all fire and ice at once? Having entered 
that realm of wonders, Roditis could not leave. He heard the 
sound of distant music, resonant, somber, a chromatic symphony 
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To Live Again 143 
of great power. He saw towering Gothic arches receding to in-finity. 
In his nostrils was the scent of grandeur. Roditis planted 
his feet firmly on a broad plain beneath a black sky. He threw his 
head back and roared joyous laughter at the heavens. 
The images dissolved. He sat in a small room, electrodes on 
his forehead, Santoliquido studying him with interest 
"Give him to me," Roditis said at once. 
"The risksÑ" 
"There are no risks. I can handle him. He belongs to me! He 
must be mine!" 
"You're shaking all over," Santoliquido pointed out. 
Roditis discovered that it was so. He stared at his trembling 
fingers, his quaking knees. The harder he tried to regain mus-cular 
control, the more violent the tremors became. He said, "It's 
nothing but a reaction to tension. I don't pretend it was like noth-ing, 
scanning that mind. But I am well. I am strong. I have the 
right to receive that persona." 
"How do your own personae feel about it?" 
Roditis realized that he had lost contact with Kozak and Walsh. 
He had to grope uncertainly in the recesses of his own mind a 
moment before he located them. Walsh seemed dazed; Kozak, 
sullen, withdrawn, wounded. As he probed them they stirred 
gradually; as if thawing after a freezing bath. They had not en-joyed 
their brief exposure to Paul Kaufmann, it appeared. Roditis 
tried to cheer them. They would get used to their new neighbor 
in his mind. 
He said to Santoliquido, "Well, they're a little shaken up, I sup-pose. 
He was a rough dose for them. But it'll wear off." 
"I'm worried, John." 
"About them?" 
"About you. If you took on Kaufmann, what the long-term ef-fects 
might be. You're an important man nowadays, with plenty 
of responsibility. If you should cave in under the weight of this 
new persona you wantÑ" 
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144 To Live Again 
"I won't." 
"If," said Santoliquido. "There could be serious economic con-sequences." 

"How many different ways do I have to put it? I'm capable of 
bearing up. Do you know, Frank, I feel such exultation now, hav-ing 
seen that man's mindÑ such a sense of widening, after only 
half a minute. You've got to give him to me!" 
Santoliquido's tongue appeared and made a slow circuit of his 
lips." After a moment's silence he rose and beckoned to Roditis. 
"Let's take a walk," he suggested. "If you've recovered from those 
tremors by now." 
Roditis stood up with exaggerated agility. Santoliquido put the 
Kaufmann persona back in its casket and stuffed it in a hopper 
slot; it vanished from sight, to Roditis' sharp regret. They left the 
sampling booth. Santoliquido led him out on the catwalk that 
rimmed the circumference of the storage vault. 
"We're going to take a tour of Hades," he said. "I want to show 
you some possible alternate personae." 
"I don'tÑ" 
"At least consider them," said Santoliquido. He tapped out digits 
on a data terminal. One of the sealed storage banks opened and 
he pulled out an urn, examined it, frowned, replaced it, removed 
the adjoining one. He held it up. "Elliot Sakyamuni," he said. 
"You know him? An outstanding guru, one of the architects of 
the new religion, a truly powerful man. He died in March. We've 
had him here, waiting for the right recipient. John, if you were 
to take him on, you'd have the added spiritual depth, the extra 
dimension of wisdom, that only a fully trained guru of the high-est 
degree could offer. You're the first person I've suggested giv-ing 
him to. Consider it." 
"In addition to Kaufmann?" 
"In place of Kaufmann," said Santoliquido. "I think the guru 
would be better for you." 
"No," said Roditis. "I can get along without extra spiritual depth. 
144 
To Live Again 145 
I've got Noyes to recite mantras for me. Put Sakyamuni back." 
Santoliquido sighed and put the urn away. They climbed to 
another catwalk. Indicating a frosted glass panel, Santoliquido 
said, "The world-famous mathematician Horst Schaffhausen. He 
has waited nearly two years now to return to carnate form. A 
mind like yours would be well-suitedÑ" 
"Stop it, Frank." 
"You oughtn't turn away from Schaffhausen that lightly. His 
unique powers would be of great value to you inÑ" 
"I'll take him three years from now," said Roditis. "Give me a 
chance to digest Kaufmann first." 
Beads of sweat burst out on Santoliquido's forehead. Hoarsely 
he said, "Won't you get off that obsession, John? Kaufmann's a 
burden for anyone. He'll weigh you down." 
"I want him." 
"You and he are too much alike. In the Scheffing process we 
should seek for complements, not supplements. There'll be war 
between you and Kaufmann over every business decision. He'll 
want to do it his way, you'll want to do it yoursÑ" 
"And I'll win," said Roditis. "I'm alive, he'll just be carnate. I'll 
use his judgment, but I won't let him call the tunes for me." 
"If he goes dybbukÑ" 
"Impossible." 
Santoliquido said, "I offer you your free choice of any persona 
we have here, but that one." 
"Are you trying to torture me?" 
In a low voice Santoliquido said, "It might even be possible to 
arrange something slightly irregular. Would a transsexual trans-plant 
interest you? What if I made available to you the persona 
of Katerina Andrabovna, say. An extraordinary combination of 
sensuality and intellect, a truly blazing womanÑ" 
"Is it that bad?" Roditis asked. "Are you in such a mess, Frank, 
that you have to consider breaking the law? What hold do they 
have on you, anyway?" 
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146 To Live Again 
"Who?" 
"The Kaufmanns!" 
"No one has any hold on me whatever," said Santoliquido with 
obvious strain. Roditis was amazed at the anguish visible on the 
plump face. "I make my own decisions." 
"Mark Kaufmann doesn't want me to get his uncle's persona. 
He's fixed things so I won't. You're willing to offer me the whole 
vault, if I please, so long as I keep away from old Paul. You've 
even offered me an abomination. So you must be really trapped. 
You'd like to make me happy, but you're afraid to offend Mark, 
and that leaves you ripping in half." Roditis put his hand on 
Santoliquido's shoulder. "I know what it must be like for you," 
he said more gently. "But all I ask is that you do your duty. I'm 
the logical recipient of Paul Kaufmann. Mark would get recon-ciled 
to the idea after a while, once he finds out I'm not a mon-ster." 

"We can't talk about such things out here." 
"In your office, then." 
But even amid the Babylonian splendor of his office 
Santoliquido was ill at ease. He took several drinks in quick suc-cession, 
paced the floor, stood for a long moment before the 
Kozak sonic sculpture. Finally he said, "I need more time, John." 
"You're just stalling." 
"Maybe so. But I'm not ready to move. You know. I'll have to 
live with my decision forever. Give me a few more weeks. By 
May 15 I'll announce the disposal of the Kaufmann persona, all 
right?" 
"I have no way of holding you to that," Roditis noted. 
"I pledge my word." 
Roditis let his eyes linger on Santoliquido's. He knew that such 
a pledge meant a great deal to a man like Santoliquido, who had 
centuries of ancestors peering down at him all the time. A Roditis, 
a condottiere, might break a solemnly given word when it suited 
his needs; but not a Santoliquido. Or so Roditis tried to persuade 
146 
To Live Again 147 
himself. 
"Very well," he said. "Weigh your decision carefully, Frank. 
Don't let Mark pressure you into doing something shortsighted." 
Outside the building, Roditis gave way to an access of rage. He 
sat in his hopter a long while, burning with fury, while angry 
spasms of heat ripped through him. So much for Elena's help! So 
much for all Noyes' scheming! The situation was right where it 
had been since Paul Kaufmann's deathÉ a stalemate. 
Santoliquido still equivocated. The administrator was all facade; 
beneath, he quivered with fright at the possibility of offending 
someone mighty, and so took no action. 
When ten minutes had passed, and Roditis felt somewhat 
calmer, he ordered the hopter to lift and head out over the ocean, 
due east. The machine throbbed into the air. 
"Is there any specific destination?" the robopilot asked. 
"Just keep going east till I tell you to go somewhere else." 
Roditis closed his eyes. Instantly there came flooding into his 
mind the renewed presence of Paul Kaufmann. Just that tiny 
tantalizing taste of Kaufmann's persona had been enough to leave 
Roditis unalterably convinced that the old man must be his. It 
was more than mere desire now. It was destiny. 
What if Santoliquido should rule against him? 
That was hard to imagine. Roditis knew of no one else who 
could handle the high-voltage mind of Paul Kaufmann. Of course, 
Santoliquido could take the coward's way out, and simply leave 
Kaufmann in the storage vault, as he had hinted he might do, as 
he seemed to be doing with that mathematician, Schaffhausen. 
But Santoliquido was a man of honor. He could not expose him-self 
that way to shame. He would have to allot Paul Kaufmann to 
someone. 
What if, at Mark's prodding, Santoliquido found some innocuity 
and impressed the persona on him? 
Roditis smiled. Instantly a dybbuk would be created. His in-vestigators 
would demand the penalty of the law. Erasure would 
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148 To Live Again 
be imposed. Kaufmann would go back into the soul bank, and 
Roditis could reapply. 
On the other hand, Roditis reflected, suppose Santoliquido dis-covered 
a person who was strong enough to cope with the 
Kaufmann persona? 
That would be awkward, but it could be handled. Roditis saw 
that in that event it would be necessary to arrange a 
discorporation. There would be an accidental death; Paul 
Kaufmann and his late host would both revert to the soul bank; 
Roditis could begin the quest anew. One way or another, he would 
obtain that persona. Having tasted it, he could not now relin-quish 
his need. 
He opened his eyes. The small hopter was far out over the 
Atlantic now. Though spring had formally arrived, the water far 
below was gray and ominous. High waves surged like mobile 
mountains, rising and crashing. Through the audio Roditis picked 
up the sound of that baleful sea. He ordered the hopter to dip 
low, skimming no more than three hundred feet above the wa-ter. 
The vehicle was meant for short-haul transport, and it was 
unsafe to have come out here, alone, in such a fragile craft, but 
Roditis felt soothed by the dangers. The fusion pack below his 
seat could power the hopter all the way to Europe, if he chose. 
On the face of the water the dull tubular bulk of a whale ap-peared 
suddenly. Roditis studied the fleshy mass, observing the 
gray-white spout of water that flumed abruptly from the broad 
forehead. There was strength! There was power! The tail came 
up; the flukes lashed the waves. The whale sounded and was 
gone. A Paul Kaufmann of the seas, Roditis thought. A watery 
titan. 
"Return to New York," he ordered the hopter. 
Stormy winds sped the craft landward. As he neared shore, 
Roditis put through a call to Noyes and found him, tense and 
knotted, in his apartment. 
"It was no good," Roditis said. "Santoliquido still hesitates." 
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To Live Again 149 
"But Elena saidÑ" 
"Elena is a worthless slut. Santoliquido is terrified of Mark 
Kaufmann, and Mark still refuses to let me have the old man. 
We're stuck. Santoliquido was willing to give me any persona in 
the place, except that one. Even a woman." 
"You're joking, John!" 
"I could have had Katerina Andrabovna. That's how panicky 
he is." 
Noyes bowed his head. He muttered, "I was sure it was all 
fixed up. Elena was positive too." 
"Santoliquido promised to make a decision by May 15," said 
Roditis. "He didn't promise that the decision would be favorable 
to me. If it goes some other wayÑ" 
"It won't, John." 
"If it does, there'll be work for you to do. We can't let that per-sona 
slip away. Do you know, Charles, he let me sample the old 
man! I saw into that mind. I would do anything to have it now. 
Anything." 
"Perhaps I should talk to Elena again," Noyes ventured. 
"It can do no harm. But probably little good, either." 
"I'll try. I'm in this as deep as you are, John. I've got a lot staked 
on success. I'll speak to her and get her to put the screws on 
Santo all over again." 
Roditis nodded. He made a dismissing gesture. The screen went 
blank. 
Behind him an ocean storm was rising. He felt the winds buf-fet 
his hopter, and ordered the craft upward to safer altitudes. It 
was late in the afternoon when he landed. He went at once to his 
nearest office, mind churning with half-conceived ideas. The 
storm broke in full impact and, as he looked from his tower win-dow, 
it seemed to him that he saw the gigantic and powerful 
figure of Paul Kaufmann raging in the dark sky. 
149 
150 To Live Again 
150 
To Live Again 151 
Chapter 10 "Where is Risa today?" Elena asked. 
"Chasing about Europe," said Mark Kaufmann. "Doing some 
detective work on behalf of her persona. Last I heard of her, she 
was in Stockholm, but that was a few days ago." 
"You don't worry about her?" 
"She can look after herself. Besides, I have her under surveil-lance." 

Elena laughed. "How typical of you! In one breath you tell me 
that she's self-reliant, and that you're having her watched any-way. 
You never leave anything to chance." 
"I have only one daughter," Kaufmann said quietly. "My dy-nastic 
urge won't allow me to leave Risa's welfare to chance." 
"Would you have wanted a son? ' 
He shrugged. "The name won't die. Only my line of it. And I'll 
be right there, watching the future unfold." Kaufmann got easily 
to his feet. They were lying on the resilient tile beside his pri-vate 
swimming pool, a hundred feet beneath the Manhattan 
streets. Warm pinkish light filtered down. "Shall we swim?" 
"I'll watch you from here," said Elena languidly. 
Leaping into the pool, he swam three lengths in some sudden 
furious haste, then, more calmly, let himself drift back and forth 
across the width. The pool had been designed for Elena's tastes. 
The water contained a fluorescing compound, so that his body 
left vivid streaks of gold and green as he sliced through it. Be-low, 
sparkling globes of captive living light glowed on the pool's 
floor. The sides of the pool were studded along the waterline 
with silicaceous thermotectonic gems. The entire installation had 
run him into many thousands of dollars fissionable. Elena rarely 
used the pool her whims had created; she was content to lie na-ked 
beside it, soaking up warmth from the battery of overhead 
151 
152 To Live Again 
lamps. Kaufmann disliked the decorative effects, but he humored 
her. 
He surfaced. His hand came up over the margin of the pool 
and seized her thigh, inches from her groin. He began to draw 
her to the water. Elena shrieked. Her buttocks bounced and skid-ded 
over the tile, and her free leg poked futilely at him. 
"Mark!" 
He tugged her in. She landed with a radiant fluorescing splash 
and came up sputtering and blinking, her ebony hair in disar-ray, 
her tanned skin shining. "Birbone," she muttered. "Scelerato!" 
"Sticks and stones will break my bones." He pulled her to him 
and kissed her, standing upright in the shallows of the pool. Her 
body resisted him stiffly for a moment, but only for a moment, 
and then she flowed against him, and her rigid nipples drew a 
tickling line across his chest When he released her, she was pout-ing 
with what he knew to be mock rage. He watched the spar-kling 
water stream from her skin as Elena hauled herself out of 
the pool and flounced to a vibrator to dry. She stood with her 
back to him, combing out her hair. His eyes followed the supple 
line of her spinal column downward from her long neck through 
the widening hips, the delightful dimples, the fleshy blossoming 
of her rump. 
"I'll get even with you for that." she told him. "I'll make Santo 
give your uncle's persona to an Arab." 
"Better that than to Roditis," Kaufmann said. 
Elena stared at him over her shoulder. "I almost believe you 
mean that. You'd have Paul saying prayers to Mecca before you'd 
let him into Roditis." 
"Yes. Yes, I'm sure of that." 
She finished at the vibrator and sprawled on the tile again, 
well out of reach of his grasping hand. He remained at the edge 
of the pool. 
She said, "Shall I do a three-dollar frood job on you, Mark? I'll 
tell you why you hate Roditis so much." 
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To Live Again 153 
"Why?" 
"Because he's so much like you." 
"What do you know about Roditis? Have you ever met the man?" 
"Not yet." 
"I have," Kaufmann said. "He's a little thick coarse fellow with 
big muscles and no grace of soul. He's a walking bank account. 
He dreams money day and night, and if he's got any other inter-ests 
they don't show." 
"He gave more than a million dollars to a lamasery in San 
Francisco a few weeks ago," Elena pointed out. "The same one 
your uncle used to give so much to." 
"And for the same reasons, too. You think Paul was a Bud-dhist? 
You think Roditis gives a damn about karma? He's looking 
for publicity, and maybe he'd like the guru to lobby for him with 
Santoliquido. I'm surprised you're taken in." 
"And I'm surprised that you underestimate him so much," said 
Elena. "He's not quite the ugly dollar-chaser you say he is. One 
of his personae is the sonic sculptor Kozak. Roditis is a connois-seur 
of the arts. He collects rare books. Do you know, he's got an 
entire building full of editions of Homer?" 
"How do you know all this?" 
"I've been reading about him. I mean, he'll be practically a 
member of the family soon, and so I thought I'd betterÑ" 
Kaufmann was out of the water instantly. He rushed toward 
her, knowing that he must look absurd in his angry dripping 
nakedness. He dropped don beside Elena and shouted, "What's 
that? A member of the family?" 
"After he gets your uncle's persona." 
"There's no chance of that!" 
Elena smiled sweetly She appeared to be enjoying his discom-fiture. 
She placed one hand flat on the tile at either side of her, 
leaned back, inflated her lungs to give her breasts maximum 
display. Coolly she said, "I talked to Santo about it. Santo expects 
to award the persona to Roditis any day now." 
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154 To Live Again 
"No," Kaufmann said. "Impossible! I've talked to Santo also 
about this. He promisedÑ" 
"What did he promise?" 
Kaufmann hesitated. "Well, perhaps not exactly a promise. But 
he indicated he didn't want to see Paul go to Roditis, any more 
than I did." 
"That was some time ago. Santo is discovering that there's no 
other qualified recipient. Roditis is clamoring for the persona, 
and without a valid reason for denying it, Santo is going to have 
to give it to him. He's holding back only because he's searching 
for some way to break the news to you." 
"No, no, no, no!" 
"Yes, Mark!" Elena's face was strangely animated. "You're jeal-ous, 
aren't you? Roditis is going to get him, and you want him 
yourself! You can't bear to see anyone else have Paul Kaufmann's 
persona." 
"Stop it," he said. 
"I offered you the three-dollar frooding. Take the ten-dollar 
job instead. It's as I said: you and Roditis are practically alike. 
The same drives, the same hungers. You have ancestry and he 
doesn't; that's the only difference. He came out of the dirt and 
you were born to the Kaufmann billions. Now he's going to grab 
himself a Kaufmann, and everything will be even. You can't bear 
that thought." 
Kaufmann slapped her across the face. She jumped back, the 
meaty mounds of her bare breasts leaping toward her chin. Trem-bling 
but not in tears, she glowered at him. 
"I'm sorry," he said after an endless moment. "You pushed me 
too far." 
"Was I wrong in what I said?" 
"I don't know. I don't know." He crouched on the tile and 
pressed his forehead against his knees. Looking up, he said, "How 
does it happen that you've been discussing all this with 
Santoliquido? And why are you suddenly so fascinated by Roditis?" 
154 
To Live Again 155 
"Strong men have always interested me, Mark. I shouldn't need 
to tell you that. And I've neglected Roditis up till now. I should 
have paid more attention to him while he was on the way up. 
Now it's clear to me that he's the coming man." 
"And so you're preparing to make the hop from my bed to his," 
Kaufmann said. "Eh?" 
"That's an overstatement. But I mean to know him better. And 
I hope you'll bring yourself to get over your hatred of him. The 
two of you, working together, could control the world. Particu-larly 
with your Uncle Paul guiding him." 
"I should have Uncle Paul." 
"But you can't, Mark. So let him go to Roditis, and then make 
terms with them. Are you afraid you'll be outnumbered? Aren't 
you a match for Roditis and Paul together?" 
"No," said Kaufmann. "No man ever born could be a match for 
those two in one mind." 
"All the more reason for you to make peace," Elena told him. 
"He's going to get that persona, and if you haven't come to terms 
with him, he'll try to break you. Don't be stubbornly proud, Mark. 
Don't let anger get in the way of common sense. As of now you're 
richer and stronger than Roditis, but not by much, and the bal-ance 
is going to tip." 
"You sound so sure of that, Elena. Exactly what did Santo tell 
you, anyway?" 
"You've heard it already. It's inevitable that Roditis will get your 
uncle's persona." 
"I'll block it." 
"You can't," Elena said in exasperation. 
"I'll speak to Santoliquido! I'llÑ" 
"Santo's been having a terrible enough time over this thing as 
it is, Mark. And you're the cause of all his trouble. Let him alone! 
It's not proper for you to interfere this way. He's trying to look at 
things objectively, and here you are in the background, throw-ing 
your weight around as a Kaufmann, threatening, cajolingÑ 
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156 To Live Again 
" 
"I can't let Roditis do this," said Kaufmann stubbornly, feeling 
more and more like a blind, obstinate fool, but unable to let him-self 
turn back from his chosen course. 
Elena yawned prettily. "I'm tired of this discussion. We're at a 
dead end. You're giving me a headache. Come swim with me." 
"You don't like to swim!" 
"What of it?" She sprinted past him, reached the rim of the 
pool, catapulted herself out into space. For an instant she seemed 
to hang there, for at her request Kaufmann had lowered the grav-ity 
of the room they were in, and he watched the heavy mounds 
of her breasts extend themselves into downward-pointing cones. 
Then she slipped sleekly into the water, leaving a bright streak 
that outlined her nudity in an appealingly sensuous way. 
He went diving after her. She eluded him for several moments 
as they crisscrossed the pool. At last he caught her, and she 
struggled playfully in his arms. He pulled her toward the shal-low 
end of the pool. His lips descended into the hollow between 
her cheek and her shoulder. 
Panting, she slipped away and sprang from the pool. She went 
only a few paces, turning, going to her knees, then reclining to 
await him. Tense and uneasy, Kaufmann came after her. She 
drew him down against the soft cushion of her flesh, and he 
entered her quickly, fiercely, and together they shuddered out 
their ecstasies. 
He was calmer afterward. He lay beside her, caressing her, 
apologizing for his loss of temper, for his shouted words, for the 
slap. 
His busy mind prepared new plans. 
He had no reason to doubt Elena's statements. He knew that 
she had been spending time with Santoliquido lately, both at the 
beach party at Dominica and in New York. It was no secret to 
him that she had seen the Scheffing administrator on several 
occasions. He had not objected, partly because he was not pos-
156 
To Live Again 157 
sessive toward Elena. andÑ he admitted to himself nowÑ partly 
in the unconscious hope that Elena would influence Santoliquido 
in his favor. It appeared that Santoliquido inclined in the oppo-site 
direction. Kaufmann had sensed that, too, from the recent 
nervousness of Santoliquido in his presence. And he did have to 
concede that a rational, impartial verdict would award the dis-puted 
persona to Roditis. 
It was time to stop fighting the inevitable. 
There were other ways to keep abreast of Roditis' ambitions. 
He had tried subtle agitation, and it had failed. Now he would 
have to go beyond the law, or else he was lost. 

Risa spent three days in Monaco before she learned anything 
of the fate of Claude Villefranche's persona. There were worse 
places to be hung up, she realized; but yet it was bothersome. 
Ancient traditions of secrecy interfered with her quest. She could 
not simply pick up a data line and demand the information she 
needed. She had to go through channels, and the channels were 
not always clear. 
In late April the weather here was mild, almost balmy, bring-ing 
an advance taste of summer. Purple bowers of bougainvillea 
blossomed on the ramparts of Monte Carlo. The sun was daz-zling 
against the white towers of the tiny principality. She stood 
in the princely cactus gardens and looked out across the blue 
Mediterranean, and it seemed to her that she could see Africa 
slumbering in the hazy horizon. Risa had never been here be-fore. 
Of course, Tandy had, many times, and she was Risa's guide. 
Little had changed in Monaco since the grand days of the nine-teenth 
century. The Hotel de Paris still dominated the water-front, 
with the baroque magnificence of the Casino alongside. 
Pavilions of feathery palm trees swayed in every breeze. Here 
were dandies and belles cast forward into time, as though this 
were some pocket of the preserved past. Some of these build-ings 
had been continuously inhabited for more than five hun-
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158 To Live Again 
dred years. 
At the Hall of Records Risa learned quickly enough of Claude's 
death, confirming the story Stig had told. On December 18 last, 
he had been caught in a tidal surge on the Great Barrier Reef 
and swept out into the open sea. His body had not been recov-ered. 
Meat for the sharks, no doubt 
Who had received his persona? 
Nothing in the records about that. So far as the principality 
was concerned, the story of Claude Villefranehe had ended on 
December 18 through accidental discorporation. If his persona 
had moved on by now to a new carnate existence, it mattered 
not at all, officially; carnates paid no taxes, did not vote, held no 
passports. In the United States it was possible to obtain details of 
a persona's migration from body to body, but not here. 
"What will we do?" Risa asked Tandy. 
ÑCan't your family help you? 
"Of course. Of course, that's the answer!" She hurried to the 
offices of Kaufmann et Cie, in a gilded building on the esplanade 
just below the Hotel de Paris. The bank was operated by the 
European branch of the family, and actually there were no 
Kaufmanns currently involved in its management; the directors 
now were entirely Loebs and Schiffs. Yet Mark Kaufmann's only 
daughter was certain to get a hospitable welcome. Risa, dressed 
chastely and sweetly, presented herself to M. Pierre Schiff, her 
cousin by some intricate prank of genealogy, and explained her 
problem. 
The banker was fifty, portly, staid. He paid Risa the courtesy of 
addressing her in English; she felt obliged to speak to him in 
French, which made for an odd conversation. 
"I remember the incident," he said. "Last winter, yes. I believe 
he was a client of ours." 
"I've asked the soul bank in Paris for information on him. They 
wouldn't tell me a thing." 
"You gave your name?" 
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To Live Again 159 
"Yes. It didn't matter." 
"Let me try," said Pierre Schiff. He asked his telephone for a 
number, and did not bother with the vision element. Quickly be 
made contact. He spoke in rapid, slurred French, pitching his 
voice so low that Risa could not follow the words. The soft flesh 
of his face creased into deepening frowns; after a few moments 
he dropped the phone into his cradle. 
He said, "The persona of Claude Villefranche was taken from 
storage in February and implanted." 
"In whom?" 
"The name was not available. Even to me. Even to me." He 
studied his pudgy palm as though it held the answer. "They are 
quite secretive, those people. But of course there arc ways of 
dealing with them. They are in need of constant credit for the 
expansion of their services, and weÑ" He smiled eloquently. "My 
son will help you. Let me summon him." 
An hour later, Risa found herself on a balcony overlooking the 
sea, lunching with Jacques Schiff, who was also her cousin, ap-parently, 
and far less portly than his father. She had changed 
from her chaste girlish clothes into something more likely to 
please Cousin Jacques: a scalloped shell of sprayon that lanced 
across her slender body to reveal a flawless shoulder, a small 
firm breast, and a rounded hip. Cousin Jacques was twenty-five, 
unmarried, tall, attractive. His eyes had a Gallic sparkle, brighter 
even than the sunlight dancing through the golden-yellow wine 
they drank with their oysters. 
"I knew this Villefranche, yes," he said. "Was he a friend of 
yours?" 
"Of my persona," Risa said. 
"Ah! Yes, so. Do you think I knew her?" 
"You didn't know her personally. If you did, she's got no recol-lection 
of you, and I doubt that she'd have forgotten you, Jacques. 
Tandy Cushing." 
"Yes. So. I knew her by name. Claude described her to me. A 
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160 To Live Again 
beautiful, beautiful girl, he said. WithÑ ahÑ" He laughed awk-wardly. 
"Very adequate body. She is dead?" 
"She was discorporated at St. Moritz last summer. A skiing ac-cident. 
Claude was with her at the time. She'd like to know more 
about what happened." 
"But Claude himself has since been discorporated too," Jacques 
mused. "It is a sad world, even now. Dangers lie everywhere for 
the young, the strong, the rich. Only the poor live long lives." 
"But they live only once," Risa pointed out. 
"True. True." Jacques steepled his fingers. "After lunch," he 
said, "I will trace Claude's persona for you." 
They ate well. For her main course Risa had a mousse of sole, 
and vegetables of some unfamiliar sort braised in a sauce that 
was clearly Venusian in origin. Yet the wine that flowed so copi-ously 
throughout the luncheon was quite Terrestrial, a lively Cha-blis 
four years old. Elderly men passing beneath the veranda 
paused and looked up at them and made mental calculations, 
wondering who it was who might be lunching with Pierre Schiff's 
son, that pale girl in the revealing costume. Did any of them 
realize that it was not Pierre Schiff's son but Mark Kaufmann's 
daughter who should concern them on that veranda? Risa en-joyed 
her anonymity here. 
After they had eaten, Jacques suggested that they go to his 
office while he made the necessary calls. Risa nodded toward 
the nearby hotel. 
"My room is closer," she said. 
He looked startled for a moment, but only for a moment. At his 
insistence, though, they entered the hotel through different door-ways. 
She left the door to her room unsealed, and he slipped 
through it a moment after she arrived. The large, cavernous room 
was dark. Jacques produced a portable cesium-powered MHD 
torch and set it on the ornate dresser. Then he settled in a chair 
before the old-fashioned telephone and punched out a number. 
"This will take a while," he said. 
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To Live Again 161 
She went into the bathroom, removed her clothing, and stepped 
under the vibrator. When she felt thoroughly clean, she wrapped 
herself in a cloud of grayish mist and emerged. Jacques still sat 
at the telephone, taking notes. At length he grunted in satisfac-tion 
and hung up. 
"Any luck?" she asked. 
He turned to look at her. He frowned, and his eyes pierced the 
quasi-concealing mist to survey the essential points of her body. 
"Yes," he said absent-mindedly. "I have the details. His persona 
was awarded to Martin St. John, a resident of London, several 
months ago." 
"Who's he?" 
"The third son of Lord Godwin. Here is his address. I have 
requisitioned his photograph, and it will be coming by slow trans-mission 
in a few moments." 
"I'm very grateful to you, Jacques. You've done me a great ser-vice." 

"Say nothing of it," he replied. 
But he seemed willing enough to be rewarded for his activi-ties 
on her behalf. His body was supple, lean, and skilled. It was 
the first time Risa had made love since taking on Tandy Cushing's 
persona, and when she slipped into Jacques' arms she felt a sud-den 
wild surge of embarrassment, for there was something enor-mously 
public about this lovemaking, with Tandy watching ev-erything 
through her eyes. Risa was not accustomed to feeling 
inhibited. After a moment she realized that it was not the lack of 
privacy that troubled her, but rather that she sensed the much 
more experienced Tandy sitting as a judge of her erotic perfor-mance. 
Tension gripped her. 
ÑLoosen up, Tandy said. Are you always like this? 
Risa felt a flood of encouragement coming from within. She 
ceased to think of Tandy as a critical observer; Tandy was a par-ticipant, 
a cooperative entity. That made it much more interest-ing 
for her. Risa wriggled prettily; she put her lips to Jacques'; 
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162 To Live Again 
she surrendered to him with that mixture of kittenish girlish-ness 
and precocious womanhood that she knew was the best 
weapon in her armory. Tandy guided her. Without her help, Risa 
might not have been so successful in meeting Jacques' sophisti-cated 
approach. 
When it was over, and Jacques had donned his bankers sol-emn 
garb and was gone, Risa lay sprawled pleasantly on the 
rumpled bed, recapitulating with Tandy what had taken place, 
enjoying an amiable post mortem on her responses. It was won-derful 
to be able to speak so frankly and to know that every 
thought was perfectly understood. 
"I feel so good having you with me," Risa said. "To know that 
I'll never be alone again. I wish I could reach out and hug you, 
Tandy." 
ÑWhy not? 
Risa laughed. She thrust her arms about herself and squeezed 
tight, twisting on the bed as though she were in another's em-brace. 
Then she relaxed. She waved her legs playfully about. 
ÑWe ought to get going, Risa. 
"Where to?" 
ÑLondon. To find Martin St. John. 
"What's the hurry?" Risa asked. 
But Tandy insisted. And so Risa phoned for reservations on the 
next flight to London, due to leave at five that afternoon. She 
just barely made it to the airport in time. En route, she studied 
the photo of Martin St. John that had come from the data file. 
Though only a flat, it gave a fair likeness: a man in his early 
thirties, light-haired, pale-eyed, with a soft face of no particular 
character. Flabby chin, loose sensual lips, pasty cheeks. Tandy 
was shocked. She sent up an image of the late Claude Villefranche 
for comparison: the hard face, the cruel eyes, the fight skin, the 
thin, curved line of the lips, all were the direct contradiction of 
the physiognomy of Martin St. John. Could Claude be happy in 
such a slack, soft-bodied individual? 
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To Live Again 163 
Moments after she landed at London, Risa put through a call 
to Martin St. John. It was gratifying to find him at home. Peering 
at the three-square-inch screen of the airport telephone, though, 
Risa was struck by his lack of resemblance to the man in the 
photo. This Martin St. John looked tougher, harder, leaner. He's 
been sick lately, Risa guessed. He's lost a lot of weight. That must 
be it. 
"Yes?" he said. 
"I'm Risa Kaufmann. You don't know me, but we've got a great 
deal in common." 
"How so?" 
"You carry the persona of Claude Villefranche," she said. "I'm 
carrying the persona of Tandy Cushing." 
Martin St. John's lips flickered, but he said nothing. 
Risa went on, "I know it isn't proper to talk persona-to-per-sona. 
But Tandy's very eager to get some information from 
Claude. If we could meet, and transmit through ourselves the 
contact between them, it would make Tandy and me very happy." 
"I don't know if we should do that." 
"Please," Risa said meltingly. "I've chased all over Europe to find 
you. Don't refuse me now. Give me just half an hour of your timeÑ 
" 
"Very well." 
"This evening?" 
"If you insist." 
"It's very kind of you." 
He gave her the address of a coffee shop in the Finchley Road. 
Risa caught a hopter and was there within the hour. The place 
was a dark, oblong room, decorated in an arty fake twentieth-century 
style, with lots of plastic flowers and other foolishness. 
He sat alone at a table just within the door. 
His appearance was unexpected. There was no trace of the 
flabbiness of feature and expression that characterized the pho-tograph. 
This man was brusque, taut, and dynamic, His eyes, 
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164 To Live Again 
though a washed-but light blue in tone, were fixed and gleam-ing, 
and burned with a feverish intensity. His lips were tense, 
with the muscles poised in a way that minimized their natural 
fullness. There was little excess flesh on his face, and appar-ently 
none on his body, but about his chin and eyelids there were 
indications that he had recently lost perhaps forty pounds, for 
the skin had not yet completely adopted its new outline. When 
he rose to greet her, his motions were swift and aggressive. 
He took her hand in the continental manner. His smile was 
the briefest of flickers, on and off. 
He said in a harsh voice, "Claude Villefranche sends greetings 
to Tandy Cushing." 
Risa was taken aback by the unconventionality of that wel-come. 
"It's good to have located you finally. Mr. St. John. I won't 
trouble you for long." 
"What will you drink?" 
"Would you care to recommend something?" 
"There's a filtered rum punch here. It's excellent I'll order two." 
Risa said, "I'd love it." 
He turned to place the order. But there were no servitors in 
sight. Then one appeared, moving behind their table without 
appearing to notice him. St. John called out, and still was ig-nored. 
He rose from his seat, turning, and his motion was clumsy 
for a moment, but then he seemed to change gears inwardly; he 
uncoiled and nearly sprang at the servitor, his hand pouncing 
down at the robot's nearest limb to spin it about. 
"Will you give me some service?" he demanded. 
It was an amazing performance, a show of temper, agility, and 
impatience that was as impressive as it was unexpected. Tandy 
had remained silent thus far in Risa's meeting with Martin St. 
John, but now she reacted. Waves of sheer terror rose from the 
persona and washed through Risa's mind. 
"What's wrong?" Risa whispered. 
ÑCan't you see? There's nothing left of Martin St. John! 
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To Live Again 165 
Claude's ejected him! Claude's gone dybbuk! 
It was only a guess, a quick flash of intuition. Yet Risa was 
convinced. Tandy seemed clearly to recognize the characteris-tic 
inflections and responses of Claude Villefranche, not veiled 
and distorted as they would be if Claude were only a persona 
reaching them indirectly through the mind of Martin St. John, 
but overt and definite, immediate, direct. 
Still, caution was advised. Risa could hardly sound an alarm 
and call in the quaestors this early to arrest and mindpick the 
alleged Martin St. John. 
Over filtered rum punches she said, "Tandy's memory line ends 
in June of last year. She died in August. What she wishes to know 
is how she came about her discorporation." 
"Her skis failed as she was crossing a ravine. It happened rap-idly 
and without warning." 
"Claude was with her?" 
"They started down the slope together. They were in the air 
together over the ravine. ThenÑ suddenlyÑ she was no longer 
with him. It was a terrible experience." 
"It must have been," said Risa. "I can see that you're moved by 
it, and you weren't even there." 
"My persona was there, though," St. John pointed out. 
Risa nodded. It seemed odd to her that the memories of Tandy's 
death should lie so near the surface of St. John's mind. He did 
not give the appearance of reaching into a persona's crowded 
memory bank for the details, but rather of reading them right 
off his own backlog of experience, 
She said, "What happened after the accident?" 
"Claude saw that she had fallen. He turned upslope to find 
her. But she was gone from sight. It took a great deal of work to 
uncover her body. Claude was demoralized. He went off to Aus-tralia 
to forget what had happened. And there, as you perhaps 
know, he met discorporation last December." 
"Can you tell me anything about Tandy's last few weeks with 
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166 To Live Again 
Claude?" 
St. John shrugged. His eyes never wavered from Risa's, mak-ing 
her feel acutely uncomfortable. "They met in Zurich at the 
end of July After ii week there, they went on to St. Moritz, for the 
summer skiing. They were both in high spirits. Occasionally they 
quarreled a bit, nothing serious, lovers' tiffs." 
"They were in love?" 
"Oh, yes. The second week in August Claude asked her to marry 
him." 
ÑThat's a lie, came Tandy's furious denial. Claude would never 
have married anyone! 
"Did she accept him?" Risa asked. 
"She hesitated. She told him she would have to wait until later 
in the year to make up her mind. But of course there never was 
any later in the year for her." 
"I wonder if they would have been happy together." 
"I'm sure of it," said St. John. His nostrils widened with some 
inner tension. "Investigate her earlier memories of him. You'll 
see how powerfully she was drawn to him." 
That was true in its way, Risa knew. Certainly Tandy's feelings 
toward Claude had been far more powerful than what she felt 
for the detached, cool Stig Hollenbeck. But she had feared Claude 
as well as loving him. 
"What about you?" Risa said. "Did you know Claude at all when 
he was alive?" 
"We never met. It simply seemed to me his persona would be 
of interest to me. I needed someone more vigorous than myself, 
someone with athletic interests. It is always best to choose one's 
complement, of course." 
"He seems to have had quite an effect on you." 
"What do you mean?" 
Risa hesitated. "WellÑ that is, when I began to trace you, I re-ceived 
a photo of you. WithÑ I don't mean offense Ña very dif-ferent 
appearance. You looked softer, more plump." 
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To Live Again 167 
"Do you have this photo? May I see it?" 
She produced it. He studied it intently, his forehead furrow-ing, 
his lips curling in a feral scowl. At length he said, "It was 
taken about a year ago. I've lost a good deal of weight. I've been 
taking more exercise. Claude's helped me shed all that jelly." St. 
John glanced up and smiled for the first time. "I feel I'm the 
better man for having him aboard. Another rum punch? ' 
"I'd rather not." 
"Must you be going?" 
"I have-family to visit," Risa said lamely. 
"They can wait. Let me show you London. We'll do the town 
tonight. After all, as you said, we have a great deal in common. 
Even though we're strangers, a bond of love unites us vicari-ously. 
We owe it to Claude and Tandy to come together." 
Wavering, Risa felt herself captured. For all his ominous cold-ness 
and enigmatic intensity, this man had an undeniable ap-peal. 
She was always willing to have an adventure. And with 
Tandy's lover lurking behind those pale blue eyesÑ 
St. John excused himself to pay the bill. 
ÑNow's your chance. Get out of here, said Tandy. 
"Why?" 
ÑHe's dangerous. You don't want to fool with a dybbuk. Find a 
quaestor and have him mindpicked! 
"We've got no proof." 
ÑDon't you think I know Claude? His way of speaking, his 
movements, his facial expressions? He can fool the whole world, 
but he can't fool me. He's done a countererasure on his host and 
taken over. First he murdered me, then he murdered Martin St. 
John. And if you give him a chance tonight, you'll be taking a 
new carnate trip too. Get out of here! 
St. John was returning from the billing plate now. Abruptly, 
Risa scrambled to her feet. 
She rushed from the coffee shop. St. John came after her, call-ing 
her name. But he did not pursue her beyond the front of the 
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168 To Live Again 
building. 
A thin, acrid smell was in her nostrils: fear. Risa rushed to the 
corner, shouldering past pedestrians uncaringly. Time seemed 
to accelerate oddly for her, so that she was unaware of individual 
moments. In a blur of panic she came to a message box on the 
corner and opened the speaker hood. 
"Quaestor!" she blurted. "I want to report a dybbuk!" 
It took only an instant for the robots of the quaestorate to get a 
fix on the street. Two personnel hopters appeared, and gleam-ing 
figures dropped from them. Risa pointed tack toward the 
coffee shop. "Martin St. John," she said. "There he goes!" 
The robots surrounded him. Risa saw the man struggling in 
vain. 
ÑThey've got him, Tandy cried. Come on! We'll have to tes-tify. 

"I'd better call my father first. I'm in this too deep." 
ÑAll right. Get him to ship a lawyer over. We'll post the chal-lenge 
and demand a mindpick with me as theÑ injured party. 
And I want an autopsy report on my body, too. I'm beginning to 
figure this business out, Risa. 
"What if we're wrong? What if it's all a mistake?" 
ÑThen he'll sue you for false arrest and it'll cost your father 
some money. It's worth the risk. Do you want dybbuks walking 
around free? 
"Of course not," Risa said softly. She began to walk like a fig-ure 
in a dream toward the middle of the block. "Of course not. 
I'll call my father. He'll know what to do." 
168 
To Live Again 169 
Chapter 11 "Send in Donahy," Mark Kaufmann said. 
The door of his inner office flickered open, and the Scheffing-process 
technician stumbled in. He looked awed to the point of 
collapse. His huge bushy eyebrows were thrust up to the top of 
his wide pale forehead, and his hands plucked tensely at the 
fringes of his tunic. Within the confines of the Scheffing Institute 
building, men like Donahy taped the personae of the rich and 
mighty with little deference, blandly relying on their array of 
intricate equipment to give them the upper hand. But here, on 
the home ground of so potent a person as Mark Kaufmann, 
Donahy was devoid of confidence, a cipher, a twitching pleb 
smitten with terror, wholly unable to imagine why he had been 
singled out and summoned here. 
Kaufmann said, "We're all alone in here, Donahy. There's no 
one with us, no one watching us, no mini-viewers, no monitor 
of any kind. Whatever's said in here remains absolutely private, 
between the two of us. Sit down." 
Donahy remained standing. He shifted his weight from leg to 
leg. 
"You don't trust me?" Kaufmann asked. He opened a panel on 
his desk and unclipped a microspool monad. "Do you see this? 
It's a spy detector. It's programed to set off an alarm if any out-side 
entity taps into this room. So long as it quietly glows green 
like this, we can say what we please, we can plot to blow up the 
universe, and no one will know. So relax. Sit down and have a 
drink. I don't bite." 
"I can't understand why you've asked me to come here." 
"Because I want you to do something for me, obviously," 
Kaufmann said. He extended the tray of drinks as Donahy ner-vously 
lowered himself into the chair at last. Silently they went 
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170 To Live Again 
through the ritual of the drink. By every motion Donahy showed 
his fear and uncertainty. He'll be tugging at his forelock next, 
Kaufmann thought. 
On Kaufmann's desk sat a small portrait of Uncle Paul, one of 
the many in his possession. He thrust it forward and let Donahy 
contemplate the patrician features, the sly, veiled eyes, the mag-nificent 
chin. 
"Do you know this man, Donahy?" 
A nod. "It's Paul Kaufmann, isn't it?" 
"Yes. My late uncle. He'll soon be back in carnate form, I be-lieve." 

"I don't know anything about that, sir." 
"The information I have is that Administrator Santoliquido in-tends 
shortly to approve the transplant of my uncle's persona to 
John Roditis." 
Donahy looked blank. Kaufmann realized that he was speak-ing 
beyond the technician's comprehension; Roditis and 
Santoliquido and old Paul were simply not part of Donahy's world 
except as friezes on some titanic facade far overhead. They were 
demigods, and Donahy did not concern himself with their wishes, 
conflicts, or plans. 
Kaufmann said, "How would you like to be earning twenty 
thousand bucks fish a year, Donahy?" 
"Sir? ' 
"I need a favor. You're in a position to grant it. I could have 
picked any one of a hundred technicians to handle the job for 
me, but I've dealt with you before and I know you're capable 
and trustworthy. And I assume you could always use more money. 
What do you get paid, anyway?" 
"Seven thousand, sir. With an annual increment of two hun-dred 
fifty." 
"Which means that if you stick to your job and don't make any 
conspicuous mistakes, you're likely to be making as much as 
ten thousand by the time you're middle-aged, right? And there 
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To Live Again 171 
you stick until you retire and die. Well, I'm offering you an extra 
twenty thousand, on a lifetime annuity. Out of that you should be 
able to put aside enough money to make the down payment on a 
Scheffing persona recording. Would you like to live again, 
Donahy?" 
The man looked utterly sick now. Rivulets of perspiration 
streamed down his face. He reached impulsively toward the tray 
of drinks, and then, as if deciding that it was impolite to serve 
himself without being asked, drew back, his fingers quivering. 
Kaufmann smiled. "Go on. Have another. Have two. If you're 
tense, why not? ' 
Donahy jabbed the snout of a drink tube against his arm. When 
he spoke, he had difficulty framing his words. 
"Could-could you be more specific, Mr. Kaufmann? ' 
"Certainly. I'm sure you know that the Scheffing Institute re-tains 
all persona recordings it makes, storing them in various 
depots around the world. For example, John Roditis is shortly 
going to receive a transplant of my uncle's persona recorded 
last December, but there's also a Paul Kaufmann persona that 
was recorded last spring, and one made the year before that, 
and so on over quite a span of time. And these previous record-ings 
remain in dead storage. Are you aware of that?" 
"Yes." 
"Now, then, suppose you were to locate the whereabouts of 
my uncle's last-but-one recording, which shouldn't be too diffi-cult 
for you to find, and remove it from storage. Then, suppose 
you were to bring this recording with you to a certain lamasery 
in San Francisco which is in the process of setting up its own 
soul bank. They've already installed enough equipment to do 
transplants and make recordings. What if you were to supervise 
the transplant of this borrowed persona at the lamasery? And 
then you'd undergo a blanking that would wipe all this incrimi-nating 
evidence from your mind, so that no one could possibly 
prove that you had done any of these things. When you came to, 
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172 To Live Again 
you wouldn't know what you had been up to, but you'd discover 
you had suddenly become the recipient of an annuity which au-tomatically 
transferred twenty thousand bucks fish into your 
credit balance each year. That's the equivalent of half a million 
dollars invested at four percent which is considerable capital. 
With that kind of stake, you'd be able to buy yourself onto the 
wheel of rebirth. The risk is very small and the reward is infi-nite. 
What do you say, Donahy?" 
"I've always been a law-abiding man, Mr. Kaufmann." 
"I know that. But would you give up your chance of eternal life 
for the sake of respecting the regulations? Look, Donahy, the 
rules about transplants aren't graven on tablets of stone. They 
don't represent basic moral commandments. If you kill a man, 
that's evil, I agree. If you molest a child and warp its life, that's 
evil. If you mutilate another human being for arbitrary amuse-ment, 
that's evil. But the regulations governing the Scheffing 
Institute don't grow out of fundamental ethical constructs. 
They're just working rules set up to avoid confusion and pos-sible 
conflicts. I don't say that they ought to be disregarded lightly, 
but they mustn't be looked upon as immutable. When there's a 
chance to have rebirth by winking at the rules for a moment it's 
suicidal to be a stickler for the letter of the law." 
Donahy appeared to be impressed by that argument. But he 
was not altogether tempted. 
"How can I be sure that this isn't some kind of trap? ' he asked. 
"Trap?" Kaufmann exploded. "Trap? You mean that I've had 
you hauled over here for purposes of entrapment? That I've given 
you this much of my time simply for the sake of finding out 
whether your loyalty to the rules is unshakable? Don't be ab-surd." 

"I've got to look at this thing from my own viewpoint. You don't 
know me at all, Mr. Kaufmann, except that I've worked on your 
recordings at the Institute. All of a sudden you send for me and 
offer me a fantastic reward if I'll do something wrong. I can't 
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To Live Again 173 
begin to understand any of this." 
"Let me spell it out for you, then. I'll give you some insight 
into my motives. The recipient of the transplant will be myself." 
"You?" 
"Me. I'm determined not to let John Roditis gain advantage on 
me by taking on my uncle's persona. I'll have a slightly earlier 
persona, slightly less complete, but good enough to match him 
anyway. That'll nullify what he gains by getting Uncle Paul." 
Donahy was drawn back in his chair as though gripped by 
total panic. His eyes bulged; a muscle in his cheek danced about. 
Clearly he had no wish to be privy to these secrets of the great. 
Kaufmann said, "Now you understand what's at stake, Will you 
help me?" 
"What would happen to me if I refused?" 
"I'd have you mindpicked and blanked to get all the details of 
this conversation out of your head. Then I'd send you back to 
your apartment and have another Scheffing technician brought 
here, and I'd make the same offer." 
"I see." 
"What's your answer, Donahy?" 
"Can I have a little time to think things over, sir?" 
"Of course." Kaufmann looked at his watch. "Take sixty sec-onds, 
if you like." 
"I meant several days, Mr. Kaufmann." 
"You can't have several days. You've heard the terms of the 
offer. I'll shield you from all consequences and give you an an-nuity 
that will make you a rich man. What do you say?" 
Donahy let nearly a full minute spill away before he replied. 
"Yes," he whispered. "Yes. I'll do it! But you've got to protect 
me!" 
"You have my assurance," said Kaufmann. He stood up. "One 
of my associates will accompany you to your home. He'll remain 
with you overnight. In the morning you'll arrange to get access 
to the archive of old persona recordings. At the close of your 
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174 To Live Again 
working day you'll be picked up and taken to San Francisco with 
the recording. I'll meet you there tomorrow evening and you'll 
perform the transplant. When you report for work in New York 
the day after tomorrow, your part will be complete and you'll be 
blanked to protect you against possible interrogation. Your an-nuity 
payments will begin to accrue to your account that day. Is 
it a deal? ' 
Donahy nodded numbly. 
"Your hand," Kaufmann said. He grasped the limp, cool fin-gers 
in his own. Then he buzzed for an aide to take the techni-cian 
away. Donahy would not be alone again until the work was 
finished. 
Moodily, Kaufmann let the tension ebb from his system. The 
interview had gone about as well as he could have expected. He 
disliked the shady nature of what he was doing; but at this stage 
he was compelled to take these protective steps. Above all else, 
a Kaufmann was bound by honor, yes. But if honor dictated that 
he preserve the family's position no matter by what means, he 
could hardly afford to boggle at shady doings. Normal concepts 
of honor were not framed to include the existence of a Roditis. 
He flipped the retrofile, triggering it to see what calls might 
have come in while he spoke with Donahy. Risa's Image ap-peared. 
The file told him that she was waiting in London to speak 
with him. 
"Put her on," he said, transferring the call to the large screen. 
A moment passed; then Risa appeared, life-size, on the screen. 
She looked frayed and weary. It was after midnight in London. 
No doubt this legal business involving her persona was taking a 
heavy toll of her energy. 
"Well?" he said. "How does it go?" 
"It's moving very fast, Mark. The autopsy report on Tandy came 
in this morning." 
"And?" 
"She was almost four weeks pregnant at the time of her death. 
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To Live Again 175 
That checks with the mindpick information they got out of Claude 
Villefranche's dybbuk." 
"I see," Mark said. "She went to Claude and told him she was 
pregnant and wanted him to marry her, and he refused, and they 
had a fight over it and he killed her." 
Risa laughed. "Oh, no! The way you tell it, it's straight out of 
one of the old melodramas. Tandy wouldn't have tried to use a 
pregnancy to blackmail a man into marrying her. Especially not 
a man like Claude." 
"What's the story, then?" 
"The gene tests show that she was pregnant by Stig The Swede, 
her other lover. Sometime between the time Tandy made her 
last persona recording in June and the time she died in August, 
she decided that it would be interesting to have a baby, I guess. 
So she stopped the pill and Stig filled her up. She knew that Stig 
would be willing to marry her. He's a decent sort. Claude ex-cited 
her more, but she didn't trust him. Then she went off to 
Switzerland to have her last fling with Claude. At St. Moritz she 
broke the news to him that this was where he got off. He was 
furious and told her to have the fetus aborted, to forget about 
getting mated to Stig." 
"But you said that Claude wasn't interested in marrying her," 
Mark said, puzzled. 
"He wasn't. But he wasn't about to let Stig have her either. Or 
put a child in her. He saw that as an attack on his reputation for 
virility. He was wild with jealousy. So they had a fight, and fi-nally 
they went out on the ski slope and he took the feeder pin 
out of her gravity repulsor, and down she went. If he couldn't 
run her life, she had to die. It's all there in the persona he last 
recorded. He made the recording two months after the killing." 
"Didn't anyone think of examining her skis after the accident?" 
"They were badly damaged, Mark. It was impossible to deter-mine 
anything." 
"And there was no autopsy?" 
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176 To Live Again 
Risa shrugged. "When a girl is smashed up in a hundred-meter 
fall, there's no real point in an autopsy, is there? No one sus-pected 
she might be pregnant." 
"What happens to this dybbuk now? ' 
"Claude? Well, they've got him on a double murder charge. 
The mindpick evidence shows that he killed Tandy, and there's 
also the little matter of what he did to his host. So the quaestorate 
has requested a complete erasure. They're going to blot him out 
entirely. He's being shipped to New York tomorrow and the job 
will be done at the Scheffing Institute. They'll clean him out of 
his host's mind and also destroy all his existing persona records." 
"You must feel very proud of yourself, Risa, exposing this crimi-nal." 

"Well, actually, I could never have done it without Tandy. She 
was the one who guessed she'd been murdered, and she put the 
finger on Claude as a dybbuk. After that it was just a matter of 
seeing what was in his mind." 
"And in Tandy's uterus," Kaufmann observed. 
"Yes, that too. Well, now it's over, anyway." 
"I'm glad. Risa, are you all through playing detective?" 
"I think so. Why?" 
"It would be nice if you'd stay closer to home for a while, with 
this business settled." 
"I'll be home in about a week," she said. "Is that all right?" 
"Fine," said Kaufmann. "Do you have enough money?" 
"I'm drawing on the general family balance. All right?" 
"Have mercy," he told her. 
"I will. I'll see you soon." 
Out of her tired eyes there twinkled a look of warmth, love, 
kinship He smiled at her. She was a fine girl, he decided. A credit 
to their line. She had the promise of true greatness. He blew her 
a kiss, and the screen darkened. 
A pity she was a girl, he thought. 
Of course, they had had an option to fix that. But Kaufmann's 
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To Live Again 177 
wife was delicate, and he hadn't cared to dabble in uterine ad-justments. 
He had taken his chances, and had had a girl, and 
there had been no more children after that. Risa was masculine 
enough in her thinking, at any rate. A time would come when 
she'd enter the family enterprises as a full partner, and Kaufmann 
knew she'd do well. His only objection to her sex was an esthetic 
one: a woman in business was in some way an unattractive sight, 
no matter how beautiful she might be. That was archaic foolish-ness, 
he knew, but he could not escape the thought that it was 
somehow ugly to watch a woman at work in front of a data con-sole, 
making executive decisions involving millions of dollars. 
Women should be gentler creatures. But there was nothing gentle 
about Risa, female or not. It would be interesting to follow her 
progress down the generations as they leapfrogged from one 
carnate trip to the next. 
He turned back to his ticker. Three quick trades produced a 
handsome profit for him. A cheerful omen. 
By the end of this week he'd have all the shrewdness of Paul 
Kaufmann to add to his own. At last. At last. Naturally, he'd have 
to go warily, lest anyone find out that he carried an illegal per-sona. 
But Roditis would be perplexed when he discovered that 
each of his new strategic thrusts, inspired by Paul's persona, was 
being countered by strategies just as shrewd. Would he suspect 
that a second Paul Kaufmann was at work to thwart him? Would 
it occur to Roditis that such a thing was possibleÑ a duplicated 
transplant? Few people were even aware that old recordings were 
preserved. Mark himself had not known it, despite his wide range 
of information, until Santoliquido had told him. So Roditis, though 
he was naturally suspicious, would have no inkling of the truth. 
He would just wonder how it was that his rival stayed abreast of 
him. Of course, after Mark's death the next possessor of Mark's 
persona would discover the secret when he unexpectedly found 
Paul in his skull as well. But he was not likely to make the news 
public. Revelation of the irregularity would most likely bring 
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178 To Live Again 
about the erasure of both Kaufmann personae; the lucky man 
who had received two Kaufmanns for the price of one would 
make every effort to hide the fact. 
Kaufmann laughed softly. His phone lit up. He keyed in, and 
the monitor said, "Francesco Santoliquido is calling." 
Surprised, Kaufmann accepted the call at once. "Yes, Frank?" 
Santoliquido looked younger, more carefree than he had ap-peared 
for many weeks. The living jewelry at his throat, the cage 
of tiny crustaceans, seemed to be leaping about jauntily in re-flection 
of his changed mood. "I've reached a decision about your 
uncle's persona," said Santoliquido briskly. 
Kaufmann remained calm. Donahy's assurance of co-opera-tion 
was his bulwark against any possibility. "Yes? ' he said eas-ily. 
"Who's the lucky man? Roditis, as expected, eh?" 
"No." 
"No?" 
"I've weighed this a million times, Mark. I've come around to 
your way of thinking: that Roditis has such power already that it 
would be a grave mistake to let him have Paul. That would set 
up an extraordinary concentration of ability in one individual, 
with unpredictable results." 
"Of course." 
"I've also taken into account the objections of the Kaufmann 
family, as voiced through you." 
"Kind of you, Frank. But what will you do with old Paul, then? 
There can't be many others around you could safely award him 
to. I suppose it's best simply to leave him in storage a few years, 
until he's so far out of touch with events that he can be let loose 
again as someone's persona. IÑ" 
"Oh, he'll be transplanted soon, though." 
"To whom?" Kaufmann asked, taken aback. 
"We have a rare event scheduled to take place here shortly," 
said Santoliquido. "The erasure of a dybbuk who's guilty not only 
of ejecting his host but of deliberately causing the discorporation 
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To Live Again 179 
of a young woman." 
"The Tandy Cushing case. Yes, of course. Risa's given me all 
the details. But what does this have to do withÑ" 
"Once Claude Villefranche has been obliterated, Mark, we'll 
be left with the empty but living body of Martin St. John, a young 
man of good family and decent health. Have you considered the 
status of a blanked-out body of that sort?" 
"Why," Kaufmann said, "just take out one of St. John's own 
recorded personae and imprint it on his own brain. Isn't that the 
logical solution?" 
"It's logical, but it won't work. That's called an autoimprint, 
and autoimprints can't be made. The brain rejects its own ab-stracted 
persona. There are complex reasons for this, partly hav-ing 
to do with the technique of the process, partly with the physi-ology 
of the autonomic nervous system, partly with the psychol-ogy 
of the persona. I won't trouble you with the details. But we 
can't put Martin St. John's persona back into Martin St. John's 
body. However, there's nothing stopping us from installing some 
other persona in that vacant, healthy bodyÑ" 
Mark Kaufmann saw where Santoliquido was leading. The im-pact 
of comprehension was swift and violent. 
"You'll put Paul in there?" 
"Yes," said Santoliquido smugly. 
"But that'll create an instant dybbuk! It'll be Paul Kaufmann 
operating Martin St. John's body!" Kaufmann cried hoarsely. 
"True. However, there's no specific regulation prohibiting such 
a transplant. We have blank bodies so infrequently that there 
are no precedents. Paul himself is something of a precedent-setter, 
too, since his mind is uniquely dynamic and overbearing, 
and he's almost certain to turn any host he gets into a dybbuk. 
With a few possible exceptions, such as Roditis. And yourself. 
But we have a moral obligation to return Paul's persona to carnate 
form. If we give him an orthodox transplant, and a dybbuk re-sults, 
the quaestors will insist on mandatory erasure again, If we 
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180 To Live Again 
put him into a wholly empty body, though, so that there's no 
charge of an unethical takeover of another intelligence, he won't 
be breaking any laws. In effect, your uncle will return to the 
world as an independent entity, truly reborn." 
Kaufmann was staggered by the idea. 
He saw the complacence in Santoliquido's face, and knew that 
the Scheffing administrator had engineered this most cunningly, 
as a way of immobilizing both Roditis and himself. Handing the 
disputed persona to a third party, a zero, a blank, neatly cut the 
ground from under both of them. Roditis could storm and rant, 
but unless he found some legal flaw in the transfer, he could not 
oppose it. And Mark, having put up a successful battle to keep 
Paul out of Roditis' mind, could not now very well presume to 
interfere with Santoliquido's further freedom of action. 
It was ironic that Risa had provided Santoliquido with the so-lution 
to his dilemma. Very conveniently, she had helped to make 
a blank body available to him at the critical moment. Zip, zip, 
and Paul Kaufmann would walk the earth again, not merely as a 
silent persona, nor even as an unlawful dybbuk that had wrested 
control from a victimized host, but as a true rebirth, given a body 
of his own with the blessings of the Scheffing Institute! 
"What do you say, Mark?" Santoliquido asked coyly. 
Shaken, Kaufmann replied, "This is very sudden. It brings up 
all kinds of complications. What, for example, would be the le-gal 
status of this carnate form? Paul's dead. His estate is going 
through probate." 
"Legally, the new entity would assume the property and status 
of Martin St. John," said Santoliquido. "I've already had a ruling 
on that. He'd be St. John, carrying the Paul Kaufmann persona. 
Of course, in effect he'd simply be Paul in St. John's body, but 
that doesn't give him any title to Kaufmann status. I assume that 
you'd accept him into your family circle as Paul and find room 
for him in your business enterprises, but that's strictly up to you. 
You could just as easily let him try to make his way as St. John. 
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To Live Again 181 
Knowing Paul, I think he'd do all right." 
"Yes," said Kaufmann hollowly. "I think he would." 
"So what do you say? I've saved you from the monstrous threat 
of a Roditis in your bosom! That's a relief, eh, Mark? Isn't it? You 
look a bit uncertain." 
The initial shock was wearing off. Kaufmann had begun to 
see past his amazement at Santoliquido's coup to the deeper im-plications. 
Paul would return to life, yes, as shrewd and as ener-getic 
as ever, and with the extra benefit of residing in the body of 
a young man. That posed something of a threat to Mark's own 
status as head of the Kaufmann clan. 
But no Kaufmann could really accept the reborn Paul as a true 
Kaufmann. The family would draw upon his reserve of experi-ence 
and wisdom, but could never accord him full status. At best 
he'd be a secondary focus of power. 
I can handle him, Mark thought. After all, what Santoliquido 
doesn't know is that I'll have Paul's persona myself. That'll en-able 
me to cope, in case it comes to a show-down between Paul 
and me. And I should be able to count on Paul's support in the 
struggle against Roditis. 
Kaufmann envisioned the possibility of a three-cornered ri-valry: 
himself, the new Paul, and Roditis. But in such a conflict 
he would invariably emerge on top, since he'd be Mark-plus-Paul, 
and thus at least one notch ahead of Paul alone, and two 
notches ahead of Roditis. 
He said, "Yes. Very clever of you, Frank. I approve. Have you 
broken the news to Roditis yet?" 
"No. I thought I'd wait another day or two, until the transplant 
has actually been carried out. I'd prefer to present it to him as a 
fait accompli." 
"That's probably best," said Kaufmann. He chuckled. "I imag-ine 
Roditis is going to be surprised." 
181 
182 To Live Again 
182 
To Live Again 183 
Chapter 12 Charles Noyes said, "You won't like this, John. Elena says that 
they've decided not to give Paul Kaufmann to you. They've got 
some dummy body that a dybbuk was removed from, and they're 
putting the persona in that." 
He waited fearfully for Roditis to react. 
They were in the midwestern office of Roditis Securities at 
Evansville, Indiana, on the top floor of a tower overlooking the 
river. From the broad windows it was possible to see deep into 
Kentucky. Noyes had flown, to Evansville that afternoon, after 
lunch with Elena. This was too important to convey to Roditis by 
phone. 
Roditis seemed strangely calm. He walked past Noyes to the 
window and peered out into the blaze of light that was the city 
across the river. Then, turning slowly, he went to the Anton Kozak 
sonic sculpture that dominated one wall of his office and care-fully 
recalibrated its pitch so that it produced a gentle hum at 
about fifty cycles. A horizontal component in the sculpture be-gan 
to oscillate at such a frequency that it blurred and became 
barely visible. 
Quietly Roditis said, "Did she learn this from Santoliquido?" 
"Yes. She spent much of last night with him, and he told her. 
According to Elena, Santoliquido is quite proud of what he's ar-ranged, 
because it thwarts both you and Mark in one stroke." 
"What did Mark want done with the persona?" 
"Either to be given to him or simply kept in cold storage. Since 
it obviously couldn't be given to him, Mark preferred that it go to 
nobody at all. Santoliquido's manipulated things so that neither 
one of you gets what he wanted, and yet neither one of you has 
any recourse from the decision." 
Roditis, still icily calm, fondled the shining rim of the sonic 
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184 To Live Again 
sculpture. Noyes could not understand his employer's coolness. 
The man should be raving and shouting. Was Roditis drugged in 
some way? Up to the eyebrows in pills? System flooded with a 
chemosterilant to damp down any response? 
"Does Kaufmann know of the decision?" Roditis asked. 
"Yes," Noyes said. "Santoliquido phoned and told him about it 
two days ago." 
"How did he take it?" 
"Angrily. Very angrily. But then he gave his agreement. He had 
no real choice." 
"And when is this transplant supposed to take place?" 
Noyes shifted his weight uncertainly from leg to leg. "It was 
done this afternoon." 
"Paul Kaufmann's walking around in a body without a con-trolling 
mind?" 
Noyes nodded. 
"Kaufmann's a dybbuk, then. Without even having to struggle 
for it." 
"Yes." 
"Dybbuks are illegal." 
"Not this one," said Noyes. "Santoliquido apparently found 
some sort of legal loophole. Don't you see, this was approved on 
the highest level, meaning Santoliquido. Therefore, by defini-tion, 
it can't be illegal. Paul Kaufmann's back in the world, and 
he's got full command of a body." 
"Whose body was it?" 
"An Englishman named Martin St. John. One of the younger 
sons of some lord. He was pushed out of the body by a French-man 
who had earlier murdered a girl at a ski resort, then was 
killed himself and picked up by St. John as a persona. They 
tracked him down, erased him after getting a confession under 
mindpick, and Santoliquido had the bright idea of putting old 
Kaufmann into the empty body." 
"Very clever of him." 
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To Live Again 185 
"You aren't upset by all this, John?" 
"Not at all. I was expecting it, in a way. You can choose not to 
believe this, but I foresaw some such arrangement down to the 
actual details. I was braced for it. And I also have a plan of action 
ready to meet the situation." 
"I knew you would, John. What do you have in mind?" 
Roditis smiled. "Where is this St. John body now, do you know?" 
"Probably still in New York. That's where the transplant was 
performed. I doubt that he'll do any traveling until he's achieved 
physical coordination in the new body." 
"Good. Go to New York. Find St. John, Charles. Find him and 
kill him." 
"You want me to discorporateÑ" 
"That's right. Kill him. Destroy the St. John body." 
Noyes sat down abruptly. His head whiled. Within, James 
Kravchenko gave a mighty leap, battering against Noyes' de-fenses. 
Noyes shivered at the persona assailed him. it was a 
moment before he could reassert his control over Kravchenko, 
and another moment before he was able to meet Roditis' level 
gaze. 
"I can't do that, John!" Noyes gasped. 
"Yes, you can, and you will. Damn it, do you think I'm going to 
let a dummy walk off with that persona? Look: Santoliquido 
doesn't have an infinite supply of empty bodies sitting around 
ready for Paul Kaufmann to go dybbuk in. Discorporate St. John 
and you're actually tossing Paul back into the soul bank, right? 
The master recording is still there, ready to be used again if some-thing 
happens to the old man's current carnate embodiment. 
Okay. Remove St. John. I reapply for the Kaufmann persona, 
which is again available. Only this time I put more pressure on 
Santo than before. I don't waltz around so diplomatically. I 
threaten a little. I pound the table. I make it clear to him that I 
won't tolerate a second trick of that sort. He'll have to give in. I'll 
get my way at last." 
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186 To Live Again 
"But I have to commit a discorporation," Noyes said in a weak 
voice. "What if I'm caught? What if I bungle it?" 
"You won't be caught, and you won't bungle it. Don't worry, 
Charles. I'll arrange everything. As soon as you've done it, we'll 
whisk you back out here and have you blanked for the hours of 
the discorporation. We'll fill in false memories, an alibi that no-body 
can challenge. You'll be beyond the reach of mindpicking. 
Do you really think I'd allow my oldest and closest friend to run 
any real risks?" 
"Still, can't you hire some thugÑ program a robotÑ" 
"I need someone I can trust. There's only one person in the 
world I can rely on for this, Charles. You've been with me on 
every stage of the operation." 
"But 
"You'll do it, Charles." Roditis came over, standing above Noyes' 
chair, and put his hands on Noyes' shoulders just alongside the 
clavicles. His thick, powerful fingers dug sharply into the flesh. 
His eyes, compelling, almost hypnotic, sought for Noyes' and 
locked on them. Noyes knew he was being coerced, but he had 
never been able to resist Roditis' pressures before, and he doubted 
that he would succeed this time. 
Earnestly Roditis said, "Do you have moral objections?" 
"Well, in a way. 
"Look at it this way. You aren't actually taking life. The real 
Martin St. John was discorporated long ago. The only intelligent 
thing in that body is the persona of Paul Kaufmann, which has 
no right to be there. Kaufmann's had one life already, one body. 
That's all he's entitled to on an autonomous basis. Now he's sup-posed 
to be ridingÑ as a passenger, as a persona. You dispose of 
the St. John body and Kaufmann reverts to his proper status, 
minus the illegal nonsense Santoliquido has invented out of cow-ardice. 
You'll actually be performing a pro-social act, Charles. 
You'll be canceling out an anomaly. Do you follow that?" 
"I think so. IÑ" 
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To Live Again 187 
"You can't kill something that's already dead. Both Martin St. 
John and Paul Kaufmann are already dead: one because his per-sona 
ejected him, one because his natural span was over. What 
you'll be doing is disposing of some superfluous protoplasm. 
Nothing else. You'll do it for me, Charles. I know you will." 
"How will I do it?" 
Roditis straightened up, went to his desk, ran his fingers over 
the protruding green studs of a safety cache. The cache door 
sprang open and he thrust his hand inside, pulling out a lemon-colored 
box less than an inch in diameter. Roditis popped the 
box onto his palm and stuck his hand under Noyes' nose. A touch 
of his finger and the box fissioned along its vertical axis to re-veal 
a minute capsule containing a few drops of some turquoise 
fluid. 
"This," said Roditis, "is cyclophosphamide-8. It's an alkylating 
agent that has the effect of breaking down the body's fail-safe 
system for tolerating its on chemical components. Let a little of 
this get inside a man and he rejects his own organs, the way 
he'd reject an organ graft from another person without proper 
chemical preparation." 
"Some kind of carniphage?" Noyes asked uncertainly. 
"Not exactly, but close enough. Your true carniphage causes 
the cells of the body to destroy themselves through autolysis, 
through enzyme release. This stuff has the effect of turning the 
body into a conglomeration of alien components that can't func-tion 
homeostatically any more. Gland secretions become poi-sons; 
organ coordination ceases; antigens are poured forth to 
attack the very tissues they ought to be defending. The loveli-ness 
of it all is that nothing the medics can do can possibly save 
the patient The more they meddle, the more quickly the rate of 
destruction accelerates. Death comes in less than an hour usu-ally." 

"Carniphage is quicker," Noyes pointed out. 
"But carniphage is too obvious. When a man turns to a puddle 
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188 To Live Again 
of slime inside of fifteen minutes, it's a clear case of carniphage 
dosing. But with cyclophosphamide-8, the cause of death remains 
in doubt. It's an ambiguous finish." 
"How is the drug administered?" 
"In the fine old Borgia fashion. Conceal the box in your palm, 
like so. Offer your victim a glass of water. Pass your hand over it, 
squeeze the muscles together. The box opens, the capsule drops 
in. It dissolves in a microsecond. The turquoise color is lost upon 
contact with any other fluid. No taste. No odor. It's that simple." 
Roditis closed the lemon-colored box. He presented it gravely to 
Noyes. "Get aboard the next flight to New York and find Martin 
St. John. I've never needed your help more, Charlie-lad." 
Dazed, Noyes shortly found himself high above Indiana, east-ward 
bound. One of Roditis' secretaries had booked the flight 
for him; he himself seemed incapable of taking any positive ac-tion 
at the moment. He carried the capsule of poison in his 
lefthand breast pocket. In his righthand breast pocket there 
nestled, as always, the flask of carniphage with which he pro-posed 
to end his own miserable life just as soon as he found the 
courage to do it 
This would be an excellent moment, Noyes told himself mo-rosely. 

He did not want to be a catspaw for John Roditis any longer. 
He was tired of rushing around compromising himself for the 
sake of fulfilling the little entrepreneur's ambitions. Commit-ting 
murder now. True, true, Roditis had produced a pack of soph-istries 
to persuade him that slipping cyclophosphamide-8 into 
Martin St. John's drinking water was not murder in any valid 
sense, and so persuasive was Roditis' glibness that Noyes had 
been nearly taken in. Nearly. Yet he knew that the quaestors 
would take a harder line with him if he were caught before Roditis 
could blank the crime from his mind. They'd accuse him of de-liberate 
discorporation, and there was no more serious crime. 
He'd be erased. A small loss, maybe, to the universe and even to 
188 
To Live Again 189 
himself; but nevertheless humiliating. A man should destroy him-self, 
not allow others to destroy him. 
Gulp the carniphage now, he thought. You'll make a mess in 
the plane, and the stewardess will throw up, but at least you'll 
die an honest death. 
His hand stole toward his righthand breast pocket. 
ÑGo on, Kravchenko urged. Why don't you do it and get it 
over with? I'm so sick of being stuck in your lousy head, Noyes, 
you can't possibly imagine! 
The hand halted short of its goal. 
Some lingering Puritan sense of obligation assailed him. To 
kill himself now would be cowardly; he'd be running out on 
Roditis' assignment. He had no right to do that. Roditis trusted 
him; Roditis relied on him. And Roditis had given him employ-ment 
and a purpose in the world for many years past. Sure, Roditis 
was overbearing, tyrannical, self-centered, and all the rest. Sure, 
Roditis had bullied him into compromise after compromise, un-til 
at the end he was even crashing parties on the man's behalf 
and sleeping with strange women to win a nugget of useful in-formation. 
Nevertheless, those were the conditions of his em-ployment. 
He had accepted them. He could not spurn them now. 
He owed it to Roditis to carry out this final assignment, this mean-ingless 
discorporation, this destruction of a body already dead 
and tenanted by a dead man's ghost. After that, if he wished, he 
could swallow his carniphage at last, with even more justifica-tion 
than now. Running out on unfinished business was surely 
not in the Noyes tradition. 
Noyes realized that he had just made use of his New England 
heritage to justify an act of murder. 
So be it, he told himself. So be it 
The decelerating rockets whined. They were landing in New 
York. Kravchenko, mocking as always, set up a clamor of deri-sion 
as Noyes moved his hand away from the carniphage. But 
Kravchenko, Noyes knew, could not have followed the complex 
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190 To Live Again 
inner processes of decision-making. The persona was simply 
trying to keep him off balance and unsettled. It was not really in 
Kravchenko's interest to goad him into actually drinking the 
carniphage; merely to get him so rattled that he'd be vulnerable 
to the sudden swift strike of a counter-erasure, the violent ejec-tion 
by a triumphant dybbuk. 
He wondered how he was going to find Martin St. John. 
He could not simply look him up in the master directory. St. 
John was an Englishman and wouldn't be listed here. Of course, 
Santoliquido would know where St. John was staying. But Noyes 
wanted to avoid tipping his hand to Santoliquido. It was too ob-vious 
that Roditis had an interest in getting Paul Kaufmann out 
of his present carnate form, and if Roditis' known confederate 
Noyes were suddenly to begin making inquiries about St. John, 
any chance Noyes might have of gaining access to St. John would 
disappear. 
Noyes decided to ask Elena. 
Elena seemed to know everything about everyone. She was at 
the center of the nexus, tentacles reaching toward Mark 
Kaufmann on the one hand, toward Santoliquido on the other, 
toward Noyes on the third. And she still had a tentacle or two left 
to extend in Roditis' direction. She'd be a likely source of infor-mation. 

She had a small apartment registered in her on name in New 
Jersey. Noyes scarcely expected to find her there, but it was the 
logical place to begin. He called from the airport and was sur-prised 
to find her answering. 
Her privacy code appeared on the screen. Noyes identified him-self. 
The screen cleared, and Elena came into view. She was nude, 
but the scanner cut her off at the breasts, and in any case the 
tiny screen in the booth did not give him much of a view. 
"I've just come hack from a visit to Roditis," he said. "In Indi-ana." 

"You told him aboutÑ" 
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To Live Again 191 
"St. John? Yes." 
"He must have been furious!" 
"Actually, he was quite cool about it," Noyes said. "He seemed 
to be expecting some sort of fast shuffle of that kind, and he was 
braced. Listen, Elena, how soon can I get to see you? ' 
"Why not right now?" 
"You're free this evening?" 
"Very much so. Would you like to take me to Jubilisle again?" 
"No," he said. "I'd just like a quiet visit. There areÑ some ques-tions 
I'd like to ask." 
"Questions, questions, questions! Very well. Come to my apart-ment. 
When should I expect you?" 
"How about an hour from now?" 
"That will do." She tapped out the hopter program for reach-ing 
her house, fingers moving swiftly over the data keys. An in-stant 
later the program card came chuttering out of the data slot 
in Noyes' telephone booth. He seized it and blew her a kiss. Grab-bing 
his one suitcase, he rushed up the ramp and stepped into a 
traveler's-aid station, where he underwent a vibrator bath while 
his clothes were being pressed and refurbished. Freed of the 
grime of his journey from Indiana, Noyes proceeded toward the 
hopter zone, pausing on the way for a short snack. He chartered 
a hopter and slipped Elena's house program into the receptor 
slot. The vehicle took off, found itself hung up momentarily in a 
delay pattern over the crowded airport, then discovered an exit 
vector and made its way toward New Jersey. 
He arrived at Elena's place a little after nine that evening. 
Noyes had never been there before. His previous meetings with 
Elena had taken place at his apartment. He did not know what 
to expect: a place of palatial luxury, perhaps, or some steamy, 
overdecorated temple of amour. But in reality the apartment was 
nothing more than a pied-à-terre, as simple and austere as his 
own little suite. Despite Elena's known predilections for opu-lence, 
she did not seem to require it here, perhaps because it 
191 
192 To Live Again 
served only as a way station for her on those rare nights when 
she was not sleeping out. Greeting him in diaphanous, swirling 
pink robes that did very little to hide the exaggerated voluptuous-ness 
of her body. Elena seemed like some overblown tropical 
blossom blooming in a humble northern meadow. 
They embraced tentatively and distantly. Elena evidently was 
ready for any kind of overtures he cared to make, but Noyes was 
too tense, too bound up in his own situation, to do more than go 
through a kind of ritualistic contact. 
They broke away. She offered drinks. He settled into a chair; 
she chose a divan. Her robes parted to reveal tawny thighs. Noyes 
wondered if, as a matter of strategy, he should respond to her 
wanton unvoiced invitation. Or was she only teasing him? He 
was well aware that in all their relationships she regarded him 
only as a surrogate for other men. Sexually, she reached through 
him to make love to Jim Kravchenko. And when she passed se-cret 
information to him about the doings of Mark Kaufmann or 
Santoliquido, it was in the hope of winning favor with Roditis. 
He said, "I need your help, Elena. I'm trying to find Martin St. 
John." 
Her eyebrows rose. Her full lips drew apart. "Roditis is after 
him so soon?" 
Noyes made an effort to conceal his reaction. "I'd simply like 
to talk to the man." 
"About what?" 
"Does it matter?" 
"It might," she said. 
Fidgeting, Noyes improvised. "All right. Roditis is interested 
in working out a deal with Paul Kaufmann. As long as old 
Kaufmann's back in circulation and Roditis can't have the per-sona 
himself, he'd like to come to an understanding with him. 
You see, Roditis is worried that Paul and Mark will form a family 
alliance to crush him. So he'd like to drive a wedge between 
them as rapidly as possible. Does that make sense to you? ' 
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To Live Again 193 
"A great deal of sense." 
"So I've been sent here to make contact with Kaufmann/ St. 
John. Only I don't know where to find him." 
"And you think I do? ' 
"If anyone does, you do. Certainly Santoliquido's aware of St. 
John's location, and probably Mark as well. You're close to both 
of them. SoÑ" 
"You're right," said Elena. "I do know." 
"Will you tell me?" 
She stirred idly. Her robes opened, probably not by accident, 
and for a brief dazzling moment her entire body was bare to 
him. Noyes let his eyes rest on the huge globes of her breasts. 
She had mounted a fusion node in the great valley between them, 
and its tireless sparkle lulled him. Just as casually, Elena cov-ered 
herself. 
Softly she said, "Perhaps I might tell you. But there would be a 
price, Charles." 
"Name it. Any amount." 
She laughed. "Not money. A favor." 
"What?" he asked uneasily. 
"You carry the persona of a man who once meant a great deal 
to me," Elena said. "You stand between me and that man, Charles. 
If I lead you to Martin St. John, you will step aside and make that 
man available to me. Yes? I can take you to St. John tonight." 
"You mean I should have Kravchenko erased and let his per-sona 
be given to someone else?" 
"Not exactly," she replied. "I mean that you should allow him 
to take you over. So that I may enjoy him directly in your body." 
Noyes was thrown into such turmoil that Kravchenko nearly 
was able to eject him then and there. He struggled for control. 
Never had he experienced so direct a blow to his ego. Calmly, 
casually, Elena had invited him to commit suicide for her conve-nience! 
His lips worked incoherently. At length he said, "You have 
no right to ask that of me. It's insane to think that I'd do any such 
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194 To Live Again 
thing!" 
"Is it? Why do you carry that flask of carniphage, then?" 
"WellÑ" 
"Your suicidal tendencies are well-known. Very well, Charles: 
here's your moment. Be of some use. Restore Jim Kravchenko to 
the world he loves, and remove yourself from the world you hate. 
While at the same time fulfilling your obligations to Roditis by 
speaking with St. John. Yes? It is perfect, you see." 
In a stunned silence Noyes contemplated the symmetry of 
Elena's proposal. True enough, he had already contracted with 
himself to swallow the carniphage once he had done this last 
deed for Roditis. Elena seemed to recognize, somehow, that he 
had declared himself superfluous. In the long run, what differ-ence 
did it make which exit he chose? To drink the carniphage 
would be a petty way of revenging himself on Kravchenko for 
many slights, but in short order Kravchenko's persona would be 
in a new body, and what then of his revenge? This way, at least, 
he could graciously step aside and deliver up his body to 
Kravchenko, not for Kravchenko's sake but for Elena's. 
But yet it was so damned humiliatingÑ to have a woman sug-gest 
that he voluntarily let his own persona go dybbuk. Did she 
really think he was as worthless as that? Yes. Yes, she did. He 
scowled. Perhaps, he thought, it was time for him to junk his 
old-line ideals and try a little craftiness. He could always prom-ise 
to do as Elena wished, and change his mind afterward. The 
important thing now was to get at St. John. 
He said heavily, "You ask a stiff price." 
"I know. But there's logic to it. Isn't there?" 
"Yes. Yes." He paced about, clenching his fists. "All right," he 
said. "Damn you, yes! Have your Kravchenko!" 
"A deal, then?" 
"A deal. Where is Martin St. John?" 
"He was taken to Mark Kaufmann's Manhattan apartment." 
Noyes gasped. "I should have known it. But I can't see him 
194 
To Live Again 195 
there, Elena! I can't walk right into Mark's own house andÑ" 
"Mark went to California yesterday on business," said Elena. 
"He won't be back until tomorrow. His daughter's still in Eu-rope. 
There's no one in his apartment but St. John and the ser-vants 
looking after him. I'll take you there now." 
"Let's go," he said. 
She shed her robes with no trace of modesty while he watched, 
and selected light sprayon garments. They went out. The hopter 
journey to Manhattan was swift. Noyes felt as though trapped in 
a dream, with every event converging on a predestined climax 
with incredible rapidity and ease. 
At the door of Kaufmann's apartment, Elena presented her 
thumb. The door did not open. She explained, "I don't have in-stant-
access privileges. The scanner reports that I'm here, and 
checks to see if there's any order to bar me. In the absence of a 
specific order, I can come in." 
"Why all the precaution?" 
"Mark sometimes has other women with him," she said sim-ply, 
as the door opened. 
Noyes had never been in Mark Kaufmann's home before. It 
was elegant and spacious, with wings of rooms stretching to the 
sides and straight ahead. A blank-faced, snub-headed robot ap-peared. 
Elena said, "We're here to visit Mr. St. John." 
The robot ushered them into a bedroom of huge size, dark, 
decked with brocaded draperies rising from projectors at the 
baseboards along the floor. Tones of green, cerise, and violet 
played across the ceiling. Sitting propped up in bed was a weary-looking, 
blue-eyed young man with light yellow hair, sallow skin, 
a rounded nose, a weak chin. Noyes paused at the doorway. 
He realized, numbed, that he was in the presence of Paul 
Kaufmann. 
There was an electric moment of confrontation. The unpre-possessing 
figure in the bed seemed to take on strength and in-tensity 
as though it were flowing to him from some inner re-
195 
196 To Live Again 
serve. The eyes brightened; the head rose; the chin jutted. Above 
the bed was mounted a solido portrait of Paul Kaufmann in late 
middle age, an imperious eagle of a man. Despite the total dif-ference 
in physical appearance, the man in the bed suddenly 
had that same imperious look. 
"Yes?" he said. "Who are you?" The voice was cracked and 
unfocused; Paul Kaufmann, only hours into his borrowed body, 
had not yet mastered it. 
"My name is Charles Noyes. I believe you already know Elena 
Volterra." 
"Noyes? Noyes of Roditis Securities?" 
"That's right," Noyes said. "You know me?" 
"It was my business to know the Roditis organization, yes. Well, 
what are you doing here? How did you get in? Roditis men don't 
belong here." 
"I brought him," said Elena. "He asked to see you, and I owed 
him a favor." 
"Take him away," Kaufmann/ St. John snapped. He waved his 
hand in what was meant as a gesture of dismissal; but his coor-dination 
was still poor, and his arm flapped in an awkward 
overswing that brought it slapping against the headboard. 
Elena looked stymied. She did not move. 
"Away," came the petulant command. "Out of here. Out of here! 
I must rest. I've been through a great deal. If you knew what it 
was like to die, to awaken, to enter a strange body É" His words 
trickled away into incoherence. The Kaufmann dybbuk seemed 
exhausted by the effort of speaking. The brilliance and intensity 
vanished from the eyes as though a switch had been thrown; he 
was resting, regaining his powers. 
Elena said doubtfully, "If he doesn't want to see youÑ" 
"He'll give me five minutes," Noyes told her. "Look, wait out-side 
for me, yes? I won't be with him long." 
She nodded and left the room. 
Noyes did not pretend to himself that Elena would fail to com-
196 
To Live Again 197 
prehend what he was about to do. But he doubted that she would 
expose him. He closed the door carefully behind her. 
Kaufmann/ St. John looked harsh and arrogant again. "I order 
you to leave!" 
Approaching the bed, Noyes said quietly, "Just a few minutes. 
I want to talk. Do you find it very confusing, coming back to the 
world? You expected to have to fight through to dybbuk, didn't 
you? Not to have a body handed to you like this. You know, there 
was quite a dispute over who was going to be your carnate. Roditis 
was very anxious to get you. But Santoliquido flimflammed him 
by finding this empty body. Don't you agree it might have been 
more interesting to wake up in Roditis' skull?" 
As he spoke, Noyes steadily drew nearer the bed. 
Paul Kaufmann glowered at him. The flaccid muscles of his 
new face strained with the effort to rise and hurl the intruder 
from his room. But he could not do it. 
"If you don't leave here at onceÑ" 
"Can't we discuss things peacefully?" Noyes asked. His long 
fingers enfolded the container of the cyclophosphamide-8 cap-sule. 
"Here Have a drink of water. Let me tell you about a deal 
Roditis has in mind. A great profit opportunity." 
He picked up a drinking glass in his left hand, filled it halfway 
with water, and began to bring the concealed capsule toward it. 
But it was no use. Those strange washed-out blue eyes moved 
twitchingly, taking in everything. Noyes realized he could not 
bring off the sleight-of-hand successfully. Kaufmann/ St. John 
would guess what he was trying to do and would put up a fight, 
clumsily, perhaps, but effectively enough to spill the irreplace-able 
poison or to get the robot servitors into the room. 
Noyes could not afford to be subtle. 
He leaned toward the man in the bed. In a low voice he said. 
"You'll be better off in a different carnate form." 
"What do youÑ" 
As the lips parted, Noyes shot his hand forward, applied pres-
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198 To Live Again 
sure to the lemon-colored box to open it, and sent the deadly 
capsule into his victim's mouth. At the same time he pressed two 
forked fingers of his other hand against Kaufmann/ St. John's 
Adam's apple. The man gulped. The capsule went down. 
There was scathing fury in the blue eyes. 
Kaufmann/ St. John flailed impotently at Noyes with weak, 
badly coordinated arms. His hands wobbled as if about to fly 
from their wrists. But the face was a study in malevolence; all 
the full vitality of Paul Kaufmann was harnessed and hurled forth 
in a crescendo of frustrated rage and vindictive hostility. Clus-ters 
of muscles churned and spasmed beneath the surface of his 
cheeks. Exposed to that blast of hatred, Noyes recoiled, singed 
by the fire of this incredible old man. 
But then, within the minute, the discorporation began. 
Noyes watched only the beginning of it. Backing away from 
the bed, he saw the fire go out, saw the look of puzzlement and 
anguish appear. Strange internal events were commencing. The 
floodgates of the ductless glands had opened all at once, pour-ing 
forth an impossible mixture of secretions that mingled and 
reacted violently. The synchrony of heart and lungs was de-stroyed. 
The brain itself scorned the messages of its sensory 
perceptors. Instant by instant, the body of Martin St. John pro-ceeded 
toward self-destruction. 
Noyes fled. 
Elena caught hold of him in the corridor outside. "Where are 
you going? What happened?" 
"Get a doctor," Noyes burst out. "He's sickÑ some kind of stroke, 
I don't knowÑ" 
"What did you do to him?" 
"We were just talking. He got angry. And thenÑ" 
A wild, screeching groan came from the bedroom, a sound 
ripped from tortured and disintegrating vocal cords. Elena went 
in. She emerged only moments later, looking appalled. 
"You gave him a poison!" she cried. 
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To Live Again 199 
"No. I don't know what happened. While I was with him, sud-denlyÑ" 

"Don't lie. Roditis sent you here to kill him. And you told me 
you just wanted to talk to him!" 
"ElenaÑ" 
With savage fury she pulled at him, tugging him out of the 
apartment. She seemed almost berserk with fear and shock. But 
in the fresh air she calmed; she had had a moment to digest the 
event, and her control had returned. 
"Now we go to my place," she said. "You tricked me once to-night, 
Charles, but not again. Now you keep your bargain." 
Noyes was close to collapse. Drenched in sweat, trembling, 
terrified, he let her shepherd him across to her little apartment 
in New Jersey. He tumbled wearily onto a couch. Elena stood 
over him, eyes bright, features rigid with malevolence. 
"Now, Mr. Discorporator," she said, "you've done Roditis' filthy 
work and made me an accomplice. You owe me something for 
that. Out of that body now!" 
"No," Noyes said feebly. 
"No? No! We have a deal! Come, now. Shall I give you a drink? 
To make it easier? No trickery, Charles!" 
Noyes felt Kravchenko hammering vehemently at the fabric 
of his mind, making a savage attempt to go dybbuk. Desperately 
Noyes resisted. I won't do it, he told himself. This is one bargain 
I won't keep. They can't make me destroy myself this way. I've 
got to get out of here, back to Roditis to get blanked, fast. 
ÑYou miserable cheater, Charles. You filthy pig! 
It was Kravchenko. Noyes was stunned to realize that he had 
spoken nothing aloud. Kravchenko had tapped right into his flow 
of interior monolog! That meant the persona had taken a deeper 
hold than ever before on him, and was now in direct contact 
with his mind. 
"Let's go, Charles," Elena said. "Out!" 
"No. No, pleaseÑ" 
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200 To Live Again 
She seized him by the shoulders and shook him in a wild fury. 
He tried to push her away, but she was too strong for him; and 
now he could feel Kravchenko ripping at his brain, uprooting 
neural connections like saplings, drilling his way through the 
centers of control. Already it seemed to Noyes that whole sec-tors 
of his brain were cut off, that he was being thrust aside, 
pushed into a single lobe, isolated, underminedÑ 
Ejected. 
"No!" he cried. "The deal's off! I never meant toÑ" 
"Ñ but now I've changed his mind for him," Kravchenko fin-ished. 

Elena rose in triumph. "Jim? Jim, that's you, yes?" 
"Yes. Me. God, it's good to be free!" Kravchenko stretched lav-ishly. 
He took a few steps, stumbled, recovered. "The coordina-tion 
takes a little while to come back, I guess. But to have a body 
again! To feel! To breathe!" 
"He's really gone?" she asked. 
"I've rammed him down far out of sight. Nothing left of him 
but a few shreds, and I'll hunt those down and pull them out. 
Free, Elena! After all those years penned up in that sniveling 
hulk of a man!" He reached for her. His fingers clutched at the 
taut cones of her breasts, missed aim, got her shoulders instead; 
with an effort he drew his arms downward. 
Softly he said, "I've got some other reflexes to test, Elena!" 
He found that coordination returned more swiftly than he ex-pected, 
although not altogether at a satisfactory level. It would 
take some time, he decided. Time and practice. 
As dawn came Elena said, "Now we head for Indiana." 
"What for?" 
"So that Roditis can blank you, stupid! As far as the world 
knows, you're Charles Noyes, right? And Charles Noyes has 
discorporated Martin St. John. The memory of that must be wiped 
from your mind. Come. Come." 
Kravchenko nodded. "You're right. I'll have to go to RoditisÑ 
200 
To Live Again 201 
bluff it through, let him blank me on the killing. Then I'll quit 
him and we'll go off together, eh?" 
"Yes!" 
"But why are you going to Indiana?" he asked. 
Elena gave him a slow, simmering smile. "Do you think I'm 
going to be apart from you even for an hour, now that I have you 
again?" 
201 
202 To Live Again 
202 
To Live Again 203 
Chapter 13 "Dead?" Mark Kaufmann asked. "How could he possibly be 
dead? The St. John body was in good health. I saw it myself be-fore 
I went to San Francisco." 
The medic shook his head. "There was a total breakdown of 
autoimmunity. A civil war inside him, so to speak. No hope what-ever 
of saving him." 
ÑMurder, Paul's persona said. 
But it did not take any great shrewdness to see that. Mark said, 
"Can such a thing happen naturally?" 
"Most unlikely. You realize, Mr. Kaufmann, that it's statisti-cally 
possible for such a thing to occur, butÑ" 
"Not very probable?" 
"No. Not at all." 
"What was it, then? Carniphage?" 
"These are not the effects of a carniphage," said the medic. 
"However, the poisoner today has an extremely wide choice of 
drugs. I've been running a data check, comparing effects with 
possible causes, and this is what I've come up with." 
He handed Kaufmann a data sheet. It was headed: 

CYCLOPHOSPHAMIDE-8 
Mark scanned it hastily. "Is this drug easily available?" 
"I'd say it costs roughly a million dollars fissionable an ounce," 
the medic replied. "The lethal dose is perhaps a hundredth of an 
ounce, though." 
"Expensive, but not prohibitive. Rare?" 
"It can be had. The sources are difficult to reach, but they ex-ist. 
With enough moneyÑ" 
"Yes, with enough money," Mark said. "Have you found any 
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204 To Live Again 
traces of thisÑ this cyclophosphamide in the body?" 
"It leaves no traces. It metabolizes completely in use, and the 
only indication it leaves is in its effect." 
"In other words, proof of use has to be empirical, deduced 
from the ruin it makes out of the victim?" 
"Essentially, yes," said the medic smoothly. "The quaestorate 
is now conducting a second autopsy, and naturally will be mak-ing 
every effort to determine the actual cause of death. But I 
venture to predict that the ultimate verdict will be the same as 
mine: poisoning by cyclophosphamide-8." 
"All right. Thank you. Go." 
ÑYou need to tighten your security net, Paul told him. A mur-der 
committed in your own apartment is shameful. 
"There are finite limits to security," Mark said. He moved about 
the apartment, scuffing at the carpet. This incident left him tense 
and baffled and angry. He did not mind at all that someone had 
discorporated Martin St. John. the dybbuk Paul Kaufmann, so 
speedily after the transplant. But it offended him that St. John 
could be discorporated right here, of all places. And he was 
troubled by the possibility that suspicion of the discorporation 
might come to rest on him. 
It was poor business. If the quaestorate hatched the idea that 
he was in any way connected with the murder, he'd be hauled 
down on a mindpick warrant, and not all the money in the uni-verse 
could buy him out of that. Naturally, the mindpick would 
show that he had no complicity in the discorporation of Martin 
St. John, since in fact he had not been involved at all. 
But at the same time the mindpick would reveal the illegal 
presence in his mind of the persona of Paul Kaufmann. 
This had to be the work of Roditis, Mark thought. To take ad-vantage 
of his absence by sneaking an agent in here to kill St. 
John, thereby opening him to mindpick and disgraceÑ no, no, 
Roditis could have no inkling of what he had been up to in San 
Francisco, and it was a mistake to attribute to the man more 
204 
To Live Again 205 
deviousness than he actually possessedÑ unless, that is, Roditis 
had his hooks into the lamasery too, and had instantly received 
word that Mark had come there to undergo a sub rosa persona 
transplantÉ 
Exhausted by the intricacy of his own hypotheses, Mark sank 
down on a couch to collect himself. 
ÑFool, you're panicking over this. 
"Let me think, Paul. Please." 
ÑThink all you like. But think fast! An hour from now you 
may be under arrest. 
"No, there's more time than that. The quaestorate hasn't fin-ished 
the autopsy. And then they'll have to move through chan-nels, 
deciding if they dare to arrest me, swearing out the war-rant, 
arranging the mindpick. I've got at least twenty-four hours." 
Paul did not reply. His head aching, Mark attempted to recon-struct 
the sequence of events. 
He had seen Donahy Tuesday afternoon. That same day 
Santoliquido had called to announce his intention of transplant-ing 
Paul's persona into the vacated St. John body. On Wednes-day, 
Mark had inspected the St. John body, then had flown to San 
Francisco. Also on Wednesday, Donahy had abstracted last year's 
persona recording of Paul Kaufmann from the archives. Wednes-day 
night, in San Francisco, Donahy had transplanted the per-sona 
into Mark. Mark had remained out there on Thursday, rest-ing 
and adapting to the powerful new persona. Meanwhile, in 
New York on Thursday, the most recent Paul Kaufmann persona 
had been transplanted into the St. John body, and St. John had 
been taken to Mark's apartment for recuperation. Sometime late 
Thursday night St. John had been murdered. 
Now it was Friday afternoon, and Mark, back from San Fran-cisco, 
found himself in deep trouble. 
Just when everything had been going so well, too. He and Paul 
had adjusted to one another remarkably smoothly. There had 
been none of the tests of strength, none of the jockeying and 
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206 To Live Again 
probing that might have been anticipated when strong-willed 
old uncle entered strong-willed nephew's mind. Paul had been 
delighted at getting a new carnate trip, fascinated by the shady 
way Mark had obtained his persona, and absolutely overjoyed to 
learn that a second and later version of himself was also going 
to be at large in dybbuk form. He showed no resentment of the 
fact that the provision in his will barring transplant to a member 
of his family had been circumvented, possibly because that codicil 
had been added after this particular persona had been recorded. 
Recognizing Roditis as the real family enemy, Paul was willing 
to aid his nephew in every way, while at the same time helping 
to isolate and immobilize the dybbuk-Paul whom Santoliquido 
had spawned. Of course, Mark was prepared for conflict with 
his uncle sooner or later, possibly even a sneaky attempt to go 
dybbuk at his expense. But for now, at least, their mutual adap-tation 
was splendid, and Mark reveled at having the crusty, in-domitable 
old brigand finally safe in his mind. 
Then, to fly home and walk into thisÑ 
Well, there were certain obvious first steps to take. The most 
obvious of all was to check last night's scanner records and see 
who had been in his apartment. He had a pretty good idea. There 
weren't many people who had even conditional access, and the 
only one with full access, Risa, was still in Europe, so far as he 
knew. 
The scanner file gave him the quick answer. 
Elena had been here. She had applied for admission just be-fore 
eleven last night, and the robots had let her in. Mark saw 
her on the tape, and there was nothing unusual about her ex-pression, 
as there might have been if she had come to commit a 
discorporation. 
But who was this who had come in with her? This tall, blond 
fellow with the taut, edgy look in his eyes? 
Noyes? Charles Noyes? 
Noyes of Roditis Securities? 
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To Live Again 207 
Elena had brought him here? 
ÑThere's your killer, Paul said. He must be. 
"Not so fast," Mark muttered. "Noyes is Roditis' man, sure, but 
Roditis doesn't do foolish things. If he wanted to kill St. John, he 
wouldn't send someone like Noyes here to do the job. It's too 
transparent." 
ÑWhat do you know about Noyes? I recall that he's not too 
stable. 
"No, not very." 
ÑThen perhaps Roditis picked a bungler. Run the tape a little 
further. 
Mark moved it along. The figures of Elena and Noyes appeared 
at the door again some ten minutes later. Noyes looked more 
tense than ever, almost close to collapse. And Elena, now, gave 
every impression of hysteria. Obviously something significant 
had happened in those ten minutesÑ such as the murder of Mar-tin 
St. John. The two figures were exchanging hurried conver-sation 
at the door. Mark could not read their lips, nor was there 
any audio on the scanner tape, but he knew that a simple com-puter 
analysis of lip patterns would tell him what they were say-ing. 
He watched Noyes hurry from the apartment. Then Elena 
disappeared from the door. About twenty minutes later she left 
looking calmer. That concluded the Thursday night record. The 
file of outgoing calls showed none until one in the morning, when 
a robot had noticed St. John dead and had summoned the 
quaestors. 
"That's it, then." Mark said. "She let him in, and he killed St. 
John." 
ÑThere's no proof. It's all circumstantial, Mark. Where's the 
weapon? Where are the witnesses? St. John might have been 
killed by someone else before Noyes ever got here, for all your 
records show. A blowdart through a window, maybe. 
"It's enough to authorize a mindpick, Paul. And a mindpick 
will show Noyes' guilt. I've got to get him picked before anyone 
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208 To Live Again 
thinks of mindpicking me, or they'll find you." 
ÑYou might try talking to Elena, Paul suggested. 
But Elena did not answer when he called her apartment. Cu-riously, 
she had not even left a forwarding number. Mark buzzed 
her inner number, thinking that perhaps she had posted a for-warding 
number for limited distribution to close friends, but that 
drew a blank too. Where was she? She never went anywhere 
without notifying him first. And she surely knew that he was due 
back in New York sometime today. 
He phoned Santoliquido next. 
As usual, it was a slow, bothersome job to get through to him. 
When Santoliquido appeared, his quizzical expression showed 
that he had heard the news. 
"Where have you been, Mark?" 
"Away on business since late Wednesday. And when I got back-St. 
JohnÑ" 
"I know. The quaestors notified me." 
"What is this all about Frank?" 
"I haven't any idea. But of course I have my suspicions." 
"Such as?" 
"Never mind," said Santoliquido. "They're unfounded at 
present. The important thing is that your uncle is discorporate 
again, and we have to start the whole process from the begin-ning." 

Mark felt a secret pleasure at the knowledge that his uncle 
was far from discorporate. He heard the old man's silent, com-placent 
chuckle within him. 
To Santoliquido he said, "Do you expect Roditis to reapply?" 
"Why shouldn't he? The persona's available again." 
"And you've run out of ways to avoid giving it to him." 
Santoliquido nodded. "For the moment at least" 
"Listen to me, Frank, I want one last favor. Stall him off. If only 
for a few days. I can't explain now, but I've got reason to think 
you'll be wasting everyone's time if you give Paul to Roditis now. 
208 
To Live Again 209 
Will you wait at least until the report of the quaestors is issued? ' 
"I'll do that, yes," Santoliquido agreed. 
"Good." Mark paused a moment. Then, in a carefully more 
relaxed tone, he said, "You haven't seen Elena lately, have you?" 
With the same deliberate casualness Santoliquido replied, 
"Lately? Well, let's see É I had lunch with her yesterday. Is that 
lately enough?" 
"I meant today." 
"No. The last I saw of her was one in the afternoon yesterday. 
You've phoned her apartment?" 
"Of course," Mark said. "I suppose she's taken a little trip. I 
imagine I'll be hearing from her soon." 

Roditis said, "So it's all done, and you're back here, and no 
one's the wiser, Charles. Was that so bad?" 
Kravchenko attempted to keep his facial muscles fixed in the 
bland, idiotic expression of benignity that he imagined Charles 
Noyes customarily to have worn. He was on edge, here in Roditis' 
Indiana headquarters, for this was the first test of his dybbukhood. 
If he failed to fool Roditis, he'd be on the scrapheap by nightfall. 
He said carefully, "Well, John, I don't deny I was uneasy about 
it But it went off more smoothly than I dared hope. 
"And now we'll get you blanked, and splice in a set of phony 
memories for last night, and you'll be safe. 
"Yes, John." 
"Want to take a little workout first? Get yourself back into 
shape?" 
"I think we'd better tend to the blanking first," said Kravchenko. 
"I've got a few things on my mind that I'm better off without." 
Roditis nodded. "Right. Come with me." 
Kravchenko followed the stocky little financier through the 
maze of the building. He did not much like the idea of submit-ting 
to a blanking; he hated to surrender consciousness, hated 
to go under the machine. But so long as he still carried around 
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210 To Live Again 
memories of the discorporation of Martin St. John, he ran seri-ous 
risks. Noyes, whom he pretended to be, might well be under 
suspicion of that discorporation. It they picked him up, ran a 
routine mindpick on him, and found the evidence, all would be 
up not only for NoyesÑ whose personae would be destroyed be-cause 
of his crimeÑ but for Kravchenko as well, since the rou-tine 
mindpick would be followed by a deep pick that would re-veal 
who was actually running the Noyes body. Kravchenko 
thought he could conceal his dybbuk status if the pick merely 
went scraping around looking for a specific event, the 
discorporation episode. But he was finished for good if they sank 
the pick beyond the surface. His only hope of avoiding that was 
to blank out everything having to do with last night. Which Roditis 
now proposed to do. 
Technicians were readying the blanking apparatus. 
Kravchenko studied it warily. A blanking was something like 
getting a persona transplant-in reverse. Instead of having taped 
information poured into your receptive brain, you yielded infor-mation. 
Instead of being doped with mnemonic drugs to damp 
out memory decay, they washed your mind with a selective 
memory suppressant, carefully measured to obliterate a certain 
chronological segment of the memory bank Kravchenko dis-trusted 
all this fiddling with the brain. Yet he admitted the ne-cessity 
of it. 
"Will you lie down here?" a technician said. 
Kravchenko waited. They gave him injections. They strapped 
electrodes to his skull. They took EEG readings of Noyes" brain 
waves. Silently they bustled about while Roditis hovered som-berly 
in the background. 
"Ready, now," someone said. 
A helmet was lowered over his head. 
"Don't worry about a thing. Charles," came Roditis' confident 
voice. "We'll clean you up in no time." 
"Now," said a technician. 
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To Live Again 211 
Kravchenko went tense, imagining that switches were being 
thrown and contacts made. He could see nothing. His drugged 
mind grew foggy. Abruptly he heard what sounded like a colos-sal 
explosion, and in the same instant a burst of intolerably bright 
lightning shot through his brain. He felt as though his skull had 
split apart 
Chaos enfolded him. 
He was swept away by a terrible tideÑ down, down, down-out 
of control-helpless-and with his last conscious thought he asked 
himself how this could be happening, when a blanking was sup-posed 
to be such a trivial thing. Then he was swallowed up in 
darkness. 

This was her moment, Elena thought. Jim was downstairs un-dergoing 
his blanking; afterwards, he'd be resting for a few hours. 
Now was her chance to add Roditis to her collection. 
She hadn't felt like telling Jim that one of her motives in ac-companying 
him to Evansville was to seduce John Roditis. Newly 
returned to corporate status by her scheming, Kravchenko would 
not understand that he was not going to be the only man in her 
life. She loved him passionately; but she wanted Roditis. Two 
hours ago, when she and Kravchenko had arrived here, Elena 
had met Roditis for the first time. They had exchanged perhaps 
ten words; Roditis had hardly seemed to take notice of her. He 
was too preoccupied with the maneuvers surrounding the St John 
discorporation, as was only natural. But she had taken notice of 
him. That muscular, powerful body held promise of physical 
delight; and the strength of the man was unmistakable. To Elena, 
a connoisseur of strong men, Roditis seemed an ideal mixture of 
raw power and intuitive intelligence. Santoliquido and Mark 
Kaufmann and the others had palled on her; Kravchenko, now 
that he was back, offered many pleasures, but he was shallow, a 
floater, a playboy; new adventures beckoned to her. With Roditis. 
She said, "I've always been curious about you. It's strange we 
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212 To Live Again 
never had occasion to meet before." 
"I don't move in your high-society circles." Roditis seemed dis-tant 
even bored. 
"You really should, you know. We aren't such ogres. A man of 
your vigor, your enterpriseÑ you'd inject some new vitality into 
our group." Surreptitiously she moved closer to him. Elena re-gretted 
that she was not dressed for her purpose; she had flown 
to Evansville in workaday travel clothes, and there had been no 
chance to change into something more clinging, something more 
revealing. In this drab garb she felt as though locked into armor. 
Yet it was a handicap she felt she could overcome. 
Roditis said, "I object to snobbery, Miss Volterra. I am a wealthy 
man, yes, but no playboy. My values are not those of your set. I 
have work to do every day." 
"You ought to let yourself enjoy the benefits of your work," she 
purred. She stood beside him now, at his desk, examining the 
sonic sculpture. "How beautiful," she said. As she reached for-ward 
to caress the piece the soft hill of her breast pressed into 
Roditis' elbow. It was hardly a subtle gesture, but she did not 
regard Roditis as a subtle man. 
He moved smoothly away, breaking the contact. 
Elena nibbled her lip. She threw him a coquettish glance; she 
asked him about the sculpture, found that it had been made by 
one of his personae, praised it extravagantly; she adopted a pos-ture 
so sensual it might almost have been self-parody. Roditis 
seemed unmoved. What's the matter with the man, she won-dered? 

Her approach became even more direct. She flattered him; 
she told him how thrilled she was to have met him at last; she 
cornered him behind his own desk and filled his ears with praise. 
She could not have made it more obvious if she had stripped and 
sprawled out spread-legged on the carpet. And Roditis grew more 
brusque, more withdrawn, as she fought to reach him. 
It was a dismal moment. Elena sensed that she was being re-
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To Live Again 213 
fused, which had never happened to her before, and she could 
not imagine why. From what she knew of Roditis he was unmar-ried, 
heterosexual, promiscuous. Why, thenÑ? 
To hell with it, Elena told herself. 
She thrust herself into his arms. 
Her breasts crushed up against him. Panting, eager, she hunted 
for his lips, while her hands clawed the muscular ridges of his 
back. By now she was so angry that she felt only the counterfeit 
of desire; but she came on in seemingly uncontrollable passion, 
determined to sweep Roditis off his feet. He would have her on 
the floor, she resolved. A wild bestial coupling. She'd show him 
her abilities, and afterwards he'd need less coaxing. 
His hands went to her breasts. Not to caress, though, but to 
shove. He pushed her back, disengaged himself, adjusted his 
clothing. He looked ruffled; his eyes were steely. In a frosty voice 
he said, "This is no pleasure palace, Miss Volterra. This is a 
workingman's office. I'm not in the mood for a wrestling match 
now." 
She cursed him eloquently in Italian. Then, inspired, she went 
on to roast him in Greek; but not even that got a rise out of him. 
Incredulously she stared as he summoned a robosecretary and 
instructed it to show Miss Volterra to her lodgings. 
"Dog!" she cried. "Eunuch!" 
Roditis glowered, slammed fist into palm, and switched up the 
vents to get the reek of her perfume out of the room. Damn her! 
He could hardly believe what had happenedÑ the coarseness of 
her, the grossness of her assault. He had known from the very 
first naturally, why she was here, hitchhiking along with Noyes 
to get an introduction to him. All that ogling and rump-wiggling 
when she had first showed up had not failed to get through to 
him. And now, in his office, the winks, the ever broader hints, 
the breast nuzzling against his arm, finally the desperate lunge 
and clutchÑ he had not expected the famed Elena Volterra to be 
quite so blunt. 
213 
214 To Live Again 
Unless, he thought she regarded him as the sort of man who 
was lured with such tactics. 
The episode had jangled his nerves. She was a handsome 
woman, yes, well up to advance word; no doubt it would have 
been an interesting hour or two in bed for him. But Roditis had 
enough handsome women to keep him busy for centuries. This 
was one he would not touch, though she had the beauty of Helen 
of Troy. He was unwilling to push Mark Kaufmann too far. He 
was about to get his uncle's persona; he would not try to take his 
woman too. Once the elder Kaufmann was safe in Roditis' brain, 
he planned to strike a truce with Mark; and it would be much 
harder to arrange that if Elena Volterra were in the picture too. 
Of course, Roditis conceded, he had just made an undying en-emy 
out of Elena. Hell hath no fury, etc. That could have its stra-tegic 
uses too, though. What was Elena, anyway? A bed-hopper, 
a gossip, a seeker of vicarious power, an animated bundle of 
desires and greedy ambitions, a fleshy construct of breasts and 
buttocks and thighs and loins. Mark Kaufmann, who controlled 
real power, had not been able to harm him; what damage could 
Elena do? 
She might succeed only in forging a Roditis-Kaufmann alli-ance. 
If she screamed loudly enough to Mark about the "insult" 
visited upon her, it might just give Mark the idea that John Roditis 
didn't mean to grab everything within his reach. And that could 
be the beginning of the Kaufmann-Roditis détente that Roditis 
saw as the key to major power expansion. 
So let her do her wont, Roditis thought. 
There's no way the slut can hurt me. None! 
Noyes, crouching in darkness, was amazed to find light lanc-ing 
through. Sudden brightness from above told him that the lid 
which had been crushing down on him was cracking. He stirred; 
he tested his strength and found that he could lift the lid. 
What was happening? Why was Kravchenko losing control? 
For an uncertain and perhaps infinite span of time Noyes had 
214 
To Live Again 215 
lain huddled in a corner of his own mind, Kravchenko's pris-oner. 
No sensory inputs had reached him here. He was wholly 
cut off; and he had assumed that eventually Kravchenko would 
bear down and finish the job of destroying him. First came ejec-tion 
from motor control, and then loss of the voluntary brain 
centers, and finally the ripping away of all contacts, so that the 
dybbuk would be alone in the body they had formerly shared. 
Bleakly Noyes had awaited his fate. He could not comprehend 
the turn of events; but quite plainly Kravchenko's grasp had 
slipped. 
Noyes burst from confinement and flooded back into every 
lobe of his brain. 
He encountered Kravchenko. The persona seemed dazed and 
helpless, lost in a fog. It was an easy matter for Noyes to recap-ture 
motor and sensory power from him. 
He let his eyelids flutter open and took stock. He found him-self 
lying on a laboratory table, with apparatus strapped to his 
skull and chest, and technicians bustling about him. "He's com-ing 
out of it," one of them said. Noyes thought at first that he was 
in a soul bank, but then he recognized his surroundings: this 
was Roditis' place in Indiana. What had they been doing to his 
body at the moment of his unexpected return to control, though? 
A technician said, "You look a little shaken up, Mr. Noyes. Ev-erything 
all right?" 
"IÑ well, more or less," he said. He sat up. It was not difficult 
for him to operate his body, and that was encouraging; it told 
him that relatively little time had passed since Kravchenko had 
thrust him out. Tentatively he formed a theory that this was only 
the day after St. John's discorporation. According to the plan, he 
was supposed to have returned to Evansville to have all knowl-edge 
of the crime blanked. Presumably that was what had been 
taking place in this laboratory. 
But if I've been blanked, Noyes wondered, how is it that I still 
remember the discorporation? 
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216 To Live Again 
He realized that he would have to move warily until he could 
draw some clues from those about him. Something very strange 
had taken place, and he had to be careful not to tip his hand. 
Roditis entered the room, scowling, tense. He brightened as 
he saw Noyes, though, and said, "Well, Charles, how did it go?" 
"F-fine," Noyes said. "My ears are ringing just a little, maybe." 
"They say you sometimes have a hangover after something 
like that." Roditis dismissed the technicians with an impatient 
wave of one hand. His face grew serious once more. In a low 
voice he said, "Have you heard the news, Charles? Martin St. 
John was discorporated last night in New York!" 
So this was a test of how well he had been blanked. 
Noyes said, "St. John? St. John? I'm not sure I place the name." 
"An Englishman. The persona of Paul Kaufmann had been 
transplanted to him. You remember, don't your 
"I'm afraid I'm a little hazy about all that. Discorporated, you 
say? Do the quaestors have any clues?" 
"I doubt it," Roditis replied. "The poor quaestors are always 
three jumps behind the criminals. It's so hard to enforce the law 
properly when a murderer can have all sense of guilt blotted 
from his mind, By the way, Charles, where'd you spend the night?" 
He was caught off guard. Desperately improvising he said, "If 
you have to know, John, I was with a woman. I'll give you the 
details if you wish, but a gentleman really doesn'tÑ" 
Roditis chuckled. "No, a gentleman doesn't. But she's a hot 
one, isn't she? Elena, I mean." He slapped Noyes heartily on the 
back. "She's waiting here in town. I'd like you to escort her back 
to New York right away, yes, Charles? ' 
"Whatever you say? ' 
"And now, if you'll excuse me, it's exercise time." 
Roditis went out. Noyes, relieved, paced around the room as 
he drew together the strands of the mystery. He had discorporated 
St. John, and then Elena and Kravchenko had teamed up to push 
him out of his mind. Noyes shuddered at the recollection. After-
216 
To Live Again 217 
wards, the dybbuk-Kravchenko and Elena had flown out here, 
with Kravchenko obviously masquerading as Noyes. That was 
how it must have been, Noyes decided. And, naturally, Roditis 
had wanted to blank the crime from Noyes' mind. 
But the blanking had gone awry. 
Noyes thought he understood why. A blanking was a simple 
thing, in its way, but only if no unknown factors fouled up the 
settings of the machine. Doubtless they had calibrated their di-als 
for the brainwaves of Charles Noyes Ñand then had tried to 
blank the Noyes brain, unaware that they were really working 
on the mind of Jim Kravchenko. The clashing of Noyes' brain 
waves with Kravchenko's consciousness had driven the dybbuk 
into shock, permitting Noyes to resume control. But Noyes had 
not been blanked after all, since he had been cut off, beyond the 
reach of the instruments. 
So I am a murderer and still unblanked, Noyes thought and I 
have won out over my own dybbuk, and Roditis is sending me 
back to New York with Elena. What do I do now? May all the 
Buddhas help me, what do I do now? 

Mark Kaufmann spent much of Friday afternoon patiently 
tracking down leads in the hope of solving the double mystery of 
St. John's discorporation and Elena's disappearance. Through 
various channels he was able to gain access to a great deal of 
information normally available only to the investigators of the 
quaestorate. The world was full of scanners, monitors, and other 
data-recording devices that took down impartial, impersonal 
accounts of the comings and goings of individuals, and with luck 
and influence one could tap this ocean of data for one's own 
needs. Not all the information received was immediately rel-evant, 
but Kaufmann sifted it searching out the patterns. He had 
a better-than-normal faculty for finding patterns in seemingly 
random data. And now he had the advantage of his uncle's judi-cious, 
practiced eye to aid him in his examination. 
217 
218 To Live Again 
He knew by now that Noyes had come in from Evansville and 
had made contact with Elena some hours before the 
discorporation of Martin St. John. Now both of them had van-ished, 
but this was not a world in which anyone could stay van-ished 
for long. Keying in to the data bats of the transport termi-nals, 
Kaufmann succeeded in learning that Noyes had flown to 
Evansville at one that afternoon. Closer examination of the pas-senger 
list of that flight showed that Elena had been with him. 
ÑHas she been keeping company with Roditis in the past? 
"No, never," Mark told his uncle's persona. "They haven't even 
met." 
ÑSure? 
"Positive. Noyes must have set this up for her." 
He puzzled over the quid pro quo. He knew that Elena had 
developed a fascination for Roditis and was yearning to meet 
him. Very well. She had taken Noyes to the apartment where 
Martin St. John was being kept. St. John had met a mysterious 
death. Now Noyes had taken her to Evansville, and, presumably, 
to an assignation with Roditis. 
It looked very much like a sellout 
ÑPut tracers on Elena right away, Paul advised. Get men busy 
in Evansville. Pick her up and bring her back here for question-ing 
before she does any more damage. 
"I'm already doing so," said Mark. 
It took him a few minutes to arrange for the surveillance, not 
only of Elena, but of Noyes as well. Whenever they left Roditis, 
they'd be watched and followed, and at the proper moment they'd 
be taken into custody. Elena had never done anything overtly 
treacherous before, but Mark knew her capabilities. He visual-ized 
a conspiracy involving Noyes, Roditis, Elena, and perhaps 
even Santoliquido, by which Paul's persona was speedily liber-ated 
from the hapless St. John body, and just as speedily reincor-porated 
into John Roditis on second application. 
The phone chimed. 
218 
To Live Again 219 
He switched it on and found that Risa was callingÑ not from 
Europe, surprisingly, but from the New York airport. 
"You said you were coming back next week," he told her. 
"It's a woman's privilege to change her mind. I got bored over 
there. And I missed you. There's a hopter waiting, and I'll be 
home in a hurry." 
"Wonderful, Risa." 
She looked at him strangely. "Mark? Is there anything wrong? ' 
"Why?" 
"You're very drawn. You've got a peculiar expression on your 
face." 
"It's been a hectic day, love. Too hectic for me even to begin 
explaining now. I'll fill everything in when you're here." 
They broke contact. Mark felt pleased at Risa's arrival. In this 
time of crisis, with unexpected things happening much too 
swiftly, it would be good to have her around. A man had to de-pend 
on family at a time like this. Paul within himÉ Risa beside 
himÉ 
He smiled. It was a tacit admission that Risa had crossed the 
borderline from childhood to womanhood these past few weeks. 
You didn't think of a child as a potential ally. But she had shown 
him her true strength, first in the matter of obtaining a persona 
for herself, then by her sleuthing to find Tandy's killer. He would 
cease to delude himself into thinking she was a child, now. She 
was a woman, a Kaufmann woman, and he wanted her with him. 
She reached the apartment more quickly than he expected. 
Her European adventures seemed to have sobered and matured 
her; or was it the presence of an extra mind within her own? She 
was the same slim, boyish-bodied girl who had left so suddenly 
for Stockholm not long before, but the cast of her features was 
different now, the set of her lips, the glow of her eyes. 
Paul was astonished. 
ÑThis is Risa? he asked, as she entered. Your little girl? Mark, 
how long was I in storage? 
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220 To Live Again 
"You haven't seen her for over a year, your time," Mark told 
his uncle quietly. "It's been a big year for her." 
ÑShe's impressive. She has the right bearing. There's no doubt 
she's a Kaufmann, is there? 
Moving gracefully, almost sinuously, in a style she must cer-tainly 
have learned from Tandy Cushing, Risa crossed the room 
to her father, embraced him, brushed his lips with hers. Then 
she stepped back and eyed him searchingly. 
"You've changed," she said. 
"I was just about to say that to you." 
"I know I've changed, Mark. I have Tandy with me now. But 
youÑ you're different tool" 
"In what way?" 
"I'm not sure," she said. "Your eyesÑ your whole way of stand-ingÑ" 

"I told you, Risa, it's been a frightful day. I'm tired." 
She shook her head. "It's not fatigue I see. Fatigue subtracts. 
You've got something extra. You're standing taller. You could al-most 
be Uncle Paul, you know, except that the face and hair are 
wrong. But you hold yourself the way he did." 
Mark smiled feebly. "The Kaufmann genes win out." 
"I'm serious. Mark, have you had some sort of persona trans-plant 
since I went overseas?" 
"Sure," he said. "I bribed Santoliquido and he gave me Uncle 
Paul." Better to make a joke about it, he thought, and destroy the 
possibility that she'll sniff out the truth. 
"Really, Mark. You did get a transplant, didn't you? Maybe not 
Uncle Paul, but it's someone new. I'm sure of it." 
"Sorry, sweet. I don't mean to shake your faith in your own 
womanly intuition, but it just isn't so. What you think you see in 
me is the nervous reaction of a bone-tired man." The phone 
chimed. "Excuse me, will you? ' 
As he turned away from her, Mark passed a mirror and peered 
into its oval depths. Yes, he thought. She's right. There is a change. 
220 
To Live Again 221 
I didn't notice it, but she, who was awayÑ 
The effect was an odd one: as though an overlay of Paul's fea-tures 
had been placed on his own. There was a tension about his 
facial muscles, perhaps resulting from some new disposition of 
his features. Mark felt a twinge of distress. If Paul had infiltrated 
him to this extent so fast, was an attempt at going dybbuk lying 
just ahead? Paul was, above all else, sly. This present mood of 
benign cooperation might simply be Paul's way of setting him 
up for the kill. 
And, also, he wasn't happy about the accuracy of Risa's guess. 
She was a smart girl, of course, but was it so obvious that he had 
taken possession of Paul's persona? If she saw it, would others? 
He was ruined unless he maintained the secret. 
He picked up the telephone on the fifth chime. 
"Yes?" 
"Miss Volterra is on her way back to New York," a flat, me-chanical 
voice reported. "She left Evansville twenty minutes ago." 
"Is she being tracked?" 
"Yes, sir." 
"And Noyes?" 
"He's with her. They seem to have had a quarrel. He looks 
upset. And she's the angriest-looking woman I've ever seen." 
221 
222 To Live Again 
222 
To Live Again 223 
Chapter 14 Risa went to her apartment a floor above her fathers, unpacked, 
changed, and returned to the lower apartment. She had never 
seen Mark in such a state before. Usually, no matter how severe 
the crisis might be, he remained at the center of the storm, calm, 
self-possessed. Something must be very seriously wrong now. 
His appearance puzzled her too. A man of forty didn't alter his 
whole facial makeup between one week and the next, not un-less 
something of impact had occurred, like taking on a new 
persona. He denied that he had. Why, then, did he have this new 
gleam in his eyes, that feral radiance that she associated with 
Uncle Paul? Jokingly he had told her of bribing Santoliquido and 
getting Paul's persona. Well, Santoliquido was beyond reach of 
bribery, no doubt, but such things could be arranged in other 
ways. Risa was aware of her father's tactics, more so, possibly, 
than he realized; she had seen him many times bluntly admit 
some outrageous act simply to make it look inconceivable that 
he had committed it. 
The more she mulled it, the more convinced she was that he 
had somehow obtained the illegal transplant. Only that could 
account for the alteration in his bearing. Risa knew quite well 
that a transplant could bring about such changes; she had seen 
it in herself since Tandy had come to her. Her look was softer, 
now, more feminine; she had shed the chip-on-the-shoulder tom-boyishness 
in favor of a more seductive approach, and she cred-ited 
that to Tandy. 
In her father's apartment Risa listened in astonishment to the 
story of the discorporation of Martin St. John. 
"You helped to solve Santoliquido's problem for him, you 
know," Mark told her. His hand tapped his knee in a gesture 
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224 To Live Again 
uncomfortably reminiscent of the old man's. "By hunting down 
that dybbuk, you handed Santo an empty body at just the right 
time, and he dumped Paul into it." 
"Couldn't you have stopped him?" 
"I didn't really want to, Risa. Short of keeping Paul in cold stor-age 
forever, I had to let him go to someone. I figured it was bet-ter 
that he go to St. John than to Roditis." 
"Agreed. But the discorporationÑ" 
"It happened last night. As I reconstruct it, Roditis sent his 
flunky Noyes to Elena. Elena not only told him where St. John 
was being kept, but brought him here. Noyes gave St. John a 
tricky poison. This morning, he and Elena flew out to one of 
Roditis' headquarters. Now they're on their way back." 
"I never trusted that bitch, Mark." 
He laughed. "I know. I wrote it off to your monstrous Electra 
complex." 
"Which is genuine. But not so monstrous that it distorts every 
judgment I make. Elena's worthless, and I've been trying to get 
you to see it all along. But at least she hasn't done you any real 
harm. You don't lose anything by St. John's discorporation." 
"I do," he said, "if Roditis reapplies for Uncle Paul and gets 
him." 
"But if he's part of this discorporation conspiracy, he'll be sent 
to erasure himself!" 
"If anything can be proven." 
"You seem to have reconstructed everything," Risa said. 
He nodded. "To my own satisfaction. Not necessarily to that of 
the quaestorate. I've got to get Elena to admit she cooperated in 
the murder. That'll allow the quaestors to demand a mindpick 
of Noyes. If Noyes is picked, he'll incriminate Roditis, and we'll 
have wonÑ maybe. But it's a tricky road." 
"If I were Roditis," Risa said carefully, "I'd get hold of both 
Elena and Noyes and give their minds a good blanking. That'll 
cut the line of incrimination before it reaches him." 
224 
To Live Again 225 
"I suspect he's done just that. They spent the morning with 
him in Indiana, and now they're on their way backÑ most likely 
with their minds swept clean of last night's fun." He clenched 
his fists and struck an attitude of anger and determination, in-credibly 
Paul-like. "No matter what happens, Roditis won't get 
Paul! Maybe he's won this round, maybe he's lost everythingÑ 
but the persona won't go to him. Somehow. Somehow." 
Risa was startled by the depths of her father's agitation. She 
couldn't see why he was so troubled over this discorporation, 
annoying and infuriating though it was. His reaction seemed all 
out of keeping with the event. Yes, Elena had betrayed him. Yes, 
Roditis had managed to make Uncle Paul available again, just 
when it seemed the troublesome persona was locked away in St. 
John for keeps. But that simply meant that the status was back to 
what it had been a few days ago. Why this frenzy of tension? He 
was so worked up that he had taken her fully into his confidence, 
something he had never done before. Risa was flattered by that. 
It wasn't so long agoÑ only at the beach partyÑ that he had coolly 
told her to run along and play, that these things did not concern 
her. The change in him was so dramatic that it was suspicious. 
Why was he worried? 
Was he afraid that the investigation of the St. John murder 
would turn on him? That he might be mindpicked by the 
quaestors? That they might discover something he wished very 
much to hideÑ like the presence in his mind of an illegal Paul 
Kaufmann persona? 
Everything seemed to be coming back to that, Risa observed. 
Her father excused himself to take another call. Risa wandered 
about the apartment, assessing the intricacies of the situation. It 
seemed imperative to discard the notion that her father was in 
possession of Uncle Paul's persona. The persona had gone to the 
empty Martin St. John, hadn't it? Then it couldn't simultaneously 
have been imprinted on Mark. They took strict precautions 
against a double transplant of that sort, Risa thought. Sealed the 
225 
226 To Live Again 
master recording away in a special vault, or something, until it 
was needed again, if ever it was. In this case, since St. John had 
been so quickly discorporated, the master would be needed again. 
But ordinarily, the Paul Kaufmann persona would be passed along 
as a secondary within its next carnate possessor's persona, and 
so there'd be no call for reverting to the old master. 
Yet that recording of Paul Kaufmann would still exist in the 
files, yes? And what about all the earlier recordings of him? Surely 
they weren't thrown away. 
Risa began to see vast scope for chicanery within the suppos-edly 
foolproof regulations of the Scheffing Institute. She began 
to see how plausible it was that her father might have obtained a 
bootlegged transplant of Uncle Paul. 
ÑGo easy, Tandy warned her. You're getting all tied up in this 
thing. 
Risa tried to slip her leash of sudden tensions. She noticed a 
green-bound volume lying on a table and picked it up idly. It 
was the Bardo Thödol she discovered with some surprise. The 
Tibetan Book of the Dead, the cult book of the new religion that 
was sweeping eastward from California. She hadn't known her 
father owned one. This copy looked brand-new. Risa touched 
the activator stud and flipped through the book, wondering how 
people could get so enmeshed in the silly stuff merely because 
rebirth had become a practicality. To dig up an obscure branch 
of decadent Buddhism, with absolutely no relevance to the 
Scheffing process, and to devote time and energy and money to 
its studyÑ 
"From the Eastern Realm of Pre-eminent Happiness," she read, 
"the Buddha Vajra-Sattva, the Divine Father-Mother, with the 
attendant deities, will come to shine upon thee. From the South-ern 
Realm endowed with Glory, the Buddha Ratna-Sambhava, 
the Divine Father-Mother, with the attendant deities, will come 
to shine upon thee. From the Happy Western Realm of Heaped-up 
Lotuses, the Buddha Amitabha, the Divine Father-Mother, 
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To Live Again 227 
along with the attendant deities, will come to shine upon thee. 
>From the Northern Realm of Perfected Good Deeds, the Buddha 
Amogha-Siddhi, the Divine Father-Mother, along with the atten-dants 
will come, amidst a halo of rainbow light, to shine upon 
thee at this very moment." 
Her father returned to the room. Risa held out the book and 
said, "Mark, what's this?" 
"I visited the big lamasery in San Francisco when I was on the 
Coast. They gave it to me as a souvenir." He shrugged the book 
aside. "They've picked up Elena and Noyes at the airport. Elena 
claims she was on her way to see me anyway. She'll be here any 
minute." 
"And Noyes?" 
"He's being brought along separately, and not so willingly. I 
want to keep him apart from Elena until I've heard her story. 
I've arranged for him to be held upstairs in your apartment for a 
little while. All right?" 
"I suppose. But where am I going to stay?" 
"Right here with me," Mark said. "I'll need your assistance." 
He tossed her a recording cube. "Get every word of the conver-sation 
onto this, and make sure Elena doesn't see you doing it. 
Also, get ready to jump her if she tries to attack. I'll have her 
scanned for concealed weapons before she's brought in, but she'll 
still have her fingernails." 
Risa felt a tremor of delight at receiving these responsibilities 
from her father. She said, "Do you really think you'll learn any-thing 
from Elena or Noyes, now that they've been out where 
Roditis could blank them?" 
"I can't say. I doubt that he'd be foolish enough to let them get 
away with their memories intact. But big men sometimes slip up 
in the details." A signal flashed at the door. "Elena's here." 
He had her sent inÑ without any of the guards who had picked 
her up and accompanied her here. Risa was taken aback by the 
fury in her eyes; Elena seemed to be bubbling with wrath. She 
227 
228 To Live Again 
was dressed in what was for her a plain, even dowdy costume, 
and she strode into the room with a vigor far removed from her 
usual languid saunter. 
"Mark! Oh, Mark, I've got so much to tell you!" she burst out. 
"I imagine you have," Mark said. He shot a glance at Risa, who 
had quietly switched on the recording cube. Risa nodded. 
Elena looked at her too. "In private," she said. 
"You can speak in front of Risa. She's already aware of what's 
happened. At least, she knows as much about it as I do. But you 
must know a lot more." 
Color came to Elena's cheeks. She looked clearly uncomfort-able 
about Risa's presence. There was an exchange of glares. 
Mark said, "I want to know what took place in this apartment 
on Thursday, Elena." 
Elena paced the room in barely suppressed rage. "For most of 
the day, I have no idea. Martin St. John was here, in the guest 
bedroom, watched over by a squad of robots." 
"Yes. Then?" 
"Charles Noyes came to me. He said he had important busi-ness 
to discuss with St. John. He begged me and begged me un-til 
I agreed to bring him here." 
"That was a grave mistake, Elena." 
"I know, Mark. But I brought him. We went into St. John's bed-room 
together." 
"You saw St. John? What condition was he in?" 
"Alive," said Elena. "Fatigued, but doing well. Your uncle was 
working hard to get control over the body. Noyes asked me to 
leave him alone with St. John for a few minutes. I did. Very shortly 
Noyes came out of the room. St. John was screaming. He was 
having peculiar convulsions. Noyes left the apartment, and soon 
St. John was dead." 
"Would you say he was murdered by Noyes?" 
"That's reasonable to assume," Elena admitted. 
"How did Noyes explain what had happened?" 
228 
To Live Again 229 
"He said St. John had had a kind of stroke." 
"Did you notify the quaestorate?" Mark asked. 
Elena shook her head. "I stayed here for a while after Noyes 
had left. Then I went home. I notified no one." 
"Not even me." 
"Not even you, Mark." 
"You helped Noyes discorporate St. John, then," Mark said. 
"No." Elena's nostrils flared in anger. "I had no idea he would 
do such a thing! I swear it, Mark! I was wrong to let him in here, 
to allow him to be alone with St. John, but I never suspected he 
meant to murder him!" 
"Perhaps," said Mark. "But in any case your actions are strange. 
First you let a known agent of Roditis into my house and give 
him carte blanche to murder my guest. Then you rush off with-out 
calling the authorities. And the following morning you fly 
away to see Roditis himself. You spent a couple of hours in Evans-ville 
today, didn't you? Didn't you, Elena?" 
"Yes," she said hoarsely. "But I was never working for Roditis. 
I had no part in this murder, except through stupidity in giving 
Noyes access. I'll take a mindpick to prove it. Let the quaestors 
pick all they want." 
"I will," he assured her. 
"If Roditis had obtained any help in discorporating St. John, 
don't you think he would have blanked me while I was in Evans-ville?" 

Kaufmann conceded the point. Clearly Elena hadn't been 
blanked, which meant that Roditis had no knowledge of her sta-tus 
as an accessory. "But what were you doing there, then?" 
"You won't like the answer, Mark." 
"Tell me anyway." 
"Not in front of your daughter." 
"Risa can hear it." 
"What I have to say isÑ not complimentary to you," Elena said. 
"You would prefer not to have anyone but yourself hear it." 
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230 To Live Again 
"I'll take my chances." 
"Well, then," Elena said, "I went to Evansville to make love 
with Roditis. I've desired him for months. This was my opportu-nity. 
You were away. Noyes was with me, and he was flying to 
Evansville, and I asked him to take me along. While Noyes was 
being blanked by Roditis' men, I went to Roditis andÑ" 
"Noyes was blanked?" Kaufmann said leadenly. 
"Of course. Roditis knew that he'd probably be traced to St. 
John. Noyes had to be blanked so that the trail wouldn't lead 
back to Roditis. So I went to Roditis. He would not have anything 
to do with me. He refused me!" She was flushed, agitated, her 
breasts heaving wildly. "I went close to him, and he pushed me, 
like thisÑ away. So it was all for nothing. I humiliated myself to 
him and he pushed me." 
There was a lengthy silence in the room. Risa feared that Elena 
might hear the throbbing of the recording cube, so silent did 
everything become. But Elena stood transfixed, hearing nothing 
but the thunder of her own indignation. 
ÑShe was turned down, Tandy said. No wonder she's so mad 
now! She's willing to tell your father anything, just to get even 
with Roditis. 
Risa agreed. She could not help feel a pang of pity for Elena in 
this moment of her defeat. To be spurned by Roditis, to have to 
come back here and reveal not only her promiscuity but her re-jectionÑ 
how that must sting! 
Mark said finally, "Noyes was definitely blanked, eh? You're 
sure of that." 
"Positive. He will be of no use to you as a witness. I am the 
only one who can testify," Elena said. 
Mark shook his head. "You didn't see the crime. We've already 
got evidence that you and Noyes were at the apartment at the 
time of the discorporation, but the best we could hope for from 
that would be to get a mindpick on Noyes. Which will come up 
blank. We couldn't possibly get any court to grant a mindpick of 
230 
To Live Again 231 
Roditis on your suspicions alone. We're stopped, Elena." 
"No! No! Fight, Mark! We all know Roditis was behind this mur-der! 
Put your best lawyers to work!" 
Mark smiled coolly. "You'd love to see Roditis ruined, wouldn't 
you, Elena? But only because he turned you down. If he had 
slept with you, you'd be selling me out right and left, wouldn't 
you? ' 
"Don't deal in ifs, Mark. I've told you the truth. You're free to 
hate me, free to throw me aside, but don't preach to me. All right?" 
"All right, Elena. Will you go into that bedroom and wait there? 
I want to talk to Noyes now." 
"He's here?" 
"They're holding him upstairs. Please stay out of sight while 
I'm questioning him." 
"You will get nothing from him. Nothing!" 
"Please," Mark said. 
Elena entered the bedroom and closed the door. 
Risa's eyes met her father's. Mark looked wearier than ever, 
but that strange Paul-like effect was even more pronounced. He 
appeared to be drawing on an inner reservoir of will. 
He picked up the phone and asked to have Charles Noyes 
brought in. 

Noyes edged into the room like a beast brought to bay by 
hounds. The strain was getting fearful. All the way back from 
Evansville he had pretended to Elena that he was Kravchenko, 
to keep her from turning on him again. And meanwhile 
Kravchenko had recovered from his shock and was awake again, 
fighting more strongly than ever to gain control, now that he 
had had a night's taste of freedom. 
Kravchenko hammered at Noyes' forehead. Noyes' clothing 
was pasted to his skin by the sweat of fear. His knees were wa-tery. 
His eyes moved in quick birdlike flickers, nervously, warily. 
He knew he was caught, knew that all was over. Elena, in her 
231 
232 To Live Again 
fury with Roditis, was determined to spill everything. And he, 
unblanked, was caught in the middle, his mind full of unwanted 
knowledge that was sure to come out. 
Guilty of willful discorporation. Sentenced to erasure. 
Not so bad, perhaps. Peace at last. No more turns of the wheel 
of karma. Oblivion, nirvana. At-one-ment. 
Mark Kaufmann confronted him. The financier showed evi-dences 
of strain. His face was different, Noyes noticed immedi-ately. 
Well, no doubt mine is, too. We've all been living on this 
anvil so long, taking blow after blow. 
And there on the couch the daughter sat. Risa, the sexy little 
minx. She also looked different, older, shrewder, more preda-tory. 
They'll devour me alive. Elena's told them everything. I've 
been betrayed by all of them. Why is she doing this? Did Roditis 
turn her down? Why couldn't he have bedded her? Why would 
he choose to antagonize her this way? Didn't he see that by scorn-ing 
her, he was inviting her to tell the story? I should have let 
him know that it was through Elena that I had gained access to 
St. John. But he hustled me off to be blanked while Kravchenko 
was still running me, and obviously Kravchenko didn't tell him. 
And afterward there was no way I could, because I wasn't sup-posed 
to know anything about the discorporation any more. 
Kaufmann said, "I believe you've been in this apartment be-fore, 
Mr. Noyes." 
"WellÑ" 
"Recently. Last night, in fact. Isn't that so?" 
"Who gave you that idea?" Noyes said with his last shred of 
bravado. 
"You came here late last evening in the company of Miss Elena 
Volterra," Kaufmann said. "At your insistence she admitted you 
to the bedroom of Martin St. John. There, alone with him, you 
introduced a small but lethal quantity of a drug known as cyclo-phosphamide-
8 into his metabolism, causing a speedy but hor-rible 
discorporÑ" 
232 
To Live Again 233 
"No!" Noyes screamed. "I didn't do it! It isn't so!" 
"We have mindpick evidence against you." 
"You don't! You're bluffing!" 
Kaufmann said, "We have conclusive mindpick evidence of 
your guilt, Noyes. Enough to persuade the quaestorate to con-duct 
a mindpick examination of your own memory bank, after 
which they'll certainly recommend erasure. Of course, if you 
agree to testify voluntarily, and explain on whose behalf it was 
that you committed this foul crime, you may receive better treat-ment 
from the law." 
Noyes shook. Elena had told him everything, then. As he had 
expected her to do. He was trapped. 
ÑMight as well make a clean breast of it, Kravchenko advised. 
"We're prepared to recommend every leniency," said 
Kaufmann in a soothing voice. "We understand that you were 
not acting as a free agent when you committed the discorporation 
of Martin St. John. If you'll aid us in convicting the motivating 
force behind this crimeÑ" 
Of course, thought Noyes. That's what you're after, to nail 
Roditis! It figures. You don't care about me any more than any-one 
else does. 
He swayed. Waves of disorientation swept his brain. The world 
was spinning, the center did not hold, everything was shatter-ing. 
Six Mark Kaufmanns faced him. Six Risas. His eyes would 
not focus. It seemed to him he heard Kravchenko's vicious laugh-ter, 
rising in volume, becoming a howl of triumph. 
The flask of carniphage in Noyes' breast pocket seemed to blaze 
against his skin. 
Take it, he told himself. You've threatened to do it for so longÑ 
just self-dramatization, isn't it? But now, this is the right mo-ment. 
Pull it out, gulp it down. They've got you anyway. He talks 
of leniency, but he's lying. You'll be erased after you've been 
mindpicked. But at least you can save Roditis. There's no solid 
evidence against him. Roditis is a bastard, but you owe him your 
233 
234 To Live Again 
loyalty, you always have, and if you drink the carniphage before 
Kaufmann gets anything out of you it'll take Roditis off the hook. 
ÑYou're a bigger fool than I think you are if you can worry 
about Roditis at a time like this, Kravchenko burst in. 
Once again the persona had tapped his thoughts. The last time 
that had happened, it had signaled imminent ejection. 
ÑCook Roditis' goose for him, Kravchenko urged. Tell 
Kaufmann everything you know. Why not? You don't owe any-thing 
to Roditis except credit for wrecking you. 
"No," said Noyes. "I won't." 
"You won't what?" asked Mark Kaufmann. 
"I think he's talking to his persona," Risa said. "Look at his 
face! He's cracking up!" 
Noyes made a heavy gargling sound. It was beginning again: 
Kravchenko rising from captivity, uncoiling, filling his mind, 
grasping the levers of control. 
"Stop it!" Noyes shrieked. "Let me alone! I won't let youÑ get 
out of thereÑ" 
He was silent. 
Kravchenko said coolly, "If you don't mind, Kaufmann, we'll 
call this inquisition to a halt right now. I'd like to consult my 
lawyer. And I'll answer the questions put to me by the quaestors, 
not by you. Is it understood?" ' 
"It's a different voice," said Kaufmann. "A different persona. 
CalmerÑ the eyesÑ" 
"Will you excuse me, please?" Kravchenko asked. "You've 
brought me here by abduction, and I intend to make you pay for 
it, but this kangaroo court is hereby adjourned. Don't try to pre-vent 
me from leaving." 
He walked gracefully toward the door. 
Risa burst from her seat. "Dybbuk!" she yelled. "Don't you see, 
the persona's gone dybbuk right in front of us!" 
The bedroom door opened. Elena appeared, pale, extending a 
quivering hand. She looked altogether confused. "Jim?" she said. 
234 
To Live Again 235 
"Noyes? Which are you? What's happening?" 
"Quiet Elena!" Kravchenko said. 
In that moment Charles Noyes launched a desperate and in-stantly 
successful counterattack. Erupting from the corner of his 
own mind in which Kravchenko had penned him, Noyes sped 
through the neural wreckage within his skull, taking Kravchenko 
off guard. They grappled. Kravchenko, not as thoroughly in con-trol 
as he had believed, was thrown from command, hurled down 
only moments after his brief triumph. 
Noyes sagged to the floor and crouched there. 
"Listen to me," he said, shaping the words with terrible effort. 
"This is Noyes again. Noyes. See, the right voice? He didn't quite 
reach dybbuk. A good try, that's all. Listen. Are you recording 
this, Kaufmann?" 
"Every word." 
"Good. I've been an idiot. I've let everyone use me. But no 
more. My mind's my own. Last nightÑ Roditis sent me here. John 
Roditis of Roditis Securities. With orders to kill St. John. So that 
he could reapply for the Paul Kaufmann persona. I gave St. John 
a drugÑ cycloÑ cyclophosphamide-8. I confess this of my ownÑ 
freeÑ will." 
He could not sustain even the crouching position any longer. 
Now he lay on his left side, half his body limp. 
"I repeat: I killed St. John at Roditis' orders. Mindpick Roditis 
and you'll see it's so. Two favors, please. Don't let Kravchenko 
have another carnate trip. You sawÑ he almost went dybbuk. 
Did go dybbuk, for a minute. And alsoÑ for meÑ no more trips 
either. Just sleep. I want to get off the wheel." 
I ought to utter a mantra now, Noyes thought. Go out with a 
flourish. Om mani padme hum. But why bother? 
His hand went into his breast pocket. 
He felt Kravchenko fighting him, furiously trying to seize their 
shared body again. But Noyes held him off. His coordination was 
almost destroyed, yet he was able to get his hands on the be-
235 
236 To Live Again 
loved flask of carniphage, fondled so often, so sensually, his con-stant 
companion, his dearest friend. 
He brought it to his mouth. He bit down. 
The flask shattered and its contents spurted down his throat. 
Mark Kaufmann stared in shock at the writhing, deliquescing 
thing on the carpet. 
"Carniphage," he said thickly. "RisaÑ ElenaÑ don't look!" 
Elena had fled. But Risa was watching the process of decay 
with somber fascination. Kaufmann did not try to cover her eyes. 
Surely Noyes must be dead. The inward rot was nearing the 
surface; his body was chaos. Yet still it moved, jerking and twitch-ing 
as it traveled its one-way road to destruction. 
Risa said, "Why did he confess? He was trying to be defiant at 
first." 
"He was showing everyone. Roditis. Kravchenko. Right at the 
end, he finally found a little strength." 
The limbs were flowing into shapelessness. The motions of 
the body were ceasing. 
"Will that confession be any good?" Risa asked. 
Mark nodded slowly. "The voiceprints will show that it was 
really Noyes speaking. The recording will show that he was 
nearly ejected by a dybbuk, fought back, blurted his story, and 
killed himself. It'll be good enough to convince the quaestors 
that Roditis should be mindpicked." 
"And then?" 
"They'll erase him," Kaufmann said. He felt little triumph, 
somehow. He took one more look at the ghastliness on the floor, 
and then went to put in a call to the quaestors. 
236 
To Live Again 237 
Chapter 15 It was July now. A season of stifling weather had set in, be-yond 
the capacity of the weather controllers to handle, and many 
people had fled to cooler climes. Risa remained in New York. 
The trial of John Roditis had just ended, and now there was a 
great deal for her to do. 
Roditis had been found guilty, of course. Noyes' recorded tes-timony 
had induced the quaestorate to seek a mindpick against 
him, and the motion had been granted. Roditis' lawyers had un-dertaken 
a delaying action based on the ancient constitutional 
principle of freedom from self-incrimination; but the legality of 
the mindpick was firmly established, and Roditis was put to the 
test. His complicity in the deliberate discorporation of Martin St. 
John was undeniable after that. 
The defense tactics shifted. Now the lawyers asserted that, 
while Roditis and Noyes had undoubtedly conspired to destroy 
the St. John body, there was no injured party, since St. John was 
not his own body's tenant. The only occupant of the body, the 
persona of Paul Kaufmann, was legally dead and therefore not 
capable of suffering discorporation. 
It was a fine point, and gave the jurists of the quaestorate 
considerable exercise. It caused a good deal of embarrassment 
for Francesco Santoliquido, too, since he was responsible for 
creating the anomaly of the deliberate dybbuk. In the end, the 
decision went against Roditis, but the charge was reduced from 
murder to antisocial actions of the first degree. Which, when 
Roditis was found guilty, resulted in these sentences: 
° Forfeiture of citizenship and Civic privileges. 
° Mandatory destruction of any recorded Roditis personae on 
file with the Scheffing Institute. 
237 
238 To Live Again 
° Erasure of all present personae carried by Roditis, and their 
return to the soul bank for redistribution to others. 
° Five years of corrective therapy, including, if needed, a total 
reorientation of personality to remove aggressive impulses. 
"He's finished now," Mark Kaufmann said to his daughter as 
the verdicts were announced. "He'll come out of the therapy a 
broken manÑ polite, amiable, lacking in purpose and direction. 
A pleasant nobody. A nothing. A shell." 
"It seems like such a waste," said Risa. "All that driveÑ all that 
energy thrown awayÑ" 
"He was too dangerous to remain as he was, Risa. He had a 
greatness, I'll admit, but his ambitions weren't tempered by the 
moral sense. He was without a governor." 
"And you? And Uncle Paul?" 
Kaufmann looked at her sharply. "We have our family tradi-tions. 
We have our sense of what is honorable. Roditis was a 
wild beast. Now he'll be tamed. There's no comparison between 
a Roditis and one of us, Risa. None." 
Risa had private reservations about that. She had no wish to 
anger her father; but it seemed to her that the real difference 
between the shattered, defeated Roditis and the triumphant Mark 
Kaufmann was more a matter of luck and diplomacy than of 
breeding and honor. Roditis had overreached himself, and Mark 
had destroyed him. But Mark's methods, though they stopped 
short at murder, had hardly been gentle. 
Roditis disappeared behind the fortress walls of Belle Isle Sana-torium 
for corrective therapy. No one would ever again see the 
old John Roditis in public, that man seething with vitality and 
shrewdness. When Roditis emerged, several years hence, he 
would still be a wealthy man, but he would be an aimless, smil-ing 
ruin, cheerfully acquiescing in the decisions of the court-appointed 
trustees who managed his financial empire. 
A great waste of dynamism, Risa decided. 
Perhaps, she thought, such a squandering might be in some 
238 
To Live Again 239 
way avoided. 
On the hottest day of that July heat wave, soon after the sen-tencing 
of John Roditis, Risa brought her hopter down in the 
employee lot of the Scheffing Institute building. She parked it 
deftly and crossed the sweltering strip of ferroconcrete in a hurry. 
It was three in the afternoon the first shift of technicians was 
about to leave. 
Within the building Risa picked up the first telephone she came 
to and requested to speak to a certain employee. Moments later, 
his face appeared on the screen. 
He looked baffled. 
"Hello, Leonards. Remember me?" 
He was young, pale, good-looking, pinch lines forming between 
his eyebrows. He moistened his lips. "M-Miss Kaufmann?" 
"That's right, Leonards. Go to the head of the class." 
He forced an uneasy smile. "Is there something wrong? Can I 
be of service?" 
"No, there's nothing wrong, and yes, you can be of service. 
You're finished working for the day, aren't you?" 
"Good. My hopter's parked in Employee Lot D. Meet me there 
right away and we'll take a little trip." 
"ButÑ" 
"I'll be waiting, Leonards!" 
He did not disappoint her. He did not dare. 
Looking mystified, he entered the hopter, taking his seat be-side 
her as she indicated. The little craft lifted and headed north. 
Risa said, "You did an excellent job with my transplant, Leonards. 
Tandy and I are very happy together." 
"That's good, Miss Kaufmann. Perhaps you could tell meÑ" 
"Where we're heading? Of course. We're going uptown. To my 
apartment." 
He scarcely seemed to believe any of this was happening to 
him. His posture was rigid; he looked straight ahead, never ven-turing 
a glance in her direction. He was terrified of her. 
239 
240 To Live Again 
She brought the hopter in for a smooth landing at her home 
lot. Minutes later, they entered her apartment. 
"Take a good look around," she told him. "It's nice, isn't it? 
Ever been in a place like this before?" 
"N-no, Miss Kaufmann." 
"Call me Risa. Why are you so frightened, Leonards? You're a 
big, handsome young fellow, aren't you? A skilled technician, a 
man with a bright future? Are you married?" 
"Yes, Miss Kaufmann." 
"Children?" 
"One child. We're going to have another after my next incre-ment 
comes through." 
"Fine, Leonards. I'm sure you're a wonderful family man. And 
I'm glad to know you're so virile." She put her hand to her shoul-der, 
touched a stud. Her light summer clothing fell away in a 
rustling swirl. She stood before him incandescently nude, and, 
he gaped at the sudden sight. 
He backed away from her, shielding his eyes. 
"Come here, Leonards," she said in a husky voice Tandy Cash-ing 
had taught her how to use. "You're not really afraid. You want 
me, don't you? Admit it. I'm yours for the taking. The experience 
of a lifetime. A Kaufmann in your arms. Why run away?" 
"PleaseÑ I don't understandÑ" 
She swept up against him. She took his hand and put it to her 
small breasts. Her own hand traveled expertly over his body. 
Leonards gasped. Leonards moaned. Leonards shook his head 
and tried to push her away, but the attempt was not a success. 
"I want you, Leonards! What's your first name?" 
"Harry." 
"Harry! Harry! Harry! Love me, Harry!" 
She tugged at him and they toppled to the floor. Her lithe body 
entwined itself with his. Urgently she awakened his desires and 
banished his timidity. 
"Harry," she whispered. "Harry!" 
240 
To Live Again 241 
He made a sound that was half a protest, half an acceptance. 
And then, with sudden desperate willingness, he pulled her 
against him. 
He was not very good, Risa concluded. But he was appealingly 
earnest. 
When it was over, she slipped away from him and got nimbly 
to her feet. He lay still, rumpled and glassy-eyed. 
"You've just committed an act of rape," Risa told him. "Your 
helpless victim was a girl of the highest social position, less than 
seventeen years old. You'll get your mind blotted out for a crime 
like that." 
Leonards came to a sitting position, and the color drained from 
his face a moment, then returned in a crimson rush. "What are 
you saying?" 
"I'm explaining to you the nature of the trouble you're in. Forc-ibly 
entering my hopter while I was visiting the Scheffing Insti-tute, 
compelling me to bring you here, disrobing me, inducing 
me through superior strength to submit to sexual violationÑ oh, 
it's bad, Leonards, it's very bad!" 
"I feel like I'm in a dream," he whispered. 
"It's real enough. I'll have the quaestors here any minute." 
"Why are you doing this?" 
She crouched before him, her face close to his. "Would you 
like to avoid going to trial? Would you like me to forgive you for 
your audacity in perpetrating this hideous rape?" 
"What do you want from me?" 
"A favor," she said harshly. "A small favor, and I'll forget all 
about what happened here today, and leave you with your memo-ries 
of pleasure." 
"What kind of favor?" 
"You'll have to break the rules of the Scheffing Institute," she 
said. "But that's a much smaller crime than raping a girl my age, 
and if you're smart and lucky you'll get away with it. There's a 
certain persona I want, Leonards. Get it for me from the files, 
241 
242 To Live Again 
just borrow it for a little while tomorrow. And transplant it to 
me. That's all I ask. I'll come to the tower, and you'll handle the 
transplant, and we'll call it quits. But we'll have to move swiftly, 
because this particular persona recording is due to be destroyed 
very soon. All right, Leonards? Do we have a deal?" 

"Everything's settled, then," Mark Kaufmann said. "My uncle's 
persona remains in storage indefinitely." 
"Yes," said Santoliquido. "Which is to say, at least another year 
or two." 
"Long enough for some of the voltage to bleed out of the dy-namo, 
at any rate. He'll be less formidable coming back then. If 
he comes back at all." 
Santoliquido shrugged. "I'll hold him in storage until a quali-fied 
recipient appears, Mark. And with Roditis permanently dis-qualified, 
it might be a long, long time. You don't need to worry 
about that." 
"Fine. See you at my party on Saturday?" 
"Of course," said Santoliquido. "I'll reach Dominica about noon, 
I suppose. It'll be a novelty, going south to the tropics to find 
cooler weather. My best to Elena, yes?" 
"Of course." 
Kaufmann broke the contact. He smiled, leaned back, touched 
the tips of his fingers together. All was well at last. Roditis was 
neutralized, entirely out of the scene. Santoliquido, who had come 
out of this affair very poorly indeed, was helpless before his 
wishes. There would be no extra Uncle Paul at liberty to inter-fere 
now. Elena, a chastened woman, had settled into something 
very much like fidelity. Risa, taking on new depth and maturity 
day by day, had ripened into a fitting Kaufmann heiress, ready to 
assume new responsibilities in the family empire. And he him-self 
was home free with his uncle's potent persona well inte-grated 
into his awareness, unknown to the rest of the world. 
"How do you like that, you old fox? I've handled things pretty 
242 
To Live Again 243 
well, haven't I, eh?" 
ÑYou've done well for yourself, Paul replied. But don't get over-confident. 
Smugness was Roditis' undoing. 
"Don't worry about me," Mark replied. "I try to calculate all 
the angles. And with you in there helping me, we shouldn't miss 
very many of them." 
ÑThere's always the unpredictable. Be on guard for it. 
"Mark?" It was Risa's voice, outside. "I'm here, Mark." 
"Come in," he said. 
She entered his office. In her sketchy summer wrap she looked 
crisp and cool, and she carried herself with a no-nonsense self-possession 
that he admired greatly. Here was the one person in 
the world who mattered most to him; and also the one person to 
whom he might be vulnerable. He had an idea that Risa sus-pected 
what he had done with Paul's persona. She knew Paul's 
mannerisms, and of course she knew his own, and she seemed 
conscious that a fusion had taken place. But after the first day 
she had ceased to betray any suspicions. Mark had no way of 
telling what was going on behind the smooth mask of his 
daughter's face. Somehow, though, he felt certain that she knew 
the truth. 
"I'm here for a business discussion," Risa announced. 
"What kind of business?" 
"Preliminary business, really. I'd like to get some idea of the 
family assets. What we have where, in whose name, what slice 
of equity in each." 
Kaufmann nodded. "It's time we went over all that anyway, I 
suppose. I mean to bring you much more closely into our activi-ties. 
To groom you for the time when you're running the show. 
The world of business genuinely interests you, eh, Risa?" 
"You know it does. And now that Roditis is through, we can 
begin to make a new move, Mark. I'd like to close in on that 
Latin American electrical empire of his. I've been thinking, we 
could undercut the Roditis trustees by a takeover of the com-
243 
244 To Live Again 
pany that makes the transmission pylons, and thenÑ" 
"Do you have a cold, Risa?" 
"Why?" 
"Your voice sounds odd. Deeper. Hoarser." 
She shook her head. "That's just Tandy's influence, I guess. 
She must have had a very lush contralto, and she's trying to pitch 
my voice down there too. You know how it is, the way a persona 
influences the host in little ways, certain mannerismsÑ" 
"Yes," Kaufmann said. "I know." 
"Very well, then. If we can get a grasp on the pylon company, 
we'll have Roditis Securities caught between Scylla and 
Charybdis, andÑ" 
"Between who and whom?" 
"Scylla and Charybdis," she repeated impatiently. "The mon-ster 
and the whirlpool. Book Twelve of The Odyssey. By Homer." 
"Yes. I know. I didn't realize you were a student of Homer, 
Risa." 
"Every civilized person should have a deep knowledge of 
Homer," she said. "Has there ever been a greater poet? A man 
with a more vivid imagination? There are lessons we can learn 
from him even today." Risa laughed self-consciously. "Back to 
the transmission pylons, though. Here's what I have in mindÑ" 
Mark Kaufmann watched his daughter construct an elaborate 
holding-company scheme with quick scrawled stokes of stylus 
against pad. But he paid little attention to her financial theories 
just now. A sudden implausible notion sent a chill of disbelief 
through him. 
Homer? Holding companies? Transmission pylons? 
A deeper voice? 
No, he thought. No, it isn't possible. She wouldn'tÑ she 
couldn'tÑ 
>From somewhere far away, Paul Kaufmann's persona deliv-ered 
a silent booming laugh. 
ÑThere's always the unpredictable, Mark, 
244 
To Live Again 245 
Quietly Mark agreed. He peered closely at Risa, seeking for 
signs, for proof, for confirmation of this strange and frightening 
fantasy of his. If it were true, a new, invincible force had entered 
their family, and all plans must be reconsidered. But it could not 
be true. It could not be true. It could not be true. 
"There we are," Risa finished. She shoved the pad toward her 
father. "What do you say, Mark? How does the plan look to you?" 
"I'll have to think about it," he said warily. "But it's worth con-sidering. 
If we can use Roditis' own way of thinking to cut chunks 
out of his holdings, why not? ' 
Risa grinned. She pointed to the somber, brooding portrait of 
Uncle Paul hanging behind her father's desk. "I think he'd go for 
the idea. I think the old buccaneer would be very amused by it. 
Perhaps a little proud of me. Perhaps even a little jealous." 
"He is," Mark Kaufmann said, and looked beyond his window 
to see the sky suddenly grow dark with the fury of a summer 
storm. 
245 

246 

247 
We Make BooksÑ Paper Optional 
To Live Again 
Robert Silverberg is one of the most prolific authors in the his-tory 
of science fiction. He's written over one hundred science fic-tion 
books, not to mention sixty non-fiction books and sixty an-thologies. 
He continues to produce major work with his uniquely 
sardonic style. 
In addition to being a one man industry in the fifties and early 
sixties, he was a significant player during the New Wave. This novel 
comes from that period. 
First published in 1969, To Live Again explores an idea that is 
truly "far out." Imagine a future world where death is not exactly 
the end. You can record everything about you that ever made you 
a distinct human being and then be implanted in the mind of some-one 
living. 
Paul Kaufmann had been the richest and most powerful man on 
Earth. Imagine having his knowledge and insights integrated with 
your own persona. The tycoon's mind becomes the prize in a deadly 
game for those still living who want more out of life than they 
could ever achieve on their own. 
The great man's "soul" is stored in the Scheffing Institute, wait-ing 
for the time when someone hungry enough gives him back his 
appetite. Silverberg extrapolates as only he can from this intrigu-ing 
premise. To Live Again is about a future where the dead are 
slaves to the living Ñ until at last someone leads a rebellion.