The Eternity Brigade Part 7

Green blinked and looked back at Symington. "Why not? It's the easy way out of here, isn't it?"

"We've hardly even seen what the world has to offer___"

"I have, and I'm not buying. There's no place for us here, Lucky. We're souls out of time, floating where we don't belong and unable to settle because we clash with the furniture."

"You think it'll be any better next time? Look how much trouble we're in after just twelve years."

"Why are you so against it? You were all for it, last time."

"Sure. Last time it was an adventure, something n.o.body'd ever done before, an easy way to pick up some big money. But we've proved our point. We don't have to do it again. Sure, things look bad now, but they're not hopeless. It's not like we're beggars or something. We've got enough money to stake us if we play the cards right."

Green sighed. "I just have to play the game differently. You want to gamble one way, I want to gamble another. The odds are lousy either way,but... I don't know, maybe I just don't have the guts to stick it out from day to day. Maybe I'm just an optimist, thinking there's a rainbow around the corner and tomorrow will be brighter than today. I'll try the way I know best."

Symington stood up, and Hawker thought he saw a flash of anger in the big man for the first time in their acquaintance. "You do that. Me, I'm heading out. New York isn't the only f.u.c.king place in the world. Things have got to be better somewhere else. Maybe that guy on the phone yesterday really had something, talking about Alaska. Not that I'd buy his f.u.c.king land, but I'll bet there's something there for a guy to do. Sure, it's a frontier, they always need people."

He gave them one last look, then turned his back and walked out of the restaurant.

Green watched him go. "Good luck," he said, too softly for Symington to hear. Then, turning to Hawker, he asked, "Do you think we're doing the right thing?"

Hawker shrugged. "I don't know, but it's the only thing I can think of, too."

"I wish I had his kind of courage," Green said, staring down into his coffee cup. "Lucky's the sort of guy who just plows ahead and refuses to admit he's beat. Me, if I see the game's lost, I look around for another one somewhere, one I have a better chance of winning."

He looked up again, the traces of depression almost gone from his face.

"This time will be different, though. We know the ropes now, we know some of the mistakes we made and we can make sure they don't happen again."

"What mistakes did we make?" Hawker asked.

"The main thing is, we didn't take care of the money we were earning.

We just let the army hold onto it, at no interest. Of course, the program was secret then, and we couldn't go to an accountant and ask him the best way to handle the matter. Now we can. We can have our paychecks deposited in a trust account, and let the trustees invest it for us while we're sleeping. If we're away for the same length of time, it could make a substantial difference. I'll bet we could acc.u.mulate twice the money in thesame period. Added to what we've already got coming-and using that as a starter -we could end up so rich that we'd never have to work again a day in our lives."

"If we live through the next war," Hawker reminded him. But Green had done with being gloomy for the day, and would hear no further criticism.

They spent the next week checking with more investment firms and banks, working out the arrangements for their trust fund. Finally they agreed to a pattern of investments that balanced high yield with security, and promised to make them very wealthy indeed if they slept for any substantial length of time. They further agreed that, if one of them should die, all proceeds would go to the other-and if they both died, the trust fund would go to Symington or his heirs.

That done, they went to the downtown army recruiting station to re-enlist. The sergeant at first was reluctant even to talk to them-the sleeper program was working well, and the army had little use for general recruits-but once they explained they'd been sleepers before and wanted to sign up again, he was delighted to take them on. They received their special bonuses-most of which went straight into the trust fund-and within a week they were back at their base preparing to undergo the ordeal of suspended animation once more.

They found the process greatly simplified this time. The physical examination they had to take was much less formal then previously, and there was no advanced course in weaponry. Apparently the army was confident enough about the suspension process that they didn't need to ensure every volunteer's being in perfect condition-and the weapons training before seemed to have been largely wasted. It would be far too expensive to give such training to the large numbers of sleepers involved in the program this time.

Within three days of arriving back at the base, Hawker and Green were back in their coffins, resting coldly and quietly until the army needed them once again.

Waking up was less traumatic this next time, too. Hawker remembered how weak he'd felt on his first emergence from suspended animation, and concluded that this must have been a sleep of a shorter duration. He was to find out, though, that just the reverse was the case; he and the othermen had slept for nearly fourteen years. The army had learned from its previous experiment, though; while thawing the men out, before they even regained consciousness, their bodies were put through traction exercises to get the muscles back in shape, and they were given injections of hormones to improve muscle tone. As a result, Hawker merely felt tired, as though recuperating from a bad cold. The recovery period was shortened from two weeks to six days, and even that was probably an error on the conservative side.

The thought of another fourteen years stolen out from under him was more than a little frightening, but it was balanced by the comforting thought of the trust fund, and how it would have built up over the interval.

Even with all the devaluations the government chose to throw at him, he would still end up with a sizable chunk of money to call his own.

On the third day after awakening, Hawker was reunited with Green, and the two friends greeted one another with unrestrained abandon. They agreed that they didn't look too bad for middle-aged men, and chortled to think that they were well into the twenty-first century and still young enough to enjoy it- providing, of course, they survived the war.

The next day brought them another surprise. They ran into another sleeper, and almost walked right past him before they noticed it was Symington. They hadn't expected to see him here under these conditions, and bombarded him with questions. Symington was sheepish at first, but under their persistent interrogation he admitted that they had been right-the world of fourteen years ago had not been suitable for people from their time. He had gone to Alaska and found that out the hard way, squandering most of his money in the process. Bitter and broke, and a year older, Symington had come wearily back to the army, which accepted him as though he were the prodigal son.

Hawker and Green were so glad to see him that they didn't even bother to rub his nose in the fact that they had taken precautions to shelter their earnings while he hadn't. They laughed and cried and, as soon as the doctors would allow, they went off and had some beers together for old times' sake. Symington regaled them with the horror stories about his year in Alaska, and they listened with the sympathy of true friends.

Hawker and Green tried to call their bank to find out how well their trust fund had done, but were told that outside calls were forbidden; this was an army camp in wartime, and the situation was tight. Similarly, mailservice was also unreliable, and there was no way for them to learn how rich they were. It was frustrating, but they accepted the news philosophically. They couldn't spend the money yet anyway-they had a war to finish first.

While walking to the exercise yard, Hawker also looked into one of the other wards and spotted Thaddeus Connors there with some of the other sleepers. Apparently the black man was still on the run himself, from either the law or a guilty conscience. He shook his head and walked slightly faster, hoping Connors wouldn't spot him.

The war this time was completely different from anything the sleepers had expected. Both China and Russia were now allies of the United States, and the enemy was a conglomerate of countries from South America and Africa-emerging nations of the so-called Third World. The prize of contention was the continent of Antarctica and, in particular, the wealth of resources it had lately been discovered to contain. The old-time superpowers desperately needed the resources to maintain their economic dominance over world industrial production, while the smaller nations saw this as perhaps their last chance to break the hegemony of the industrialized countries. This was not a tactical war, as the African and Chinese conflicts had been; this was a battle to the death for one side or another, and the direction of Earth's future lay in the balance.

Early in the war, the combatants signed a pact agreeing to ban nuclear action by either side. To the general public, this looked like an incredible concession by the superpowers, who had vastly more sophisticated weapons and delivery systems, and there were large protests in the United States against trying the military's hands. But those in command knew better. The Third World countries were much more desperate, and had absolutely nothing to lose by resorting to nuclear weapons. They could easily have infiltrated major cities in the developed nations and wrought havoc with primitive, homemade nuclear devices. As crude as that approach might be, it would be immensely disruptive to industrialized society -and the only way to counter it would be to render the entire continents of Africa and South America totally uninhabitable. That alternative presented problems of its own that were unthinkable. Both sides realized that the anti-nuclear treaty was a necessity for everyone's survival.

Hawker, of course, had no part in such esoteric planning. It wasn't hisjob to decide why the United States shouldn't just nuke the h.e.l.l out of its enemies. He was expected to fight the way infantrymen have always fought-in the field under enemy attack, prepared to kill or die at any given moment.

The nature of this war's terrain forced him into some mental adjustments. His first war had been fought in the steaming jungles of Africa, and his second on the plains and mountains of China. The battlefield this time was Antarctica, a land of frigid wastes and universal whiteness. It was a world of bitter cold and bl.u.s.tery winds that chilled him even through the heavily furred parka the army issued him. The only luxury was the pair of battery-heated gloves to keep his fingers warm so that he'd have no trouble handling his weapons in combat. Other than that, he had to suffer along with the rest of the troops.

He suffered for three weeks as his unit advanced over icy terrain that looked no different from the area all around them, yet which the bra.s.s insisted was vitally important. There were occasional skirmishes, but in general the enemy seemed to be falling back in front of them. They made great advances, but Hawker grew worried. This was a little too easy, and he suspected a trap. None of the officers asked his opinion, though, and Hawker would never think of volunteering it. He merely watched and waited.

The big attack came shortly before sunset. The enemy's forward lines, which had been routinely falling back, suddenly stiffened their resistance.

At the same time, Hawker's unit found itself under attack from the flanks, too. They had been drawn into a cla.s.sic box, which was rapidly closing around them, cutting off all hope of retreat. The ground rocked with the explosions of artillery sh.e.l.ls, and even the onset of night did not bring total darkness; the constant flare of gunfire provided an eerie, if intermittent, illumination.

Early on during the attack, Hawker was. .h.i.t by pieces of a fragmentation sh.e.l.l, making wounds in his right leg and the left side of his torso. He fell to the ground and was unable to move. The pain was excruciating, and he found himself wishing he would die and end the torment. He drifted in and out of consciousness all through the night, to the lullaby of death and destruction about him.

The shooting stopped shortly after dawn. Hawker lay quietly, thankful that the two sides were willing to let him die in peace. Then a squad ofmen came walking by. One of them kicked him in the ribs, and Hawker thought he was so deep in pain that his mind couldn't make sense out of their gibberish; then he realized belatedly that they were speaking Spanish. He had been picked up by the enemy.

After some small discussion, two of the men lifted him and carried him awkwardly to a waiting vehicle, where he was tossed in with other soldiers, some wounded, some dead. More bodies were tossed in around him, and then there was a long, jostling ride that only aggravated his injuries. He felt feverish despite the cold, and the edges of reality wavered at the corners of his vision. He was positive death would come at any moment to relieve him of his suffering, and his only regret was that he'd never spend all the money he'd earned while sleeping the past fourteen years.

The enemy doctors, though, had other ideas. This was still early in the war, before shortages of medical supplies became acute, and the Sammy staffs were honestly trying to be humane. After more than a week of wavering between life and death Hawker finally landed on the positive side. Eventually he recovered without the loss of limbs or organs. But the war for him was effectively over. He was a POW until the end.

In this regard, he was quite lucky. Prisoners were treated much more fairly than they'd been in either Africa or China. The fact that he'd been picked up by the Sammies rather than the Freeks was also a fortunate break; the Africans still had a few primitive notions about the treatment of captured enemies.

Not that his life as a prisoner was easy. Food and supplies were always minimal, and the Red Cross packages were always too little and too late.

As the war dragged on, food became even scarcer, and he sometimes went for days at a time without eating.

The prison camp guards were no less s.a.d.i.s.tic than others of that profession since the beginning of time; Hawker was beaten occasionally, but never so badly that it would show when a Red Cross inspection team came for a visit. There were three attempted escapes during his term in the prison camp, of which he was involved in two. None of them was successful, and all of them brought prompt and stern punishment.

Hawker spent three years in his prison camp until the war was officially declared over, with part.i.tions drawn all over the continent of Antarctica, portioning out the land to all parties concerned. Then there was a round ofnegotiations before the prisoners could be released back to their own sides. After that, there was another week of waiting in Antarctica before Hawker's papers came through, transferring him back to the States.

While waiting to be shipped home, he attended a briefing that turned out to be a recruitment pitch for another indefinite period in limbo. But this time, the process would be much different than it had been before.

Instead of being frozen down and placed in suspended animation, the soldiers' "life patterns" would be recorded and stored until they were needed.

"I know that probably doesn't make sense to you right now," the briefing officer said, "so let me try to explain. This is something on the very forefront of modern science-but it does work. I think you all know basically how television works. A camera takes a picture, and the image is broken down into a series of lines, which can either be stored or broadcast and eventually reconstructed into an exact duplicate of the original picture.

"In a similar manner, we've lately been able to break down actual physical objects and reconstruct them perfectly from the stored pattern. A special scanning device takes a three-dimensional 'picture' of every atom in the object, and its relation to every other atom. The scan is done so quickly that it's practically instantaneous. The pattern is then recorded inside a computer. When we want to bring the object back, the computer bank simply tells us how much of each kind of atom we need. We adjust the mix in a chemical vat, and the computer impresses the electromagnetic pattern on the chemical mixture. In a matter of minutes, the original object is reconst.i.tuted exactly as it had been when it was recorded. It hasn't aged a day, it hasn't suffered any debility by being inactive for so long-it is, as far as anyone has been able to tell, exactly the same as the object before it was recorded."

There was a buzz of conversation throughout the room, and the officer held up his hands for silence. "I know this all sounds like the wildest science fiction to you right now, but just let me show you some holos of the process in action. I think you'll be amazed."

The "holos" themselves were amazing enough to Hawker, three-dimensional images projected onto a bare area of the stage. The images moved and spoke just as though they were real people and objects, and yet they could appear and disappear, run forward or backward, fast orslow, all at the whim of the projectionist. The entertainment industry must be having a field day with this, he thought, and then wondered idly what would have been the fate of the good old drive-in movie.

He and the other soldiers watched as the holos demonstrated a series of experiments. At first, common inanimate objects were placed in the scanners and dissolved into nothingness, only to be recreated moments later, looking the same as before. Then came a succession of test animals, from mice to chimpanzees. The animals appeared to be unhurt by the process and, to test their memories, creatures with special training in mazes were recorded and resurrected, with no loss of their memory.

Finally, the tests were conducted on human subjects-most of whom spoke Spanish, and Hawker surmised that this was one fate of Sammy POWs during the recent war. It was frightening-and not a little sickening-to watch a man being reduced to a puddle of ooze on the floor of the scanner, only to be reconstructed later apparently undamaged. The man could not recall anything from the moment the scanner was turned on until the moment he was recreated-it seemed like just an instant to him, and he insisted he was the same person and that nothing had been done to him.

"You can imagine how excited we are about the new process," the officer said after the holos had concluded. "The benefits over the old hibernation process are obvious. There's no expensive maintenance program, no coffins to watch, no vital functions to be constantly checked.

The patterns are stored neatly and safely inside the computer until we need them. The new system is much more mobile, because the reconstruction equipment is far easier to transport than a building full of delicate hibernation chambers. And best of all, from your point of view, there aren't any elaborate preparations to go through at either end of the process. You don't need physical exams, shots or enemas beforehand, and you don't need a week or two of physical therapy and calisthenics after you come out of it. As far as the subject is concerned, the process is completely painless and takes place between one thought and the next, in less than the blink of an eye.

"So, if you're feeling adventurous, if you really want to see what tomorrow is like, if you want to serve your country in the best possible way, there'll always be a place for you in the army. Think of us before you commit yourself to anything else."

To Hawker, the concept seemed ludicrous. The idea of being frozen insuspended animation-that at least had some semblance of reality to it.

But this new system was just too bizarre for words. He was glad he and Green had set aside their trust fund. He would be independently wealthy by now, and wouldn't have to worry any more about signing up for future hitches.

The plane flight back to the States took a bare three hours, even from Antarctica, and yet still seemed like an eternity. On arrival, he was told there was a package for him-a large manilla envelope with his name scrawled across the front and Green's name in the upper left-hand corner.

Hawker felt a thrill of excitement, to know that his friend had also survived the war. The envelope had a rectangular hard lump in it, and when Hawker opened it he found just a videotape ca.s.sette, with no other note or explanation.

He asked a few people and found he could borrow a ca.s.sette player from the base library. Curiosity about Green's message made him race to the library to play the ca.s.sette at his earliest opportunity.

He dropped the tape into the machine and nervously pressed the "play"

b.u.t.ton. The screen flickered to life. This was just a flat, two-dimensional screen, rather than the holo Hawker had been hoping for, but the color picture was sharp and clear. There was David Green, looking straight at him and smiling.

"Hi, Hawk," the image said. "I asked around about you and heard you'd been taken prisoner, so I figured there was a good chance you'd eventually get this message once the war was over and you came home. I tried waiting around for you as long as I could- I wanted to see you in person-but... well, you'll understand when I'm finished.

"First, the good news-as little as there is of it. Lucky and I both came through the war okay. We went through our year of combat duty and then rotated to noncombat status. The army didn't want to let anyone go-not with a war on-but we were transferred Stateside to fill in backup positions and free other men for fighting duty. Lucky ended up as a cook- would you believe that?-and I ended up as a chaplain's aide, I guess because my father was a rabbi and they thought I might have some closer contact to G.o.d or something. At any rate, we're both alive and well- or we are when I'm taping this. I'm not so sure what our status will be by the time you get it."One of the things that helped me get through the war-I'm sure it helped you too, thinking about it in the prison camp-was that trust fund we set up. Even with the devalued dollar as it was when we set up the fund, we'd still be rich enough to live off it comfortably for most of our lives. I tried writing some letters to the trustees at the bank, asking how the progress was, but nothing came through. Well, you heard their excuses before, about it being wartime and the problem with communications, et cetera. I never heard anything back from them all the time the war was on.

"As soon as the war was over, the army broke the news to us. While we were sleeping, there was a big scandal over paying soldiers for not doing anything. Seems a lot of other guys had the same idea we did, of trying to get rich while they slept. A lot of people thought that was unfair-after all, the army was taking care of all our needs, so why should we get paid for lying in a coffin? They raised a whole big stink in Congress, and the upshot of it was that sleepers had all their a.s.sets confiscated, everything they earned while they were in suspended animation-including everything they earned the first time, as well. I hear there's some guys trying to fight it in the Supreme Court as being both ex post facto and a breach of contract, not to mention being taxation without representation. I wish them luck, but with the way the country's going I don't think they've got a prayer.

"The fact of the matter is, Hawk, we're dead broke. They were generous enough to start our paychecks again when they took us out of deep-freeze, but that isn't worth s.h.i.t in today's economy. Of course, they never bothered to tell us this until after the war was over. They probably knew d.a.m.n well we'd never fight for them if we knew how they'd stabbed us in the back."

Green gave a weak smile. "I can tell you, we were pretty d.a.m.n mad.

Lucky wanted to bust some heads, and it wasn't even his trust fund. Some of the other sleepers went a little crazy and ended up in the stockade. Me, I thought I'd play it smart and get even rather than get mad. But it isn't all that easy-you'll probably find that out for yourself.

"We thought things were bad in the United States after the China war.

Let me tell you, that was nothing compared to what's going on right now.

The place is like an armed camp. n.o.body goes anywhere without travel papers-and it hardly matters if you've got the papers, because travel is soexpensive you probably can't afford it anyway. If you're lucky enough to get a job-the unemployment rate has stabilized at twenty percent or so-you're practically stuck in it for the rest of your life. If you can't get a job, you get stuck on the welfare rolls, and I'm told almost n.o.body ever gets off them once they're on. The government does give you free dope to help you forget your troubles, but frankly I think almost anything is better than sitting around doped to the eyeb.a.l.l.s day after day.

"The government is as close to a dictatorship as we've ever come. They still hold elections, apparently, but from the looks of things the candidates are all preselected for you. The news is heavily censored, so I couldn't see much of what was happening, but it looks as though the standard of living has dropped significantly. It's amazing how science keeps enabling us to do more and more, while society clamps in and lets us do less and less. I have a feeling something is going to explode somewhere along the line, and I'd just as soon not be there when it does. You can't press people too much further without something tragic happening.

"Lucky and I wanted to wait until you got back from the prison camp, and the three of us would decide together what we should do. But the army wasn't going to wait. It could be another couple of weeks before you come home, and the army doesn't want to keep us on salary. We've got an ultimatum: either we sign up for this new process they've got or they kick us out into the real world and we have to fend for ourselves. Between the two, I don't really think there's much choice. We're d.a.m.ned any way we look at it."

Green looked uneasy, and glanced downward for a moment before looking back at the screen. "Lucky and I have decided to let them 'record'

us, which means another jump into the future. As I said, I wish we could have waited for you, but they're getting pushy. If you do decide to go that way, things won't be so bad-we'll simply come out of the machine and there you'll be, only a few hours from when I'm recording this. If you decide to stick it out in the real world, I'll understand that, too. This new process of theirs is a scary thing."

Green hesitated and Hawker thought that would be the end of the message, but after a few seconds of silence the image spoke again. "I'm not at all sure about this 'recording' business. I mean before, when they were freezing us, it was still us, the same exact body that had just been put to sleep. Now it looks like they want more than our bodies, they want oursouls, too. I don't know, maybe I'm getting too metaphysical. I've seen their films, I've read some of the literature, it all looks perfectly respectable. To all intents and purposes, the person they recreate is the person they recorded. But is it the same person, or just an exact duplicate? There was no question about it being the same when we were asleep, but-oh h.e.l.l, I'm going around in circles. There's a very abstract philosophical point being lost somewhere in there, and I'm not a good enough philosopher to explain it. I'll bet some of the old rabbis who worked on the Talmud would have a ball with this. They could kick it around for centuries and still not come up with an answer. Maybe what I'm trying to say is, can they duplicate the soul as well as the body? What happens to the soul when the body's recorded? Is it recorded too, or does it fly away somewhere? Or do people even have souls at all? Maybe I'm worrying over nothing, maybe we aren't anything more than an organized collection of molecules."

He gave a deep sigh. "I don't know, Hawk. The more I think about it, the more sinister this whole nightmare becomes. Maybe we should get off the merry-go-round now, while we still have the chance. We've already tried escaping into the future twice in search of something better, and look what we've found. If we don't get out now, I don't think we ever will.

We're just too different to fit in with life in the ever changing modern world-and it's only going to get worse. The pace of human existence is accelerating all the time. Have you ever heard the legend of the Flying Dutchman? That would be us, lost souls doomed to repeat our mistakes forever through history."

Green shook his head. "d.a.m.n, but I'm getting philosophical in my old age," he said with a bitter laugh. "I'd almost managed to forget all my doubts until I started this letter to you. If I don't stop now, maybe I'll talk myself right out of it-and life here in the twenty-first century is no picnic, that's for sure.

"That's all I have to say, I guess. Be careful, and don't let them railroad you into anything you don't want to do. Whatever you decide is fine with us-and Lucky and I both wish you an eternity of good luck. Take care of yourself, Hawk; you matter more than you know." And the screen went blank.

Hawker stared at the screen for many minutes after the message had finished, unable to move for fear the tears that had gathered behind hiseyes would suddenly come welling out and embarra.s.s him in public. Only when he was certain of his self-control did he stand up and return the ca.s.sette player to the library desk.

The next day, he was called into the administration building for a "counseling session." The counselor- a civilian, Hawker noted-tried to break the news about the seizure of sleepers' money as gently as possible, and Hawker did nothing to make it easier for him. Hawker acted properly indignant when the facts were explained to him, and the counselor rushed to mollify him by showing the alternatives. The regular army had no room for him, the man said, but Hawker could always sign up for another hitch of suspended time, this time as a recorded pattern in the army's computer.

"What if I don't want to do that?" Hawker asked. "Who knows what you'd steal from me this time."

The counselor blushed and turned away to his computer console. He typed quickly onto the keyboard and had Hawker's dossier on view on the screen within seconds. He did a double take at Hawker's age, until he saw the note that Hawker was a two-time sleeper. He mentioned that Hawker's high school diploma would be virtually useless in the modern world because it had been granted so long ago. He grimaced when he noticed Hawker possessed no specialized skills that would stand him in good stead in civilian life.

"You mean there's nothing out there for me," Hawker said.

"I didn't say that," the counselor hurried to correct him. "We'll find something for you, I know it. You'll have triple veteran's preference, which puts you at the head of the line, in front of a lot of other people. You may have to settle for some general type of job, like shoe salesman or supermarket clerk, but we'll get you something, I'm sure of it. The army always looks after its own."

Hawker had to suppress the strong urge to spit.

The counselor cleared his throat and continued, "Now, as to where you'll be relocated. Let's see, it says here you're from Kansas City. Let me check... no, Kansas City has no openings. I'll spread the search pattern out a little-ah, there we are: Topeka. I'm sure you'll like it there. We can settle you in there and find some sort of job for you, I promise. What do you sayto that?"

"Go f.u.c.k yourself," Hawker said, and walked out of the office.

The next day he was stripped naked and facing the molecular scanner.

He was frightened, more so than he'd ever been in his life-more than he was during his first combat with an enemy, more than when he first contemplated leaving the army, more even than when he'd first faced the prospect of being frozen for an indefinite period. All the doubts Green had voiced came back to him, with a few of his own added. The army said the process was painless, but how could they really tell? They'd lied to him before, why wouldn't they do it again? And even if it was painless, even if it was foolproof, how safe was it? He would exist only as a pattern inside a computer. What if something happened to the computer? Would he die, then? Without ever knowing he was dead? He'd been raised very strongly to believe in the immortal soul, but where did his soul go during this process? The questions were terrifying.

Then the technician called his name. Closing his eyes and uttering a short, silent prayer, Jerry Hawker entered the molecular scanner.

Interludes The process was indeed painless and seemingly instantaneous. Scarcely had Hawker stepped into the scanner when he found himself lying in a small tub of liquid. It was a bad disorientation, to be standing one moment and lying down the next; he gasped, and accidentally swallowed some of the salty water around him. He choked a bit, just as two men grabbed his arms and helped lift him out of the tank.

Something felt odd about him. His stomach was queasy, as though he were in a falling elevator, and his body felt extraordinarily light. "I think there's something wrong with me," he managed to gasp between chokes. "I feel kind of funny."

"Perfectly normal," one of the men replied. "You're on the Moon, now."

He was led into a room with other resurrectees, without being given much chance to think about the predicament. His steps were light and bouncy, and he felt almost as though he were drunk, except that his mind was absolutely clear. He was given some clothing, a one-piece jumpsuit that zipped all the way up the front, and told to wait for instructions. Hemingled with the other men-there were at least fifty of them so far-and listened to their amazed conversations about how they never expected to go to the Moon, and how fantastic this new process was compared to the old freezing method. Hawker, as usual, did not join in any of the conversations; he merely wandered around the room idly, observing.

The room kept filling up as more and more people were resurrected from their shady half-lives in the computer's files, and eventually Hawker saw some familiar faces. Bounding across the room, oblivious to the startled looks of the other men, he threw his arms around Green and Symington and hugged them for all he was worth. The other two were startled, but equally enthusiastic.

"What do you think of the process, Hawk?" Green asked when the glad noises of reunion had died down.