Recalled to Life

Chapter XVIII

As the hearing ground along into its third day, and its fourth, and then its fifth and sixth, things grew even worse. The “zombie” phrase became a favorite, not only of the press and the public, but even of Brewster and Vorys. The fact that seven of the seventy-three reanimation subjects had been revived sans intellect had become the main issue. In his rare moments of relaxation, Harker wondered how the world would react if it were ever learned that one of those seven had been none other than the missing Senator Thurman.

Very much as Harker had expected, the American-Conservative Party intensified its previous belief in “caution” into what amounted to condemnation of the whole process. Maxwell of Vermont, the Senate Minority Leader, delivered an off-the-cuff but probably carefully-rehearsed speech at a Chicago gathering of American-Conservative committee-men, in which he referred to reanimation as “That mess engineered by a one-time lame duck of a National-Liberal, that unholy conspiracy against human dignity.”

Later the same day, the chairman of the Nat-Lib national committee was quick to announce that James Harker had voluntarily severed his party connections in January, was now a private citizen, and in no way represented the membership of the National-Liberal Party. It was a neat disavowal that took the Nat-Libs off the hook in case the reaction against reanimation grew stronger, but left them an avenue of entry just in case public opinion should swing back in favor of Harker.

Work at the lab had come practically to a standstill. “If we only had a few more weeks,” Raymond mourned, “we might be able to lick the remaining defects and get public approval. But they won’t leave us alone to work.”

A delegation of FBI men and the four investigating senators visited the laboratory a week after the hearings had begun, and Raymond and Harker reluctantly showed them the data on the revivifications so far-excluding that of Senator Thurman, which had not been recorded in any way whatever.

They checked through the photos, compared them with those of Wayne Janson, and left. That night the FBI issued an official statement which read, in part, “Examination of the Belter Laboratories’ records does not indicate that the late Mr. Janson ever received treatment there. Since there is nothing in Janson’s own private papers that leads us to believe he as much as knew of the existence of the Beller organization prior to its public announcement, we must conclude that no reanimation did take place.”

This left Jonathan Bryant in an ambiguous position, since he continued to maintain that Janson had undergone reanimation, and had suffered a severe change in personality as a result, leading to his suicide.

“This ought to settle Jonathan for good,” Harker crowed when the text of the FBI exoneration reached him. After all, it had to be obvious to everyone that Bryant had perpetrated a hoax designed solely to discredit reanimation and arouse popular fears against it.

But again Harker was wrong. The day after publication of the FBI statement, Jonathan Bryant was subpoenaed to appear before the investigating committee. The questioner was Senator Vorys. The interchange between Bryant and Vorys was widely reported in the late editions that day:

The ten-minute colloquy between Vorys and Bryant, widely quoted and republished everywhere, served not only to discredit the FBI statement utterly, but to convince the public that Harker had indeed suppressed the records of the Janson reanimation.

A magnificent scientific discovery discredited because of a ten percent imperfection. An FBI investigation thrown into the rubbish-heap because of one man’s bitter determination to crush an old enemy.

Harker studied the newspapers each day with increasing bitterness. The original importance of the Beller process seemed to be getting lost under the welter of side-issues, the jackal-like snapping of Klaus-Mitchison and Bryant, the political fencing of the two great parties, the hysteria of the people faced with something beyond easy acceptance.

Only one issue had not been raised yet—luckily, for it was the deadliest of all, having a basis of truth. No one had accused the Seller people of murdering Senator Thurman.

It was a logical accusation, against the background of insane charges already raised. After all, Thurman had been the most vigorous and most important of the enemies of reanimation, and he had disappeared on the eve of the hearings themselves! It seemed obvious to Harker that someone would think of implying that the Beller group had done away with their tough, intractable enemy.

But no one raised the cry, perhaps because it was too obvious. A thousandth time, Harker was grateful for that momentary impulse of steely purposefulness that had led him to condemn Barchet to continuing death. Of the six people who had known the fate of Senator Thurman, only Barchet was likely to crack and reveal the truth—and Barchet was out of the picture now.

The eighth day of the hearing came and went; Vorys grilled poor Lurie mercilessly on minor scientific details, while Brewster got Vogel to explain some of the surgical fine-points of the reanimation technique.

“You have to admire those two boys,” Harker said after that session. “They’ve really brushed up on the pertinent subjects.”

“I haven’t had a quizzing like that since I left medical school,” Vogel said, nervously tugging at the dark strands of his beard.

“And for what?” Raymond wanted to know. “Just to use up the taxpayers’ money. They’ve found out all they want to know about us.”

Harker nodded gloomily. You only had to pick up any newspaper, listen to any reasonably right-wing news commentator, attend any church, even walk in the street and talk to people at random.

The response was the same. Fear.

Fear of reanimation; fear of that one-chance-out-of-six that the result would be a so-called “zombie.” Desperately Harker tried to counteract the swelling tide of fear. He scraped up money for a full-page ad in the Times, headed, THROW OUT THE BABY WITH THE BATHWATER?

His line of argument was that the reanimation process should not be condemned for its failures, but praised for its successes. It was in the early stages, the experimental years. What if aviation had been suppressed because of the early crashes? Research had to go on.

The response to the advertisement was a lessening of hysteria in responsible places; the Times itself echoed his feelings in its own editorial the next day. But he sensed he was not reaching the people. And the people feared reanimation. There was no doubt of that, now.

The hearing rolled along into early June, and then one day Dixon announced that this was the last week; the committee would enter private deliberations preparatory to delivering its findings to the Senate as a whole.

Harker approached Senator Dixon privately and said, “Tell me, Senator—how are our chances?”

The Wyoming liberal frowned quizzically. “Hard to say. The Committee’s deadlocked two-and-two, you see. We may fight all summer about it.”

“Vorys and Brewster are dead against it?”

“Absolutely. They heed the voice of the people, you see, Every minority party has to. It’s the way they became a majority again.”

Harker said doubtfully, “How’s the feeling in high Nat-Lib circles?”

Dixon shrugged. “Right now, the feeling runs toward taking the Beller labs over and continuing reanimation research under federal supervision—with you and Raymond still in charge, of course.”

“Fine!”

“Not so fast,” Dixon warned. “We’ve got a Congressional majority, but that doesn’t mean a thing. The way the people are murmuring, it looks pretty bad for getting that measure through.”

“You mean you may have to switch your stand?”

Dixon nodded. “Jim, you know all about political expediency. You tried to knock down the stone wall when you were Governor, and got nowhere. If the people say, junk reanimation, then we’ll have to junk it.”

Hotly Harker said, “Junk it? The way I was junked as Governor?”

Dixon smiled. “I’m afraid so. It’s this business of the seven idiots, Jim. That scares people more than you can imagine.”

“But we can lick that problem—eventually!”

“Maybe you can. But the voters don’t believe that. All they see is the short-range possibility. And they’re more afraid of having a loved one turn into a zombie than they are of death. After all, you can’t very well kill your wife or son or father if you’ve had him reanimated and he turns out to be an idiot. You have to go on supporting him. It’s pretty frightening.”

Doggedly Harker said, “I think we can get over that particular hump.”

“Then reanimation’s in. Jim, I’m not so foolish as to think that we can ever go back to where we were two months ago. The Beller process exists; it can’t be destroyed. But it can be batted around in committee and sidechannelled and circumvented until the time is ripe for popular acceptance. And the Party may have to do that to you, though I hope it doesn’t happen.”

“Do you think it will, though? ”

Again the sad smile. “Read the newspapers, man. Read your mail!”

Harker read his mail.

He ploughed through hundreds of vicious, sweat-provoking letters. He sorted them out: favorable on one side, unfavorable on the other. The unfavorable pile grew so high it toppled over, and he started a new one; the pile of encouraging letters was no more than three inches thick.

They were letters of raw hate, most of them. The kind of thing that went, My beloved mother/father/sister/brother/son/daughter/aunt/uncle/grandmother/grandfather/ died last week, and I want to tell you she/he had a decent Christian burial and went to his/her eternal repose. Naturally I feel sorrow at my loss, but Yd rather be dead mysetf than let a loved one of mine get into your hands. Sure, maybe you’ll bring him/her back to life—but who wants to see the hollow mindless shell of someone you once loved? Not me, brother. Not me.

It was an enlarging experience to read those letters. Even when he had held public office, Harker had never received so many, nor such loaded ones.

It was astonishing. They gloated in the triumph of death, they thanked God they had not allowed their beloved ones to be reanimated, they extended curses for Harker and his whole family. He was the target of their hate, the symbol for reanimation.

At first he was irritated, then angered; anger passed, and turned into compassion. Perhaps some of these same people had written to him a month ago, pleading to have a loved one restored to them by the new miracle of science. Now, confused by the haze of conflicting tales, of lies and partial truths, their earlier willingness turned to repulsion.

Harker wearily baled the letters up again, and left Litchfield to spend some time with his puzzled, unhappy family. They were accustomed to seeing their father’s name in the headlines; it was old stuff to them. But this public hatred was new to them, and difficult for them to understand.

It was not too late, Harker thought. The forces of confusion could be put to rout; the dominion of death could at last have boundaries staked out.

But the public faith had to be regained. Some spectacular demonstration, some act of faith that would capture their imagination and end the sway of ignorance.

But what? How?

Harker had no answer. And the answer, when it came, arrived from an unexpected quarter.