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 sturdily built. Are you married yet, Leonards? Where do you live? What are your dreams and ambitions? Isn’t it frustrating for you 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 toward her. “This is a diagnostat,” he told her. “We simply wish to check your physical condition before we proceed with the transplant. It’s important that your health and body tone be at the top of their cycle. This part just takes a minute-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 scanning 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 transplant. 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 drug—”
“Am I getting picrotoxin or one of the pentylenetetrazol derivatives?” Risa asked.
Leonards looked shaken. “You’ve been doing some homework!”
“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 inhibition, and some of the others block
“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 sturdily built. Are you married yet, Leonards? Where do you live? What are your dreams and ambitions? Isn’t it frustrating for you 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 toward her. “This is a diagnostat,” he told her. “We simply wish to check your physical condition before we proceed with the transplant. It’s important that your health and body tone be at the top of their cycle. This part just takes a minute-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 scanning 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 transplant. 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 drug—”
“Am I getting picrotoxin or one of the pentylenetetrazol derivatives?” Risa asked.
Leonards looked shaken. “You’ve been doing some homework!”
“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 inhibition, and some of the others block
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