Seconds (16 page)

Morning sunlight was filtering through a single small-paned window high above his head. He glanced up at it, then around the tiny room which was barely large enough to contain the cot, a small bureau, and a wooden chair on which some clothing was folded. He himself was naked, and hungry as well.

An aroma of coffee and bacon originating from beyond the closed door brought him eagerly to his feet, and he began putting on the clothing which had been laid out for him: grey slacks, soft white shirt, wool socks, and bedroom slippers. The slippers gave substance to his impression that he was indeed possessed of the status of a pre-operative patient, who was bound to be given the very best of care pending arrangements for his entry into surgery. He did not actually look forward to the prospect of spending weeks of a frequently painful convalescence, but he was prepared—fully prepared—to endure it, if that was what the company had planned for him.

The likelihood of such a solution became more and more apparent to him with each passing moment. After all, the company had flatly guaranteed his successful rebirth as Antiochus Wilson, and although it was certainly not to blame for the failure of that experiment—despite its occasional miscalculations—nevertheless the obligation remained outstanding. The company owed him a satisfactory rebirth, if not as Wilson, then as someone else. But not as his former self. No, he saw that a true restoration would be out of the question, for the banker was legally dead, and even the company's agile Documents Division, for all of its experience in the fabrication of papers, could hardly be expected to effect a resurrection.

Perhaps, he reflected as he put on a light tan jacket to complete his ensemble, the new identity would combine the best features of the two preceding ones. In any case, he concluded sensibly, the first order of business was breakfast.

The door to his room opened onto a long passageway. He proceeded along it in the direction of the enticing odor of coffee, noticing as he went that many similar cubicles were on either side of the corridor, and although he saw no occupants, he assumed that he thus was but one of a group of clients who, like himself, had found it necessary to return to the company for reorientation.

Opening a door at the end of the corridor, he entered a room that was familiar. It was, in fact, the huge area he had wandered into on his first visit to the company, when he was attempting to find a way out of the building, and he now saw there approximately what he had witnessed before—a considerable number of middle-aged gentlemen seated at desks or in easy chairs, engaged in a variety of pastimes and amusements, each of them wearing a tan cloth jacket similar to the one he had put on. And again, as before, no one seemed particularly to notice his appearance.

Wilson cleared his throat and stepped tentatively forward. One of the men nearby finally glanced at him, and with an indifferent expression indicated an empty desk, on which had been placed a tray bearing a plate of bacon and toast, and a pot of coffee. “I imagine that's yours,” the man remarked, neither pleasantly nor otherwise, and lowered his head again to resume his occupation, the examination of a coin collection.

Not exactly a hearty welcome to a fellow patient, Wilson reflected as he sat at the desk and began to eat the breakfast. But then, he thought, undoubtedly all these middle-aged men were preoccupied with their own little pastimes and above all, with the none too pleasing prospect of returning to surgery. Besides, they were in a sense a collection of misfits and failures—like himself—and they could hardly be expected to possess the kind of fraternal
esprit de corps
which would lead them to hail a new member warmly. In any event, they were certainly a resigned and withdrawn lot, he thought. No wonder he had mistaken them for clerks before.

The breakfast, at least, was satisfying. He finished every scrap of bacon and toast, and while waiting for someone to give him instructions—if indeed he was supposed to do anything other than sit where he was—he idly began to pull open the drawers of the desk. There was a variety of items inside: a book of crossword puzzles, some of which had been worked; several large and complicated jigsaw puzzles; a dictionary; a miniature chess set, and pads of yellow ruled paper with an assortment of pencils, some new and unsharpened, others mere stubs bearing teeth-marks.

Feeling disinclined simply to sit unemployed at the desk, while all the other clients were engaged in their little occupations, Wilson took out one of the yellow pads with the idea of doing some sketches to while away the time. The top page was partly torn. He removed it, and underneath discovered a few lines of neat handwriting.

“Being of sound mind and body,” the writing began, “I . . .” And at this point were listed several names, each one being crossed out, as if the author had been unable to decide which one to use, and finally, as further testimony to his frustration, the writing ended abruptly with the phrase: “I have nothing to bequeath.”

Wilson put the pad away, feeling that he had inadvertently trespassed on the privacy of the gentleman who had formerly used the desk, whose rather eccentric jottings had presumably been overlooked when he had been taken to surgery and his desk cleaned out for the next occupant.

He withdrew instead one of the jigsaw puzzles, and was half-heartedly preparing to assemble it when he realized that one of the other men was slowly approaching him. He glanced up; the man's face was not familiar, not familiar at all, and yet Wilson had the uncanny sensation that he did in fact know who he was, and that on top of this, the face that now was presenting itself was none other than the one he had glimpsed in this same room months before, which at the time had had a chilling effect. Possibly it was the eyes. Great mournful eyes they were, gazing directly into his own with a lugubrious, knowing look.

“How do you do?” Wilson remarked uneasily, rising from his chair.

“Hello, Wilson.” The voice was decidedly familiar. Wilson, experiencing a mild rush of vertigo, sat down suddenly. The newcomer drew up another chair, sitting quite close, as if to indicate that their conversation should be guarded, although actually the other men seemed to be paying no attention to them, but continued their chess games and other sedentary activities as before.

“You're Charley,” Wilson said, accusingly.

Charley shrugged his shoulders and smiled with a corner of his mouth.

“What are you doing here?” Wilson asked, still bewildered by the sight of those well-remembered eyes set in a strange arrangement of features.

“The same as yourself,” said Charley. “Waiting.” He chuckled, but without mirth. “You're not a bad-looking fellow now, old boy,” he added. “They did a nice job on you. It's a shame it didn't work out.”

Wilson wiped his forehead with his sleeve. The huge room seemed to have become uncomfortably warm and close. There were too many men there, sealed up together; it was oppressive. He became aware of the countless little sounds: the mumble of conversation, the turning of pages, and even the whisper of chessmen being shifted to new positions. He found that his own fingers were toying with the jigsaw pieces, which he was aimlessly studying.

“You'd rather not look at me just now, I suppose,” said Charley. “Don't worry. I quite understand.”

“It's just that it's—it's a bit odd to recognize someone and not to recognize them, at the same time.”

“You'll get used to it, Wilson.
I'm
used to it. Your face doesn't bother me the least bit,” said Charley, comfortingly, “and in a few days or so you'll find yourself much more at ease. Actually, you'll get to like the place.”

Wilson continued to work on the puzzle. “I hope so. I'm sure I will, I mean.”

“It's not bad,” Charley went on. “The food is good, the accommodations are adequate, and there are all sorts of things to do to pass the time. If you happen to play chess—you did play once, didn't you?—there are several men here who'll be glad to give you a contest. Checkers, too. And other games, of course. Plenty of things while you're waiting.”

“Waiting for surgery? Is it awfully crowded, then?”

“For example, I've made a kind of project out of stamp-collecting. Come over to my desk sometime. I'll show you my albums. I've got thirty of them, jam-packed with stamps from every country in the world, and some of them darned rare, too. There's a Nigerian issue, for instance, that's got a peculiar sort of perforation error that exists in only a couple of hundred. Before they changed it, you see. I got that one just last month.”

Wilson wiped his brow once more. The box to the jigsaw puzzle depicted a horse race, but he was having difficulty in finding any piece that remotely resembled part of a horse. He wondered whether the previous occupant of the desk had not put the puzzles away in the wrong boxes.

He ventured a quick glance at Charley. “Excuse me, but how long have you been here?”

“Oh, quite a little while. It's not easy to assemble thirty stamp albums.”

“But . . . you were here in this room when I came last year.”

“Um, yes.”

“And when you telephoned me, you were here then, too?”

“In the building, that's right.”

“But good Lord, Charley. Does a man have to wait that long to go back into surgery?”

“Oh, I'm one of the exceptions,” Charley said quickly. “I was on a kind of special detail, you see, as your sponsor.”

“I don't understand.”

“Well, I was asked to sort of stay around so I could telephone you if necessary from time to time. Which I did, as you know. But now . . .” He hesitated.

“But now it won't be necessary,” Wilson said. “Well, I can only say I'm truly sorry if I kept you from getting back on the surgery list. I mean, keeping you here all that extra time. But I appreciate it, Charley.”

“Don't mention it.” Charley sighed. “After all, I was the one who called you in the first place.”

“You called from here then, too?”

“Yes.”

“But dammit, Charley, when you called that first time, you sounded like the whole experience was something tremendous. Rebirth. And all the time you were here, right here back at the company. Which means, unless I am greatly mistaken, that you yourself had been somewhat short of a success on your first try.”

“Well, I guess I thought you'd have a better chance. I figured I was doing you a favor.”

“You were, Charley. Believe me, you've been right all the way through this thing. It's my fault that I wasn't able to take proper advantage of it. What you said about pioneering, for example. That hits the question right on the nose, in my judgment. I'm just sorry I couldn't quite live up to the standard on my first time around, and I guess it's been something of a worry to you, watching me take the wrong turn time after time, in spite of all your advice.” Charley was silent, and Wilson went on fumbling with the puzzle, which still resisted his efforts to bring it into some kind of order.

“I suppose you knew I'd be a flop from the time I went to Denver, didn't you?” he remarked finally.

“I was afraid you would be. I—I sort of resigned myself to it, though.”

Wilson looked up again and saw that Charley's eyes were moist. “Well,” he stammered, touched by his friend's show of emotion, “it's damned kind of you . . . really fine, I mean, to be so . . .” He cleared his throat. “And all for my sake, old man. Really, damned unselfish of you.”

Charley looked away.

“I must say,” Wilson went on, anxious not to evoke any further evidence of distress on Charley's part, “I won't make the same mistakes again!” He produced a rueful chuckle. “You know, Charley, when I got home yesterday, I found Emily'd turned the house upside down. Knocked out my entire study, to make a dining room extension. That was a hell of a shock, I can tell you. And she'd redone the whole house, too—painting, furniture, everything, and there was hardly a trace left—”

He was interrupted by the ringing of a bell. It was not loud, but the sound appeared to have some special meaning for the clients, for at once the conversations were hushed, and the hands that held the chess-pieces stopped in place. Charley had made a quick little movement of his head. He was looking at the door at the front of the room, as indeed were all of the other clients, and so Wilson, too, glanced that way, in time to see the door open to admit two white-clad orderlies and the resident physician with the scarred face.

The doctor stood surveying the silent room and then remarked: “Good morning, gentlemen,” and without any further ceremony enunciated two names: “Parker, please, and Walsh,” whereupon two of the clients rose from their chairs, shuffled forward, and accompanied by the orderlies, left the room. The doctor remained for only a moment. “Sorry to disappoint the rest of you gentlemen,” he declared, “but perhaps tomorrow, eh?” and with his crooked little grin, he, too, turned and walked out.

As the door closed behind him, the customary hum of mild activity resumed within the room; no one seemed to consider the departure of Messrs. Parker and Walsh as anything but a routine occurrence.

“Where did they go, Charley?” Wilson asked.

“To surgery.”

“Well, my God. Then they won't be coming back.”

“No.”

“Well, I must say there was certainly a minimum of leave-taking. You'd think they were just going out to the men's room. Don't people even shake hands with their neighbors around here?”

Charley scratched himself under the arms. “Well, as a matter of fact, it doesn't seem to be the custom. Things go pretty much by the book in this organization, Wilson. I guess you haven't gotten your briefing yet, but the story is simple. Your turn comes and you just go, that's all. They don't waste much time on ceremonies.”

“But don't you know when it's your turn? Take yourself. Aren't you on a waiting list now?”