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 blundered? 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 computer. But no, he was human enough: here were lust, rage, avarice, triumph, all the passions, throbbing chords of emotion slashing 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 persona, 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; roving 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 of great power. He saw towering Gothic arches receding to infinity. 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 risks—”

“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 muscular control, the more violent the tremors became. He said, “It’s nothing but a reaction to tension. I don’t pretend it was like nothing, 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 Walsh seemed dazed; Kozak, sullen, withdrawn, wounded.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 enjoyed 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 suppose. 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 effects 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 want—”

“I won’t.”

“If,” said Santoliquido. “There could be serious economic consequences.”

“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, having seen that man’s mind — 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’t—”

“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 highest degree could offer. You’re the first person I’ve suggested giving 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.

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-suited—”

“Stop it, Frank.”

“You oughtn’t turn away from Schaffhausen that lightly. His unique powers would be of great value to you in—”

“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 yours—”

“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 dybbuk—”

“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 transplant 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 woman—”

“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?”

“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 reconciled to the idea after a while, once he finds out I’m not a monster.”

“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 succession, 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?”