“Do you know this man, Donahy?” A nod. “It’s Paul Kaufmann, isn’t it?”

“Yes. My late uncle. He’ll soon be back in carnate form, I believe.”

“I don’t know anything about that, sir.”

“The information I have is that Administrator Santoliquido intends shortly to approve the transplant of my uncle’s persona to John Roditis.”

Donahy looked blank. Kaufmann realized that he was speaking beyond the technician’s comprehension; Roditis and Santoliquido and old Paul were simply not part of Donahy’s world except as friezes on some titanic facade far overhead. They were demigods, and Donahy did not concern himself with their wishes, conflicts, or plans.

Kaufmann said, “How would you like to be earning twenty thousand bucks fish a year, Donahy?”

“Sir?”

“I need a favor. You’re in a position to grant it. I could have picked any one of a hundred technicians to handle the job for me, but I’ve dealt with you before and I know you’re capable and trustworthy. And I assume you could always use more money. What do you get paid, anyway?”

“Seven thousand, sir. With an annual increment of two hundred fifty.”

“Which means that if you stick to your job and don’t make any conspicuous mistakes, you’re likely to be making as much as ten thousand by the time you’re middle-aged, right? And there you stick until you retire and die. Well, I’m offering you an extra twenty thousand, on a lifetime annuity. Out of that you should be able to put aside enough money to make the down payment on a Scheffing persona recording. Would you like to live again, Donahy?”

The man looked utterly sick now. Rivulets of perspiration streamed down his face. He reached impulsively toward the tray of drinks, and then, as if deciding that it was impolite to serve himself without being asked, drew back, his fingers quivering.

Kaufmann smiled. “Go on. Have another. Have two. If you’re tense, why not?”

Donahy jabbed the snout of a drink tube against his arm. When he spoke, he had difficulty framing his words.

“Could-could you be more specific, Mr. Kaufmann?”

“Certainly. I’m sure you know that the Scheffing Institute retains all persona recordings it makes, storing them in various depots around the world. For example, John Roditis is shortly going to receive a transplant of my uncle’s persona recorded last December, but there’s also a Paul Kaufmann persona that was recorded last spring, and one made the year before that, and so on over quite a span of time. And these previous recordings remain in dead storage. Are you aware of that?”

“Yes.”

“Now, then, suppose you were to locate the whereabouts of my uncle’s last-but-one recording, which shouldn’t be too difficult for you to find, and remove it from storage. Then, suppose you were to bring this recording with you to a certain lamasery in San Francisco which is in the process of setting up its own soul bank. They’ve already installed enough equipment to do transplants and make recordings. What if you were to supervise the transplant of this borrowed persona at the lamasery? And then you’d undergo a blanking that would wipe all this incriminating evidence from your mind, so that no one could possibly prove that you had done any of these things. When you came to, you wouldn’t know what you had been up to, but you’d discover you had suddenly become the recipient of an annuity which automatically transferred twenty thousand bucks fish into your credit balance each year. That’s the equivalent of half a million dollars invested at four percent which is considerable capital. With that kind of stake, you’d be able to buy yourself onto the wheel of rebirth. The risk is very small and the reward is infinite. What do you say, Donahy?”

“I’ve always been a law-abiding man, Mr. Kaufmann.”

“I know that. But would you give up your chance of eternal life for the sake of respecting the regulations? Look, Donahy, the rules about transplants aren’t graven on tablets of stone. They don’t represent basic moral commandments. If you kill a man, that’s evil, I agree. If you molest a child and warp its life, that’s evil. If you mutilate another human being for arbitrary amusement, that’s evil. But the regulations governing the Scheffing Institute don’t grow out of fundamental ethical constructs. They’re just working rules set up to avoid confusion and possible conflicts. I don’t say that they ought to be disregarded lightly, but they mustn’t be looked upon as immutable. When there’s a chance to have rebirth by winking at the rules for a moment it’s suicidal to be a stickler for the letter of the law.”

Donahy appeared to be impressed by that argument. But he was not altogether tempted.

“How can I be sure that this isn’t some kind of trap?” he asked.

“Trap?” Kaufmann exploded. “Trap? You mean that I’ve had you hauled over here for purposes of entrapment? That I’ve given you this much of my time simply for the sake of finding out whether your loyalty to the rules is unshakable? Don’t be absurd.”

“I’ve got to look at this thing from my own viewpoint. You don’t know me at all, Mr. Kaufmann, except that I’ve worked on your recordings at the Institute. All of a sudden you send for me and offer me a fantastic reward if I’ll do something wrong. I can’t begin to understand any of this.”

“Let me spell it out for you, then. I’ll give you some insight into my motives. The recipient of the transplant will be myself.”

“You?”

“Me. I’m determined not to let John Roditis gain advantage on me by taking on my uncle’s persona. I’ll have a slightly earlier persona, slightly less complete, but good enough to match him anyway. That’ll nullify what he gains by getting Uncle Paul.”

Donahy was drawn back in his chair as though gripped by total panic. His eyes bulged; a muscle in his cheek danced about. Clearly he had no wish to be privy to these secrets of the great.

Kaufmann said, “Now you understand what’s at stake, Will you help me?”

“What would happen to me if I refused?”

“I’d have you mindpicked and blanked to get all the details of this conversation out of your head. Then I’d send you back to your apartment and have another Scheffing technician brought here, and I’d make the same offer.”

“I see.”

“What’s your answer, Donahy?”

“Can I have a little time to think things over, sir?”

“Of course.” Kaufmann looked at his watch. “Take sixty seconds, if you like.”

“I meant several days, Mr. Kaufmann.”

“You can’t have several days. You’ve heard the terms of the offer. I’ll shield you from all consequences and give you an annuity that will make you a rich man. What do you say?”

Donahy let nearly a full minute spill away before he replied. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes. I’ll do it! But you’ve got to protect me!”

“You have my assurance,” said Kaufmann. He stood up. “One of my associates will accompany you to your home. He’ll remain with you overnight. In the morning you’ll arrange to get access to the archive of old persona recordings. At the close of your working day you’ll be picked up and taken to San Francisco with the recording. I’ll meet you there tomorrow evening and you’ll perform the transplant. When you report for work in New York the day after tomorrow, your part will be complete and you’ll be blanked to protect you against possible interrogation. Your annuity payments will begin to accrue to your account that day. Is it a deal?”

Donahy nodded numbly. “Your hand,” Kaufmann said. He grasped the limp, cool fingers in his own. Then he buzzed for an aide to take the technician away. Donahy would not be alone again until the work was finished.

Moodily, Kaufmann let the tension ebb from his system. The interview had gone about as well as he could have expected. He disliked the shady nature of what he was doing; but at this stage he was compelled to take these protective steps. Above all else, a Kaufmann was bound by honor, yes. But if honor dictated that he preserve the family’s position no matter by what means, he could hardly afford to boggle at shady doings. Normal concepts of honor were not framed to include the existence of a Roditis.