Fantastic – October 1956
(1956)*
Randall Garrett & Robert Silverberg
(as by Leonard G. Spencer)
It's a darned shame that just when we get past the experimental stage and learn how to have fun, the old body-starts wearing out. Now what if there were spare parts for sale? What if you could get them installed on demand? A new heart, a new liver, a new—well, just suppose!
-
"THE trouble with bodies," said the new rub-down specialist at the Gotham Baths, "is that after a while they just wear out."
"Glmph," said Hugh Horner as the skin-sleeking oil was applied liberally to his face, making a drawn-out reply impossible.
"Ain't it funny, though," the rub-downer said, "how you can buy a new set of piston rings for your car or a mainspring for your wrist-watch or a new gizmo for the old lady's mix-master, but you can't even buy a new appendix, if you should need one, for yourself."
The quick hands left Horner's face and began to knead the sagging muscles in his pectoral" region. "If you look at it that way," Horner said, "you have a point." He was alone in the massage room with the attendant. He felt worn and drained out, as he always did at the end of a heavy week's work at the office. A steam bath and a massage helped, but he had to admit it: he wasn't as young as he used to be.
"Of course I have a point, Mr. Horner," said the attendant. "Folks spent all that money on machines, what I mean, and almost nothing on themselves. Tell me what happens when a guy develops a bad ticker—Wait, I'll tell you what happens. He sits somewhere in a soft chair, on a porch maybe, sucking on a dry pipe and waiting for the next attack, which will probably kill him."
"I've heard pleasanter talk," Hugh Horner said in sudden distaste.
"What's the matter? Afraid of the truth?"
"Now really!" said Horner.
"How old are you, Mr. Horner? Forty-five?"
"I'm forty-seven," Horner admitted. His age, thus objectively stated in his own voice, came as a mild shock. Forty-seven! He was virtually middle-aged.
"Forty-seven! How many years before you change the car's battery?"
"Why, two or three, I guess."
"The tires?"
"Every twenty-five thousand miles. That would be about three years."
The attendant leaned down over him, still kneading the flesh of his chest. "How much you got in the bank, Mr. H.?" he asked in a tight whisper.
"I don't see where that's any business of yours," Horner replied in a shocked voice.
"You get a car on time, it's the finance company's business, isn't it? You take out a mortgage, it's the bank's business—right?"
"Yes, but—"
"How much, then?"
"Well, er, six thousand dollars."
"Joint account with your wife?"
"Y-yes."
"Happily married?"
"Now, just a minute!"
"Are you or aren't you?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"You suppose so!"
"Yes, I'm happily married. Naturally, Jane isn't exactly the same girl she was twenty years ago, when we were married. She's put on some weight and she's got wrinkles and she's not exactly a sweater girl—"
"I see. Any children?"
"No, we were never blessed—"
"Blessed, is it? Well, that's good. No children. I think you'll do, Mr. Horner."
"Do? Do for what?"
"Congratulations, sir," the rub-down man said, smacking some oil on Horner's abdomen and squashing the flesh around to show Horner how soft he'd become.
Horner said, "Say, what happened to George, anyway." George was Horner's usual attendant at the Gotham Baths.
"George wised up. He's out getting a body job."
"Oh, something happen to George's car?"
"Not his car."
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
"He's getting a body job," said the attendant. "He's getting a new body."
The hands went slap-slap against Horner's abdomen. He could hear the attendant's heavy, regular breathing. "Ha-ha," he said. "You're pulling my leg."
"I just now explained—"
"You said George was out getting a new body. That's a joke, isn't it?"
"It's no joke to George. It's costing him four thousand dollars, all the money he has. But he thinks it's worth it. Wouldn't you?"
"A new, er, body, you mean?"
"Yes. To start life at age twenty-five again, aware of all your mistakes, your shortcomings, your—"
"All right," Horner said finally, "that's enough. I've been lying here and listening because I've had no choice, understand? But you've worn that joke out, fellow. I wish you'd stop."
The masseur mumbled something under his breath, then said, "Well, that does it on the front side. Care to roll over?"
"Yes," said Horner dutifully, and did so. He thought: funny, the way this bird delivered that new body pitch. Such a straight face. So utterly serious, almost as if he were interviewing me. The silence stretched. Horner regretted having asked the attendant to stop his yarn about new bodies. He finally said, in defeat, "Er, about what you were saying—"
"You want an appointment? That's what I'm here for."
"An appointment? With whom?"
The attendant wiped his hands on a large towel and tossed its twin to Horner. From somewhere, he plucked a neat white business card and gave it to Horner. The card said:
BODIES, INC. By appointment only.
There was a telephone number and an address out on Long Island. There was nothing else.
"Three thousand is what it will cost you," the attendant said. "You're lucky it's a joint account you have."
"Three thousand dollars!" gasped Horner. "For what?"
"For a new body, naturally. Twenty-five years old and in sound health. Fit as a pin, you're guaranteed that. I think it's a bargain."
"But three thousand dollars—"
"What kind of car you drive?"
Horner told him.
"Buy it brand new?"
"I never buy second-hand cars," Horner told him haughtily.
"Then it cost you damn near as much as a new body is going to. What are you complaining about?"
Horner clucked an answer and then was told he could go to the locker room and climb into his clothing. He tipped the usual fifty cents, showered, dressed in his street clothing. He did all this, trying not to think about what he had heard—but the more he tried not to think about it, the more he did think about it.
Calling himself a fool, he returned to the massaging rooms. He poked his head inside the room in which the new man had given him a rubdown.
An attendant with a stocky build and shell-rimmed glasses stared out at him, squinted myopically, and smiled. "Evening, Mr. Horner," he said.
It was George, who had given Horner his weekly massage every week for the past five years—except tonight.
"Why, you're here!" blurted Horner.
"Sure am, sir. Wondered why you were late. Go ahead and undress, now. I'll reserve your usual table ..."
"But I just had my massage."
"Oh?" said George, trying to make his voice sound indifferent. "Trying one of the other masseurs?"
"Not at all," snapped Horner. "You weren't here. Well, were you?"
"Never even stepped out. Been here all night," George said.
"But the other man, the new man—"
"No new man, Mr. Horner, sir. Haven't put on a new man in six-seven months. I'd know, wouldn't I?"
"You'd know," said Horner slowly, after a silence.
"Something the matter, sir?"
"It's nothing. Nothing."
Horner got out of there very quickly. He took a cab home, which was unusual for him. If George and his nameless friend had been playing an elaborate practical joke, they had also been playing hob with Horner's digestion. For now a hot sensation flooded his middle—his damned ulcer acting up. Ulcers, he thought with a sudden wry smile, ulcers and what else? You're forty-seven, Horner. A mildly successful life, a good marriage, a middling business, no children, no outstanding debts—any regrets?
Yes, Horner thought. Regrets. His ulcer was a regret. He had to be careful what he ate, couldn't drink much. His rising blood pressure would one day be a regret, even if it wasn't yet. And generally, vaguely, his insignificance was a regret. He was not a meek man, but he was no Tarzan of the Apes. He was not a small man, but he was no Goliath. He was not a lowbrow, but he was no Einstein. He was not without an eye and some appeal for women, but he was no Don Juan. He sighed, knowing you could extend the list indefinitely. Hugh Horner, small businessman. Hugh Horner, small man.
"Here's your address, Mac," the cab driver said.
Horner got up with a start. He realized he had been sitting there for some time with the cab perfectly still. He somehow sensed that time had passed, more time than the thirty-odd minutes it would take a cab to deliver him to his home on the other side of the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel.
"Where—where are we?" he asked the cabbie. For some reason, he fingered the business card in his pocket. The one the new masseur, the masseur who apparently did not exist, had given him.
The cabbie, shrugging, told him an address which was not immediately familiar. Then, with a sudden quickening of his heart, Horner realized it was the address on the business card in his pocket.
"You mean," Horner demanded, "we're on Long Island? I don't remember telling you to take me here."
"Well, I didn't dream it up myself, Mac," the cabbie said. "Look, I don't care if you get out or you don't get out. The flag is still down and I'm still making money. So, what'll it be?"
...
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