Seconds (10 page)

“I see, sir.”

“No, you don't see. How can you see? You've never been in this position,” Wilson complained, pacing to and fro in the living room. “Do you understand what this kind of thing suggests, John? By God, I have this peculiar feeling, wondering if some day I won't turn a corner and come face to face with myself. Now, seriously,” Wilson declared, shaking a finger in John's face, “we've got to find some way out of this mess. Tell me frankly, John—is there or isn't there another Antiochus Wilson? I think I have a right to know.”

“You need reassurance, sir.”

“You're damned right I do.”

“But unfortunately, Mr. Wilson, I'm in no position personally to satisfy you,” John added. “If you will be willing to wait for a while, though, perhaps I can arrange something.”

“Like what?”

“I'm sorry, sir, but if you will be patient—”

“All right, John,” Wilson grumbled. “Do it your way. I don't want to pry into your affairs, but it seems to me that they're my affairs, too. After all, I've spent a good deal of money and gone to a lot of trouble to get to my present position, and it's no bed of roses, either,” he added, thinking of his perplexity at the problem of dealing with the all-too-willing woman at the beach, “and to have this anxiety on top of it all, is just too damned much. Do you see what I mean?”

“Completely, sir.”

“I hope so, John.”

“Very good, sir,” muttered John, who then left with a troubled expression.

Wilson went outside to the terrace. The night was bland and moist, for a fog was moving in from the ocean. There was no odor in the air; no fragrance of flowers, no resinous aroma of trees, not even the freshness of sea salt. All was temperate and damp, and as the fog became more dense, it obscured the random lights that marked the neighboring houses until they were no more than greyish patches in a wet black cavern that seemed to be slowly circling. A new world, Wilson thought. A new life. Of course it was bound to be alarming, he told himself. What else could be expected, when he had so suddenly cast off all of the old associations and memories on which he had become accustomed to depend? Any man would find such an experience quite difficult. But of course that did not exactly cover the particular problem that was uppermost in his mind. If there were another Antiochus Wilson, then the company would stand convicted either of gross carelessness or downright fraud. He was in the process of wondering whether he should not take the precaution in any case of consulting a lawyer when his meditations were interrupted by John's voice, summoning him inside.

“A long-distance call for you, sir.”

“Eh? Oh, yes.”

But who would be calling him? Nervously, he approached the telephone. He knew no one. Almost literally, he knew no one.

“Um, hello?”

It was Charley. Wilson sighed in relief.

“My God, Charley, if you knew how good it is to hear a familiar voice!”

“Look here, old boy. I understand you've got a case of nerves. That's why I'm calling. And by the way,” Charley went on, “I guess I'd better call you Wilson. All right?”

“Of course; but listen, Charley—”

“You don't have to tell me your situation. I know all about it. I mean, I know what's troubling you. Well, I can tell you, old boy, your fears are quite groundless. Believe me, this comes from the highest authority. I can guarantee that you are the absolute and only Antiochus Wilson in existence.”

“Thank God for that.”

“Feel better now?”

“Of course I do, Charley. But that still doesn't explain why some people around here seem to know me.”

“Well, that's a bit more complicated. There's an explanation, all right, and actually the company made a little miscalculation in your case, and I'll explain that, too. But tell me, apart from this one worry you've had, how've things been going?”

“Frankly,” said Wilson, “they haven't gone too well. I'm completely at sea on this thing, Charley. I haven't got my bearings yet. Believe me, it would help me tremendously to see you again. Can't we arrange to get together? Where are you now, for example?”

“I'm afraid that'll be impossible at present,” said Charley. “I couldn't get away.” He hesitated. “Anyway, we wouldn't exactly recognize each other now, you understand,” he added, more slowly, “and that might not be what the doctor ordered, in your present mental attitude. You need friends, naturally. But you'll find them, old boy. You'll find them.”

Wilson remained silent.

“You're just a little jumpy right now,” Charley continued. “But let me try to give you a little perspective. That's one thing you need—perspective. Are you with me?”

“Yes.”

“Look at it this way. You're living a dream. All those longings you had back in the old days—well, they've come true now. You've got what almost every middle-aged man in America would like to have. Freedom. Real freedom. You can do any damned thing you want to. You've got financial security, you've got no responsibilities, and you've got no reason at all to feel guilty about what you've done. The company's taken care of everything. Right?”

“I suppose so.”

“Of course you're anxious. But that'll pass. You're a pioneer, old boy. That's literally true. The old frontier, you know what that was? That was a dream, too. A new life, a new chance. Out on the prairies, in the mountains, wherever there were empty spaces for men to start over again. Well, that's finished. We'll never have that again. But there's a different frontier now—the frontier of personal freedom, and I mean
real
freedom—and there are different pioneers, too. You're one of 'em, Wilson, and all I can say is that pioneering is no easy trick in any man's language, but the rewards are tremendous. Tremendous.”

“I sincerely hope so.”

“It's the wave of the future,” Charley went on, expansively. “I'm no damned sociologist, but you know as well as I do that we've got what the professors call an ‘open society.' Well, to me, that means mobility. A man can move toward what he wants, regardless of class or creed. It doesn't matter who his parents were or how he votes or what church he goes to. You know what I mean? What I'm trying to say is that the company has broken through the last important barrier to true mobility, and I suppose if you had to give that barrier a name, you'd call it identity. Most people can change a lot of things—their church, their political party, their place of residence—but they can't change their identity. Well,
we
did. That's the difference. That's the big difference. By God, Wilson, I don't want to preach at you, but I think you can make a darned good case for the idea that we represent a future America. Naturally,” Charley added, clearing his throat, “it took a lot of money in our cases, but I wouldn't be at all surprised if in a few years this process became available to everyone, including those of moderate means.”

“Have they thought of the installment plan?”

Charley chuckled. “By God, it's good to know you've still got your sense of humor. I guess your spirits aren't as droopy as you thought, eh? But actually, you may have a point there. Once the company gets all the wrinkles out of its techniques, then maybe they'll want to reach a bigger market and reduce unit costs. But I guess they aren't ready for that yet.”

“Speaking of wrinkles, you said the company made a miscalculation in my case.”

“Oh. Well, in most instances, the company is anxious to have its clients completely absorbed in their new identities. Forget the old life, accept the new—do you follow me? Well, this isn't too simple sometimes, because although the exterior is different, the client's mind is the same, and maybe he hangs on to his past a little too strongly. If this was Russia, old boy, there'd be some brainwashing to take care of that problem, but thank God, this is a free country and we don't indulge in that sort of thing. But as I was saying, the company's whole position is that psychologically the client must be encouraged to believe that he has never been anybody but the person he has suddenly become. Is that clear? It's supposed to speed up the process of getting used to the new identity, you see. So one of the tactics is to imply the existence of a past that doesn't really exist, but logically ought to—is this confusing, old boy?”

“No. But if this means having total strangers come up and clap you on the back like an old friend, Charley, all that does is scare the life out of you. It did me, anyhow.”

“Well, as I said, the company miscalculated with you. You're too sensitive for that kind of conditioning, evidently.”

“Who are these men, then? Did the company hire a bunch of actors or what?”

“They're not actors, Wilson. Not exactly, no. They're more or less like you are.”

“What do you mean?”

Charley sighed, as if he feared making any disclosures over the long-distance telephone system.

“Like you, Wilson. Um, pioneers.”

“You mean they're reborns, too?”

“That's it. In a word, they were briefed on your arrival and instructed to greet you as an old friend. Obviously, this was an error.”

“So they don't really know me.”

“Of course not.”

“Well, that takes a load off my mind. But I wonder why the hell my servant didn't tell me about this.”

“Not authorized, old boy.”

Wilson hesitated. “But listen, Charley,” he said, “how many of these people are there around here? I've hardly had my nose outside since I've been out here, and I've already run into two of them.”

“Actually, there are quite a few. You're living in a kind of colony of them, old man. You get your servant to have a party. Get acquainted. You'll find them a likable crowd. You've got plenty in common.”

“But the women, are they—?”

“Oh, no. Just the men. The women aren't involved, and naturally this is the kind of thing you don't tell anybody about, even your wife, not that anyone would believe it. Well, the women are wives or the equivalent and a nice lively bunch of girls, too, as I understand it, and I'm sure you can get yourself acclimated in that department, too.”

“But wait a minute. You mean
all
the men around here are like me?”

“Probably. Most, anyway.”

“But some aren't? How'm I supposed to know?”

“Old boy,” said Charley, firmly. “It isn't supposed to make any difference. You ignore it, understand?”

“That's all very well to say, Charley, but look here. Suppose I meet some fellow who's got a Harvard degree. Maybe he was in my class, even. Well, dammit, how am I supposed to know whether he really was or not? It can't be proved either way, if you see what I mean.”

“Old boy,” said Charley again, more firmly. “You didn't go to Harvard.”

“The hell I didn't.”

“You better refresh your memory, my friend. There was a fellow I once knew who went to Harvard, but he died of a stroke several months ago. Do you get me?”

Wilson winced. “All right. Yes. But you've got to admit it's confusing, all this.”

“Sure it is,” said Charley, in a more soothing tone. “Now listen. I've been on this call too long. I think I've explained the basic situation to you and I hope I've cleared away your worries. You just keep paddling away, old boy, and sooner than you think you'll really begin to enjoy life—every single minute, every single day. That's what you paid for, that's what the company contracted to deliver, and that's what you're going to get. Now you get your servant to throw a little party and you start making friends. A man needs friends, and believe me, the fellows out around you are totally sympathetic to your position, and they'll do everything they can to make you feel at ease. The company's passed the word about their little mistake, and this ‘old friend' stuff will definitely be soft-pedaled from now on. Okay?”

“Sure, Charley.”

“And you feel better now, don't you?”

“I can't thank you enough. I really can't. But look, Charley, let me have your phone number, in case—”

“So long, old boy,” said Charley, in a cheerful voice, and there was a definitive click at the end of the line.

T
he cocktail party was held five days later. John handled all of the arrangements, sending out invitations, hiring additional servants for the occasion, and leaving nothing for Wilson to do but study the guest list, where beside each name John had helpfully noted the person's physical characteristics and occupation.

Dutifully, Wilson studied the list, virtually committing it to memory. All of the men, he saw, were “about 40,” and all of them, too, were engaged in rather vague occupations. There were several investment analysts, which could mean almost anything; a few were writers, and some were listed as “commercial representatives,” or “industrial consultants,” while one was frankly identified as “retired.” Wilson supposed that this last man represented a failure on the part of the company's guidance adviser, Mr. Davalo. Yet wouldn't it be simpler, he thought, for all the clients to be considered as retired? That's what they were, surely. And then, too, why was he so compulsively studying the list of guests, when every item of information on it was meaningless, in the sense that all had been artifically created by the physicians and technicians of the company back East? John had written “bald spot” beside the name of a Mr. Filter, but that attribute was undoubtedly a subtle refinement sketched on Filter's scalp in the Delivery Room some few short months ago; and what if that gentleman were questioned rather closely on his supposed specialty of investment analysis . . . would he fumble for answers and grow embarrassed and seek to find some other topic of conversation?

However, Wilson firmly dismissed from his mind such impertinent speculations—after all, he himself would be equally vulnerable in matters of art—and determined to carry out his responsibilities as host in good faith. At least the women were bona fide, he reflected. Some were wives, according to John's list, while others were merely noted delicately as “friend” of the gentlemen they were to accompany. There were, all together, twenty-four men and women. Quite a crowd for him to manage by himself, Wilson thought, and he suddenly wished that Emily were with him for the occasion. Despite her failings, she was a skillful hostess and invariably had undertaken the management of all the bores and drunks and lechers who had attended their parties in Connecticut. John, of course, would take care of the canapés and the drinks, but for the rest of it—the small talk, the maneuvering of groups, the instinct for anticipating trouble spots—a woman was absolutely necessary. Wilson wondered: should he ask John to engage some mature lady for the evening? Surely there were women who did this sort of thing. Then he recalled that John's previous choice of female companionship for him had not been too successful, and so he decided not to risk making matters worse. He would face his guests alone.