Seconds (19 page)

“Naturally.”

“And some
do
make a go of it, my boy.” The old man's face brightened. “Not many, but some. That makes it better, doesn't it? And we are working constantly to find ways of improving on that proportion,” he added, wistfully. “I may not see it in my lifetime, but the younger executives like Joliffe may, and in fact I believe they will. Oh, you can call it wishful thinking, son, but it all began with a wish, didn't it? And our life is built on wishes. We've got to keep plugging away,” the old man declared severely, admonishing Wilson with one bony finger. “We can't just give up. We've got to push on, we've got to stay solvent and reduce costs wherever we can,” he said, referring again to his financial troubles. “Why, do you know that up until last year our Cadaver Procurement Section was running thirty and forty percent over budget, sir?”

Wilson stirred uneasily on the sofa. “But you've managed to take care of that problem now,” he muttered.

“Yes, yes. We—” The president stopped himself. “Sorry, Wilson. I'm afraid that example was not too aptly chosen, considering your position.”

Wilson merely shrugged, or rather, tried to shrug. He seemed to be even more divorced from his body than before, as if it were gradually, by means of the injection, acquiring an independent existence. If it got up and walked away, he wondered, would he remain in the little room . . . and if he did, what would he consist of?

“Could you do it now—right now?” he asked, although he did not particularly care.

“Do what? Oh—well, no, Wilson. That's impossible. We have to wait until a client appears who answers your general measurements.”

“But what about cold storage?”

“I'm afraid that's full-up, my boy. Anyway, we've found that we get the best results on the alternative basis. Cheaper, too. Less surgical conditioning.”

“I see,” Wilson said, or thought he said. He was not sure that his lips had moved, nor was he positive that he had heard his words, for the disembodied sensation was growing stronger, and it seemed that the power of speech and hearing was in a process of erosion. Sight, too, was becoming somewhat uncertain. The old man across the room was nothing more than a thin little shadow now, and his reedy voice was subject to irregular fluctuations, as if it were governed by a spluttering radio tube about to expire absolutely. Only phrases here and there came through with clarity.

“ . . . look at it this way, my boy . . . Opportunity for someone else . . . make amends for your failure . . .”

The dim overhead light now seemed to be slowly splitting into fragments, tiny points of light which danced in the air, then gradually became fixed in space.

Still the old man's voice continued, fitfully:

“It's your immortality, in a way, my boy . . . When most men die, they just die, that's all, without a purpose . . .”

Now the points of light were being extinguished, one by one. There was only darkness behind them.

“ . . . but for you, there'd be a purpose. Giving someone else a chance. Isn't that better than . . . ? Isn't that the point of life, my boy . . . ?”

Only a few of the lights remained.

“Love,” whispered the unsteady old voice. “It's love, son, the only kind of love that counts . . . Unselfish love . . .”

Now there were but two lights, and these so shrunken and uncertain that their existence seemed in doubt. He thought he might as well make one last effort to speak before they, too, faded into darkness together with the old man, the room, the building, city, everything; and so, swiftly but carefully choosing his words, he delivered a final response.

“It really doesn't matter,” he said.

About the Author

DAVID ELY was born in Chicago and was educated at the University of North Carolina, Harvard, and Oxford. He is a former newspaperman and the author of seven novels and two collections of short stories. His novel
Seconds
was the basis for the 1966 Rock Hudson film of the same title. He and his wife live on Cape Cod, in Massachusetts.

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Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A print edition of
Seconds
was originally published in August 1964 by Signet, a division of Random House, Inc.

SECONDS
. Copyright © 1963 by David Ely. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EPub Edition JANUARY 2013 ISBN: 9780062264923

Print Edition ISBN: 9780062264930

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