by Clya Brown
Seated in his small booth with a computer terminal at his side, the old
man with the flowing white hair and beard frowned, perplexed.
“Well,
this is most embarrassing, Mr Metcalfe.
Most embarrassing. I confess I don’t recall ever having seen
the like of it before. You see,
according to our records, well… you’re here already.”
Scarlet
adopted the patient look of someone prepared to roll with the punches.
“Please
don’t let it bother you, Mr…?”
“Peter.”
“Is
that Mr. Peter, or just Peter?”
“Oh,
just Peter, sir. Everyone is on first
name terms here – we find that the use of grandiose titles and honorifics tends
to mar the atmosphere of peace and universal brotherhood that we strive to
encourage throughout the Facility.”
Scarlet
nodded affably.
“I’m
sure it’s nothing to worry about… Peter.
Back on Cloudbase this sort of mix-up happens all the time. Flight schedules that get posted on the wrong
bulletin boards; dental treatment reminders sent to the wrong quarters, you
name it. I’m sure it’ll all get sorted
out in the end – it always is. Please
take your time: I’ve got plenty of it, I assure you.”
Peter’s
brow creased in an embarrassed frown – the very picture of someone whose
professional pride has been seriously dented.
“I
don’t doubt that’s true, sir, but normally when applicants arrive at the Gate
they expect to be let in without delay.
Having spent a lifetime striving to live up to their high ideals, most
feel that they’re entitled to it – some with justice, others perhaps less so,
although we do try to consider each case sympathetically. Might I just verify your details one more
time, sir?”
“Of
course. Metcalfe, Paul – though I suppose
it’s just possible you might have me filed under ‘Scarlet’.
“I’ve
already checked both, I’m afraid. Permanent
residence or domicile?”
“Cloudbase.”
“Does
that have a zip code that I could cross-reference?”
Scarlet
shook his head. “Unfortunately
not. It’s located above the surface of
the Earth as opposed to being stationed on the ground, and since it moves
around rather a lot, a zip code is somewhat impractical to maintain.”
The
old man frowned. “That does rather
complicate matters, unfortunately. Zip
codes are invaluable when sorting out address-related mix-ups. But we do have a ‘No Fixed Abode’ category
in which your reservation might have been accidentally filed, and I’ve already
searched that. There’s only the one –
and that’s in Winchester, England, at the address you gave me earlier.”
He
turned the monitor around to enable Scarlet to see it.
“Here
you are, you see. Our records indicate
that a Paul Metcalfe of your description and with apparently identical
particulars was admitted some years ago.
Would you give me a moment to check the details of that admission?”
“Of
course.”
Peter
swiveled back the monitor into the booth to face himself, reached for the
keyboard, punched in a password and peered at the screen for a few moments.
“Here
we are. Metcalfe, Paul. Admitted at 16:32 on 17th October
2068. Recently killed in a car accident
with a colleague; cause of crash not recorded.
Vehicle was a red Spectrum saloon, registration SSK 67KU, traveling west
at high speed along Interstate 90 towards…”
Scarlet
snapped his fingers and broke into a wide grin.
“Of course!
That explains it!”
“Explains
what, sir?”
“It
explains why you have a record of my already being here. That’s my original body – before I was retrometabolised!”
Peter
blinked. “You have had two bodies, sir?”
“Yes! My original body was killed in the car
crash. It was then reconstructed, and
used as part of a plot by Earth’s enemies to kidnap the World President. In an incredible stroke of fate, they lost
control of it again as a result of the actions of the organization for which I
work – or used to work, rather - and
it was returned to me.”
Peter
frowned. “Oh dear! That does
complicate matters, I’m afraid.”
“In
what way?”
The
old man glanced at the queue that was slowly growing behind Scarlet, leaned
forward through the little hatch and lowered his voice.
“Well
– please excuse me my asking a somewhat delicate question – but in which body
did your soul reside?”
Scarlet’s
left eyebrow rose alarmingly. “I’m sorry?”
“Your
soul, sir! Only persons with authentic
first-generation souls may be admitted to the Facility. Those whose souls are subject to eternal
recycling; have already been taken, or which are committed by pact or bargain
to another agency are ineligible. To
verify that you do not fall into any of these categories, we need to know where
your soul actually is.”
Scarlet’s
expression had lost a little of its previous good humor.
“Well,
I have to say that I really haven’t the faintest idea – it isn’t the sort of
thing I’d normally expect to have to worry about. Is it important?”
Peter
nodded vigorously.
“It’s
an inflexible condition of entry that we insist upon: one considered so
fundamental that our esteemed Creator had it written into our founding
charter.”
“Your
charter?”
“The
same. The Creator considered it
sufficiently central to the concept of public service patronage to deserving
persons in the afterlife that our charter refers to it specifically. Chapter 1, Paragraph 2 – immediately
following the definition of the Facility in Paragraph 1.”
He
squinted at the monitor once more and pressed one of the function keys, then
scrolled down the screen and read aloud:
“The individual submitting his or her
credentials for admission to The Facility, hereinafter referred to as ‘The
Applicant’ shall both now and previously for a period of no greater and no less
than one natural lifetime be in possession of an authentic, bona fide and
currently accredited soul, hereinafter referred to as ‘The Soul’. The Soul shall not have been bought,
bartered or otherwise transferred between individuals prior to being submitted
as proof of suitability for admission to The Facility subsequent to and
coincident upon the full irrevocable and final separation of The Applicant and
The Soul.”
Scarlet’s
eyes narrowed.
“I
don’t remember ever having been informed of any of these details in any
religious service that I’ve ever
attended.”
Peter
adopted a reproachful expression.
“We
regard what you refer to as ‘these details’ as sufficiently self-evident that
we don’t feel it necessary to draw undue attention to them, sir.”
“Well,
it would appear that under the circumstances it might have been a good idea to
have done just that, don’t you
think? I mean, if I’d known there’d be
a problem, I might have taken a bit more care to find out where my soul was before being sent on that final mission
to save the world…”
Peter’s
face brightened appreciably.
“A
mission to save the world, indeed? But
that’s quite different - the success
or otherwise of applications for admission often hang upon such events! Could you elucidate on the circumstances of
your arrival at the Facility, sir?”
“Rhapsody
Angel – that’s a friend of mine – and I were attempting to defuse a 50-megaton
neutron bomb that had been planted in the Paris metro. Tens of millions of people were just moments
away from annihilation…”
“And
you were heroically killed when it went off?”
“Well,
not quite. We disarmed the bomb and
then decided to go to the Folies Bergere to celebrate, so we went back to her
hotel room so she could wash and change first.
I was electrocuted while trying to change the voltage setting on her
hair dryer. That was about ten minutes
ago.”
Peter
considered.
“Cases
for admission to the Facility are often based upon final desperate acts of
heroism, it’s true, but certainly not exclusively – and it has to be
acknowledged that the longer-term circumstances leading up to your death would
appear to warrant serious consideration.
Unfortunately the regulations concerning the location of the soul are
explicit: we must determine which of
your two bodies was in possession of it prior to submitting your claim.”
“But
suppose both of us have a soul? After all, the rest of me was duplicated in
the retrometabolic process. Wouldn’t my
soul have been duplicated too?”
Peter
frowned. “To the best of my knowledge
that isn’t possible. Either your soul
was transferred into your later body – in which case an error would have been
made in the case of your prototype, so to speak, and he might regrettably have
to be expelled – or he could still
have it. If so, then the consequences
to yourself would be unfortunate.”
“But
if I did lose it when I was
retrometabolised, it seems to me that I’ve more than made up for it since! It isn’t as if I sold it, after all…”
“That’s
true, of course – throughout history there have been instances of people
selling their souls, but in all such cases to my recollection the buyer has
been persona non grata around here,
so to speak. Your case on the other
hand appears to be unique. I believe I
may have to forward it to a higher authority – would you bear with me for a few
moments please?”
“Of
course. Do I understand that you’re
going to have a word with The Creator himself about my circumstances?”
Peter
looked a trifle embarrassed.
“Well,
no… actually such queries are now outsourced.
We’re an old-established institution, you understand, and the recent
rapid developments in SMT have forced us to rely increasingly…”
“SMT?”
“Sorry
- Soul Manipulation Technology. But as
I was saying, the phenomenal advances over the last few years have forced us to
refer the more complicated cases to specialist subcontractors for
resolution. One group in particular
dominates the field – to such an extent that an entire division of our
operations, which includes my own section, has been recently been transferred
over to their control. The Facility
then hires back whatever services it requires on a time and materials
basis. Your case is precisely the sort
of thing our management team had in mind when they signed the contract – so I
have no hesitation in forwarding your details.”
He
leaned over conspiratorially and lowered his voice.
“Just
between you and me, sir, I’m not at all happy with the change. I’ve been employed here almost my entire
working life, and the corporate culture of our new lords and masters frankly isn’t to my taste. I’m trying to get a transfer back as we
speak, though whether I’ll succeed, I really couldn’t say…”
His
voice tailed off, and he continued tapping away at his keyboard for a few more
minutes before looking up again with an expression of satisfaction on his face.
“There
– I’ve forwarded your request for admission to my new section manager at
Divisional Headquarters. Let’s see what
they’ve got to say about it.”
“Would
you like me to come back when they’ve had time to look into it?”
“It
shouldn’t be necessary – they’re usually very quick with their turnaround. A few seconds is the norm rather than the
exception. Such processes are almost
entirely automated these days: it’s quite some time now since I last processed
a claim by hand. Of course in my early
days here these things used to take weeks, with committees and subcommittees
being consulted on every aspect…
Ah! Here we are.”
He
opened up the email whose flashing icon had just appeared at the bottom of his
screen, read it through rapidly and frowned.
“Well? What does it say?”
Peter
shook his head sadly.
“Regrettably, it would appear that they’ve rejected your claim, for reasons unspecified. I confess I’m a little surprised, given what I’ve learned about your life from our files, but I’ve discovered that trying to double-guess their reaction to any particular appeal is futile – they have their own way of looking at things, you understand.”
He
extracted a small leaflet from the depths of the booth and placed in on the
counter where both Scarlet and he could read it.
“You
can appeal of course – the procedure is detailed in this little brochure there
– but it takes ages on account of your having to turn up in person to present
your case – not the easiest of things to accomplish under the
circumstances. Although they’re
essentially disembodied extradimensional entities not unlike ourselves, they do
maintain a small administrative complex within the physical Universe to
facilitate such matters. It’s located
on the planet Mars…”
Peter
looked up from the brochure to gauge the applicant’s reaction – and blinked.
“Now where’s he gone?”
He peered out of the booth, searching the empty space in front of him
where a few seconds previously the applicant had been standing. But it was his ears, not his eyes, which
solved the mystery for him, detecting a few faint words delivered in a female
cut-glass English accent bridging the celestial divide before it closed once
more:
“Oh stop fooling about, you big baby – you
almost had me worried there! If I
didn’t know you better I’d say you faked that just to frighten me into giving
you some serious mouth-to-mouth…”
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