“I know,” Ritchie said. “I understand. Look, we’ll get a cab. Probably take half an hour to get to you in the Bronx. Is that OK?”

“Certainly, Mr. Castleman. It’s the least I owe you. Though I’m not sure the place is entirely savory—”

“How bad can a coffee shop be?” Grelich broke in. “We’ll be there.”

Grelich hung up the phone.

“I was going to ask for her home address and telephone number,” Ritchie said.

“Don’t complicate matters, she’ll be there.”

The taxi ride was a trip in itself, and not without its own share of humor and pathos. But it doesn’t bear on our story, so we skip it, mentioning only that they found the Brune Vache on 166th Street and Jerome Avenue, and left a Cuban taxi driver wondering why a well-dressed guy like Ritchie was going to a place that was known to serve the worst coffee in the five boroughs. Must be Mafia-related, the driver decided.

Rachel Christiansen was inside, at a table near the door, a cup of tea in front of her. The place was dark, and nearly empty. Rachel was an over-weight, sweet-faced woman in her late twenties. Her face was framed in fluffy light brown hair. She stood up when Castleman walked in.

“Mr. Castleman? I am Rachel Christiansen. I am so sorry for what happened. Believe me, I had no idea... “

“What happened?” Ritchie asked.

“Well, I can only guess. It might be something else entirely.”

“Just tell me what you think.”

“Well, as I said, I really don’t know. But Nathan was very conflicted about the work he had been hired to do. Or would be doing. You were his first subject. But the very idea of taking a human life—even with the consent of the owner of that life—seemed to him sacrilegious.”

“So what was he doing in the job?” Ritchie asked.

“Well, at the start he didn’t really know it would involve taking a human life. I mean, he knew but I guess he blocked that part out. He needed the job so. He had just arrived here from San Antonio, Texas, to attend Rabbi Tomasi’s Torah studies class. Rabbi Tomasi also came from San Antonio. I believe he knows Nathan’s parents.”

“Was Nathan studying for the rabbinate?” Grelich asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Did he want to become a rabbi?”

“I would prefer he answer that himself,” Rachel said. “It is a little personal. And anyhow, I don’t really know. I think he had been planning to, but was having second thoughts. He came to one of our meetings, you know, and asked our pastor some questions.”

“Meetings?” Grelich asked.

“At the International Circle of Christian Friendship of Fort Wayne, Indiana, which has a branch here on 173rd Street.”

“What sort of questions did he ask?” Ritchie asked.

“They had to do with the proper relations between God and man in our secular age. Obviously, our pastor didn’t approve of murder.”

“Suicide is not exactly murder,” Grelich said.

“Murder of the self is still murder,” Rachel said. “And it’s still a sin, even if Mr. Nietzsche did approve of it.”

“How did Nietzsche get into this?” Grelich asked.

“Nathan was always quoting him. And Camus.”

“Aha!” Grelich said. “He must have been quoting the Camus who says that whether or not to suicide is the only real question.”

“That must have been the one,” Rachel said.

“And he talked about an old Greek. Sissy-something?”

“Sisyphus?” Grelich guessed.

“This Nathan sounds like a man after my own heart,” Grelich said.

“Do you really think so, Mr. Castleman?” Rachel asked, her disapproving attitude evident.

“This is Grelich speaking,” Grelich said. “I’m here, too, due to your boyfriends’ change of heart or failure of nerve or whatever it was.”

“This is so bewildering,” Rachel said. “You’re the one with the deeper voice?”

“Yes, and the imaginary payes. Never mind. What else did Nathan talk about?”

“I scarcely know... One time he talked about the moneychangers in the temple. I think he was referring to Mr. Mayer. Anyhow, he didn’t approve.”

“Money changers have to earn a living, too,” Grelich said.

“Let’s not get off the subject,” Ritchie said. “Rachel, why do you think you’re responsible?”

“I encouraged Nathan to follow his conscience. I told him that was the truest voice of God within him. I think I had some influence over him. But believe me, I never dreamed he would take matters into his own hands—if that’s what he did.”

“Do you know where we can find Nathan Cohen?” Ritchie asked.

Rachel opened her purse and took out a slip of paper. “Here is his address, and his rabbi’s address. That’s all I know, all I can do for you. Oh, one thing more. Nathan is very fond of chess. He took me to a chess club once. I don’t remember where it was. Midtown? Downtown? It was very nice.”

Nathan wasn’t at the Marshall, but they found him at the Manhattan Chess Club on West 9th Street in Greenwich Village. The director pointed him out—he was the tall, skinny, pale, dark-haired young man hunched behind a Nimzoindian defense on board 1. The Hungarian grandmaster, Emil Bobul, was playing white. Bobul had dropped in for a casual game, but it had become a hard-fought contest. Nathan was bent over the board, one hand propping his jaw, the other hand touching the chess clock.

After a while Nathan looked up, recognized Grelich, thought for a minute, pursed his lips, shook his head and leaned over and whispered something to Bobul. Bobul shook his head. Nathan murmured something else. Bobul shrugged. Nathan turned down his king, got up, and walked over to Grelich.

“Mr. Grelich,” he said, “I believe I owe you an explanation.”

“If you would be so kind,” Grelich said.

Over coffee in a nearby coffee shop, Nathan tried to explain why he had aborted the operation.

“I knew I shouldn’t do anything to screw this up,” Nathan said, referring to the transfer operation. “Suicide and body-transfer are legal, you don’t fool around with government-sanctioned procedures. I transferred Mr. Castleman without moral difficulty. If Grelich wanted to share his body with Castleman, it was no skin off my nose. But when it came time to turn Grelich off—to shatter his electro-chemical connections—assign him to death—well, I hesitated. My hesitation turned into a long delay. And finally I just walked out of there. I reminded myself that I took this job to turn the dials and press the buttons. But now it was getting too personal. They want me to play executioner. Consciously, that is. That was too much. I got out of there.”

It was after eleven at night when Grelich and Ritchie got back to Ritchie’s apartment. They stopped for dinner first at an Irish bar nearby. Despite Grelich’s vegetarianism, he made no objection when Ritchie ordered a corned beef sandwich, home fries, a small green salad, and a pint of Killian’s Red.

“I hope you don’t object to this,” Ritchie said, gesturing with his sandwich.

“Why should I object? I sold you my body. If you want to fill it with treif junk food, that’s your business.”

“Another beer?”

“Suit yourself.”

Ritchie didn’t order another. He was afraid he’d be going to the bathroom all right. He had been wondering about how the night would go. Last night had been easy, he’d been exhausted. But tonight? It was like the first time. He felt uncomfortable, having to sleep with Grelich, even though there was just one body involved. Would he be able to sleep at all? Last night he had been exhausted and in shock. But tonight? He hoped the body would sleep when it was ready.

But whose body was it? Did this body even know which mind it belonged to? Had the body itself—neither Castleman nor Grelich, but a representative of the body only—had this body witnessed the change of title?