“Oh no,” St. Cyr choked. “A voice from outer space—please, no more.” Doubled up with laughter, he moved off, away from the TV set; he could not bear to listen any more. “That’s what we need,” he said to Phil. “A voice that turns out to be—you know Who it is.”

“Who?” Phil asked.

“God, of course. The radio telescope at Kennedy Slough has picked up the voice of God and now we’re going to receive another set of divine commandments or at least a few scrolls.” Removing his glasses he wiped his eyes with his Irish linen handkerchief.

Dourly, Phil Harvey said, “Personally I agree with my wife; I find it fascinating.”

“Listen, my friend,” St. Cyr said, “you know it’ll turn out to be a transistor radio that some Jap student lost on a trip between Earth and Callisto. And the radio just drifted on out of the solar system entirely and now the telescope has picked it up and it’s a huge mystery to all the scientists.” He became more sober. “Shut it off, Gert; we’ve got serious things to consider.”

Obediently but reluctantly she did so. “Is it true, Claude,” she asked, rising to her feet, “that the mortuary wasn’t able to revive old Louis? That he’s not in half-life as he’s supposed to be by now?”

“Nobody tells me anything from the organization, now,” St. Cyr answered. “But I did hear a rumor to that effect.” He knew, in fact, that it was so; he had many friends within Wilhelmina, but he did not like to talk about these surviving links. “Yes, I suppose that’s so,” he said.

Gertrude shivered. “Imagine not coming back. How dreadful.”

“But that was the old natural condition,” her husband pointed out as he drank his martini. “Nobody had half-life before the turn of the century.”

“But we’re used to it,” she said stubbornly.

To Phil Harvey, St. Cyr said, “Let’s continue our discussion.”

Shrugging, Harvey said, “All right. If you really feel there’s something to discuss.” He eyed St. Cyr critically. “I could put you on my legal staff, yes. If that’s what you’re sure you want. But I can’t give you the kind of business that Louis could. It wouldn’t be fair to the legal men I have in there now.”

“Oh, I recognize that,” St. Cyr said. After all, Harvey’s drayage firm was small in comparison with the Sarapis outfits; Harvey was in fact a minor figure in the 3-4 shipping business.

But that was precisely what St. Cyr wanted. Because he believed that within a year with the experience and contacts he had gained working for Louis Sarapis he could depose Harvey and take over Elektra Enterprises.

Harvey’s first wife had been named Elektra. St. Cyr had known her, and after she and Harvey had split up St. Cyr had continued to see her, now in a more personal—and more spirited—way. It had always seemed to him that Elektra Harvey had obtained a rather bad deal; Harvey had employed legal talent of sufficient caliber to outwit Elektra’s attorney… who had been, as a matter of fact, St. Cyr’s junior law partner, Harold Faine. Ever since her defeat in the courts, St. Cyr had blamed himself; why hadn’t he taken the case personally? But he had been so tied up with Sarapis business … it had simply not been possible.

Now, with Sarapis gone and his job with Atlas, Wilhelmina and Archimedean over, he could take some time to rectify the imbalance; he could come to the aid of the woman (he admitted it) whom he loved.

But that was a long step from this situation; first he had to get into Harvey’s legal staff—at any cost. Evidently, he was succeeding.

“Shall we shake on it, then?” he asked Harvey, holding out his hand.

“Okay,” Harvey said, not very much stirred by the event. He held out his hand, however, and they shook. “By the way,” he said, then, “I have some knowledge—fragmentary but evidently accurate—as to why Sarapis cut you off in his will. And it isn’t what you said at all.”

“Oh?” St. Cyr said, trying to sound casual.

“My understanding is that he suspected someone, possibly you, of desiring to prevent him from returning to half-life. That you were going to select a particular mortuary which certain contacts of yours operate … and they’d somehow fail to revive the old man.” He eyed St. Cyr. “And oddly, that seems to be exactly what has happened.”

There was silence.

Gertrude said, at last, “Why would Claude not want Louis Sarapis to be resurrected?”

“I have no idea,” Harvey said. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t even fully understand half-life itself. Isn’t it true that the half-lifer often finds himself in possession of a sort of insight, of a new frame of reference, a perspective, that he lacked while alive?”

“I’ve heard psychologists say that,” Gertrude agreed. “It’s what the old theologists called conversion.”

“Maybe Claude was afraid of some insight that Louis might show up with,” Harvey said. “But that’s just conjecture.”

“Conjecture,” Claude St. Cyr agreed, “in its entirety, including that as to any such plan as you describe; in actual fact I know absolutely no one in the mortuary business.” His voice was steady, too; he made it come out that way. But this all was very sticky, he said to himself. Quite awkward.

The maid appeared, then, to tell them that dinner was ready. Both Phil and Gertrude rose, and Claude joined them as they entered the dining room together.

“Tell me,” Phil Harvey said to Claude. “Who is Sarapis’ heir?” St. Cyr said, “A granddaughter who lives on Callisto; her name is Kathy Egmont and she’s an odd one … she’s about twenty years old and already she’s been in jail five times, mostly for narcotics addiction. Lately, I understand, she’s managed to cure herself of the drug habit and now she’s a religious convert of some kind. I’ve never met her but I’ve handled volumes of correspondence passing between her and old Louis.”

“And she gets the entire estate, when it’s out of probate? With all the political power inherent in it?”

“Haw,” St. Cyr said. “Political power can’t be willed, can’t be passed on. All Kathy gets is the economic syndrome. It functions, as you know, through the parent holding company licensed under the laws of the state of Delaware, Wilhelmina Securities, and that’s hers, if she cares to make use of it—if she can understand what it is she’s inheriting.”

Phil Harvey said, “You don’t sound very optimistic.”

“All the correspondence from her indicates—to me at least—that she’s a sick, criminal type, very eccentric and unstable. The very last sort I’d like to see inherit Louis’s holdings.”

On that note, they seated themselves at the dinner table.

In the night, Johnny Barefoot heard the phone, drew himself to a sitting position and fumbled until his hands touched the receiver. Beside him in the bed Sarah Belle stirred as he said gratingly, “Hello. Who the hell is it?”

A fragile female voice said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Barefoot… I didn’t mean to wake you up. But I was told by my attorney to call you as soon as I arrived on Earth.” She added, “This is Kathy Egmont, although actually my real name is Mrs. Kathy Sharp. Do you know who I am?”

“Yes,” Johnny said, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He shivered from the cold of the room; beside him, Sarah Belle drew the covers back up over her shoulders and turned the other way. “Want me to come and pick you up? Do you have a place to stay?”

“I have no friends here on Terra,” Kathy said. “But the spaceport people told me that the Severely is a good hotel, so I’m going there. I started from Callisto as soon as I heard that my grandfather had died,”

“You made good time,” he said. He hadn’t expected her for another twenty-four hours.

“Is there any chance—” The girl sounded timid. “Could I possibly stay with you, Mr. Barefoot? It scares me, the idea of a big hotel where no one knows me.”

“I’m sorry,” he said at once. “I’m married.” And then he realized that such a retort was not only inappropriate … it was actually abusive. “What I mean is,” he explained, “I have no spare room. You stay at the Severely tonight and tomorrow we’ll find you a more acceptable apartment.”