“Wow!” Blaine said. “I think I get what you mean. They were trying to achieve a co-existence between science and religion. But wasn't their reasoning a little subtle for some people?”

“Yes,” Marie Thorne said, “even though they explained it much better than I've done, and backed it up with all sorts of analogies. But that was only one position. Others didn't attempt co-existence. They simply declared that the scientific hereafter was sinful. And one group solved the problem by joining the scientific position and declaring that the soul is contained in the mind.”

“I suppose that would be the Church of the Afterlife?”

“Yes. They splintered off from other religions. According to them, the mind contains the soul, and the hereafter is the soul's rebirth after death, with no spiritual ifs and buts.”

“That's keeping up with the times,” Blaine said. “But morality —”

“In their view, this didn't dispense with morality. The Afterlifers say that you can't impose morals and ethics on people by a system of spiritual rewards and punishments; and if you could, you shouldn't. They say that morality must be good in its own right, first in terms of the social organism, second in terms of the individual man's best good.”

To Blaine this seemed a lot to ask of morality. “I suppose it's a popular religion?” he asked.

“Very popular,” Marie Thorne answered.

Blaine wanted to ask more, but Father James had begun speaking.

“William Fitzsimmons,” the clergyman said to the host, “you have come to this place of your own free will, for the purpose of discontinuing your existence upon the earthly plane and resuming it upon the spiritual plane?”

“Yes, Father,” the pale host whispered.

“And the proper scientific instrumentality has been performed so that you may continue your existence upon the spiritual plane?”

“Yes, Father.”

Father James turned to Reilly. “Kenneth Reilly, you have come to this place of your own free will for the purpose of continuing your existence upon Earth in the body of William Fitzsimmons?”

“Yes, Father,” Reilly said, small and hard-faced.

“And you have made possible for William Fitzsimmons an entrance into the hereafter; and have paid a sum of money to Fitzsimmons’ heirs; and have paid the government tax involved in transactions of this kind?”

“Yes, Father,” Reilly said.

“All these things being so,” Father James said, “no crime is involved, civic or religious. Here there is no taking of life, for the life and personality of William Fitzsimmons continues unabated in the hereafter, and the life and personality of Kenneth Reilly continues unabated upon Earth. Therefore, let the reincarnation proceed!”

To Blaine it seemed a hideous mixture of wedding ceremony and execution. The smiling clergyman withdrew. Technicians secured the men to their chairs, and attached electrodes to their arms, legs and foreheads. The theater grew very still, and the Rex directors leaned forward expectantly in their seats.

“Go ahead,” Reilly said, looking at Blaine and smiling slightly.

The chief technician turned a dial on the black machine. It hummed loudly, and the floodlights dimmed. Both men jerked convulsively against the straps, then slumped back.

Blaine whispered, “They’re murdering that poor Fitzsimmons bastard.”

“That poor bastard,” Marie Thorne told him, “knew exactly what he was doing. He's thirty-seven years old and he's been a failure all his life. He's never been able to hold a job for long, and had no previous chance for survival after death. This was a marvellous opportunity for him. Furthermore he has a wife and five children for whom he has not been able to provide. The sum Mr. Reilly paid will enable the wife to give the children a decent education.”

“Hurray for them!” Blaine said. “For sale, one father with slightly used body in excellent condition. Must sell! Sacrifice!”

“You’re being ridiculous,” she said. “Look, it's over.”

The machine was turned off, and the straps were removed from the two men. Reilly's wrinkled, grinning old corpse was ignored as the technicians and doctors examined the body of the host.

“Nothing yet!” the bearded old doctor called.

Blaine could sense apprehension in the room, and a hint of fear. The seconds dragged by while the doctors and technicians clustered around the host.

“Still nothing!” the old doctor called, his voice going shrill.

“What's happening?‘ Blaine asked Marie Thorne.

“As I told you, reincarnation is tricky and dangerous. Reilly's mind hasn't been able to possess the host-body yet. He doesn't have much longer.”

“Why not?”

“Because a body starts dying the moment it's untenanted. Irreversible death processes start if a mind isn't at least dormant in the body. The mind is essential. Even an unconscious mind controls the automatic processes. But with no mind at all —”

“Still nothing!” the old doctor shouted.

“I think it's too late now,” Marie Thorne whispered.

“A tremor!” the doctor said. “I felt a tremor!”

There was a long silence.

“I think he's in!” the old doctor cried. “Now, oxygen, adrenalin!”

A mask was fitted over the host's face. A hypodermic was slipped into the host's arm. The host stirred, shivered, slumped back, stirred again.

“He's made it!” the old doctor cried, removing the oxygen mask.

The directors, as though on cue, hurried out of their chairs and went up on the stage. They surrounded the host, which was now blinking its eyes and retching.

“Congratulations, Mr. Reilly!”

“Well done, sir!”

“Had us worried, Mr. Reilly!”

The host stared at them. It wiped its mouth and said, “My name is not Reilly.”

The old doctor pushed his way through the directors and bent down beside the host. “Not Reilly?” he said. “Are you Fitzsimmons?”

“No,” said the host, “I'm not Fitzsimmons, the poor damned fool! And I'm not Reilly. Reilly tried to get into this body but I was too quick. I got into the body first. It's my body now.”

“Who are you?” the doctor asked.

The host stood up. The directors stepped away from him, and one man quickly crossed himself.

“It was dead too long,” Marie Thorne said.

The host's face now bore only the faintest and most stylized resemblance to the pale, frightened face of William Fitzsimmons. There was nothing of Fitzsimmons’ determination, nothing of Reilly's petulance and good humor in that face. It resembled nothing but itself.

The face was dead white except for black dots of stubble on its cheeks and jaw. The lips were bloodless. A lock of black hair was plastered against its cold white forehead. When Fitzsimmons had been in residence the features had blended pleasantly, harmoniously, nondescriptly. But now the individual features had coarsened and grown separate. The unharmonious white face had a thick and unfinished look, like iron before tempering or clay before firing. It had a slack, sullen, relaxed look because of the lack of muscle tone and tension in the face. The calm, flaccid, unharmonious features simply existed, revealing nothing of the personality behind them. The face seemed no longer completely human. All humanity now resided in the great, patient, unblinking Buddha's eyes.

“It's gone zombie,” Marie Thorne whispered, clinging to Blaine's shoulder.

“Who are you?” the old doctor asked.

“I don't remember,” it said. “I don't.” Slowly it turned and started walking down the stage. Two directors moved tentatively to bar its path.

“Get away,” it said to them. “It's my body now.”

“Leave the poor zombie alone,” the old doctor said wearily.

The directors moved out of its way. The zombie walked to the end of the stage, descended the steps, turned, and walked over to Blaine.

“I know you!” it said.

“What? What do you want?” Blaine asked nervously.