Derision then was their style of life.
Abe would never really speak, they all knew that, nor move. It would all be summed and written off with taxes as a loss.
But as the months lengthened into years, their outcries of hilarity turned to accepting smiles and stunned wild grins. They were a gang of boys caught up in some furtive but irritably joyous mortuary society who met midnights in marble vaults to disperse through graveyards at dawn.
The Lincoln Resurrection Brigade yeasted full and prospered. Instead of one mad fool, a dozen maniacs fell to rifling old mummy-dust newsfiles, begging and then pilfering death masks, burying and then digging up new plastic bones.
Some toured the Civil War battlefields in hopes that history, borne on some morning wind, might whip their coats like flags. Some prowled the October fields of Salem, starched brown with farewell summer, sniffing airs, pricking ears, alert for some lank lawyer’s unrecorded voice, anxious for echoes, pleading their case.
And none more anxious nor paternal-proud worrying than Phipps until the month when the robot was spread out on delivery tables, there to be ball and socketed, voice box locked in, rubber eyelids peeled back to sink therein the deep sad eyes which, gazing out, had seen too much.
The generous ears were appended that might hear only time lost. The large-knuckled hands were hung like pendulums to guess that time. And then upon the tall man’s nakedness they shucked on suiting, buttoned buttons, fixed his tie, a gathering of tailors, no, Disciples now on a bright and glorious Easter morn and them on Jerusalem’s hills ready to roll aside the rock and stand Him forth at their cry.
And in the last hour of the last day Phipps had locked them all out as he finished the final touches on the recumbent flesh and spirit and at last opened the door and, not literally, no, but in some metaphoric sense, asked them to hoist him on their shoulders a last time.
And in silence watched as Phipps called across the old battlefield and beyond, saying the tomb was not his place; arise.
And Lincoln, deep in his cool Springfield marbled keep, turned in his slumbers and dreamed himself awake.
And rose up.
And spoke.
A phone rang.
Bayes jerked.
The memories fell away.
The theater phone on one far stage wall buzzed.
Oh, God, he thought, and ran to lift the phone.
“Bayes? This is Phipps. Buck just called and told me to get over there! Said something about Lincoln—”
“No,” said Bayes. “You know Buck. Must have called from the nearest bar. I’m here in the theater. Everything’s fine. One of the generator’s acted up. We just finished repairs—”
“He’s all right, then?”
“He’s great.” He could not take his eyes off the slumped body. Oh Christ. Oh God. Absurd.
“I—I’m coming over.”
“No, don’t!”
“Jesus, why are you shouting?”
Bayes bit his tongue, took a deep breath, shut his eyes so he could not see the thing in the chair and said, slowly:
“Phipps, I’m not shouting. There. The lights just came back on. I can’t keep the crowd waiting. I swear to you—”
“You’re lying.”
“Phipps!”
But Phipps had hung up.
Ten minutes, thought Bayes wildly, oh God, he’ll be here in ten minutes. Ten minutes before the man who brought Lincoln out of the grave meets the man who put him back in it . . .
He moved. A mad impulse made him wish to run backstage, start the tapes, see how much of the fallen creature would motivate, which limbs jerk, which lie numb—more madness. Time for that tomorrow.
There was only time now for the mystery.
And the mystery was enclosed in the man who sat in the third seat over in the last row back from the stage.
The assassin—he was an assassin, wasn’t he? The assassin, what did he look like?
He had seen his face, some few moments ago, hadn’t he? And wasn’t it a face from an old, a familiar, a faded and put-away daguerreotype? Was there a full mustache? Were there dark and arrogant eyes?
Slowly Bayes stepped down from the stage. Slowly he moved up the aisle and stopped, looking in at that man with his head bent into clutching fingers.
Bayes inhaled then slowly exhaled a question in two words:
“Mr. . . . Booth?”
The strange faraway man stiffened, then shuddered and let forth a terrible whisper:
“Yes . . .”
Bayes waited. Then he dared ask:
“Mr. . . . John Wilkes Booth?”
To this the assassin laughed quietly. The laugh faded into a kind of dry croak.
“Norman Llewellyn Booth. Only the last name is . . . the same.”
Thank God, thought Bayes. I couldn’t have stood the other.
Bayes spun and paced up the aisle, stopped, and fixed his eyes to his watch. No time. Phipps was on the freeway now. Any moment, he’d be hammering at the door. Bayes spoke rigidly to the theater wall directly in front of him:
“Why?”
And it was an echo of the affrighted cry of three hundred people who had sat here not ten minutes ago and jumped to terror at the shot.
“Why!?”
“I don’t know!” cried Booth.
“Liar!” cried Bayes, in the same breath and instant.
“Too good a chance to miss.”
“What?!” Bayes whirled.
“. . . nothing.”
“You don’t dare say that again!”
“Because,” said Booth, head down, half hid, now light, now dark, jerking into and out of emotions he only sensed as they came, went, rose, faded with barks of laughter and then silence. “Because . . .it’s the truth.” In awe, he whispered, stroking his cheeks. “I did it. I actually did it.”
“Bastard!”
Bayes had to keep walking up, around, down the aisles, circling, afraid to stop, afraid he might rush and strike and keep on striking this stupid genius, this bright killer—
Booth saw this and said:
“What are you waiting for? Get it over.”
“I will not—!” Bayes forced his yell down to a steady calmness. “I will not be tried for murder because I killed a man who killed another man who wasn’t really a man at all, but a machine. It’s enough to shoot a thing that seems alive. I won’t have some judge or jury trying to figure a law for a man who kills because a humanoid computer was shot. I won’t repeat your stupidity.”
“Pity,” mourned the man named Booth, and saying it, the light went out of his face.
“Talk,” said Bayes, gazing through the wall, imagining the night roads, Phipps in his car, and time running out. “You’ve got five minutes, maybe more, maybe less. Why did you do it, why? Start somewhere. Start with the fact you’re a coward.”
He waited. The security guard waited behind Booth, creaking uneasily in his shoes.
“Coward, yes,” said Booth. “How did you know?”
“I know.”
“Coward,” said Booth. “That’s me. Always afraid. You name it. Things. People. Places. Afraid. People I wanted to hit, but never hit. Things I always wanted, never had. Places I wanted to go, never went. Always wanted to be big, famous, why not?
That didn’t work either. So, I thought, if you can’t find something to be glad about, find something to be sad. Lots of ways to enjoy being sad. Why? Who knows? I just had to find something awful to do and then cry about what I had done. That way you felt you had accomplished something. So, I set out to do something bad.”
“You’ve succeeded.”
Booth gazed down at his hands hung between his knees as if they held an old but suddenly remembered and simple weapon.
“Did you ever kill a turtle?”
“What?”
“When I was ten I found out about death. I found out that the turtle, that big dumb rocklike thing, was going to live long after I was dead. I figured if I had to go, the turtle went first. So I took a brick and hit him on the back until I broke his shell and he died . . .”
Bayes slowed in his constant pacing and said, “For the same reason, I once let a butterfly live.”
“No,” said Booth, quickly, then added, “no, not for the same reason. A butterfly lit on my hand once. The butterfly opened and shut its wings, just resting there. I knew I could crush it. But I didn’t because I knew that in ten minutes or an hour some bird would eat it. So I let it just fly away. But turtles?! They lie around backyards and live forever. So I went and got a brick and I was sorry for months after. Maybe I still am. Look . . .”
His hands trembled before him.
“And what,” said Bayes, “has all this to do with your being here tonight?”
“Do? What!” cried Booth, looking at Bayes as if he were mad. “Haven’t you been listening? Great God, I’m jealous! Jealous of anything that works right, anything that’s perfect, anything that’s beautiful all to itself, anything that lasts I don’t care what it is! Jealous!”
“You can’t be jealous of machines.”
“Why not, dammit?” Booth clutched the back of the seat in front of him and slowly pulled himself forward staring at the slumped figure in that highback chair in the center of the stage. “Aren’t machines more perfect, ninety-nine times out of a hundred than most people you’ve ever known?
I mean really? Don’t they do things right? How many people can you name do things right one third, one half the time? That damned thing up there, that machine, not only looks perfection, but speaks and acts perfection. More, if you keep it oiled and wound and fixed it’ll be looking, speaking, acting right and grand and beautiful a hundred, two hundred years after I’m in the earth! “Jealous? Damn right I am!”
“But a machine doesn’t know what
