He had maintained the body in
a miraculous state of preservation by wax and other means they said,
had talked to it every night and morning, had been convinced that he
would some day reanimate it completely--until they found out and took
him away, and buried it. Had that body--

       *       *       *       *       *

"Tansy," he was asking, "when your soul went, why didn't you die?" "Usually the soul lingers to the end, unable to escape, and vanishes
or dies when the body dies," the voice answered, its words as evenly
spaced as if timed to a metronome. "But He Who Walks Behind was tearing
at mine. There was the weight of green water against my face. I knew it
was midnight. I knew that you had failed. In that moment of despair,
He Who Walks Behind was able to draw forth my soul. In the same moment
Your Agent's arms were about me, lifting me toward the air. My soul was
close enough to know what had happened, yet not close enough to return. Its doubled anguish was the last memory it imprinted on my brain. Your
Agent and He Who Walks Behind concluded that each had obtained the
thing he had been sent for, and so there was no struggle between them." The picture created in his mind was so shockingly vivid that it seemed
incredible that it could have been produced by the words of a mere
physiological machine. And yet only a physiological machine could have
told the story with such total restraint. "Is there nothing that _touches_ you?" he asked abruptly in a loud
voice, gripped by an intolerable spasm of anguish at the emptiness of
her eyes. "Haven't you a single emotion left?" "Yes. One." This time it was not a robot's headshake but a robot's nod. For the first time there was a stir of feeling, a hint of motivation. The tip of a pallid tongue licked hungrily around the pale lips. "I
want my soul." He caught his breath. Now that he had succeeded in awakening a feeling
in her, he hated it. There was something so animal about it, so like
some light-sensitive marine worm blindly yet greedily wriggling toward
the sunlight. "I want my soul," the voice repeated mechanically, tearing at his
emotions more than any plaintive or whining accents could have done. "At the last moment, although it could not return, my soul implanted
that one emotion in me. It knew what awaited it. It knew there are
things that can be done to a soul. It was very much afraid." He ground the words out between his teeth. "Where do you think your
soul is?" "She has it. The woman with the little black eyes." "Evelyn Sawtelle?" He was remembering a phone call. "Yes. But it is not wise to speak of her by name." His hand shot out for the phone. At that moment he had to do something
definite, or lose control of himself completely. For too long he had
sat impotently by, watching the ghostly and harrowing drama unfold. Now
he had to strike out. After a time he roused the night clerk and got the local operator. "Yes, sir," came the singsong voice. "Hempnell 1284. You wish to make a
person-to-person call to Evelyn Sawtelle--E-V-E-L-Y-N S-A-W-T-E-L-L-E,
sir?... Will you please hang up and wait? It will take considerable
time to make a connection." "I want my soul. I want to go to that woman. I want to go to Hempnell." Now that he had touched off the blind hunger in her, it persisted. He
was reminded of a phonograph needle caught in the same groove, or a
mechanical toy turned on to a new track by a little push. "We'll go there all right." It was still hard for him to control his
breathing. "We'll get it back." "But I must start for Hempnell soon. My clothes were ruined by the
water. I must have the maid clean and press them." With a slow, even movement she got to her feet and started toward the
phone. "But, Tansy," he objected involuntarily. "It's three in the morning. You can't get a maid now." "But my clothes must be cleaned and pressed. I must start for Hempnell
soon." The words might have been those of an obstinate woman, sulky and
selfish. But they had less tone that a sleepwalker's. She kept on toward the phone. Although he did not anticipate that he
would do it, he shrank out of her way, pressing close against the side
of the bed. "But even if there is a maid," he said, "she won't come at this hour." The pallid face turned toward him incuriously. "The maid will be a
woman." It was a little while before he got the implication of the
words. "She will come when she hears me." Then she was talking to the night clerk. "Is there a maid in the
hotel?... Send her to my room.... Then ring her.... I cannot wait until
morning.... I need her at once.... I cannot tell you the reason.... Thank you." Norman was thinking: How can a physiological machine conceive and carry
out even such a simple plan? Yet how could a conscious human being do
it with such utter listlessness? Same paradox. He wondered if he ought
to stop her. But an idea was growing in his mind. There was a long wait, while he heard faintly the repeated ringing at
the other end of the line. He could imagine the sleepy, surly voice
that finally answered. "Is this the maid?... Come at once to Room 37." He could almost catch
the indignant answer. Then--"Can't you hear my voice? Don't you realize
who is speaking?... Yes.... Come at once." And she replaced the phone
in its cradle. "Tansy--" he began. Then his eyes met hers, and once again he found
himself asking a halting prefatory question, although he had not
intended to. "You are able to hear and answer my questions?" "I can answer questions. I have been answering questions for three
hours." The lack of expression only made the irony more complete. *       *       *       *       *

But--logic prompted wearily--if she can remember what has been
happening these last three hours, then surely--And yet, what is memory
but a track worn in the nervous system? In order to explain memory you
don't need to bring in consciousness. Quit banging your head against
that stone wall, you fool!--came another inward prompting. You've
looked in her eyes, haven't you? Well, then, get on with it! "Tansy, is that woman coming here because she's ... well, the same as
you were?" "Yes. But since you are present she will not speak of it." "But if I weren't here--or if I hid myself?" "She might respond to questioning." The hungry subanimal expression
came back, and the tip of the tongue appeared between the lips. "If I
make her speak ... if I make you believe--will we go back to Hempnell
very quickly? Will you help me?" "Yes." Of course he would. He wouldn't do anything else. But what good
to say all that to a blank physiological machine beyond the reach of
comfort? Besides, the maid should soon be here, and an unwholesome
curiosity was eating at him. "I'll leave the closet door just a little ajar," he said. "She probably
won't notice. See?" There were footsteps in the hall. The robot nod was his only answer. "You wanted me, mum?" Contrary to his expectations, the voice was
young, but very low. It sounded as if she had swallowed as she spoke.