FOR US THE LIVING BY ROBERT A. HEINLEIN

“What do I do with this stuff, Diana?”

“Do with it? Anything you like, use it, spend it, live on it.”

“But it doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to this fellow Gordon something-or-other.”

“You are Gordon 755-82.”

“Me? The hell I am.”

“You are, though. The Bureau of Records has already acknowledged it and has your account re-entered. You have the body listed as 932-016-755-82A. You can use any name you like, Perry, or Gordon, or George Washington, and the Bureau will gladly note the change in the record, but that number goes with that body and that credit account and they won’t change it. Of course you don’t have to spend it but if you don’t, nobody will, and it will just get bigger.”

“Can’t I give it away?”

“Certainly—but not to Gordon.”

Perry scratched his head. “No, I guess not. Say, what is this voluntary abdication stuff?”

“I’m not able to give a scientific account of it, but so far as anyone else is concerned it amounts to suicide by willing not to live.”

“Then Gordon is dead?”

“No. Not according to the ideas of the people who monkey with these things. He simply was not interested in living here and chose to live elsewhere.”

“How come his body is here okay?”

“According to this report Gordon’s body—this body—” She pinched his cheeks. “—has been lying quietly in a state of arrested animation in the Sanctuary on the other side of this mountain. And so the mystery is partially cleared up.”

His wrinkled brow showed no satisfaction. “Yes, I suppose so. But each mystery is explained with another mystery.”

“There is just one mystery left that worries me, Perry, and that is why in the world you didn’t break a leg and maybe your brand-new neck in getting over here. But I’m glad you didn’t.”

“So am I. Lord!”

“But now I must get to work.” She stacked the supper dishes as she spoke.

“What work?”

“My paid work. I am not one of the ascetic souls that are content with their heritage checks. I’ve got to have money for ribbons and geegaws.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a televue actress, Perry. I dance and sing a little, and occasionally take part in stories.”

“Are you about to rehearse?”

“No, I go on the waves in about twenty minutes.”

“Goodness, the studio must be close by or you’ll be late.”

“Oh, no. It will be picked up from here. But you will have to be a good boy and sit still and not ask questions for a while or I shall be late. Come. Sit over here. Now face the receiver so.” Another section of the wall flew up and Perry faced a flat screen. “There you can see the whole performance and watch me dance directly too.” She opened the communicator drawer and raised the small screen. A rather homely debonair young man appeared. He wore a helmet with bulges over his ears. A cigarette drooped from one corner of his sardonic mouth.

“Hi, Dian’.”

“Hello, Larry. Where j’a get the circles under your eyes?”

“That from you—and you so huffy about the private sphere of action. I had a blonde paint ’em on.”

“She got the left one crooked.”

“Cut out the arcing and get down to work, wench. Got your setup made?”

“Yeah.”

“OK, testing.” Lights sprang out from the near end of the room. Diana walked to the center of the room, turned around twice, and walked back and forth and up and down, then returned to the communicator.

“OK, Larry?”

“There’s a halo in the lower left and it’s not in my side, I don’t believe.”

“I’ll take a look.” She returned with the tube that had contained the Gordon dossier in her hand. “Gone now, Larry?”

“Yeah, what was it?”

“This.” She held up the tube.

“Just like a female. Can’t integrate. Sloppy minds, unable to—”

“Larry, one more crack out of you and I’ll report you for atavism—probably Neanderthal.”

“Cool down, small one. You have a super-magnificent brain. I love you for your intellect. Time’s running short. Want some music?”

“Give it a blast.—Okay, turn it off.”

“What are you giving the mob tonight, Dian’?”