In lieu of answers, the prisoner abruptly asked, “How old are you, Moray? When were you born, was it before the War?”
Milo did not need to ask which war, because for the few who had survived it, there could be but the one that three-day holocaust which had irrevocably wrecked the civilization of their world and the worldwide plagues which had almost extirpated all the races of mankind. He shrugged. “I think I was born sometime around the turn of the century … the twentieth century, that is. That would put my age at a bit less than nine hundred years. Why?”
The manacles clanked as Gold steepled his fingers. “That means, Moray, that you were alive at the very apogee of man’s culture and scientific achievements. Wouldn’t you like to see the reestablishment of that culture and most of its appurtenances and civilized comforts?”
He leaned as far forward as his chains would permit, his black eyes gleaming, his voice now husky with his fervor. “Can’t you understand, Moray? We at the J. and R. Kennedy Memorial Center are all that’s left of The United States of America. We are simply trying to perform the patriotic duty of any good citizens: to bring about the recovery of our country. Our country, Moray, yours and mine! As it was before the War. Cities-real cities, man-research facilities, laboratories, universities, hospitals, electricity, flush toilets, automobiles, theatres, television, telephones, newspapers. Think of it, Moray!”
Milo cracked a knuckle aimlessly. “No sale, Gold. I’ve heard that spiel before from your director, when I spoke with him on the Landor woman’s radio a hundred years ago. He told me all about your plans to establish a dictatorship and call it by the name of a long dead republic. I want no part of such infamy! I warned him at that time to keep his parasites out of my lands. For your sake and for the sakes of those others he sent to trespass and agitate, I’m sorry he chose not to listen to me.”
“I cannot, just cannot understand you, Moray,” sighed Gold. “Why on earth are you so antagonistic toward us? We should be allies, should be working together, since we’re so much alike, have so much in common.”
Milo’s expression became ugly. “I have nothing in common with you, Gold!”
The prisoner smiled warmly. “Of course you have, my good Moray. After all we are both of us immortal. In that way, at least, you are like me and I am like you.”
A strong shudder coursed the length of Milo’s body and utter loathing weighted his voice, reflected on his face as well. “No, Gold, not like me, never like me! I did nothing to bring about my longevity, nor did those who truly are like me. Our differences from ordinary humans are the gifts of Nature. The long lives of you and your ilk could not be less natural! You really deserve the appellation ‘witchmen,’ you know. Although I think that ‘vampires’ might be a better term.
“Yes, you’ve lived as long as I have, maybe longer, but in those seven or eight hundred years, how many vibrant young bodies have you personally usurped, Gold? In even one hundred years’ time, how much human flesh and blood is needed to keep a warped, demonic thing like you alive?”
“Two, sometimes three transfers are necessary for survival of the mind, barring illness or accident. In the early days, it was a more frequent process, of course; but since we commenced selective breeding for strength, health and longevity . . . and also, we strive to take exceedingly good care of our bodies, Moray.
“You see, the process of mind displacement and transference is not a pleasant experience. Generally, it requires hours to days of suffering to accomplish, so naturally we don’t look forward to repeating it any more often than is absolutely necessary.”
“You’re lying, Gold,” snapped Milo. “I saw Titus Backstrom effect a transfer within minutes! And God knows how many times Lillian Landor switched back and forth from King Zastros’s body to her own. If you’re going to start trying to get cute, buster, I might be smart to drug your next meal. . . and keep you semiconscious until I get you back to Kehnooryos Atheenahs.”