I could kill myself, but suicide is useless here. You wake up twenty-four hours later, in a different place but still the same man who jumped into The River. Knowing that another jump won’t solve a thing and probably will make you even more unhappy.
“Stone-hearted relentless bastards!” he said and shook his fist. Then he laughed sorrowfully and said, “But They can’t help their hard hearts and cruelty any more than I can help what I am. We’re all in it together.”
This thought did not, however, make him wish any the less to get his revenge. He would bite the hand that had given him eternal life.
His bamboo hut was in the foothills under a large irontree. Although only a shack, it represented genuine luxury in this area, where stone tools to build houses were a rarity. The translatees had had to settle for makeshift housing, bamboo plants bent and tied together with grass ropes at the top and sides and covered with huge elephantear leaves from the irontrees. Of the five hundred varieties of bamboo in the valley, some could be split and made into knives, which, however, easily lost their edge.
Sam entered his hut, lay down on the cot, and covered himself with several big towels. The faint sound of distant revelry disturbed him. After tossing for a while, he gave in to the temptation to chew a piece of dreamgum. There was no predicting what its effect might be: ecstasy, bright manycolored shifting shapes, a feeling that all was right with the world, a desire to make love, or abysmal gloom with monsters springing out of the darkness at him, recriminating ghosts from dead Earth, burning in the flames of hell while faceless devils laughed at his screams.
He chewed and swallowed his saliva and knew at once that he had made a mistake. It was too late then. He continued to chew while he saw before him that time when he was a boy and had drowned, or at least was close to it, and would have drowned if he had not been dragged from the waters. That was the first tune I died, he thought, and then, no, I died when I was born. That’s strange, my mother never told me about that
He could see his mother lying on the bed, hair tangled, skin pale, eyelids half-opened, jaw dropped. The doctor was working on the baby—himself, Sam—while he smoked a cigar. He was saying out of the corner of his mouth to Sam’s father, “Hardly seems worth saving.”
His father said, “You had a choice between saving that and saving Jane?”
The doctor had a shock of bright red hair, a thick drooping red moustache, and pale blue eyes. His face was strange and brutal. He said, “I bury my mistakes. You worry too much. I’ll salvage this bit of flesh, though it’s really not worth doing, and save her, too.”
The doctor wrapped him up and put him on the bed, and then the doctor sat down and began writing in a little black book. Sam’s father said, “Must you write at a time like this?”
The doctor said, “I must write, though I’d get more writing done if I didn’t talk so much. This is a log I keep on all the souls I bring into the world. I intend some day to write a big case history of the infants, find out if any ever amounted to anything. If I can bring one genius, one, into this vale of heavy tears, I will think my life worthwhile. Otherwise, I’ve been wasting my time bringing thousands of idiots, hypocrites, dogs in the mangers, etc. into this sad place.”
Little Sam wailed, and the doctor said, “Sounds as if he’s a lost soul before he’s dead, don’t he? As if he’s bearing the blame for all the sins of the world on his tiny shoulders.”
His father said, “You’re a strange man. Evil, I think. Certainly not God-fearing.”
“I pay tribute to the Prince of Darkness, yes,” the doctor said.
The room was filled with the odor of blood, the doctor’s boozy breath and cigar and sweat.
“What’re you going to call him? Samuel? That’s my name, too! It means ‘name of God.’ That’s a joke. Two Samuels, heh? Sickly little devil, I don’t think he’ll live. If he does, he’ll wish he hadn’t”