to try to ease his discomfort. “Mr. Chuikov, please. Doctor Hiram plans the first test tomorrow. She wouldn’t attempt it if it were risky.”
“You have seen soul?”
“Uh…” Doctor Hiram was unusually secretive concerning that part of the project, as well as who backed her. But if I told Chuikov that , it might mean a midnight ride for me to Sonoma Point with the Ukrainian Undertaker. I had fallen far behind on my payments. “Of course I have,” I lied, feeling perfectly justified. “I saw my soul the other day.”
Chuikov raised bushy eyebrows. “Describe it to me.”
I smiled. “Sir, I think it would be better if you saw it for yourself. It’s quite amazing.”
He eyed the machine. “Does it use radiation?”
“Sir, this is America, not the ex-Soviet Union. We don’t radiate our own people.”
He grunted. Then he laughed. “You will give me print? I want to send it to my mother.”
“Of course,” I said. I could never let Doctor Hiram learn about that.
“Yes! I will do it.”
I instructed him to sit in the chair and lean back. He did, gingerly at first, giving me a long, searching glance. I smiled and patted his arm. Then I swung the photonic box over his head, much as an x-ray technician used to do when I was a child at the dentist.
“Don’t move,” I said.
“Will it take long?”
“It shouldn’t.”
“Will I feel anything?”
I had no idea. “Of course not,” I said. “It’s painless.” I went to the control board, my insides seething. Would it work? Would a person feel anything, provided people even had souls? I couldn’t see why it should hurt. A regular photograph wasn’t painful.
“Ready?” I asked.
Boss Chuikov grunted.
I pressed the button. The photonic box whined and then Chuikov gave out the most soul-searing scream I’ve ever heard. I whirled around. He clutched the armrests. His face was rigid and his eyes bulged, making him look even more like a bullfrog. The odor of sweat permeated the room.
Horror filled me. What had I done? What if I turned it off and Chuikov yanked out his gun and shot me dead? So I waited, desperately trying to think of something. Then all at once the whine turned high-pitched and then abruptly cycled down. Chuikov collapsed. I raced to the machine, opened the slot. In it was a malleable marble with insides that were an oily mass.
I blinked in astonishment. Was that a picture of his soul?
Boss Chuikov stirred.
I waited, petrified.
He opened his eyes. They were blank. His face was wooden, as if all the vitality had been sucked out of it. He stared at me. Then he swung his legs out of the chair, unsteadily stood up and reached inside his suit. I heard the snap of a hostler, and in a smooth motion, he aimed a snub-nosed .38 at my midsection. He didn’t threaten. He didn’t frown, smile or use his face in any way. His features were like a Halloween mask.
“Mr. Chuikov,” I whispered. I picked up the malleable marble, thinking to show it to him. “Don’t shoot me.”
His gun hand swung down.
“Are you well?” I asked.
He stared at me with that blank look. It was an eerie sensation.
“Say something,” I said.
“What should I say?” he asked, with a dead voice, with no lilt or inflection.
I blinked. “Do you want to see the picture of your soul?”
A terrible longing flickered across his face.
“Here, look!” I said, thrusting my hand at him.
He looked, and a moan tore out of him.
“What’s wrong?” I looked at the malleable marble, at the swirling oily something within. “It worked. I didn’t lie. You can see that, can’t you?”
“Yes,” he said, in a lifeless voice.
“Does that cover at least some of my debt?”
He said nothing and did nothing.
“It has to count for something!” I shouted.
He nodded.
“You agree then?”
“Yes.”
I frowned, and a horrible, dreadful thought struck me. I recalled as I stared at blank Boss Chuikov that olden natives used to hate Westerners taking
“You have seen soul?”
“Uh…” Doctor Hiram was unusually secretive concerning that part of the project, as well as who backed her. But if I told Chuikov that , it might mean a midnight ride for me to Sonoma Point with the Ukrainian Undertaker. I had fallen far behind on my payments. “Of course I have,” I lied, feeling perfectly justified. “I saw my soul the other day.”
Chuikov raised bushy eyebrows. “Describe it to me.”
I smiled. “Sir, I think it would be better if you saw it for yourself. It’s quite amazing.”
He eyed the machine. “Does it use radiation?”
“Sir, this is America, not the ex-Soviet Union. We don’t radiate our own people.”
He grunted. Then he laughed. “You will give me print? I want to send it to my mother.”
“Of course,” I said. I could never let Doctor Hiram learn about that.
“Yes! I will do it.”
I instructed him to sit in the chair and lean back. He did, gingerly at first, giving me a long, searching glance. I smiled and patted his arm. Then I swung the photonic box over his head, much as an x-ray technician used to do when I was a child at the dentist.
“Don’t move,” I said.
“Will it take long?”
“It shouldn’t.”
“Will I feel anything?”
I had no idea. “Of course not,” I said. “It’s painless.” I went to the control board, my insides seething. Would it work? Would a person feel anything, provided people even had souls? I couldn’t see why it should hurt. A regular photograph wasn’t painful.
“Ready?” I asked.
Boss Chuikov grunted.
I pressed the button. The photonic box whined and then Chuikov gave out the most soul-searing scream I’ve ever heard. I whirled around. He clutched the armrests. His face was rigid and his eyes bulged, making him look even more like a bullfrog. The odor of sweat permeated the room.
Horror filled me. What had I done? What if I turned it off and Chuikov yanked out his gun and shot me dead? So I waited, desperately trying to think of something. Then all at once the whine turned high-pitched and then abruptly cycled down. Chuikov collapsed. I raced to the machine, opened the slot. In it was a malleable marble with insides that were an oily mass.
I blinked in astonishment. Was that a picture of his soul?
Boss Chuikov stirred.
I waited, petrified.
He opened his eyes. They were blank. His face was wooden, as if all the vitality had been sucked out of it. He stared at me. Then he swung his legs out of the chair, unsteadily stood up and reached inside his suit. I heard the snap of a hostler, and in a smooth motion, he aimed a snub-nosed .38 at my midsection. He didn’t threaten. He didn’t frown, smile or use his face in any way. His features were like a Halloween mask.
“Mr. Chuikov,” I whispered. I picked up the malleable marble, thinking to show it to him. “Don’t shoot me.”
His gun hand swung down.
“Are you well?” I asked.
He stared at me with that blank look. It was an eerie sensation.
“Say something,” I said.
“What should I say?” he asked, with a dead voice, with no lilt or inflection.
I blinked. “Do you want to see the picture of your soul?”
A terrible longing flickered across his face.
“Here, look!” I said, thrusting my hand at him.
He looked, and a moan tore out of him.
“What’s wrong?” I looked at the malleable marble, at the swirling oily something within. “It worked. I didn’t lie. You can see that, can’t you?”
“Yes,” he said, in a lifeless voice.
“Does that cover at least some of my debt?”
He said nothing and did nothing.
“It has to count for something!” I shouted.
He nodded.
“You agree then?”
“Yes.”
I frowned, and a horrible, dreadful thought struck me. I recalled as I stared at blank Boss Chuikov that olden natives used to hate Westerners taking
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