But after dinner, with our coffee, I said: "Now let's get down to business. What were you doing in the clinic?" "I was trying to rescue my father," she said. "Rescue, Rena? Rescue from what?" "Tom, please. You believe in the Company, do you not?" "Of course!" "And I do not. We shall never agree. I am grateful to you for not turning me in, and I think perhaps I know what it cost you to do it. But that is all, Tom." "But the Company--" "When you speak of the Company, what is it you see? Something shining and wonderful? It is not that way with me; what I see is--rows of my friends, frozen in the vaults or the expediters and that poor old man you caught." There was no reasoning with her. She had fixed in her mind that all the suspendees were the victims of some sinister brutality. Of course, it wasn't like that at all. Suspension wasn't death; everyone knew that. In fact, it was the antithesis of death. It _saved_ lives by taking the maimed and sick and putting them mercifully to sleep, until they could be repaired. True, their bodies grew cold, the lungs stopped pumping, the heart stopped throbbing; true, no doctor could tell, on sight, whether a suspendee was "alive" or "dead." The life processes were not entirely halted, but they were slowed enormously--enough so that chemical diffusion in the jellylike blood carried all the oxygen the body needed. But there was a difference: The dead were dead, whereas the suspendees could be brought back to life at any moment the Company chose. But I couldn't make her see that. I couldn't even console her by reminding her that the old man was a mere Class E. For so was she. I urged reasonably: "Rena, you think something is going on under the surface. Tell me about it. Why do you think your father was put in suspension?" "To keep him out of the way. Because the Company is afraid of him." I played a trump card: "Suppose I told you the _real_ reason he's in the vaults." * * * * * She was hit by that, I could tell. She was staring at me with wonder in her eyes. "You don't have to speculate about it, Rena. I looked up his record, you see." "You--you--" I nodded. "It's right there in black and white. They're trying to save his life. He has radiation poisoning. He was a war casualty. It's standard medical practice in cases like his to put them in suspension for a while, until the level of radioactivity dies down and they can safely be revived. Now what do you say?" She merely stared at me. I pressed on persuasively: "Rena, I don't mean to call your beliefs superstitions or anything like that. Please understand me. You have your own cultural heritage and--well, I know that it looks as though he is some kind of 'undead,' or however you put it, in your folk stories. I know there are legends of vampires and zombies and so on, but--"