"But we can lick that problem--eventually!" "Maybe you can. But the voters don't believe that. All they see is the short-range possibility. And they're more afraid of having a loved one turn into a zombie than they are of death. After all, you can't very well kill your wife or son or father if you've had him reanimated and he turns out to be an idiot. You have to go on supporting him. It's pretty frightening." Doggedly Harker said, "I think we can get over that particular hump." "Then reanimation's in. Jim, I'm not so foolish as to think that we can ever go back to where we were two months ago. The Beller process exists; it can't be destroyed. But it can be batted around in committee and side-channelled and circumvented until the time is ripe for popular acceptance. And the Party may have to do that to you, though I hope it doesn't happen." "Do you think it will, though?" Again the sad smile. "Read the newspapers, man. Read your mail!" * * * * * Harker read his mail. He ploughed through hundreds of vicious, sweat-provoking letters. He sorted them out: favorable on one side, unfavorable on the other. The _unfavorable_ pile grew so high it toppled over, and he started a new one; the pile of encouraging letters was no more than three inches thick. They were letters of raw hate, most of them. The kind of thing that went, _My beloved mother/father/sister/brother/son/daughter/aunt/uncle/grandmother/grandfather died last week, and I want to tell you she/he had a decent Christian burial and went to his/her eternal repose. Naturally I feel sorrow at my loss, but I'd rather be dead myself than let a loved one of mine get into your hands. Sure, maybe you'll bring him/her back to life--but who wants to see the hollow mindless shell of someone you once loved? Not me, brother. Not me._ It was an enlarging experience to read those letters. Even when he had held public office, Harker had never received so many, nor such loaded ones. It was astonishing. They gloated in the triumph of death, they thanked God they had not allowed their beloved ones to be reanimated, they extended curses for Harker and his whole family. _He_ was the target of their hate, the symbol for reanimation. At first he was irritated, then angered; anger passed, and turned into compassion. Perhaps some of these same people had written to him a month ago, pleading to have a loved one restored to them by the new miracle of science. Now, confused by the haze of conflicting tales, of lies and partial truths, their earlier willingness turned to repulsion. Harker wearily baled the letters up again, and left Litchfield to spend some time with his puzzled, unhappy family. They were accustomed to seeing their father's name in the headlines; it was old stuff to them. But this public hatred was new to them, and difficult for them to understand.