THE GIRL FROM BODIES, INC. By LEONARD G. SPENCER _It's a darned shame that just when we get past the experimental stage and learn how to have fun, the old body starts wearing out. Now what if there were spare parts for sale? What if you could get them installed on demand? A new heart, a new liver, a new--well, just suppose!_ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic October 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "The trouble with bodies," said the new rub-down specialist at the Gotham Baths, "is that after a while they just wear out." "Glmph," said Hugh Horner as the skin-sleeking oil was applied liberally to his face, making a drawn-out reply impossible. "Ain't it funny, though," the rub-downer said, "how you can buy a new set of piston rings for your car or a mainspring for your wristwatch or a new gizmo for the old lady's mix-master, but you can't even buy a new appendix, if you should need one, for yourself." The quick hands left Horner's face and began to knead the sagging muscles in his pectoral region. "If you look at it that way," Horner said, "you have a point." He was alone in the massage room with the attendant. He felt worn and drained out, as he always did at the end of a heavy week's work at the office. A steam bath and a massage helped, but he had to admit it: he wasn't as young as he used to be. "Of course I have a point, Mr. Horner," said the attendant. "Folks spent all that money on machines, what I mean, and almost nothing on themselves. Tell me what happens when a guy develops a bad ticker--Wait, I'll tell you what happens. He sits somewhere in a soft chair, on a porch maybe, sucking on a dry pipe and waiting for the next attack, which will probably kill him." "I've heard pleasanter talk," Hugh Horner said in sudden distaste. "What's the matter? Afraid of the truth?" "Now really!" said Horner. "How old are you, Mr. Horner? Forty-five?" "I'm forty-seven," Horner admitted. His age, thus objectively stated in his own voice, came as a mild shock. Forty-seven! He was virtually middle-aged. "Forty-seven! How many years before you change the car's battery?" "Why, two or three, I guess." "The tires?" "Every twenty-five thousand miles. That would be about three years." The attendant leaned down over him, still kneading the flesh of his chest. "How much you got in the bank, Mr. H.?" he asked in a tight whisper. "I don't see where that's any business of yours," Horner replied in a shocked voice. "You get a car on time, it's the finance company's business, isn't it? You take out a mortgage, it's the bank's business--right?" "Yes, but--" "How much, then?" "Well, er, six thousand dollars." "Joint account with your wife?" "Y-yes." "Happily married?" "Now, just a minute!" "Are you or aren't you?" "Yes, I suppose so."