Babel-17

by Samuel R. Delany

They left the main lobby for the labeled corridor that sloped up through the storage chambers. It emptied them onto a platform in an indirectly lighted room, racked up its hundred-foot height with glass cases, catwalked and laddered like a spider’s den. In the coffins, dark shapes were rigid beneath frost-shot glass. “What I don’t understand about this whole business,” the Officer whispered, “is the calling back. Can anybody who dies be made corporate again? You’re right, Captain Wong, in Customs it’s almost impolite to talk about things like…this.” “Any suicide who discorporates through regular Morgue channels can be called back. But a violent death where the Morgue just retrieves the body afterward, or the run-of-the-mill senile ending that most of us hit at a hundred and fifty or so, then you’re dead forever; although there, if you pass through regular channels, your brain pattern is recorded and your thinking ability can be tapped if anyone wants it, though your consciousness is gone wherever consciousness goes.” Beside them, a twelve-foot filing crystal glowed like pink quartz. “Ron,” said Rydra. “No, Ron and Calli too.” The Navigators stepped up, puzzled. “You know some first navigator who suicided recently that you think we might—” Rydra shook her head. She passed her hand before the filing crystal. In the concaved screen at the base, words flashed. She stilled her fingers. “Navigator Two…” She turned her hand. “Navigator One…” She paused and ran her hand in a diffe...