"A new, er, body, you mean?"
"Yes. To start life at age twenty-five again, aware of all your mistakes, your short-comings, your—"
"All right," Horner said finally, "that's enough. I've been lying here and listening because I've had no choice, understand? But you've worn that joke out, fellow. I wish you'd stop."
The masseur mumbled something under his breath, then said, "Well, that does it on the front side. Care to roll over?"
"Yes," said Horner dutifully, and did so. He thought: funny, the way this bird delivered that new body pitch. Such a straight face. So utterly serious, almost as if he were interviewing me. The silence stretched. Horner regretted having asked the attendant to stop his yarn about new bodies. He finally said, in defeat, "Er, about what you were saying—"
"You want an appointment? That's what I'm here for."
"An appointment? With whom?"
The attendant wiped his hands on a large towel and tossed its twin to Horner. From somewhere, he plucked a neat white business card and gave it to Horner. The card said:
BODIES, INC. By appointment only.