Free To Live Again and The Second Trip by Robert Silverberg

sunlight made sparkling patterns on the ocean floor, five feet below her. Soon she was past the sandy zone and out above the coral reef that lay a hundred yards off shore. Gnarled, twisted coral heads jutted from the bottom. Fish of a thousand hues danced and played between the stony orange and green slabs. Malevolent black sea urchins twitched their spines hopefully at her. Risa sucked air, dived, plucked a sand dollar from the bottom.
    In time she lost interest in the reef. When she swam back to shore, she found that another dozen guests or more had arrived—among them, finally, someone of her own generation. Her cousin Rod Loeb stood at the water’s edge: eighteen, brawny, tanned, vain. She knew him well and liked him. He wore only a taut red loinstrap. His eyes passed easily over her slender nakedness as she emerged from the water.
    “Just get here?” she asked.
    “Half an hour ago. There was hopter trouble at the airport and we were delayed. You’re looking good, Risa.”
    “And you. Let’s walk.”
    They strolled through the slapping surf toward a cluster of jagged, metallic-looking rocks piled at the north end of the beach. Risa felt the noon warmth probing her skin for some vulnerable place to singe and blister; but the molecule-thick coating of cream protected her. She reveled in her nudity. She broke into a trot, her small breasts barely swaying. If Elena tried to run like this, Risa thought, she’d hit herself in the face with all that swinging meat.
    They reached the rocks, neither of them short of breath. The white turrets of barnacles sprouted on the lower surfaces, licked by the waves. Rod said, “I hear you’ve had a transplant.”
    “News travels fast if it’s reached Majorca already.”
    “Gossip moves at the speed of light in this family. Is it true?”
    “Partly. I’ve applied for one. Mark gave his consent a few days ago. I went to the soul bank and tried a few personae out, and on Tuesday I’ll have the transplant.”
    “Who’ll it be?”
    “I’m not sure yet. I’m deciding between some different types. Whichever it is, it’ll be a girl who died young and sexy. Maybe even someone you’ve slept with.”
    Rod laughed. “Is that incest? If you pick up a persona with a memory of having been to bed with me, I mean?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t care. Is there anything so special about going to bed with you?”
    “Try me and see,” Rod said. “Without filtering it through a transplant.”
    She eyed his loinstrap. “Right out here on the beach, or should we go to your cottage?”
    “Why not right here?” he asked.
    “All right,” said Risa. She stretched out on a flat palm of stone, flexed her knees, drew her legs apart. Anyone on the beach could see them from here. She propped her fist against her chin. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’m waiting.”
    “I almost think you’re serious,” Rod said.
    “I am. And you are too, aren’t you? That strap doesn’t hide much. You want me. You’ve been hinting about it long enough. So here’s your chance. Get on top of me.”
    His eyes sparkled maliciously. “I wouldn’t take advantage of a child.”
    “Monster! I’m past sixteen.”
    “Chronologically. But only a child would want to put on a sick exhibition like that in front of everybody. It’s tasteless, Risa. If you really want to have sex with me, get up and we’ll go somewhere private and I’ll oblige you. But just to show everyone that you’re old enough to sin a little—”
    “Would I be the first to make love at one of these parties?”
    “Stop it,” he said. He swung himself down beside her and lightly slapped the outside of her left thigh. “Can I change the subject? What do you know about Uncle Paul’s transplant? Who’s going to get him?”
    Disgruntled by his casual disregard of her wanton mood, Risa closed her thighs and said, “How should I know?”
    “The story I hear is that he’s going to go to John Roditis.”
    “Not if my father has