She took solace in dreaming of the future. She gave a tight-lipped smile. There is no way my work would ever be accepted in today's art world.
Checking her watch, she stalked out of the hall and headed to the Greek and Roman galleries, the venue that Malcolm preferred. She still had a quarter of an hour to kill before meeting him at the exhibit.
The Rubens exhibit. The price of admission was as much as a Broadway play, well outside the means of an impoverished art student. I have got to stop thinking this way. Even though her thin body was the result of that time of hunger, she wasn't a starving art student anymore.
Thanks to Malcolm, her anorexic look had brought her stardom—a far cry from her art student days when she modeled nude for life classes at the league. Will model for food! And now she had real money. Not Malcolm's definition of money, of course; he was of the filthy variety of rich.
They'd met when he was taking a life drawing class and she was modeling for it. Afterward, he'd used his family contacts to inject her into the world of high-fashion modeling, where she'd been remolded into “the Body": the current “big thing.” Gale smiled. Malcolm considered that he personally had done the remolding. He called her “my Galatea,” after the statue brought to life in the Pygmalion myth. She sighed. She owed Malcolm a great deal. It was too bad she didn't love him.
Gale drifted toward the Roman statuary entrance.
“Good evening, my Galatea,” came a cheerful voice from the side.
Gale spun around. “Malcolm. I was just on the way to meet you at the ticket kiosk.”
Malcolm extended an arm expansively to take in the gallery. “Then let's leave this toga-clad era for our little excursion to seventeenth-century Holland.” He withdrew two exhibition admission tickets from his shirt pocket and handed her one. “I've already booked our passage.”
Gale chuckled. “Sorry to pull you away from Rome.”
“Only temporarily, my Galatea.”
Gale nodded. Malcolm was a Classics scholar—because he could afford to be. “This really is your time,” she said.
“I yearn for it as much as you crave your hundred-year leap to the future.” He guided her toward the patron entrance; he had bought the expensive tickets, thus avoiding the line. “But you have it better. In theory, you could go to your future via a stasis booth.” They passed into the exhibit hall and stopped in front of a large canvas. “But my longing for the past can only be fulfilled vicariously.”
“'The Union of Earth and Water,'” Gale read from the plaque aside the painting. “On loan from the Hermitage.”
“Sort of chubby, isn't she?” said Malcolm, gazing at the nude with the bit of cloth casually draped over a sensitive section of her anatomy. “Rubenesque, not surprisingly.”
“But beautiful,” said Gale. “Timeless. Ars longa, vita brevis.”
Malcolm raised his eyebrows.
“Art is long, life is short,” said Gale.
“That's the popular meaning, certainly. But it comes from Hippocrates—”
“The father of medicine?”
Malcolm nodded. He seemed uncharacteristically serious. “The full quote is 'Ars longa, vita brevis, occasio praeceps, experimentum periculosum, iudicium difficile.’ ”
“That's not particularly illuminating.”
“It means, essentially, life is short, the art of medicine takes more than a lifetime to learn, opportunity for treatment is fleeting, and judgment about treatment is difficult.” Malcolm let out a breath. “And well do I know it.”
“Something is on your mind,” said Gale. “You don't seem your cheerful self.”
“Why don't we go to the coffee shop?” he said. “I have something I need to talk about.”
Gale agreed, but with diffidence; she hoped he wasn't about to propose marriage again.
At a small, out-of-the-way table in the Petrie Court Café, Gale and Malcolm sat nursing cups of coffee, his with milk and sugar, hers black; having “the Body” took work. She smelled the siren-scent from a nearby table. God, I'd almost kill for one of those pastries.
“I am ill,” said Malcolm abruptly. “An annoying disease.”
Gale moved her attention from her nose to her eyes. Malcolm appeared nonchalant, but his mouth showed thin, stretched lips, an impression of distaste as if talking about one's health were a breach of etiquette. “Not serious, I hope.”
“Terminal, I'm afraid.”
Gale felt her eyes widen. She sucked in a breath. “I—”
“Hopefully...” Malcolm interrupted, making calming motions. “Hopefully, my death will only be temporary.”
“Excuse me?”
“Pancreatic cancer.” Malcolm spoke calmly, as if discussing a wine vintage. “Aggressive form. Metastasized. No available treatment at this stage.”
“That's horrible,” said Gale at a whisper.
“The only horrible thing is that I must lose you.”
Gale opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.
“Oh, it's not hyperbolic gallantry,” said Malcolm. “My family has some, well, resources. So I've managed to get myself cleared for a stasis booth without the usual wait. I'll be in there until a cure is found.” He looked down at his cup. “And I'm sure there will be a cure before not too long.” His statement seemed addressed as much to himself as to Gale. His gaze shot up to her eyes. “I won't ask you to come with me and leave everything you know.” He moved his hand to cover her wrist on the table. “I've told you often enough that I love you, but I know you don't love me. So—”
“No, I...” said Gale, flustered. “It's that ... But go with you? Well, I mean ... I thought only patients could go into stasis.”
“Amazing sometimes, what one can do with money.”
“Well, it's hard to—”
“Not another word about it.” Malcolm patted her wrist gently, as if a caress. “It's just my fantasy. Pure fantasy; I would never allow you to risk the one-in-a-thousand chance of dying from the procedure.”
“I didn't know,” said Gale at a whisper, “that you could die from stasis.”
“Pretty damned good odds you won't ... I won't.” He flashed a quick and clearly forced smile. “So let's just enjoy the time we have together. And who knows? My disease might be curable in just a month and we could just continue as we are.”
“Are there no treatment options?”
“None.” Malcolm gripped her wrist more firmly. “I ask you ... no, I demand that you not think of me as ill.” He released her wrist and sat back in his chair. “It's funny. I feel somehow guilty about coming down with a disease.”
“That's ridiculous.”
Again, he smiled at her. “More coffee?”
Gale shook her head. “When do you go into stasis?”
“Soon—to give future doctors the best shot at curing me.”
“When, exactly?”
“Tomorrow.”
“So soon?” The immediacy of losing Malcolm struck home.
“I hate drawn-out good-byes.” He turned and gazed at her, tenderness apparent in his eyes. “Will you come and see me off? Two in the afternoon, Cornell Medical Center, Temporal Technology Wing.” He looked down at his hands. “I need you.”
* * * *
In the hospital waiting room, next day, Gale waited to be admitted to the stasis hall. There were several other patients scheduled before Malcolm. Each patient had a quarter of an hour for saying good-byes.
More to kill time than out of any real interest, she read a brochure about the technique. In a stasis booth, the brochure informed her, time effectively stops. It worked by the quantum mechanical phenomenon called Zitterbewegung—flitter motion: the effect where charged particles constantly zigzag back and forth at the speed of light. Gale let her eyes glaze over; she was no scientist. Instead of reading more, she thought of all the great times she and Malcolm had experienced together. This time, instead of glazing, her eyes teared over.
“You may go in and visit now.”
Gale, startled by the voice, looked up and saw a nurse staring at her. She recognized the look; the nurse had recognized her as “the Body” and was trying hard to pretend she hadn't. The nurse gave a professional smile masking any sign of admiration or envy. “This way, please.”
Gale thanked the woman and followed her to a long, narrow ward. Many little glass-doored booths were arrayed along a wall. Alongside each stood a locker such as one might find in a school or a health club: tall and thin and secured with a combination lock. A few rolling office chairs broke the stark symmetry of the ward.
Looking down the hall, Gale saw a figure wearing a hospital gown and slippers sitting on one of the chairs. In back of him, Gale saw a booth, the only booth with its door open. Inside was just a very minimal seat—a thin slat mounted to the sides of the booth.
As the nurse and Gale approached, the man swiveled in the chair, stood, then with a smile, bowed.
“Hello, Malcolm,” said Gale with genuine warmth.
“Hello, my Galatea.”
“You have about ten minutes,” said the nurse, “before Dr. Ernst comes to begin the procedure.” She gave a mechanical smile and clattered back down the hall.
Gale and Malcolm looked at each other awkwardly for a moment before Malcolm said, “Stopping time. An interesting effect, actually.”
“Flitter motion,” said Gale flatly.
“Oh, you know?”
“Just the word.”
“Ah.” Malcolm kicked off his slippers and took off his gown, leaving him wearing only white gym shorts. He stepped into the booth and sat. “They give my body an electrical charge, force it into a single quantum state, whatever that means, and force the Zitterbewegung. My body oscillates rapidly at the speed of light. And for objects traveling at the speed of light, time stops. Simple, isn't it?”
Gale looked at him; in those shorts, he looked virile and the picture of life—as if he were ready to run in the Olympics. “I'd expected to see you strapped to an operating table and covered in wires and sensors.”
“Fortunately not,” said Malcolm. He stroked his classic, rippled abs. “I'd hate to think of my body disfigured by sensors and wires.” He chuckled. “Galatea. Funny, the name rather applies to me; I am to be the statue brought to life—I hope.”
“I'm sure you will be.”
Malcolm gazed at her. “I love you, you know.”
“I'm beginning to think that maybe I love you too.”
“Ah,” said Malcolm, softly, “if only....”
After some minutes of what-ifs, Gale heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Quickly,” said Malcolm. “A kiss. A kiss before ... before I sleep.”
Gale complied and Malcolm prolonged the embrace until the doctor arrived.
Dr. Ernst was all pleasantness and charm. Gale found it comforting that Dr. Ernst didn't seem to recognize her.
“This will just take a moment,” said the doctor to Malcolm. “Just a moment in your time, that is.” He inserted a key-card into a slot and a control panel slid open. “Assume a position you'd be happy having the world see for a while.” He began to close the door. “Bon voyage!”
Malcolm struck a noble pose and with that, Dr. Ernst snapped closed the transparent door and flipped a switch.
Gale heard an electrical hum and saw Malcolm's features slow and go rigid. He looked like the statue of a Greek god, especially so under the alabaster white of the overhead fluorescent lights.
“Is he safe in there?” said Gale, feeling the need to say something.
“Safe?” Dr. Ernst pulled out his key card and the panel slid closed.
“Well, he might be there for years.”
Dr. Ernst sighed. “For many years, perhaps. I'm familiar with his disease.” He brightened. “But the risk from the procedure is all in the going into stasis, not coming out. He's quite ... safe, as you put it. The ward has a five-week battery backup so there won't be any accidental cycling.” He gave a good-natured chuckle. “We will decant no patient before his time.”
“I will miss him.”
Dr. Ernst gave an avuncular smile. “You can, of course, come and see him during weekly visiting hours.” She looked at him quizzically. “Think of it as visiting a work of art—his form in sculpture.”
* * * *
Gale left the hospital with mixed feelings and mixed-up emotions. Although she felt guilty about it, she resented and even envied Malcolm traveling to the future. He had no business there. The future was hers. His time was Imperial Rome.
Walking to the corner to hail a cab, she felt adrift and also depressed. On impulse, she darted into a drugstore along the way for her standard over-the-counter drug for depression, a chocolate bar. Outside the store, she broke off and ate a square of the dark lusciousness. For the sake of her career, she'd normally eat one square and throw away the rest. But this time, one square didn't help. She devoured the entire bar. It still didn't help.
During the following week, Gale made a dilatory attempt to rekindle an old relationship—and did. But it gave her little satisfaction. She felt empty—convinced that this time, this era, held nothing for her. She found herself wishing she'd gone into stasis with Malcolm.
Over the next few days the wish grew stronger, transforming from a mere desire to a course of action. She would herself go into stasis. She would not leave the future to Malcolm.
On the morning of her first visiting day, she penned a note to Malcolm and, en route to the hospital, had it notarized.
* * * *
The ward reminded Gale of the active statuary storage hall at the Met, the not-open-to-the-public facility where conservators and art students could study works not currently on exhibit. Small clusters of downcast people stood in front of stasis booths peering in at the time-frozen patients.
Gale went to Malcolm's booth and gazed in at him. He was certainly one of the more impressive items in the row of statuary. She felt comforted by being near to him. I wonder if I could get the curator—she smiled at herself—Curator! What am I thinking? Could I get the doctor to bring him back to life for a few minutes? Almost imperceptibly, she shook her head. No way they'd do that—not with a one-in-a-thousand chance of death when returning to stasis.
She took the note from her purse, scanned the ward from the corners of her eyes, then casually sidled up to Malcolm's locker. Quickly, she pushed the note under the door and into the locker, then left the ward and the hospital.
Filled with a clear purpose and a sense of urgency, she trod quickly out into the sunlight. She needed to arrange stasis for herself, and to do so quickly; every day she delayed, she'd age a day and Malcolm wouldn't. She did not want to arrive at Malcolm's future older than he.
She thought of her note, reassuring herself that she'd made herself clear. She'd accepted his offer of marriage. All he had to do, after his cure, was locate her stasis facility, show her note to the authorities, and have the doctors bring her back to life. Easy!
* * * *
Gale hung up the phone in shock—in sticker-shock.
She had hunted down a number of private stasis companies and found that what they provided was mainly a time-killing service for the privileged—those who were willing to accept the risk in exchange for being younger than their contemporaries. The time intervals were usually in the range from weeks to a few months, and it was expensive. One of the companies did provide long-term stasis, but at a cost of fifty thousand dollars per year. And she'd have to pay up front. She wanted an assured century, but there was no way she could come up with five million dollars.
Gale wondered how she might contract some incurable and fatal disease. She had a good health plan that provided stasis-until-cure. But, as she soon discovered, acquiring such a disease seemed no easier than curing it. No. I need an idea, a real idea.
Seeking a place to think on her feet, Gale returned to the museum. She used her re-entry ticket and, strolling among the Rubens paintings, pondered her situation.
She was sure
her modeling fees would eventually provide the five million dollars she required. But in stasis, she couldn't earn anything. Her body was her only marketable asset, and she was taking that with her.
Meandering through the nudes, Gale couldn't help comparing Rubens’ voluptuous figures to her own. I have a fabulous body—I know that. She visualized Malcolm in his stasis booth—regal and looking like a god, and got an idea. Maybe I can make money while in stasis.
On impulse, she left the exhibit and strode to the museum director's office. Invoking the name of Malcolm's parents, big contributors to the Met, she finagled a meeting and explained her idea.
“Are you serious?” said the director, incredulity in his voice. “You propose leasing yourself to the museum as artwork?”
“A statue.” With seeming nonchalance, she moved forward in her chair and arched her back slightly to better emphasize her “assets.” “In stasis. Posed tastefully in the nude with a piece of cloth covering what needs to be covered. I wouldn't want to be X-rated.” She smiled, consciously emulating the Mona Lisa. “The Met could surely do very well on exhibit fees.”
The director eyed her analytically; clearly, he'd recognized her. He chuckled. “An intriguing proposition, I must say.” His eyes narrowed. “And just what would you get out of this?”
“Nothing,” she said, innocently. “All I ask is that the museum cover the cost of stasis.”
“Hmm.”
“I really would like the Met to be the first,” she went on. “I'd much prefer being exhibited in New York than in, say, Paris.
“The Louvre is considering this?” The director seemed worried.
She gave a noncommittal shrug.
“You know,” said the director, “that for this to work, you can't be a statue for just a day or two as a ... as a publicity stunt. I imagine you'll have to remain in stasis for some time—a month or two at least.”
“That won't be a problem.” Gale smiled.
The director gently slapped the top of his desk. “I've got to admit it is a genuinely intriguing idea. I'll take it up with the museum board.”
“I'm not sure,” said Gale in a conspiratorial voice, “how long I can wait before entertaining competing offers.”
Analog SFF, October 2008 Page 14