The First Immortal

by James L. Halperin

  “You’re one helluva salesman,” Ben granted. “You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want, but how much money will they pay you if you sign me up?”

  “Just my salary. Nobody here gets a commission. We’re nonprofit.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, sir.” Again Perez’s tone conveyed the eloquence of truth.

  “Back in World War Two,” Ben said, “the Army used to have a serious problem with parachutes. About one percent of ‘em failed to open. Now one percent doesn’t sound like much, unless you happen to be one of the unlucky fellas who got the wrong ones. But they finally solved the problem; got the defect rate down to zero.”

  “How?” Perez asked.

  “Simple. They made all the parachute packers and inspectors take monthly jumps, using parachutes selected at random from those they’d worked on themselves.”

  “Exactly! And our basic philosophy is very similar to theirs. What we do here is for our own benefit as much as yours. Maybe we’re a little more trusting than the Army, but not much. Remember how I told you I’m one of the fifty-six people signed up?”

  “So you did.”

  “In fact, the Phoenix won’t hire anyone who doesn’t plan to take the exact same journey our members sign up for. What’s more, I make about a third as much here as I did at my last job selling real estate. I work here because I want to help assure my own journey into the future, and my family’s, too.”

  “Well, that’s somewhat reassuring. And you refer to your organization as the Phoenix?” Ben added. “Of Phoenix, Arizona. Was your location an accident, or intentional?”

  Perez laughed. “We chose Phoenix because it’s one of the least likely places in the United States to have an earthquake, or any other natural disaster for that matter. Purely a coincidence, but an interesting one, don’t you think?”

  “Very.

  “Of course, once we decided to locate here, it seemed so perfect to refer to ourselves as ‘the Phoenix.’”

  “A fitting name,” Ben allowed, picturing the great bird rising from the ashes.

  “I tend to think of us as a lifeboat to the future,” Perez replied, a metaphor Ben appreciated more than the man could have realized. “But whatever image works best for you. If you’d like to learn more, I’ll be happy to send you our information package.”

  A leaky lifeboat to the future may be lunacy, Ben decided, but feeding his body to the fauna was even crazier. He gave Perez his address.

  January 1, 1983

  Alone on New Year’s Day, Ben finally found time to catch up on his paperwork, but first he dialed Gary’s number. He now spoke with his son about once a week. Gary’s work had become a focus in Ben’s life; attending exhibitions and reading catalogs to learn as much as possible about his son’s art. They couldn’t be said to be at ease with each other, but now their contact often seemed to lack the anticipation of pain and discomfort. It was a start.

  Ben recalled their conversation of four days ago when Gary had actually sounded pleased to hear from him. Maybe so, Ben now thought, but they were still strangers, weren’t they? Or no—Gary’s resentment made them too intimate to be strangers, yet they certainly didn’t know each other. Perhaps they never would.

  Ben knew he would continue to make the effort. Relentlessly.

  There was no answer. Damn! Gary hadn’t bothered to reset his answering machine again. He’d have to try later.

  Ben looked at his cluttered desktop and noticed the nine-by-twelve-inch envelope received six weeks earlier from the Phoenix Life Extension Foundation. Since its arrival, it had languished unopened.

  Wasn’t procrastination such a human response to the anticipation of death? Who wanted to confront one’s own mortality? He also knew that few people spent enough time arranging their estates or preparing their wills; these were not comfortable activities. He’d seen it in his patients time and again. In fact hadn’t his own response to his first heart attack also been procrastination, borne by denial? He sure as hell wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  He opened the package.

  A few minutes became three hours as Ben pored over the history of cryonics in the United States and the philosophy of those who ran the Phoenix. Cryonics still made him nervous, but the literature appealed to Ben’s optimistic nature and seemed not to conflict with scientific realism.

  Every doctor knew that nerve cells passing messages within the brain allowed a person to see, feel, and think; a delicate system that could not function without constant nourishment from the bloodstream. If a heart attack or other trauma interrupted the flow of these crucial nutrients, enough cells would perish within ten minutes to render the brain nonviable. At extremely low temperatures, however, this grace period might be extended for centuries. By some estimates, the temperature of liquid nitrogen could slow cellular erosion to less than a trillionth of its decay rate at normal temperatures.

  It seemed a virtual certainty that thoughts and dreams, indeed all neuronal activity, would cease during suspension. To Ben, that premise alone was of considerable comfort.

  At any temperature below the freezing point of water, however, too many cell membranes would be damaged by ice crystals. Modern technology could not hope to reverse this damage, but someday, many scientists believed, doctors might have the means to repair individual cells and even DNA strands. At that point, perhaps suspended patients could be successfully revived and restored to full health; even to youthful vigor.

  Embryos, seeds, and simple organisms had already been frozen for years or centuries, then brought back to life. Dogs had been cooled to about 36 degrees Fahrenheit, maintained in a lifeless state for several hours, and revived to apparent normalcy. But no mammal had ever been suspended in liquid nitrogen as “cryonauts” were, and revived years, or even minutes, later. Damage from the freezing process itself was far too extensive for current medical science to reverse; indeed, such damage was often millions of times more pervasive than the original cause of death.

  There were legal problems, too. Amazingly, all these appeared to be fully disclosed in the literature. The Phoenix had been both plaintiff and defendant in numerous lawsuits against individuals and government agencies. Many of these lawsuits were presented in excruciating minutiae, almost as a badge of honor.

  No laws had been written with cryonics in mind, and thus regulatory and bureaucratic entanglements were common. Another obvious problem was that no cryonic procedure could begin until a patient had been pronounced legally dead. Often hospitals and other medical authorities refused cooperation. Some even interfered with the Phoenix during such emergencies.

  An interesting case described by one wealthy member pertained to his Siamese cat. The animal, having been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer, had been immediately anesthetized, flown to Phoenix, treated, and frozen alive. The entire procedure was described with scientific precision. This feline received what could only have been considered as ideal treatment.

  “The irony,” the cat’s owner had written, “is that no terminal human being subjugated to today’s laws could ever expect suspension under such perfect conditions. For example, if I had a similar brain cancer, before I could be frozen I would have to wait until the tumors had sufficiently ravaged my brain to cause death, rendering my prospects for identity-preservation extremely doubtful.”

  There was also a financial statement in the packet. The Phoenix was not particularly well-funded, and decidedly stingy in employee compensation. David Perez’s gross salary was only $13,000 per year, and the president of the organization, Dr. Alyson Shockley, earned barely double that amount. Evidently they were not in it for the money.

  Finally, Ben read about the Phoenix’s emergency transport teams and suspension procedures. Although their scientists and technicians were portrayed as zealously dedicated to protecting the structural integrity of every patient’s brain, the descriptions of individual cases were less than reassuring. Five of the Phoenix’s fourteen current suspendees had died
suddenly, resulting in severe, protracted, and most likely irreversible ischemia—cell damage from inadequate blood flow. These patients had been suspended anyway, but their prognosis for successful revival appeared at best bleak.

  But the very fact that the Phoenix’s own literature painted an often gloomy picture made them seem more trustworthy. It was apparent to Ben that this was no scam. Right or wrong, these people were true believers.

  According to the literature, most members bought a life insurance policy to fund their suspensions, even those who could afford to pay in advance. The Phoenix charged $75,000 for a full-body freeze and storage, or $30,000 for “neurosuspension,” that is, only the head: expensive, but the fee covered maintenance in perpetuity. And by purchasing a $75,000 life insurance policy to cover the onetime fee, at his age a full-body would only set him back about $900 per year—$600 for the insurance policy, plus $300 annual membership dues.

  In real money, that was a hell of a lot less than seventy-five grand. No wonder most everyone funded with insurance, Ben mused.

  He also understood the logic behind neurosuspensions: Any science that could restore a dead brain to life could easily replace the rest of the body as well. But still, he had trouble with the concept of discarding his own body. If he did it at all, he’d opt for the full-body suspension.

  Now Ben was amazed; he was actually considering this!

  Most of his mind doubted the potential efficacy of cryostasis revival. But Ben’s natural hopefulness gradually overtook his skepticism. Sure it was a gamble, but the payoff was huge.

  The future might be incredible, he thought. In most ways, the average person already lived better than royalty had just a few hundred years before. Hell, a century ago even kings had often suffered from head lice.

  He considered all the advancements that the richest people in the 1800s lacked, all taken for granted today: instant long-distance communication, rapid travel, mobilized fire and police departments, weather forecasts, indoor plumbing, contact lenses, many forms of insurance, air-conditioning, antibiotics, painless dentistry. The list seemed to go on forever. Imagine living without those things!

  And what would the world be like a few hundred years hence?

  Inexpensive hypersonic travel, powerful watch-sized computers, more uniform and reliable justice, perfect health for all, machines to do all mindless work, more efficient and individualized education. People might pity those who had to withstand life in the twentieth century. And why not? That had certainly been true of every successive century since the end of the Dark Ages. Maybe the human race had barely begun to live!

  He pictured himself awakening in a century or two or ten, healthy, even restored to youth, yet perhaps unsuited to tomorrow’s world.

  How would he adapt?

  Then he thought about his own grandparents who’d immigrated to America from Italy, unable to speak a word of English. They’d adjusted well enough, and so would he. Rather than face death, Ben Smith preferred to live in any world that wanted him.

  Once committed, he found that filling out the paperwork became surprisingly easy. It was a matter of context. He’d asked himself if he would invest less than one percent of his net worth for a small chance to glimpse—no, inhabit—the world a century or more into the future. When he considered the question in those terms, the answer became obvious.

  Since he could easily afford it, Ben even decided to pay in advance: to save time, and to get it done before he could change his mind. Writing the check was effortless.

  He imagined a second chance at life, knowing everything he knew now; an opportunity to use the wisdom he’d gleaned from all his mistakes. Even a tiny likelihood of such a prize was worth a hell of a lot more than $75,000. As he sealed the envelope, a far more revealing thought bubbled up in his consciousness: Regardless of the odds, how much was the hope this decision provided him worth? Seventy-five thousand dollars: the difference between dread and hope? What a bargain!

  January 17, 1983

  Twentieth-century trust and estate law was an interesting business; its practitioners functioned in a perpetually dualistic world. Entering a law office for the purpose of drafting or altering one’s last will and testament, you were likely to encounter an extremely personable, competent lawyer, who, upon conclusion of the work, would present you with a surprisingly reasonable bill. Trust and estate lawyers, like most morticians and fine art auctioneers, tended to be “professional nice guys” whose short-term goal was to become your friend. But their perspective was long-term indeed—and cold-blooded; they would invest in relationships, intending to cash in after you were dead.

  Patrick Webster’s suite was small and cluttered, but his sixth-floor window afforded a fine view of Quincy Market. The offices of Fialkow, Webster, Barnes & Zeeve weren’t as posh as those at Hale & Dorr or Foley, Hoag & Eliot, or any of the other frontline Boston law firms, but the location was ideal. It was lunch hour and Faneuil Hall teemed with secretaries and salesmen, college kids and attorneys. The sun was shining; nearly all the snow had melted.

  They sat at a small table near the window. “I sent the Phoenix $75,000 for the procedure a couple weeks ago,” Ben said.

  He did not mention his concerns about cryonics, his fear of cramped spaces and lack of control, or his claustrophobia. Ben didn’t know Webster well enough to confide in that way; this fellow was his lawyer, not his shrink.

  “What exactly do they freeze?” Webster asked gingerly, his expression neutral.

  Ben looked at the craggy face of the man sitting across from him and thought Pat Webster would look natural in prizefighter trunks. “My body. I thought I made that clear.”

  “The whole thing, right?”

  Ben suppressed a chuckle. “Yes.”

  “Thank God! I was afraid you might be one of those crazies who just have their heads frozen.” Webster rolled his eyes.

  “I considered it,” Ben said, rejecting Webster’s not so subtle invitation to share in his ridicule. “Probably just as sensible as what I’m doing.”

  “Oh. Well, I guess I really don’t know very much about it.”

  “No sweat,” Ben told the lawyer. “Anyway, I have about twelve million left. I’d like to leave a few million to be divided among my kids and grandkids. But if I’m revived after being frozen for a couple of centuries, I don’t imagine I’ll be able to support myself and my family right away. We’ll probably need money, at least until I can learn a skill that’s of some use to the goddamn Jetsons.”

  Webster chuckled softly.

  “I don’t blame you for laughing,” Ben said. “That’s why I haven’t told anyone else. I suppose I should be grateful for the attorney-client privilege, or I could become a laughingstock of the whole Boston medical community.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” Webster said, his face suddenly reflecting gravity and respect. “I was only amused by your reference to the Jetsons.”

  Ben understood: Webster’s very-well-paying job was to represent clients, and to help them navigate the legal system to get what they wanted, not to question those wishes; even so bizarre a request as this.

  “The circumstances are that you’d be legally dead,” the attorney continued. “A dead person can’t own property. You do understand the finality of that, don’t you?”

  “Could we set up a trust?”

  “Sure. Trust laws are different in every state, so I imagine I can find a viable venue somewhere. I’ll have to do some research. Maybe Wisconsin. Come to think of it, South Dakota might be just as tolerant of trusts in perpetuity, and they have no state income tax.” He shrugged. “Ben, it’s your money. You can do whatever you want with it. Anything that will stand up to legal challenge, that is.”

  “I know. I guess I’m a little uncomfortable with the whole idea.” Ben thought about the oxygen mask on the airplane, at first inspired by the analogy. Then he faltered in his resolve. Maybe he wasn’t really seeing to his survival because his family might need him later. What if he
was hogging all the oxygen out of greed and fear? “This is pretty selfish of me, isn’t it?” he asked, hoping for approbation.

  Webster provided it as if on cue. “Pretty selfish?” the lawyer chortled. “Most people would take it all with them if they could. You’re providing for your family now, and offering them hope of resurrection. If that’s selfish, I think I need a new dictionary.” Then he shook his head as if to clear the contradiction. “But if it works, aren’t you worried about what the world’ll be like by the time scientists know how to revive you?”

  Ben had already considered that at length. “Not really. If it’s the sort of world that’s willing to revive people, and if they possess a science so advanced as to be able to restore a person from death as we now define it, their action will have to be its own reward. It’s not as though they’d need humans for slave labor or menial tasks. Machines would be able to do almost anything humans could, for a lot less money. And they certainly won’t need my knowledge of twentieth century medicine. This world of the future would function on digitized information and robotics; just as we depend on electric lighting and internal combustion engines. No. If they’re thawing people and curing their diseases, they’ll be doing so simply because they love doing it; because they value human life for its own sake.”

  “That makes sense,” Webster said thoughtfully. And for the first time in their conversation, Ben was convinced of the lawyer’s sincerity. At least on that point, he knew he’d convinced Webster of his logic.

  “Also,” Ben continued, “I think human existence tends to improve. Not in a straight line, but gradual progress in fits and starts. It doesn’t always seem that way, especially if you read newspapers or watch the news on TV. But that’s only because good news isn’t as interesting. Sure, we have crime, the environment, nuclear bombs, and the population explosion to worry about. Still, by most reasonable measures, society’s becoming more open, healthier, and more democratic throughout the world. On average.”