Mike flipped the switch and the figure fell silent. “It's an electronic mannequin. That's the best way I can explain it. In the next room are about 600 square feet of timing devices, recorders, and all the other equipment. It could all be replaced today by one PC. This is state of the art 1960s style. Still pretty impressive?”
“Fantastic!”
Frank looked back over at Lawrence Lowell's mannequin which now looked more like a well done, but insignificant department store dummy than the intimidating corporate giant that had just struck fear into Frank's heart. The mannequin's complexion now looked a bit more like the synthetic that it was and less like skin. The eyes lacked the spark of life that they had seemed to show when they were animated. Frank entertained the thought that he wanted to ask Bostwick to flip the switch again so he could once again see the effect that had so easily fooled him, to see if it still looked lifelike now that it had been frozen in mid sentence for a while. He decided not to, preferring to let it remain this way.
Bostwick spoke again and Frank switched his attention back to him.
“Once a week, we meet here with the lawyers, staff, technicians, accountants, et cetera for a posthumous pep talk. This was Lawrence Lowell's idea, something he thought up so that even if it took fifty or a hundred years to achieve success, any member of the staff would think of Lawrence Lowell as a living being and not just some frozen body in the Central Core.
“Central Core?”
“That's what we call the center section of the building, where Mr. Lowell is staying. Forgive the word, 'staying'. It must sound ridiculous. We have instructions and procedures we have to follow and referring to his staying instead of being stored is one of them.”
“He wanted to be the boss even if he's dead,” acknowledged Frank.
“We even have a list of contingency files that we have to watch if a certain situation occurs, so that that things will be done his way.”
Frank put on a look of concern and said, “You mean what to do if a stranger shows up, and without even knowing how, is standing in the way of success.”
Mike looked away uneasily and managed a forced laugh.”We've never had to explore that yet.”
Frank didn't like that answer but he was fascinated. He took one last look at Lawrence Lowell, then at Mike with a 'What now' look.
As they waked along the corridor. They came to a door on the inside wall, the wall of the Central Core. Bostwick just continued, making no comment, but Frank stopped to read a sign on the door.
CAUTION
*No smoking
*No lighters
*No electrical devices
*No flashlights(If it is necessary
to enter this room, use only the
ambient light from the corridor)
“What's this all about?”
“The armory,” answered Mike, “looking a bit embarrassed. “In case of an attack of some kind. There's enough weapons, ammunition and explosives in there to hold off a small army.” Then he added, “Tons of explosives and ammunition. Mr. Lowell loved weapons. His house has rooms filled with all kinds of weapons.” He walked down the corridor again, looked over his shoulder toward the weapons room, and said, “We don't need to go in there. I like to forget that it even exists. About the only person who ever goes in there is the security manager to maintain the weapons and explosives.” He led Frank along the corridor. A bit farther along the inner wall was another door. Mike stopped and opened it.
“What, no fingerprint ID thing?”
Mike laughed. “Sorry to disappoint you. At least you were impressed by Mr. Lowell's performance in the Board Room.” He smiled and put his hand on Frank's back, moving him forward as he opened the door. “I think this will impress you, even if our doors don't. This is where Lawrence Lowell spent the last forty years. He's not here now, he's in medical, but look.” He reached for the handle of a thick inner wall door.
Frank examined a plaque that was attached to the door. Bostwick took his hand off the handle and waited while Frank looked at the plaque. “One of his favorite quotes,” Bostwick said. Frank read it.
It matters not how
straight the gate
how charged with
punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.
(William Ernest Henley 1849-1903)
Frank said, “I guess that's pretty accurate, or at least he's trying anyway to be the master of his fate.”
“That remains to be seen, doesn't it?” Bostwick displayed an enigmatic smile.
“Was Henley the master of his fate?”
“I don't know,” said Bostwick. “I never looked the man up to see what he died of. But considering they didn't have cryogenics in 1903, I'd say he wasn't. But maybe he was referring to his soul once it was in the afterlife.”
Frank thought he detected a note of resentment in Bostwick's voice. Maybe the resentment as he grew older, the years devoted to cryogenic research, all for the benefit of someone else.
“At least they thought similarly, Lowell and Hanley,” continued Bostwick. “They both thought they were the master of their fate...or at least hoped they were.
Bostwick turned back to the handle and pushed the door open.
What met Frank's eyes wasn't what he expected. Instead of the pristine room of white he had seen in his dreams, he found himself inside a replica of an Egyptian tomb. The room gave the impression of having been carved out of solid rock, like those in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt.
Murals and hieroglyphics covered each wall. One, with a stylized sun covered a whole wall, showing a being that Frank assumed must be a king rising up out of a sarcophagus. He had always thought of Egyptian art as faded, colorless carvings in stone but these were brightly colored. Another wall showed servants carrying pots and goods to a small group of people. Frank took this to be symbolic of the staff being rewarded if the project was successful.
“Is any of this real or just reproductions?”
“Pretty much all reproductions. Most of what is reproduced here exists in museums or in the Valley of the Kings. The whole thing fascinated him. the Gods, the obsession with the afterlife, the embalming so that they might live again. I don't think he believed too firmly in the afterlife. I think he had his doubts. That may be why he devoted so much of his wealth to preserving his body and funding this project, but he was fascinated with the way the Egyptian kings were treated after death and that's how he wanted it done.”
Bostwick told Frank that the wiring, pipes, everything mechanical was in an adjoining room. The vessel in which Lowell's body had lain prior to revival was the only piece of modern equipment insight and even that didn't ruin the effect because it was designed to look exactly like an Egyptian sarcophagus. The finish gave it a look of polished quartzite. A gold mask adorned the head of the sarcophagus. It had the image of Lawrence Lowell's face and was adorned with an Egyptian crown. On the chin was the decorative, attached beard of rank.”
“Amazing!” commented Frank, shaking his head in disbelief. “They should open this place for tours someday.”
“See that oval shape with figures in it?” said Bostwick, pointing to one wall. That's his cartouche, the Egyptian equivalent of a royal name. His means something like 'Ruler of Two Realms,' if I remember correctly. Mr. Lowell wanted to be thought of as head of this place, the ruler, even while he was dead.”
Frank motioned back toward the thick inner door of the tomb. “Security?”
“In a way. It's security against natural disaster more than against people. This center section of the building, you probably noticed it from the outside, the cylindrical structure sticking up?” Frank nodded. “It's built to be extremely strong. A tornado, an earthquake, even a bomb isn't damaging this core, unless we're at ground zero. The pill shape has tremendous strength to withstand stress. From the outside anyway. The rest of the building and the rest of us will be gone but Lawrence Lowell would go on. That's
another one of his contingency plans. A whole new staff would be offered jobs and the research would go on.”
They walked over to the sarcophagus. “Here had been one of the greatest minds in business history. Thirty nine when he died.” Frank looked the sarcophagus over. “He wasn't born rich. That's the amazing thing.” Bostwick moved aside so Frank could circle around the sarcophagus
“Mr. Lowell's mind was constantly filled with ideas that resulted in hundreds of inventions, financial innovations, and business ideas. Most of the time he didn't know where they came from. He said they just always seemed to be there.” Bostwick gave a shoulder shrug as if to say 'Who knows,' and continued. “I guess having your mind constantly filled with great thoughts leads you to think that you yourself are great...something special, God-like, something that should be immortal, that it would be a tragedy of all time if that mind died.” A smirk appeared on Bostwick's face. “Maybe it is. Maybe Lawrence Lowell was meant by the Gods to live forever, favored by them to come back periodically throughout time to influence things in a way that the gods approve of.”
Frank couldn't decide if Bostwick spoke out of reverence or a sense of gratitude for the man who had given him the job of a lifetime, the dream job for a research scientist, or if there was a bit of resentment there. As Bostwick guided Frank through the fantastic sights and sounds of the Ice House, he reminded Frank of a tour guide at a presidential residence, someone speaking about the fascinating life of Theodore Roosevelt maybe, while leading tourists through Sagamore Hill. This was more than a job to Bostwick, it was his life and it could be said that it was his hobby too. Bostwick obviously loved cryogenics, and loved the Ice House. Frank wasn't so sure about Bostwick's love for Lawrence Lowell.
“I often wondered,” said Bostwick, “if he comes back, if we succeed, will it still be the same mind full of ideas that generated billions in profit or will he be hopelessly out-of-place? The nearest thing I can think of is Leonardo Da Vinci. He was capable of designing things that his world was thinking about, but if he was brought forward say to the last forty or so years, could he have invented video tape or the VCR, computers, cell phones, DVDs or color TV? Is a genius a genius in any age? Or is his mind only suited to his time?”
Frank was overwhelmed by what he had seen. It felt like his turn to say something. “Do you think they will ever bring back Walt Disney?”
“What? Oh. The private funeral...the old rumors.”
Bostwick shot Frank a look of seriousness that was unequaled by any expression Frank had seen on Bostwick yet.
“Now I'd like you to met Lawrence Lowell.”
Frank examined Bostwick's expression for signs that he was kidding. “Uh-huh,” Frank said in a doubtful tone.
”The...real...thing.” Bostwick said the words slowly and spaced them out with silent little intervals for impact.
“What is it this time?” joked Frank. “Another electronic puppet...a Hollywood spectacular...a replica of the Taj Mahal...a...?”
Bostwick interrupted and repeated, “The real thing”
One room down from the Egyptian tomb was a door that had an engraved sign that read 'Medical'
Frank hesitated at the door, then followed Bostwick in.
Here were the white walls, the ICU, the hospital room that Frank had always expected. And on a hospital bed was Lawrence Lowell. There was a clear barrier of some kind about five feet from Lowell. It had a coded entry pad. Frank walked over, looking over the monitoring equipment, the wires, the IV tubes. Frank approached the barrier and felt once again the loosening rubber band effect that he had described to Lynn. He felt as if it were totally slack now as he stood as close to the bed as he was allowed. The impression was one of looking at Howard Hughes as he had been pictured in his final days as he was desperately being flown for medical treatment, too late to save his life. But in this case, the reverse was true. Lawrence Lowell was thin from the disease he had died of, but instead of being in his final days, these were, as the saying goes, the first days of the rest of his life. If the staff had their way, Lawrence Lowell would be made conscious and he would live out the rest of his life and the staff would live out theirs joining their wealthy patient as rich people.
Frank looked at Lawrence Lowell's face and wondered. If that was me, how could I have lived that way, so self-important, self-centered...selfish? Could it possibly have been me? Why was the result so different when it was only a matter of the soul being in one body instead of another? Did the soul, he wondered, become a slave to the genetic composition of the brain it was in, forced to behave a predetermined way according to the makeup of that brain. If so, we are all insane, he thought, acting in a way that is contrary to the way our spirits actually are, all of us imprisoned in patterns of behavior that we can't have a choice about. The thought worried him, because if he allowed himself to be returned to the body of Lawrence Lowell, might he become Lawrence Lowell with no desire to behave as he had behaved as Frank? He knew he'd eventually find out and as he stood there looking at Lowell, he saw him for the first time as what Lowell ultimately must become--an enemy.
Bostwick had remained silent the whole time, letting Frank look at Lawrence Lowell and wonder about what he saw.
“Ever study comparative religion?” said Bostwick. Then without allowing time for an answer, “We've had lots of time to consider every aspect of this project. It has become a way of life for many of the staff here. The project's the topic of discussion at cookouts, parties, meetings. I've done a lot of reading on philosophy and religion myself since joining this project. Ever read any religious philosophy?”
Frank shrugged. “Not really. But I've recently had a lecture on it”
Bostwick gave Frank an inquisitive glance.
“A friend. I've got a friend that's interested in that subject and many other related areas.”
“This is sort of like the difference between certain religions. One religion might believe in resurrection of the body. Another might believe in rebirth of the soul' Lawrence Lowell wasn't interested in taking any chances. He chose resurrection of the body. Whether he was at all aware of the religious aspects of it I don't know. And the staff of the Ice House became his resurrectors.” Bostwick smiled and put a hand on Frank's shoulder, signaling that it was time to leave.
On the way out, Frank said, “So this is for real? I'm working here now?”
“I'm thinking we couldn't do it without you now. I'm empowered to hire people as we need them. Mostly it will just be as an adviser. You know, we'll ask you how you feel in a certain situation as we are experimenting or get your feedback on possibilities for reviving Mr. Lowell without detracting in any way from you.” Come in at nine in the morning and we'll begin. I'll confer with the rest of the staff about how you might be of benefit to the project, about how we might incorporate you into the experiments and planning.”
Driving back from the Ice House he had a good feeling about the day. It had gone well and had been easy. He was beginning to think that his fears had been unjustified. He had gotten his courage up, had gone to the Ice House and they had welcomed him and offered him a position there because of his unique situation. It was ridiculously easy. They would work on his problem and he'd be able to go back to Boston and get back to normal.
But then reality crept back into his thoughts like an alpine glacier steadily and inexorably approaching a town and it put a chill on his enthusiasm. What had ever gone easy before? Nothing! He had never made the starting team in college, in three years on the varsity. He had to apply to over a dozen companies before he was offered a job at the accounting firm at beginner wage until he proved himself, and they had made him feel like they were doing him a favor hiring him. Something was not quite right. Things don't suddenly change and start going right and start coming easy overnight. He had even viewed the dreams he was having as a logical extension of the general direction his life headed, an extension of the battle that daily life was for him, one constant effort to prevent things from go
ing wrong, to prevent things from breaking down, or just being in general one big struggle. He thought how, if he gave in to Allison's wishes, he might have an easy life ahead.
But Scott had been right. He had advised Frank to just walk up to the front gate, introduce himself, tell why he was in Southford, and he'd get in. Maybe science was different from business. Maybe he'd enjoy working on a scientific project.
He felt enthusiastic again. The staff at the Ice House had brought a man back from the dead across a gulf of forty years. Surely the problem that faced Frank now would be solved as they worked together for an answer.
But like a Roman general as he rode into town in his chariot, to the cheers of the people after a great victory with a subordinate beside him whispering, “Glory is Fleeting,” Frank had something intangible, but insistent, whispering in his ear, “Something is not right.”
CHAPTER 17
Frank told Lynn about the Ice House and the job offer, then said, “I've got to lie down. Just for a few minutes. I'm really drained.”
Lynn busied herself doing what there was to do in a motel room. She read her books and then picked up a phone book. There were six local small towns listed in this phone book. When she turned to the Southford section all she found were public and municipal numbers, about a page of them, no private home phones, just a note stating.'For Southford residences, dial 555-5712.'
Lynn tried this number and got a recording that said, Thank you for calling the Southford, New York, exchange. For access to local phones, please enter your access code now.'
Lynn hung up. She looked in the yellow pages. There wasn't one business listed there that was located in Southford. She shook her head, having already seen enough of Southford to know it was a strange place. Back went the book to its place by the phone.
She looked at her cousin Karen's picture and felt she had let Karen down because she hadn't achieved anything yet, because she hadn't had that great adventure, because she hadn't honored Karen's life by doing something memorable. Maybe, she thought, this trip with Frank will fulfill that goal.
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