by E. C. Tubb
Nader left the office, scowling, a jumble of thoughts in his head. I’ll have to use a full crew, he thought, and they can like the overtime or lump it. There’s no time to have special surrogates made; we’ll have to use those we’ve got together with every other trick in stock. Actors, he thought, then decided against it. It would be best not to use outsiders for fear of leaking the news. A before-and-after effect, he told himself. Something with lots of sex-appeal. An old woman suddenly turning into a ravishingly beautiful young girl. Not too suddenly, he corrected. Stretch the suspension, aim for the big build-up, hit them with the bad while they were entranced by the good. But still a beautiful girl. Cherry Lee, he decided. She would be ideal. He’d have to see if she was in the building.
As a rush production it was quite good. William Preston looked at the television screen as he ate a late lunch of soy bean soup, noodles, algae bread and Brazilian coffee. Beside him Ed Lever made slobbering noises over his bowl. A pig, thought Preston irritably. So Ed was old, but did he have to make such a sound-production out of a simple meal? He ate the last of his bread and drained his cup of coffee. Before him the screen swirled with colour turning the ten-by-ten utiliflat into an Aladdin’s Cave of glowing splendour.
Ed sucked loudly at the last of his soup.
“For Pete’s sake!” Preston slammed down his cup. “Do you have to make such a noise?”
“It’s my teeth,” whined Ed. He was on charity and wanted to please. “They don’t fit so good.”
“Then get some new ones,” said Preston. He’d known Ed for ten years but a thing like that could strain friendship to the breaking point. Beside him Ed sniffed.
“It’s easy for you to talk,” he said. “You’ve got a good boy in Martin. He lets you live with him. He pays for all you need. Me? I ain’t got no one. It’s easy for you to talk,” he repeated. “But new teeth cost money.”
“Shut up,” said Preston. He felt a touch of guilt. What Ed had said was true enough. But, he thought fiercely, I’m not sponging on Martin. I do what I can and eat as little as possible. If there was work available I’d do it. He knows that. “Here,” he said, and threw Ed a number four size cigarlet. “Suck on this and let me concentrate.”
“Thanks.” Ed inhaled with a noisy rasping. “Didn’t you used to work on television?”
“Advertising.” Preston kept his eyes glued to the screen. “Now pipe down!”
The swirl of colour solidified, took shape as the background music faded, became the handsome, serious face of a middle-aged man.
“People of the world!” he said. “An important announcement! Now! At last! The new longevity treatment as offered by our friends the Kaltich. To you all on this lucky day we bring the news. For only a little higher cost you too can enjoy endless, exhilarating, wonderful youth!”
Preston sniffed. The old buildup, he thought. Tell them it’s new. Drive home the fact that it’s bigger, better, brighter than ever before. Sell the product as something startling. A new package, he thought, but the same old contents. Cynical, he could still appreciate the expert skill behind the production.
“This is how it is done,” said the man. His face dissolved, was replaced by a spartan, hospital-like interior. A line of old people sat on a bench against a wall. A man in a green coat turned as the camera zoomed in on his face. He was smiling, benign. Behind him, subtly out of focus, loomed the expanse of a gigantic machine; a wall of dials, lights and coloured tabs.
“If a thing lacks colour,” murmured Preston, rememberring, “put it in.”
“Be quiet,” said Ed.
“… grow old, age and finally die,” the man in the green coat was saying. “All you young people need to do to prove this is to look around. But, because of the Kaltich, no one now need be old. Watch!”
The scene widened. An old woman hobbled from the bench to where the man in the green coat was standing. Her eyes were sunken, her back bowed, knotted varicose veins showed like blue snakes on legs and arms. She seemed to smell of decay.
“First,” said the doctor, “we test for organic malfunction. If a heart is diseased,” he explained, “or lungs rotted with cancer, these organs must first be replaced. A simple check will determine what is needed.” He attached wires to the stooped figure of the crone. “She is fortunate,” he said. “Replacements will not be necessary. However,” his face loomed huge, no longer smiling, the voice deadly serious, “you can see how important it is that you safeguard your health. Do not leave the rejuvenation treatment until the last possible moment.”
“That’s it,” said Preston. “That’s the new product. From now on they’ll call it the rejuvenation treatment. You see.”
Ed said nothing, sucking on his cigarlet.
“And now,” said the doctor, “for the metamorphosis. By a special process,” he explained, “we are going to show you exactly what happens to this old lady. You are going to witness something never seen before and which may never be seen again!”
The background music rose as the old woman was led into a compartment, faded as the door closed. Colours swirled hypnotically. The calm voice of the doctor returned.
“To understand the process you must realize that the science of the Kaltich is far above that of our own. They have managed to isolate and synthesize the basic elements of life itself. The old woman is now being checked by a machine which is taking over a million readings of her body and comparing them with the minute ‘blueprint’ which is inherent in every cell. It is finding out just how far she has strayed from the optimum and deciding the exact therapy to rectify the situation. While this is being done we shall play you the famous second movement of Hashman’s Subsea Symphony.”
“Bunk,” said Preston. His cigarlet had gone out and he relit it with a shaking hand. “Bunk,” he repeated. “A stinking load of rotten fish.”
“How come?” said Ed.
“The whole thing’s a phony. That was never the inside of a Gate. You think the Kaltich would ever allow it? And that machine — a prop if ever I saw one.”
“But the treatment’s real,” protested Ed. “What the doc said was basically true.”
“Yes,” Preston admitted. “It was.” He winced as the music reached a crescendo and turned down the volume. “Damned racket,” he muttered. “Why don’t they play something from the old days? You don’t get music like they used to have,” he complained. “That smooth beat, that swing …” He shook his head. “Nothing like it now.”
“You can say that again,” said Ed. He cleared his throat. “Say, Bill, do you think the pot would stand a little more water?”
“You know where the tap is,” said Preston. He turned up the sound as the music died away. “Get set for the payoff,” he warned. “It should be along pretty soon now.”
The music ended; the smiling face of the doctor returned. “Now,” he said. “The machine has finished its measurements and the therapy has been determined. To understand what follows you must realize that certain chemical actions take place immediately. The old woman is also under subjective time — that is, a week to her is a minute to us. But why should we worry about details? See now a modern miracle!”
Music, soft, compelling. A swirl of colour spiraling to a central focal point. Mists of blue, red and green thinned, dissolved. A crone, bent, horrible, stood in the centre of an eye-guiding mesh of lines. Vapour coiled about her feet. Slowly she raised her head. Parchment tight over a living skull, eyes black holes in yellowed bone, lips like an old wound.
Ed made a soft mewing sound.
The crone changed! As they watched the face filled, smoothed, eyes shone where holes had been. The body lifted, swelled, threw back proud shoulders. Hair flowed from the skull, the lips blossomed, the cheeks softened into curves of tender promise.
Cherry Lee, young, radiant, naked and womanhood personified, smiled with heart-twisting triumph.
“And all this,” murmured a persuasive voice, “can be yours for a mere two thousand galactic units. This new,
wonderful exhilarating rejuvenation for as little as a unit a week. Start young and save yourself happiness. From midnight tonight the treatment will be available to all.”
The screen died. Shaking, Preston stared at his friend. Ed coughed, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Did you get it?” demanded Preston savagely. “Did it register?”
“Two thousand,” muttered Ed. He looked broken, forlorn. “Two thousand,” he said again. “Man, I can’t even raise one.”
“The payoff,” said Preston. He rose, began to pace the floor of the tiny apartment. Three short steps, turn, three short steps, turn. He swore as he cannoned into the sink-unit, slamming it back into its niche in the wall. “Two thousand,” he said. “Double!”
“What you going to do?” asked Ed. He stared at the percolator, forgetting his previous need for more coffee.
“I don’t know.” Preston clenched his hands, thinking. Martin had told him not to worry, that his money was safe, and Martin wouldn’t lie. But two thousand instead of one? He was over sixty, still healthy but how long would that last? If Martin was only here, could give him that thousand now so he could get it before midnight …
“Where’re you going?” said Ed.
“Come on.” Preston jerked on his coat. “I’ve got to save Martin what I can,” he explained. “The cash is safe, I know that, but I can’t get it without his say-so.” But, he thought, Martin has a partner. He knows me. If I sign a note he’ll let me have it for sure. “Come on,” he said again. “Hurry!”
FIVE
Charles Denbow gave a final loving polish to the Borgia ring and replaced it carefully in its nest of scarlet velvet. Satisfied, he looked around his shop. The late afternoon sun was just hitting the window and he wondered whether or not to draw the blind. He decided against it. The fading power of the sun would be restricted to the brief time of less than an hour but it was just when the street was at its busiest and customers most probable. He compromised by taking the Japanese prints and the Chinese embroideries from the window, replacing them with a Spanish shawl and a half-dozen items of lesser worth. The prints and embroideries he scattered over a showcase as if he had just been displaying them for a customer’s appreciation. Front, he thought. In this business it’s all-important. It’s not what you sell but how you sell it. The personal touch, he told himself, is as important as the antique.
He turned as the bell jangled over the door. It had a harsh sound, deliberately so, and served as a conversation piece to break the ice. Now, as he moved forward, smiling, ready to make a mild jest, he felt his pulse quicken. It wasn’t every day he served the Kaltich. In fact this would be the first time. If he played it right he could be on a bonanza.
“Sire, lady.” He bowed, wondering how to address the two other, younger aliens. Desperate to create a good impression, he took a chance. “Your graces. My shop is honoured by your presence.”
“He’s funny!” The young girl, pretty in her jacket and skirt of brilliant blue, looked at an older version of herself.
“It is impolite to laugh at inferior races,” said her mother sharply. “You were warned about that.”
“No offence, my lady,” said Denbow quickly. If they should leave now … He closed the door firmly behind them, locking it against intrusion. They wore blue and so were only deltas but they were Kaltich and had money. “Please make yourselves at home,” he invited. “Would you care for refreshments? Coffee? Tea? Alcohol, perhaps?” For a moment he feared that he had gone too far, been too presumptuous. Then the man grunted.
“We want something special,” he said. “Something unique to this world. As a memento,” he explained. “What can you show us?”
“Many things.” Denbow took a deep breath to regain his composure. He might never get a chance like this again. He must not spoil it. “Something personal? Ornamental? Useful? Rings,” he suggested. “I have here several from the Borgia collection. They were noted poisoners,” he added. “Their rings were constructed to contain lethal powders.” He picked one up, demonstrated, held it so as to catch the light. “Rare,” he said. “And valuable.”
“We saw better than that on 2204,” said the boy.
“And 5207,” added the girl.
Denbow saw the lack of interest in the eyes of the adults. Hastily he put down the ring and snatched up the Chinese embroidery.
“729,” said the boy.
“That’s right,” said his sister. “Their work makes that thing look like a dirty rag.”
He dropped the embroidery and snatched up a small bust.
“This is seven thousand years old,” he lied. “A bust of Helen of Troy. The history behind it is unique. It was made from a solid block of alabaster by one of her admirers. He used no tools, having vowed to the gods that he would not sully the stone with dead instruments. Instead he used his fingernails and, probably, his teeth.’
“Why?” The woman was casual.
“Why did he do it, my lady? For love. He thought that his efforts would soften her heart. They didn’t,” he added. “His labour was in vain.”
“How do you know?” said the boy.
“We have our methods,” said Denbow quickly. He hastened to firmer ground. “Something unique,” he mused, desperately racking his brains. What? What could he show them that they hadn’t seen on some other world? Desperate, he took a gamble. After all, they looked human. “I believe I have the very thing,” he said, and hesitated. “A word in your ear, sire?”
“What is it?” Denbow whispered. The man laughed. “Why not? Bring it out.”
Fifty minutes later after tea, scotch and biscuits for the children the Kaltich left leaving Denbow a richer and much happier man.
By God, he thought, who would have believed it? A chastity belt of all things. It just goes to show, he told himself. A good salesman can sell anything. But it showed more than that. Who the hell, he thought pleasantly, would have guessed they were so human?
Dipping his brush in the yellow paint, Milt Concord drew a thin line on the curve of the helmet then stepped back to admire his work. That’s it, he thought. That does it. Before him the crash helmet, bulky with its attached visor, gay with plumes, shone with new paint. Black and yellow with the big red cross in a circle of white right at the front. Milt belonged to the Medical Messengers and was proud both of his efficiency and his equipment.
Behind a desk in the lobby Miss Watson looked at him with indulgent eyes. It was great to be young, she thought. To be eighteen and doing a good, worthwhile job. Milt wasn’t like others of his generation. He didn’t belong to a zany group. He was a decent, hard-working boy and if he liked bright colours and a touch of the flamboyant, where was the harm?
“All right if I go for coffee, Miss Watson?” Milt was always polite.
She began to nod, halting the gesture as a light shone on her panel. She stabbed a button. “Messenger service.”
“I need a new heart,” Hilda Thorenson’s voice came clearly over the wire. “Type 382795193HM. Got that?”
“Just a minute.” Miss Watson picked up her pen and gestured to Milt. “Wait a minute,” she hissed and then, into the phone, “What was that number again?”
She wrote it down, pen busy as she filled in the docket, mouth pursed so as to make no mistake. Carefully she read back the number, waited for the O.K., then hung up the phone, “Emergency,” she said to Milt. “Miss Thorenson needs a new heart and fast. The ones in stock are the wrong type.” She stripped the docket from her pad.
Grabbing it, Milt ran from the room. His motorcycle stood outside within the hospital compound. It roared to life at the first kick and he opened the throttle as he headed towards the gate. Only after he’d left the compound did he realize that he’d forgotten his helmet. Darn it, he thought, but perhaps it was all for the best. The paint was still wet. As long as he kept clear of zanies he would be all right.
He opened the throttle, leaning over as he rounded a corner, revelling in the speed, the sound, the pressure of air
against his face. Siren wailing, he raced past cars, trucks, intersections and crossings. A police car heard the siren and escorted him for a couple of miles, waving him on as they turned from the route. He braked as an officer, military not police, waved him down.
“This area’s closed to traffic,” he said irritably. “You’ll have to take the diversion.”
“Not me,” said Milt importantly. He gestured towards his head, remembered his missing helmet, jerked a thumb over his shoulder to where his badge was painted on the back of his jacket. “Urgent official business,” he explained. “Some guy’s dying for want of a heart. I’m getting him one.”
“From the Gate?”
“Where else?” Impatiently he revved his engine. “How about letting me get on with the job?”
“Well, I don’t know.” The officer scowled. “It’s murder up there,” he explained. “Every old guy and his dog are jamming the streets. They all want to get in before the deadline,” he explained. “You sure you’ve got to go to the Gate?”
“I’m sure.” Inwardly Milt seethed. What’s the matter with the dumb cluck? he thought. Can’t he recognize what I am? Hell, if it was him lying back there waiting for a new pump he wouldn’t be so obstructive. That’s a good word, he told himself. Obstructive. He decided to try it. “Look,” he said. “I’m doing a job of work. You don’t have to be so obstructive.”
“What’s that?” The officer blinked.
“Obstructive,” said Milt. He squeezed the clutch, kicked in the the gear, revved up the engine. Releasing the clutch, he shot away with a roar from his unsilenced exhaust. Almost at once he had to brake. Fuming, jocking his controls, he wove through the crowd. Half a mile and he was there. The perimeter guard checked his docket and jerked his head.
“O.K., inside.”
Milt looked at the crowd bunched up at the perimeter, the sweating policemen forcing them into line, the long queue reaching to the Gate. “You’ll watch the bike?”