Again, Dangerous Visions

by edited by Harlan Ellison

  Justice Freundlich shook his head. "That won't do. If we order the thawing out we shall be interfering with the terms of the contract with the doctors. He cannot be refrozen. We can order the contract broken only if it is contrary to public policy or to a specific statute. Otherwise we are in effect condemning Glover to a real death—if he's not dead already."

  "Furthermore," Justice Gibson broke in, "we cannot order the doctors, who have been found guilty of homicide, to carry out the thawing process without the tacit assumption that they are not guilty and that the corpus is revivable. That is the same as our finding that Glover is indeed alive without any evidence to prove our belief. And, if we feel that he is alive, then there is no need for the thawing out. Something else. If we issue such an order we are returning to trial by ordeal. If the man's alive, the doctors are free of the homicide charge but exposed to suits for enormous damages by the Glover Foundation and by Glover himself for breach of contract. If the man is dead, they are incriminating themselves by their failure to—to—to resurrect him."

  The meeting was adjourned without a decision. To put on a show to indicate that they knew what they were doing, they assigned their bright young law clerks to the preparation of memoranda on the nature of contracts made in anticipation of death, on the responsibility of lunatics (specifically those with a pathologic horror mortis) in the making of agreements, and on the laws concerning the duties of physicians to their patients in the presence of certain death.

  On the following Monday the union of stationary firemen and operating engineers went on strike in New York City. It was an inopportune time for hospitals and other institutions depending on auxiliary generators in an emergency, for on Wednesday came the tremendous lightning storm on the upper East coast that blew down power lines and knocked out electrical grids. New York City had no electricity for fourteen hours.

  Naturally, all refrigerating systems were affected. No ice was available for highballs, meat spoiled in food lockers, and vaccines and other biological supplies were ruined.

  The Abby C. Glover Memorial Hospital and its freezing vaults did not escape the effects of the power failure. All the animals in suspended animation died. So finally did Ralph Glover, as Doctors Hankey and Green sadly reported to their attorneys, who promptly telegraphed the news to Washington.

  On Friday the Justices met again. The Chief Justice heaved a sigh of relief when his very brief opinion In re Glover was read and when for the first time in six years the Court was unanimous in supporting him. They agreed, 9–0, to accept as their judgment, "This Court finds that Ralph Glover died by an act of God on an indeterminable date." Thereby they sidestepped all issues raised in the pleadings before the Court. There followed a series of orders remanding the disputed cases back to the lower courts for final disposition.

  The Countess de Croix, out of a sense of filial duty and to take advantage of loopholes in the tax regulations, organized a non-profit corporation, called the DMSO-Cryobiologic Institute, under the laws of the State: of Delaware. Its stated purpose was to repeat the same procedure as was used for her father on human volunteers. A permanent injunction against such experimentation was sought by the And-Vivisection Society in spite of the fact that to date no one has yet volunteered, an indication of lack; of faith in the American power industry.

  Afterword

  Determining the exact time of death (or birth) is very important in forensic medicine. When I was an intern, the first squawk of the baby was registered by the assisting nurse as the time it was born. For twins this is obviously necessary but for single births the time is also material. Consider—if two sisters give birth in the same hour (as has happened in my practice) and the grandfather has left a sum of money to the oldest grandchild, who came first is of decided moment.

  As for the time of death, every doctor can testify it is a pain (physically and emotionally) to "pronounce" a patient dead, especially when death occurs at three A.M. or another time equally inconvenient for the attending physician. And yet—when the patient died is important, and not only in detective stories. Did he predecease his wife in a common accident or a mutual suicide pact? Was he alive at the time of death of another person who left him money?

  Today, in the sanguinary era of cardiac transplants, the exact time of death is of extreme importance. Already malpractice suits and charges of willful homicide have been brought against doctors who participated in a cardiac transplant operation. Furthermore, now it is possible to maintain the semblance of life (if a vegetable is considered alive) by various artificial measures. A delicate problem in medical ethics has arisen. Is it the duty of the doctor "officiously to keep alive" the hopelessly ill patient? But then who will be the callous judge who will take on himself the responsibility of stopping the intravenouses, the cardiac stimulation, the artificial respiration? A papal statement has decried the unnecessary and meaningless prolongation of what is called life when recovery is hopeless. The Swedish medical authorities have permitted the ending of supportive measures in the same type of cases. Think now—was the patient alive when those measures were instituted or was he dead?

  And now we have cryobiologics. Cold-blooded animals have been quick-frozen and have been revived. And lately, a Cuban stowaway successfully survived oxygen deprivation and a temperature hitherto believed to be too low for the maintenance of life.

  Maybe the above story isn't too far out If human volunteers can be found who will be willing to be frozen and if scientists can be discovered who will experiment on the corpore vili and if the freezing techniques will not be dependent on our present power supply, well, then—

  Introduction to

  ZERO GEE

  Writing introductions to the stories of strangers or casual acquaintances, even close friends, is relatively easy. Just rap, that's all. Start somewhere near or far, and go with it. I enjoy it. But when I am confronted with the prospect of writing an introduction to someone I love, of a sudden I get typer-tied.

  It happened in Dangerous Visions with Silverberg, with whom I've been very close friends through most of my adult life. God only knows what I'd do if Isaac had submitted a story—I simply wouldn't know how to do an intro for Asimov (though the sensuous dirty old man had no difficulty doing one on me).

  What I'm trying to fumble toward, is that I just don't know where to begin, talking about Ben Bova.

  Maybe it's that, like Joe Hensley and Lester del Rey and Henry Slesar and Bob Bloch and Phil Farmer and Norman Spinrad and Roger Zelazny, he means so much to me, is so fixed and substantial a part of my world, that I could no more casually introduce him and his work than I could rap about air or the way my eyes perceive color or the taste of special foods. (And I pause. My God, I'm the luckiest fool in the world, to have friends like these.)

  I met Ben maybe ten years ago, at one of Damon Knight's Milford Writers' Workshops. We became friends almost instantly. Even though his wife at the time, Rosa, was compelled to give me a crack in the mouth that starts a headache even today, when I think about it.

  When I needed to know everything there was to know about lasers, it was Ben I called long distance. It was Ben who gave me the best Christmas present of my life, when he called to say John Campbell had bought "Brillo," my first sale to Analog and the culmination of a twenty year dream. It was Ben who kept me from running amuck during the most boring week of my life. And it was Ben Bova whom I called on the ugliest night of my life when I was so far down I thought I'd never crawl up again.

  Ben Bova is so commanding of respect, on every possible level one might conceive, that introducing him is like talking about one's father, or big brother, or blood brother.

  It is simply, friends, a task beyond me.

  I ask you excuse me on this one.

  And Ben, to make up for my shorting you, next time Avco Everett Research Labs send you to LA on business, I'll run through not only the Loonie Tunes routine about the vaudeville frog in the cornerstone, but the Daffy Duck number, as well.

  Ben re
ports:

  "I was born on the day Franklin Roosevelt was first elected. Got interested in science fiction, astronomy, and rockets all at the same time . . .when I saw the first issue of Action Comics, with the opening illustration showing the infant Superman leaving the exploding planet Krypton on a rocket.

  "Worked on newspapers and magazines in the Philadelphia area before, during, and after attending Temple University, where I got a degree in journalism in 1954. By 1956, my real loves came to the fore, and I went to work for the Martin Company in Baltimore, as technical editor for Project Vanguard. Moved to New England in 1958 (after orbiting a Vanguard satellite, with help from a few engineers). Wrote movie scripts for a renowned bunch of physicists who were building a new course in physics for high school kids. Then joined Avco Everett Research Laboratory, first as science writer, now as manager of marketing. Duties consist of telling science fiction stories to the Government, which shells out money to make the stories come true. And they do, very frequently! The Laboratory works on ABM problems, lasers, magnetohydrodynamics (MHD, for short), and artificial hearts. Among other things." In November 1971, I became editor of Analog; nobody was more surprised than I.

  And a reasonably complete bibliography of Bova books reads as below. (One point should be made, however: for those who've shelled out cash for the Paperback Library novelization of THX 1138 that Ben wrote, the clever publisher left off the last page or so of the original manuuscript. Blame them, not Ben.)

  Science Fiction

  The Star Conquerors, 1959

  Star Watchman, 1964

  The Weathermakers, 1967

  Out of the Sun, 1968

  The Dueling Machine, 1969

  Escape! 1970

  Exiled from Earth, 1971

  THX 1138, 1971

  Science Fact

  The Milky Way Galaxy, 1961

  Giants of the Animal World, 1962

  The Story of Reptiles, 1964

  The Uses of Space, 1965

  In Quest of Quasars, 1969

  Planets, Life and LGM, 1970

  The Fourth State of Matter, 1971

  ZERO GEE

  Ben Bova

  Joe Tenny looked like a middle linebacker for the Pittsburgh Steelers. Sitting in the cool shadows of the Astro Motel's bar, swarthy, barrel-built, scowling face clamped on a smoldering cigar, he would never be taken for that rarest of all birds: a good engineer who is also a good military officer.

  "Afternoon, Major."

  Tenny turned on his stool to see old Cy Calder, the dean of the press service reporters covering the base.

  "Hi. Whatcha drinking?"

  "I'm working," Calder answered with dignity. But he settled his once-lanky frame onto the next stool.

  "Double scotch," Tenny called to the bartender. "And refill mine."

  "An officer and a gentleman," murmured Calder. His voice was gravelly, matching his face.

  As the bartender slid the drinks to them, Tenny said, "You wanna know who got the assignment."

  "I told you I'm working."

  Tenny grinned. "Keep your mouth shut 'til tomorrow? Murdock'll make the official announcement then, at his press conference."

  "If you can save me the tedium of listening to the good Colonel for two hours to get a single name out of him, I'll buy the next round, shine your shoes for a month, and arrange to lose an occasional poker pot to you."

  "The hell you will!"

  Calder shrugged. Tenny took a long pull on his drink. Calder did likewise.

  "Okay. You'll find out anyway. But keep it quiet until Murdock's announcement. It's going to be Kinsman."

  Calder put his glass down on the bar carefully. "Chester A. Kinsman, the pride of the Air Force? That's hard to believe."

  "Murdock picked him."

  "I know this mission is strictly for publicity," Calder said, "but Kinsman? In orbit for three days with Life magazine's prettiest female? Does Murdock want publicity or a paternity suit?"

  "Come on, Chet's not that bad . . ."

  "Oh no? From the stories I hear about your few weeks up at the NASA Ames center, Kinsman cut a swath from Berkeley to North Beach."

  Tenny countered, "He's young and good-looking. And the girls haven't had many single astronauts to play with. NASA's gang is a bunch of old farts compared to my kids. But Chet's the best of the bunch, no fooling."

  Calder looked unconvinced.

  "Listen. When we were training at Edwards, know what Kinsman did? Built a biplane, an honest-to-God replica of a Spad fighter. From the ground up. He's a solid citizen."

  "Yes, and then he played Red Baron for six weeks. Didn't he get into trouble for buzzing an airliner?"

  Tenny's reply was cut off by a burst of talk and laughter. Half a dozen lean, lithe young men in Air Force blues—captains, all of them—trotted down the carpeted stairs that led into the bar.

  "There they are," said Tenny. "You can ask Chet about it yourself."

  Kinsman looked no different from the other Air Force astronauts. Slightly under six feet tall, thin with the leanness of youth, dark hair cut in the short flat military style, blue-gray eyes, long bony face. He was grinning broadly at the moment, as he and the other five astronauts grabbed chairs in one corner of the bar and called their orders to the lone bartender.

  Calder took his drink and headed for their table, followed by Major Tenny.

  "Hold it," one of the captains called out. "Here comes the press."

  "Tight security."

  "Why boys," Calder tried to make his rasping voice sound hurt, "don't you trust me?"

  Tenny pushed a chair toward the newsman and took another one for himself. Straddling it, he told the captains, "It's okay. I spilled it to him."

  "How much he pay you, boss?"

  "That's between him and me."

  As the bartender brought the tray of drinks, Calder said, "Let the Fourth Estate pay for this round, gentlemen. I want to pump some information out of you."

  "That might take a lot of rounds."

  To Kinsman, Calder said, "Congratulations, my boy. Colonel Murdock must think very highly of you."

  Kinsman burst out laughing. "Murdock? You should've seen his face when he told me it was going to be me."

  "Looked like he was sucking on lemons."

  Tenny explained: "The choice for this flight was made mostly by computer. Murdock wanted to be absolutely fair, so he put everybody's performance ratings into the computer and out came Kinsman's name. If he hadn't made so much noise about being impartial, he could've reshuffled the cards and tried again. But I was right there when the machine finished its run, so he couldn't back out of it."

  Calder grinned. "All right then, the computer thinks highly of you, Chet. I suppose that's still something of an honor."

  "More like a privilege. I've been watching that Life chick all through her training. She's ripe."

  "She'll look even better up in orbit."

  "Once she takes off the pressure suit . . .et cetera."

  "Hey, y'know, nobody's ever done it in orbit."

  "Yeah . . .free fall, zero gravity."

  Kinsman looked thoughtful. "Adds a new dimension to the problem, doesn't it?"

  "Three-dimensional." Tenny took the cigar butt from his mouth and laughed.

  Calder got up slowly from his chair and silenced the others. Looking down fondly on Kinsman, he said:

  "My boy—back in 1915, in London, I became a charter member of the Mile High Club. At an altitude of exactly 5280 feet, while circling St. Paul's, I successfully penetrated an Army nurse in an open cockpit . . .despite fogged goggles, cramped working quarters, and a severe case of windburn.

  "Since then, there's been damned little to look forward to. The skin-divers claimed a new frontier, but in fact they are retrogressing. Any silly-ass dolphin can do it in the water.

  "But you've got something new going for you: weightlessness. Floating around in free fall, chasing tail in three dimensions. It beggars the imagination!

  "
Kinsman, I pass the torch to you. To the founder of the Zero Gee Club!"

  As one man, they rose and solemnly toasted Captain Kinsman.

  As they sat down again, Major Tenny burst the balloon. "You guys haven't given Murdock credit for much brains. You don't think he's gonna let Chet go up with that broad all alone, do you?"