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* * * *
SURVIVAL PROBLEMS
by Kris Neville
Kris Neville is an underrated writer in this field, probably because he isn’t particularly prolific; a chemist specializing in plastics research, he writes only as a sideline. But he sees the trends of our lives in constantly unexpected ways, and his sense of humor is as sly as that of any writer in science fiction—as he’s shown in stories such as “Ballenger’s People,” “Medical Practices among the Immortals,’ and the following wry tale of people trying to cope with the future (but the present keeps getting in the way).
* * * *
Joe White, top plastic specialist with the Research Department of the American Mortuary Society, under contract with the National Institutes of Health, won the Survivor’s Lottery.
Word traveled up the managerial ladder to Mr. Braswell himself. Mr. Braswell, head of the society, announced that he would attend the testimonial banquet in person: a rare event.
Mr. Braswell, now seventy-three, appeared no older than fifty. Since before White was born, Mr. Braswell had been taking Go-Slow injections. These, while slowing his metabolic rate and thereby extending his life span, unfortunately slowed down the mental processes correspondingly.
Attendance at the testimonial was intentionally restricted to White’s immediate associates, Mr. Braswell, and Mr. Braswell’s personal physician, Dr. Franklin. The press was excluded, and White’s bodyguard remained outside.
The attendees could not, of course, fill the banquet room they rented, so they formed into a little huddle around the corner bar.
White drank three martinis, although he was not accustomed to drinking.
Gladys Rosenwald, one of his two assistants, kept pace with him. “I guess you won’t even be here tomorrow to help us,” she said. “What do you know about that? Well, I’ll say this, if it hadn’t been for you, I don’t know where we’d be right now. We wouldn’t be nearly as far along, I’ll tell you that!”
Mr. Braswell and Dr. Franklin hung back on the periphery of the group. White kept eying them nervously. “I never thought Mr. Braswell himself would come down to see me off,” White said to Alf Sherman, the project engineer.
“This is good publicity,” said Sherman. “It’s going to get our own project off with a real bang!” Sherman put down his drink. “Joe, we are going to miss you. But I look at it this way: we’re losing a man, but you’re gaining a world.”
“I’ll be out in a few years,” White said. “As soon as the international situation with China quiets down.”
“I wouldn’t be too optimistic.”
“I wouldn’t be, either, Joe,” said Pete Remington, his other assistant. “It looks pretty bleak right now, with all these Communist-inspired food riots among the starving in India. I don’t think it’s over a year away—at the most!”
“Let’s not talk about things like that tonight, eh?” Sherman suggested. “Let’s forget all that for tomorrow. Do you know when you’re leaving yet, Joe?”
Sherman passed around the tranquilizers, and they all selected the dosage appropriate to their degree of concern.
“Day after tomorrow,” said White.
Sherman put his arm over White’s shoulder. “I think that calls for another drink. Let’s all have another drink.”
The bartender obliged.
“Now, Joe,” Sherman said, “while we’re waiting for the dinner and all to start, I’d like to talk to you a minute, just you and I.”
“Sure, Alf.”
“Let’s step over here.” They withdrew along the bar.
“As you know, Joe,” said Sherman, “we’re encapsulating General Feather in the morning. I don’t need to tell you how much this means! This is the thing we’ve been working for, for the last two years, and, Joe, we need you there with us. I know this is an awful lot to ask, but is there any way you can see your way clear to making it in to work tomorrow morning, just for the time until we get the general done? I’ll consider it a personal favor to me, Joe. It wouldn’t seem right if you weren’t there. If anything went wrong, you’d always blame yourself, if you weren’t there. Isn’t that true? You know that’s true. Always blame yourself for it, feel bad about it...”
“Gosh, Alf—”
“Not only for me, of course, but for the whole society. It’s done a lot for you.”
“Well...”
“Bottoms up, Joe.”
“I’ve already had three.”
“Come on, bottoms up! This is your farewell party!”
“Uh ... okay, bottoms up! Bottoms—ugh, Jesus Christ! Wow!”
“Now, Joe, what do you say?”
“That was a strong one. Yes. Wow! Alf, I . . . Well, Alf, I won’t... whew!... let you down ...”
“Good man,” said Sherman. “I knew you’d come through. This calls for a drink, and I’ll be sure to have somebody over to your new place the first thing to pick you up, how’s that?”
When dinner arrived, Sherman told Miss Rosenwald, “I’m getting swacked!”
“Me, too! I don’t know when I’ve been so swacked. It takes your mind off things.”
* * * *
Mr. Braswell himself sat with White at the head of the table. Sherman introduced Mr. Braswell. Mr. Braswell stood up and surveyed the faces as if trying to remember where he was. He handed the watch to Sherman, who, in turn, handed it to White.
At length Mr. Braswell said, “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.”
They waited.
“I am very,” he began and then hesitated. He thought for a while. “Allow me to introduce, uh, a man who . . . who ... has ... That reminds me of a story.”
They waited.
“Never mind,” Mr. Braswell said. “That reminds me of a story. No. I already told that, didn’t I? This young man...”
Into the lengthening silence, Sherman supplied the name.
“Yes, slipped my...” The silence elongated.
“Mind,” said Dr. Franklin.
“Yes, mind. I guess I’ve talked too long already. So now I turn it over to...”
White stood uncertainly. “I sure do thank you, Mr. Braswell.”
Hands were applauding. He looked over the audience.
“I sure do thank you for coming down here tonight. Thanks, everybody. As you know, I took part in this national lottery. Out of all the people that took part on the male side, my name just came out. Out of all those people. That’s democracy. I feel good about that. I guess there’s no point in trying to kid anybody that I don’t feel good about that. Now, let me have another little sip of this drink. Thanks. Ah. I want to thank Mr. Braswell. And I want to thank all of you for this watch. I sure do appreciate it. As I was saying, they’re going to put me and this girl in suspended animation down in this big lead vault somewhere in the Midwest, which is a secret, of course, where it is, somewhere, about a mile underground, and then if there’s this war they’re all talking about, we’ll be left to start the race over again, Americans starting the race over again, which is very important, really, if somebody doesn’t do something about it, when the timer goes off about five thousand years from now when it’s not so radioactive anymore. Well, you all know how that goes.
“I do want to thank you again for the watch. I’m not much good at thanking people, but I really mean it when I say thanks for the watch. You know what I mean? It’s very good, and I’ll have a lot of use for it where I’m going to keep time with. Well, you know, I never got much practice in thanking people growing up, and ...
“I was just lucky to have my card come up: it could have been anybody in good health, in their twenties, I mean. But I feel I’m a symbol. It makes you think, I mean, it’s a symbol of how America looks forward to the future, by spending ninety-seven billion dollars on that vault, more than it cost to go to Mars, because the trip’s longer, actually, when you look at it . . . and it’s not just the money, it’s the concern for the human race, and democracy, and that a little guy
like me could ...
“What we have is everybody really facing up to the survival problem we’re confronted with, which refutes those people who say the American people are morbidly preoccupied with death and won’t do anything about all the real problems and all these troubles we have at home and also abroad, because we’ve got our eyes on really important things that mean something, you know what I mean, and also all those people who don’t know what they’re talking about and say we’re . . . indifferent to the future, and have lost all sense of what it means to be alive, this will show them. It shows you how much this country cares.
“Well, you know, I kind of got drunk tonight, and I think we all land of got drunk tonight, except Mr. Braswell, who didn’t drink much, and I think what we ought to do, what I think we ought to do is all go home and get some sleep so we can be up fresh and alert when we encapsulate General Feather in the morning!”
* * * *
Anyone who has thought about the problem of the proper encapsulation of a corpse comes to recognize that it is a substantial technological challenge.
Basically, two methods could be employed:
method i
Method I involves placing the corpse in some convenient container and pouring a liquid plastic over it. The plastic may subsequently be converted to an impermeable, corrosion-resistant solid by heat or some form of chemical reaction. The plastic, in addition to possessing very low viscosity, must be formulated to provide extreme durability and must be stable to light and normal weathering conditions.
Ideally, the potting compound should be water-clear when hardened, in order that the finished product can be seen without distortion. Most plastics, unfortunately, particularly when cast in larger masses, tend to discolor somewhat during the hardening reaction, which involves the liberation of heat. Additionally, it is difficult (even with vacuum impregnation) to get a bubble-free casting of any size. And finally, minimum build-ups cannot be obtained. In thicker sections, shrinkage with all known plastics is prohibitive, even the best of them exerting pressures as high as 5,000 psi on the corpse itself, leading to undesirable aesthetic effects, as has been amply demonstrated by animal research with mini-pigs.
method ii
Method II, dip coating, overcomes most of the above problems but presents its own. Essentially, by the dip-coating method, the corpse, suitably suspended, is immersed in a vat of liquid, removed, and allowed to drain. With proper formulation, a smooth, continuous coating is deposited. This is then subsequently cured in an oven.
Normally the dip-coat method employs a long pot-life compound which is capable of fairly rapid cures at only moderately elevated temperatures. In no case, for rather obvious reasons, should the curing temperature be permitted or required to increase above that of boiling water.
Method II had been selected by White and his fellow researchers at the American Mortuary Society, under contract with the National Institutes of Health.
* * * *
On the morning following White’s farewell party, the staff met.
“Remember, everybody,” Sherman said, “General Feather is going on public display, and public acceptance of encapsulation will depend on how well we do today. This is it! This is what we’ve been working for, for the past two years I”
In anticipation of demand, a production line had been established. It was capable of handling up to twenty corpses at one time. The corpses would be rolled out, properly suspended by piano wires from the overhead trolley system, positioned, and then simultaneously immersed in a tank some forty feet long, four feet wide, and nine feet deep. The tank was loaded to seven feet with the liquid plastic compound, the remaining two feet being an allowance for ullage. Class windows in the tank permitted inspection during processing.
White performed last-minute checks. The temperature was within allowable limits of plus or minus two degrees Fahrenheit. He checked other aspects of the process. This done, he measured the thixotropic index of the plastic and corrected it by the addition of a diluent.
“Well,” he said, “I guess it’s all or nothing.”
They brought General Feather in and dipped him.
White and the rest watched in silence as the bubbles rose and broke.
“Okay,” said White at length. “Lift him out slow, now . . . There. There. Hold it, hold it! Okay. Let him drip for a little while, I think we’ve got it!”
“It’s just beautiful!” said Miss Rosenwald.
“It’s too early to tell,” said White. “Let’s wait to see how he cures out.”
They swiveled the general to the cart, attached him to the fixture there, and wheeled him into the 150 °F. warm room.
They drank coffee and talked for thirty minutes, then they brought General Feather out. White inspected the general critically. “There’s a few bubbles to patch up, but I guess that’s all. I’d say he’s good for a thousand years or so ... if he isn’t caught in the blast area.”
Sherman let out a sigh. “Joe, we sure appreciate this. I knew nothing could go wrong with you here.”
“I didn’t do anything Gladys or Pete couldn’t have done just as well. Look. I hate to run like this, but they’ve got a big program laid out for me, instructions and things, and training, you know....”
“And I better rush over to tell Mr. Braswell,” Sherman said. “He told me to be sure to come over and tell him personally just as soon as it was over.” Sherman extended a hand. “Goodbye, Joe. And thanks.”
“Yeah,” said Remington in the embarrassment of parting. “Goodbye, Joe, we’ll see you on TV. Good luck.”
White left with his bodyguard.
Sherman went to the roof and flew his helicopter to Mr. Braswell’s estate. The butler met him and together they went to tell Mr. Braswell the good news.
* * * *
Two weeks later an unfortunate accident during an inspection tour of a bacteriological warfare installation brought distinguished customers to the Research Center: the President of the United States, the Chief of Staff, the Secretary of Peace, the Speaker of the House, the Minority Leader of the Senate, a newspaper photographer, and two Eagle Scouts.
“Oh, God!” Sherman said. “Do you think we’re big enough to handle this one? The process is still in the experimental stages. If only Joe were here!”
“Damn!” cried Miss Rosenwald. “Why did it have to happen right now? This is one I hate to tackle. There’s too much at stake!” She puffed nervously at her cigarette, thoughts of bacteriological warfare calling up the threat of cancer.
Remington paced the floor. “Hey!” he said at length. “Do you suppose they’d let Joe come up for this one? Jesus! This is it!”
“I’m going to find out. That’s exactly what I’m going to do! I’m going to take this straight to the top!”
Sherman did.
* * * *
At the emergency meeting of the Cabinet, the first order of business was introduced by the new President:
“As you know, we’ve got a problem over at the American Mortuary Society. I think you’ll all agree that it’s a matter of national prestige that the job be done right. Well, their staff feels the encapsulation process is not yet quite fully developed, and they feel they would like to have this White fellow on hand to help out on this one, in view of its importance. We could put him back within twelve hours or so. That’s what I think we ought to iron out first.”
There followed a lengthy discussion. The new President clearly favored one course, whereas the new Secretary of Peace persuasively favored the opposite:
“There’s more to it than appears on the surface, Mr. President. Under normal circumstances, I’d go along. But every moment White was above ground there’d be the possibility he might be assassinated, for no matter how law-abiding most of us are, there are always a few nuts running around loose who just seem to enjoy shooting public figures for no reason at all. I can’t tell you how much that would affect our moral posture and increase the undeserved reputation we have in certain uncomm
itted countries for being a violent nation. That was a matter of foremost concern to your predecessor and mine, sir. If anything like that happened, I hesitate to predict the repercussions in many foreign countries on the fence, and the black mark it would give us there. I say, now that we’ve gotten them both safely underground and hidden, let’s leave well enough alone.”
Universe 5 - [Anthology] Page 12