Rio shook her head. "So much fear, that he has put millions into the Methuselah Institute, into the Du Pont Foundation, into the Massachusetts Institute for Longevity Research, into UCLA and Plantagenet University, into anything that might come up with an alternative. He gave millions, much more than people know."
She paused, took a deep breath, and continued: "And some of it has paid off. Sabra Wood and George Engelson seem to have something." She shook her head quickly. "No, nothing easy. But that's the reason for the Inner Chamber. It's partly cryogenic rest, but mainly it's cell cleansing and transformation. It is supposed to take about thirteen and a half months per kilogram to convert the cells. Jean-Michel weighs eighty-six kilos right now. So that's about eighty-eight years in the crypt."
"Eighty-eight years!"
"But afterwards, the experts estimate he will live three, perhaps four hundred years. They just aren't certain. The laboratory mice have quadrupled their life span. The chimpanzees are still being tested."
"But today most people live about a hundred years anyway, not even counting organ transplants or any special treatments," Blake said.
"Most healthy people, but many of those spend a quarter of their lives in a state of near-senility. In those parts of the world where there are still famines and the people are undernourished, the life expectancy is much shorter. The bell curve on the Wood-Engelson method seems to give a proportionally longer maturity, with approximately the average senility curve of today on the end."
"But Voss is relatively young and–"
"And afraid. If he takes the treatment now he may remain at this age, in the prime of health and life, for three to five hundred years!"
"This treatment will change the world!" Blake said.
"Only if the world can afford it. The cost of the treatment equipment alone is over 20,000,000 francs."
Blake quickly added up the cost of the tomb and added it to the cost of the longevity treatments. At least 100,000,000 francs! "Is he really that rich?"
Rio nodded. "Easily. And this is something he is willing to pay for: four hundred more years of healthy life. He's willing to face the fact that the world will be different even ninety years from now, that he will be a displaced person. But his money will isolate him. There are foundations, trusts, bond issues that will mature by then. He has planned carefully."
Blake felt a sudden surge of hope. "Then you will be free as soon as he ... as he goes."
Rio shook her head and touched the side of Blake's face. "No. I'm going with him in his cryogenic time machine."
It was as if Blake had been struck in the stomach. "You're...!"
Rio nodded. "I must. I owe it to him. He will be alone in a world of strangers. There is no way to know how the world might have changed. Could you imagine the world of today from ninety years ago? We were not yet on Mars, and the Moon was still not self-sufficient. They were only beginning to build the arcologs, and then only for the rich. There was so little hope then. They hadn't perfected the fusion torch or the mass accelerators. Organ banks were still so inefficient. Cosmetic surgery was little more than Band-Aids of flesh. Food production was so poor. Hydroponics was an infant industry. As bad as things are now, today we have a chance, a slim chance."
"But why the whole fancy tomb idea?" Blake asked. "Why not a cryogenic vault, Rio? There are others. Just deep-sleep ones, true, and not for rejuvenation."
Rio smiled. "Boss Voss has style. If he wakes up a hundred years from now and finds the world an atomic ruin, he can live out his days in relative comfort."
"But why go at all? He has everything here. Money, power, security ... He is a man of these times. He has everything to lose by taking such a risk. And are these methods proven?"
"He's going because he has everything to lose. He thinks the methods have proven out. There is research you don't know about. They have had volunteers. Only the first one showed any ill effects – a mild paranoia – and there was a suspicion of it before he took the sleep treatments." Rio leaned closer to Blake. "Jean-Michel is driven. He feels be must do this. He is quite certain he can survive financially as well. He has created trusts, made investments. He has something like 10,000,000 Swiss francs in the Union Bank of Switzerland; he has several million in Lebanese pounds in the ChemicalBank in Beirut; and I think he has money in Bankhaus Deak in Vienna and Bank of America in San Francisco. Millions, just waiting for him, drawing interest. Yes, Blake, he's that rich. And he'll be taking money with us in the tomb. Gold bars, gold coins, silver ingots. Guns, medicines, survival equipment, anything be thinks he might need in a possibly hostile environment."
Rio touched Blake's arm. "Blake, he's not a fool. He has calculated his chances and minimized the risks."
"But this whole process is untried!"
"Not really. As I said, there have been human volunteers, three of them. Two, six, and nine months in the cryogenic treatments. They were very well paid and will live a little longer to enjoy it. They have been pronounced in perfect health."
"But eighty-eight years!"
"He's willing to risk it." Rio put her hand up again to stop Blake's outburst. "So am I. It is settled."
Blake was silent a moment, then spoke. "Who else is going? There are seven sarcophagi."
"Jean-Michel, myself, two of his best toughs from Bodigard, two women he has yet to select, and Gran-Ale Franklin."
"He's a generalist for Astronetics, isn't he?"
"Yes. He knows a lot about more than a few things and a little about a lot, and can put things together. He's already fascinated by the idea. The two women are in case the whole thing fizzles at the other end. The two from Bodigard are rather like me. They were found in similar circumstances, and given a chance. They would never betray him."
"A loyal and self-sacrificing band of followers," Blake said, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice.
"Yes," Rio said sincerely. She grabbed Blake's arms tightly. "It is a great adventure. We're going into the future! Oh, not like Mr. Wells and his spinning machine, no trick tape effects, no silvery spiderwork, no pulsating lights. We will just go to sleep, and wake up in the future!"
Blake pulled away and took a few steps along the terrace wall. There were tears in his eyes. "And you are going with him," he said flatly, his voice tight. She did not answer. "And I stay here. All my life knowing you are in that mountain..."
He stopped and looked sharply at Rio, suddenly wary. "Unless ... unless Pharaoh Voss has us all killed – all who know of the location."
Rio said quickly, "Oh, no, he wouldn't do that!" But her eyes were suddenly worried.
Blake stepped to her quickly and grabbed her hands. "Take me with you!" She stared at him. "Have him take me, too! I'll go. I'll be with you and..."
Rio looked at him and her face hardened. "You are afraid Jean-Michel will have you silenced?" She shook her head. "He does not work that way."
"No? What about the Marc Duveau affair in Lesotho, in Africa? The Exxon witnesses? The mercenaries in Gambia? The Marseilles job? The Chugoku in Kawasaki? The Huygens in Amsterdam? There was blood there."
"But that was never traced to–"
"Never traced? Never found out, you mean! Are you certain he will not have me killed, and the rest? If this secrecy means that much to him, will he not cover his back? If he is willing to step into an icebox in the prime of his life, what might he not do to protect that venture?"
Rio was silent. Then she said, "But why would he take you? You are ... an environmentalist, not a tough, not a warrior, not a generalist. What good would you be to him? He respects you, just as he respects anyone he cannot control, but if you get too much out of control he'll..." Rio hesitated, her voice trailing off.
I'll go whether he wants me to or not, Blake vowed. "I don't want to lose you," he said to Rio.
"You don't understand." Rio shook her head in frustration. "I have to do this. I have to."
So do I, Blake thought.
Chapter 10
"Rio tel
ls me you know about our little adventure in time-traveling," Voss said to Blake.
Blake nodded. "And you are still taking Rio with you, even though your theory is totally unproven."
Voss smiled thinly. "Yes. I need her. She is a volunteer." He looked shrewdly at Blake. "You object?"
Blake hesitated, looking for the right words. "Yes. How many Rios are you taking with you?"
"You mean the other cryogenic volunteers? Only two women, besides Rio."
"Insurance against the dulls? Just in case things don't work out?"
Voss's smile evaporated. "Perhaps. Do you, too, think I am a chauvinist? Everyone will be a volunteer: I will kidnap no one into the future, Mr. Mason."
The use of his last name alerted Blake to the tension in Voss. "But you use them," he said accusingly.
"Everyone uses everyone," Voss said, as imperturbable as ever. "You are using me; I am using you. Everyone acts to his own self-interest, at least in the long run." He smiled thinly at Blake. "And this will be a very long run."
"Eighty-eight years," Blake said. "You will be a stranger in your own world."
"I was always a stranger. Only a few know how I feel – presidents, kings, emperors, men of great wealth. Everyone comes to you to ask for something. Few give. They take, they steal, they bargain, but they seldom give. Rio gives. To me. Not just her body, but her life, her loyalty, her soul." His eyes bore into Blake's. "No one will take her from me. No one."
"Death might," Blake said, and Voss shrugged. Love might, he thought.
Chapter 11
"Theta isn't going," Rio said.
The signal was bounced from a satellite and was just a bit grainy. Blake touched the screen with his fingertips and traced around Rio's face.
"Why not?" he asked. "Doesn't she want five hundred years of slave girls?"
Rio didn't smile. "She knows what she has here. She isn't curious and she isn't driven. She has no need to go."
"And you do?"
Rio ignored him. "Theta's in Bombay right now. I think she's ... hiring some housemaids."
"I find her repellently fascinating," Blake said. "She doesn't say anything, she just lies there looking through you, being waited on hand and mouth. What does she contribute to society?"
Rio raised her eyebrows. "What do any of us? Maybe it will be good we will be going away."
"At what cost to Earth's resources? A hundred million francs. You could save a lot of children from dying of starvation with that."
"People do what they must. Oh, Blake, I don't want to defend Jean-Michel by attacking you! I don't care if Theta Voss has a hundred slave girls! That's just a hundred who won't starve. She is feeding the world as best she can. But I am loyal to Jean-Michel first and to the world second."
Blake didn't know what to say. I love you, he thought. "They are installing the Inner Chamber equipment now. It won't be long ... before you..."
Rio smiled softly. "You must forget about me – about this whole thing, Blake."
"Where are you now?"
"In London, at the Anne Boleyn, in Tudor Towers, but ... you aren't thinking of coming over!"
"Yes. It's been almost a year since we met, and we've hardly had time together at all. No private time and–"
"No, Blake. Don't start. It will only make things more difficult," Rio said firmly.
He looked at her for a long time, their eyes locking together on the screen. "Why are you doing this to me?"
"Because I must. If we ... were together now, it would only make it worse when we parted. And Jean-Michel might..."
"I don't care about Voss, I want you!"
"No, Blake, and that's final. I am going into the vault with him. You must forget me. Go back to your work, find another woman, but forget me."
Blake stared at her, his stomach knotted. He saw her hand reach for the cutoff and he started to speak, but the screen was dead.
He stared at his faint reflection on the plastic for a long time, and then finally he cut the connection. He sank back in his chair, feeling hollow and mean. He gritted his teeth and his eyes felt sandy.
He stayed there for a long time, rousing himself only when Elaine spoke over the commune.
"Boss, Mrs. Shure on Three."
Blake groaned. He dragged himself upright, passed his hand over his face, and took a deep breath. "I guess have to talk to her." He thumbed the stud, and Mrs. Shure's face swam into focus on the screen. "Ah, my dear Mrs. Shure."
"Blake, dear, your Mr. Sebastian was a lovely, lovely man. And Arden's engagement party was a great success. I'm going to have him do over our old condo in Madrid. The Goya, you know. Charming place, but I think the decor needs a new face-lift, don't you agree?"
"I'm certain you will again be pleased with his work."
"Oh, but we want you for my daughter's wedding reception a month from now. I've told all my friends you are doing it and they are all looking forward to meeting you."
Blake took a deep breath. So, she didn't elope after all.
"Arden is so thrilled at the idea of Blake Mason doing the reception that she is just swooning! Imagine that, swooning! Mr. Sebastian was so very charming for the engagement, but only you, dear, dear man, can do the wedding justice."
How much longer can this go on? Blake wondered. "How many daughters have you, uh, Carolyn?"
"Oh, just two, dear boy, just two, the legal limit. Of course, they were on two licenses – two different fathers, you know." She tried to look roguish and failed by thirty years.
"I thought you might have adopted some," Blake said.
The woman looked hurt. "Adopt? Oh, dear man, never, never! You never know where they've been! Blood lines, character, oh, dear me. No, never!" She rearranged her face and smiled brightly at him. Blake thought, Her makeup must take hours.
"Well, I will be working closely with Sebastian, Carolyn, so don't you worry a second." She has probably taped the call to show her friends, he thought.
"Incidentally, the marriage will probably take place in Germany. Mr. Shure has some frozen Deutschmarks there, you know."
That isn't the only thing he has that's cold, Blake thought cruelly. "I'll be sending you some prelims very soon, Carolyn," he said, and they made their good-byes.
Blake phoned Sebastian. "How did you like the Shure engagement job last year?"
The lean, dark man rolled his eyes. "Thanks a lot for that one, Blake."
Blake grinned and said, "I told you you needed seasoning. Bite the bullet, underling."
"Rank hath privileges, huh? Just wait until I take over this company."
"Take it, take it. Take the taxes, the overhead, the payroll, the rent, all the Mrs. Shures, all the widows and counts and lawsuits. Take it, take it."
Sebastian glowered theatrically. "You really know how to hurt a guy, boss. You know I hate all that spit." He sighed. 'Well, I suppose I have to take the Mrs. Shures to get the Shawna Hiltons, the Thomes, and the Rothschilds."
Blake nodded. "The bitter with the sour. Now this wedding reception . . ."
"The royal marriage, you mean, between the heiress to four sweeper subpatents and a prime algae conversion process, and the heir to the Aiproteina fortune."
"God."
"No, he's grandfather Richard Von Arrow. Mrs. God is the famous Patricia Stiles Von Arrow, of Stiles Seawheat Corporation and the Zeropop protests of the Eighties."
"Are mortals permitted to attend?"
"You are. Mrs. Shure will want you particularly." Sebastian laughed, an odd high-pitched laugh unlike his suave, dark image. "I'll do the work, but it is your head she is collecting, bossman. What do you think they'll want, just the inside of Westminster, or will the National Cathedral do? Or are we doing it on some algae skimmer in the Pacific with gay, mad streamers?"
"No, it's a quiet, little party at a cost of twenty-five big ones – just for the family and a few close friends. Nine hundred and four at last count, and rising."
"Okay, give me what you have."
; Blake plunged into some possible plans for the party, the sort of bread-and-butter job that kept "Blake Mason, Environmental Concepts" in cake and caviar. In a few minutes they bad roughed out a few main proposals and Blake left Sebastian alone to work up the preliminaries.
"File the others," Blake said. "You never can tell when we won't have time for a custom job and will have to do it with off-the-shelf components."
Sebastian saluted with one finger and Blake darkened the screen. He looked at his reflection in the shiny glass.
"Commercial artist," he said to himself, then laughed aloud. Michelangelo had been a commercial artist most of his life, turning out tomb sculptures, ceiling designs, even stairways; his letters were filled with business problems, unpaid debts, contracts reneged upon. Leonardo da Vinci had put his genius to commission after commission – all commercial art. Even Rembrandt had done most of his portraits for money. Then, because the subjects didn't like the way he painted them in "The Night Watch," his career was ruined and he died working in an "art service" for his ex-mistress. And these three are considered the greatest artists of history, Blake thought cynically.
What is commercial art and what is fine art? Most of the works of great literature were written for money. Is the distinction whether the work was inner-motivated or whether the inspiration came from without? A writer may use all his inner feelings and thoughts and beliefs in a script for a drama tape, yet sell it for money. A copywriter for a new soyafiber is paid to write, told what to write, and the final work is criticized, edited, and rewritten by others. Is the criteria how much of one person is involved? No film (or very few films) is ever produced by just one person.
Leonardo's "Last Supper" was a commission, he knew, yet it also appeared as a post card, a funeral factory mosaic, and was parodied – devoutly or humorously – in films and elsewhere. Alexandre Gustave Eiffel built a tower for the 1889 exposition to be just a temporary structure. It was much hated by the Parisians of the day, but it became known as a work of art and even became the international symbol for that ancient city.
To THE LAND OF THE ELECTRIC ANGEL: Hugo and Nebula Award Finalist Author (The Frontiers Saga) Page 10