Anton York, Immortal

by Eando Binder

  ANTON YORK IMMORTAL by EANDO BINDER

  CONQUEST OF LIFE

  1

  THE LATTER half of the 19th Century was a period of scientific giants—Ramsay, Bequerel, Roentgen, Einstein and others —but history does not mention Matthew York.

  While the chemists outdid nature with synthetic products, while the physicists toyed with the amazing electron and the mathematicians groped into eternal secrets of the cosmos, Matthew York searched for a great scientific arcanum.

  A brain highly stimulated by chronic hyperthyroidism, pushed his investigations ahead in leaps and bounds, but it also burned him out before his time. Long years of intensive search and labour eventually crystallized into results.

  Like a pilgrim who at last nears his Mecca, Matthew York knew, at the end, that his fingertips were at the door beyond which lay the secret. He knew at the same time, with resigned bitterness, that he would not live to open the door more than a crack.

  "Give me ten more years!" he moaned to the Universe at large. "Ten paltry years, and I will give you back a thousand!"

  But that was not to be, and Matthew York, like Columbus, was to die unknowing that he had reached the shores of a new land, though he had seen them in the distance.

  At twenty-five, Anton York, the son of Matthew York, was tall, physically perfect, mentally alert, with a budding scientific career already launched. At thirty he was healthier, if possible, and deep in the intricacies of electromagnetic waves applied to destruction. He sought a weapon so deadly that its use would teach the utter futility of war.

  For Anton York had been in the World War. His grim experiences in that inferno of hate had left festering scars on his sensitive mind. He searched with all the passion of a fanatic for a Jovian weapon that would either end civilization or bring it everlasting peace.

  Gradually it became apparent to him that he must be singularly blessed with physical good health. At times he wondered vaguely about it. It was hardly natural. Long hours in the laboratory, weeks of intensive, mind-shattering labour failed to weaken his superb vitality.

  At thirty-five he reached his prime, with not a day's sickness behind him since childhood. It was as though some diligent guardian angel kept him free of the diseases that exacted their toll of all others around him. His researches had resulted in the development of a fused beam of ultrasound and gamma-rays—the long-sought goal.

  Yet he did not reveal his discovery. It was too destructive, too likely to bring about chaos. He shelved it in utter secrecy, destroyed all recorded data, kept only the key formula in his mind for future use.

  In conjunction with this ultra-weapon, he also developed a super-refractive alloy which he patented for a small fortune. Thereafter he did not have the annoyance of financial insufficiency to hinder his personal researches. He abandoned the academic duties that had previously earned him a livelihood, and settled himself in his own laboratory.

  At forty-five he had not aged at all, it seemed. He married a young and beautiful girl of twenty-five, one who instinct told him would not hold him back in his scientific endeavours. They looked like a well matched couple of equal age, for York seemed possessed of that elastic youthfulness with which some people are so fortunately endowed. Yet at times he caught himself wondering whether it was fortune or something else.

  Ten years of research on liquid and solid rocket fuels had convinced him space travel would not be achieved by that clumsy, wasteful means. The answer, if answer there was to be, lay in solving the secret of gravitation.

  At fifty-five he had made some steps, purely theoretical, toward the solution, but realized it might take several lifetimes to reach the fundamental basis necessary for an enduring analysis. He was like Anaxagoras, who had conceived an atomic theory, two thousand years before mankind had had a science capable of testing it

  "Vera," he said to his wife one day as she brought sandwiches to him in his experimental laboratory, "gravitation is like a planetary hypnotism, just as amazingly effective, and just as intangible. Just what it is I haven't yet determined, not even in theory. As far as I've gone, it seems to be a directive field of attraction between masses of matter. By directive, I mean radiating from points, rather than just filling space haphazardly, like the cosmic rays. Now there's a strong clue—“

  Vera interrupted him. "Yes, dear, but drink your coffee before it gets cold."

  "Vera, that clue is a will-o'-the-wisp I've been chasing down for ten years without success," he persisted. "It is very likely to take ten more tens of years. If only I had another lifetime ahead of me.

  "To look at you, you have." His wife was not merely flattering him. Her voice was serious, vaguely troubled. "I'm just thirty-five, and that's the age you look, yet you are fifty-five."

  "I know, I know," murmured York, without elation.

  "If it keeps up," Vera's voice wavered, "I'll be looking older than you in a few more years. Everybody comments on your youth, dear. They even call you a Dorian Grey—only in looks, of course, not character. Why, Tony, what—"

  York had dropped his sandwich, fingers nerveless. His face was pale.

  "If it keeps up!" he cried, repeating his wife's phrase. "If it keeps up,"

  "Tony, I don't understand."

  "Neither do I," York told her earnestly. "Vera, I haven't spoken much about my childhood, but there's one thing that has haunted my subconscious mind like a vivid dream—the night when my father inoculated me with a solution that made me very ill for a month. It was a glowing liquid, that solution, as if a diamond had been dissolved in it. He called it an Elixir."

  York's eyes grew misty with past memories.

  "My father was a great scientist, greater than the world ever knew. He set himself a goal—the secret of life. He did strange things with mice and fruit flies, with his serum. Once he dipped some inoculated mice into a bath of deadly germ-laden fluid. The creatures lived on, undiseased."

  He sprang up.

  "In the name of God, what did his serum do to me? Why should I alone be free of disease? Why do I look like thirty-five at the age of fifty-five? What does it mean? I must find out!"

  "Find out, but how?" ventured his wife. She was always awed by her husband's immunity to disease and senility, but she had trained herself to ignore the subject.

  "From my father's diary perhaps, or from his research notes. My aunt still has his papers. I've neglected to make a careful study of his notes. Now I'm going to make a thorough search for some clue to the mystery!"

  2

  BUT it was not just a clue that York found as he meticulously examined Matthew York's voluminous data. It was the keystone of his quest itself. The entry in his father's diary for the day Anton York remembered so vividly, read in part:

  Although it was against my better judgment, some madness seized me this night, and I injected 10 c.c. of a 50% water solution of the Elixir (leaf 88A, book G-4) into Tony's left arm. I don't know what the result will be. God! I just don't know. No use to curse myself any more. It's done and only the future can give answer. In about six months, blood tests of Anton will indicate to what extent the Elixir has taken effect. Its cruder form, when it didn't kill my guinea-pigs, gave the sign of total disease resistance within that period. So in a half year Tony will either carry blood of high radiogenic capacity, or he will be dead. Dear God, not the latter! One thing I cannot get out of my mind is that my Elixir has connections with longevity.

  Number 277-B-3 of my guinea-pig, after inoculation, lived twice the normal span of life. And that was with the crude C4 Elixir. Is it possible, that in protecting protoplasm from disease by increased energy of radiogens, in the body, the Elixir also prevents the decay of vitality? Preserves youth perhaps? If so, what will my Elixir M.7, just perfected, d
o to my Tony? Increase his life span, perhaps, to—no, I won't speculate. I am a scientist, not a prophet. Yet there must be some factor of longevity, in the Elixir.

  Longevity!

  That would burst like a bomb in Anton York's brain. But he refused to allow his thoughts to carry on a train of speculation. Instead he searched out the "leaf 88A, book G-4" mentioned. Crabbed chemical formulae gave a compound labelled: "Grignard Reaction on the chlorinated union of zymase and pituitrin—in Elixir M-7."

  Though not acquainted with the more technical phases of organic chemistry, being a physicist, York knew that zymase was an enzyme, a substance which could regenerate itself in the proper environment, though not a living material. A short search in his library gave him an idea of the properties of pituitrin. It was a gland product, controlling growth, keeping it even with the constant tearing down of protoplasm.

  Growth and regeneration. Matthew York's formulae seemed to have combined these two biological factors. York puzzled over these for a while, then turned again to his father's diary. There was only one other entry after the one he had read. A month had been left blank. That was the month Anton York had been so ill from the injection. On the eve before his sudden death from heart failure, Matthew York had written:

  Little Tony, thank God, is out of danger now. He is resting well, poor boy. I made a blood test today. Nothing definite. There is some slight increase of the radiogen value, though. I have just had the thought today that the longevity factor may be due to—simply—increased cosmic ray consumption. One of the unproven corollaries of the Radiogen Theory is that those invisible bundles of energy derive their power from the cosmic rays which fill every part of the Universe—every nook and corner of it, even the spaces between atoms. It is so astonishingly logical when one thinks of the countless radiogens which exist in and motivate protoplasm—give it "life"—are known to carry within their nuclei temperatures comparable to those of the stars, up to 6,000 degrees centigrade.

  Cosmic rays, in turn, are electromagnetic waves of tremendous power and penetration. It is not fantastic to conceive of these constant rays losing their immense power to the radiogens, which are web-traps, like electromagnets. Now if resistance to disease--and I have almost proved it so—is the electrocution of germs by radiogens which they touch, an increased radiogen-content is a panacea. It has worked with certain of my guinea-pigs, mice and fruit flies, Pray God it works with Tony. Secondly, if old age is the waning capacity to manufacture radiogens, my Elixir is a drop from the Fountain of Youth, because its constituents are able to procreate themselves in protoplasm indefinitely.

  And of course, there are my Methuselah fruit flies. A month ago, after inoculating Tony, I segregated those ten insects, gave them the same Elixir M-7, by inhalation, and they are still living, even though I did not feed them.

  Normal fruit flies do not live more than fourteen days without food. Still I will not speculate in the case of Tony, except to say that if his radiogen-content is more than twice normal, he may well be—immortal! That is simply adding two and two to make four- I looked long at my boy today, wondering. He doesn't look any different, nor should he. But he may be—yes, I dare to think it--immortal!

  Immortal!

  If his radiogen-content was two times normal, he was incapable of dying either from disease or old age, both of which were results of deficiency of radiogens, according to the theory Matthew York had followed. Was this why he failed to grow old?

  Examination of various other portions of his father's notes began to convince him it was. For the elder York had specified several times that an organism rich in radiogens, and capable of keeping up the abnormal supply, would reach its prime of life and stay there.

  Gradually it became clear to Anton York as he read on. Living matter was a complete chemical entity in itself. Its "soul," or "life," came from the ultra-microscopic radiogens, like tiny batteries, which activated it under control of neuroimpulses from the brain.

  The energy of the radiogens came from space, from the stars. When the Universe had been young, there had been more cosmic radiation from the birth-throes of stars. Nature, with such a lavish supply of life-energy, had created a wide variety of life, but each with only enough radiogen-content to animate it properly. With the waning of the Universe, and the decline of cosmic radiation, Nature had increased the radiogen-content in inverse proportion in order to continue its original cycles of life.

  But here was Man stepping in. Here was Matthew York defying Nature, outrunning Evolution. Here was Anton York with a twice normal capacity of utilizing the life-giving cosmic radiation.

  Here was immortality!. Because, not until the Universe had run down to half its present rate of cosmic radiation would Anton York be included in Nature's immutable laws of the cycles of life.

  And that would not be for millions of years!

  York grew dizzy with the thought of it.

  "Bah!" he said suddenly, to himself. "Here I am talking myself into this thing without proof of any sort. I can't be sure that I have more radiogens than normal. I can't know that the Elixir worked on me. I can't even be sure that he succeeded as he hoped with his serum, for he wasn't absolutely certain himself."

  This line of thought eventually led him to visit a famous blood specialist for a test. With a throbbing heart he waited to hear the result. The doctor finally reported that his blood was quite normal except in one respect—it had a singularly great germ-killing power. Twice as much as normal. He assured York that he would never be ill if his blood stayed that healthy.

  York's eyes glowed like ingots of molten metal.

  "Then, that means my radiogen-content is doubled!" The doctor frowned, then laughed.

  "Oh, you mean according to the electromagnetic theory of life? That theory isn't credited, you know. In the accepted parlance, your blood simply contains twice as many phagocytes, the germ-killers. Radiogens make nice, scientific talk, but don't exist. If they did, life would be a matter of volts and amperes. We would have electrically rejuvenated people walking around and living forever." The doctor laughed heartily. "Think of that."

  A sort of paralyzing calm came over York, along with the conviction that the doctor was wrong, and his father right. A voice seemed to beat in his brain, telling him that his suspected immortality was not altogether mythical.

  "How old am I?" he questioned him.

  The doctor looked him over, though surprised at the question.

  "I'd say about thirty-two, not more than thirty-five."

  "I'm fifty-five," stated York. "And a hundred years from now, I'll still be looking thirty-five." He left the gaping doctor, went out into the street. He stared at a tall, sturdy skyscraper. "You're strong and enduring," he said to it quietly.

  "You'll last fifty, a hundred years. I’ll outlast you and your successors." To the river under the steel bridge he murmured: "Someday you will not exist, and I will stand over your dried bed." To the fields he whispered: "You will nurture many, many crop cycles, but some day you will be barren. On that day—I will be thirty-five."

  Night came and to the bright stars he hurled a challenge: "The eternal stars, eh?"

  Hours later, in a rosy dawn, he came to himself. He found himself far out in the country, and realized he had been walking in a daze, drunk with the thought of immortality. Vera was waiting for him when he arrived home, tired and muddy,

  "Tony! I've been worrying."

  York looked at her strangely. A thought struck him, one that had persisted before.

  "Yes, I've been worrying too. One little worry stuck with me all during last night, even in the heights of my fancy. That thought is losing you." He pulled her to him suddenly, fiercely. The love he had for her was deep and vital.

  "I love you madly," he cried, "but I'll lose you, unless—"

  'Tony! What are you saying?" Vera's eyes became haunted with fear—fear for his sanity.

  "No, dear, I'm all right," York said quietly. "I can't explain now, but soon I shall." His eye
s shone then. "Soon you and I—together--"

  3

  "Hm, I don't know if I can duplicate it. The main part of the serum is not so intricate, but this one ingredient is new to organic chemistry. Look at it. If you know anything at all about my field you'll realize that combining zymase and pituitrin, a chlorinated enzyme and an acidic gland product, is impossible. I don't think it can be done."

  The speaker was Dr. Charles Vinson, a skilled technician of the biochemical sciences. He and York had been acquainted academically twenty years before.

  "You must duplicate that serum!" York's voice trembled with desperation. "I can't be as frank about this as I'd like, Dr. Vinson, but the manufacture of that serum means more to me right now than anything in the world. Try it, anyway. Work here at my laboratory for a month, a year, and name your price."

  "Oh, it is not the money," protested the biochemist. He did not quite mask the inherent, cupidity of his nature, however. His eyes gleamed with sudden interest. "It would cost much. Your place here is equipped for electrons and volts, not bacteria and guinea-pigs. I would have to buy much—"

  "Then it is agreed," declared York. "At any cost, make me 10 c.c. of this Elixir."

  "Elixir!" Dr. Vinson's whole manner changed. "Elixir, did you say? Where did you copy these formulae? What do they represent?"

  "Bluntly, none of your business." York could not hide a trace of anger. He had never particularly liked the biochemist. For a moment he was sorry he had picked him. Yet he knew it would be difficult to find a more capable man for the task.

  Dr. Vinson shrugged. York went on: "You will be paid for duplication of the serum, nothing more. Look over this chemical annex to my laboratories. Whenever you are ready, come to the library. I’ll discuss terms and procedure with you."

  He wheeled about and left.

  Dr. Vinson studied the sheet in his hand. It was a typewritten copy of someone's research notes. Whose? What did they represent? An Elixir? Further pondering suddenly enlightened him. Matthew York---Anton York: father and son. Many years before Matthew York had published a short treatise on the secret of life. He had claimed that an electrical interpretation of life was the only approach to its mystery. He created a small furore, and his paper became the forerunner of radiogenic theory. Yet nothing more had been heard of Matthew York.