by Joe Haldeman
There was a hospice associated with the convent where I was hiding, back in the twenties. We had a succession of terminal Stilemans because of the Italian national lottery. You win a thousand million lire and the most valuable thing you can buy with it is life … but you can’t buy the financial acumen necessary to finance a second treatment, or the luck to win the lottery again.
So we’d get these suddenly old men and women. I treated a number of them with “accidental” overdoses of painkiller, when it came to the last week. That’s no more murder than my spike of fifty-grief is suicide. It’s pain management. Not all of the sisters would have agreed.
On the way to Mars, Dallas had argued about suicide with me. If suicide were a mortal sin, how could I justify refusing my sixth or nth Stileman, knowing that the refusal would result in sure death? The Church took care of that in the twentieth century, though, allowing people to refuse dramatic treatment if its purpose was merely to postpone natural death. The Stileman Treatment is a hundred separate “heroic measures,” against a condition that otherwise has a recovery rate of exactly zero. Not counting Lazarus.
If on the other side I come to judgment and it turns out that I was wrong, and have committed a mortal sin, then I’ve been wrong about more important things in this life, and it won’t make any difference.
Trying to subtract the drug, to find out how I really feel. I have thought about this time, and even looked forward to it. I’m surprised and chagrined at the spectrum of fears, petty and huge. Fear of incontinence, the embarrassment. On the way here I sneezed and wet myself a little. Sickness; specific anxiety about vomiting—which resonates both with that gagging at the smell of Lysol when I put the suit’s helmet on and with the way so many of those old people died, choking, “inspiration of vomitus.” Fear of all the pain, and breaking down under it, shaming Dallas.
Fear of death. The darkness, not being.
Which means, I must say it to myself, fear of loss of faith. At this threshold. My hundred-year-old brain has heard all the arguments about the existence of God, and my hundred-year-old heart has survived them. Until now, when I need the faith the most. All that magnificent edifice, all the strength and span of it, how could I lose its sustenance now?
Maybe my brain’s been affected by the debilitation process. But it doesn’t feel like the brain.
The darkness in the bathroom was not soothing anymore. I turned on the light and took a moment to despise the animated corpse in the mirror, and then went upstairs to Dallas.
The Stileman Foundation 1000 King Street Sydney, Australia
The long habit of living indisposeth us for dying.
—SIR THOMAS BROWNE
PRESS RELEASE
9 January 2081
1158 GST
HEAD: STILEMAN HEAD VARGAS DIES AFTER MADRID ATTACK
STRINKS: STILEMAN/VARGAS/MADRID/VIOLENCE (SPAIN)/NOBEL PRIZE/GUNS
Raphael Vargas, chairman of the Stileman Foundation for the past seven years, was gravely injured by gunfire last night when he resisted a purse snatcher in downtown Madrid, and he died this morning at 0943 Greenwich time. A bystander, who is being sought by Madrid police, shot and killed the purse snatcher in a brief exchange of gunfire that resulted in no other injuries on the nearly deserted side street.
Vargas will be remembered as a humane and energetic leader who sought to promote understanding between Stileman “immortals” and the main stream of humanity. It was he who instituted the Stileman Achievement Award, which offers free life extension to Nobel Prizewinners in all categories.
(Vargas’s death will cause an ironic exchange of a type that’s not uncommon when Stileman rejuvenees die of accidents or violence. His closest living relative is a son who, aged 101, is a senile old man living in a rest home in his native Barcelona. The son will inherit Vargas’s fortune, estimated at more than ten million pesetas, and so will himself be eligible for the Stileman Treatment.) GOTO BRANCH HEAD 1.1?
Branch head 1.2: Sir Charles Briskin Named Successor
STRINKS: STILEMAN/BRISKIN/U.K. GOVT./VARGAS
Sir Charles Briskin, who was secretary of the exchequer for the United Kingdom from the reestablishment of that office in 2030 until 2038, has agreed to take up the position of chairman of the board of this foundation, following the sudden untimely death of Raphael Vargas. Besides his obvious professional qualifications, Sir Charles brings to the office a unique academic orientation, having earned both a doctorate in economics from Cambridge and a doctorate in history from Harvard University, in the United States. His undergraduate preparation, at Trinity College, Dublin, was in political science and economics.
Born in 1960 in Belfast, Sir Charles was knighted in 2035 after his bold wage and price control scheme helped Britain avert the runaway inflation that destroyed the economies, and brought down the governments, of most EEC member nations that year.
Sir Charles has had seven Stileman Treatments, beginning in 2004. He has been a member of the foundation’s Board of Governors for nearly fifty years and was the natural choice when the board assembled this morning to name a successor to Raphael Vargas.
subbranch head 1.21: The Dallas Barr Situation
Of the current Stileman crisis, new Stileman Foundation Chairman Sir Charles Briskin says: “This teaches us that we must never become complacent about our understanding of the medical processes involved in the Stileman Treatment. Both the premature death of Geoffrey Lorne-Smythe and the outrageous homicidal behavior of Dallas Barr apparently have been the result of repeated head injuries, which in each rejuvenation session seemed to have healed enough not to require attention. How wrong we were.
“The oldest Stileman veterans should be closely monitored as they go through their thirteenth decade. Also, it should go without saying that all of us must opt for surgical replacement of the skull, the so-called hardhead prosthesis, the next time we go in for rejuvenation—not only for our own safety but also for the general welfare, ephemeral as well as immortal. We can’t afford any more Dallas Barrs.
“The reward of £1,000,000 for Mr. Barr’s apprehension remains in effect. We don’t wish to harm him, of course, but hope that the study of his condition may prevent its recurrence.
“Fortunately, the enlightened state of Yugoslavia, within whose borders Barr committed two cold-blooded murders, has long outlawed capital punishment. Authorities there have agreed to allow Stileman scientists to study Barr during his incarceration there.…”
The other seven board members finished reading the press release and so signified by nodding, sipping water, scribbling.
“It’s good, Charles,” said a tall black man, “but do you think the statement about Dallas Barr is really necessary?”
“Perhaps not,” Briskin said. “It’s a matter of personal concern to me, since we were acquaintances. I would hate to see him hurt someone else.”
“I believe it is a good idea,” said a French woman, “in the sense of public service. While we have the people’s general attention, to remind them of the danger.”
Atsuji Kamachi nodded, his silver dome glittering from unseen lights. “So unexpected, so sad. Have you any idea where he could be?”
“I don’t have any special relationship with Interpol,” Briskin said. “I think they traced him to the Conch Republic and then lost him. I would suspect he’s in America someplace.”
“I would be inclined to think otherwise,” Kamachi said, “from more than forty years of dealings with him. He is comfortable in many places; speaks many languages well. In America his face is too well known.”
“They say he probably changed his face in the Conch Republic. He could look like anyone.”
“Of course.” Kamachi stifled a yawn. “I am not thinking too well. It is four in the morning here.”
“I suppose that’s all of the business,” Briskin said. “Let’s adjourn until next week. Meet, say, at midnight Greenwich, between the twelfth and thirteenth.” The seven consulted calendars, nodded assent, and one by
one their holograms faded.
Briskin sat alone at the end of the long mahogany desk. He looked around the large dimly lit room: an ancient tapestry; oversized oil portraits in ornate gilded frames; large crystal chandelier flickering with archaic gaslight, a stupefyingly expensive affectation. He nodded at no one and spoke into the air. “Cease recording. I’ll have supper here at eight-thirty. Alone.”
“May I decant a ’63 Ausone at eight-fifteen?” the air asked.
“Do.” Briskin stood up. “I’ll be in the library with two gentlemen. We are not to be disturbed or recorded.”
“Very well, sir.” As he walked down the corridor to the library, Briskin allowed himself a broad smile. It vanished when he opened the door.
One of the men, handsome and muscular, with an insolent air, was sprawled on the couch reading a magazine that was inappropriate for the Victorian room. Queen Victoria would have fainted at the cover illustration, which depicted oral sex. The other man, small and strikingly ugly, was reading the spines of the rows of leather-bound books. Both of them had glasses of brandy. Briskin nodded at them, went to the sideboard, and poured himself a measure from the crystal decanter.
“Didn’t think you’d mind if we had a drink,” the ugly one said.
“No, of course not. You’re sure you weren’t followed?”
“No way,” the other said. He had a southern American accent, soft and sweet. “We did like you said. Took the floater down the game trail far as we could, parked, then watched for an hour from cover, then walked the three miles here. That first mile was a bitch.”
“The blizzard is over, is it not?”
“Still blowin’ snow around. Somethin’ new to me. Can’t say as I like it.”
“It’s even colder where you’re going. Do you both have experience with spaceflight?”
“Yeah,” they said in unison.
“There is a commercial flight to Novysibirsk, to Ceres, leaving HEO on the twelfth. You’re to be on it, with the identities I established for you.”
“That’s where Barr and the woman went?” the ugly man asked. His accent was harsher, New England winters.
“It’s likely but not certain. Barr owned a diamond that wound up there, in the possession of a real estate agent. At least an agent called Antwerp about it. It’s possible he could have sold it in the States right after the murders, and the person he sold it to might have gone straight to Novysibirsk and bought property. Possible. Not very likely, though.”
“If he’s there, we’ll find him,” the handsome man drawled. “Guess we check out this real estate agent.”
“That would be sensible. His name is Peter Quinn.”
“Is he important?” the ugly one asked. “I mean, suppose we have to … hurt him.”
“Do what you will.” Briskin took a huge sniff of the brandy, then a sip. “This brandy’s a hundred and five years old. Is that older than you?”
“Barely. I’m a hundred and three.” He looked at Briskin sardonically. “I’ll answer the other question. ‘Why do you look like that when you could look like anybody?’ The personal answer is that I like to look like myself. The professional answer is that nobody expects an immortal to look like a toad.”
“I can tell you’re immortal.”
“Any immortal can, after a few years.” He pointed at the other. “And you can tell Golden Boy is a ’phem.”
“For a while yet,” he said. “That’s what the million’s for.”
“Murray amuses me,” the ugly one said. “I want him to stay around, stay pretty. Is that shocking?”
“I am mortified,” Briskin said, rolling his eyes. “I’ve never met an actual homosexual before.”
“But he ain’t,” Murray said. “It’d be okay with me, but he ain’t.” The ugly one shrugged.
“Try to bring them both back alive. If you have to kill the woman, well, you have to, but Barr is of no value to me dead.” He pointed at Murray. “Bring me Barr and you’re immortal. Otherwise you’ll grow old and die. You might not even get that old.”
The man made no effort to conceal his hostility. “I’ll bring him.”
Dallas and Maria missed the news of Briskin’s suspicious takeover, understandably, since it happened the day they found out she was going to die.
The scene is a cliché of modern tragedy (fear of science having superseded our fear of the gods): young lovers facing a terminal prognosis. In this case the young lovers were also ancient, which tempered and complicated their reactions. Four and five billion people had died in their lifetimes: thousands of them with names, hundreds of them friends, some of them lovers. They beat death, every ten or twelve years, but they also had to live side by side with it.
Conventionally Anglo-Saxon, Dallas stopped crying after less than a minute. Sufficiently Italian, Maria did not, and perhaps she wasn’t crying for her own impending death so much as for the abrupt and tragic death of this new love. Old and new. She had calmed to an occasional dab and sniffle by the time they returned to the villa and she excused herself downstairs.
When she came back up from the cellar darkness, floating over the ramp, she found darkness upstairs as well. Dallas was vaguely silhouetted at the window, staring out over the dim blasted landscape of Ceres, a ghostly jumble of rocks and crater walls glowing pale gold in the light of Jupiter.
“Night comes fast,” she said. Dallas nodded in the darkness. “I’m sorry. This is the worst thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
“Dying is the worst thing that most people do.”
“Lying to you.” She put a hand on each shoulder, from behind, and leaned her forehead against the back of his neck. “I was afraid … afraid you could talk me out of it. If you’d known how little time was left.”
“So the time scale has changed,” he said quietly. “All of a sudden I’m faced with losing you. I suspected that you would … go your way, and I would lose you. But I expected to have years to get used to it. This is too quick, too much.”
“I’m sorry.” She was trembling. “Mea culpa. I was going to … once we were settled here, I was going to talk to you about it, figure out a way to get back and take the chance.”
He turned around and squeezed her, hard enough to make her gasp. “Maybe there is some way.”
“No. Not to get to Earth from here in three weeks. I’ve gone over the numbers … over and over in my head. Can’t be done.”
“Here. Sit on the couch?” They did a clumsy pas de deux and collapsed in slow motion toward the cushions. Dallas touched a lamp on the way down. In the warm pink glow they both looked healthier than they felt.
The reader was on the coffee table. “Let’s see what Eric says.”
“No harm in it.”
He turned it on. “Eric—we have a real problem.”
Eric
Location 220 44th Corridor,
Ceres • temperature 21° • pressure
0.6 atm. • p O2 120 mm Hg • input
state on • both Dallas & Maria
appear to have been crying remarkable
for Dallas of course Maria
even cries alone Eric which is
Eric—
appropriate both in terms of her
personality & her culture • wish we
had met when we I was solid I
we
would have a more comprehensive
picture of what she was like & so
be more of have a help in this cur-
have
rent pancake • did not mention to
Dallas the fact that her frostbite
trauma might accel a erate the
a
aging process but he didn’t ask & I
think he has enough trouble • that’s
probably what this real is
real
about • he’s going to say
“problem” now as in
Eric-we-have-a-reeeal-problem • &
the probability is problem large
problem.
that the problem he perceives is
only the visible part of the
iceberg • output state on:
Okay. I’m all ears.
input state on: • so to speak al-
though I don’t speak any more or
less than Maria’s I hear
Maria’s
actually • from the sad expressions
I assume that Maria’s been given a
negative prognosis frostbite probably
frostbite
when she went in for a follow-
up at the hospital here • no it was
more likely an emergency since
has Dallas didn’t mention any
has
follow-up when he updated me
three hours ago • if that’s the case
I wonder triggered what they think
triggered
I can do for them • maybe they just
have to talk to someone • I know
the feeling • the wish they’d plug