<tb>
It was nineteen years before two Finnish physicists, Arkadt and
Findrun, ran the necessary experiments. Of the many who had read the
article, some knew Talbot and thus laughed it off, some could not
understand it and some understood it and waxed enthusiastic. Eventually
the enthusiasm spread to the Finnish Institute for Applied Research
where the essential equipment was available. The experiments were an
unqualified success.
As soon as the experiments were confirmed, Arkadt sent a telegram to
Dr. Henry Talbot, in care of the address which had appeared with his
original article, informing him of the happy developments. He and
Findrun were still celebrating their spectacular success a week later,
this time with Dr. Arrhenial, director of the institute, when Arkadt
mentioned that he had sent such a telegram and had received as yet no
answer.
Arrhenial smiled into his vodka. "Didn't you know? Talbot was
seventy-five years old when he wrote that article. I'm afraid you were
a little too late for him."
"I didn't know," Arkadt replied.
"A shame," Findrun murmured. "It would have made him so happy."
The telephone rang and Arkadt answered it. His wife was calling, with
unusual news. He had just received a letter from America. Imagine that.
From a Henry Talbot.
<tb>
Henry Talbot saw his face on the cover of <i>Time</i> magazine. He refused
a request to appear on a television quiz program. (The contestant
the network had had in mind to appear with Henry won his money
nevertheless, in the category Theoretical Physics, by correctly naming
the year in which Einstein first published his Theory of Relativity,
the number of papers which comprised the entire theory, the language
in which it was first published, the magazine in which it was first
published, the year in which the magazine was first printed, the
name of the first printer of the magazine, and the year in which he
died.) Henry Talbot was termed "The Dean of American Men of Science"
by the New York <i>Times</i>, which paper triumphantly reported that only
thirteen people in the world understood his Warped Field Theory.
When asked if there was now anything else for science to do, he
replied, "Indubitably." When pressed for more details, he said that
his housekeeper always removed his vodka from the refrigerator at
three-thirty, and that if he did not immediately return home, it would
become unbearably warm.
On the occasion of his ninety-fifth birthday, he was given a gigantic
testimonial banquet by the Arnold Research Corporation, "under whose
auspices the entire research which culminated in the justly famous
Warped Field Theory was conducted."
The next week, when he requested the use of their massive cyclotron to
run an experiment, he was told that the machine was in use at the time.
A week later, his request was again shunted off. This happened twice
more, and Henry went to see Larry Arnold, Jr.
The coordinator was affable, and told Henry that he had checked
himself, and that unfortunately the machine was in use and that of
course since he, Talbot, was actually at the lab on only a part-time
basis, he could not expect to usurp the machine from full-time research
workers.
Henry asked what kind of research was being done.
Larry wheezed twice and told him it was investigating certain aspects
of the Warped Field Theory.
"I invented the goddam theory and I can't even get at the machine?"
Henry shouted.
"Please, Dr. Talbot. Let's be reasonable. You discovered that theory
twenty years ago. I mean, after all. You're an older man now, and
that's an expensive piece of machinery--"
Henry slammed the door as he walked out, was not satisfied with the
effect, came back and slammed it again, this time shattering the glass.
He felt a little better, strode down the hall, and resigned the next
day, quietly and undramaticly.
He disappeared into retirement. Reports of his death were printed
occasionally. They were never denied. They stopped after several years,
were taken to be final, and his name was not often mentioned by the
newspapers.
One hundred and three years after his birth, the Nobel Prize was
awarded to Henry Talbot for his Warped Field Theory. The committee
decided not to look into the matter of discovering Dr. Talbot's heirs
until after the ceremony, expecting that someone would turn up to claim
the award in his name.
Henry Talbot accepted the medallion and check himself from the hand of
the King of Sweden, making his acceptance speech in hurriedly learned
but understandable Swedish. The newspapers of the world devoured him
and made big news of the fact that he had been practically fired nine
years before. He was deluged with offers of employment, most of which
sought him as a public-relations man. He accepted the offer of the
Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton, New Jersey. His duties here
were non-existent. He would be paid, cared for. He was to think, as
much or as little as he pleased. The Institute was apologetic that
they had not been aware of his unemployment previously. He was invited
to stay with them for as long as he liked. Henry Talbot settled back
finally, in comfort.
The research upon which he now embarked was so deep, so complex,
that he did not intend to come to any publishable conclusions in his
lifetime. He desired no experimentation now; he wanted only to think,
to think in purely mathematical terms of the universe as an entity. He
withdrew into the sanctity of his study, thankful to Princeton for the
peace and tranquility it offered.
Several years later a notice of his death was published in the New York
<i>Times</i>. Henry did not read the New York <i>Times</i>, but the treasurer at
the Institute evidently did. His checks stopped coming. Henry did not
complain. He had saved a lot of money and his tastes were simple. He
did not have to pay a bootlegger's price in Princeton.
In his hundred and eighty-first year, Henry first became seriously
aware of the possibility that he might not die.
<tb>
One night during his two hundred and forty-fifth year--it began to seem
to him purposeless, but he still kept accurate count--Henry pushed back
from his desk and sighed.
Outside the window, in the gently falling snow, the campus of Princeton
looked exactly as it had when he had first come, but things were
different. No one now at the Institute knew him; he had known no one
there for seventy-five years now. Probably at no other place in the
country than at the Institute for Advanced Study could he have kept his
study for so long, could he have been left so alone. And it was good,
but now he was lonely. Lonely, bored by his solitude, aware of his
boredom and utter lack of friends.
He had realized long ago the compensation demanded for eternity. When
he had first begun to think of the possibility that he might not die,
he had realized that it would mean leaving his friends, his family, and
continuing alone. When he had first begun to speculate on his seeming
immortality, how it had come about and why, he had known he would be
lonely.
/P
This is the way to the Übermensch,
This is the way to the Übermensch,
This is the way to the Übermensch,
Not in a crowd, but alone.
P/
Nearly every great mind within the past hundred years had pointed out
the difficulty of man's accomplishing anything in his brief hundred
years of life, had pointed out the necessity of immortality to a great
mind. And what is necessary will be. But this is the way of evolution:
not in a crowd, but alone. One man in a million, then another, then
another.
It was statistically improbable that he was the first. So there must be
others. But so far, in two hundred and forty-five years, he had not met
any that he knew of. Then again, there was no way of knowing. Anyone
passing him on the street would not know, and he meeting another would
not know.
A purring broke through into his reverie and, looking down, he became
aware of Bucephalus, his cat, rubbing against his legs. He laughed,
bent down and picked her up. Here was the exception, of course. Old
Bucephalus. He laughed again, shaking his head in wonder. He had had
Bucephalus for the past hundred and fifty years.
"Now what justification does a cat have for living forever?" he
wondered aloud, holding her at arm's length and smiling at her. She
lifted one paw and dabbed at his face. He put her down and went to get
her milk. "And how did we ever find each other?" Perhaps there was some
subliminal way of knowing. Perhaps, without knowing, the immortals knew.
While Bucephalus lapped at her milk, Henry Talbot walked out for a
breath of air. He wandered off the campus, finally pausing in front
of a candy-and-soda store. He felt a vague curiosity and went in to
look at the newspapers. After reading through one, he stood back and
sighed. The same old thing, always the same old thing. The new wave
of immigrants--he looked again to see where they were from this time;
he didn't recognize the name of the place, but it didn't matter--the
new wave of immigrants was a disgrace to New York, was destroying
real estate values, was a burden to society, to the <i>last</i> wave of
immigrants who had by now made their place. The President said we would
fight, if necessary, one last war to make the world safe for democracy.
Statistics showed that juvenile delinquency was on the increase; it was
traced to a lack of parental authority in the home.
Always the same old thing.
Only his work was new, always changing. But now, after nearly a hundred
and fifty years of thought, he felt he was in over his head. It was
getting too abstract. He needed some good solid experimental research,
he felt. Something concrete, down-to-earth. He wanted to play with
a hundred-channel analyzer, measure some cross sections, determine
a beta-decay scheme. But he couldn't ask them here for a lab. He
didn't dare tell them who he was. Too much commotion, notoriety. The
newspapers again. Good God, no.
He turned to go back to his study, and then stopped dead. He couldn't
go back there. His brain was spinning without a clamp; he needed to
fasten to something and orient himself in this vast universe. His
fingers itched to get at some experiment. He couldn't go back to his
study.
He decided to take a vacation. He had never gotten as far as Miami
Beach, he remembered. The sun would feel good, and he could do with a
bit of a tan.
He flew down that night.
After he had checked in at the Sea Lion, and as he was following
the bellboy across the high and wide lobby to the elevator, a woman
crossed his path. In her late twenties, perhaps early thirties, she was
simply stunning. Dark hair, light skin, blue eyes almost purple with a
Eurasian slant to them, long firm legs and slim ankles. For the first
time in many a year, Henry stopped to look at a woman.
The bellboy realized that he had walked on alone and returned to Talbot.
"That woman is beautiful." Henry gestured toward her back.
The bellboy smirked. Henry followed him to his room.
<tb>
Henry lay in the sun for two weeks and grew younger day by day. His
skin tanned, his muscles became hard with the exertion of lengthy
swims, the creases in his face smoothed out. Still he felt vaguely
dissatisfied, empty. He lay on the beach, gazing into the ocean, and
knew that something was missing.
The woman he had seen that first night crossed between him and the
ocean and continued down the beach. Henry watched her out of sight.
"That woman is beautiful," he thought.
Sex, he thought. I wonder if that's what's missing. There was another
aspect to be considered, of course. Two hundred and forty-five. And
then a blonde young lady in a bikini wavered by him and he knew in that
moment that he could.
He stood up and walked after her.
"I wonder if I might walk a bit with you," he said.
She looked him over carefully and then shrugged her shoulder, not quite
dislodging the upper portion of her suit. "Suitcha self."