[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Startling Stories, March 1948.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Harley D. Haworth had been a doughty warrior in the American manner.
Many a powerful Wall Street foe had bowed to his strength and thousands
of innocent victims had cursed his name. But that was many a misty year
ago.
Now even his son was an aged philanthropist and H.D. himself was
relegated almost to legend. But at ninety-two the old battler was
locked in his most desperate struggle, vainly trying with his failing
strength to beat off the grimmest, most relentless of all antagonists.
If the man in the street ever heeded or mentioned this struggle, it was
to disinter a corny, dog-in-the-manger joke.
"Old Harley D. Haworth," he would say patronizingly, "is such a guy--if
he can't take it with him, he just don't _go_."
But he was going all right, battle by battle, losing his war. Not that
his forces were small--two billion greenbacked stalwarts comprised his
army. The resources of the planet were his. Only his generals, the
world's fanciest physicians, were incompetent to maneuver these forces
to advantage.
They gave him gland extracts, they gave him vitamins, they gave
him blood transfusions. They gave him false teeth, eyeglasses,
arch-supports. They cut out his varicose veins, his appendix, one of
his kidneys. And in the end the learned doctors held a conference and
this was the sum of their wisdom--eat crackers-and-milk.
At this juncture there was a shake-up in the high command. The new
Chief of Staff was not a physician but an engineer named Jones.
"What man can imagine, man can do." So runs the optimistic saw. The
boy, Garibaldi Jones, had had firm faith in said saw, and imagined
himself a great lawyer and famous statesman. With the passage of time,
however, there gradually came to Garibaldi, as to many another before
and since, the suspicion whoever said that was kidding.
Now Baldy Jones had long since conceded that _his_ imagination, at
least, far outran his capabilities. He had settled down, when he
realized he lacked the persuasive gift, to being a reasonably competent
mechanical engineer.
An ordinary slip-stick jockey, that was the work-a-day
Jones. But sometimes, on a Sunday, Jones the
general-statesman-scientist-prophet-and-all-around-wiseacre would
hold forth from his armchair on life, love, art, literature, science,
religion, politics and various other manifestations of nature that are
dignified by names.
On a certain portentous Sunday in the summer of 1947, about the time
the doctors were prescribing crackers-and-milk as a specific for senile
debility, Garry had found a particularly depressing article in his
Supplement. Goodwife Nancy was relaxed with the Women's Section.
Garry wiped the perspiration from his gleaming head of skin and
proceeded to her instruction.
"Listen, dear, it says here some scientist thinks the human race is
going to be wiped out. It's too dumb to survive, or too smart. I think
that's crazy but he's got a lot of points. Listen, he says--
"'To date there has been no indication whatever of any barrier to the
indefinite extension of the frontiers of science. It is breath-taking
to think what this means. It means that so far as we know the
scientific method is capable of carrying humanity to any conceivable
heights and beyond.'"
"Garry, stop talking so loud and let me read this, 'Fun With
Fish--Hints for the Hurried Housewife.' You're always saying, 'Give me
something different.' Science. What do I know about science?"
"You should know something beyond the kitchen. Listen--'But reflection
turns hope to alarm, with this thought--In the vast and ancient
universe surely some races must have had time already to attain godlike
power and yet they have not manifested themselves. Many answers are
offered to this riddle, but none very satisfactory.'"
"Garry, will you be quiet?"
* * * * *
Nancy's question was sharp. "I will not," said Garry. "'One answer
is that our civilization is very young, and the hypothetical
super-civilization somewhere just hasn't found us yet. But that is a
contradiction in terms, because it takes most of the "super" out of the
super-civilization, considering that a technological culture advances
on an exponential curve.'"
"Garry, are you going to let me read in peace?"
"I am not," said Garry. "'Another is that a super-civilization would
have advanced beyond any concern about us or our petty problems. This
is an uneasy possibility, but rather thin for this reason--
"'From all indications our mastery of the physical world is proceeding
much faster than our mental evolution, and while this condition may
change I am inclined to think we would be flitting about the galaxy
before we would have lost our humanity.'"
"Garibaldi Jones, if you don't stop with that crazy stuff I'll go out
of my _mind_!"
"You will not," said Garry remorselessly. "'We are thus led to the
proposition that there is no super-civilization and to the corollary
that intelligence, at least technological intelligence, has no survival
value. This is a sobering thought, and we ask--
"'Why? Aside from metaphysical hypotheses vain to pursue, there is one
outstanding answer. Someone, someday, will find a chain reaction for
one of the light elements like oxygen and silicon, or perhaps some
other even deadlier agent will be loosed upon the world--for as science
progresses more and more power is more and more often concentrated in
fewer and fewer hands.'"
"Garry, do you intend to _ever_ stop talking?"
"I do not," said Garry. "'There is, sadly, no indication of an
abatement of the spirit of irresponsibility that has kept the world,
especially in recent years, in turmoil, at war or in fear of war.
"'The only real remedy, perhaps, is fear of God, but the materialist
knows that when he dies his rotting carcass is beyond punishment,
beyond hope, beyond recall. Thus the only restraint on beastliness is
the ineffectual one of conscience, and in consequence--'"
"_Why_ beyond recall?" interrupted Nancy, surprisingly.
"What?"
"Well, if science can do anything, like he says, why can't they
bring the dead people back some day? Now you just read that tripe to
yourself, if that 'scientist' knew anything he wouldn't have to write
for trashy Sunday Supplements, and let me read in peace, _do you hear
me_?"
"How can I help it?" muttered Garry, who had already conceived the germ
of a notion.
The notion grew into an idea, and the idea hardened into a resolve.
And in the natural course of events he went to H.D. Haworth with his
proposition and there was a meeting of minds.
But a third talent was needed for their project, and the logical
candidate was Ellsworth Stevens, M.D., Ph.D.
The seduction of Ellsworth Stevens made a temporary stir in certain
lofty circles, shocking all but the most cynical.
A brilliant bio-chemist, a few months previously Stevens had reported
some attempts at suspending animation in mammals by a method involving
preliminary partial dehydration of the living tissue through
starvation, followed by freezing.
The technique exploited the newly-discovered tendency of very minute
quantities of radioactive phosphorus in certain phospholipids to
counteract the degenerative anti-gelation effect of low temperatures on
the colloidal phases of protoplasm.
He had not succeeded in reviving any of the animals, since none of
the nerve tissue had lived through the freezing, but results had
been nonetheless promising. Now Stevens was employed by the Cancer
Institute, consecrated to this most important work.
Until one evening a Tempter called at his modest home. His name, of
course, was Jones.
"Dr. Stevens," said Garry, "I want you to quit your job and go back to
work on suspended animation."
Stevens blinked rapidly behind his bifocals and smiled deprecatingly.
"Well, Mr. Jones, I could hardly do that. You see, I've been doing some
work with radioactive tracers and I'm beginning to get significant
results. Can't very well quit now, can I? That other matter isn't very
important--I hardly think it could be done, anyway."
"Dr. Stevens," said Garry, "the Cancer Institute doesn't pay you very
much. You have a daughter who is getting to the age where she would
like to be dressed up. I will give you a ten year contract at ten
thousand dollars a years."
"Mr. Jones, do you realize that cancer is responsible for more deaths
than any other ailment except heart disease? Maybe I sound sentimental
but I actually think of myself as taking an important part in the
world's greatest crusade."
"Dr. Stevens, I will give you a ten year contract at one hundred
thousand dollars a year."
Blankness in the shy, blinking eyes, then mounting anger. "Look, you,
who the heck d'you think you're kidding? If you--"
"Dr. Stevens," Garry said hastily--an enraged sheep is an appalling
spectacle--"I have a power of attorney from Harley D. Haworth."
Ellsworth Stevens gaped like a fish, and was pure no more.
* * * * *
The Pacific lay stagnant, having decided it was too hot a day to do
anything except evaporate. But there was the suggestion of a breeze
in the garden and ample shade for three men. The dried-up little old
man was speaking, and the big bald man and the lean bespectacled man
listened with respectful attention.
"I'm a hard-headed business man, and I'm not easy to fool, as many
a smart-aleck's learned, hrumph! It would surprise you the number
of quacks that try to sell me miracle water and yoga systems and
such-like. Blasted parasites!
"But I know a good investment when I see one," the thin, complaining
voice went on, "and you gentlemen have a sound idea." He paused
benevolently to let them look gratified.
_This is ridiculous_, thought Gary, _the old boy's a caricature._
"A sound idea--don't depend on these pill-rolling fools that call
themselves doctors nowadays to keep you hanging around a year or two
more, but just go to sleep in a nice refrigerator until people _really_
know something about the body." He shook a bony forefinger.
"And they'll do it, too. I don't believe in much, but I believe in
science. It will take a lot of money, but that's what I've got. And
you can have all you need, Mr. Jones, all you need, as I've told you
before. Blank check. You came to the right man when you came to H.D.
Haworth." He sank back into his nylon deck chair, exhausted by the long
speech.
Garry seized the opportunity to air some of his ideas. He was all
enthusiasm.
"We'll put the vault in Michigan, Mr. Haworth, not here in
California--too many earthquakes. Might be a long time before they know
enough about bio-chemistry to revive a dead man and restore his youth.
Not that you'll be dead," he amended hastily, "just in a state of
suspended animation. I'm sure Dr. Stevens can work _that_ out.
"Anyway, we'd better put the vault in Michigan--very safe country,
geologically. We'll make the vault and the coolers of the very best,
of course, granite and stainless steel and quartz that will never wear
out. And then," he added, coyly, "I have a little idea for a power
plant that will be really _dependable_, if I _am_ the one that says it."
"It better be!" snapped H.D., suddenly ferocious.
"Yes--of course. There's the problem of keeping everything secret but
I'm sure we can manage it. The workers won't know what they're doing,
Dr. Stevens, and I can do all the really technical work. And there'll
be only one trustee each generation to keep his eye on things, starting
with me."
Stevens was leaning forward, wearing a somewhat bewildered expression.
"But I thought--but surely after we demonstrate that suspended
animation is feasible and we've verified our results, we'll publish?"
Seeing the odd-faces the other two were pulling, he repeated
plaintively, "I always publish."
H.D. Haworth pronounced a certain four-letter word. Garibaldi
Jones cast his eyes to the heavens and tore his hair, coming away
empty-handed, of course.
"Well, what's wrong with that?" Stevens snapped, a little color in his
face. "Don't the people have a right to know?"
"Young man," quavered H.D., tottering to his feet and shaking the bony
forefinger, "what you know about people I could stick in my--"
"Wait a minute, Mr. Haworth," Garry soothed. "Let me explain to Dr.
Stevens how it is. Please don't excite yourself. Remember," he coaxed,
"we don't want a heart attack _now_, do we?" The old man collapsed into
his chair with a feeble curse.
"Look, Ellsworth, old man," Garry said kindly. "The last thing in
the world we want to do is keep anything from humanity. _You_ know
Mr. Haworth is the biggest philanthropist in the world. But in this
case--well, it's dangerous.
"What do you think would happen if people found out a few rich men were
sleeping in quartz coolers while they had nothing but mouldy graves to
look forward to? Why, man, they'd tear our vault down with their bare
hands!"
H.D. was nodding, muttering something about blasted riff-raff, but
Garry saw Stevens' look of contempt.
"But that's not the main thing," he said hastily. "It wouldn't be good
for the country--in fact the world couldn't stand it. Once people were
convinced, everybody would demand a frigidaire instead of a coffin.
Not many could be made and people would plot and steal and kill to get
theirs and religious people would fight against it.
"There'd be fakers and stock promotions all over. The nation's economy
would be wrecked. People would take their money with them or leave it
as savings at compound interest while they slept for a few centuries.
Think of the harm it would do, man--think of the people who are happy
now, whose lives would be embittered with vain hopes!"
* * * * *
Haworth's head was bobbing on his scrawny neck. "That's right, young
fellow, and that ain't the half of it!" He cackled. "Almost like to get
a finger in that pie myself.
"The insurance companies would be the ones for it, of course.
Twenty-year endowment and, instead of paying you, they pickle you. But
it's too risky, too risky--you see that, don't you, my boy?"
Stevens sighed unhappily. "I suppose so," he said, defeated.
"Good, good!" Garry boomed, rubbing his hands briskly. "I knew Dr.
Stevens would see the point. He has a head on his shoulders.
"Now, as I was saying, Mr. Haworth, we'll have space in the vault
for a hundred or so. That should be enough, I think, but we'll rush
yours through first, of course, and have it ready in jig time, just in
_case_.... And after that...."
And so their plans were laid and something new was born under that sun
which shone with such ridiculous indiscrimination on H.D. Haworth and
on the common people.
According to the outline sketched that afternoon, the vault was
to be safeguarded and the sleepers' interests looked after by the
establishment of a Haworth Trust, with Garibaldi Jones the first
Administrator. Only one person in each generation, the Administrator,
would know all about the vault.
Of each generation the Administrator and one or two of his closest
relatives would join the ranks of the sleepers. The Administrator's
responsibilities and discretion would include all measures necessary
for the safety of the sleepers and the trust funds would be ample, to
allow for unforeseen future contingencies.
A number of experimental animals closely duplicating H.D.'s condition
would be included for the future biologists first to try their skill
on--because if Stevens should not perfect a practicable method of
suspending animation in time, and H.D. should actually die, his
resuscitation would be a ticklish matter.
H.D. did not want to wake up blind, for instance, or with an altered
personality--although Stevens, for one, thought _any_ change in the
old pirate's personality would be a step in the right direction.
The blasted Washington administration wouldn't let a citizen buy
radioactives without a lot of busybody questions, but Garry had an idea
for a reliable source of power for the coolers.
An improvement on the new "heat pumps," his design dispensed entirely
with moving parts, providing a large safety factor. Successfully
reversing the refrigeration cycle, the device utilized the heat
potential between sub-frost level ground and surface to produce power,
using buried coils of a common refrigerant gas.
Caches of treasure were to be tucked away in unlikely places, the key
to their location securely hidden in H.D.'s mind. No Tut-ankh-amen he,
to invite grave-robbers by foolish ostentation.
And so it came to pass, and H.D.'s last months, despite the physical
pain his increasing debilitation caused him, were light-hearted ones.
He was sustained by the bubbling knowledge that he tottered down life's
highway toward--not that great, silent abyss that the common folk's
imagination called Heaven or Hell and peopled with childish gods and
demons anxiously waiting to take him to task for his many "sins"--but
merely a bend in the road beyond which lay unknown, but surely
friendly, lands.
In course of time Harley D. Haworth was carefully laid away in his
ice-cold "coffin," and those who read the obituaries did not suspect
that he was the first of men to die a qualified death.
* * * * *
He lay on his back, staring at the white ceiling--it had not occurred
to him yet to move. His uncoördinated muscles left his face blank but
he was frowning mentally. There was something he wanted to remember,
something....
He struggled laboriously to pin down those elusive shapes, but the
_words_ wouldn't come. It's hard to think when the words won't come.
His eyes sharpened their focus a little and he perceived that he was in
_bed_. _Hospital_, he thought clearly, _I'm in a hospital, of course._
He felt more and more secure now and, after a moment's relaxation,
tried again to remember.