They had outlived their usefulness on Earth
and society waited patiently for them to die. Thus it
was only natural for them to seek a new world....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
December 1950
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Dr. Warner didn't usually burst into Dr. Farrar's office. Usually he
paced slowly up the hospital corridor, pulling down his glistening
white lastijac uniform, meditating on all the mistakes he might have
made during the past week, reluctantly turning the knob on the outer
door, hesitatingly asking Miss Herrington if the doctor wished to see
him now, stepping humbly through the inner door into the presence. But
this morning he burst in and slammed the inner door.
"Two this morning in Block Nineteen!" he blurted. "Two suicides at
once; Saul Forsythe and Madam LePays!"
Only a few minutes before, Dr. Farrar had been reading and sighing,
sighing at the thought that there were no excitements left, only
annoyances and minor gratifications.
"The publication of _The One-Hundred-Year-Old in the Culture of Today_
marks the date of another notable contribution to human understanding
by the justly famous young doctor, Jules Farrar." The review grew more
laudatory from paragraph to glowing paragraph. Dr. Farrar, re-reading
it word by word, was inclined to smile at the adjective 'young'; he was
fifty-eight and felt every day of it this smiling spring morning. He
ran his hand back over his head smoothing the place where, twenty years
ago, there had been hair. He looked up from the paper on his desk,
through the glimmering sunlight at the row of dark green file cases
banking the opposite end of the office, the first five now ticketed
"closed" and the "closed" sign lying on top of the sixth, the 100-year
case. He gazed on down the row--110, 120, 130, 140 and the rest--and
sighed deeply. Futility washed over him, and an echo of the old story
of the man who wrote his autobiography taking a year to write the
doings of each day. The job would never be finished and the amusement
of writing of youth was too far behind.
He quoted grimly from his own _Sixty-Year-Old_, "Among males at
this time, the conviction, often amounting to panic, that the time
for accomplishment is almost past begins to grow and obscure the
comfortable mellowness of being in the midst of important activity."
How could he have known so much at thirty and still have arrived at
almost sixty without having solved anything, discovered anything new,
done nothing but descriptive studies steadily for thirty-five years?
And there were no excitements left--nothing but annoyances.
His office door now flew open with a crash against the 50-year file
case, then was banged shut again and Bob Warner's white-jacketed body
was leaning toward him over his desk.
"Two suicides at once, Dr. Farrar!" Dr. Warner was almost shouting
at him, "and one last week and four others in the past year! They'll
investigate us and upset the subjects and everybody. They'll get out of
Block Nineteen and go poking around in genetics and new diseases and
want to know where and why every cent is being spent and wind up trying
to cut the staff or change the diets or some other stupidity." (Jules
Farrar smiled wryly: there had been two Congressional Investigations at
the hospital since he came, and Bob's description from hearsay was all
too accurate.) "I tell you, Doctor, we've got to hush this up. Congress
won't let us get away with firing a couple of floor nurses this time!"
Ione Phillips was in Nineteen and much too pretty for a scapegoat. It
wasn't his responsibility anyway. "What are we going to do, Doctor?"
"Saul Forsythe and Madame LePays," Jules Farrar's voice was low with
concern, "How old were they? What was the matter?"
"Madame was 182 and Forsythe was a year or two older. There wasn't
anything wrong that I know. They'd both been reading last night. He had
the last volume of the _Britannica_ and she had a little old book of
poems--French poems."
"No animosities, no quarrels with other subjects?"
"No, no! They weren't very social types, you know; we haven't had much
culture-pattern data on either of them for some time. It's not as if
they were a great loss to the experiments," he added reassuringly.
Mustn't get old Farrar upset.
* * * * *
The older doctor looked oddly at the younger. "There must be something
wrong in Block Nineteen. We'll call a meeting of staff. You can't cover
up this sort of thing, Doctor. Everybody probably knows it already. You
know how nurses gossip. But we'd better talk to Daneshaw first. He's
always sound on what's going on in Block Nineteen."
"But Dr. Farrar, Daneshaw can't bring them back. He's just another
subject. You could swear the nurses to secrecy for the good of the
hospital. It's not as if it were anything strange or exciting. If we
get an investigation, the subjects will run amok. Blood pressures will
go up and some of them won't eat and others won't sleep thinking up
fancy stories to tell the investigating commission and the smooth curve
charts will be all shot to...."
Farrar laughed, "Intriguing thought, a thousand near-200-year-oldsters
running amok. But seriously, if they kill themselves off this way,
it will mess things up. Don't worry about your job yet, Doctor.
Daneshaw will think of something. On your way out, ask Miss Herrington
to get in touch with him. Now you get back to Block Nineteen and
see that everything stays quiet for a while. I'd rather not have an
investigation either."
"But, Doctor...."
"It's an order. Well, on second thought, get everybody over 150 out of
the hospital on an expedition of some kind." He scribbled on a pad.
"But, Dr. Farrar...."
"Here's an order for cars ... and ... (writing) ... buses and field
kitchens. Take them out in the country for a picnic. Come back here as
soon as you can get away." He held out a paper.
"A picnic! For a thousand?"
"You can do it. You're the best organizer in the hospital."
"Well ... I suppose so."
"Excellent," concluded Dr. Farrar and rose, indicating dismissal.
"Daneshaw will think of something," he repeated to himself as Warner
walked out and slammed the door.
R. N. Ione Phillips flounced down Corridor Five of Block Nineteen,
white elaston uniform rustling with permanent and indignant starch.
"Those old biddies," she muttered. "Both of them say they want lilac
pattern dresses and then when they come they're mad because they have
dresses just alike. They're just like children!" Miss Phillips didn't
care much for children.
"Won't wash for meals but spend hours taking up all the driers in the
beauty salon. Bob Warner doesn't realize what we have to put up with."
Her angry stalk slowed to a demure mincing as she approached the
elevator and imagined Dr. Warner coming out of it.
Behind the door she had just closed with apparently thoughtful
gentleness, Mrs. Maeva McGaughey and Mrs. Alice Kaplan in lilac acelle
were considering the meal on the table between them.
"Creamed spinach, Maeva, for breakfast!" Mrs. Kaplan was withering in
her distaste.
"And that Miss Phillips--treats us as if we were babies," whined Mrs.
McGaughey. "The way she talks you'd think she'd brought us a couple of
wedding gowns. Shoddy stuff these days, too."
Mrs. Kaplan looked slyly at Mrs. McGaughey. "I know how to fix her,
Maeva. Let's pour this spinach down our fronts."
* * * * *
Ione had reached the end of the corridor and was tripping abstractedly
by the desk facing the row of elevators.
"Phillips," the receptionist's voice was startling and cool, "will you
tell Mr. Daneshaw, Room 563, that Dr. Farrar would like to see him at
once in his office."
"It's my breakfast hour! I'm just going off duty." Receptionists
thought they owned the hospital ordering people around all the time.
"I can't leave the desk and your relief hasn't come up. Dr. Farrar says
it's urgent."
"Oh, all right." Ione turned on her heel and strode with something of
the old swish up the hall to the left of the one she'd come from.