"Come in."
She turned the knob and economically stuck only her head around the
frame. "Dr. Farrar wants you in his office at once." She withdrew and
closed the door in one motion. Don't give them a chance to argue or
ask questions. They'd waste your whole day for you if you gave them a
chance. She headed for the elevators once more.
Professor Emeritus Charles Timothy Daneshaw had lain in bed in the
comfortable insulation of the bulky grey plastine autometab case which
covered him to the waist. He really enjoyed this five minutes after
waking when the world was entirely shut off and he could collect his
thoughts for the day with no other business but regular inhale and
exhale.
_Sweet day, so calm, so cool, so bright_, he quoted mentally. This was
a comfortable poem for springtime in one's 186th year. _The bridal
of the earth and sky, The dews shall weep thy fall tonight, For thou
must die._ No one would have to weep for him. He wasn't going to die.
He would walk on the lawns today and enjoy the burgeoning of spring
without pain, without fear. He would read Wordsworth and plan a
vacation walking trip.
The bell next to his ear pinged--the machine had finished his daily
metabolic record--he pressed the button that raised the heavy case to
the ceiling. He stretched and put his feet over the edge of the bed.
_Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses_, he headed for the
bathroom, _A box where sweets compacted lie._ The shaving cabinet was
not such a box. He had to stoop to see the shock of white hair in the
mirror, and shaving was a daily nuisance in a bent-kneed position. Some
architect must have decided that it was the custom for old men not to
be over five feet eight and installed accordingly. Old men should be
bowed down with years, but Tim Daneshaw was still six feet three in
spite of four inches shrinkage since his thirties, his tall body still
unbowed by years or habit.
_Only a sweet and virtuous soul, like seasoned timber never gives_ ...
he was finishing the Herbert quotation as he wiped off the remaining
shaving soap, when there was a sharp rap on the outer door of his room.
"Mr. Daneshaw?"
"Come in."
"Dr. Farrar wants you in his office at once." Miss Phillips'
white-capped head bobbed in and out, the door shut, and he could hear
the click of her retreating heels.
He stepped out of the bathroom and began pulling on his clothes. "Poor
Jules," he mused. "Hard at work on a beautiful spring morning before
I've even had breakfast. Maybe he'll give me a cup of coffee."
* * * * *
He was half-way to the elevator, pacing slowly, imagining the aroma of
a hot cup of coffee, seeing a thin twist of steam, when a door opened a
few steps ahead of him. A wiry little man in a maroon bathrobe beckoned.
"Come in here a minute, Tim," said the little man, his voice almost a
whisper.
"Jules wants me over in Administration Block, El."
Elbert Avery grabbed Daneshaw's arm. "He can wait. This is important,
Tim."
"Just for a minute, then. The nurse said 'at once'." He went in and
Avery closed the door quickly.
"Have you heard about Saul and Clarice? How they both got out this
morning?" Avery seated himself in the swivel chair beside the
tremendous desk that made his room look much smaller than Daneshaw's.
"Got out?"
"They were both found dead this morning at breakfast time. I just
heard about it. Saul cut his wrist with his razor and Clarice fiddled
with the autometab so it wouldn't raise and then went to sleep in it.
Some people are just born with more nerve than others!" Avery sounded
actually envious.
"This is no joke, El." Tim Daneshaw leaned against the high white bed.
"Don't talk that way to anybody--there's nothing noble in killing
yourself and you know you wouldn't do it even if you had the chance."
"Oh, I don't know," responded the little man defiantly, tipping back
in his chair. "What's the percentage in living on here forever? Nobody
knows what you were and nobody cares what you are and there's not one
damn thing worth spending ten minutes on that they don't say, 'Take it
easy, don't strain yourself, don't get worked up, why don't you take a
rest or play a nice relaxing game of checkers.' I don't like pet mice
and I think raffia baskets are an abomination. You're right about
suicide not being noble--it's just common sense!"
"Elbert, Elbert," Tim was gentle, reproachful, "wait a minute.
Everybody here knows how you built up Avery, Inc. singlehanded into
the biggest transport corporation in the world and how you bowed out
to let younger men have their chance at running the most successful
business in the country." He came over and perched on the edge of the
desk close to Avery. "You know the Block Nineteen Association wouldn't
even be able to buy Christmas cards if you weren't handling our little
investments. There isn't one person on this experiment that doesn't
respect you."
"On this experiment, hell!" exploded Avery. "There isn't anybody in
Block Nineteen that doesn't know I ran out when the government began
hemming in big corporations with thousands of petty restrictions on
mansized business so that a company president was nothing more than
a yes-man to a regiment of lawyers and government accountants. If
the boys in Washington knew I was handling a little stock for Block
Nineteen they'd think of some way to close us up in five minutes.
They'd be just as happy if they knew I was out of the way."
"But you are a genius at keeping your tracks covered and we do need
you. We'll need you especially at the block meeting today," soothed
Daneshaw.
"The meeting's not till day after tomorrow," Avery objected.
"We'll have to hold it now before some of us forget we're grown up and
start going to pieces like the two this morning you were so excited
about a minute ago." He paused. "I just can't understand it about
Clarice LePays. She was so self-possessed, a charming and dignified
woman. We will miss her, Elbert. She added a great deal of grace to our
gatherings."
"Grace! She was just another old woman in a young woman's world. Don't
be a hypocrite, Tim."
Daneshaw got up. "Anyhow, you have a job now. It's up to you and me as
officers of the Block Nineteen Association to keep the others calm and
give them something else to think about. You put that magic brain of
yours to work on that while I go down to see Jules. I'll tell him we
must have our meeting today." He put his hand on the knob.
"Calm, bah!" Avery bit the end off a stogy and spat it at the floor
vehemently. "You better warn that Jules Farrar that his guinea pigs are
sick and tired of his hotel-concentration-camp and of the whole world
where we don't belong. I hope he lives to be a million."
"I'll tell him what you say," smiled Daneshaw grimly. "Now you get to
work on a speech." He went out, a set smile still on his face.
* * * * *
When the amber light showed on the intercom on his desk, Dr. Farrar
flipped the switch and barked a brief, "Send him in!"
Expecting the lanky white-maned Daneshaw in familiar heather-tweed, he
was shocked by the appearance of the natty little man in midnight-blue
dulfin slacks and ultra-conservative tabarjak. A Congressman so soon?
He rose, extended his hand, half expecting the newcomer to refuse it
coldly.
This little man smiled and grasped the outstretched hand heartily,
saying, "Dr. Farrar? I'm Jeremy Brill of Far-Western Insurance and
Annuity. Your secretary said you might have some time to spare this
morning." He relinquished the hand and Dr. Farrar was freed to motion
him to the green easy chair at the right of the desk.
"Glad to know you." He wasn't--he was lining up a few words for Miss
Herrington on the subject of admitting salesmen. "Miss Herrington
was mistaken, though, about my having much time. Something important
has come up in the hospital this morning. Another day might be much
better if you have anything extensive to discuss." He tried to remain
courteous, keep his voice pleasant.
"I won't take but a few minutes of your day, Dr. Farrar, but there
is a matter upon which The Company needs advice from you as soon as
possible."
This sounded different from the usual opening. "Yes? What can I do for
you?"
"You have a large group of patients here, Doctor, all of whom are well
over a hundred years old."
"Not patients, Mr. Brill. Subjects. Subjects for observation on
patterns of old age."
"Subjects, then. Well, a considerable number of these subjects have
annuities with us and it is of great concern to us to have some
estimate of their present condition."
"You mean physiologically? This group is in excellent health."
"Not exactly," the little man leaned forward confidentially. "We are
more concerned with their mental state. You probably know that when a
person is adjudged mentally incompetent or even gravely 'insecure,' the
state takes over the care and support of such a person and The Company
is released from financial obligation to that person. As a tremendous
taxpayer, The Company aids in state support, but not to the extent of,
shall we say, a perpetual annuity."
"Oh, I see. The company is feeling the pinch of a few long-term
payments to those subjects of ours and would like to have them put away
to cut expenses?" Dr. Farrar could not completely keep the scorn out of
his voice.
"Oh, no, Doctor. You misunderstand me completely." Brill's tones were
rich with wounded innocence. "The Company only wants to know what are
the probabilities of mental breakdown at different ages, say a hundred
and sixty, a hundred and eighty, two hundred. If we had some assurance
of even a slight but definite tendency to, shall we say, mental
erosion, with an increase in age above a hundred and fifty, The Company
might find it possible to continue some such annuity plan as is now
in operation." The man talked like an annual report, it seemed to Dr.
Farrar, but with the difference that it had something to do with him.
"You or your medical colleagues," Brill went on brightly, "have done
humanity yeoman service. Not only have you lengthened life and made
living it less painful, but you have reduced the consumer-costs of life
insurance to a level which makes premiums ridiculously low. Of course,"
he added complacently, "this has resulted in a great increase in the
number of the insured and the size and scope of The Company."
"But if people are going to live forever, your company is going to
have to discontinue the annuity system, is that it?" Dr. Farrar asked
pointedly. "You'd leave the old folks cut off from jobs by custom and
from any other income by expediency?"
* * * * *
Jeremy Brill was suddenly serious. "The problem of the support
of paupers is hardly the immediate responsibility of Far-Western.
Besides," he added hopefully, "by the time the thirty-year olders whose
policies we would have to refuse to write now are old enough to worry
about it, our society will no doubt have found some way for them to
maintain their independence. I have the greatest faith in you social
researchers, so great that my company can surely feel free to turn that
problem over to you with utter confidence.
"And perhaps, as a matter of fact," he continued, "you can already tell
me that there is little hope that man can pass his two-hundredth year
without serious impairment of his faculties, and we shall only have to
raise the age at which annuities begin to pay. The Company naturally
prefers the gentle road of reform to the cataclysm of revolution." He
relaxed after this burst of metaphor.
"I am not at all sure that there is any sanity data on those over 150
in statistical form. It would take me some time to be sure of any exact
present correlation of mental erosion, as you call it, with age." Dr.
Farrar reflected on the state of the file cases in the further corner.
He wasn't at all sure, either, how much it was wise to tell this eager
representative of The Company. (Mr. Brill always said it as if "The
Company" were written entirely in capital letters.) There might be
other angles. This increase in suicide, for instance.
"You see," he went on, "Block Nineteen does not have a very high
complement of psychiatrists. If the subjects get too difficult to
handle, we usually send them to Mayhew Mental Observing Hospital and
close their files here. We do chiefly physiological research here, you
know. The older subjects seem to mistrust young psychiatrists and the
more practical men seem to prefer working in places like the Mayhew
where the material is more interesting." Maybe he could get rid of the
man by offering a better bait.
"The Company would be more than willing to offer the services of a
couple of trained statistical analysts if you would like to put your
unorganized material at our disposal for, shall we say, a week?"
So that was the angle--let The Company in on the files where they would
uncover a number of other interesting things--the suicides too, as the
other subjects reacted to them. Now he'd have to take time off, at work
on the _Hundred-and-Ten-Year-Old_ to dig about in the advanced data.
One couldn't violate the privacy of the records, not at this moment,
anyhow.
"That won't be necessary, thanks. I could have some word for you in
a couple of weeks--as soon as certain other matters are taken care
of. I'd be interested in the results myself, naturally." And he
would. There might be some clue to poor Clarice LePays and Forsythe
and the earlier ones. A promise of figures soon would put Brill off
temporarily. Now change the subject and close the talk.
"I suppose you have to do a lot of odd investigating like this in the
course of company work?" Dr. Farrar asked politely.
"Yes, indeed, Doctor. Every event in the world is somehow connected
with the insurance business. You might be interested to know that some
of our men are now in Washington investigating space ship conditions.
Confidentially, we shall probably soon be pushing a government subsidy
for insurance for space crews and extra-territorial colonists. Sounds
fantastic, doesn't it?"
"I should say so. But I thought the _Colonia_ wasn't due to take off
for another year. I rather lose track of world news in my job here."
"She'd be ready to blast in fourteen months if they could decide about
passengers and crew. Every nation in the Assembly and every bloc
from farm and free-lifers to commists wants to be the first to start
the colony, mostly from distrust of the others, but no particular
individuals seem to want to be the first to cut the ties. The crew has
to stay with the colony for months, you know, until they're settled and
know what else they need. The _Colonia's_ the only large ship under
construction. The Company doesn't want to be responsible for possible
mishaps and we've just started writing in space-travel exception
clauses in our regular policies."
* * * * *
The intercom bulb burned amber again. This time Farrar was more
cautious.
"Who is it?" he asked.
"Mr. Daneshaw."
"Send him in in about a minute."
He turned to Brill. "The man who's coming in is one of our older
subjects. You might like to meet him." He smiled. "Not that he's
exactly typical of his age."
"You won't tell him why I'm here?" Brill requested. "The Company
naturally doesn't want any publicity on this matter yet, Doctor."
"Naturally, Mr. Brill, you don't want a run on annuity policies any
more than the Government wants to alarm prospective settlers on Venus
by refusing to insure them. Old Daneshaw has probably forgotten more
secrets than we'll ever know: but if you think best...."
"I do."
The door swung back smoothly, stopping just short of the file cases, to
admit the tall tweed-clad figure of the professor emeritus, who closed
it gently, deliberately.
"Morning, Tim."
"Good morning, Jules." Daneshaw noticed the stranger and stood
uncertainly just inside the door.
"I'd like to introduce Mr. Brill--Mr. Daneshaw."
Daneshaw's handshake was firm but gentle like his closing of the door.
He moved to the maple armchair and sat, crossing his long legs, relaxed.
"Mr. Brill's got a great-aunt on the waiting list for Block Nineteen.
He's here looking us over to see if we're fit company."
Mr. Daneshaw looked a question at the doctor, who continued, "Mr.
Brill is in the insurance business. He's been telling me about one
of their recent problems--whether or not to insure space crews and
extraterrestrial colonists. On the _Colonia_, you know."
Daneshaw roused suddenly and turned an eager face to Brill. "That's
a great thing! Never thought I'd see the day, though I was quite a
science-fiction fan in my eighties and nineties. I've read everything
I could lay my hands on about the _Colonia_. Do you really know who
the colonists are going to be--or is that a secret between the United
Assembly and the insurance companies?"
Brill looked pleased. This nice old boy realized the confidence of
The Powers in The Company. "It hasn't been settled yet--may take
months more the way they're wrangling. The Chinese don't want it to be
the Dutch and the Dutch don't want the Brazilians. You know how it
is. Myself, I think the government bit off more than it could chew,
offering the first American built ship to whatever group the Assembly
decided to send."
* * * * *
Dr. Farrar winced inwardly. A political discussion with Tim Daneshaw
would certainly antagonize Brill if not exhaust him. "Who would you
like to see go, Tim?" he veered the talk away from the errors of the
present regime.
"I suppose farmers would be the first choice--big scale men with
experience in hydroponics, from what I know of conditions on Venus."
"But the Assembly seems to be set against any group now economically
favored," Brill offered the objection condescendingly, "and small
farmers as a class have some sort of prejudice against any type of
farming or scenery except what they grew up with."
"Well, speaking purely academically, Mr. Brill, I think the Assembly
could do worse than send us."
"Us?"
"Us old duffers. Economically speaking, we're nobodies, our local ties
are the weakest, we are of no particular value to anybody except Dr.
Farrar here," he waved a hand, "and we're obviously of no political
danger to the Chinese or the commists or the insulars either. We're not
even a bloc. But of course we wouldn't please anybody especially as
colonists, either. It's only an academic suggestion, you understand."
He grinned first at Brill, and at Farrar. "We couldn't put the good
Jules out of a job, of course."
The intercom light flashed at the same moment that the door was flung
open. Dr. Warner was half-way to the desk before he noticed the other
visitors. He stopped abruptly.
"What is it, Doctor?" Dr. Farrar's voice was mildly reproachful. "Do
you need me?"
"Excuse me, Doctor. The fleet is ready for the picnic and I thought
you might have some last minute ... that is ... I didn't know what
plans...." Dr. Warner mumbled, confused at finding a stranger in the
office.
"This is Mr. Brill--Dr. Warner. Doctor, Mr. Brill's great-aunt is
on our waiting list for Block Nineteen and he is concerned with our
program and facilities here. Do you suppose you could take him with you
on the picnic this morning?"
Jeremy Brill was startled. "I don't want to be any trouble, Doctor," he
said apologetically to both doctors at once.
"No trouble at all, Mr. Brill," reassured Dr. Farrar. "You go with Dr.
Warner here. He'll find a place in one of the limousines and you'll
have a chance to talk to lots of the people your aunt would have to
live with--make some judgment for yourself about all the items we
were discussing. You can have Mr. Daneshaw's lunch on the picnic. He's
staying here with me today."
Brill bowed his thanks to Daneshaw and Dr. Farrar and rose.
Jules Farrar turned to Dr. Warner. "Give them a good time, Bob. There
aren't any special plans, but if you should happen to pass a circus,
take the whole gang. Do you have plenty of money? This is on the
hospital."
If Bob Warner had been alone with his chief he would have shouted, "A
circus--ye gods!" but with Brill and Daneshaw both present he didn't
even dare splutter. He nodded mechanically for Brill to precede him out
the office door. Just before closing it after them, he stuck his head
back into the office and enunciated with great care, "Thank you for the
lovely treat, Doctor!" and was gone.
* * * * *
There was silence in the office for a few moments after the two had
left.