"And it used to be only once or twice a month, but now it's almost
every day. And once or twice you've blacked clean out for a while, and
made your staff work like demons to cover for you and keep it off the
teevies, right?"
"Say, who's been talking to you?"
"Jean has been talking to me."
"Can't even trust your own daughter to keep her trap shut." The
Senator tossed the cigar butt down in disgust. "It happened once, yes.
That god damned Rinehart is enough to make anybody black out." He
thrust out his jaw and glowered at Dr. Moss as though it were all
_his_ fault. Then he grinned. "Oh, I know you're right, Doc. It's just
that this is the wrong _time_. I can't take two months out
now--there's too much to be done between now and the middle of next
month."
"Oh, yes. The Hearings. Why not turn it over to your staff? They know
what's going on."
"Nonsense. They know, but not like I know. After the Hearings,
fine--I'll come along like a lamb. But now--"
Dr. Moss reddened, slammed his fist down on the desk. "Dammit, man,
are you blind and deaf? Or just plain stupid? Didn't you hear me a
moment ago? _You may not live through the Hearings._ You could _go_,
just like that, any minute. But this is 2134 A.D., not the middle
ages. It would be so utterly, hopelessly pointless to let that
happen--"
Fowler champed his cigar and scowled. "After it was done I'd have to
Free-Agent for a year, wouldn't I?" It was an accusation.
"You _should_. But that's a formality. If you want to go back to what
you were doing the day you came from the Center--"
"Yes, _if_! But supposing I didn't? Supposing I was all changed?"
The young doctor looked at the old man shrewdly. Dan Fowler was 56
years old--and he looked forty. It seemed incredible even to Moss that
the man could have done what he had done, and look almost as young and
fighting-mad now as he had when he started. Clever old goat, too--but
Dan Fowler's last remark opened the hidden door wide. Moss smiled to
himself. "You're afraid of it, aren't you, Senator?"
"Of rejuvenation? Nonsense."
"But you are. You aren't the only one--it's a pretty frightening
thing. Cash in the old model, take out a new one, just like a jet
racer or a worn out talk-writer. Only it isn't machinery, it's your
body, and your life." Dr. Moss grinned. "It scares a man.
_Rejuvenation_ isn't the right word, of course. Aside from the
neurones, they take away every cell in your body, one way or another,
and give you new ones. A hundred and fifty years ago Cancelmo and
Klein did it on a dog, and called it _sub-total prosthesis_. A crude
job--I've seen their papers and films. Vat-grown hearts and kidneys,
revitalized vascular material, building up new organ systems like a
patchwork quilt, coaxing new tissues to grow to replace old ones--but
they got a living dog out of it, and that dog lived to the ripe old
age of 37 years before he died."
* * * * *
Moss pushed back from his desk, watching Dan Fowler's face. "Then in
1992 Nimrock tried it on a man, and almost got himself hanged because
the man died. That was a hundred and forty-two years ago. And then
while he was still on trial, his workers completed the second job, and
the man _lived_, and oh, how the jig changed for Nimrock!"
The doctor shrugged. As he talked, Dan Fowler sat silent, chewing his
cigar furiously. But listening--he was listening, all right. "Well, it
was crude, then," Moss said. "It's not so crude any more." He pointed
to a large bronze plaque hanging on the office wall. "You've seen that
before. Read it."
Dan Fowler's eyes went up to the plaque. A list of names. At the top
words said, "_These ten gave life to Mankind._"
Below it were the names:
Martin Aronson, Ph. D.
Education
Thomas Bevalaqua
Literature and Art
Chauncy Devlin
Music
Frederick A. Kehler, M. S.
Engineering
William B. Morse, L. L. D.
Law
Rev. Hugh H. F. Norton
Philosophy and Theology
Jacob Prowsnitz, Ph. D.
History
Arthur L. Rodgers, M. D.
Medicine
Carlotta Sokol, Ph. D.
Sociopsychology
Harvey Tatum
Business
"I know," said Dan Fowler. "June 1st, 2005. They were volunteers."
"Ten out of several dozen volunteers," Moss amended. "Those ten were
chosen by lot. Already people were dreaming of what sub-total
prosthesis could do. It could preserve the great minds, it could
compound the accumulated wisdom of one lifetime with another
lifetime--and maybe more. Those ten people--representing ten great
fields of study--risked their lives. Not to live forever--just to see
if rejuvenation could really preserve their minds in newly built
bodies. All of them were old, older than you are, Senator, some were
sicker than you, and all of them were afraid. But seven of the ten are
_still alive today_, a hundred and thirty years later. Rodgers died in
a jet crash. Tatum died of neuro-toxic virus, because we couldn't do
anything to rebuild neurones in those days. Bevalaqua suicided. The
rest are still alive, after two more rejuvenations."
"Fine," said Dan Fowler. "I still can't do it now."
"That was just ten people," Moss cut in. "It took five years to get
ready for them. But now we can do five hundred a year--only five
hundred select individuals, to live on instead of dying. And you've
got the gall to sit there and tell me you don't have the time for it!"
* * * * *
The old man rose slowly, lighting another cigar. "It could be five
thousand a year. That's why I don't have the time. Fifteen thousand,
fifty thousand. We could do it--but we're not doing it. Walter
Rinehart's been rejuvenated--twice already! _I'm_ on the list because
I shouted so loud they didn't dare leave me off. But _you're_ not on
it. Why not? You could be. Everybody could be."
Dr. Moss spread his hands. "The Criterion Committee does the
choosing."
"_Rinehart's_ criteria! Only five hundred a year. Use it for a weapon.
Build power with it. Get a strangle-hold on it, and never, never let
it go." The Senator leaned across the desk, his eyes bright with
anger. "I haven't got time to stop what I'm doing now--because I can
_stop_ Rinehart, if I only live that long, I can break him, split his
Criterion Committee wide open _now_ while there's still a chance, and
open rejuvenation up to everybody instead of five hundred lucky ones a
year. I can stop him because I've dug at him and dug at him for
twenty-nine years, and shouted and screamed and fought and made people
listen. And if I fumble now, it'll all be down the drain, finished,
washed up.
"If that happens, _nobody_ will ever stop him."
There was silence in the room for a moment. Then Moss spread his
hands. "The hearings are that critical, eh?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Why has it got to be _your_ personal fight? Other people could do
it."
"They'd fumble it. They'd foul it up. Senator Libby fouled it up once
already, a long time ago. Rinehart's lived for a hundred and nineteen
years, and he's learning new tricks every year. I've only lived
fifty-six of them, but I know his tricks. I can beat him."
"But why _you_?"
"Somebody's got to do it. My card is on top."
A 'phone buzzer chirped. "Yes, he's here." Dr. Moss handed Dan the
receiver. A moment later the Senator was grinning like a cat
struggling into his overcoat and scarf. "Sorry, Doc--I know what you
tell me is true, and I'm no fool. If I have to stop, I'll stop."
"Tomorrow, then."
"Not tomorrow. One of my lads is back from the Mars Colony. Tomorrow
we pow-wow--but hard. After the hearings, Doc. And meanwhile, keep
your eye on the teevies. I'll be seeing you."
The door clicked shut with a note of finality, and Dr. David Moss
stared at it gloomily. "I hope so," he said. But nobody in particular
heard him.