"He sure could. More than a pain, and Kornwall wouldn't be much help
after the news got out."
"Well, we'll have to take the risk, that's all. We'll have to be fast
and quiet." He pushed aside his coffee cup as the phone blinker
started in. "I think that gets us started. Jean, you'll keep somebody
on the switchboard, and keep track of us all. When I get through with
McKenzie, I may be leaving the country for a while. You'll have to be
my ears, and cover for me. _Yes_, yes. I was calling Dwight
McKenzie--"
The phonebox squawked for a moment or two.
"Hello, Dwight?--What? Oh, thunder! Well, where is he?
Timagami--Ontario? An island!" He covered the speaker and growled,
"He's gone moose-hunting." Then: "Okay, get me Eastern Sea-Jet Charter
Service."
Five minutes later they walked out onto the street and split up in
three different directions.
* * * * *
A long series of grey, flickering pictures, then, for Dan Fowler. A
fast meal in the car to the Charter Service landing field. Morning sun
swallowed up, sky gray, then almost black, temperature dropping, a
grey drizzling rain. Cold. Wind carrying it across the open field in
waves, slashing his cheeks with icy blades of water. Grey shape of the
ski-plane ("Eight feet of snow up there, according to the IWB reports.
Lake's frozen three feet thick. Going to be a rough ride, Senator").
Jean's quick kiss before he climbed up, the sharp worry in her eyes
("Got your pills, Dad? Try to sleep. Take it easy. Give me a call
about anything--") (But there aren't any phones, the operator said.
Better not tell her that. Why scare her any more? Damned heart,
anyway). A wobbly takeoff that almost dumped his stomach in his lap,
sent the briefcase flying across the cabin. Then rain, and grey-black
nothing out through the mid-day view ports, heading north. Faster,
faster, why can't you get this crate to move? Sorry, Senator. Nasty
currents up here. Maybe we can try going higher--
Time! Paul had called it more precious than life, and now time flew
screaming by in great deadly sweeps, like a black-winged buzzard. And
through it all, weariness, tiredness that he had never felt before.
Not years, not work. Weary body, yes--and time was running out, he
should have rejuvenated years ago. But now--_what if Paul were right?_
Can't do it now. Not until Paul is wrong, a thousand times wrong. That
was it, of course, that was the weariness that wasn't time-weariness
or body-weariness. Just mind-weariness. Weariness at the thought of
wasted work, the wasted years--a wasted life. Unless Paul is very
wrong.
A snarl of disgust, a toggle switch snapped, a flickering teevie
screen. Wonderful pickup these days. News of the World brought to you
by Atomics International, the fuel to power the Starship--the
President returned to Washington today after three-week vacation
conference in Calcutta with Chinese and Indian dignitaries--full
accord and a cordial ending to the meeting--American medical supplies
to be made available--and on the home front, appropriations renewed
for Antarctica Project, to bring solar energy into every home, Aviado
was quoted as saying--huge Abolitionist rally last night in New
Chicago as John 'Moses' Tyndall returned to that city to celebrate
the fifteenth birthday of the movement that started there back in
2119--no violence reported as Tyndall lashed out at Senator Daniel
Fowler's universal rejuvenation program--twenty-five hour work week
hailed by Senator Rinehart of Alaska as a great progressive step for
the American people--Senator Rinehart, chairman of the policy-making
Criterion Committee held forth hope last night that rejuvenation
techniques may increase the number of candidates to six hundred a year
within five years--and now, news from the entertainment world--
Going down, then, into flurries of Northern snow, peering out at the
whiter gloom below, a long stretch of white with blobs of black on
either side, resolving into snow-laden black pines, a long flat
lake-top of ice and snow. Taxi-ing down, engines roaring, sucking up
snow into steam in the orange afterblast. And ahead, up from the lake,
a black blot of a house, with orange window lights reflecting warmth
and cheer against the wilderness outside--
Then Dwight McKenzie, peering out into the gloom, eyes widening in
recognition, little mean eyes with streaks of fear through them,
widening and then smiling, pumping his hand. "Dan! My god, I couldn't
_imagine_--hardly ever see anybody up here, you know. Come in, come
in, you must be half frozen. What's happened? Something torn loose
down in Washington?" And more questions, fast, tumbling over each
other, no answers wanted, talky-talk questions to cover surprise and
fear and the one large question of why Dan Fowler should be dropping
down out of the sky on _him_, which question he didn't think he wanted
answered just yet--
* * * * *
A huge, rugged room, blazing fire in a mammoth fireplace at the end,
moose heads, a rug of thick black bear hide. "Like to come up here a
day or two ahead of the party, you know," McKenzie was saying. "Does a
man good to commune with his soul once in a while. Do you like to
hunt? You should join us, Dan. Libby and Donaldson will be up tomorrow
with a couple of guides. We could find you an extra gun. They say
hunting should be good this year--"
One chair against the fireplace, a book hastily thrown down beside it,
SEXTRA SPECIAL, Cartoons by Kulp. Great book for soul-searching
Senators. Things were all out of focus after the sudden change from
the cold, but now Dan was beginning to see. One book, one chair, but
two half-filled sherry glasses at the sideboard--
"Can't wait, Dwight, I have to get back to the city, but I couldn't
find you down there, and they didn't know when you were coming back. I
just wanted to let you know that I put you to all that trouble for
nothing--we don't need the Hearing date in December, after all."
Wariness suddenly in McKenzie's eyes. "Well! Nice of you to think of
it, Dan--but it wasn't really any trouble. No trouble at all. December
15th is fine, as a matter of fact, better than the February date would
have been. Give the Committee a chance to collect itself during the
Holidays, ha, ha."
"Well, it now seems that it _wouldn't_ be so good for me, Dwight. I'd
much prefer it to be changed back to the February date."
"Well, now." Pause. "Dan, we _have_ to settle these things sooner or
later, you know. I don't know whether we can do that now--"
"Don't know! Why not?"
The moose-hunter licked both lips, couldn't keep his eyes on Dan's
eyes, focused on his nose instead,--as if the nose were _really_ the
important part of the conversation. "It isn't just me that makes these
decisions, Dan. Other people have to be consulted. It's pretty late to
catch them now, you know. It might be pretty hard to do that--"
No more smiles from Dan. "Now look--you make the calendar, and you can
change it." Face getting red, getting angry--careful, Dan, those two
sherry glasses, watch what you say--"I want it changed back. And I've
got to know right now."
"But you told me you'd be all ready to roll by December 15th--"
To hell with caution--he _had_ to have time. "Look, there's no reason
you can't do it if you want to, Dwight. I'd consider it a personal
favor--I repeat, a very large personal favor--if you'd make the
arrangements. I won't forget it--" What did the swine want, an arm off
at the roots?
"Sorry," said a voice from the rear door of the room. Walter Rinehart
walked across to the sideboard. "You don't mind if I finish this,
Dwight?"
A deep breath from McKenzie, like a sigh of relief. "Go right ahead,
Walt. Sherry, Dan?"
"No, I don't think so." It was Walter, all right. Tall, upright,
dignified Walter, fine shock of wavy hair that was white as the snow
outside. Young-old lines on his face. Some men looked finer after
rejuvenation, much finer than before. There had been a chilly look
about Walter Rinehart's eyes before his first Retread. Not now. A
fine man, like somebody's dear old grandfather. Just give him a chunk
of wood to whittle and a jack-blade to whittle it with--
But inside, the mind was the same. Inside, no changes. Author of the
Rinehart Criteria, the royal road to a self-perpetuating "immortal
elite."
* * * * *
Dan turned his back on Rinehart and said to McKenzie: "I want the date
changed."
"I--I can't do it, Dan." An inquiring glance at Rinehart, a faint
smiling nod in return.
He knew he'd blundered then, blundered badly. McKenzie was afraid.
McKenzie wanted another lifetime, one of these days. He'd decided that
Rinehart would be the one who could give it to him. But worse, far
worse: Rinehart knew now that something had happened, something was
wrong. "What's the matter, Dan?" he said smoothly. "You need more
time? Why? You had it before, and you were pretty eager to toss it up.
Well, what's happened, Dan?"
That was all. Back against the wall. The thought of bluffing it
through, swallowing the December 15th date and telling them to shove
it flashed through his mind. He threw it out violently, his heart
sinking. That was only a few more days. They had weeks of work ahead
of them. They needed more time, they _had_ to have it--
Rinehart was grinning confidently. "Of course I'd like to cooperate,
Dan. Only I have some plans for the Hearings, too. You've been getting
on people's nerves, down in the city. There's even been talk of
reconsidering your rejuvenation permit--"
Your move, Dan. God, what a blunder! Why did you ever come up here?
And every minute you stand there with your jaw sagging just tells
Rinehart how tight he's got you--_do_ something, _anything_--
There was a way. Would Carl understand it? Carl had begged him never
to use it, ever, under any circumstances. And Carl had trusted him
when he had said he wouldn't--but if Carl were standing here now, he'd
say yes, go ahead, use it, wouldn't he? He'd have to--
"I want the Hearings on February 15th," Dan said to Rinehart.
"Sorry, Dan. We can't be tossing dates around like that. Unless you'd
care to tell me why."
"Okay." Dan grabbed his hat angrily. "I'll make a formal request for
the change tomorrow morning, and read it on the teevies. Then I'll
also announce a feature attraction that the people can look forward
to when the Hearing date comes. We weren't planning to use it, but I
guess you'd like to have both barrels right in the face, so that's
what we'll give you."
Walter Rinehart roared with laughter. "_Another_ feature attraction?
You do dig them up, don't you? Ken Armstrong's dead, you know."
"Peter Golden's widow isn't."
* * * * *
The smile faded on Rinehart's face. He looked suddenly like a man
carved out of grey stone. Dan trembled, let the words sink in. "You
didn't think _anybody_ knew about that, did you, Walt? Sorry. We've
got the story on Peter Golden. Took us quite a while to piece it
together, but we did with the help of his son. Carl remembers his
father before the accident, you see, quite well. His widow remembers
him even before that. And we have some fascinating recordings that
Peter Golden made when he applied for rejuvenation, and when he
appealed the Committee's decisions. Some of the private interviews,
too, Walter."
"I gave Peter Golden forty more years of life," Rinehart said.
"You crucified him," said Dan, bluntly.