Column one said that system trade was normal, according to a report by the World Secretary of Commerce. The story went on at length to quote the secretary’s report. Column two was headed by an impish box that said a new life form may have been found on Mars, but since the discoverer was a spaceman who had been more than ordinarily drunk, the report was being viewed with some skepticism. Under the box was a story reporting a list of boy and girl health champions selected by the state of Finland to be entered later in the year in the world health contest. The story in column three gave the latest information on the unstable love life of the world’s richest woman.
Column four asked a question:
WHAT HAPPENED TO DR. CARSON:
NO RECORD OF REPORTED DEATH
The story, the senator saw, was by-lined Anson Lee and the senator chuckled dryly. Lee was up to something. He was al-ways up to something, always ferreting out some fact that eventu-ally was sure to prove embarrassing to someone. Smart as a steel trap, that Lee, but a bad man to get into one’s hair.
There had been, for example, that matter of the spaceship contract.
Anson Lee, said the senator underneath his breath, is a pest. Nothing but a pest.
But Dr. Carson? Who was Dr. Carson?
The senator played a little mental game with himself, trying to remember, trying to identify the name before he read the story.
Dr. Carson?
Why, said the senator, I remember now. Long time ago. A biochemist or something of the sort. A very brilliant man. Did something with colonies of soil bacteria, breeding the things for therapeutic work.
Yes, said the senator, a very brilliant man. I remember that I met him once. Didn’t understand half the things he said. But that was long ago. A hundred years or more.
A hundred years ago—maybe more than that.
Why, bless me, said the senator, he must be one of us.
The senator nodded and the paper slipped from his hands and fell upon the floor. He jerked himself erect. There I go again, he told himself. Dozing. It’s old age creeping up again.
He sat in his chair, very erect and quiet, like a small scared child that won’t admit it’s scared, and the old, old fear came tugging at his brain. Too long, he thought. I’ve already waited longer than I should. Waiting for the party to renew my applica-tion and now the party won’t. They’ve thrown me overboard. They’ve deserted me just when I needed them the most.
Death sentence, he had said back in the office, and that was what it was—for he couldn’t last much longer. He didn’t have much time. It would take a while to engineer whatever must be done. One would have to move most carefully and never tip one’s hand. For there was a penalty—a terrible penalty.
The girl said to him: “Dr. Smith will see you now.”
“Eh?” said the senator.
“You asked to see Dr. Dana Smith,” the girl reminded him. “He will see you now.”
“Thank you, miss,” said the senator. “I was sitting here half dozing.”
He lumbered to his feet.
“That door,” said the girt.
“I know,” the senator mumbled testily. “I know. I’ve been here many times before.”
Dr. Smith was waiting.
“Have a chair, senator,” he said. “Have a drink? Well, then, a cigar, maybe. What is on your mind?”
The senator took his time, getting himself adjusted to the chair. Grunting comfortably, he clipped the end off the cigar, rolled it in his mouth.
“Nothing particular on my mind,” he said. “Just dropped around to pass the time of day. Have a great and abiding interest in your work here. Always have had. Associated with it from the very start.”
The director nodded. “I know. You conducted the original hearings on life continuation.”
The senator chuckled. “Seemed fairly simple then. There were problems, of course, and we recognized them and we tried the best we could to meet them.”
“You did amazingly well,” the director told him. “The code you drew up five hundred years ago has never been questioned for its fairness and the few modifications which have been necessary have dealt with minor points which no one could have anticipated.”
“But it’s taken too long,” said the senator.
The director stiffened. “I don’t understand,” he said.
The senator lighted the cigar, applying his whole attention to it, flaming the end carefully so it caught even fire.
He settled himself more solidly in the chair. “It was like this,” he said. “We recognized life continuation as a first step only, a rather blundering first step toward immortality. We devised the code as an interim instrument to take care of the period before immortality was available—not to a selected few, but to everyone. We viewed the few who could be given life continuation as stewards, persons who would help to advance the day when the race could be granted immortality.”
“That still is the concept,” Dr. Smith said, coldly.
“But the people grow impatient.”
“That is just too bad,” Smith told him. “The people will simply have to wait.”
“As a race, they may be willing to,” explained the senator. “As individuals, they’re not.”
“I fail to see your point, senator.”
“There may not be a point,” said the senator. “In late years I’ve often debated with myself the wisdom of the whole procedure. Life continuation is a keg of dynamite if it fails of immortality. It will breed, system-wide revolt if the people wait too long.”
“Have you a solution, senator?”
“No,” confessed the senator. “No, I’m afraid I haven’t. I’ve often thought that it might have been better if we had taken the people into our confidence, let them know all that was going on. Kept them up with all developments. An informed people are a rational people.”
The director did not answer and the senator felt the cold weight of certainty seep into his brain.
He knows, he told himself. He knows the party has decided not to ask that I be continued. He knows that I’m a dead man. He knows I’m almost through and can’t help him any more—and he’s crossed me out. He won’t tell me a thing. Not the thing I want to know.
But he did not allow his face to change. He knew his face would not betray him. His face was too well trained.
“I know there is an answer,” said the senator. “There’s always been an answer to any question about immortality. You can’t have it until there’s living space. Living space to throw away, more than we ever think we’ll need, and a fair chance to find more of it if it’s ever needed.”
Dr. Smith nodded. “That’s the answer, senator. The only answer I can give.”
He sat silent for a moment, then he said: “Let me assure you on one point, senator. When Extrasolar Research finds the living space, we’ll have the immortality.”
The senator heaved himself out of the chair, stood planted solidly on his feet.
“It’s good to hear you say that, doctor,” he said. “It is very heartening. I thank you for the time you gave me.”
Out on the street, the senator thought bitterly:
They have it now. They have immortality. All they’re waiting for is the living space and another hundred years will find that. Another hundred years will simply have to find it.
Another hundred years, he told himself, just one more continuation, and I would be in for good and all.