by Earl
It was young Boswell, who had sat motionless as if hypnotized during the previous conversations, who supplied the answer: “Suspended animation!”
“Very good, Andrew,” said the biologist with a nod in his direction.
Then he raised his voice. “Did you hear that, gentlemen? Suspended animation!”
“Well, what of it, granted it has been done,” said Dr. Festus.
“Just this,” began the biologist, the experience I had had in preserving the life-cells from death, I was able to produce a virus which, when injected into the blood stream of a live guinea pig or white mouse, would duplicate in it the condition of the life-cell—namely, suspended animation. To go on to a rapid finish, as I see that all you gentlemen are growing impatient, it has occurred to me that what works on a guinea pig, certainly ought to work on a human being, and”—he imperiously checked a flood of surprised comment from his listeners—“my reason in telling you all this, gentlemen, is to ask you, if it be your desire, to enter into a state of suspended animation with me. . . .”
But that was as far as Professor Reinhardt got before an avalanche of questions, denunciations, comments, and remarks drowned out his voice. The tumult continued until the biologist leaped to his feet, eyes blazing, and shouted for them to stop. The noise died suddenly. Then Dr. Festus burst out laughing in bitter scorn and derision.
“Just what is your proposition, Professor Reinhardt?” asked Callahan as the laugh died away and the biologist stood there a moment trying to control his anger at Dr. Festus’ impolite manner of showing opposition.
“My friends,” said the professor in brittle tones as if he expected a further display of ill manners, “I propose to enter the state of suspended animation for a period of from ten to twenty thousand years. I have asked you gentlemen to join me only by your own free will. I have taken care that each of you, although having important niches in the present age, is practically destitute of near relations—when I chose you out of my dozens of friends. Whether you accept or not is immaterial to me, except that your companionship would be desirable in that future time when I awaken.”
“What would be our purpose?” asked Taylor.
“Purely personal,” admitted the biologist. “We can in no way help present-day science by the act, nor can we, it seems logical to assume, do any good in that future we would reach. But the act in itself, although selfishly motivated, would carry a spark of martyrdom.”
“What assurance have you that we would awaken at the right time? We might remain that way forever, until the building tumbled down on us!” put in Callahan.
“How are you going to protect the body from mechanical harm all that time? In ten thousand years much can happen,” came from Gregory.
“How can you know your virus is protective over such a long range of time, which is absolutely beyond experimental proof?” asked Goodwin.
Professor Reinhardt held up a hand. “Please, gentlemen, let me explain all that.”
Dr. Festus was on his feet. He glowered at the biologist. “Do you insinuate that we are to risk our lives with an unproved virus compounded by a. . . . a. . . . madman, sir? I bid you good day, professor, and you, gentlemen.”
Without a word, he strode out of the room and a moment later the front door banged, after the butler’s soft voice and Dr. Festus’ harsh one had mingled for a few words.
“Perhaps I should have realized. . . .” said the biologist softly as if to himself. Then he shook himself slightly and looked around. His eyes met those of Boswell. An electric current seemed to flow between them. The professor went on in sudden firm confidence.
“I will explain my plans further, gentlemen, and then leave you to form your decisions at your leisure and without influence from me.
“Briefly, I have had designed for me by a reputable concern a casket made of one of the toughest metals we know today—manganese-steel. My body, after the injection, will be placed therein, and the two equal halves will be thermite-welded together. The oxygen will be extracted from the air in the inside, and neon, an inert gas, will be substituted. You recall that I said the life-cells used in my experiments resumed life operations when bathed in oxygen and given nutriment. Exactly so will I be revived in the distant future—by the admission of ordinary air containing oxygen. You ask how can I know the awakening will come when I wish it? Simply in this way: I am going to have the sealed casket containing my body in suspended animation buried underground at a spot I have already picked out which is some fifty miles outside the limits of Boston. A friend of mine has calculated that in perhaps ten to twenty thousand years the city of Boston will have expanded to that distance. Accordingly, the people of that period, while making excavations that far out for a new building or subway or other structure, will come upon the metal casket. Surely, with the advancement that the human race will know in those many centuries, they will realize what it is and open it. The fresh air will revive me and my dream will come true—to see the world of the future.
“You ask how I know my virus is protective over that long period of time. Frankly, gentlemen, I don’t. That is one of the chances I—and any who may choose to join me—will have to take. I can say this, however over one year ago I injected a guinea pig and sealed it in a similar, though smaller container. I will break the seal in the presence of you gentlemen and you will see for yourself that it will revive and become a normal animal in a few minutes. I have repeated the experiment for my own satisfaction numerous times over shorter periods of time. Of course, one year is far from being ten thousand years, but—as I said—that is one of the chances I am willing to take.
“Then there is the chance that some upheaval might crush the casket, might grind it to a powder underground. I cannot predict that nor does it bother me. If I am destroyed, it will be a merciful death and death is inescapable under any circumstances. However, the casket is built to withstand terrific punishment, having walls four inches thick. It is braced internally with the strongest steel in such a way that it will resist a terrific crushing strength—only a major geological cataclysm, untold tons of rock and earth, will suffice to destroy its shape in any but a slight way.
“All in all, gentlemen, I should say that the chances of my achieving my aim are more than even. Let us go down into the basement, now, where I will show you the casket that is ready to receive my body, and the guinea pig that has been in suspended animation for over a year.”
l Silently, the five men arose and followed the portly figure of the famous biologist to the basement. All seemed to be thinking deeply, and the vast scope of the plan reflected on their faces in deep bewilderment. Only Boswell’s face shone with more of exaltation than doubt.
“There, gentlemen, is the casket,” pointed the professor. “Each half weighs two tons.”
The men stared in fascination. Like the elongated half of an egg, the one shell lay flat on the cement floor, the other suspended from a chain and pulley system, dull gray in color and unburnished, fairly radiating its invincible strength to the five pairs of wondering eyes that saw it for the first time.
“Then if we choose to. . . . to. . . . accompany you, you will have a similar casket made for each of us?” queried Gregory.
“Yes, each one separately to more closely coincide with the contour of the particular body to be placed in each. The inside allowance must not be too great or slight movements of the caskets in ten thousand years or more would beat the body to a pulp, so that upon revival, that person would die from physical causes.”
Boswell, who was just behind Gregory, felt a shudder pass through the man’s body. The young chemist wondered why Reinhardt chose such abrupt words. It came to him that the professor, moved by the sudden departure of Dr. Festus, cared no longer whether the others accepted or not, disgusted that human nature could be so fearful and so unbelieving.
“And here, gentlemen,” the biologist broke the silence, “is the animal that has lain in suspended animation for fourteen months. Notice that I have p
laced a lead seal on the air bent, the only one there is. Mr. Gregory, will you read the date stamped on the lead seal?”
Gregory took the metal ball from the professor—it was nothing more than a pair of Magdeburg Hemispheres—and turned the air vent under the light, reading the date. It was fourteen months and some days of the past.
“Now I will let in pure air,” he said. Eagerly the five men crowded around the bench whereon lay the still body of a guinea pig, the personification of seeming death. Suddenly a foot twitched bringing a sharp gasp from Gregory. From then on recovery was quick and the little animal rolled over on its feet and sniffed his way to a carrot that the professor suspended near him. Complacently, the animal chewed the vegetable, probably unaware that it had eaten last more than a year before.
Professor Reinhardt faced the five men in the drawing room again, a look of quiet triumph on his face.
“I have told you all relevant points, gentlemen. The decision rests with each of you individually. And now let us have a good, hot meal.”
The meal started with ominous silence, as if the partakers were afraid of revealing their hidden thoughts and little fears and doubts, but as the warm food made its effects, the spirits of the company rose. By the end of the meal they were joking and laughing and conversing normally. By common unspoken consent, however, no mention was made of the biologist’s proposition.
Once again seated and smoking, the question of how to legally leave their life came up, without stirring up scandal and investigation and untold trouble amongst the closer friends of those who should elect to leave that age. Goodwin, who knew most about such matters, showed that it would be legally possible to leave provided they made wills—if such were necessary—and also signed papers expressly stating that no one should be questioned in the disappearances, as they were perpetrated without criminal complication. It was also suggested that the burying would have to be done in secrecy so that fanatics, who would object to the wilful “suicide,” would be unable to find the caskets and dig them up and thus disrupt their plans.
Finally, at nine o’clock, Professor Reinhardt arose. “That will be all for the present, gentlemen. You must send me your answer by wire inside of three days from today—until midnight Wednesday. Upon receipt of any acceptance, I will immediately enter an order for a casket for that person—you will please leave with me tonight each of you a written record of your exact height and other body measurements. My butler will superintend the work. I have planned the leave-taking for approximately one month from today. I will arrange the exact date after knowing who chooses to accompany me.”
The measurements were completed in a half hour and all left immediately except Boswell. When the door closed upon the last of them, he turned upon the biologist.
“You won’t get a telegram from me, professor, because I here and now pledge myself to go with you,” said the young chemist simply, the fire of daring youth in his eyes.
The biologist said nothing but gripped the younger man’s hand in a way that expressed volumes, while his kindly eyes filmed a moment in tearless joy and pride—pride that at least one fellow human had the courage and imagination to tread the dangerous paths that lay before them.
CHAPTER III
Into the Unknown
l The world had suddenly changed, had been completely distorted to Andrew Boswell’s mental perspectives. His work as a chemist became a dream, an empty ritual, too ephemeral to be taken seriously. Probably the head chemist at the laboratory was glad to receive his resignation that next Saturday, for certainly his young assistant had become moon-struck or had fallen in love or some such dire thing. Boswell found himself starting out of little reveries countless times in those few days that he still lived and moved in the age of his birth, wondering momentarily where he was and what he was doing. The most nebulous, and at the same time the brightest, parts of his imagination had already explored that future world to which he was going. Time and again in his sleep dreams and day dreams he found himself sitting up in his manganese-steel casket, the upper half away, gazing into the queer faces of posterity and hurling a maelstrom of eager questions at them while they looked at him in round-eyed wonder.
Friday he received a letter from Professor Reinhardt.
“—much to my surprise,” it read in one part, “two others besides yourself have accepted—for I confess, I expected them to spurn the offer to a man. James Goodwin and John Callahan are the two. Both of them wired me Wednesday night, close to midnight, and I surmise from that that they fought the question out with themselves until the time limit drew so nigh that they had to come to a decision. I can just imagine them now, walking about in a daze, breaking out into cold sweat now and then as they realized suddenly to what they have consented. Only I think Goodwin won’t be bothered so much—he has imagination, Andrew, although far less than you or I. Speaking of acceptance, you can see the motive behind Dr. Festus’ angry departure, can’t you, Andrew? He grasped the situation quicker than the others and decided it would be better to withdraw immediately under camouflage of anger and contempt, than to weakly refuse the offer later. In other words his immense personal pride was just a mite greater than his abominable fear of death. It was a mistake to ask him, but of course, I didn’t know that before last Sunday.”
Then in another part the letter said: “—I think it would be most convenient, Andrew, to resign your position as soon as possible, as long as it’s inevitable, and come here and live with me. I can use you in the laboratory making up the virus of suspended animation and testing it several times to make sure it has been compounded correctly. Goodwin, who will take care of all legal matters, will fix up everything in your case while you help me out. You can come any time you are ready. I will be expecting you.”
Saturday Boswell went to the cotton concern for the last time, telling the head chemist that he had secured a position as assistant in the private researches of a scientist, and collecting his due wages as a matter of course. All his books he sent to the public library of Providence as a gift; many of his clothes he donated to the Red Cross, and the rest of his belongings he packed up and sent on ahead to Boston. That Saturday, a day of the sweet freshness of awakening spring, marked the last of the young chemist’s connection with the twentieth century; when he arrived at Boston early Sunday, he was in a new world as far as he was concerned.
Professor Reinhardt greeted him warmly as a bosom friend; their common interest broke down all barriers of conventional reserve.
“My, you look all keyed-up, Andrew,” said the biologist. “Perhaps I’d look that way too if I weren’t so old and emotion-worn.”
“I suppose it does show,” agreed Boswell. “But, professor, the thought of what we are going to do has just swept everything else away—this life has become a dream. I only hope reality coincides somewhat with some of the things my mind has conjured up since last Sunday—mile high buildings, noiseless airships, a true government of the people, wonderful new advancements in free thought, and interplanetary connections.”
The portly biologist nodded sympathetically. “My boy, I think for once you will find your imagination fallen short of reality, instead of beyond it, as in mundane things. What the next ten or twenty thousand years will bring, is past comprehension or prediction to us here and now. We shall know soon—if all works out as planned.”
The professor had a tinge of pessimism in his voice but he brightened immediately. “Callahan, for unfathomable reasons, refused to come here sooner than one week before the—what shall we call it?—the departure, when I telephoned him long distance to New York. He insists on carrying on his work until the last. Goodwin is going to be quite busy, arranging for my and Callahan’s wills, and the clearance papers for all of us. I am leaving the bulk of my money and the estate to a friend of mine, whom I have forbidden to come along because he is a family man with seven dear children. It would be sinful to tear him away from them and a loving wife. He is in the secret and looked positively wistful when I
emphatically refused to consider him in the venture.
The biologist smiled a bit as he reviewed that incident. “I am dividing a fifth of my worldly possessions among Harvard College, my three servants, and my assistant in research, who helped develop the virus and whom you haven’t met yet, by the way. The butler is going to pay off the men who will seal the caskets and bury us, and it will be as much a bribe to secrecy as payment—a bribe to keep them from revealing the burial place. And now let us go to the laboratory; I want to show you a few things.
“There’s one thing I thought of, professor,” said Boswell as they crossed the lawn. “I think, as a good precaution, the outer surfaces of the caskets should be plated with some corrosion-resistant metal—nickel, I would suggest. You know, manganese-steel, strong mechanically though it is, is chemically quite active. The action of small quantities of acids in the course of centuries might dangerously weaken and thin the walls, even eat through. I would suggest a plating of gold or platinum, only they are too expensive. Nickel, though, say a quarter-inch thick, would offer good protection and is much cheaper.”
“I’ve gone you one better, Andrew,” smiled the biologist. “I’m having the four caskets embedded in concrete. But your idea is still worth thinking about. The concrete might crack off in time to expose the surface of the metal. Yes, Andrew, we’ll have the caskets nickel plated.”
l James Goodwin dropped in Tuesday with certain papers for both the professor and Boswell to sign. He assured Professor Reinhardt that the legal matters were being carried out in all possible secrecy so as to prevent any storm of disapproval from busybodies, visits from reporters, call-downs from “sane” people, (Professor Reinhardt called them sane-o-maniacs) and all such like importunities. Each of the persons who would be present at the finale when the caskets were sealed and buried—the three welders, the trusted butler, the laboratory assistant, and the friend who was to inherit the estate—was to be given a signed and notarized paper absolving them from all possible legal complication should the snoopiness of the world break through the veils of secrecy.
