The Boat of a Million Years

by Poul Anderson

  “That’s all right. I am a simon-pure layman. My basic thought habits were formed early in the Iron Age. Where it comes to science, I can use plenty of repetition.”

  Giannotti leaned forward, caught up in his quest. “The British themselves aren’t sure. Maybe the demethylation is due to cumulative damage to the DNA itself, maybe the methylase enzyme becomes less active in the course of time, maybe something else. In any event, it may—at the present stage this is only a suggestion, you understand—it may result in deterioration of mechanisms that hitherto kept certain other genes from expressing themselves. Maybe those genes become free to produce proteins that have poisoning effects on still other cellular processes.”

  “The checks and balances begin to break down,” Hanno said mutedly, through a cloud of blue smoke.

  “Probably true, but that’s so vague and general a statement, practically a tautology, as to be useless.” Giannotti sighed. “Now don’t imagine that we have more than a single piece of the jigsaw puzzle here, if we have that much. And it’s a puzzle in three dimensions, or four, or n, with the space not necessarily Euclidean. For instance, your regeneration of parts as complex as teeth implies more than freedom from senescence. It indicates retention of juvenile, even fetal characteristics, not in the gross anatomy but probably on the molecular level. And that fantastic immune system of yours must tie in somehow, too.”

  “Yeah.” Hanno nodded. “Aging isn’t a single, simple thing. It’s a whole clutch of different ... diseases, all with pretty much the same symptoms, like flu or cancer.”

  “Not quite, I think,” Giannotti replied. They had been over the same ground more than once, but the Phoenician was right about his need for that. He must have won to a terrifying degree of knowledge about himself, Giannotti sometimes thought. “There does appear to be a common factor in the case of every mortal organism with more than a single cell—and maybe the unicellulars too, maybe even the prokaryotes and viruses—if only we can find what it is. Conceivably this demethylatibn phenomenon gives us a clue to it. Anyhow, that’s my opinion. I concede my grounds are more or less philosophical. Something as biologically fundamental as death ought to be in the very fabric of evolution, virtually from the beginning.”

  “Uh-huh. Advantage to the species, or, I should say, the line of descent. Get the older generations out of the way, make room for genetic turnover, allow more efficient types to develop. Without death, we’d still be bits of jelly in the sea.”

  “There may be something to that.” Giannotti shook his head. “But it can’t be the whole story. It doesn’t account for humans outliving mice by an order of magnitude, for instance. Or species that live indefinitely, like bristlecone pines.” Weariness dragged at his smile. “No, most likely life has adapted itself to the fact, made the best it could of the fact, that sooner or later, one way or another, entropy will ring down the curtain on its wonderful chemical juggling act. Whether your kind represents the next step in evolution, a set of mutations that created a fail-safe system, I can’t say.”

  “But you don’t think so, do you?” Hanno asked. “We don’t breed true.”

  “No, you don’t,” Giannotti said with a barely perceptible wince. “However, that may come. Evolution is cut-and-try. If I may anthropomorphize,” he added. “Often it’s hard not to.”

  Hanno clicked his tongue. “You know, when you say things like that, I have trouble believing you’re a believing Catholic.”

  “Separate spheres,” Giannotti answered. “Ask any competent theologian. And I wish you would, for your own sake, you poor lonely atheist.” Quickly: “The point is, the material world and the spirit world are not identical.”

  “And we’ll, outlive the galaxies, you and I and everybody,” he had said once toward dawn, when the bottle was low. “You may spend ten thousand years, or a million or a billion, in the flesh, but it will hardly mean more, then, than the three days that a premature baby had. Maybe less; the baby died innocent... But this is a fascinating problem, and it does have unlimited potentialities for the whole world, if we can solve it. Your existence cannot be a mere stochastic accident.”

  Hanno didn’t argue, though lie preferred their everyday banter, or straightforward talk about the work. He had found after years- of acquaintance that here was one of the rare people whom he could trust with his secret; and in this case it might, just possibly, bring an end to the need for secrecy. If Sam Giannotti could endure knowing of lives that went on for millennia, and keep silent about them even with his wife, because of a faith whose elements Hanno remembered as having been ancient in Hiram’s Tyre—so be it.

  “But never mind,” the scientist went on. “What I wish more, right now and always, is the same as ever. That you’d release me from my promise and let me make known—or better, make known yourself—what you are.”

  “Sorry,” Hanno said. “Must I repeat why not?”

  “Cast off that suspiciousness, can’t you? I forget how many times I’ve told you, the Middle Ages are behind us. Nobody will burn you for a witch. Show the world the proofs you showed me.”

  “I’ve learned to be leery of doing anything irrevocable.”

  “Will I never make you understand? I’m shackled. I can’t so much as tell my staff the truth. We piddle around and— If you come out of the closet, Bob, discovering the immortality mechanism will become the human race’s top priority. Every resource will go to it. The knowledge that it is possible is half the battle, I swear. They might crack it inside of ten years. Meanwhile, can’t you see the dying down of war, arms races, terrorism, despotism, given such a prospect before everyone? How many needless deaths can you stand to have on your conscience?”

  “And I’ve told you before, I doubt the outcome would be anything like that sweet,” Hanno snapped. “Three thousand years of experience, as close as makes no difference, say otherwise. An overnight revelation like that would upset too many applecarts.”

  He had no cause to repeat how he controlled the veto. If and when necessary, he would dispose of the things he had used to convince Giannotti. John Wanderer, Tu Shan, and Asagao were accustomed to following his lead, he far and away their senior. Should one of them rebel and reveal, that person possessed no evidence of the kind that Hanno had assembled. After forty or fifty years of. observation, people might take the claim seriously; but why would an immortal spend so great a while in custody? Richelieu had been right, three and a half centuries ago. The risks were too large. If your body stayed youthful, you kept a young animal’s strong desire to live.

  Giannotti sank back into his chair. “Oh, hell, let’s not rehash a stale argument,” he muttered. Louder: “I do ask you to put that pessimism and cynicism of yours aside and think again. When everybody can have your lifespan, you’ll have no more reason to hide.”

  “Sure,” Hanno agreed. “Why d’you suppose I founded this place? But let the change come gradually, with forewarning. Give me and my friends and the world time to prepare. Meanwhile, you said it, the argument has long since gone moldy.”

  Giannotti laughed, as a man may laugh when he can lower a burden from his shoulders. “Okay. Shop talk and gossip. What’s new with you?”

  Time goes fast in congenial company. The hour was past six when Hanno pulled up in front of CauldwelTs house.

  The unpretentious building on Queen Anne Hill had a magnificent view. He stood for a minute and savored it. Beneath a westering sun the distant mountains seemed to glimmer only half real, as if they rose in a dream or in elfiand. Southward, beyond the slim silhouette of the Space Needle, the light turned Elliot Bay to molten silver and touched treetops with gold. Farther on, Rainier bulwarked heaven, blue rock-mass and white purity. Air went cool into breath. Traffic noises were a whisper, and a robin loosed scraps of melody. Yes, he thought, this was a lovely planet, an Aladdin’s hoard of wonders. Too bad how humans mucked it up. Nevertheless he intended to stick around.

  A bit reluctantly, he went inside. Natalia Thurlow was there and the door no
t locked. She sat before the television watchingthe news. A jowly face and beaky nose filled the screen. The voice was lubricated, sonorous:

  “—join in your noble cause. It is the cause of men and women of good will everywhere. This squandering of untold wealth on weapons of mass destruction, while human beings go hungry and homeless, must end, and end soon. I pledge myself—“ The view panned back to show a packed auditorium. On the stage, American and Soviet flags flanked Edmund Moriarty. The United Nations banner was spread directly behind, and a streamer above read CONCERNED CITIZENS’ COMMITTEE FOR PEACE.

  “Judas priest!” Hanno groaned. “Do you want me to barf on our nice new carpet?”

  Natalia turned the set off and came to give him a hug and a kiss. He responded energetically. She was a rangy blond in her mid-thirties who knew well how to please him, not least by being an independent sort.

  Having disengaged, she ran ringers through the hair he had rumpled. “Hey, big boy, you came out of that bad mood in a hurry,” she laughed. “Not quite so fast, if you please. Dinner won’t wait for more than a short drink. I expected you earlier.” Usually she cooked. Hanno was good at it, but she found it relaxing after a day of working on computer software. She cocked her head. “Of course, afterward—”

  “Well, all I want is a beer,” he said. “Sam and I hoisted a couple at the lab.”

  “What? I thought you had less fun in prospect.”

  “So did I, but I got out of die Internal Reaming Service sooner than I feared.” He had mentioned he was in for such a session, though not the identities actually involved. He sought the kitchen. She had already poured herself a sherry.

  Returning with his mug of Ballard Bitter to sit down on the couch beside her, he found she had gone serious, half angry. “Bob,” she said, “I insist you quit making nasty cracks about the government. Sure, it has its faults, including heavy-handedness, but it is ours.”

  “’Government of the people, by the people, and for the people.’ Yeah. Trouble is, the three classes of people aren’t the same.”

  “I’ve heard you on the subject before, in case you’ve forgotten. If you’re right about that being the nature of government, why bitch at this one? It is the only thing that stands between us and what is far worse.”

  “Not if Senator Moriarty has his way.”

  “Wait a minute,” she said sharply. “You’re entitled to call him mistaken, but not to call him ... a traitor, the way I’ve heard you imply. He speaks for millions of perfectly decent Americans.”

  “So they imagine. His real constituency is industries that vote their tariff protections and subsidies, bums who vote their handouts, and intellectuals who vote their slogans. As for mis new-found pacifism of his, that’s the current fashion. Before, his breed was always hell-bent to get us into foreign wars, except that we mustn’t win any that were fought against Communists. Now he’s picking up extra votes— someday they may help him into the White House—by telling us that violence never settles anything. If only the city fathers of Carthage could talk to bun.”

  She put irritation aside and riposted with a grin, “Plagiarizing Heinlein, are you?”

  He had come to admire the deftness with which she could defuse a quarrel. They’d had too many lately. Chuckling, he relaxed. “You’re right, I am a fool to waste good drinking time on politics, especially when it’s in the company of a sexy woman.”

  Inwardly there passed through him: He may have delivered himself into my hands, though. I’ll get a tape of the proceedings tomorrow. If they went as I imagine, well, the next issue of The Chart Room is almost ready to go to press. I barely have time to pull TannahuTs editorial and slip in another that’ll be pure Schadenfreude to write.

  Natalia laid a hand over his. “You’re pretty sexy yourself, for your information,” she said. “Horrible old reactionary, but if word got around about what you’re like in bed, I’d have to fight the women off with a shillelagh.”

  Her smile faded. She sat quiet a while before adding softly, “No, I take that first part back. I think you’re down on governments because you’ve seen victims of their blunders and, yes, cruelties. It would be better if you were in charge. Under that crusty exterior, you’re fine and considerate.”

  “And too smart to want power,” he interpolated.

  “And you are not old, either,” she went on. “Not in any way that counts.”

  “Sixty-seven, last time I looked.” At Robert Cauldwell’s birth certificate. “I could be your father, or your grandfather if my son and I had been a tad precocious.” I could be your hundredfold-great-grandfather. Quite possibly I am.

  He felt her gaze on him, but didn’t meet it. “When / look, I see a person who appears younger than me. It’s eerie.”

  “Persistent ancestors, I’ve told you.” A bottle of hair dye, to pretend indulgence of that small vanity. “I’ve also told you you should start shopping for a newer model. I honestly don’t want it to get too late for you.”

  “We’ll see.” A single time in their three-year union had she suggested marriage. Were he using a different, younger personality he might well have gone through with it. As was, he couldn’t explain what a dirty trick on her it would be.

  The thought flitted through him that if he did make known what he was and Giannotti’s estimate of the rate of progress thereafter proved right, Natalia could become immortal herself. Probably rejuvenated, too; given such a command of biochemistry, that ought to be easy. But while he was fond of her, he had not permitted himself to fall really in love for centuries; and he didn’t feel ready to unleash incalculable consequences on the world. Not this evening, at least.

  She put on gaiety. “Who’s your Danish pen pal?”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “In today’s mail. Otherwise nothing special— Hey, important, is it?”

  His heart thudded. “I’ll see. Excuse me a minute.”

  He’d not thought about the post. It lay on a corner table. As he took the envelope postmarked Copenhagen, he saw the printed name and address of a hotel and, hand-written above it, “Helmut Seeker.”

  His agent in Frankfurt, receiving responses to an advertisement published throughout northern Europe, then following up on any that seemed to come from a person who might fit his requirements—of course, Becker had merely been told that the Rufus Lab wanted to contact members of long-lived families; if they were young but showed intelligence, as evinced by an interest in history, that was ideal—

  Hanno forced his mouth and hands into steadiness. He opened the letter. It was in stilted English, but there was no reason Natalia shouldn’t read it. She knew about the project, considered the approach unscientific but tolerated it together with the rest of his eccentricities. In fact, he should give her every appearance of openness, to hide the excitement that roared within him. “Apparently I’ve got a little trip ahead of me,” he told her.

  4

  They were friendly folks in the Lost River country, and besides, Chinese farmers had always done well throughout Idaho. So when Mr. and Mrs. Tu became tenants of the property that Tomek Enterprises owned, neighbors made them welcome. Their background was interesting to hear about, he a small landowner in Taiwan, she the daughter of a Japanese trade representative there. Marriages tike that faced.problems in Asia, even this long after the war. Also, they had some difficulties with the Kuomintang government, nothing terrible but enough to make them feel restricted and harassed. Through her family they met Mr. Tomek himself, who arranged for them to come to America. At first their Engtish was broken, but they soon became pretty good at it. Still, they never quite fitted in. They managed the fields and herds well. They kept the house spic and span, and if some things in it were kind of odd, you had to expect that. They were well-behaved, polite, helpful. However, they held themselves back, joined no church or social club or anything, got along in company but didn’t really open up, repaid invitations with fine food and pleasant conversation but took no lead in sociability. Well, they
were Orientals, and maybe that made them feel sensitive about having had no children.

  After six years they did stir gossip and uneasiness. They’d gone off on vacations from time to time, like most people, except that they said practically nothing about where it was to or what they’d done. Now they came back with a pair of youngsters from Chicago, slum kids, been in trouble, one of them black. It wasn’t an adoption, the Tus explained; they simply aimed to see what a real home in a healthy environment could do. They had letters to show this was okay with the authorities.

  Their neighbors worried about mischief, misleading of their own children, maybe drugs. Edith Harmon, who was a forceful lady, took it upon herself to call when Shan was away and have a heart-to-heart talk with Asagao. “I understand yonr feelings, dear, and it’s kind of you, but we have so much do-gooding these days.”

  Asagao smiled and asked, “Is do-badding better?” She went on at once: “I promise you it will be all right. My husband and I have guided lives before now.”

  “Really?”

  “It gives meaning to ours. Or perhaps you have heard about the Buddhist concept of acquiring merit. Here, let me warm that coffee for you.”

  And it did succeed. There was a little friction at first, especially in school. The boy got into a couple of fights, the girl was caught shoplifting. Their fosterers straightened them out fast and thoroughly. Shan might not be the smartest man alive, but he was no dummy either, and he had a way of getting others to do what he wanted that did not come just from great physical strength. Asagao was quiet, gentle, and—the neighborhood discovered—sharp as a tack. The kids worked hard on the ranch and soon worked hard in school. They became popular. After four years they left, of an age and qualified to take jobs waiting for them elsewhere. Folks missed them, and didn’t object to the new waifs who then arrived. Instead, the community felt proud.

  The Tus didn’t go looking for children. They told how they had been appalled at what they read or saw on TV, afterward witnessed for themselves. Inquiring around, they came on an outfit, small but with branches in several big cities, that tried to make placements. Mutual trust developed. The original experience showed what they had to offer and what sort of kids would likely benefit from it. After that, the organization chose and sent.