“I’m surprised you’re not giving me advice.”
“I make it a point not to give advice, unless I’m asked. But, for my money, all men are shitheads.” Laura’s expertise as a divorce attorney she frequently ascribed to her own personal experiences, having left three marriages behind her. “And the handsomer they are, the shittier they are. I say, screw ‘em and leave ‘em. And pick ugly ones. At least they’re grateful.”
I guffawed. Ricky could never be thought of as being ugly. Six-foot tall, blonde, rugged, with a smile I could personally attest to as being seductive, and yet he certainly had seemed grateful on those occasions calling for gratitude. I wasn’t the only woman impressed with his appearance, either. In fact, I could still recall the looks in women’s eyes when they first encountered him. Ah, memories! “OK. So I’m asking for advice. What would you suggest?”
“Tell him to go piss up a rope.”
Heads at the other tables turned at what must have sounded like hysterical laughter on my part.
“Which reminds me,” she continued, “you can’t tell him anything without having his phone number.” So saying, she reached for her oversized purse. Where others might have rummaged, Laura efficiently zeroed in on her electronic notebook, punched a couple of buttons, brought up Ricky’s name, reached for the Wayne’s Watering Hole coaster under her drink and wrote down his home number in her meticulous hand. “There. I promised him I’d do as much. My part of the arrangement is over.”
I absentmindedly put the paper into my purse, though having pretty much decided to ignore it. The conversation shifted to other matters, and I in fact forgot about Ricky until early evening. A few moments thought at the time convinced me I really should call and, while not planning on using Laura’s exact wording, I also decided it would probably be best to follow her advice. Simply ignoring him would, I was certain, do nothing to discourage him from further attempts to contact me.
The voice was familiar, but I was pleased to realize it caused no heart palpitations. The reasons for his wanting to see me were the vague ones he’d tried to foist off on Laura—something about papers to be signed. His evasiveness stirred up my lingering anger, and I decided firmer measures were required.
“Why don’t I take you out to dinner?” he asked. “Would tomorrow night be convenient?” I could envision the smile on his face accompanying the request.
“As a matter of fact, I already have a dinner engagement. But it shouldn’t take but a few minutes to sign those papers. Why don’t you meet us after dinner at the Cornucopia? You can join us for after-coffee, but we will have to run.”
It was quite evident this was not the kind of meeting Ricky had been counting on, but he agreed, evidently with the thought a later, more congenial get-together might be in the offing. The time was set for eight-thirty.
***
I was determined not to look around as though expecting him, and it wasn’t at all difficult to refrain from doing so. Anthony Maratta had me riveted. His was an astonishing face. He was dark, with a satiny-smooth skin, wide-set eyes with lashes most women would die for, and a chin with the irresistible cleft seen so frequently in those full-page Alfant ads in GQ. Add to these features a superb athlete’s build, and Tony would have managed to keep any woman well focused.
Besides, his marvelous sense of humor and capacity for endless storytelling would have taken all my attention. After the usual splendid meal the Cornucopia was famous for, he had me entranced with tales of his boyhood in Chicago. He was in the midst of telling me of his misadventures as an altar boy, where he tormented the old alcoholic priest by pouring far too little wine and far to much water into the mixture at mass, and about a younger priest who Tony had a quite different relationship with, when I suddenly became aware of a figure hovering by our table.
Tony rose to greet Ricky and, when I introduced them, I became fully aware of the remarkable contrast. Handsome Ricky was a pallid creature as he shook hands and visibly winced at the grasp. Tony was several inches taller than my ex-husband, with shoulders many more inches broader, and as fine a set of teeth as you could find this side of the Mississippi. There was no comparison.
I, of course, invited Ricky to sit, with the proviso Anthony and I had a big evening ahead of us and we would have to leave very shortly, but I was ready to dispose of the ostensible reason for the meeting immediately. Confusion followed. Ricky stammered he too had a big evening ahead, that, as it turned out, he wouldn’t be needing my signature after all, he was sorry to have bothered me, he was pleased to have met Anthony, and really he had to run along—which he did.
When the valet brought Tony’s car around, I opened my purse and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, saying, “I’m not sure about the protocol, since this is the first time I’ve ever used an escort service. But you did an excellent job, so this is for you. And I really enjoyed our dinner together.”
“Why, thank you,” he answered, accepting the bill. Reaching out a hand, he shook mine, saying, “I enjoyed the dinner as well. You’re a very charming woman. As for your handsome former husband…”
I interrupted him as I asked, “You considered him attractive?”
“Oh, yes. Very.” Those marvelous teeth flashed, and I could see the memory of my ex bring the same look to Tony’s face I’d perceived in so many women’s glances when they caught sight of Ricky.
“Well,” I continued, fishing in my purse for the Wayne’s Watering Hole coaster, “why don’t you give him a call? I suspect he’s rather lonesome. And he’s a bit shy, so don’t take no for an answer. Be persistent.”
THE REVELATION
Llewellyn knew he shouldn’t have granted the interview to Curt Stanwich. Along with the stringent regulation regarding personal data on living persons which was never to be revealed without an explicit court order, there was the unwritten rule that even a general discussion of Vital Statistics records was strictly an internal matter. And, as head of the department, Llewellyn Chillingsford should have known better.
To add to this problem his back had flared up again. His doctor had grinned at his complaint and assured him all he needed was a new spine. But at eighty-two, “What do you expect?” The new painkiller didn’t help much. The prospect of yet another operation which would “repair things for a while” helped even less
After tapping out a different uncomfortable position on the arm of his electronic chair, he flipped on the wall holograph to see what Curt would make out of the interview on the noon news. The larger than life Stanwich, ex-hockeyball announcer, flamboyant air-tabloid commentator and self-professed science reporter, loomed over Llewellyn. A segment of the display included footage from the Vistat lab. At first, the commentary was innocuous enough.
“Yes, folks, we received a warm welcome from Director Chillingsford at your Vital Statistics headquarters last evening, and if you’re out there watching us, Director, please don’t hesitate to cut in anytime.”
Llewellyn wasn’t about to cut in unless damage control became essential, which didn’t seem likely from the way the commentary was going.
“There’s been some bruhahah about the Vital Statistics Department lately, what with Congressperson Xavier Matson campaigning on the privacy issue. Matson has been adamant the dead have rights as much as the living. Until now, archival records have pretty much been available to all and sundry. Matson wants data on the deceased to come under the same rules and regulations as the records of living persons. The scientific community is up in arms over the proposal, saying such restrictions will seriously hamper research. Matson, however, insists it will do no more harm than the return of museum skeletons to ancestral burial grounds, a practice which is now virtually universal throughout the world.”
Stanwich’s next comment brought a wincing Llewellyn straight up in his chair.
“Director Chillingsford has taken no stand on the matter, though he did point out an interesting discovery he recently stumbled across during a casual search of the archives. That’s wher
e he found an identical match between someone who died over fifty years ago and a person alive today…a match included thirty-three items of correspondence, from fingerprints and DNA to some of the most recent means of identification.”
Llewellyn was horrified and immediately decided damage control was now vital. The only solution he could think of would hardly redound to Vitstat’s glory, but admission to a mistake was better than opening up the department to wild-eyed resurrectionists who would swarm onto the network demanding comp time to riffle through the archives. His own hologram sprang up in front of him as he flipped the switch.
“Can I break in for a moment, Curt?”
The commentator was obviously pleased to have the Director contribute real time to the footage he’d been showing.
“Nice to have you aboard, Director Chillingsford. What did you want to add to what I’ve been saying?”
“Well, Curt, I guess we’re one department of government which shouldn’t be making errors. But, much as I hate to admit it, we nuked out pretty badly on identification you were just talking about.”
“No problem, Director. I think all of us would rather have you be the people making mistakes instead of it being the Treasury Department. Wouldn’t we folks? What went wrong?”
“The reason those thirty-three points of identification matched so well is they belonged to the same person. Somehow, we duplicated a record of a living person and archived it by mistake. We’re checking on the entire program at this very minute to see how it could have happened. Sorry to ruin a good story the way I did.”
“Hey, Director. No nevermind. It’s refreshing to have a top bureaucrat admitting to a mistake.”
Llewellyn had all he could do to keep from grimacing at the remark. The interview continued innocuously for a few moments, and the director gracefully bowed out as Stanwich went off to the discovery of new water sources by the Mars colony.
It was some three hours later when Llewellyn found out he hadn’t heard the last of the identification fiasco. The internal communication system announced the arrival of Congressperson Matson asking to see the Director of Vital Statistics. Llewellyn sighed, flashed on his visitor in the lobby and invited him in.
Matson came right to the point. “I saw Stanwich’s performance, today. Congratulations on a quick cover.”
Lewellyn protested. “It really wasn’t a cover, A faulty matching of this nature is altogether possible, considering the billions of records we now have, but there wasn’t much point in trying to explain anything complex to Stanwich—or to the typical audience watching his performance—coincidences can happen.”
Matson’s face remained immobile as he said, “ It was no coincidence, and you know it.”
Llewellyn looked puzzled.
Matson went on. “Bring up the record of Milford Collin Bremer. I doubt you’ll find more than one with the name. He was archived some seventy-five years ago. Seventy-seven, to be exact.”
Llewellyn swivelled his chair, being careful not to bend unnecessarily, and dipped into the archives. Immediately, the total identification of Milford Collin Bremer flashed on full.
“Now bring up my record and parallel it with Bremmer’s.” Llewellyn peered over questioningly at Matson but did so, quickly scanned the records, then turned an astonished look on his visitor.
Matson broke into a smile. “No, I’m no ghost. Those records look identical because they are identical. I’m Milford Collin Bremer. And I can give you the names of hundreds of living individuals who are also in the archives. You’ll find the explanation rather startling. You see—we’re immortal.”
He went on. “Now I have your attention, let me briefly describe what has happened. As far back as the end of the twentieth century, immortality was theoretically possible. Methods of propagating stem cells, which in turn can reproduce any cells in the body, were developed.
“The next big step was the discovery of a method to make the cells self-replicating, which meant an endless supply without having to resort to any living creatures—embryos, animals, nothing else. Fed the proper nutrients, the cells go on happily reproducing. The nutrients are expensive and the method is complex—but it works. Some of information is in the medical literature. Much of it isn’t, mostly because there were a few far-sighted experimenters who early on saw possibilities, both good and bad.
“Soon, though very quietly, techniques were perfected to use these cells to gradually replace bodily parts and vital organs as the ordinary process of aging took place—a flagging heart transposed a cell at a time, an arthritic leg completely replaced with no need for an operation, no problems with auto-immune responses. Only a few persons could afford to take advantage of this, what you might call, ‘treatment.’ And most of those were medical research personnel and their families. Eventually, those few decided to make the procedure available on a consensus basis. Which meant they would vote to select someone—a promising artist, an outstanding scientist perhaps—to receive the benefit of immortality.”
Llewellyn was about to protest.
Matson held up his hand. “No. There’s no conspiracy involved, except for the agreement to keep silent. The immortals have no intention of taking over the world. In fact, I’m the only national, elected official in the group. And you should be aware not everyone is ready to exercise the option of immortality. Many of our members have gone through one series of rejuvenations and have decided to terminate—that is, die. On the other hand, there’s awareness among all of us how being identified as immortals to the public at large might not be in our best interests, or in the world’s best interests, for matter.
“You can imagine what the sudden release of this information would do if the earth’s people all suddenly became aware they could be immortal, especially since it would be impossible for everyone to have the benefit of the discovery within their lifetime. It would be like millions of starving waiting at a food distribution center for what is still a very limited amount of food.
He paused for a moment, then went on. “We would like to make the procedure available to everyone. But there are technical as well as practical problems with achieving that goal. Population pressures are one. Serious colonization of other planets is, as you well know, and despite our popular commentators, neither feasible nor probable for many generations to come.
“So, in the meantime, we would like to continue selectively offering immortality to a limited number of persons we feel can best contribute to humanity. Your discovery there are immortals alive today could endanger our entire program.”
“But what can I do?”
Matson shrugged. “The solution is obvious. You can simply expunge from the record all the archived identities with exact matches to living individuals.”
“Suppose I refuse to.”
Matson smiled. Llewellyn realized he had a nice smile, but then decided all politicians had to have nice smiles to get elected.
“I told you we aren’t a conspiracy,” Matson said, his smile expanding. “Should you decide at this moment to get in touch with Curt Stanwich to tell him you made a mistake about your mistake, there would be no reprisals. We might be able to manage. I remember seeing photos of an airship in one of the wars back in the past. It was leaving a defeated country, and survivors were desperately crowding to get on to it, even hanging on after it left the ground. I’m afraid it would be like that, only far worse. The multitude pushing and shoving to grasp at immortality would be incredible. But we would probably still be able to muddle through.”
“But sooner or later the secret is bound to come out.” Llewellyn shifted to a less painful position.
“Of course. But we’ll be far better situated to cope with the revelation fifty—a hundred—two hundred years from now.”
“And if I do what you say?”
“We’ve planned for this day. Actually, we’d expected some independent scientist to discover the secret while doing research, so we were working on some way of infiltrating your department to hack the
files. But the fact the discovery has happened within the department makes our solution much easier. You can easily expunge the relevant records, I’m sure. And since no living individuals are involved, there’s really no crime being committed.”
Matson’s smile came back as a warm grin. “In a manner of speaking, you would have administratively accomplished what I was trying to do legislatively.”
“But what happens when these people get to the age where they would ordinarily die?”
“I’m sure you can handle such eventualities as well. I have the list of all of them here, with their ID numbers, and the year at which they will be changing identities,” he said, as he handed over a coin-sized disc. “Fortunately for our purposes, much of the world is still not in your data base, so that will not be a problem. You need only to flag these people with the right date and they won’t be archived. Instead, they’ll just disappear. For all practical purposes they will never have existed. With a new identity and a past from some foreign country, they will then come into the data base as adult individuals, and there will be no record of a match with some deceased person.”
Llewellyn looked thoughtful. “That’s possible, and really relatively simple.”
“And, as I said, we’ve prepared for this day. We didn’t know who would make the discovery first, but we discussed the matter at length, and we have something to offer you, the discoverer, if you do decide to cooperate.”
Matson stayed on for another hour. After he left, Llewellyn quickly called up the matches, cleared them from the archives and flagged the living individuals so they would simply vanish at the end of the time designated on the list. Once finished, he demagged the disc, wiping out the records of the immortals stored on it.
Finally, he brought up his own file. Next to Llewellyn Elsworth Chillingsford, ID 769-660-0234-5588, he placed a hidden control character which would effectively prevent the archiving of his record within a certain number of years. He paused for a moment, then read in twenty years. It seemed to be a very reasonable time.
Expect the Unexpected Page 36
