The one team member who did not subscribe to the cult of studied scientific detachment that was so much a part of twenty-second-century life was Julian Ferrg, Surgeon. Julian felt that he had a more intimate connection with the alien than the others, because his scalpels had already explored his body on the operating table. On a day shortly after that event sunlight was filtering pleasantly into a large lounge from a ring of windows set at floor level. Julian’s gaze flicked insolently from one team member to another. There was Ralph Reed, the philologist who had already achieved the phenomenal task of teaching the alien English; Han Soku, the physicist; Courdon, in Julian’s eyes an overly-correct, formal administrator; and Hans Meyer, a cosmologist who hoped to question the visitor on what he called Basic Questions.
Each of them, with the exception of Courdon, was supported by an entire sub-team. Julian himself was assisted by half a dozen specialists in biochemistry, biology and medicine, although the operations he had performed had been minor: the grafting of an artificial organ to enable the alien to breathe Earth’s atmosphere, and the additional grafting of a vibrating membrane to simulate the human voice. Nevertheless the creature had lain at his mercy, its chemical secrets within his grasp. He still thrilled when he thought of that.
For there was one fact about the visitor that they had already learned: he was one million years old.
One million years. The phrase echoed in Julian’s mind as he regarded the lounge’s sixth occupant: the alien himself.
The closest resemblance to an Earthly creature was probably to a giant turtle, modified somewhat to give an appearance vaguely insect- or crustacean-like. The tall carapace shone dully in the afternoon light. Beneath it could be seen a fringe of hairy legs, mandibles and an occasional glint of metal or some artifact. The newly-acquired gas-sac by which the creature processed air to suit his metabolism bulked somewhat awkwardly to the rear, pulsing gently.
The alien, who claimed to hail originally from the direction of Aldebaran, had explained that his name could be translated as “Never Die”. It was as Neverdie that they had come to speak of him. Julian simply could not understand why his colleagues accepted this concept with such a lack of excitement.
Neverdie finished a long speech he had been making in cultured, confidential tones that sounded so incongruous coming from his hulking form. There was a long, introspective silence.
At length Courdon said: “So do we take it that you are asking to be allowed to live permanently on Earth?”
“That is correct, sirs.”
“And what do you offer us in exchange for this privilege?” Julian interrupted harshly. The others glanced at him uneasily. They were all slightly nervous of the lean, angular surgeon and his propensity for breaking out at any time into passionate, arrogant outbursts.
“I offer nothing,” Neverdie replied in the same slow, calm voice. “As I have just related, I have escaped from a war which is taking place some light years from here. Such is the ferocity of this war that I may be the last specimen of my species left alive. I am here to seek asylum. There will be no repercussions since my presence here is unknown to my enemies. I merely wish to live my life in quiet, at peace on a civilised planet.”
“You flatter us,” Meyer said wryly.
Julian, however, was not satisfied with the alien’s answer. “There is a great deal you could give us in exchange for our hospitality,” he objected. “For one thing, your spacecraft is capable of fast interstellar travel, a capability we at present do not possess, and it is reasonable of us to expect to be allowed to examine its drive and duplicate it. You may have special knowledge which will help us to advance our technology in other directions, too. And then—most significant of all—there is the fact of your virtual immortality. By now you are probably aware that our species has a very brief life-span. It would interest us greatly to know the secrets of your metabolism.”
A mandible clicked before Neverdie replied. “These matters are a different concern,” the well-modulated voice said regretfully. “To be frank, I had not intended to be put in the position of striking bargains. My wish is to be adopted as a citizen of this planet, with all the rights of a citizen, including the right to dispose of my assets as I choose. You can appreciate that it is not in my interests to equip your people with the interstellar drive. I chose your planet because it is quiet and little-known.”
Ralph Reed cleared his throat. “Neverdie’s assertions strike me as being entirely reasonable,” he said mildly. “It would be barbaric of us to accept his presence here only in exchange for tangible rewards like an engine or some other technology. If we are to look at it in terms of gain, it seems to me that merely to have him here is gain enough. Neverdie is a representative of an alien race, an entirely foreign culture, and his presence in our midst will enrich our own culture. Is that not so?”
The others murmured their agreement. Julian flushed angrily. “This is ridiculous! Have we become so decadent that we no longer see where our advantage lies? It would certainly be—”
Courdon cut him off. “Now, now, Ferrg, there are procedures for this kind of thing. Let us not forget our manners.” He glanced at Neverdie, embarrassed at the outburst, as were the others. Ferrg had been making something of a pest of himself in the past few days and Courdon was wishing he could have been forewarned about the man. He stood, to signify that the interview was at an end.
“Well, Mr, er, Neverdie, the decision does not of course rest with us. It will have to be placed before the appropriate department. However, let me assure you that your application will receive my commendation.”
“I thank you.”
Courdon waited by the door as they filed out. Julian was the last to go. Before he left he glanced back at Neverdie, enraged at his own impotence. That carapaced form contained the most precious jewel in the whole universe, and it looked as though they wouldn’t let him get at it.
There’ll be a time, he promised himself. Next time I have him on the table he won’t get away so easily.
Neverdie was glad to be left alone at last. He sank down on his specially constructed divan, relaxed and gave his mind up to sad thoughts.
He thought nostalgically of the other pleasant periods he had spent in the long spell of his existence. Of the fair civilisation beneath the blood-red Arcturus sun where he had recently lived for ten thousand years.
He had told the Earth people something like the truth, but not the whole truth. There had indeed been a ferocious battle from which he had barely escaped. A million years had made him adept at evading the pursuers that sooner or later came at him from all quarters.
But he sensed that at long last he was growing tired. He no longer felt the readiness for endless flight that had once possessed him. He had an intuition, half horrified, half resigned, that this would be his last refuge. Yet while it lasted he believed he would be happy here.
While it lasted … perhaps that would not be long. Already he scented the beginning of the hunt in the attitude of Julian Ferrg, the jerky one. Unless he acted carefully the surgeon would be drawn relentlessly into the continuing tragedy that was Neverdie’s life.
He continued to muse on these thoughts. The sun sank to the horizon, briefly visible through the low windows as a red ball reminiscent of beloved Arcturus. Sleeplessly Neverdie waited in the darkness for it to rise again.
THREE
Twenty-second-century London was bowl-shaped.
At the dead centre there still stood, as an archaic reminder, the old Houses of Parliament. Around them the numerous government departments had extended their premises until they swallowed up the previous commercial areas for a considerable distance around, stretching along Tottenham Court Road to the north, along both arms of the river to east and west, and into Waterloo to the south. The buildings were modest in dimensions, however, and mostly of a conservative twentieth-century style. Beyond the centre the suburbs had elevated themselves progressively in a step-like version of the habitat mode, rising at the perime
ter to just under a mile in height. At close quarters the habitat suburbs, with their lack of any clear linear organisation, were like a three-dimensional jungle—especially since Londoners had rediscovered the pleasure of gardens. From a distance they merged into a sparkling, curved surface and gave the city the impression of being a vast arena. When the sun rose over the edge of the perimeter, the great bowl acted as a sun-trap; when it fell below it, illumination continued to filter through the myriad interstices and filled the interior with a panorama of light and shade.
Julian’s airplat floated down into the bowl, mingling with the traffic that hovered over the city like a haze of gnats, and came to rest on a rooftop platform. Courdon’s office was in Centre Point, a twentieth-century structure huddled among other, more modern buildings. Julian passed through the rooftop reception hall to the administrator’s office.
Courdon was waiting for him. He greeted Julian coolly.
“I think I know what you’re going to ask me, and I fear you will be disappointed,” the civil servant began.
Julian strode energetically to the proffered chair and flung himself into it. He looked quizzically at Courdon.
“Well?”
“Neverdie has been granted the world’s first extra-solar immigration permit. In five years’ time, if all goes well, he will be given West-European citizenship. To state things from your point of view, the permit was given with no strings attached. And Neverdie has declined to discuss the matter of technological advancement.”
“You’ve approached him about the question of longevity?”
“I conveyed your request to him, yes, but he’s not willing to co-operate. He hinted that knowledge of biological permanence, to use his term, would not be to our benefit.”
Julian’s lips compressed in annoyance. “Really, I can’t understand the attitude of you government people. Whose planet is this, ours or his? And what about his ship? It should be impounded.”
“But why? It’s his property. We must live according to the law.”
“The law! The law is whatever it’s made to be. Who can Neverdie call on to back his case? Nobody; he only has our gratuitous compliance. Anyway, the ship isn’t important. Immortality is, and that’s what we have to think about.”
“I’m not sure I agree with you. I think Neverdie’s right. Immortality would be a disaster for us. Everything we have is built around our present life-span and, speaking personally, I’m quite satisfied with it.”
“You would be,” Julian grunted. “But never mind about that, not everybody in this world is so complacent. Surely there’s some way we can get it out of him? How does he propose to live? Or is the government taking care of that, too?”
“As a matter of fact, no. Help was offered, but Neverdie refused it. He proposes to earn money by writing books and giving interviews. I believe he is buying a house in St John’s Wood.”
The surgeon meditated sombrely. “I’ll tell you what I think,” he said. “This citizenship business is all nonsense. Dammit, you’re treating him just like a human being! He isn’t. He’s a creature from space. If he won’t tell us what we want to know, we should take it from him by force, by physical examination. Just give me a few weeks with that body of his and I’ll find out everything.”
He did not see fit to mention one likely possibility—that Neverdie probably did not know himself what kept him alive, just as the average person could not describe the processes of his own metabolism. Neither did he mention that the examination he suggested would almost certainly prove deeply injurious to the subject. Courdon, however, was outraged that Julian should suggest it at all.
“Really, Ferrg, you forget yourself! We couldn’t possibly consider such an action! What would the rest of the world say? For that matter, what would Bonn say?”
Julian waved his hand, impatient that the perpetual tussles between London and Bonn, twin capitals of West-Europe, should be brought into it. “There was a time when progress was thought to be important,” he said. “Now we have an unprecedented opportunity to increase our knowledge and nobody is remotely interested.”
“Times change.” To Julian, Courdon looked infuriatingly smug. “The world has settled down now. There is planet-wide agreement on all basic issues. The problem of material wealth has reached an equitable solution. Why should we strive after distant dreams any more? Life is pleasant, why not enjoy it?”
Julian knew all about the philosophy of the Long Golden Afternoon of civilisation that was so much put about. As far as he was concerned the Long Golden Afternoon was one long bore. He felt stuffed to his ears with it. He would sooner have lived in a previous age when action counted for something and the law was an obstacle men would contemplate breaking if the returns were big enough.
In this case they were big enough.
He rose to his feet. “Nothing lasts forever. The times will change again. And that creature will have to watch out for himself.”
Courdon merely stared at his desk as Julian strode from the room.
In the evening Julian’s airplat took him to the south tiers of the London Conurbation. He parked in a garage five hundred feet above ground level and entered the adjoining apartments.
The people gathered there were all either close friends or sufficiently in sympathy with Julian’s private philosophy to be trusted. They formed a tightly knit in-group jarringly at odds with the normal standards of the time. And they all, to one degree or another, wanted to live for ever.
They listened to his account of the meeting with Courdon with an air of cynical acceptance. They knew it already.
“Decadent and cowardly,” said David Aul. “Still, that’s life.”
Julian gulped wine from a huge goblet. “We’ll take it into our own hands.”
“Mon Dieu, that’s going a bit far, isn’t it?” said another voice.
“We’ve already discussed it.”
“Yes, but were we serious?”
“Of course we were serious, you damn fool!” Julian’s eyes flashed angrily at the speaker. It was André, a vague, unpredictable Frenchman. “Do you think I waste my time on daydreams?”
André shrugged.
“Anybody who has no stomach for it, walk out of here right now,” Julian demanded. “If you want to squeal on us, go ahead and do it. We’ll simply deny everything and that will be that.” And then we’ll do it anyway a few years later, Julian thought to himself.
He didn’t wait for answers but snatched up a bottle of wine and retreated to the corner of the room where he flung himself on a couch and continued to drink swiftly and heavily.
Ursula Gail detached herself from the group and smiled down at him with clear hazel eyes.
“So you’re really going to do it?” she said, speaking with a slight German accent.
“Naturally.” Seizing her wrist, he pulled her down on the couch with him.
“But what about the risk? Somebody might betray us. What about me? Suppose I do?”
“If you do I’ll kill you.”
She chuckled softly, leaning close and nuzzling his cheek. “That’s what I like about you, Julian. You’re so wicked. I don’t think there’s one good impulse in you.”
“What is good perishes; evil endures.” He shook his head, momentarily confused. What had made him say that? He was already slightly drunk.
She noticed his unsteady movements as he scanned the room for another bottle. “Aren’t you drinking too much? I thought you were operating early tomorrow morning.”
“What difference does it make? These days all the instruments are electronically controlled. I often operate dead drunk. Never lost a patient yet.”
The drink and the music that came from a small player were making him feel warm and mellow. He had a pleasant feeling of anticipation, of a decision made and of having burned his boats behind him. The others were almost certain to back him. What was there to lose? Liberty? Life? They would be lost anyway, in a few decades. Against that was balanced the possibility of life eternal
.
The final plans were already vaguely foreshadowed in his mind. It could not be done for a few years yet. The present time was too soon, and besides there was much preparation to be completed. A ship would be best, he told himself. A yacht fitted with everything they needed and in which they could sail the oceans while completing the work, safe from detection.
Afterwards came the question of whether the alien’s method of immortality could be adapted to a human being. They all knew that the probability of that was rather low. But then, who but a desperado ever commits himself to a philosophy of action, not to say of crime? Julian’s mouth twisted sardonically as he contemplated the thought.
A short while later he took Ursula into an adjoining bedroom, where they satisfied themselves with passion and vigour. Afterwards, breathing lightly in the darkness, she suddenly spoke.
“What would you give up for immortality, Julian? Would you give up this?”
“I would give up everything,” he said. She asked no further questions. They both lay staring up at the darkened ceiling, imagining a future without end.
FOUR
Five years passed before Julian deemed the time was ripe.
Neverdie had settled quite well into human society. He was only occasionally mentioned in the mass media now and lived the life of a near-recluse in a large house whose interior had been restyled in the Georgian mode—a fashion the alien seemed to prefer to all others. His needs were financed out of the returns from his books. Julian had studied them all assiduously, especially the lengthy Aldebaranian Social Organisation, but had learned nothing useful. He was not interested in how an extinct species formed “hedonistic rank-order”, as was apparently the case. Neverdie had also written a number of competent but off-beat science fiction novels with some interesting details, but nothing touching on biochemistry.
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