The Astounding Science Fiction Anthology

by John W. Campbell Jr.

  After that long, said the senator, parenthetically, you have no more illusions, not even of yourself.

  I couldn’t stomach it, he decided. I couldn’t live with myself if I went crawling to New York—and a thing has to be pretty bad to make me feel like that. I’ve never crawled before and I’m not crawling now, not even for an extra hundred years and a shot at immortality.

  Cross that one off, too, said the senator.

  THREE: Maybe someone could be bribed.

  Of all the possibilities, that sounded the most reasonable. There always was someone who had a certain price and always someone else who could act as intermediary. Naturally, a world senator could not get mixed up directly in a deal of that sort.

  It might come a little high, but what was money for? After all, he reconciled himself, he’d been a frugal man of sorts and had been able to lay away a wad against such a day as this.

  The senator moved a rook and it seemed to be all right, so he left it there.

  Of course, once he managed the continuation, he would have to disappear. He couldn’t flaunt his triumph in the party’s face. He couldn’t take a chance of someone asking how he’d been continuated. He’d have to become one of the people, seek to be forgotten, live in some obscure place and keep out of the public eye.

  Norton was the man to see. No matter what one wanted, Norton was the man to see. An appointment to be secured, someone to be killed, a concession on Venus or a spaceship contract—Norton did the job. All quietly and discreetly and no questions asked. That is, if you had the money. If you didn’t have the money, there was no use of seeing Norton.

  Otto came into the room on silent feet. “A gentleman to see you, sir,” he said. The senator stiffened upright in his chair.

  “What do you mean by sneaking up on me?” he shouted. “Always pussyfooting. Trying to startle me. After this you cough or fall over a chair or something so I’ll know that you’re around.”

  “Sorry, sir,” said Otto. “There’s a gentleman here. And there are those letters on the desk to read.”

  “I’ll read the letters later,” said the senator.

  “Be sure you don’t forget,” Otto told him, stiffly.

  “I never forget,” said the senator. “You’d think I was getting senile, the way you keep reminding me.”

  “There’s a gentleman to see you,” Otto said patiently. “A Mr. Lee.”

  “Anson Lee, perhaps.”

  Otto sniffed. “I believe that was his name. A newspaper person, sir.”

  “Show him in,” said the senator.

  He sat stolidly in his chair and thought: Lee’s found out about it. Somehow he’s ferreted out the fact the party’s thrown me over. And he’s here to crucify me.

  He may suspect, but he cannot know. He may have heard a rumor, but he can’t be sure. The party would keep mum, must necessarily keep mum, since it can’t openly admit its traffic in life continuation. So Lee, having heard a rumor, had come to blast it out of me, to catch me by surprise and trip me up with words.

  I must not let him do it, for once the thing is known, the wolves will come in packs knee deep.

  Lee was walking into the room and the senator rose and shook his hand.

  “Sorry to disturb you, senator,” Lee told him, “but I thought maybe you could help me.”

  “Anything at all,” the senator said, affably. “Anything I can. Sit down, Mr. Lee.”

  “Perhaps you read my story in the morning paper,” said Lee. “The one on Dr. Carson’s disappearance.”

  “No,” said the senator. “No, I’m afraid I—”

  He rumbled to a stop, astounded.

  He hadn’t read the paper!

  He had forgotten to read the paper!

  He always read the paper. He never failed to read it. It was a solemn rite, starting at the front and reading straight through to the back, skipping only those sections which long ago he’d found not to be worth the reading.

  He’d had the paper at the institute and he had been interrupted when the girl told him that Dr. Smith would see him. He had come out of the office and he’d left the paper in the reception room.

  It was a terrible thing. Nothing, absolutely nothing, should so upset him that he forgot to read the paper.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t read the story,” the senator said lamely. He simply couldn’t force himself to admit that he hadn’t read the paper.

  “Dr. Carson,” said Lee, “was a biochemist, a fairly famous one. He died ten years or so ago, according to an announcement from a little village in Spain, where he had gone to live. But I have reason to believe, senator, that he never died at all, that he may still be living.”

  “Hiding?” asked the senator.

  “Perhaps,” said Lee. “Although there seems no reason that he should. His record is entirely spotless.”

  “Why do you doubt he died, then?”

  “Because there’s no death certificate. And he’s not the only one who died without benefit of certificate.”

  “Hm-m-m,” said the senator.

  “Galloway, the anthropologist, died five years ago. There’s no certificate. Henderson, the agricultural expert, died six years ago. There’s no certificate. There are a dozen more I know of and probably many that I don’t.”

  “Anything in common?” asked the senator. “Any circumstances that might link these people?”

  “Just one thing,” said Lee. “They were all continuators.”

  “I see,” said the senator. He clasped the arms of his chair with a fierce grip to keep his hands from shaking.

  “Most interesting,” he said. “Very interesting.”

  “I know you can’t tell me anything officially,” said Lee, “but I thought you might give me a fill-in, an off-the-record background. You wouldn’t let me quote you, of course, but any clues you might give me, any hint at all—”

  He waited hopefully.

  “Because I’ve been close to the Life Continuation people?” asked the senator.

  Lee nodded. “If there’s anything to know, you know it, senator. You headed the committee that held the original hearings on life continuation. Since then you’ve held various other congressional posts in connection with it. Only this morning you saw Dr. Smith.”

  “I can’t tell you anything,” mumbled the senator. “I don’t know anything. You see, it’s a matter of policy—”

  “I had hoped you would help me, senator.”

  “I can’t,” said the senator. “You’ll never believe it, of course, but I really can’t.”

  He sat silently for a moment and then he asked a question: “You say all these people you mention were continuators. You checked, of course, to see if their applications had been renewed?”

  “I did,” said Lee. “There are no renewals for any one of them—at least no records of renewals. Some of them were approaching death limit and they actually may be dead by now, although I doubt that any of them died at the time or place announced.”

  “Interesting,” said the senator. “And quite a mystery, too.”

  Lee deliberately terminated the discussion. He gestured at the chessboard. “Are you an expert, senator?”

  The senator shook his head. “The game appeals to me. I fool around with it. It’s a game of logic and also a game of ethics. You are perforce a gentleman when you play it. You observe certain rules of correctness of behavior.”

  “Like life, senator?”

  “Like life should be,” said the senator. “When the odds are too terrific, you resign. You do not force your opponent to play out to the bitter end. That’s ethics. When you see that you can’t win, but that you have a fighting chance, you try for the next best thing—a draw. That’s logic.”

  Lee laughed, a bit uncomfortably. “You’ve lived according to those rules, senator?”

  “I’ve done my best,” said the senator, trying to sound humble.

  Lee rose. “I must be going, senator.”

  “Stay and have a drink.”
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br />   Lee shook his head. “Thanks, but I have work to do.”

  “I owe you a drink,” said the senator. “Remind me of it sometime.”

  For a long time after Lee left, Senator Homer Leonard sat unmoving in his chair.

  Then he reached out a hand and picked up a knight to move it, but his fingers shook so that he dropped it and it clattered on the board.

  Any person who gains the gift of life continuation by illegal or extra-legal means, without bona fide recommendation or proper authorization through recognized channels, shall be, in effect, excommunicated from the human race. The facts of that person’s guilt, once proved, shall be published by every means at humanity’s command throughout the Earth and to every corner of the Earth so that all persons may know and recognize him. To further insure such recognition and identification, said convicted person must wear at all times, conspicuously displayed upon his person, a certain badge which shall advertise his guilt. While he may not be denied the ordinary basic requirements of life, such as food, adequate clothing, a minimum of shelter and medical care, he shall not be allowed to partake of or participate in any of the other refinements of civilization. He will not be allowed to purchase any item in excess of the barest necessities for the preservation of life, health and decency; he shall be barred from all endeavors and normal associations of humankind; he shall not have access to nor benefit of any library, lecture hall, amusement place or other facility, either private or public, designed for instruction, recreation or entertainment. Nor may any person, under certain penalties hereinafter set forth, knowingly converse with him or establish any human relationship whatsoever with him. He will be suffered to live out his life within the framework of the human community, but to all intent and purpose he will be denied all the privileges and obligations of a human being. And the same provisions as are listed above shall apply in full and equal force to any person or persons who shall in any way knowingly aid such a person to obtain life continuation by other than legal means.

  From the Code of Life Continuation.

  “What you mean,” said J. Barker Norton, “is that the party all these years has been engineering renewals of life continuation for you. Paying you off for services well rendered.”

  The senator nodded miserably.

  “And now that you’re on the verge of losing an election, they figure you aren’t worth it any longer and have refused to ask for a renewal.”

  “In curbstone language,” said the senator, “that sums it up quite neatly.”

  “And you come running to me,” said Norton. “What in the world do you think I can do about it?”

  The senator leaned forward. “Let’s put it on a business basis, Norton. You and I have worked together before.”

  “That’s right,” said Norton. “Both of us cleaned up on that spaceship deal.”

  The senator said: “I want another hundred years and I’m willing to pay for it. I have no doubt you can arrange it for me.”

  “How?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said the senator. “I’m leaving that to you. I don’t care how you do it.”

  Norton leaned back in his chair and made a tent out of his fingers.

  “You figure I could bribe someone to recommend you. Or bribe some continuation technician to give you a renewal without authorization.”

  “Those are a pair of excellent ideas,” agreed the senator.

  “And face excommunication if I were found out,” said Norton. “Thanks, senator, I’m having none of it.”

  The senator sat impassively, watching the face of the man across the desk.

  “A hundred thousand,” the senator said quietly.

  Norton laughed at him.

  “A half million, then.”

  “Remember that excommunication, senator. It’s got to be worth my while to take a chance like that,”

  “A million,” said the senator. “And that’s absolutely final.”

  “A million now,” said Norton. “Cold cash. No receipt. No record of the transaction. Another million when and if I can deliver.”

  The senator rose slowly to his feet, his face a mask to hide the excitement that was stirring in him. The excitement and the naked surge of exultation. He kept his voice level.

  “I’ll deliver that million before the week is over.”

  Norton said: “I’ll start looking into things.”

  On the street outside, the senator’s step took on a jauntiness it had not known in years. He walked along briskly, flipping his cane.

  Those others, Carson and Galloway and Henderson, had disappeared, exactly as he would have to disappear once he got his extra hundred years. They had arranged to have their own deaths announced and then had dropped from sight, living against the day when immortality would be a thing to be had for the simple asking.

  Somewhere, somehow, they had got a new continuation, an unauthorized continuation, since a renewal was not listed in the records. Someone had arranged it for them. More than likely Norton.

  But they had bungled. They had tried to cover up their tracks and had done no more than call attention to their absence.

  In a thing like this, a man could not afford to blunder. A wise man, a man who took the time to think things out, would not make a blunder,

  The senator pursed his flabby lips and whistled a snatch of music.

  Norton was a gouger, of course. Pretending that he couldn’t make arrangements, pretending he was afraid of excommunication, jacking up the price.

  The senator grinned wryly. It would take almost every dime he had, but it was worth the price.

  He’d have to be careful, getting together that much money. Some from one bank, some from another, collecting it piecemeal by withdrawals and by cashing bonds, floating a few judicious loans so there’d not be too many questions asked.

  He bought a paper at the corner and hailed a cab. Settling back in the seat, he creased the paper down its length and started in on column one. Another health contest. This time in Australia.

  Health, thought the senator, they’re crazy on this health business. Health centers. Health cults. Health clinics.

  He skipped the story, moved on to column two.

  The head said:

  SIX SENATORS POOR BETS FOR RE-ELECTION

  The senator snorted in disgust. One of the senators, of course, would be himself.

  He wadded up the paper and jammed it in his pocket.

  Why should he care? Why knock himself out to retain a senate seat he could never fill? He was going to grow young again, get another chance at life. He would move to some far part of the earth and be another man.

  Another man. He thought about it and it was refreshing. Dropping all the old dead wood of past association, all the ancient accumulation of responsibilities.

  Norton had taken on the job. Norton would deliver.

  Mr. Miller: What I want to know is this: Where do we stop? You give this life continuation to a man and he’ll want his wife and kids to have it. And his wife will want her Aunt Minnie to have it and the kids will want the family dog to have it and the dog will want—

  Chairman Leonard: You’re facetious, Mr. Miller.

  Mr. Miller: I don’t know what that big word means, mister. You guys here in Geneva talk fancy with them six-bit words and you get the people all balled up. It’s time the common people got in a word of common sense.

  From the Records of a hearing before the science subcommittee of the public policy committee of the World House of Representatives.

  “Frankly,” Norton told him, “it’s the first time I ever ran across a thing I couldn’t fix. Ask me anything else you want to, senator, and I’ll rig it up for you.”

  The senator sat stricken. “You mean you couldn’t—But, Norton, there was Dr. Carson and Galloway and Henderson. Someone took care of them.”

  Norton shook his head. “Not I. I never heard of them.”

  “But someone did,” said the senator. “They disappeared—”

  His vo
ice trailed off and he slumped deeper in the chair and the truth suddenly was plain—the truth he had failed to see.

  A blind spot, he told himself. A blind spot!

  They had disappeared and that was all he knew. They had published their own deaths and had not died, but had disappeared.

  He had assumed they had disappeared because they had got an illegal continuation. But that was sheer wishful thinking. There was no foundation for it, no fact that would support it.

  There could be other reasons, he told himself, many other reasons why a man would disappear and seek to cover up his tracks with a death report.

  But it had tied in so neatly!

  They were continuators whose applications had not been renewed. Exactly as he was a continuator whose application would not be renewed.

  They had dropped out of sight. Exactly as he would have to drop from sight once he gained another lease on life.

  It had tied in so neatly—and it had been all wrong.

  “I tried every way I knew,” said Norton. “I canvassed every source that might advance your name for continuation and they laughed at me. It’s been tried before, you see, and there’s not a chance of getting it put through. Once your original sponsor drops you, you’re automatically cancelled out.

  “I tried to sound out technicians who might take a chance, but they’re incorruptible. They get paid off in added years for loyalty and they’re not taking any chance of trading years for dollars.”

  “I guess that settles it,” the senator said wearily. “I should have known.”

  He heaved himself to his feet and faced Norton squarely. “You are telling me the truth,” he pleaded. “You aren’t just trying to jack up the price a bit.”

  Norton stared at him, almost unbelieving. “Jack up the price! Senator, if I had put this through, I’d have taken your last penny. Want to know how much you’re worth? I can tell you within a thousand dollars.”

  He waved a hand at a row of filing cases ranged along the wall.

  “It’s all there, senator. You and all the other big shots. Complete files on every one of you. When a man comes to me with a deal like yours, I look in the files and strip him to the bone.”