James Halperin - The First Immortal

He invested the rest of his earnings in commercial real estate and blue chip stocks. And he continued to upgrade the family’s living quarters, moving into larger apartments and finally, last month, their five-story brownstone on Chestnut Street.

After breakfast Rebecca and Max began to watch a Christian minister on television. “Hell’s pitiless fires,” he intoned, “and heaven’s reward are both unceasing. A human life is so very short: the blink of an eye. But a soul is eternal, so a single soul, your soul, has more value than the sum of all life on earth. Earthly existence is merely God’s test. Are you worthy of everlasting joy, or eternal damnation?”

The girls appeared mesmerized by his words, gestures, and the emotion in his voice. Wondering whether they were attracted by the content of the man’s speech or by his hysterical delivery—it never occurred to him that it might have been the medium itself that had so captivated them—Ben broke the spell. “He’s just guessing,” he told his daughters. “All he really wants is your money. Don’t fall for it. He doesn’t know any more about heaven and how to get there than anybody else who’s still alive.”

Marge, washing dishes in the kitchen, overheard this. “He’s enthusiastic, though.”

“True enough. I watch these guys myself sometimes, but only for their entertainment value. They can, unwittingly, teach you how to think. But for goodness’ sake, you sure don’t want to let them teach you what to think.” Ben had great faith in God, but precious little in His self-anointed messengers. He remained an optimist, and a skeptic. Sure, he understood and loved humanity, but with the understanding necessarily came a certain distrust.

They’d all expected to have a picnic today at the Boston Public Gardens. It was not to be.

The phone rang; Marge answered. Her expression turned somber. “It’s Alice. Your father’s at Beth Israel. Intensive care. I’m sorry, Ben, it’s another heart attack.”

Ben’s mind went momentarily blank, his face frozen in disorientation and denial. The children glanced tentatively toward each other, and then at their mother, for clues about how they were supposed to act. Marge’s gaze cast back a grim, composed resolve. She gently grasped Ben’s hand and pulled him back to reality.

The family rushed to their car. Jan had no idea what a heart attack was, but sensing the mood, did not ask. She sat in the front with Ben and Marge, her head resting on her father’s lap as he drove. The three older children huddled solemnly in the backseat, numb to the reality of losing their Grampa.

Except Gary.

The boy visualized his grandfather’s face. He could see it with near-photographic clarity. He was grateful for his ability to remember shapes and textures so well, but sometimes it could also be a curse. He thought of all the times Grampa Sam and Grammy Alice had accompanied his mother to his soccer and Little League games, and all those science fairs and art shows at school. Especially the art shows. Gary’s own father rarely showed up, even though he usually won the blue ribbon. But they almost always did. They were proud of him. And he felt special whenever Sam was there.

Eyes moistening, Gary began to shiver. It seemed as if all warmth had suddenly been drained from him. “D-Do you th-think… he’ll be… okay?”

Ben’s hands tightened on the wheel, as though by squeezing hard enough his emotions might vent through his fingers. “I don’t have time for your questions right now,” he snapped at the boy; nearly a shout. Marge gently nudged him, and Ben added quietly, “Have to concentrate on my driving, Gary.”

Gary’s fingernails dug into the soft leather, scarring it. Tears ran down his cheek.

Rebecca patted Gary’s right hand, her eyebrows raised in commiseration, as if to say, That’s just the way he is. Gary gazed back at his sister. He silently mouthed Thank you, and put his arm around her shoulder.

Ben fought back his own tears, trying to evoke only happy memories, his gratitude to both of his parents, and the feeble hope his father would quickly recover. But all he thought about was death, a terrible fact of nature he could never fully accept.

The heart attack was massive. By the time the family arrived at the hospital, Samuel Smith, fifty-eight years old, was dead.

Some nine hundred miles away, Robert C. W. Ettinger, a young physics professor at Highland Park College in Michigan, was hard at work researching The Prospect of Immortality: The Scientific Probability of the Revival and Rejuvenation of Our Frozen Bodies.

Ettinger’s theory held that decay of any human tissue could be virtually halted by submersion into liquid nitrogen, and that someday scientists would possess the means to restore frozen humans to life. The inability to resuscitate a person, he believed, spoke only to the limits of the technology of the day, and little or nothing about that person’s potential for life.

He had analyzed death from five discrete viewpoints:

(1) Clinical death: The accepted definition at the time, its criteria being termination of heartbeat and respiration.

(2) Biological death: The state from which resuscitation of the entire body is impossible by currently known means.

(3) Legal death: a term subject to constant reinterpretation.

(4) Religious death: Also an evolving concept.

(5) Cellular death: The irrevocable degeneration of the body’s cells.

To Ettinger, death was relative at every level. “A man does not go like the one-horse shay,” he wrote, “but dies little by little usually, in imperceptible gradations, and the question of reversibility at any stage depends on the state of medical art.”

His book, published in June 1964, would initiate the cryonics movement in the United States.

Far too late for Samuel Smith, but in time for his only son.

October 27, 1963

It had been drizzling off and on all afternoon. The field was slick with mud. Nearing the final whistle, the Wildcats trailed 21-16. It was a very big game: playoff time, or better luck next time. Gary Smith’s mother, grandmother, and all three sisters were sitting on cold benches, along with his girlfriend, Minerva Homer; every time he looked, he saw them completely engaged, ardently cheering him on.

But his old man had better things to do.

As they lined up on the opposing team’s thirty-eight yard line, Gary glanced at the scoreboard clock, and calculated they probably had time for two more plays; three at the most. Greg Cadbury, the lummox he was assigned to block, had to outweigh him by what? Fifty pounds at least. But the guy was sluggish, and about as bright as your average oak tree.

At five-foot-nine, 154 pounds, Gary knew he had no business playing center, even on junior varsity. But he couldn’t run fast enough to play backfield or end, and of course he’d been willing to work twice as hard as anybody else, a characteristic well-appreciated by his coach. In fact he’d started every game this season, had been elected co-captain, and figured next year, as a senior, he would have a clean shot at his letter. Maybe his father would even show up for a game or two. After all, the man had played on several sports teams at Wakefield High School, hadn’t he?

Gary shook his head in sudden frustration. Here he’d made straight A’s for two years running, at the toughest prep school in Suffolk County. It wasn’t like he didn’t have to work for those grades, either, like some kids; he’d studied his butt off. Tons of extracurricular activities, too; science and art prizes up the wazoo. And now football. Shit. What else did he have to do? You’d have thought the man could let loose with an occasional “good job” or something, for heaven’s sake.