Clifford Simak - Eternity Lost

“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 circum-stances 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 hear-ings 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.”

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 extralegal 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.

“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.