Eando Binder: Anton York, Immortal

Night came and to the bright stars he hurled a challenge: “The eternal stars, eh?”

Hours later, in a rosy dawn, he came to himself. He found himself far out in the country, and realized he had been walking in a daze, drunk with the thought of immortality. Vera was waiting for him when he arrived home, tired and muddy.

“Tony! I’ve been worrying.”

York looked at her strangely. A thought struck him, one that had persisted before.

“Yes, I’ve been worrying too. One little worry stuck with me all during last night, even in the heights of my fancy. That thought is losing you.” He pulled her to him suddenly, fiercely. The love he had for her was deep and vital.

“I love you madly,” he cried, “but I’ll lose you, unless—”

“Tony! What are you saying?” Vera’s eyes became haunted with fear—fear for his sanity.

“No, dear, I’m all right,” York said quietly. “I can’t explain now, but soon I shall.” His eyes shone then. “Soon you and I—together—”

“Hm, I don’t know if I can duplicate it. The main part of the serum is not so intricate, but this one ingredient is new to organic chemistry. Look at it. If you know anything at all about my field you’ll realize that combining zymase and pituitrin, a chlorinated enzyme and an acidic gland product, is impossible. I don’t think it can be done.”

The speaker was Dr. Charles Vinson, a skilled technician of the biochemical sciences. He and York had been acquainted academically twenty years before.

“You must duplicate that serum!” York’s voice trembled with desperation. “I can’t be as frank about this as I’d like, Dr. Vinson, but the manufacture of that serum means more to me right now than anything in the world. Try it, anyway. Work here at my laboratory for a month, a year, and name your price.”

“Oh, it is not the money,” protested the biochemist. He did not quite mask the inherent, cupidity of his nature, however. His eyes gleamed with sudden interest. “It would cost much. Your place here is equipped for electrons and volts, not bacteria and guinea-pigs. I would have to buy much—”

“Then it is agreed,” declared York. “At any cost, make me 10 c.c. of this Elixir.”

“Elixir!” Dr. Vinson’s whole manner changed. “Elixir, did you say? Where did you copy these formulae? What do they represent?”

“Bluntly, none of your business.” York could not hide a trace of anger. He had never particularly liked the biochemist. For a moment he was sorry he had picked him. Yet he knew it would be difficult to find a more capable man for the task.

Dr. Vinson shrugged. York went on: “You will be paid for duplication of the serum, nothing more. Look over this chemical annex to my laboratories. Whenever you are ready, come to the library. I’ll discuss terms and procedure with you.”

He wheeled about and left.

Dr. Vinson studied the sheet in his hand. It was a typewritten copy of someone’s research notes. Whose? What did they represent? An Elixir? Further pondering suddenly enlightened him. Matthew York—Anton York: father and son. Many years before Matthew York had published a short treatise on the secret of life. He had claimed that an electrical interpretation of life was the only approach to its mystery. He created a small furore, and his paper became the forerunner of radiogenic theory. Yet nothing more had been heard of Matthew York.

Except perhaps this, Dr. Vinson held up the sheet, wondering.

That same day York spoke to his wife eagerly. For the first time he explained to her fully the secret of his youth—the immortality of his flesh. She was not so surprised as she might have been She caught her breath sharply, though, when he added, “And when Dr. Vinson makes up some of the serum, it will be for you! You and I will have each other forever in perpetual youth, in our prime of life!”

She was suddenly in his arms, sobbing.

“I will love you for all eternity!”

In the next month York’s laboratory became the receiving end of a small caravan of new materials. Varieties of chemicals, crates of apparatus, cages of squealing guinea-pigs. For Dr. Vinson had seen at a glance that the serum was not to be an elementary accomplishment.

In another month he had started to gain results. York came often to watch him work. He seldom spoke. His attitude was one of waiting, and impatiently. Sometimes his wife was with him, and they would watch together, smiling at one another secretly.

Vinson did not give up trying to draw out York in conversation about this mysterious project.

“York,” he complained one day, “there’s something missing in the data I’m working on. I’ll have to have it all. Where are the original notes?”

“Why do you need them?” York countered hesitantly.

“Because something I need may be in them. Some little thing you neglected to copy, but vital to successful duplication. Look at this guinea-pig. The serum killed him, as it has all others, because it is not the right serum.”

York faltered. Some instinct had kept him from showing his father’s notes up until now, for they dealt with a tremendous thing. Yet he wanted the serum. And because the Infinite did not warn him, he yielded. But only the scientific notes, not the diary.

Dr. Vinson’s over-eager hands leaped the yellowed pages. His eyes glittered first, then narrowed. A pattern was piecing itself together in his mind.

Not many weeks later the biochemist’s face was bright with triumph. Together with York he watched the healthy antics of a guinea-pig into whose veins the day before had been injected an overdose of bubonic plague germs.

“That little animal is germ-proof!” announced Vinson excitedly. “It has passed the last test. It is immune to any but violent death. We have the same serum now that your father developed.”

York turned swiftly.

“My father! How did you know? What—”

The biologist smiled thinly.

“Why beat around the bush, York? Your father developed this serum and tried it on you. It was dangerous, because the serum was fatal half the time. Yet he took the chance, knowing that if you survived, you would be immune to disease.” His face changed subtly. “And immortal! ”

“Damn you!” cursed York, stepping forward.

“Wait, York, I haven’t been spying around. The thing stared me in the face. You, who should be as old as I am, fifty-five, look like thirty-five. Then, I can show you a fruit fly that has lived twice its normal span and will continue to live—who knows—through all eternity. It astounded me until I reasoned it out.”

York relaxed. After all, it was too tremendous a secret to conceal from the man who had worked with his father’s notes. He stared at the biochemist uncertainly. What would this mean?

Dr. Vinson laughed shortly.

“You are an immortal, York. And you love your wife. You want her by your side in the long future that beckons. Hence, my work here—to manufacture the Elixir, for her. Well, let me warn you—there is an even chance that your wife will not gain immortality, but death!”

“I’m going to take the chance,” York said “Prepare a suitable dose for injection. In case of death—”

He made a resigned gesture. “Vinson,” he continued, solemnly, “you and I share a great secret. The Fountain of Youth! An age-old dream come true. After my wife has been inoculated, we’ll have to discuss—many things. This Elixir can be a great gift to civilization, to mankind. In my own case it will allow me to finish my researches, to solve the secret of gravitation, which I could not do in one lifetime. But certain problems would arise if the Elixir were given to the world. You can guess them.”

Vinson did not answer. His small eyes blazed with the dawning gleam of some staggering idea. York noticed the sudden stiffening of his body, spoke sharply.