Norman Spinrad - Bug Jack Barron

“Aw,” said Don, “ bug Jack Barron. ”

Cool was the night breeze in Benedict Howards’ throat as he lay easily in the crisp white sheets of the hospital bed, snug and safe in the monolithic citadel that was the Rocky Mountain Freezer Complex. Out beyond the half-strength heat-curtain opening on to the balcony (they had screamed when he demanded to feel the breeze when he came out of it, and they told him it seemed to have worked, but no half-ass gaggle of quacks was going to give any lip to Benedict Howards) the mountains were vague shapes in the heavy darkness, and the stars were washed out by the muzzy twilight glow from the busy lights of the Freezer Complex, his Complex, his Complex, all of it now, and…

Forever?

He tasted Forever in the pine breeze that blew in from the mountains and from New York and Dallas and Los Angeles and Vegas and all the places where lesser men scurried for crumbs bug-like in the light; tasted Forever, lying calmed and warmed against the breeze by postoperative weakness in the sheets that he owned in the Complex he owned in the country where Senators and Governors and the President called him Mr Howards…

Tasted Forever in the memory of Palacci’s smug grin as he had said, “We know that it’s taken, Mr Howards, and we know that it should work. Forever, Mr Howards? Forever is a long time. We can’t know that it’s forever till it’s been forever, now, can we, Mr Howards? Five centuries, a millenium… who knows? Maybe you’ll have to settle for a million years. Think that will do, Mr Howards?”

And Howards had smiled and allowed the doctor his dumb little death-joke, allowed it, when he had broken bigger men for less because what the hell you couldn’t nurse every little dumb grudge like that for a million years, now, could you? Had to take the long view, get rid of excess baggage.

Forever? Howards thought. Really, this time I could smell it on the doctors’ sweat, see it in their fat little bonus smiles. The bastards think they’ve done it this time. Though they’d done it before. But this time I can taste it, I can feel it; I hurt in the right places.

Forever… Push it back forever, Howards thought. Fading black circle of light, big-eyed night nurses, daytime bitch with her plastic professional cheeriness back in the other sheets in the other hospital in the other year tube, wormlike, up his nose down his throat, in his guts, membranes clinging and sticking to polyethylene like a slug on a rock, with each shallow breath an effort not to choke, not to reach up with whatever left rip-gagging tube from nose-throat rip blood-drip needle from left arm, glucose solution from right; die clean like a man, clean like boyhood Panhandle plains, clear-cut knife-edge between life and death, not this pissing away of life juices in plastic, in glass, in tubes and retches enemas catheters needles nurses faded faggot vases of flowers…

But the circle of black light contracting, son of a bitch, no fading black circle of light snuffs out Benedict Howards! Buy the bastard, bluff him, con him, kill him! No dumb-ass wheel flipping to goddam Limey limousine gives lip to Benedict Howards. Hate the bastard, fight him, burn him out, buy him, bluff him, con him, kill him, open up the circle of black light… wider, wider. Hate tubes hate nurses hate needles sheets flowers. Show ’em! Show ’em all they don’t kill Benedict Howards.

“No one kills Benedict Howards! Howards found himself mouthing the words, the breeze now cold, warm weakness now gone, fight reflexes pounding his arteries, light cold sweat on his cheeks.

With a shudder Howards wrenched himself out of it. This was another hospital another year; life poured into him, sewn into him, nurtured in Deep Sleep, not leaking out in tubes and bottles. Yes, yes, you’re in control now. Paid your dues. No man should have to die twice, no man twice watching life leak away youth leak away blood leak away all leak away muscle torn to flab, balls to shriveled prunes, limbs to broomhandles, not Benedict Howards. Push it back, push it back for a million years. Push it back . . . forever.

Howards sighed, felt glands relaxing, gave himself over again to the pleasant, healthy warm weakness, knowing what it meant, warmth pushing back the cold, light opening the fading black circle, holding it open, pushing it open— forever.

Always a fight, thought Benedict Howards. Fight from Texas Panhandle to oil-money-power Dallas, Houston, LA, New York, where it all was action open oil leases land stocks electronics NASA, Lyndon Senators Governors, toadies… Mr Howards. Fight from quiet dry plains to quiet air-cooled arenas of power, quiet air-cooled women with skin untouched by sun by wind by armpit-sweat…

Fight from tube up nose down throat fading black circle to Foundation for Human Immortality, bodies frozen in liquid helium, voting assets liquid assets frozen with them in quiet dry helium-cooled vaults of power Foundation power my power money-power fear-power immortality power—power of life against death against fading black circle.

Fight from dry empty Panhandle-seared women lying in wrecked car blood trickling from mouth pain inside fading black circle, to this moment, the first moment of Forever.

Yeah, always a fight, thought Benedict Howards. Fight to escape, get, live. And now the big fight, fight to keep it all: money power, young fine-skinned women, Foundation, whole goddamned country, Senators, Governors, President, air-cooled places of power, Mr Howards. Forever, Mr Howards, forever.

Howards looked out the heat-curtained window, saw the busy lights of the Freezer Complex, Complexes in Colorado, New York, Cicero, Los Angeles, Oakland, Washington… Washington Monument, White House, the Capital, where they lay in wait, men against him, against his citadel against Foundation against Freezer Utility Bill against forever, men on the side of the fading black circle.

Little more than a year, thought Benedict Howards. Little more than a year till Democratic Convention—destroy Teddy the Pretender, Hennering for President, Foundation man, my man my country, Senators, Governors… President, Mr Howards. Month, two months, and they vote on the Utility Bill, win vote with power-money fear-power of life against death—then let the bastards find out how! Let ’em choose then. Sell out to life to Foundation to forever—or give themselves to the fading black circle. Power of life against death, and what senator, Governor, President chooses death, Mr Howards?

Howards’ eyes fell on the wall clock: 9:57, Mountain Time. Reflexively, his attention shifted to the tiny dormant screen of the vidphone (Mr Howards is not to be disturbed by anyone for anything tonight, not even Jack Barron) on the bedside table next to the small TV set. His stomach tightened with fear of the unknown, the random, exposure.

Just reflex action, Howards thought. Wednesday-night condition response. Nothing more. Jack Barron can’t get to me tonight. Strict orders, lines of retreat, back-up men. (’Mr Howards is on his yacht in the Gulf is in plane to Las Vegas duck hunting fishing in Canada, can’t be found, a hundred miles from the nearest vidphone, Mr Barron. Mr De Silva, Dr Bruce, Mr Yarborough will be happy to speak with you, Mr Barron. Fully authorized to speak for the Foundation, actually in more intimate contact with details than Mr Howards, Mr Barron. Mr De Silva, Dr Bruce, Mr Yarborough will tell you anything you want to know, Mr Barron.’) Jack Barron could not, would not be permitted to bug him on this first night of forever.

Just a dancing bear anyway, Benedict Howards told himself. Jack Barron, a bone to the masses the reliefers loafers, acid-dope-hux-freaks Mexes niggers. Useful valve on the pressure cooker. Image of power on a hundred million screens, image not reality, not money-power, fear-power, life-against-death power Senators, Governors, President, Mr Howards.