Norman Spinrad - Bug Jack Barron

“No…” Barren whispered, for the look on Howards’ face told him in flaming letters a mile high that it was true. True!

Immortality he thought. Even the word doesn’t sound real. Forever! To really live forever. Never to die, to be young, and strong, and healthy for a million years. Explains where Bennie’s head’s at, shit for that a man would do just about anything. Just about…? And to think this perambulating pile of shit’s got it! Immortality! This motherfucker lives for the next million years, he’ll stink like the pile of shit he is, laughing for a million years while I rot in the ground we all rot and shit-eating Bennie goes on and on and on…

“I’m gonna buy you, Barren,” Howards said, reaching into his attache case. “Down to the soles of your feet, right now.” He pushed another Freeze Contract in triplicate across the desk at Barren. “That’s a very special contract,” he said, “first one of its kind. Just like the other one, but with one important difference—there’s a clause in there entitling you to any immortality treatment the Foundation shall develop at your own discretion. And we’ve got an immortality treatment now. Forever, Barron, forever. You give me a couple lousy years out of your life to put over my bill, elect me a President, and… sew things up, and I give you the next million years. Take it from the only man in the world who really knows, eight years ain’t even worth thinking about; it’s less than the blinking of an eye from where I stand. From where you stand…”

“Who do you think you are, Howards, the Devil?” And even as he said them, the words filled him with mortal dread he had never believed would ever be possible for him to feel. Funny word, he thought, devil. Cat with a long spiked tail knows the secret, the secret, everybody’s secret, everybody’s price, and got the bread to meet it too no matter what it is, and what you give him in return is a thing called a soul, immortal soul, ain’t it, supposed to be the biggest thing a man’s got to give. Immortal soul means like young and healthy and alive in paradise forever—price the Devil gets is the fee Howards gives. Devil, shit he’s just a busher; Bennie can outbid him anytime. Satan, watch out the Foundation don’t foreclose the mortgage!

“I take it back, Howards,” he said. “Beside you, the Devil’s on welfare. Just my name in ink on the dotted line? I don’t have to sign it in blood? Copies for me that I can keep in a very safe place? Not subject to cancellation, or exorcism?”

“A thousand copies if you want ’em, Barron, an ironclad contract even I couldn’t break. Yours, forever. All you gotta do is sign.”

Sara! Barron suddenly thought. “Sara?” he said. “My wife… same deal in her name too?”

Benedict Howards smiled a sulphur smile. “Why not? I can afford to be generous, in fact I can afford just about anything. Secret of my success, Barron: I can afford to destroy an enemy, and I can afford to give any man I want to buy anything he wants, including—if he comes that high and he’s worth it—eternal life. Come on, Barron, we both know you’re gonna do it. Sign on the dotted line.”

Barron fingered the contracts; his eyes fell on the pen sitting on his desk. He’s right, he thought. Immortality with Sara, forever, I’d be an idiot not to sign. He picked up the pen, and his eyes met the eyes of Benedict Howards. And saw Howards staring greedily at him like some monstrous mad toad. But behind the egomaniacal madness, he saw fear—fear as naked as Howards’ megalomania, an unguessable feral fear feeding his madness, giving it strength; he realized that Howards’ whole crazy power-drive was fueled on fear. And Benedict Howards was afraid of him.

Something’s rotten in Colorado, Barron knew for certain. With this in his pocket and fifty billion dollars, Bennie can buy anyone and everyone he needs. So why’s he need me so bad to pass some lousy bill when he can buy Congress, the President, and the fucking Supreme Court? And he does think he needs me, look at that hunger in those eyes? He’s after my bod because somehow he really needs it to fight whatever he’s afraid of. And if he’s afraid of it, and I’m supposed to be some kind of sacrificial front man, where’s that leave me?

“Before I sign,” Barron said (conceding to himself that he would), “would you mind telling me why, with this kind of action going, you think you need me?”

“I need public support,” Howards said, frantically earnest. “It’s the one thing I can’t buy directly. That’s why I need you, to sell immortality to that goddamned public of yours.”

“To sell immortality? You crazy? You need a salesman for immortality like you need a salesman for money.”

“That’s the point,” Howards said. “You see, we do have an immortality treatment, but it’s… it’s… very expensive. Maybe we can treat a thousand people a year at about a quarter million a throw, but that’s it, and it’ll be it for years, decades, maybe always. That’s what you’ve gotta sell, Barron—not immortality for everyone but immortality for a few, a select few—a few I select.”

Barron’s instant reaction was disgust, at Howards, at himself, even as he felt his second reaction—all questions now answered and the game was worth the candle. But his third reaction was caution—this was the biggest thing there ever was, and more dangerous than the H-bomb, get involved in that?

“This treatment,” he asked, “what is it?”

“That’s none of your business, and that’s final. It’s a Foundation secret, and it stays a Foundation secret no matter what,” Howards told him, and Barron was sure he had hit bottom, pushed Howards as far as he would ever go. “If… if that got out…” Howards mumbled, then caught Barron catching him and clamped his mouth tight shut.

But you don’t put one over on Jack Barron, Bennie! Shit, he’s willing to let out that immortality’s gonna be only for a few fat cats, and he thinks I can shove that down people’s throats, but he’s afraid to let anyone know what the treatment is. Must be some treatment! That’s what he’s scared of, and if it scares him… . What the hell could it be… his immortals all end up as Transylvanian vampires? Hell… maybe that’s not so funny. Immortality, sure, but what the hell’s he getting me into? But… but is there anything so rank it isn’t worth doing if you have to do it to live forever?

“I need time, Howards,” he said. “You can see that…”

“Jack Barron turning chicken?” Howards sneered. “I’ll give you time, I’ll give you twenty-four hours, not a minute more. I’m tired of talking; the only words I’ll listen to from you from here on in are ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”

And Jack Barron knew that the game was played out, the time for negotiation was over. And he had no idea of what his answer could possibly be.

The vidphone chime began to sound again. Sara Westerfeld walked barefooted over to the wall complex, reached for the phone, hesitated, then once again let it lapse into silence without answering it.

Still feels like this is strictly Jack’s pad, with me just hanging around, she thought, not our place, with me having as much right to move things around or answer the phone as he does. Phone keeps ringing, but would Jack want me to answer it? Who knows, might be more of this President thing… or even Howards. (No, Jack’s supposed to be seeing Howards himself now.)

Truth is, she thought, I still can’t start thinking again like Sara Barron. Sara Barron’d answer the phone if Jack wasn’t here, ’cause she’d know who she was, where she stood, where Jack stood, be able to react to anything. But Sara Westerfeld was still someone from the past, someone who didn’t know where she stood in Jack’s present world, didn’t even know the shape or limits of that world, and when she did, might or might not accept them, might or might not be able to make the quantum-jump back to being Sara Barron.