discourses on a sober and temperate life. by lewis cornaro, a noble venetian. wherein is demonstrated, by his own example, the method of preserving health to extreme old age. translated from the italian original. a new edition, corrected. london: printed for benjamin white, at horace's head, in fleet-street. m.dcc.lxxix. preface the author of the following discourses, lewis cornaro, was descended from one of the most illustrious families in venice, but by the ill conduct of some of his relations, had the misfortune to be deprived of the dignity of a nobleman, and excluded from all honours and public employments in the state. chagrined at this unmerited disgrace, he retired to padua, and married a lady of the family of spiltemberg, whose name was veronica. being in possession of a good estate, he was very desirous of having children; and after a long expectation of this happiness, his wife was delivered of a daughter, to whom he gave the name of clara. this was his only child, who afterwards was married to john, the son of fantini cornaro, of a rich family in cyprus, while that island belonged to the republic of venice. though he was far advanced in life when his daughter clara came into the world, yet he lived to see her very old, and the mother of eight sons and three daughters. he was a man of sound understanding, determined courage and resolution. in his younger days, he had contracted infirmities by intemperance, and by indulging his too great propensity to anger; but when he perceived the ill consequence of his irregularities, he had command enough of himself to subdue his passion and inordinate appetites. by means of great sobriety, and a strict regimen in his diet, he recovered his health and vigour, which he preserved to an extreme old age. at a very advanced stage of life he wrote the following discourses, wherein he acquaints us with the irregularity of his youth, his reformation of manners, and the hopes he entertained of living a long time. nor was he mistaken in his expectation, for he resigned his last breath without any agony, sitting in an elbow chair, being above an hundred years old. this happened at padua, the th of april, . his lady, almost as old as himself, survived him but a short time, and died an early death. they were both interred in st. anthony's church, without pomp, pursuant to their testamentary directions. these discourses, though written in cornaro's old age, were penned at different times, and published separately: the first, which he wrote at the age of eighty-three, is intitled, a treatise on a sober life, in which he declares war against every kind of intemperance; and his vigorous old age speaks in favour of his precepts. the second treatise he composed at the age of eighty-six: it contains farther encomiums on sobriety, and points out the means of mending a bad constitution. he says, that he came into the world with a choleric disposition, but that his temperate way of life had enabled him to subdue it. the third, which he wrote at the age of ninety-one, is intitled, an earnest exhortation to a sober life; here he uses the strongest arguments to persuade mankind to embrace a temperate life, as the means of attaining a healthy and vigorous old age. the fourth and last, is a letter to barbaro, patriarch of aquileia, written at the age of ninety-five; it contains a lively description of the healthy, vigour, and perfect use of all his faculties, which he had the happiness of enjoying at that advanced period of life. this useful work was translated some years ago into english, under the title of _sure and certain methods of attaining a long and healthy life_. the translator seems rather to have made use of a french version than of the italian original; he has likewise omitted several passages of the italian, and the whole is rather a paraphrase than a translation. this has induced us to give the public an exact and faithful version of that excellent performance, from the venice edition in vo, in the year [ ]: and as a proof of the merit and authenticity of the work, we beg leave to quote mr. addison's recommendation of it, spectator, vol. iii, no . "the most remarkable instance of the efficacy of temperance, towards the procuring long life, is what we meet with in a little book published by _lewis cornaro,_ the _venetian;_ which i rather mention, because it is of undoubted credit, as the late _venetian_ ambassador, who was of the same family, attested more than once in conversation, when he resided in _england_. _cornaro,_ who was the author of the little treatise i am mentioning, was of an infirm constitution, till about forty, when, by obstinately persisting in an exact course of temperance, he recovered a perfect state of health; insomuch that at fourscore he published his book, which has been translated into _english_ under the title of, _sure and certain methods of attaining a long and healthy life_. he lived to give a third or fourth edition of it, and after having passed his hundredth year, died without pain or agony, and like one who falls asleep. the treatise i mention has been taken notice of by several eminent authors, and is written with such spirit of chearfulness, religion, and good sense, as are the natural concomitants of temperance and sobriety. the mixture of the old man in it, is rather a recommendation than a discredit to it." [ ] the first edition was published by the author at padua, in to, a.d. . a treatise on a sober life it is a thing past all doubt, that custom, by time, becomes a second nature, forcing men to use that, whether good or bad, to which they have been habituated: nay, we see habit, in many things, get the better of reason. this is so undeniably true, that virtuous men, by conversing with the wicked, very often fall into the same vicious course of life. the contrary, likewise, we see sometimes happen; viz. that, as good morals easily change to bad, so bad morals change again to good. for instance: let a wicked man, who was once virtuous, keep company with a virtuous man, and he will again become virtuous; and this alteration can be attributed to nothing but the force of habit, which is, indeed, very great. seeing many examples of this; and besides, considering that, in consequence of this great force of habit, three bad customs have got footing in italy within a few years, even within my own memory; the first flattery and ceremoniousness: the second lutheranism [ ], which some have most preposterously embraced; the third intemperance; and that these three vices, like so many cruel monsters, leagued, as indeed they are, against mankind, have gradually prevailed so far, as to rob civil life of its sincerity, the soul of its piety, and the body of its health; i have resolved to treat of the last of these vices, and prove that it is an abuse, in order to extirpate it, if possible. as to the second, lutheranism, and the first, flattery, i am certain, that some great genius or another will soon undertake the task of exposing their deformity, and effectually suppressing them. therefore, i firmly hope, that, before i die, i shall see these three abuses conquered and driven out of italy; and this country of course restored to its former laudable and virtuous customs. [ ] the author writes with the prejudice of a zealous roman catholic against the doctrine of the reformation, which he here distinguishes by the name of lutheranism. this was owing to the artifices of the romish clergy in those days, by whom the reformed religion was misinterpreted, as introductive of licentiousness and debauchery. to come then to that abuse, of which i am proposed to speak, namely, intemperance; i say, that it is a great pity it should have prevailed so much, as entirely to banish sobriety. though all are agreed, that intemperance is the offspring of gluttony, and sober living of abstemiousness; the former, nevertheless, is considered a virtue and a mark of distinction, and the latter, as dishonourable and the badge of avarice. such mistaken notions are entirely owing to the power of custom, established by our senses and irregular appetites; these have blinded and besotted men to such a degree, that, leaving the paths of virtue, they have followed those of vice, which lead them before their time to an old age, burthened with strange and mortal infirmities, so as to render them quite decrepid before forty, contrary to the effects of sobriety, which, before it was banished by this destructive intemperance, used to keep men sound and hearty to the age of eighty and upwards. o wretched and unhappy italy! do you not see, that intemperance murders every year more of your subjects, than you could lose by the most cruel plague, or by fire and sword in many battles? those truly shameful feasts, no so much in fashion, and so intolerably profuse, that no tables are large enough to hold the dishes, which renders it necessary to heap them one upon another; those feasts, i say, are so many battles; and how is it possible to support nature by such a variety of contrary and unwholesome foods? put a stop to this abuse, for god's sake, for there is not, i am certain of it, a vice more abominable than this in the eyes of the divine majesty. drive away this new kind of death, and you have banished the plague, which, though it formerly used to make such havock, now does little or no mischief, owing to the laudable practice of attending more to the goodness of the provisions brought to our markets. there are means still left to banish intemperance, and such means too, that every man may have recourse to them without any assistance. nothing more is requisite for this purpose, than to live up to the simplicity dictated by nature, which teaches us to be content with little, to pursue the medium of holy abstemiousness and divine reason, and to accustom ourselves to eat no more than is absolutely necessary to support life; considering, that what exceeds this, is disease and death, and merely gives the palate satisfaction, which, though but momentary, brings on the body a long and lasting train of disagreeable sensations and diseases, and at length destroys it along with the soul. how many friends of mine, men of the finest understanding and most amiable disposition, have i seen carried off by this plague in the flower of their youth? who, where they now living, would be an ornament to the public, whose company i should enjoy with as much pleasure, as i now feel concern at their loss. in order, therefore, to put a stop to so great an evil, i have resolved by this short discourse to demonstrate, that intemperance is an abuse which may be easily removed, and that the good old sober living may be substituted in its stead; and this i undertake more readily, as many young men of the best understanding, knowing that it is a vice, have requested it of me, moved thereto by seeing their fathers drop off in the flower of their youth, and me so sound and hearty at the age of eighty-one. they expressed a desire to reach the same term, nature not forbidding us to wish for longevity; and old-age being, in fact, that time of life in which prudence can be best exercised, and the fruits of all the other virtues enjoyed with less opposition, the passions being then so subdued, that man gives himself up entirely to reason. they beseeched me to let them know the method pursued by me to attain it; and then finding them intent on so laudable a pursuit, i have resolved to treat of that method, in order to be of service not only to them, but to all those who may be willing to peruse this discourse. i shall, therefore, give my reasons for renouncing intemperance, and betaking myself to a sober course of life; declare freely the method pursued by me for that purpose; and then set forth the effects of so good an habit upon me; whence it may be clearly gathered, how easy it is to remove the abuse of intemperance. i shall conclude, by shewing how many conveniencies and blessings are the consequences of a sober life. i say then, that the heavy train of infirmities, which had not only invaded, but even made great inroads in my constitution, were my motives for renouncing intemperance, to which i had been greatly addicted; so that, in consequence of it, and the badness of my constitution, my stomach being exceedingly cold and moist, i was fallen into different kinds of disorders, such as pains in my stomach, and often stitches, and spices of the gout; attended by, what was still worse, an almost continual slow fever, a stomach generally out of order, and a perpetual thirst. from these natural and acquired disorders the best delivery i had to hope for, was death, to put an end to the pains and miseries of life; a period very remote in the regular course of nature, though i had hastened it by my irregular manner of living. finding myself, therefore, in such unhappy circumstances between my thirty-fifth and fortieth year, every thing that could be thought of having been tried to no purpose to relieve me, the physicians gave me to understand, that there was but one method left to get the better of my complaints, provided i would resolve to use it, and patiently persevere in it. this was a sober and regular life, which the assured me would be still of the greatest service to me, and would be as powerful in its effects, as the intemperance and irregular one had been, in reducing me to the present low condition: and that i might be fully satisfied of its salutary effects, for though by my irregularities i was become infirm, i was not reduced so low, but that a temperate life, the opposite in every respect to an intemperate one, might still entirely recover me. and besides, it in fact appears, such a regular life, whilst observed, preserves men of a bad constitution, and far gone in years, just as a contrary course has the power to destroy those of the best constitution, and in their prime; for this plain reason, that different modes of life are attended by different effects; art following, even herein, the steps of nature, with equal power to correct natural vices and imperfections. this is obvious in husbandry and the like. they added, that if i did not immediately have recourse to such a regimen, i could receive no benefit from it in a few months, and that in a few more i must resign myself to death. these solid and convincing arguments made such an impression on me, that, mortified as i was besides, by the thoughts of dying in the prime of life, and at the same time perpetually tormented by various diseases, i immediately concluded, that the foregoing contrary effects could not be produced but by contrary modes of living; and, therefore, full of hopes, resolved, in order to avoid at once both death and disease, to betake myself to a regular course of life. having, upon this, enquired of them what rules i should follow, they told me, that i must not use any food, solid or liquid, but such as, being generally prescribed to sick persons, is, for that reason, called diet, and both very sparingly. these directions, to say the truth, they had before given me; but it was at a time of life when, impatient of such restraint, and finding myself satiated, as it were, with such food, i could not put up with it, and therefore eat freely of every thing i liked best; and likewise, feeling myself in a manner parched up by the heat of my disease, made no scruple of drinking, and in large quantities, the wines that best pleased my palate. this indeed, like all other patients, i kept a secret from my physicians. but, when i had once resolved to live sparingly, and according to the dictates of reason, seeing that is was no difficult matter, nay, that it was my duty as a man so to do, i entered with so much resolution upon this new course of life, that nothing has been since able to divert me from it. the consequence was, that in a few days i began to perceive, that such a course agreed with me very well; and by pursuing it, in less than a year, i found myself (some persons, perhaps, will not believe it) entirely freed from all my complaints. having thus recovered my health, i began seriously to consider the power of temperance, and say to myself, that if this virtue had efficacy enough to subdue such grievous disorders as mine, it must have still greater to preserve me in health, to help my bad constitution, and comfort my very weak stomach. i therefore applied myself diligently to discover what kinds of food suited me best. but, first, i resolved to try, whether those, which pleased my palate, agreed or disagreed with my stomach, in order to judge for myself of the truth of that proverb, which i once held true, and is universally held as such in the highest degree, insomuch that epicures, who give a loose to their appetites, lay it down as a fundamental maxim. this proverb is, that whatever pleases the palate, must agree with the stomach, and nourish the body; or whatever is palatable must be equally wholesome and nourishing. the issue was, that i found it to be false: for, though rough and very cold wines, as likewise melons and other fruits, sallad, fish and pork, tarts, garden-stuff, pastry, and the like, were very pleasing to my palate, the disagreed with me notwithstanding. having convinced myself, that the proverb in question was false, i look'd upon it as such; and, taught by experience, i gave over the use of such meats and wines, and likewise of ice; chose wine suited to my stomach, drinking of it but the quantity i knew i could digest. i did the same by my meat, as well in regard to quantity as to quality, accustoming myself never to cloy my stomach with eating or drinking; but constantly rise from table with a disposition to eat and drink still more. in this i conformed to the proverb, which says, that a man, to consult his health, must check his appetite. having in this manner, and for these reasons, conquered intemperance and irregularity, i betook myself intirely to a temperate and regular life: which effected in me the alteration already mentioned, that is, in less than a year it rid me of all those disorders, which had taken so deep a root in me; nay, as i have already observed, had made such a progress, as to be in a manner incurable. it had likewise this other good effect, that i no longer experienced those annual fits of sickness, with which i used to be afflicted, while i followed a different, that is a sensual, course of life; for then i used to be attacked every year with a strange kind of fever, which sometimes brought me to death's door. from this disease, then, i also freed myself, and became exceeding healthy, as i have continued from that time forward to this very day; and for no other reason than that i never trespassed against regularity, which by its infinite efficacy has been the cause, that the meat i constantly eat, and the wine i constantly drink, being such as agreed with my constitution, and taken in proper quantities, imparted all their virtue to my body, and then left it without difficulty, and without engendering in it any bad humours. in consequence therfore of my taking such methods, i have always enjoyed, and (god be praised) actually enjoy, the best of healths. it is true, indeed, that, besides the two forgoing most important rules relative to eating and drinking, which i have ever been very scrupulous to observe; that is, not to take of any thing, but as much as my stomach can easily digest, and to use those things only, which agree with me; i have carefully avoided heat, cold, and extraordinary fatigue, interruption of my usual hours of rest, excessive venery, making any stay in bad air, and exposing myself to the wind and sun; for these, too, are great disorders. but then, fortunately, there is no great difficulty in avoiding them, the love of life and health having more sway over men of understanding, than any satisfaction they could find in doing what must be extremely hurtful to their constitution. i have likewise done all that lay in my power to avoid those evils, which we do not find so easy to remove; these are melancholy, hatred, and other violent passions, which appear to have the greatest influence over our bodies. however, i have not been able to guard so well against either one or the other kind of these disorders, as not to suffer myself now and then to be hurried away by many, not to say, all of them; but i have reaped the benefit of knowing by experience that these passions have, in the main, no great influence over bodies governed by the two foregoing rules of eating and drinking, and therefore can do them but very little harm; so that it may with great truth be affirmed, that whoever observes these two capital rules, is liable to very little inconveniency from any other excesses. this, galen, who was an eminent physician, observed before me. he affirms, that so long as he followed these rules relative to eating and drinking, he suffered but little from other disorders, so little, that they never gave him above a day's uneasiness. that what he says is true, i am a living witness, and so are many others, who know me, and have seen, how often i have been exposed to heats and colds, and such other disagreeable changes of weather; and have, likewise, seen me (owing to various misfortunes, which have more than once befallen me) greatly disturbed my mind. for they can not only say of me, that such disturbance of mind has done me very little harm, but they can aver of many others, who did not lead a sober and regular life, that it proved very prejudicial to them, amongst whom was a brother of my own, and others of my family, who trusting to the goodness of their constitution, did not follow my way of living. the consequence hereof was a great misfortune to them, the perturbations of the mind having thereby acquired an extraordinary influence over their bodies. such, in a word, was their grief and dejection at seeing me involved in expensive law-suits, commenced against my by great and powerful men, that, fearing i should be cast, they were seized with that melancholy humour, with which intemperate bodies always abound; and these humours had such an influence over them, and increased to such a degree, as to carry them off before their time; whereas i suffered nothing on the occasion, as i had in me no superfluous humours of that kind. nay, in order to keep up my spirits, i brought myself to think, that god had raised up these suits against me, in order to make me more sensible of my strength of body and mind; and that i should get the better of them with honour and advantage, as it, in fact, came to pass: for, at last, i obtained a decree exceeding favourable to my fortune and my character, which, though it gave me the highest pleasure, had not the power to do me any harm in other respects. thus it is plain, that neither melancholy nor any other affection of the mind can hurt bodies governed with temperance and regularity. but i must go a step further, and say, that even misfortunes themselves can do but very little mischief, or cause but very little pain, to such bodies; and that this is true, i have myself experienced at the age of seventy. i happened, as is often the case, to be in a coach, which going at a pretty smart rate, was overset, and in that condition drawn a considerable way by the horses, before means could be found to stop them; whence i received so many shocks and bruises, that i was taken out with my head and all the rest of my body terribly battered, and a dislocated leg and arm. when i was brought home, the family immediately sent for the physicians, who, on their arrival, seeing me in so bad a plight, concluded, that within three days i should die; nevertheless, they would try what good two things would do me; one was to bleed me, the other to purge me; and thereby prevent my humours altering, as they every moment expected, to such a degree, as to ferment greatly, and bring on a high fever. but i, on the contrary, who knew, that the sober life i had led for many years past, had so well united, harmonized, and disposed my humours, as not to leave it in their power to ferment to such a degree, refused to be either bled, or purged. i just caused my leg and arm to be set, an suffered myself to be rubbed with some oils, which they said were proper on the occasion. thus, without using any other kind of remedy, i recovered, as i thought i should, without feeling the least alteration in myself, or any other bad effects from the accident; a thing, which appeared miraculous even in the eyes of the physicians. hence we are to infer, that whoever leads a sober and regular life, and commits no excess in his diet, can suffer but very little from disorders of any other kind, or external accidents. on the contrary, i conclude, especially from the late trial i have had, that excesses in eating and drinking are fatal. of this i convinced myself four years ago, when by the advice of my physicians, the instigation of my friends, and the importunity of my own family, i consented to such an excess, which, as it will appear hereafter, was attended with far worse consequences, than could naturally be expected. this excess consisted in increasing the quantity of food i generally made use of; which increase alone brought me to a most cruel fit of sickness. and as it is a case so much in point to the subject in hand, and the knowledge of it may be useful to some of my readers, i shall take the trouble to relate it. i say, then, that my dearest friends and relations, actuated by the warm and laudable affection and regard they have for me, seeing how little i eat, represented to me, in conjunction with my physicians, that the sustenance i took could not be sufficient to support one so far advanced in years, when it was become necessary not only to preserve nature, but to increase its vigour. that, as this could not be done without food, it was absolutely incumbent upon me to eat a little more plentifully. i, on the other hand, produced my reasons for not complying with their desires. these were, that nature is content with little, and that with this little i had preserved myself so many years; and that, to me, the habit of it was become a second nature; and that it was more agreeable to reason, that, as i advanced in years and lost my strength, i should rather lessen than increase the quantity of my food: farther, that it was but natural to think, that the powers of the stomach grew weaker from day to day; on which account i could see no reason to make such an addition. to corroborate my arguments, i alleged that those two natural and very true proverbs; one, that he, who has a mind to eat a great deal, must eat but little; which is said for no other reason than this, that eating little makes a man live very long, and living very long he must eat a great deal. the other proverb was, that what we leave after making a hearty meal, does us more good than what we have eat. but neither these proverbs, nor any other arguments i could think of, were able to prevent their teazing me more than ever. wherefore, not to appear obstinate, or affect to know more than the physicians themselves; but, above all, to please my family, who very earnestly desired it, from a persuasion that such an addition to my usual allowance would preserve my strength, i consented to increase the quantity of food, but with two ounces only. so that, as before, what with bread, meat, the yolk of an egg, and soup, i eat as much, as weighed in all twelve ounces, neither more nor less, i now increased it to fourteen; and as before i drank but fourteen ounces of wine, i now increased it to sixteen. this increase and irregularity, had, in eight days time, such an effect upon me, that, from being chearful and brisk, i began to be peevish and melancholy, so that nothing could please me; and was constantly so strangely disposed, that i neither knew what to say to others, nor what to do with myself. on the twelfth day, i was attacked with a most violent pain in my side, which held me twenty-two hours, and was succeeded by a terrible fever, which continued thirty-five days and as many nights, without giving me a moment's respite; though, to say the truth, it began to abate gradually on the fifteenth. but notwithstanding such abatement, i could not, during the whole time, sleep half a quarter of an hour together, insomuch that every one looked upon me as a dead man. but, god be praised, i recovered merely by my former regular course of life, though then in my seventy-eighth year, and in the coldest season of a very cold year, and reduced to a mere skeleton; and i am positive that it was the great regularity i had observed for so many years, and that only, which rescued me from the jaws of death. in all that time i never knew what sickness was, unless i may call by that same name some slight indispositions of a day or two's continuance; the regular life i had led, as i have already taken notice, for so many years, not having permitted any superfluous or bad humours to breed in me; or if they did, to acquire such strength and malignity, a they generally acquire in the superannuated bodies of those, who live without rule. and as there was not any old malignity in my humours (which is the thing that kills people) but only that, which my new irregularity had occasioned, this fit of sickness, though exceeding violent, had not the strength to destroy me. this it was, and nothing else, that saved my life; whence may be gathered, how great is the power and efficacy of regularity; and how great, likewise, is that of irregularity, which in a few days could bring on me so terrible a fit of sickness, just as regularity had preserved me in health for so many years. and it appears to me a no weak argument, that, since the world, consisting of the four elements, is upheld by order; and our life, as to the body, is no other than a harmonious combination of the same four elements, so it should be preserved and maintained by the very same order; and, on the other hand, it must be worn out by sickness, or destroyed by death, which are produced by the contrary effects. by order the arts are more easily learned; by order armies are rendered victorious; by order, in a word, families, cities, and even states are maintained. hence i concluded, that orderly living is no other than a most certain cause and foundation of health and long life; nay i cannot help saying, that it is the only and true medicine; and whoever weighs the matter well, must also conclude, that this is really the case. hence it is, that when a physician comes to visit a patient, the first thing he prescribes, is to live regularly. in like manner, when a physician takes leave of a patient, on his being recovered, he advises him, as he tenders his health, to lead a regular life. and it is not to be doubted, that, were a patient so recovered to live in that manner, he could never be sick again, as it removes every cause of illness; and so, for the future, would never want either physician or physic. nay, by attending duly to what i have said, he would become his own physician, and, indeed, the best he could have; since, in fact, no many can be a perfect physician to any one but himself. the reason of which is, that any man may, by repeated trials, acquire a perfect knowledge of his own constitution, and the most hidden qualities of his body; and what wine and food agree with his stomach. now, it is so far from being an easy matter to know these things perfectly of another, that we cannot without much trouble discover them in ourselves, since a great deal of time and repeated trials are requisite for the purpose. these trials are, indeed, (if i may say it) more than necessary, as there is a greater variety in the natures and constitutions of different men, than in their persons. who could believe, that old wine, wine that had passed its first year, should disagree with my stomach, and new wine agree with it? and that pepper, which is looked upon as a warm spice, should not have a warm effect upon me, insomuch that i find myself more warmed and comforted by cinnamon? where is the physician, that could have informed me of these two latent qualities, since i myself, even by a long course of observation, could scarce discover them? from all these reasons it follows, that it is impossible to be a perfect physician to another. since, therefore, a man cannot have a better physician than himself, nor any physic better than a regular life, a regular life he ought to embrace. i do not, however, mean, that, for the knowledge and cure of such disorders, as often befall those who do not live regularly, there is no occasion for a physician, and that his assistance ought to be slighted. for, if we are apt to receive such great comfort from friends, who come to visit us in our illness, though they do no more than testify their concern for us, and bid us be of good cheer; how much more regard ought we to have for the physician, who is a friend that comes to see us in order to relieve us, and promises us a cure? but for the bare purpose of keeping ourselves in good health, i am of the opinion, that we should consider as a physician this regular life, which, as we have seen, is our natural and proper physic, since it preserves men, even those of a bad constitution, in health; makes them live sound and hearty to the age of one hundred and upwards; and prevents their dying of sickness, or through a corruption of their humours, but merely by a dissolution of their radical moisture, when quite exhausted; all which effects several wise men have attributed to potable gold, and the elixir, sought for by many, but discovered by few. however to confess the truth, men, for the most part, are very sensual and intemperate, and love to satisfy their appetites, and to commit every excess; therefore, seeing that they cannot avoid being greatly injured by such excess, as often as they are guilty of it, they, by way of apologizing for their conduct, say, that it is better to live ten years less, and enjoy themselves; not considering, of what importance are ten years more of life, especially a healthy life, and at a maturer age; when men become sensible of their progress in knowledge and virtue, which cannot attain to any degree of perfection before this period of life. not to speak, at present, of many other advantages, i shall barely mention that in regard to letters and the sciences; far the greatest number of the best and most celebrated books extant, were written during that period of life, and those ten years, which some make it their business to undervalue, in order to give a loose to their appetites. be that as it will, i would not act like them. i rather coveted to live these ten years, and, had i not done so, i should never have finished those tracts, which i have composed in consequence of my having been sound and hearty these ten years past; and which i have the pleasure to think will be of service to others. these sensualists add, that a regular life is such as no man can lead. to this i answer, galen, who was so great a physician, led such a life, and chose it as the best physic. the same did plato, cicero, isocrates, and many other great men of former times; whom, not to tire the reader, i shall forbear naming: and, in our own days, pope paul farnese led it, and cardinal bembo; and it was for that reason they lived so long; likewise our two doges, lando and donato; besides many others of meaner condition, and those who live not only in cities, but also in different parts of the country, who all found great benefit by conforming to this regularity. therefore, since many have led this life, and many actually lead it, it is not such a life but that every one may conform to it; and the more so, as no great difficulty attends it; nothing, indeed, being requisite but to begin in good earnest, as the above-mentioned cicero affirms, and all those who now live in this manner. plato, you will say, though he himself lived very regularly, affirms, notwithstanding, that, in republics, men cannot do so, being often obligated to expose themselves to heat, cold, and several other kinds of hardship, and other things, which are all so many disorders, and incompatable with a regular life. i answer, as i have already observed, that these are not disorders attended with any bad consequence, or which affect either health or life, when the man, who undergoes them, observes the rules of sobriety, and commits no excess in the two points concerning diet, which a republican may very well avoid, nay it is requisite he should avoid; because, by so doing, he may be sure either to escape those disorders, which, otherwise, it would be no easy matter for him to escape while exposed to these hardships; or, in case he could not escape them, he may more easily and speedily prevent their bad effects. here it may be objected, and some actually object, that he, who leads a regular life, having constantly, when well, made use of food fit for the sick, and in small quantities, has no resource left in case of illness. to this i might, in the first place, answer, that nature, desirous to preserve man in good health as long as possible, informs him, herself, how he is to act in time of illness; for she immediately deprives him, when sick, of his appetite, in order that he may eat but little; because nature (as i have said already) is satisfied with little; wherefore, it is requisite, that a man, when sick, whether he has been a regular or irregular liver, should use no meats, but such as are suited to his disorder; and of these even in a much smaller quantity than he was wont to do, when in health. for were he to eat as much as he used to do, he would die by it; because it would be only adding to the burden, with which nature was already oppressed, by giving her a greater quantity of food, than she can in such circumstances support; and this, i imagine, would be a sufficient caution to any sick person. but, independent of all this, i might answer some others, and still better, that whoever leads a regular life, cannot be sick; or, at least, but seldom, and for a short time; because, by living regularly, he extirpates every seed of sickness; and thus, by removing the cause, prevents the effect; so that he, who pursues a regular course of life, need not be apprehensive of illness, as he need not be afraid of the effect, who has guarded against the cause. since it therefore appears that a regular life is so profitable and virtuous, so lovely and so holy, it ought to be universally followed and embraced; and more so, as it does not clash with the means or duties of any station, but is easy to all; because, to lead it, a man need not tie himself down to eat so little as i do, or not to eat fruit, fish, and other things of that kind, from which i abstain, who eat little, because it is sufficient for my puny and weak stomach; and fruit, fish, and other things of that kind, disagree with me, which is my reason for not touching them. those, however, with whom such things agree, may, and ought to eat of them; since they are not by any means forbid the use use of such sustinance. but, then, both they, and all others, are forbid to eat a greater quantity of any kind of food, even of that which agrees with them, than what their stomachs can easily digest; the same is to be understood of drink. hence it is that those, with whom nothing disagrees, are not bound to observe any rule but that relating to the quantity, and not to the quality, of their food; a rule which they may, without the least difficulty in the world, comply with. let nobody tell me, that there are numbers, who, though they live most irregularly, live in health and spirits, to those remote periods of life, attained by the most sober; for, this argument being grounded on a case full of uncertainty and hazard, and which, besides, so seldom occurs, as to look more like a miracle than the work of nature, men should not suffer themselves to be thereby persuaded to live irregularly, nature having been too liberal to those, who did so without suffering by it; a favour, which very few have any right to expect. whoever, trusting to his youth, or the strength of his constitution, or the goodness of his stomach, slights these observations, must expect to suffer greatly by so doing, and live in constant danger of disease and death. i therefore affirm, that an old man, even of a bad constitution, who leads a regular and sober life, is surer of a long one, than a young man of the best constitution, who leads a disorderly life. it is not to be doubted, however, that a man blessed with a good constitution may, by living temperately, expect to live longer than one, whose constitution is not so good; and that god and nature can dispose matters so, that a man shall bring into the world with him so sound a constitution, as to live long and healthy, without observing such strick rules; and then die in a very advanced age through a mere dissolution of his elementary parts; as was the case, in venice, of the procurator thomas contarini; and in padua, of the cavalier antonio capo di vacca. but it is not one man in a hundred thousand, that so much can be said of. if others have a mind to live long and healthy, and die without sickness of body or mind, but by mere dissolution, they must submit to live regularly, since the cannot otherwise expect to enjoy the fruits of such a life, which are almost infinite in number, and each of them, in particular, of infinite value. for, as such regularity keeps the humours of the body cleansed and purified; it suffers no vapors to ascend from the stomach to the head; hence the brain of him, who lives in that manner, enjoys such a constant serenity, that he is always perfectly master of himself. he, therefore, easily soars above the low and groveling concerns of this life, to the exalted and beautiful contemplation of heavenly things, to his exceeding great comfort and satisfaction; because he, by this means, comes to consider, know, and understand that, which otherwise he would never have considered, known, or understood; that is, how great is the power, wisdom, and goodness of the deity. he then descends into nature, and acknowledges her for the daughter of god; and sees, and even feels with his hands, that, which in any other age, or with a perception less clear, he could never have seen or felt. he then truly discerns the brutality of that vice into which they fall, who know not how to subdue their passions, and those three importunate lusts, which, one would imagine, came all together into the world with us, in order to keep us in perpetual anxiety and disturbance. these are, the lust of the flesh, the lust of honours, and the lust of riches; which are apt to increase with years in such old persons as do not lead a regular life; because, in their passage through the stage of manhood, they did not, as they ought, renounce sensuality and their passions; and take up with sobriety and reason; virtues which men of a regular life, did not neglect when they passed through the above-mentioned stage. for, knowing such passions are such lusts to be inconsistent with reason, by which they are entirely governed; they, at once, broke loose from all temptations to vice; and, instead of being slaves to their inordinate appetites, they applied themselves to virtue and good works; and by these means, they altered their conduct, and became men of good and sober lives. when, therefore, in process of time, they see themselves brought by a long series of years to their dissolution, conscious that, through the singular mercy of god, they had so sincerely relinquished the paths of vice, as never afterwards to enter them; and moreover hoping, through the merits of our saviour jesus christ, to die in his favour, they do not suffer themselves to be cast down at the thoughts of death, knowing that they must die. this is particularly the case, when, loaded with honour, and sated with life, they see themselves arrived at that age, which not one in many thousands of those, who live otherwise, ever attains. they have still the greater reason not to be dejected at the thoughts of death, as it does not attack them violently and by surprize, with a bitter and painful turn of their humours, with feverish sensations, and sharp pains, but steals upon them insensibly and with the greatest ease and gentleness; such an end, proceeding intirely from an exhaustion of the radical moisture, which decays by degrees like the oil of a lamp; so that they pass gently, without any sickness, from this terrestrial and mortal to a celestial and eternal life. o holy and truly happy regularity! how holy and happy should men, in fact, deem thee, since the opposite habit is the cause of such guilt and misery, as evidently appears to those who consider the opposite effects of both! so that men should know thee by thy voice alone, and thy lovely name; for what a glorious name, what a noble thing, is an orderly and sober life! as, on the contrary, the bare mention of disorder and intemperance is offensive to our ears. nay, there is the same difference between the mentioning these two things, as between the uttering of the words angel and devil. thus i have assigned my reasons for abandoning intemperance, and betaking myself intirely to a sober life; with the method i pursued in doing so, and what was the consequence of it; and, finally, the advantages an blessings, which a sober life confers upon those who embrace it. some sensual, inconsiderate persons affirm, that a long life is no blessing; and that the state of a man, who has passed his seventy-fifth year, cannot really be called life, but death: but this is a great mistake, as i shall fully prove; and it is my sincere wish, that all men would endeavour to attain my old age, in order that they too may enjoy that period of life, which of all others is the most desirable. i will therefore give an account of my recreations, and the relish which i find at this stage of life, in order to convince the public (which may likewise be done by all those who know me) that the state i have now attained to is by no means death, but real life; such a life, as by many is deemed happy, since it abounds with all the felicity that can be enjoyed in this world. and this testimony they will give, in the first place, because they see, and not without the greatest amazement, the good state of health and spirits i enjoy; how i mount my horse without any assistance, or advantage of situation; and how i not only ascend a single flight of stairs, but climb up an hill from bottom to top, afoot, and with the greatest of ease and unconcern; then how gay, pleasant, and good-humoured i am; how free from every perturbation of mind, and every disagreeable thought; in lieu of which, joy and peace have so firmly fixed their residence in my bosom, as never to depart from it. moreover, they know in what manner i pass my time, so as not to find life a burden; seeing i can contrive to spend every hour of it with the greatest delight and pleasure, having frequent opportunities of conversing with many honourable gentlemen, men valuable for their good sense and manners, their acquaintance with letters, and every other good quality. then, when i cannot enjoy their conversation, i betake myself to the reading of some good book. when i have read as much as i like, i write; endeavouring, in this as in everything else, to be of service to others, to the utmost of my power. and all these things i do with the greatest ease to myself, at their proper seasons, and in my own house; which, besides being situated in the most beautiful quarter of this noble and learned city of padua, is, in itself, really convenient and handsome, such, in a word, as it is no longer the fashion to build; for, in one part of it, i can shelter myself from extreme heat; and, in the other, from extreme cold, having contrived the apartments according to the rules of architecture, which teach us what is to be observed in practice. besides this house, i have my several gardens, supplied with running waters; and in which i always find something to do, that amuses me. i have another way of diverting myself, which is going every april and may; and, likewise, every september and october, for some days, to enjoy an eminence belonging to me in the euganean mountains, and in the most beautiful part of them, adorned with fountains and gardens; and, above all, a convenient and handsome lodge; in which place i likewise now and then make one in some hunting party suitable to my taste and age. then i enjoy for as many days my villa in the plain, which is laid out in regular streets, all terminating in a large square, in the middle of which stands a church, suited to the condition of the place. this villa is divided by a wide and rapid branch of the river brenta, on both sides of which there is a considerable extent of country, consisting intirely of fertile and well-cultivated fields. besides, this district is now, god be praised, exceedingly well inhabited, which it was not at first, but rather the reverse; for it was marshy; and the air so unwholesome, as to make it a residence fitter for snakes than men. but, on my draining off the waters, the air mended, and people resorted to it so fast, and increased to such a degree, that it soon acquired the perfection in which it now appears: hence, i may say with truth, that i have offered this place, an alter and a temple to god, with souls to adore him: these are things which afford me infinite pleasure, comfort, and satisfaction, as often as i go to see and enjoy them. at the same seasons every year, i revisit some of the neighbouring cities, and enjoy such of my friends as live there, taking the greatest pleasure in their company and conversation; and by their means i also enjoy the conversation of other men of parts, who live in the same places; such as architects, painters, sculptors, musicians, and husbandmen, with whom this age certainly abounds. i visit their new works; i revisit their former ones; and i always learn something, which gives me satisfaction. i see palaces, gardens, antiquities; and with these, the squares and other public places, the churches, the fortifications, leaving nothing unobserved, from whence i may reap either entertainment or instruction. but what delights me most, is, in my journies backwards and forwards, to contemplate the situation and other beauties of the places i pass through; some in the plain, others on hills, adjoining to rivers or fountains; with a great many fine houses and gardens. nor are my recreations rendered less agreeable and entertaining by my not feeling well, or not hearing readily every thing that is said to me; or by any other of my faculties not being perfect; for they are all, thank god, in the highest perfection; particularly my palate, which now relishes better the simple fare i eat, wherever i happen to be, than it formerly did with the most delicate dishes, when i led an irregular life. nor does the change of beds give me any uneasiness, so that i sleep every where soundly and quietly, without experiencing the least disturbance; and all my dreams are pleasant and delightful. it is likewise with the greatest pleasure and satisfaction i behold the success of an undertaking so important to this state, i mean that of draining and improving so many uncultivated pieces of ground, an undertaking begun within my memory; and which i never thought i should live to see compleated; knowing how slow republics are apt to proceed in enterprises of great importance. nevertheless, i have lived to see it; and was even in person, in the marshy places, along with those appointed to superintend the draining of them, for two months together, during the greatest heats of summer, without ever finding myself the worse for the fatigues of inconveniences i suffered; of so much efficacy is that orderly life, which i every where constantly lead. what is more, i am in the greatest hopes, or rather sure, to see the beginning and completion of another undertaking of no less importance, which is that of preserving our estuary or port, that last and wonderful bulwark of my dear country, the preservation of which (it is not to flatter my vanity to say it, but merely to do justice to the truth) has been more than once recommended by me to this republic, by word of mouth, and in writings which cost me many nights study. and to this dear country of mine, as i am bound by the laws of nature to do every thing, from which it may reap any benefit, so i most ardently wish perpetual duration, and a long succession of every kind of prosperity. such are my genuine and no trifling satisfactions; such are the recreations and diversions of my old age, which is so much the more to be valued than the old age, or even youth, of other men, because being freed, by god's grace, from the perturbations of the mind, and the infirmities of the body, it no longer experiences any of those contrary emotions, which torment a number of young men, and many old ones destitute of strength and health, and every other blessing. and if it be lawful to compare little matters, and such as are esteemed trifling, to affairs of importance, i will further venture to say, that such are the effects of this sober life, that at my present age of eighty-three, i have been able to write a very entertaining comedy, abounding with innocent mirth and pleasant jests. this species of composition is generally the child and offspring of youth, as tragedy is that of old age; the former being by its facetious and sprightly turn suited to the bloom of life, and the latter by its gravity adapted to riper years. now, if that good old man [sophocles], a grecian by birth, and a poet, was so much extolled for having written a tragedy at the age of seventy-three, and, on that account alone, reputed of sound memory and understanding, though tragedy be a grave and melancholy poem; why should i be deemed less happy, and to have a smaller share of memory and understanding, who have, at an age, ten years more advanced than his, written a comedy, which, as every one knows, is a merry and pleasant kind of composition? and, indeed, if i may be allowed to be an impartial judge in my own cause, i cannot help thinking, that i am now of sounder memory and understanding, and heartier, than hew was when ten years younger. and, that no comfort might be wanting to the fulness of my years, whereby my great age may be rendered less irksome, or rather the number of my enjoyments increased, i have the additional comfort of seeing a kind of immortality in a succession of descendants. for, as often as i return home, i find there, before me, not one or two, but eleven grandchildren, the oldest of them eighteen, and the youngest two; all the offspring of one father and one mother; all blessed with the best health; and, by what as yet appears, fond of learning, and of good parts and morals. some of the youngest i always play with; and, indeed, children from three to five are only fit for play. those above that age i make companions of; and, as nature has bestowed very fine voices upon them, i amuse myself, besides, with seeing and hearing them sing, and play on various instruments. nay, i sing myself, as i have a better voice now, and a clearer and louder pipe, than at any other period of life. such are the recreations of my old age. whence it appears, that the life i lead is chearful, and not gloomy, as some persons pretend, who know no better; to whom, in order that it may appear what value i set on every other kind of life, i must declare, that i would not exchange my manner of living or my grey hairs with any of those young men, even of the best constitution, who give way to their appetites; knowing, as i do, that such are daily, nay hourly, subject, as i have observed, to a thousand kind of ailments and deaths. this is, in fact, so obvious, as to require no proof. nay, i remember perfectly well, how i used to behave at that time of life. i know how inconsiderately that age is apt to act, and how foolhardy young men, hurried on by the heat of their blood, are wont to be; how apt they are to presume too much on their own strength in all their actions; and how sanguine they are in their expectations; as well on account of the little experience they have had for the the time past, as by reason of the power they enjoy in their own imaginations over the time to come. hence they expose themselves rashly to every kind of danger; and, banishing reason, and bowing their necks to the yoke of concupiscence, endeavour to gratify all their appetites, not minding, fools as they are, that they thereby hasten, as i have several times observed, the approach of what they would most willingly avoid, i mean sickness, and death. of these two evils, one is troublesome and painful, the other, above all things, dreadful and insupportable; insupportable to every man, who has given himself up to his sensual appetites, and to young men in particular, to whom it appears a hardship to die an early death; dreadful to those, who reflect on the errors, to which this mortal life is subject, and on the vengeance, which the justice of god is wont to take on sinners, by condemning them to everlasting punishment. on the other hand, i, in my old age (praise to the almighty) am exempt from both these apprehensions; from the one, because i am sure and certain, that i cannot fall sick, having removed all the causes of illness by my divine medicine; from the other, that of death, because from so many years experience i have learned to obey reason; whence i not only think it a great piece of folly to fear that, which cannot be avoided, but likewise firmly expect some consolation, from the grace of jesus christ, when i shall arrive at that period. besides, though i am sensible that i must, like others, reach that term, it is yet at so great a distance, that i cannot discern it, because i know i shall not die except by mere dissolution, having already, by my regular course of life, shut up all the other avenues of death, and thereby prevented the humours of my body from making any other war upon me, than that which i must expect from the elements employed in the composition of this mortal frame. i am not so simple as not to know, that, as i was born, so i must die. but that is a desirable death, which nature brings on us by way of dissolution. for nature, having herself formed the union between our body and soul, knows best in what manner it may be most easily dissolved, and grants us a longer day to do it, than we could expect from sickness, which is violent. this is the death, which, without speaking like a poet, i may call, not death, but life. nor can it be otherwise. such a death does not overtake one till after a very long course of years, and in consequence of an extreme weakness; it being only by slow degrees, that men grow too feeble to walk, and unable to reason, becoming blind, and deaf, decrepid, and full of every other kind of infirmity. now i (by god's blessing) may be quite sure that i am at a very great distance from such a period. nay, i have reason to think, that my soul, having so agreeable a dwelling in my body, as not to meet with any thing in it but peace, love, and harmony, not only between its humours, but between my reason and my senses, is exceedingly content and well pleased with her present situation: and of course, that a great length of time and many years must be requisite to dislodge her. whence it must be concluded for certain, that i have still a series of years to live in health and spirits, and enjoy this beautiful world, which is, indeed, beautiful to those, who know how to make it so, as i have done, and likewise expect to be able to do, with god's assistance, in the next; and all by the means of virtue, and that divine regularity of life, which i have adopted, concluding an alliance with my reason, and declaring war against my sensual appetites; a thing which every man may do, who desired to live as he ought. now, if this sober life be so happy; if its name be so desirable and delightful; if the possession of the blessings which attend it, be so stable and permanent, all i have still left to do, is to beseech (since i cannot compass my desires by the powers of oratory) every man of a liberal disposition, and sound understanding, to embrace with open arms this most valuable treasure of a long and healthy life; a treasure, which as it exceeds all the other riches and blessings of this world, so it deserves above all things to be cherished, sought after, and carefully preserved. this is that divine sobriety, agreeable to the deity, the friend of nature, the daughter of reason, the sister of all the virtues, the companion of temperate living, modest, courteous, content with little, regular, and perfect mistress of all her operations. from her, as from their proper root, spring life, health, chearfulness, industry, learning, and all those actions and employments worth of noble and generous minds. the laws of god and man are all in her favour. repletion, excess, intemperance, superfluous humours, diseases, fevers, pains, and the dangers of death, vanish, in her presence, like clouds before the sun. her comeliness ravishes every well-disposed mind. her influence is so sure, as to promise to all a very long and agreeable existence; the facility of acquiring her is such, as ought to induce every one to look for her, and share in her victories. and, lastly, she promises to be a mild and agreeable guardian of life; as well of the rich as of the poor; of the male as of the female sex; the old as of the young; being that, which teaches the rich modesty; the poor frugality; men, continence; women, chastity; the old, how to ward off the attacks of death; and bestows on youth firmer and securer hopes of life. sobriety renders the senses clear, the body light, the understanding lively, the soul brisk, the memory tenacious, our motions free, and all our actions regular and easy. by means of sobriety, the soul delivered, as it were, of her earthly burthen, experiences a great deal of her natural liberty: the spirits circulate gently through the arteries; the blood runs freely through the veins; the heat of the body, kept mild and temperate, has mild and temperate effects: and, lastly, our faculties, being under a perfect regulation, preserves a pleasing and agreeable harmony. o most innocent and holy sobriety, the sole refreshment of nature, the nursing mother of human life, the true physic of soul as well as of body. how ought men to praise thee, and thank thee for thy princely gifts! since thou bestowest on them the means of preserving this blessing, i mean life and health, than which it has not pleased god we should enjoy a greater on this side of the grave, life and existence being a thing so naturally coveted, and willingly preserved, by every living creature. but, as i do not intend to write a panegyric on this rare and excellent virtue, i shall put an end to this discourse, lest i should be guilty of excess, in dwelling so long on so pleasing a subject. yet as numberless things may still be said of it, i leave off, with an intention of setting forth the rest of its praises at a more convenient opportunity. a compendium of a sober life my treatise on a sober life has begun to answer my desire, in being of service to many persons born with a weak constitution, who every time they committed the least excess, found themselves greatly indisposed, a thing which it must be allowed does not happen to robust people: several of these persons of weak constitutions, on seeing the foregoing treatise, have betaken themselves to a regular course of life, convinced by experience of its utility. in like manner, i should be glad to be of service to those, who are born with a good constitution, and presuming upon it, lead a disorderly life; whence it comes to pass, that, on their attaining the age of sixty or thereabouts, they are attacked with various pains and diseases; some with the gout, some with pains in the side, and others with pains in the stomach, and the like, to which they would not be subject, were they to embrace a sober life; and as most of them die before they attain their eightieth year, they would live to a hundred, the time allowed to man by god and nature. and, it is but reasonable to believe, that the intention of this our mother is, that we should all attain that term, in order that we might all taste the sweets of every state of life. but, as our birth is subject to the revolution of the heavens, these have great influence over it, especially in rendering our constitutions robust or infirm; a thing, which nature cannot ward against; for, if she could, we should all bring a good constitution with us into the world. but then she hopes, that man, being endowed with reason and understanding, may of himself compensate, by dint of art, the want of that, which the heavens have denied him; and, by means of a sober life, contrive to mend his infirm constitution, live to a great age, and always enjoy good health. for man, it is not to be doubted, may by art exempt himself in part from the influence of the heavens; it being common opinion, that the heavens give an inclination, but do not impel us; for which reason the learned say, that a wise man rules the stars. i was born with a very choleric disposition, insomuch that there was no living with me; but i took notice of it, and considered, that a person swayed by his passion, must at certain times be no better than a madman; i mean at those times, when he suffers his passions to predominate, because he then renounces his reason and understanding. i, therefore, resolved to make my choleric disposition give way to reason; so that now, though born choleric, i never suffer anger intirely to overcome me. the man, who is naturally of a bad constitution, may, in like manner, by dint of reason, and a sober life, live to a great age and in good health, as i have done, who had naturally the worst, so that it was impossible i should live above forty years, whereas i now find myself sound and hearty at the age of eighty-six; and were it not for the long and violent fits of illness which i experienced in my youth to such a degree, that the physicians gave me over, and which robbed me of my radical moisture, a loss absolutely irreparable, i might expect to attain the abovementioned term of one hundred. but i know for good reasons that it is impossible; and, therefore, do not think of it. it is enough for me, that i have lived forty-six years beyond the term i had a right to expect; and that, during this so long a respite, all my senses have continued perfect; and even my teeth, my voice, my memory, and my strength. but what is still more, my brain is more itself now than it ever was; nor do any of these powers abate as i advance in years; and this because, as i grow older, i lessen the quantity of my solid food. this retrenchment is necessary, nor can it be avoided, since it is impossible for a man to live for ever; and, as he draws near his end, he is reduced so low as to be no longer able to take any nourishment, unless it be to swallow, and that too with difficulty, the yolk of an egg in the four and twenty hours, and thus end by mere dissolution, without any pain or sickness, as i expect will be my case. this is a blessing of great importance; yet may be expected by all those, who shall lead a sober life, of whatever degree or condition, whether high, or middling, or low; for we are all of the same species, and composed of the same four elements. and, since a long and healthy life ought to be greatly coveted by every man, as i shall presently shew, i conclude, that every man is bound in duty to exert himself to obtain longevity, and that he cannot promise himself such a blessing without temperance and sobriety. some allege, that many, without leading such a life, have lived to an hundred, and that in constant health, though they eat a great deal, and used indiscriminately every kinds of viands and wine; and, therefore, flatter themselves, that they shall be equally fortunate. but in this they are guilty of two mistakes; the first is, that it is not one in an hundred thousand that ever attains that happiness; the other mistake is, that such, in the end, most assuredly contract some illness, which carries them off: nor can they ever be sure of ending their days otherwise: so that the safest way to obtain a long and healthy life is, at least after forty, to embrace sobriety. this is no such difficult affair, since history informs us of so many who in former times lived with the greatest temperance; and i know that the present age furnishes us with many such instances, reckoning myself one of the number: we are all human beings, and endowed with reason, consequently we are masters of our actions. this sobriety is reduced to two things, quality and quantity. the first, namely quality, consists in nothing, but not eating food, or drinking wines, prejudicial to the stomach. the second, which is quantity, consists in not eating or drinking more than the stomach can easily digest; which quantity and quality every man should be a perfect judge of by the time he is forty, or fifty, or sixty; and, whoever observes these two rules, may be said to live a regular and sober life. this is of so much virtue and efficacy, that the humours of such a man's body become most homogeneous, harmonious, and perfect; and, when thus improved, are no longer liable to be corrupted or disturbed by any other disorders whatsoever, such as suffering excessive heat or cold, too much fatigue, want of natural rest, and the like, unless in the last degree of excess. wherefore, since the humours of persons, who observe these two rules relative to eating and drinking, cannot possibly be corrupted, and engender acute diseases, the sources of an untimely death, every man is bound to comply with them: for whoever acts otherwise, living a disorderly instead of a regular life, is constantly exposed to disease and mortality, as well in consequence of such disorders, as of others without number, each of which is capable of producing the same destructive effect. it is, indeed, true, that even those, who observe the two rules relating to diet, the observance of which constitutes a sober life, may, by committing any one of the other irregularities, find himself the worse for it, for a day or two; but not so as to breed a fever. he may, likewise, be affected by the revolutions of the heavens; but neither the heavens, nor those irregularities, are capable of corrupting the humours of a temperate person; and it is but reasonable and natural it should be so, as the two irregularities of diet are interior, and the others exterior. but as there are some persons, stricken in years, who are, notwithstanding, very gluttonous, and alledge that neither the quantity or quality of their diet makes any impression upon them, and therefore eat a great deal, and of every thing without distinction, and indulge themselves equally in point of drinking, because they do not know in what part of their bodies their stomachs are situated; such, no doubt, are beyond all measure sensual, and slaves to gluttony. to these i answer, that what they say is impossible in the nature of things, because it is impossible that every man, who comes into the world, should not bring with him a hot, a cold, or a temperate constitution; and that hot foods should agree with hot constitutions, cold with cold ones, and things that are not of a temperate nature, with temperate ones, is likewise impossible in nature. after all, these epicures must allow, that they are now and then out of order; and that they cure themselves by taking evacuating medicines and observing a strict diet. whence it appears, that their being out of order is owing to their eating too much, and of things disagreeing with their stomachs. there are other old gluttons, who say, that it is necessary they should eat and drink a great deal, to keep up their natural heat, which is constantly diminishing, as they advance in years; and that it is, therefore, necessary to eat heartily, and of such things as please their palate, be they hot, cold, or temperate; and that, were they to lead a sober life, it would be a short one. to these i answer, that our kind mother, nature, in order that old men may live still to a greater age, has contrived matters so, that they should be able to subsist on little, as i do; for, large quantities of food cannot be digested by old and feeble stomachs. nor should such persons be afraid of shortening their days by eating too little, since when they happen to be indisposed, they recover by lessening the quantity of their food; for it is a trifle they eat, when confined to a regimen, by observing which they get rid of their disorder. now, if by reducing themselves to a very small quantity of food, they recover from the jaws of death, how can they doubt but that with an increase of diet, still consistent however with sobriety, they will be able to support nature when in perfect health? others say, that it is better for a man to suffer every year three or four returns of his usual disorders, such as the gout, pain in the side, and the like, than be tormented the whole year by not indulging his appetite, and eating every thing his palate likes best; since, by a good regimen alone, he is sure to get the better of such attacks. to this i answer, that our natural heat growing less and less, as we advance in years, no regimen can retain virtue sufficient to conquer the malignity, with which disorders of repletion are ever attended; so that he must die, at last, of these periodical disorders, because they abridge life, as health prolongs it. others pretend, that it is much better to live ten years less, than not indulge one's appetite. to this i answer, that longevity ought to be highly valued by men of parts; as to others, it is no great matter if it is not duly prized by them, since they are a disgrace to mankind, so that their death is rather of service to the public. but it is a great misfortune, that men of bright parts should be cut off in that manner, since he, who is already a cardinal, might, perhaps, by living to eighty, attain the papal crown; and in the state, many, by living some years extraordinary, may acquire the ducal dignity; and so in regard to letters, by which a man may rise so as to be considered as a god upon earth; and the like in every other profession. there are others, who, though their stomachs become weaker and weaker with respect to digestion, as they advance in years, cannot, however, be brought to retrench the quantity of their food, nay they rather increase it. and, because they find themselves unable to digest the great quantity of food, with which they must load their stomachs, by eating twice in the four and twenty hours, they make a resolution to eat but once, that the long interval between one meal and the other may enable them to eat at one sitting as much as they used to do in two: thus they eat till their stomachs, overburthened with much food, pall, and sicken, and change the superfluous food into bad humours, which kill a man before his time. i never knew any person, who led that kind of life, live to be very old. all these old men i have been speaking of would live long, if, as they advanced in years, they lessened the quantity of their food, and eat oftener, but little at a time; for old stomachs cannot digest large quantities of food; old men changing, in that respect, to children, who eat several times in the four and twenty hours. others say, that temperance may, indeed, keep a man in health, but that it cannot prolong his life. to this i answer, that experience proves the contrary; and that i myself am a living instance of it. it cannot be said, that sobriety is apt to shorten one's days, as sickness does; and that the latter abbreviates life, is most certain. moreover, a constant succession of good health is preferable to frequent sickness, as the radical moisture is thereby preserved. hence it may be fairly concluded, that holy sobriety is the true parent of health and longevity. o thrice holy sobriety, so useful to man, by the services thou renderest him! thou prolongest his days, by which means he greatly improves his understanding, and by such improvement he avoids the bitter fruits of sensuality, which are an enemy to reason, man's peculiar privilege: those bitter fruits are the passions and perturbations of the mind. thou, moreover, freest him from the dreadful thoughts of death. how greatly is thy faithful disciple indebted to thee, since by thy assistance he enjoys this beautiful expanse of the visible world, which is really beautiful to such as know how to view it with the philosophic eye, as thou has enabled me to do. nor could i, at any other time of life, even when i was young, but altogether debauched by an irregular life, perceive its beauties, though i spared no pains or expence to enjoy every season of life. but i found that all the pleasures of that age had their alloy; so that i never knew, till i grew old, that the world was beautiful. o truly happy life, which, over and above all these favours conferred on thine old man, hast so improved and perfected his stomach, that he has now a better relish for his dry bread, than he had formerly and in his youth, for the most exquisite dainties: and all this he has compassed by acting rationally, knowing, that bread is, above all things, man's proper food, when seasoned by a good appetite; and, whilst a man leads a sober life, he may be sure of never wanting that natural sauce; because, by always eating little, the stomach, not being much burthened, need not wait long to have an appetite. it is for this reason, that dry bread relishes so well with me; and i know it from experience, and can with truth affirm, i find such sweetness in it, that i should be afraid of sinning against temperance, were it not for my being convinced of the absolute necessity of eating it, and that we cannot make use of a more natural food. and thou, kind parent nature, who actest so lovingly by thy aged offspring, in order to prolong his days, hast contrived matters so in his favour, that he can live upon very little; and, in order to add to the favour, and do him still greater service, hast made him sensible, that, as in his youth he used to eat twice a day, when he arrived at old age, he ought to divide that food, of which he was accustomed before to make but two meals, into four; because, thus divided, it will be more easily digested; and, as in his youth he made but two meals in the day, he should, in his old age, make four, provided however he lessens the quantity, as his years increase. and this is what i do, agreeably to my own experience; and, therefore, my spirits, not oppressed by much food, but barely kept up, are always brisk; especially after eating, so that i am accustomed then to sing a song, and afterwards to write. nor do i ever find myself the worse for writing immediately after meals; nor is my understanding ever clearer; nor am i apt to be drowsy; the food i take being too small a quantity to send up any fumes to the brain. o, how advantageous it is to an old man to eat but little! accordingly, i, who know it, eat but just enough to keep body and soul together; and the things i eat are as follow. first, bread, panado, some broth with an egg in it, or such other good kinds of soup or spoon-meat. of flesh meat, i eat veal, kid, and mutton. i eat poultry of every kind. i eat partridges, and other birds, such as thrushes. i likewise eat fish; for instance, the goldney and the like, amongst sea fish; and the pike, and such like, amongst the fresh-water fish. all these things are fit for an old man; and, therefore, he ought to be content with them, and, considering their number and variety, not hanker after others. such old men, as are too poor to allow themselves provisions of this kind, may do very well with bread, panado, and eggs; things, which no poor man can want, unless it be common beggars, and, as we call them, vagabonds, about whom we are not bound to make ourselves uneasy, since they have brought themselves to that pass by their indolence; and had better be dead than alive; for they are a disgrace to human nature. but, though a poor man should eat nothing but bread, panado, and eggs, there is no necessity for his eating more than his stomach can digest. and, whoever does not trespass in point of either quantity or quality, cannot die but by mere dissolution. o, what a difference there is between a regular and an irregular life! one gives longevity and health, the other produces diseases and untimely deaths. o unhappy, wretched life, my sworn enemy, who art good for nothing but to murder those, who follow thee! how many of my dearest relations and friends hast thou robbed me of, in consequence of their not giving credit to me; relations and friends, whom i should now enjoy. but thou hast not been able to destroy me, according to thy wicked intent and purpose. i am still alive in spite of thee, and have attained to such an age, as to see around me eleven grandchildren, all of fine understanding, and amiable disposition; all given to learning and virtue; all beautiful in their persons and lovely in their manners; whom, had i obeyed thy dictates, i should never have beheld. nor should i enjoy those beautiful and convenient apartments which i have built from the ground, with such a variety of gardens, as required no small time to attain their present degree of perfection. no! thy nature is to destroy those who follow thee, before they can see their houses or gardens so much as finished; whereas, i, to thy no small confusion, have already enjoyed mine for a great number of years. but, since thou art so pestilential a vice, as to poison and destroy the whole world; and i am determined to use my utmost endeavours to extirpate thee, at least in part; i have resolved to counteract thee so, that my eleven grandchildren shall take pattern after me; and thereby expose thee, for what thou really art, a most wicked, desperate, and mortal enemy of the children of men. i, really, cannot help admiring, that men of fine parts, and such there are, who have attained a superior rank in letters or any other profession, should not betake themselves to a regular life, when they are arrived at the age of fifty or sixty; or as soon as they find themselves attacked by any of the foregoing disorders, of which they might easily recover; whereas, by being permitted to get a head, they become incurable. as to young men, i am no way surprised by them, since, the passions being strong at that age, they are of course the more easily overpowered by their baleful influence. but after fifty, our lives should, in every thing, be governed by reason, which teaches us, that the consequences of gratifying our palate and our appetite are disease and death. were this pleasure of the palate lasting, it would be some excuse; but it is so momentary, that there is scarce any distinguishing between the beginning and the end of it; whereas the diseases it produces are very durable. but it must be a great contentment to a man of sober life, to be able to reflect that, in the manner he lives, he is sure, that what he eats, will keep him in good health, and be productive of no disease or infirmity. now i was willing to make this short addition to my treatise, founded on new reasons; few persons caring to peruse long-winded discourses; whereas short tracts have a chance of being read by many; and i wish that many may see this addition, to the end that its utility may be more extensive. an earnest exhortation; wherein the author uses the strongest arguments to persuade all men to embrace a regular and sober life, in order to attain old age, in which they may enjoy all the favours and blessings, that god, in his goodness, vouchsafes to bestow upon mortals. not to be wanting to my duty, that duty incumbent upon every man; and not to lose at the same time the satisfaction i feel in being useful to others, i have resolved to take up my pen, and inform those, who, for want of conversing with me, are strangers to what those know and see, with whom i have the pleasure of being acquainted. but, as certain things may appear, to some persons, scarce credible, nay impossible, though actually fact, i shall not fail to relate them for the benefit of the public. wherefore, i say, being (god be praised) arrived at my ninety-fifth year, and still finding myself sound and hearty, content and chearful, i never cease thanking the divine majesty for so great a blessing; considering the usual fate of other old men. these scarce attain the age of seventy, without losing their health and spirits; growing melancholy and peevish; and continually haunted by the thoughts of death; apprehending their last hour from one day to another, so that it is impossible to drive such thoughts out of their mind; whereas such things give me not the least uneasiness; for, indeed, i cannot, at all, make them the object of my attention, as i shall hereafter more plainly relate. i shall, besides, demonstrate the certainty i have of living to an hundred. but, to render this dissertation more methodical, i shall begin by considering man at his birth; and from thence accompany him through every stage of life to his grave. i, therefore, say, that some come into the world with the stamina of life so weak, that they live but a few days, or months, or years; and it cannot be clearly known, to what such shortness of life is owing; whether to some defect in the father or the mother, in begetting them; or to the revolutions of the heavens; or to the defect of nature, subject, as she is, to the celestial influence. for, i could never bring myself to believe, that nature, common parent of all, should be partial to any of her children. therefore, as we cannot assign causes, we must be content with reasoning from the effects, such as they daily appear to our view. others are born sound, indeed, and full of spirits; but, notwithstanding, with a poor weakly constitution; and of these some live to the age of ten; others to twenty; others to thirty or forty; yet they do not live to extreme old age. others, again, bring into the world a perfect constitution, and live to old age; but it is generally, as i have already said, an old age full of sickness and sorrow; for which they are to thank themselves; because they most unreasonably presume on the goodness of their constitution; and cannot by any means be brought to depart, when brought to depart, when grown old, from the mode of life they pursued in their younger days; as if they still retained all their primitive vigour. nay, they intend to live as irregularly when past the meridian of life, as they did all the time of their youth; thinking they shall never grow old, nor their constitution ever be impaired. neither do they consider, that their stomach has lost its natural heat; and that they should, on that account, pay a greater regard to the quality of what they eat, and what wines they drink; and likewise to the quantity of each, which they ought to lessen; whereas, on the contrary, they are for increasing it; saying, that, as we lose our health and vigour by growing old, we should endeavour to repair the loss by increasing the quantity of our food, since it is by sustenance that man is preserved. in this, nevertheless, they are greatly mistaken, since, as the natural heat lessens as a man grows in years, he should diminish the quantity of his meat and drink; nature, especially at that period, being content with little. nay, though they have all the reason to believe this to be the case, they are so obstinate as to think otherwise, and still follow their usual disorderly life. but were they to relinquish it in due time, and betake themselves to a regular and sober course, they would not grow infirm in their old age, but would continue, as i am, strong and hearty, considering how good and perfect a constitution it has pleased the almighty to bestow upon them; and would live to the age of one hundred and twenty. this has been the case of others, who, as we read in many authors, have lived a sober life, and, of course, were born with this perfect constitution; and had it been my lot to enjoy such a constitution, i should make no doubt of attaining the same age. but, as i was born with feeble stamina, i am afraid i shall not outlive an hundred. were others, too, who are also born with an infirm constitution, to betake themselves to a regular life, as i have done, they would attain the age of one hundred and upwards, as will be my case. and this certainty of being able to live a great age is, in my opinion, a great advantage, and highly to be valued; none being sure to live even a single hour, except such as adhere to the rules of temperance. this security of life is built on good and true natural reasons, which can never fail; it being impossible in the nature of things, that he, who leads a sober and regular life, should breed any sickness, or die of an unnatural death, before the time, at which it is absolutely impossible he should live. but sooner he cannot die, as a sober life has the virtue to remove all the usual causes of sickness, and sickness cannot happen without a cause; which cause being removed, sickness is, likewise, removed; and sickness being removed, an untimely and violent death must be prevented. and there is no doubt, that temperance has the virtue and efficacy to remove such causes; for since health and sickness, life and death, depend on the good or bad quality of the humours, temperance corrects their vicious tendencies, and renders them perfect, being possessed of the natural power of making them unite and hold together, so as to render them inseperable, and incapable of alteration and fermenting; circumstances, which engender cruel fevers, and end in death. it is true, indeed, and it would be a folly to deny it, that, let our humours be originally ever so good, time, which consumes every thing, cannot fail to consume and exhaust them; and that man, as soon as that happens, must die of a natural death; but yet without sickness, as will be my case, who shall die at my appointed time, when these humours shall be consumed, which they are not at present. nay, they are still perfect; nor is it possible they should be otherwise in my present condition, when i find myself hearty and content, eating with a good appetite, and sleeping soundly. moreover, all my faculties are as good as ever, and in the highest perfection; my understanding clearer and brighter than ever; my judgment sound; my memory tenacious; my spirits good; and my voice, the first thing which is apt to fail in others, grown so strong and sonorous, that i cannot help chanting out loud my prayers morning and night, instead of whispering and muttering them to myself, as was formerly my custom. and these are all so many true and sure signs and tokens, that my humours are good, and cannot waste but with time, as all those, who converse with me, conclude. o, how glorious this life of mine is like to be, replete with all the felicities which man can enjoy on this side of the grave; and even exempt from that sensual brutality which age has enabled my better reason to banish; because where reason resides, there is no room for sensuality, nor for its bitter fruits, the passions, and perturbations of the mind, with a train of disagreeable apprehensions. nor yet can the thoughts of death find room in my mind, as i have no sensuality to nourish such thoughts. neither can the death of grandchildren and other relations and friends make any impression on me, but for a moment or two; and then it is over. sill less am i liable to be cast down by losses in point of fortune (as many have seen to their no small surprise.) and this is a happiness not to be expected by any but such as attain old age by sobriety, and not in consequence of a strong constitution; and such may moreover expect to spend their days happily, as i do mine, in a perpetual round of amusement and pleasure. and how is it possible a man should not enjoy himself, who meets with no crosses or disappointments in his old age, such as youth is constantly plagued with, and from which, i shall presently shew, i have the happiness of being exempt? the first of these is to do service to my country. o! what a glorious amusement, in which i find infinite delight, as i thereby shew her the means of improving her important estuary or harbour beyond the possibility of its filling for thousands of years to come; so as to secure to venice her surprising and miraculous title of a maiden city, as she really is; and the only one in the whole world: she will, moreover, thereby, add to the lustre of her great and excellent surname of queen of the sea: such is my amusement; and nothing is wanting to make it complete. another amusement of mine, is that of shewing this maid and queen, in what manner she may abound with provisions, by improving large tracts of land, as well marshes, as barren sands, to great profit. a third amusement, and an amusement too, without any alloy, is the shewing how venice, though already so strong as to be in a manner impregnable, may be rendered still stronger; and, though extremely beautiful, may still increase in beauty; though rich, may acquire more wealth, and may be made to enjoy better air, though her air is excellent. these three amusements, all arising from the idea of public utility, i enjoy in the highest degree. and who can say, that they admit of any alloy, as in fact they do not? another comfort i enjoy, is, that having lost a considerable part of my income, of which my grandchildren had been unfortunately robbed, i by mere dint of thought, which never sleeps, and without any fatigue of body, and very little of mind, have found a true and infallable method of repairing such loss more than double, by the means of that most commendable of arts, agriculture. another comfort i still enjoy is to think, that my treatise on temperance, which i wrote in order to be useful to others, is really so, as many assure me by word of mouth, mentioning that it has proved extremely useful to them, as it in fact appears to have been, whilst others inform me by letter, that, under god, they are indebted to me for life. still another comfort i enjoy, is that of being able to write with my own hand; for, i write enough to be of service to others, both on architecture, and agriculture. i, likewise, enjoy another satisfaction, which is that of conversing with men of bright parts and superior understanding, from whom, even at this advanced period of life, i learn something. what a comfort is this, that, old as i am, i should be able, without the least fatigue, to study the most important, sublime, and difficult subjects! i must farther add, though it may appear impossible to some, and may be so in some measure, that at this age i enjoy, at once, two lives; one terrestrial, which i possess in fact; the other celestial, which i possess in thought; and this thought is equal to actual enjoyment, when founded upon things we are sure to attain, as i ams sure to attain that celestial life, through the infinite goodness and mercy of god. thus, i enjoy this terrestrial life, in consequence of my sobriety and temperance, virtues so agreeable to the deity; and i enjoy, by the grace of the same divine majesty, the celestial, which he makes me anticipate in thought; a thought so lovely, as to fix me entirely on this object, the enjoyment of which i hold and affirm to be of the utmost certainty. and i hold that dying, in the manner i expect, is not really death, but a passage of the soul from this earthly life to a celestial, immortal, and infinitely perfect existence. neither can it be otherwise: and this thought is so superlatively sublime, that it can no longer stoop to low and worldly objects, such as the death of this body, being intirely taken up with the happiness of living a celestial and divine life; whence it is, that i enjoy two lives. nor can the terminating of so high a gratification, which i enjoy in this life, give me any concern; it rather affords me infinite pleasure, as it will be only to make room for another, glorious and immortal life. now, it is possible, that any one should grow tired of so great a comfort and blessing, as this which i really enjoy; and which every on else might enjoy by leading the life i have led? an example which every one has it in his power to follow; for i am but a mere man, and no saint; a servant of god, to whom so regular a life is extremely agreeable. and, whereas many embrace a spiritual and contemplative life, which is holy and commendable, the chief employment of those who lead it being to celebrate the praises of god; o, that the would likewise, betake themselves intirely to a regular and sober life! how much more agreeable would they render themselves in the sight of god! what a much greater honour and ornament would the be to the world! they would then be considered as saints, indeed, upon earth, as those primitive christians were led, who joined sobriety to so recluse a life. by living, like them, to the age of one hundred and twenty, they might, like them, expect, by the power of god, to work numberless miracles; and they would, besides, enjoy constant health and spirits, and be always happy within themselves; whereas they are now, for the most part, infirm, melancholy, and dissatisfied. now, as some of these people think, that these are trials sent them by god almighty, with a view of promoting their salvation, that they may do penance, in this life, for their past errors, i cannot help saying, that, in my opinion, they are greatly mistaken. for i can by no means believe, that it is agreeable to the deity, that man, his favourite creature, should live infirm, melancholy, and dissatisfied, but rather enjoy good health and spirits, and be always content within himself. in this manner did the holy fathers live, and by such conduct did they daily render themselves more acceptable to the divine majesty, so as to work the great and surprising miracles we read in history. how beautiful, how glorious a scene should we then behold! far more beautiful than in those antient times, because we now abound with so many religious orders and monasteries, which did not then exist; and were the members of these communities to lead a temperate life, we should then behold such a number of venerable old men, as would create surprise. nor would they trespass against their rules; they would rather improve upon them; since every religious community allows its subjects bread, wine, and sometimes eggs (some of them allow meat) besides soups made with vegetables, sallets, fruit, and cakes, things which often disagree with them, and even shorten their lives. but, as they are allowed such things by their rules, they freely make use of them; thinking, perhaps, that it would be wrong to abstain from them, whereas it would not. it would rather be commendable, if, after the age of thirty, they abstained from such food, confined themselves to bread, wine, broths and eggs: for this is the true method of preserving men of a bad constitution; and it is a life of more indulgence than that led by the holy fathers of the desart, who subsisted intirely on wild fruits and roots, and drank nothing but pure water; and, nevertheless, lived, as i have already mentioned, in good health and spirits, and always happy within themselves. were those of our days to do the same, they would, like them, find the road to heaven much easier; for it is always open to every faithful christian, as our saviour jesus christ left it, when he came down upon earth to shed his precious blood, in order to deliver us from the tyrannical servitude of the devil; and all through his immense goodness. so that, to make an end of this discourse, i say, that since length of days abounds with so many favours and blessings, and i happen to be one of those who are arrived at that state, i cannot (as i would not willingly want charity) but give testimony in favour of it, and solemnly assure all mankind, that i really enjoy a great deal more than what i now mention; and that i have no other reason for writing, but that of demonstrating the great advantages which arise from longevity, to the end that their own conviction may induce them to observe those excellent rules of temperance and sobriety. and therefore i never cease to raise my voice, crying out to you, my friends: may your days be long, that you may be the better servants to the almighty! letter from signor lewis cornaro, to the right reverend barbaro, patriarch elect of aquileia. the human understanding must certainly have something of the divine in its constitution and frame. how divine the invention of conversing with an absent friend by the help of writing! how divinely it is contrived by nature, that men, though at a great distance, should see one another with the intellectual eye, as i now see your lordship! by means of this contrivance, i shall endeavour to entertain you with with matters of the greatest moment. it is true, that i shall speak of nothing but what i have already mentioned; but it was not at the age of ninety-one, to which i have now attained; a thing i cannot help taking notice of, because as i advance in years, the sounder and heartier i grow, to the amazement of all the world. i, who can account for it, am bound to shew, that a many may enjoy a terrestrial paradise after eighty; which i enjoy; but it is not to be obtained except by temperance and sobriety, virtues so acceptable to the almighty, because they are enemies to sensuality, and friends to reason. now, my lord, to begin, i must tell you, that, within these few days past, i have been visited by many of the learned doctors of this university, as well physicians and philosophers, who were well acquainted with my age, my life, and manners; knowing how stout, hearty, and gay i was; and in what perfection all my faculties still continued; likewise my memory, spirits, and understanding; and even my voice and teeth. they knew, besides, that i constantly employed eight hours every day in writing treatises, with my own hand, on subjects useful to mankind, and spent many hours in walking and singing. o, my lord, how melodious my voice is grown! were you to hear me chant my prayers; and that to my lyre, after the example of david, i am certain it would give you great pleasure, my voice is so musical. now, when they told me that they had been already acquainted with all these particulars, they added, that it was, indeed, next to a miracle, how i could write so much, and upon subjects that required both judgement and spirit. and, indeed, my lord, it is incredible, what satisfaction and pleasure i have in these compositions. but, as i write to be useful, your lordship may easily conceive what pleasure i enjoy. they concluded by telling me, that i ought not to be looked upon as a person advanced in years, since all my occupations were those of a young man; and, by no means, like those of other aged persons, who, when they have reached eighty, are reckoned decrepid. such, moreover, are subject, some to the gout, some to the sciatica, and some to other complaints, to be relieved from which they must undergo such a number of painful operations, as cannot but render life extremely disagreeable. and, if, by chance, one of them happens to escape a long illness, his faculties are impaired, and he cannot see or hear so well; or else fails in some or other of the corporeal faculties, he cannot walk, or his hands shake; and, supposing him exempt from these bodily infirmities, his memory, his spirits, or his understanding fail him; he is not chearful, pleasant, and happy within himself, as i am. besides all these blessings, i mentioned another, which i enjoyed; and so great a blessing, that they were all amazed at it, since it is altogether beside the usual course of nature. this blessing is, that i had already lived fifty years, in spite of a most powerful and mortal enemy, which i can by no means conquer, because it is natural, or an occult quality implanted in my body by nature; and this is, that every year, from the beginning of july till the end of august, i cannot drink any wine of whatever kind or country; for, besides being during these two months quite disgustful to my palate, it disagrees with my stomach. thus losing my milk, for wine is, indeed, the milk of old age; and having nothing to drink, for no change or preparation of waters can have the virtue of wine, nor of course do me any good; having nothing, i say, to drink, and my stomach being therefore disordered, i can eat but very little; and this spare diet, with the want of wine, reduces me, by the middle of august, extremely low; nor is the strongest capon broth, or any other remedy, of service to me; so that i am ready, through mere weakness, to sink into the grave. hence they inferred, that were not the new wine, for i always take care to have some ready by the beginning of september, to come in so soon, i should be a dead man. but what surprized them still more was, that this new wine should have power sufficient to restore me, in two or three days, to that degree of health and strength, of which the old wine had robbed me; a fact, they themselves have been eye-witnesses of, within these few days; and which a man must see to believe it; insomuch that they could not help crying out; "many of us, who are physicians, have visited him annually for several years past; and ten years ago, judged it impossible for him to live a year or two longer, considering what a mortal enemy he carried about him, and his advanced age; yet we do not find him so weak at present as he used to be." this singularity, and the many other blessings they see me enjoy, obliged them to confess, that the joining of such a number of favours was, with regard to me, a special grace conferred on me, at my birth, by nature, or by the stars; and to prove this to be a good conclusion, which it really is not (because not grounded on strong and sufficient reasons, but merely on their own opinions) they found themselves under a necessity to display their eloquence, and to say a great many fine things. certain it is, my lord, that eloquence, in men of bright parts, has great power; so great, as to induce people to believe things which have neither actual nor possible existence. i had, however, great pleasure and satisfaction in hearing them; for, it must, no doubt, be a high entertainment to hear such men talk in that manner. another satisfaction, without the least mixture of alloy, i at the same time enjoyed, was to think, that age and experience are sufficient to make a man learned, who without them would know nothing; nor is it surprizing they should, since length of days is the foundation of true knowledge. accordingly, it was by means of it alone i discovered their conclusion to be false. thus, you see, my lord, how apt men are to deceive themselves in their judgement of things, when such judgement is not built upon a solid foundation. and, therefore, to undeceive them, and set them right, i made answer, that their conclusion was false, as i should actually convince them by proving, that the happiness i enjoyed was not confined to me, but common to all mankind, and that every man might equally enjoy it; since i was but a mere mortal, composed, like all others, of the four elements; and endued, besides existence and life, with rational and intellectual faculties, which are common to all men. for it has pleased the almighty to bestow on his favourite creature man these extraordinary blessings and favours above other animals, which enjoy only the sensible perceptions; in order such blessings and favours my be the means of keeping him long in good health; so that length of days is a universal favour granted by the deity, and not by nature and the stars. but man being in his youthful days more of the sensual, than of the rational animal, is apt to yield to sensual impressions; and, when he afterwards arrives at the age of forty or fifty, he ought to consider, that he has attained the noon of life, by the vigour of his youth, and a good tone of stomach; natural blessings, which favoured him in ascending the hill; but that he must now think of going down, and approaching the grave, with a heavy weight of years on his back; and that old age is the reverse of youth, as much as order is the reverse of disorder. hence it is requisite he should alter his mode of life in regard to the articles of eating and drinking, on which health and longevity depend. and as the first part of his life was sensual and irregular, the second should be the reverse; since nothing can subsist without order, especially the life of man, irregularity being without all doubt prejudicial, and regularity advantageous to the human species. besides, it is impossible in the nature of things, that the man, who is bent on indulging his palate and his appetite, should not be guilty of irregularity. hence it was that to avoid this vice, as soon as i found myself arrived at maturer years, i embraced a regular and sober life. it is, no doubt, true, that i found some difficulty in compassing it; but, in order to conquer this difficulty, i beseeched the almighty to grant me the virtue of sobriety; well knowing, that he would graciously hear my prayer. then, considering, that when a man is about to undertake any thing of importance, which he knows he can compass, though not without difficulty, he may make it much easier to himself by being steady in his purpose; i pursued the same course. i endeavoured gradually to relinquish a disorderly life, and to accustom myself insensibly to the rules of temperance: and thus it came to pass that a sober and regular life no longer proved uneasy or disagreeable; though, on account of the weakness of my constitution, i tied myself down to such strict rules in regard to the quantity and quality of what i eat and drink. but others, who happen to be blessed with a stronger temperament, may eat many other kinds of food, and in greater quantities; and so of wines; whereas, though their lives may still be sober, they will not be so confined as mine, but much more free. now, on hearing these arguments, and examining the reasons on which they were founded, they all agreed that i had advanced nothing but what was true. indeed the youngest of them said, that though he could not but allow the favour of advantages, i had been speaking of, to be common to all mankind, yet i enjoyed the special grace of being able to relinquish with ease one kind of life, and embrace another; a think which he knew by experience to be feasible; but as difficult to him as it had proved easy to me. to this i replied, that, being a mortal like himself, i likewise found it a difficult task; but it did not become a person to shrink from a glorious but practicable undertaking, on account of the difficulties attending it, because in proportion to these difficulties, is the honour he acquires by it in the eye of man, and the merit in the sight of god. our beneficent creator is desirous, that, as he originally favoured human nature with longevity, we should all enjoy full advantage of his intentions; knowing, that, when a man has passed eighty, he is intirely exempt from the bitter fruits of sensual enjoyments, and is intirely governed by the dictates of reason. vice and immorality must then leave him; hence god is willing he should live to a full maturity of years; and has ordained that whoever reaches his natural term, should end his days without sickness by mere dissolution, the natural way of quitting this mortal life to enter upon immortality, as will be my case. for i am sure to die chanting my prayers; nor do the dreadful thoughts of death give me the least uneasiness, though, considering my great age, it cannot be far distant, knowing, as i do, that i was born to die, and reflecting that such numbers have departed my life without reaching my age. nor does that other thought, inseperable from the former, namely the fear of those torments, to which wicked men are hereafter liable, give me any uneasiness; because i am a good christian, and bound to believe, that i shall be saved by the virtue of the most sacred blood of christ, which he has vouchsafed to shed, in order to free us from those torments. how beautiful is the life i lead! how happy my end! to this, the young gentleman, my antagonist, had nothing to reply, but that he was resolved to embrace a sober life, in order to follow my example; and that he had taken another, more important, resolution, which was, that, as he had been always very desirous to live to be old, so he was now equally impatient to reach that period, the sooner to enjoy the felicity of old age. the great desire i had, my lord, to converse with you at this distance, has forced me to be prolix, and still obliges me to proceed; though not much farther. there are many sensualists, my lord, who say, that i have thrown away my time and trouble in writing a treatise on temperance, and other discourses on the same subject, to induce men to lead a regular life; alledging, that it is impossible to conform to it, so that my treatise must answer as little purpose as that of plato on government, who took a great deal of pains to recommend a thing impracticable; whence they inferred, that as his treatise was of no use, mine will share the same fate. now this surprises me the more, as they may see by my treatise, that i had led a sober life for many years before i had composed it; and that i should never have composed it, had i not previously been convinced, that it was such a life as a man might lead; and being a virtuous life, would be of great service to him; so that i thought myself under an obligation to represent it in a true light. i have the satisfaction now to hear, that numbers, on seeing my treatise, have embraced such a life; and i have read, that many, in times past, have actually led it; so that the objection, to which plato's treatise on government is liable, can be of no force against mine. but such sensualists, enemies to reason, and slaves to their passions, ought to think themselves well off, if, whilst they study to indulge their palate and their appetite, they do not contract long and painful diseases, and are not, many of them, overtaken by an untimely death. finis but the patient lived by harry warner, jr. _when helping people to die is required medical ethics----what can an unethical doctor who_ cures _them do_? [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, december . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] the receptionist ushered the patient into dr. walter needzak's office. she punched her glasses higher onto the bridge of her nose, patted the bun of hair at the back of her head, and said: "this is mr. stallings, doctor." dr. needzak motioned the patient to a chair. stallings sat down, slowly but limberly. he still held his hat, and placed it in the precise center of his lap. the receptionist handed a form to dr. needzak and returned to the waiting room, after looking once over her shoulder. "you're only , mr. stallings?" dr. needzak asked. the patient nodded sadly. "well, you should be hale and hearty for another years, judging by the report on your preliminary exam. are you sure that it's any use for you to consult me?" "i wouldn't bother you," stallings said, age showing only in the high pitch of his voice, "except for the funny feeling in my chest the other day. i had to visit an office on the twelfth story. the elevator wasn't running, so i walked up. just as an experiment, i went as fast as i could. the way my chest felt got me so interested and excited that i forgot what i wanted at the office, once i was there. so i thought that that was a hopeful enough sign for me to come around and see you." dr. needzak, a young man at and who looked even younger, hoisted the stethoscope amplifier onto his desk, turned it on, and signalled for stallings to unbutton his shirt. he placed the stethoscope against the bony chest. the bumping of the heart filled the room, drew a wild pattern on the unfolding strip of paper in the visual section of the amplifier, and created magnetic patterns on the tape. dr. needzak listened for two minutes, then thumbed through a reference listing of visual heart patterns. finally he switched off the amplifier, and said: "you have no history of heart trouble." "i'm afraid not." "well, i don't want to raise false hopes. the only thing that i can suggest is more physical exertion. really vigorous exertion, the kind that makes you pant and tremble and get a bit dizzy. try that every day for a month and come back to see me. there's just a trace of a flutter now, and we might be able to speed up its development." the old man smiled for the first time, at something that his eyes saw behind the white plaster of the far wall. finally, stallings rose to leave. buttoning himself up, he said: "you'll send the bill?" dr. needzak laughed genially. "i can see that you aren't accustomed to visiting doctors, young man. the better the doctor, the more risky it is to send the bill. my policy is to request full payment before the patient leaves the office, just in case i've given the right sort of advice. in cases where i prescribe medicine, of course, you may pay for the prescription and the consultation fee simultaneously. before taking the medicine, you understand." again he laughed. "i understand. i should have guessed. i work in a bank myself. i hate the work. i'm tired of everything, in fact. but i know how important it is to pay promptly." the doctor had just filed away stallings' physical record when the receptionist ushered in an extremely elderly woman. dr. needzak smiled broadly, and said: "mrs. watkins! i didn't expect to see you again so soon." he waved in annoyance at the receptionist, who hovered behind the new patient. she left, reluctantly. mrs. watkins groped her way to the chair, wincing when the receptionist slammed the door. the old woman rubbed her bony forehead with a mottled hand that trembled and said: "i know that i wasn't supposed to come back for another three months. but did you realize that i'll have my th birthday before those three months are up? when a person gets to be that old, she looks forward to seeing the doctor more than she used to look forward for santa to arrive back in the old days." "no symptoms since your last visit?" dr. needzak spoke more loudly than usual in deference to her failing hearing, and turned up the light to aid weak, old eyes. "none." she spat out the word. "i'm going to change doctors, if this keeps up. i've heard of a couple of doctors who aren't as scrupulous as you are. after living all this time, i think that i could be permitted one little crime, lying to them about a symptom. then i know that i'd be made happy. what's the use being moral when you're too frail and tottery to enjoy life?" dr. needzak shook his head, disapprovingly. "i don't think you're quite as miserable as you think you are. don't go to those quack doctors. suppose you're caught, halfway through a crime? you might linger for decades, half-well, half-sick, from the effects of what they'd give you. even the quacks won't supply you with strychnine, you know." "i know. i shouldn't have suggested it. but i get so tired of living." "well, i can't see any physical trouble that could have developed enough to warrant a complete exam since your last one. maybe those arteries will start hardening by the time you have that th birthday. or you could take up chemistry as a hobby. just think what a fine explosion you might get mixed up in!" "i thought of that." a couple of tears trickled down the wrinkled cheeks of mrs. watkins. "but the thrice-great-grandchildren watch me like a hawk. they don't let me do anything that might hurt me. i suppose i'll just have to wait, and hope, and wait, and pray." she rose, very suddenly. then she shook her head disgustedly. "i don't even get dizzy when i do that, like most people my age. thank you, anyway, doctor." mrs. watkins walked out with dignity. dr. needzak noticed that his waiting room was filling rapidly, during the two seconds that mrs. watkins opened the door to leave. he fumed inwardly at his patience in dealing at length with cases like the last two, whom he couldn't possibly be sure of helping. but his ill-humor was replaced by astonishment. the receptionist introduced a woman even younger than he. she was very pale, but dr. needzak guessed that that pallor derived from tension, not some rare organic disturbance. "are you sure that you haven't made a mistake, miss tillett?" he asked the question quietly, trying to catch her eyes. she kept them resolutely on her hands, which were folding and unfolding in her lap. "i talked with several good friends before coming to you, doctor," the girl said. her voice was very low. "you had been a good doctor for their grandparents or great-grandparents. they told me that you could help me, if anybody could." "but your preliminary examination shows nothing whatsoever wrong with you," the doctor said. "it'll be another century before you would normally develop the slightest symptom on which i'd be allowed to work. and people of your age just don't go to doctors. it's only when you're past the century mark, and know that decade after decade stretches out ahead of you, that you start feeling that a doctor might--" "please," she interrupted, almost inaudibly. "i don't think that a physician should allow the consideration of a patient's age to enter into his course of action. for personal reasons, i may need a doctor more than the average person six times my age." "will you tell me something about yourself? i'm not curious, except as far as knowledge might affect my recommendations." "i don't care to discuss personal problems. now, doctor, your assistant who gave the preliminary examination overlooked the reason for my coming to you. right here," and she carefully touched a spot on the well-tailored dress. "i think that it might be a tumor." "what good does it do to come to a doctor for that?" dr. needzak said. "tumors are so rare that there's very little chance that it's more than your imagination. and the best physician can't speed up the growth of a tumor, or change it from benign to malign." "a physician can diagnose," she answered. "if it's malign, i'll be able to have patience. i won't need to break the law." unexpectedly, grotesquely, she drew one finger across her throat in a cutting gesture, and looked squarely at him for the first time. dr. needzak walked softly to the door that led to the reception room. he drew noiselessly a bolt across the jamb, locking it. then he pointed to another door, telling the girl: "go in there and undress. i'll be ready for you in a moment." he whistled softly under his breath, as he pulled instruments and jars of colored substances from the deepest recesses of a cupboard. the girl already lay calmly on a metal table in the inner room when dr. needzak entered. he staggered a trifle under a precariously balanced pile of equipment in his arms. he explained: "i should let the receptionist do the hard work like this. but i don't let her snoop around in this private room." "will you really need all those things?" the girl asked, uncertainly. "i thought that you just snip out a tiny specimen with a little gadget, to make a diagnosis." "i could probably get along with just that one gadget," the doctor said. he pulled a mask from a drawer and snapped on the sterilite. "but i'm an old boy scout at heart. always prepared." unexpectedly, he plopped the mask squarely over the girl's face. her cry was almost inaudible, as the thick gauze clamped itself over her mouth, clung tightly beneath the jaw. dr. needzak pinioned her shoulders to the table, while her legs kicked wildly for a few seconds. the anesthetic stopped the kicking within five seconds. he waited for a count of ten, before he wrenched the mask free. turning up the sterilite to full strength, dr. needzak began to line up surgical instruments in a neat row, humming under his breath. * * * * * fifteen minutes later, the physician made a pair of injections into the girl's upper arm. then he swished oxygen into her face until she recovered consciousness. "wonderful stuff, this new anesthetic," he told her placidly. "it works fast, wears off just as fast, doesn't leave the patient retching. now, you can sit up slowly. if you don't try anything strenuous for the next day or two, you'll never know that you've had an operation." miss tillett's eyes widened. "operation! i came here for a diagnosis. i didn't authorize--" "i'm sorry. i operated without your consent. but i had a good reason. it wasn't even a benign tumor that you had. it was only a cyst. if i had merely diagnosed, and told you the truth, you would have kept clinging to the hope that it might be a malign tumor. you wouldn't have let me take it out. it would have grown big enough to disfigure you, not big enough to cause you any physical damage. you would have gone through the years with a new trouble, that of deformity, and you might have been mentally warped in the delusion that you had a fatal disease. you're as sound as a rock." something inside the girl seemed to turn into liquid. she sat with slumped shoulders, arms dangling limply at her side, and head sunk so far that her chin rested against her chest. after a moment, she rose and walked slowly into the dressing cubicle. when she emerged, she ignored the doctor, unlocked the door with her own hands, and walked into the reception room, sobbing softly. dr. needzak cleaned up rapidly, and hustled into his main office to see his next patient. no one was there. he grumbled to himself and opened the door into the reception room. blinking, he saw that it was empty. it had been filling rapidly, not a half-hour earlier. the doctor had heard no noises indicating a commotion on the street outside; and that was the only reason he could think of for the sudden disappearance of his patients. to make sure, he strode through the reception room, walked briskly down the short hall, and stuck his head through the door leading into the street. everything appeared normal in the bustling business district, until a large, black sedan ground to a stop at the curb in a no-parking zone. the receptionist climbed from the vehicle, two men behind her. "miss waters!" dr. needzak exploded, when she reached the building's entrance. "what do you mean by leaving without my permission? all my patients have left. they must have thought that office hours were over." the receptionist gave him one baleful look, and shoved past him into the building. and dr. needzak suddenly recognized the two men. "bill carson! and pop manville! what brings you big doctors down here to see a small-time pill-dealer like me?" "let's go into your office," pop said, softly. he was old, tall and gaunt with a perpetual look of worry. dr. carson, younger and bustling, evaded dr. needzak's eyes. miss waters was shoveling personal belongings from her desk into a giant handbag, when they reached the reception room. dr. needzak felt her eyes upon him, as the other two physicians kept him moving by the sheer impetus of their bodies into his consultation room. "where is it, walt?" dr. manville asked, looking gloomily around the consultation room. "where's what, pop? the drinks? i keep them--" "the door to your operating room," dr. carson interrupted, hurriedly. "let's not drag this thing out. it's going to be painful enough, among old friends. your private office has been wired for sight and sound for the past three weeks. you shouldn't have tried to get away with that kind of practice in a big city." dr. needzak felt the blood draining from his face. he reached for a drawer. dr. manville grabbed his arm with a tight, claw-like grasp, before it could touch the handle. "it's all right, pop," he said. "nothing but gin in there. i'm not the violent type." dr. carson pulled open the drawer toward which he had reached. he pulled out the tall bottle, slipped off the patent top, and sniffled. handing it to dr. needzak, he said: "okay. you need some. then save the rest for us. we'll feel like it, too, when we're done." dr. needzak coughed after three large swallows. he looked at the other two doctors. "who ratted?" dr. carson nodded toward the reception room. dr. needzak instinctively clenched his fists. he half-rose from his chair, then sank back slowly. "i thought you guys were my friends," he said. "we are, walt," dr. manville said thoughtfully. "but this is business. when someone charges violation of medical ethics, we're the investigation committee. it looks like a simple investigation this time, with those tapes on file." "what does she have against you, anyway?" dr. carson asked. "usually a receptionist will go through hell to cover up little flubs for her boss. were you mixed up with her in a personal way?" "mixed up with her?" dr. needzak laughed mirthlessly. "she's worked for me fifteen years. i've never made a pass at her." dr. manville nodded sadly. "that was your mistake, walt. frustration. disappointment. worse than jealousy. now, why not tell us everything?" "there's nothing to tell. those tapes give a false impression, sometimes. i just take difficult cases back there where i'm sure there won't be any disturbance." "no use," dr. carson interrupted. "things will be harder for you, if we lose patience with you. we know you've been curing illness against the patient's wishes, time after time. we just saw you take out a tumor. the poor kid will probably drag through another hundred years before she develops anything else serious. you prescribed anticoagulants to a man with an obvious blood clot. you even talked a couple with weak lungs into moving to denver." "all right, it was a tumor," dr. needzak admitted. "it was malign and it would have killed her in two or three years. but she's too young to make a decision for herself. five years from now, she may have a different outlook on her personal problems. i have ethics, and i can't help it if they don't correspond in some details with the association's ethics." "you were given your medical license under an oath to respect the ethics of the profession," dr. manville said slowly, emphatically. "the license did not give you the right to practice under ethics of your own invention." "ethics!" dr. needzak looked as if he wanted to spit. "ethics is just a word. there was a time when physicians spent their time curing diseases and preventing them. they called that ethics. now that there aren't enough illnesses left to give us work, now that people live long past the time when they want to go on living, now that we make our money helping people commit suicide the legal way, we call that ethics." "you can't annihilate a concept simply by thinking it's only a word," dr. manville said. "there was a time when physicians used leeches for almost every patient. they fitted that nasty habit into their ethics. you wouldn't want to introduce leeches into this century, would you? but you should, if you're so consistently opposed to anything that sounds like changes in ethics." "but i've done my part to get rid of human miseries," dr. needzak said, nodding toward a filing cabinet. "i can show you the data on hundreds of my patients. old folks, who just got tired of living; i helped them die legally. even younger people, who had a genuine reason for being tired of life. i couldn't have my fine home or pay rent in this building, if i went around curing every patient. there's no money in that." "you wouldn't keep a filing cabinet for the times you disobeyed the medical code," dr. carson broke in. "but we have some of those cases on tape. you didn't refuse to handle the cases. you went ahead and played god, going directly against the direct will of your patients. did you follow up all of the patients who aren't in your file cabinets? we traced the later records of some of them. several suicided right out in the open. their families haven't gotten back on their feet from the disgrace yet." dr. needzak took two more deep swallows from the bottle. he looked glumly at the low level of the liquid through its dark side, saying: "you fellows are enjoying this conversation more than old friends should enjoy the job of taking action against a fellow-doctor. and i'll tell you why you aren't too unhappy about it. you're jealous of me. you're jealous of the fact that i've been following a physician's natural instincts and healing people. you're angry with me for doing the things that you'd really love to do yourselves, if you had the guts. you aren't worried about that girl; you're peeved because you'd give your shirts for a chance to take out a genuine tumor yourself." "admitted," dr. carson said cheerfully. "i haven't seen a live tumor in three or four years. they're scarce. but we can't sit here chatting. we don't want to end up arguing." dr. needzak rose. "what do i do, then?" "the best action would be to come along with us to the association headquarters," dr. manville advised, avoiding dr. needzak's eyes. "in a half-hour or so, you can sign enough statements to avoid weeks of hearings. otherwise, we'll be forced to bother lots of other physicians, hunt up your old patients, endure newspaper publicity, and have a general mess." "after that, i start pounding the pavements, hunting a job." dr. needzak flexed his long, lean fingers. "is it hard to learn how to operate ditch diggers?" dr. carson stood up and slapped him on the back. "it isn't that bad. you can find a place in any pharmacy in the country, if we get through this disbarment without publicity. you'll never be rich, handing out irritants and hyper-stimulants, but--" dr. needzak was already striding toward the street. the other two doctors trailed after him, waiting while he locked up carefully. they glanced at one another significantly, noting that he had unconsciously brought along his little black bag. dr. needzak explained as they began the two-block walk to association headquarters: "the kids are married and away from home. i suppose that i can get enough income from sub-leasing the office to keep the wife and me eating until i find--" a grating crash broke into his sentence. the three doctors whirled simultaneously. thin wails drifted through the constant rumble of traffic, from somewhere around a corner. people erupted from buildings, running toward the source of the noise. the doctors instinctively trotted after them. * * * * * they turned the corner, coming upon a rare sight. it was a motor vehicle accident, first in the business district for months. a school bus lay on its side, just short of the intersection. children were clambering cautiously from the emergency door. the uniformed driver was ignoring his passengers, staring in disbelief at the radar controls at the street corner, which had failed a moment earlier. the other vehicle involved in the crash was wrapped around a power pole. it was an auto of antique vintage, produced before full automatic driving provisions. there weren't more than a dozen such vehicles remaining on the streets of the city. the radar controls almost never went on the blink. only the combination of the vehicle and the inoperative controls could have created an accident. dr. needzak led the other doctors through the thickening crowd, to the side of the bus. kids were no longer climbing through the emergency exit, but noises were coming from within the vehicle. his bag under his left arm, he hauled himself atop the overturned bus, and dropped through the emergency exit into its half-dark interior. he saw the other two doctors outlined against the sky, as they perched on the horizontal side of the vehicle, peering down, helpless without their bags. dr. needzak found a small boy sprawled awkwardly around a seat, bleeding rapidly from the leg, face ashen, unconscious. the physician clipped off the trousers leg, bound the leg tightly above the deep gash, and slipped on a bandage. then he lifted the small boy up to dr. carson. a girl was struggling to raise herself from the next seat, obviously unaware that the leg wouldn't support her because it had suffered a compound fracture. dr. needzak forced a grin when he attracted her attention. he persuaded her to lie flat. with one quick motion, he rough-set the leg. then he boosted her out of the vehicle, and looked down to investigate the source of the plucking at his coat. it was a small, chubby boy, standing beside him. "i'm hurt real bad," the boy said. needzak ran his hands over the boy's body to make sure the bones were sound. "you better take care of me real quick," the child said, looking more worried than ever. dr. needzak made sure that the blood on the boy's cheek came from only a scratch, and found the heartbeat normal. so he pulled a sugar wafer from his bag and ordered the boy to swallow it. "think you can climb out now?" dr. needzak asked. the youngster, face brightening, leaped to the door and went out unassisted. the only child remaining in the vehicle hadn't uttered a sound. but the doctor sensed that her breathing was heavier. he bent over her, and pushed back the lid of her half-closed eye. when he saw the back of her head, he stopped his hasty examination. her words were barely audible. "am i hurt bad?" "why, there won't even be any pain," dr. needzak told her cheerfully. before he could yell to the other doctors to call for a stretcher, the girl's breathing stopped. slowly, as if suddenly tired, dr. needzak climbed out of the vehicle. police had already dispersed the crowd. tow trucks were waiting to haul away the vehicles. the injured children were gone. the three doctors resumed their walk. dr. needzak felt the eyes of the other two men on him, lost patience after a moment, and said irritably: "go ahead, start bawling me out. but i've not signed anything yet. i'm still a licensed physician. i had every right to help those kids." the other two doctors stopped, looking at one another, as if trying to probe each other's thoughts. simultaneous smiles spread over their faces. dr. needzak stopped walking, when he heard them starting to laugh. he pushed between them with a frown, asking: "look, if you--" dr. carson slapped him on the back, hard. dr. manville grasped dr. needzak's hand and squeezed it with unexpected strength. "the same thing hit us both at the same time, i'll bet," the older doctor said. "it would be the ideal thing for you." dr. carson was pumping dr. needzak's other hand up and down. "sure. emergency physician! i don't know why we didn't think of that in the first place. accidents still happen now and then. it isn't easy to find doctors who are willing to specialize in them, because it isn't steady income and it doesn't pay a whole lot. but you have those screwball ideas about helping people to get well. and that's just what an emergency physician must do." "i'll talk to a couple of the men on the association board as soon as i can get to a telephone," dr. manville said. "i think i can persuade them to assign you to accidents without going through a disbarring procedure, as long as you agree to stay away from general practice. you're willing, i assume?" dr. needzak pulled his hands free and looked at the spots of dried blood that remained on the fingers and palms. he hadn't been able to wash up after the accident. he saw surgeon's hands, healing hands, hands that would never be satisfied to wrap up syrups or count pills. "i suppose that it's the best thing in a bad deal. but i'm wondering about accidents. just the other day, i read an insurance company statement. the insurance statisticians said that accidents have become so scarce in the past decade that they'll be virtually non-existent, in another half-century. i'll be by that time, just in the prime of life. if there aren't any more accident victims, what will i do for a living? i couldn't find a job at that age, you know." the other two doctors shrugged their shoulders, in unison. with the wisdom of age, dr. manville said: "well, if you find yourself in that situation, you can always go to see a doctor." up for renewal by lucius daniel illustrated by docktor [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from galaxy science fiction november . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "i'd give a year off my life to...." idle talk now, but it was ghastly reality to kent! howard kent looked at his young and beautiful wife and felt the weight of the years rest on his shoulders. in her eyes he saw his heavily lined face and sagging, stooped shoulders. they stood just inside the long, narrow reception room of the human rejuvenation plant. potted palms and formal chairs reminded one of a human disposal unit. "i have a confession to make, darling," he said. "oh, no, howard. not now. i take for granted you've done the usual things in your youth." "but...." "and we needn't have hurried so, as you can see. now we'll probably have to wait hours in this perfectly dismal place." she looked as young and fresh as he looked old and dusty, he thought, so out of place in this kind of establishment. he had always loved small women. leah was small and vivacious and dressed a year ahead of styles. no matter what happened, he'd never regret having married her. "but this is something i should have told you before," he said. she put her hand on his arm. "i've been perfectly happy these past six months. whatever it was, i forgive you." "it's not that. i'm talking about my age. i didn't think you'd marry me if you knew how old i really was. i put off telling you and figured you'd see my birth certificate at the wedding ceremony." "i never even looked at the silly old thing." "well, darling, i looked at yours and felt a little guilty in marrying a young girl of twenty-three. but the fact is i'm sixty-five. i've been rejuvenated before." "i rather suspected it when you started aging so suddenly last week," she said. "before that you didn't look a day over thirty. but it doesn't matter." "it's worse than that, leah." his face worked convulsively. "i've been here twice before. this is my third trip." "i'm too modern to act shocked, howard. if you didn't want to tell me before, dear, it's perfectly all right." "look, darling!" perspiration stood on his forehead. "you don't seem to understand. but then you never could add or subtract. now listen carefully. each trip clips five years off your life span." "everyone knows that, of course. but it's better to be young...." "it's better to be alive than dead," he said harshly. "but your doctors have given you a longevity span to the age of ninety." "suppose it was eighty, instead of ninety?" "oh, dear, you worry too much," she said. "doctors don't make such mistakes." "they can't give me a guarantee. you see, three of my ancestors died from accidents. the prediction of ninety years is based on the assumption that they would have lived a normal life-time." "they make few guarantees. you know, all of you men are such babies at a time like this." "yes, but if it _is_ eighty--then, i'll come out not a rejuvenated man, but just a handful of dust." "oh, that can't happen." * * * * * "look at it this way." he paused a moment while taking in her youthful appearance. "from now on i wouldn't look much older. just a little grayer and perhaps more stooped. then, i'll have what's left of my longevity plus the five years this rejuvenation would clip off." "why, howard, dear." leah sounded shocked. "you don't know what you're talking about. an aunt of mine elected that choice and it was perfectly horrible. she drooled the last few years of her life and was helpless as a baby." "why didn't they use euthanasia?" he asked. "the courts decided she wasn't capable of making a rational decision." he wiped his forehead. "that would be a long time off, darling. we'd have so much time together in the next fifteen years." "but what would it be like if you were crippled with arthritis or some other disease?" "you could divorce me if that happens." "i can also divorce you if you don't go through with rejuvenation. you know it's the law." "you wouldn't do that." his face was more lined than ever. "don't be silly, dear. nobody gets old these days. who would remain our friends? why, everywhere we'd go, people would point us out. oh, no, life wouldn't be livable." "that sounds like a cruel and calculating decision to me," howard said. "either i take a chance on dying or you'll divorce me." "you have no right to make such an accusation. i married a young man who said he was thirty years old. six months later i discover he's sixty-five. now who's cruel and calculating?" "please, darling, i didn't mean it. look," he pleaded, "i'll even sign permission for you to have a lover. there's that young fellow that's always around. maybe it's happened already." she stood back from him. "howard, you're being perfectly nasty. just like an aged person you read about." "five million dollars, and all of it yours when i die a natural death." he put his hands in his pockets. * * * * * the street door opened just then and a young man came toward them with a light springy step. he offered his hand to howard who took it slowly. "how are you, skipper? and you, leah? i came as soon as i got your message." "he's worried, mike." leah's face had brightened. "and now he's insisting on growing old." "i've been through the wringer twice before, you see," howard said in a low voice. "i don't think you have much to worry about," mike said. "those medics know their business." "aging is a nasty process." leah wrinkled her nose as if she smelled something offensive. "maybe you can convince him, mike." "leah is right, you know," mike said. "a few years ago i visited the old age home. there's only one left. you'd be surprised at the amount of suffering old people go through before they die; cancer, angina, broken bones, strokes, arthritis. rejuvenation won't work on extremely old bodies. longevity has run out." "why does it have to clip off five years?" worried howard. "it's the old-age governor they found in the pituitary gland. they can turn it back, but the shock takes off about five years." "oh, i know what's in the medical articles," howard growled. "remember, i've been through here twice before. but the sun was so warm this morning. it was like seeing everything for the last time. i felt like sitting down and letting everything drift." "that's a sure sign that you really need rejuvenating," said leah. "after it's over you'll be making me a golf widow again. won't he, mike?" "of course. he'll come out raring to go." howard looked from mike to leah and back at mike. age was no match for youth. if love hadn't started between them already, it would soon. * * * * * at the end of the long room, a door opened and two nurses entered, starched and antiseptic. "your room is ready, mr. kent," one nurse said. howard shuddered. "everything is so horribly familiar. the pill to erase the worry, which doesn't work. the cart you ride on which makes you feel like a carcass. the little bump as you enter the regeneration room. then you get a hypodermic and crawl into a long boiler tank." "you're just nervous, dear," said leah. "a dismal, miasmic cloud settles on your mind and you decide you wouldn't go through it again for anything in the world." mike put his arm around leah as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "he'll be all right, my darling." howard looked at them and then turned wearily to the nurse. "i'm ready." the nurse walked down the long room with the stooped man and disappeared beyond the door. "did you tell him about us?" asked mike. "of course not. what a man doesn't know won't hurt him." "are you mrs. kent?" asked the other nurse who had remained behind. "yes." "the doctor said to remind you that the fourth time is very dangerous," the nurse said. "you'll have five years and six months without it. but possibly only six months if it should be successful." "better take the first offer, leah," said mike. leah smiled. "i found a gray hair and a wrinkle this morning, love. better six months of youth than a thousand years of old age." she went into his arms. "don't worry about what happens, love. you'll have a lot of fun in the next seventy years." he kissed her and held her closely. "i've got to go now," she said. "i'm so grateful you were able to get the forged birth certificate." her high heels tapped rapidly on the tile floor as she walked down the long room with the other nurse. "good luck, mother," he called after her. what shall it profit? by poul anderson _"if you would build a tower, sit down first and count the cost, to see if you have enough to finish it." ... the price may be much too high._ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, june . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "the chickens got out of the coop and flew away three hundred years ago," said barwell. "now they're coming home to roost." he hiccoughed. his finger wobbled to the dial and clicked off another whisky. the machine pondered the matter and flashed an apologetic sign: _please deposit your money_. "oh, damn," said barwell. "i'm broke." radek shrugged and gave the slot a two-credit piece. it slid the whisky out on a tray with his change. he stuck the coins in his pouch and took another careful sip of beer. barwell grabbed the whisky glass like a drowning man. he _would_ drown, thought radek, if he sloshed much more into his stomach. there was an asian whine to the music drifting past the curtains into the booth. radek could hear the talk and laughter well enough to catch their raucous overtones. somebody swore as dice rattled wrong for him. somebody else shouted coarse good wishes as his friend took a hostess upstairs. he wondered why vice was always so cheerless when you went into a place and paid for it. "i am going to get drunk tonight," announced barwell. "i am going to get so high in the stony sky you'll need radar to find me. then i shall raise the red flag of revolution." "and tomorrow?" asked radek quietly. barwell grimaced. "don't ask me about tomorrow. tomorrow i will be among the great leisure class--to hell with euphemisms--the unemployed. nothing i can do that some goddam machine can't do quicker and better. so a benevolent state will feed me and clothe me and house me and give me a little spending money to have fun on. this is known as citizen's credit. they used to call it a dole. tomorrow i shall have to be more systematic about the revolution--join the league or something." "the trouble with you," radek needled him, "is that you can't adapt. technology has made the labor of most people, except the first-rank creative genius, unnecessary. this leaves the majority with a void of years to fill somehow--a sense of uprootedness and lost self-respect--which is rather horrible. and in any case, they don't like to think in scientific terms ... it doesn't come natural to the average man." barwell gave him a bleary stare out of a flushed, sagging face. "i s'pose you're one of the geniuses," he said. "you got work." "i'm adaptable," said radek. he was a slim youngish man with dark hair and sharp features. "i'm not greatly gifted, but i found a niche for myself. newsman. i do legwork for a major commentator. between times, i'm writing a book--my own analysis of contemporary historical trends. it won't be anything startling, but it may help a few people think more clearly and adjust themselves." "and so you _like_ this rotten solar union?" barwell's tone became aggressive. "not everything about it no. so there is a wave of antiscientific reaction, all over earth. science is being made the scapegoat for all our troubles. but like it or not, you fellows will have to accept the fact that there are too many people and too few resources for us to survive without technology." "some technology, sure," admitted barwell. he took a ferocious swig from his glass. "not this hell-born stuff we've been monkeying around with. i tell you, the chickens have finally come home to roost." radek was intrigued by the archaic expression. barwell was no moron: he'd been a correlative clerk at the institute for several years, not a position for fools. he had read, actually read books, and thought about them. and today he had been fired. radek chanced across him drinking out a vast resentment and attached himself like a reverse lamprey--buying most of the liquor. there might be a story in it, somewhere. there might be a lead to what the institute was doing. radek was not antiscientific, but neither did he make gods out of people with technical degrees. the institute _must_ be up to something unpleasant ... otherwise, why all the mystery? if the facts weren't uncovered in time, if whatever they were brewing came to a head, it could touch off the final convulsion of lynch law. barwell leaned forward, his finger wagged. "three hundred years now. i think it's three hundred years since x-rays came in. damn scientists, fooling around with x-rays, atomic energy, radioactives ... sure, safe levels, established tolerances, but what about the long-range effects? what about cumulative genetic effects? those chickens are coming home at last." "no use blaming our ancestors," said radek. "be rather pointless to go dance on their graves, wouldn't it?" barwell moved closer to radek. his breath was powerful with whisky. "but are they in those graves?" he whispered. "huh?" "look. been known for a long time, ever since first atomic energy work ... heavy but nonlethal doses of radiation shorten lifespan. you grow old faster if you get a strong dose. why d'you think with all our medicines we're not two, three hundred years old? background count's gone up, that's why! radioactives in the air, in the sea, buried under the ground. gamma rays, not _entirely_ absorbed by shielding. sure, sure, they tell us the level is still harmless. but it's more than the level in nature by a good big factor--two or three." radek sipped his beer. he'd been drinking slowly, and the beer had gotten warmer than he liked, but he needed a clear head. "that's common knowledge," he stated. "the lifespan hasn't been shortened any, either." "because of more medicines ... more ways to help cells patch up radiation damage. all but worst radiation sickness been curable for a long time." barwell waved his hand expansively. "they knew, even back then," he mumbled. "if radiation shortens life, radiation sickness cures ought to prolong it. huh? reas'nable? only the goddam scientists ... population problem ... social stasis if ever'body lived for centuries ... kept it secret. easy t' do. change y'r name and face ever' ten, twen'y years--keep to y'rself, don't make friends among the short-lived, you might see 'em grow old and die, might start feelin' sorry for 'em an' that would never do, would it--?" coldness tingled along radek's spine. he lifted his mug and pretended to drink. over the rim, his eyes stayed on barwell. "tha's why they fired me. i know. i know. i got ears. i overheard things. i read ... notes not inten'ed for me. they fired me. 's a wonder they didn' murder me." barwell shuddered and peered at the curtains, as if trying to look through them. "or d'y' think--maybe--" "no," said radek. "i don't. let's stick to the facts. i take it you found mention of work on--shall we say--increasing the lifespan. perhaps a mention of successes with rats and guinea pigs. right? so what's wrong with that? they wouldn't want to announce anything till they were sure, or the hysteria--" barwell smiled with an irritating air of omniscience. "more'n that, friend. more'n that. lots more." "well, what?" barwell peered about him with exaggerated caution. "one thing i found in files ... plans of whole buildin's an' groun's--great, great big room, lotsa rooms, way way underground. secret. only th' kitchen was makin' food an' sendin' it down there--human food. food for people i never saw, people who never came up--" barwell buried his face in his hands. "don' feel so good. whirlin'--" radek eased his head to the table. out like a spent credit. the newsman left the booth and addressed a bouncer. "chap in there has had it." "uh-huh. want me to help you get him to your boat?" "no. i hardly know him." a bill exchanged hands. "put him in your dossroom to sleep it off, and give him breakfast with my compliments. i'm going out for some fresh air." * * * * * the rec house stood on a minnesota bluff, overlooking the mississippi river. beyond its racket and multi-colored glare, there was darkness and wooded silence. here and there the lights of a few isolated houses gleamed. the river slid by, talking, ruffled with moonlight. luna was nearly full; squinting into her cold ashen face, radek could just see the tiny spark of a city. stars were strewn carelessly over heaven, he recognized the ember that was mars. perhaps he ought to emigrate. mars, venus, even luna ... there was more hope on them than earth had. no mechanical packaged cheer: people had work to do, and in their spare time made their own pleasures. no civilization cracking at the seams because it could not assimilate the technology it must have; out in space, men knew very well that science had carried them to their homes and made those homes fit to dwell on. radek strolled across the parking lot and found his airboat. he paused by its iridescent teardrop to start a cigaret. suppose the institute of human biology was more than it claimed to be, more than a set of homes and laboratories where congenial minds could live and do research. it published discoveries of value--but how much did it not publish? its personnel kept pretty aloof from the rest of the world, not unnatural in this day of growing estrangement between science and public ... but did they have a deeper reason than that? suppose they did keep immortals in those underground rooms. a scientist was not ordinarily a good political technician. but he might think he could be. he might react emotionally against a public beginning to throw stones at his house and consider taking the reins ... for the people's own good, of course. a lot of misery had been caused the human race for its own alleged good. or if the scientist knew how to live forever, he might not think joe smith or carlos ibáñez or wang yuan or johannes umfanduma good enough to share immortality with him. radek took a long breath. the night air felt fresh and alive in his lungs after the tavern staleness. he was not currently married, but there was a girl with whom he was thinking seriously of making a permanent contract. he had friends, not lucent razor minds but decent, unassuming, kindly people, brave with man's old quiet bravery in the face of death and ruin and the petty tragedies of everyday. he liked beer and steaks, fishing and tennis, good music and a good book and the exhilarating strain of his work. he liked to live. maybe a system for becoming immortal, or at least living many centuries, was not desirable for the race. but only the whole race had authority to make that decision. radek smiled at himself, twistedly, and threw the cigaret away and got into the boat. its engine murmured, sucking 'cast power; the riding lights snapped on automatically and he lifted into the sky. it was not much of a lead he had, but it was as good as he was ever likely to get. he set the autopilot for southwest colorado and opened the jets wide. the night whistled darkly around his cabin. against wan stars, he made out the lamps of other boats, flitting across the world and somehow intensifying the loneliness. work to do. he called the main office in dallas unit and taped a statement of what he knew and what he planned. then he dialed the nearest library and asked the robot for information on the institute of human biology. there wasn't a great deal of value to him. it had been in existence for about years, more or less concurrently with the psychotechnic institute and for quite a while affiliated with that organization. during the humanist troubles, when the psychotechs were booted out of government on earth and their files ransacked, it had dissociated itself from them and carried on unobtrusively. (how much of their secret records had it taken along?) since the restoration, it had grown, drawing in many prominent researchers and making discoveries of high value to medicine and bio-engineering. the current director was dr. marcus lang, formerly of new harvard, the university of luna, and--no matter. he'd been running the show for eight years, after his predecessor's death. or had tokogama really died? he couldn't be identical with lang--he had been a short japanese and lang was a tall negro, too big a jump for any surgeon. not to mention their simultaneous careers. but how far back could you trace lang before he became fakeable records of birth and schooling? what young fellow named yamatsu or hideki was now polishing glass in the labs and slated to become the next director? how fantastic could you get on how little evidence? radek let the text fade from the screen and sat puffing another cigaret. it was a while before he demanded references on the biology of the aging process. that was tough sledding. he couldn't follow the mathematics or the chemistry very far. no good popularizations were available. but a newsman got an ability to winnow what he learned. radek didn't have to take notes, he'd been through a mind-training course; after an hour or so, he sat back and reviewed what he had gotten. the living organism was a small island of low entropy in a universe tending constantly toward gigantic disorder. it maintained itself through an intricate set of hemostatic mechanisms. the serious disruption of any of these brought the life-processes to a halt. shock, disease, the bullet in the lungs or the ax in the brain--death. but hundreds of thousands of autopsies had never given an honest verdict of "death from old age." it was always something else, cancer, heart failure, sickness, stroke ... age was at most a contributing cause, decreasing resistance to injury and power to recover from it. one by one, the individual causes had been licked. bacteria and protozoa and viruses were slaughtered in the body. cancers were selectively poisoned. cholesterol was dissolved out of the arteries. surgery patched up damaged organs, and the new regeneration techniques replaced what had been lost ... even nervous tissue. offhand, there was no more reason to die, unless you met murder or an accident. but people still grew old. the process wasn't as hideous as it had been. you needn't shuffle in arthritic feebleness. your mind was clear, your skin wrinkled slowly. centenarians were not uncommon these days. but very few reached . nobody reached . imperceptibly, the fires burned low ... vitality was diminished, strength faded, hair whitened, eyes dimmed. the body responded less and less well to regenerative treatment. finally it did not respond at all. you got so weak that some small thing you and your doctor could have laughed at in your youth, took you away. you still grew old. and because you grew old, you still died. the unicellular organism did not age. but "age" was a meaningless word in that particular case. a man could be immortal via his germ cells. the micro-organism could too, but it gave the only cell it had. personal immortality was denied to both man and microbe. could sheer mechanical wear and tear be the reason for the decline known as old age? probably not. the natural regenerative powers of life were better than that. and observations made in free fall, where strain was minimized, indicated that while null-gravity had an alleviating effect, it was no key to living forever. something in the chemistry and physics of the cells themselves, then. they did tend to accumulate heavy water--that had been known for a long time. hard to see how that could kill you ... the percentage increase in a lifetime was so small. it might be a partial answer. you might grow old more slowly if you drank only water made of pure isotopes. but you wouldn't be immortal. radek shrugged. he was getting near the end of his trip. let the institute people answer his questions. * * * * * the four corners country is so named because four of the old american states met there, back when they were still significant political units. for a while, in the th century, it was overrun with uranium hunters, who made small impression on its tilted emptiness. it was still a favorite vacation area, and the resorts were lost in that great huddle of mountains and desert. you could have a lot of privacy here. gliding down over the moon-ghostly pueblo ruins of mesa verde, radek peered through the windscreen. there, ahead. lights glowed around the walls, spread across half a mesa. inside them was a parkscape of trees, lawns, gardens, arbors, cottage units ... the institute housed its people well. there were four large buildings at the center, and radek noted gratefully that several windows were still shining in them. not that he had any compunctions about getting the great dr. lang out of bed, but-- he ignored the public landing field outside the walls and set his boat down in the paved courtyard. as he climbed out, half a dozen guards came running. they were husky men in blue uniforms, armed with stunners, and the dim light showed faces hinting they wouldn't be sorry to feed him a beam. radek dropped to the ground, folded his arms, and waited. the breath from his nose was frosty under the moon. "what the hell do you want?" the nearest guard pulled up in front of him and laid a hand on his shock gun. "who the devil are you? don't you know this is private property? what's the big idea, anyway?" "take it easy," advised radek. "i have to see dr. lang at once. emergency." "you didn't call for an appointment, did you?" "no, i didn't." "all right, then--" "i didn't think he'd care to have me give my reasons over a radio. this is confidential and urgent." the men hesitated, uncertain before such an outrageous violation of all civilized canons. "i dunno, friend ... he's busy ... if you want to see dr. mccormick--" "dr. lang. ask him if i may. tell him i have news about his longevity process." "his what?" radek spelled it out and watched the man go. another one made some ungracious remark and frisked him with needless ostentation. a third was more urbane: "sorry to do this, but you understand we've got important work going on. can't have just anybody busting in." "sure, that's all right." radek shivered in the thin chill air and pulled his cloak tighter about him. "viruses and stuff around. if any of that got loose--you understand." well, it wasn't a bad cover-up. none of these fellows looked very bright. iq treatments could do only so much, thereafter you got down to the limitations of basic and unalterable brain microstructure. and even among the more intellectual workers ... how many barwells were there, handling semi-routine tasks but not permitted to know what really went on under their feet? radek had a brief irrational wish that he'd worn boots instead of sandals. the first guard returned. "he'll see you," he grunted. "and you better make it good, because he's one mad doctor." radek nodded and followed two of the men. the nearest of the large square buildings seemed given over to offices. he was led inside, down a short length of glow-lit corridor, and halted while the scanner on a door marked, lang, director observed him. "he's clean, boss," said one of the escort. "all right," said the annunciator. "let him in. but you two stay just outside." it was a spacious office, but austerely furnished. a telewindow reflected green larches and a sun-spattered waterfall, somewhere on the other side of the planet. lang sat alone behind the desk, his hands engaged with some papers that looked like technical reports. he was a big, heavy-shouldered man, his hair gray, his chocolate face middle-aged and tired. he did not rise. "well?" he snapped. "my name is arnold radek. i'm a news service operator ... here's my card, if you wish to see it." "pharaoh had it easy," said lang in a chill voice. "moses only called the seven plagues down on him. i have to deal with your sort." radek placed his fingertips on the desk and leaned forward. he found it unexpectedly hard not to be stared down by the other. "i know very well i've laid myself open to a lawsuit by coming in as i did," he stated. "possibly, when i'm through, i'll be open to murder." "are you feeling well?" there was more contempt than concern in the deep tone. "let me say first off, i believe i have information about a certain project of yours. one you badly want to keep a secret. i've taped a record at my office of what i know and where i'm going. if i don't get back before hours, central time, and wipe that tape, it'll be heard by the secretary." lang took an exasperated breath. his fingernails whitened on the sheets he still held. "do you honestly think we would be so ... i won't say unscrupulous ... so _stupid_ as to use violence?" "no," said radek. "of course not. all i want is a few straight answers. i know you're quite able to lead me up the garden path, feed me some line of pap and hustle me out again--but i won't stand for that. i mentioned my tape only to convince you that i'm in earnest." "you're not drunk," murmured lang. "but there are a lot of people running loose who ought to be in a mental hospital." "i know." radek sat down without waiting for an invitation. "anti-scientific fanatics. i'm not one of them. you know darrell burkhardt's news commentaries? i supply a lot of his data and interpretations. he's one of the leading friends of genuine science, one of the few you have left." radek gestured at the card on the desk. "read it, right there." lang picked the card up and glanced at the lettering and tossed it back. "very well. that's still no excuse for breaking in like this. you--" "it can't wait," interrupted radek. "there are a lot of lives at stake. every minute we sit here, there are perhaps a million people dying, perhaps more; i haven't the figures. and everyone else is dying all the time, millimeter by millimeter, we're all born dying. every minute you hold back the cure for old age, you murder a million human beings." "this is the most fantastic--" "let me finish! i get around. and i'm trained to look a little bit more closely at the facts everybody knows, the ordinary commonplace facts we take for granted and never think to inquire about because they are so ordinary. i've wondered about the institute for a long time. tonight i talked at great length with a fellow named barwell ... remember him? a clerk here. you fired him this morning for being too nosy. he had a lot to say." "hm." lang sat quiet for a while. he didn't rattle easily--he couldn't be snowed under by fast, aggressive talk. while radek spat out what clues he had, lang calmly reached into a drawer and got out an old-fashioned briar pipe, stuffed it and lit it. "so what do you want?" he asked when radek paused for breath. "the truth, damn it!" "there are privacy laws. it was established long ago that a citizen is entitled to privacy if he does nothing against the common weal--" "and you are! you're like a man who stands on a river bank and has a lifebelt and won't throw it to a man drowning in the river." lang sighed. "i won't deny we're working on longevity," he answered. "obviously we are. the problem interests biologists throughout the solar system. but we aren't publicizing our findings as yet for a very good reason. you know how people jump to conclusions. can you imagine the hysteria that would arise in this already unstable culture if there seemed to be even a prospect of immortality? you yourself are a prime case ... on the most tenuous basis of rumor and hypothesis, you've decided that we have found a vaccine against old age and are hoarding it. you come bursting in here in the middle of the night, demanding to be made immortal immediately if not sooner. and you're comparatively civilized ... there are enough lunatics who'd come here with guns and start shooting up the place." radek smiled bleakly. "of course. i know that. and you ought to know the outfit i work for is reputable. if you have a good lead on the problem, but haven't solved it yet, you can trust us not to make that fact public." "all right." lang mustered an answering smile, oddly warm and charming. "i don't mind telling you, then, that we do have some promising preliminary results--but, and this is the catch, we estimate it will take at least a century to get anywhere. biochemistry is an inconceivably complex subject." "what sort of results are they?" "it's highly technical. has to do with enzymes. you may know that enzymes are the major device through which the genes govern the organism all through life. at a certain point, for instance, the genes order the body to go through the changes involved in puberty. at another point, they order that gradual breakdown we know as aging." "in other words," said radek slowly, "the body has a built-in suicide mechanism?" "well ... if you want to put it that way--" "i don't believe a word of it. it makes a lot more sense to imagine that there's something which causes the breakdown--a virus, maybe--and the body fights it off as long as possible but at last it gets the upper hand. the whole key to evolution is the need to survive. i can't see life evolving its own anti-survival factor." "but nature doesn't care about the individual, friend radek. only about the species. and the species with a rapid turnover of individuals can evolve faster, become more effective--" "then why does man, the fastest-evolving metazoan of all, have one of the longest lifespans? he does, you know ... among mammals, at any rate. seems to me our bodies must be all-around better than average, better able to fight off the death virus. fish live a longer time, sure--and maybe in the water they aren't so exposed to the disease. may flies are short-lived; have they simply adapted their life cycle to the existence of the virus?" lang frowned. "you appear to have studied this subject enough to have some mistaken ideas about it. i can't argue with a man who insists on protecting his cherished irrationalities with fancy verbalisms." "and you appear to think fast on your feet, dr. lang." radek laughed. "maybe not fast enough. but i'm not being paranoid about this. you can convince me." "how?" "show me. take me into those underground rooms and show me what you actually have." "i'm afraid that's impos--" "all right." radek stood up. "i hate to do this, but a man must either earn a living or go on the public freeloading roll ... which i don't want to do. the facts and conjectures i already have will make an interesting story." lang rose too, his eyes widening. "you can't prove anything!" "of course i can't. you're sitting on all the proof." "but the public reaction! god in heaven, man, those people can't _think_!" "no ... they can't, can they?" he moved toward the door. "goodnight." radek's muscles were taut. in spite of everything that had been said, a person hounded to desperation could still do murder. there was a great quietness as he neared the door. then lang spoke. the voice was defeated, and when radek looked back it was an old man who stood behind the desk. "you win. come along with me." * * * * * they went down an empty hall, after dismissing the guards, and took an elevator below ground. neither of them said anything. somehow, the sag of lang's shoulders was a gnawing in radek's conscience. when they emerged, it was to transfer past a sentry, where lang gave a password and okayed his companion, to another elevator which purred them still deeper. "i--" the newsman cleared his throat, awkwardly. "i repeat what i implied earlier. i'm here mostly as a citizen interested in the public welfare ... which includes my own, of course, and my family's if i ever have one. if you can show me valid reasons for not breaking this story, i won't. i'll even let you hypnocondition me against doing it, voluntarily or otherwise." "thanks," said the director. his mouth curved upward, but it was a shaken smile. "that's decent of you, and we'll accept ... i think you'll agree with our policy. what worries me is the rest of the world. if you could find out as much as you did--" radek's heart jumped between his ribs. "then you do have immortality!" "yes. but i'm not immortal. none of our personnel are, except--here we are." there was a hidden susurrus of machinery as they stepped out into a small bare entryroom. another guard sat there, beside a desk. past him was a small door of immense solidity, the door of a vault. "you'll have to leave everything metallic here," said lang. "a steel object could jump so fiercely as to injure you. your watch would be ruined. even coins could get uncomfortably hot ... eddy currents, you know. we're about to go through the strongest magnetic field ever generated." silently, dry-mouthed, radek piled his things on the desk. lang operated a combination lock on the door. "there are nervous effects too," he said. "the field is actually strong enough to influence the electric discharges of your synapses. be prepared for a few nasty seconds. follow me and walk fast." the door opened on a low, narrow corridor several meters long. radek felt his heart bump crazily, his vision blurred, there was panic screaming in his brain and a sweating tingle in his skin. stumbling through nightmare, he made it to the end. the horror faded. they were in another room, with storage facilities and what resembled a spaceship's airlock in the opposite wall. lang grinned shakily. "no fun, is it?" "what's it for?" gasped radek. "to keep charged particles out of here. and the whole set of chambers is meters underground, sheathed in ten meters of lead brick and surrounded by tanks of heavy water. this is the only place in the solar system, i imagine, where cosmic rays never come." "you mean--" lang knocked out his pipe and left it in a gobboon. he opened the lockers to reveal a set of airsuits, complete with helmets and oxygen tanks. "we put these on before going any further," he said. "infection on the other side?" "we're the infected ones. come on, i'll help you." as they scrambled into the equipment, lang added conversationally: "this place has to have all its own stuff, of course ... its own electric generators and so on. the ultimate power source is isotopically pure carbon burned in oxygen. we use a nuclear reactor to create the magnetic field itself, but no atomic energy is allowed inside it." he led the way into the airlock, closed it, and started the pumps. "we have to flush out all the normal air and substitute that from the inner chambers." "how about food? barwell said food was prepared in the kitchens and brought here." "synthesized out of elements recovered from waste products. we do cook it topside, taking precautions. a few radioactive atoms get in, but not enough to matter as long as we're careful. we're so cramped for space down here we have to make some compromises." "i think--" radek fell silent. as the lock was evacuated, his unjointed airsuit spreadeagled and held him prisoner, but he hardly noticed. there was too much else to think about, too much to grasp at once. not till the cycle was over and they had gone through the lock did he speak again. then it came harsh and jerky: "i begin to understand. how long has this gone on?" "it started about years ago ... an early institute project." lang's voice was somehow tinny over the helmet phone. "at that time, it wasn't possible to make really pure isotopes in quantity, so there were only limited results, but it was enough to justify further research. this particular set of chambers and chemical elements is years old. a spectacular success, a brilliant confirmation, from the very beginning ... and the institute has never dared reveal it. maybe they should have, back then--maybe people could have taken the news--but not now. these days the knowledge would whip men into a murderous rage of frustration; they wouldn't believe the truth, they wouldn't dare believe, and god alone knows what they'd do." looking around, radek saw a large, plastic-lined room, filled with cages. as the lights went on, white rats and guinea pigs stirred sleepily. one of the rats came up to nibble at the wires and regard the humans from beady pink eyes. lang bent over and studied the label. "this fellow is, um, years old. still fat and sassy, in perfect condition, as you can see. our oldest mammalian inmate is a guinea pig: a hundred and forty-five years. this one here." lang stared at the immortal beast for a while. it didn't look unusual ... only healthy. "how about monkeys?" he asked. "we tried them. finally gave it up. a monkey is an active animal--it was too cruel to keep them penned up forever. they even went insane, some of them." footfalls were hollow as lang led the way toward the inner door. "do you get the idea?" "yes ... i think i do. if heavy radiation speeds up aging--then natural radioactivity is responsible for normal aging." "quite. a matter of cells being slowly deranged, through decades in the case of man--the genes which govern them being mutilated, chromosomes ripped up, nucleoplasm and cytoplasm irreversibly damaged. and, of course, a mutated cell often puts out the wrong combination of enzymes, and if it regenerates at all it replaces itself by one of the same kind. the effect is cumulative, more and more defective cells every hour. a steady bombardment, all your life ... here on earth, seven cosmic rays per second ripping through you, and you yourself are radioactive, you include radiocarbon and radiopotassium and radiophosphorus ... earth and the planets, the atmosphere, everything radiates. is it any wonder that at last our organic mechanism starts breaking down? the marvel is that we live as long as we do." the dry voice was somehow steadying. radek asked: "and this place is insulated?" "yes. the original plant and animal life in here was grown exogenetically from single-cell zygotes, supplied with air and nourishment built from pure stable isotopes. the institute had to start with low forms, naturally; at that time, it wasn't possible to synthesize proteins to order. but soon our workers had enough of an ecology to introduce higher species, eventually mammals. even the first generation was only negligibly radioactive. succeeding generations have been kept almost absolutely clean. the lamps supply ultraviolet, the air is recycled ... well, in principle it's no different from an ecological-unit spaceship." radek shook his head. he could scarcely get the words out: "people? humans?" "for the past years. wasn't hard to get germ plasm and grow it. the first generation reproduced normally, the second could if lack of space didn't force us to load their food with chemical contraceptive." behind his faceplate, lang grimaced. "i'd never have allowed it if i'd been director at the time, but now i'm stuck with the situation. the legality is very doubtful. how badly do you violate a man's civil rights when you keep him a prisoner but give him immortality?" he opened the door, an archaic manual type. "we can't do better for them than this," he said. "the volume of space we can enclose in a magnetic field of the necessary strength is already at an absolute maximum." light sprang automatically from the ceiling. radek looked in at a dormitory. it was well-kept, the furniture ornamental. beyond it he could see other rooms ... recreation, he supposed vaguely. the score of hulks in the beds hardly moved. only one woke up. he blinked, yawned, and shuffled toward the visitors, quite nude, his long hair tangled across the low forehead, a loose grin on the mouth. "hello, bill," said lang. "uh ... got sumpin? got sumpin for bill?" a hand reached out, begging. radek thought of a trained ape he had once seen. "this is bill." lang spoke softly, as if afraid his voice would snap. "our oldest inhabitant. one hundred and nineteen years old, and he has the physique of a man of . they mature, you know, reach their peak and never fall below it again." "got sumpin, doc, huh?" "i'm sorry, bill," said lang. "i'll bring you some candy next time." the moron gave an animal sigh and shambled back. on the way, he passed a sleeping woman, and edged toward her with a grunt. lang closed the door. there was another stillness. "well," said lang, "now you've seen it." "you mean ... you don't mean immortality makes you like that?" "oh, no. not at all. but my predecessors chose low-grade stock on purpose. remember those monkeys. how long do you think a normal human could remain sane, cooped up in a little cave like this and never daring to leave it? that's the only way to be immortal, you know. and how much of the race could be given such elaborate care, even if they could stand it? only a small percentage. nor would they live forever--they're already contaminated, they were born radioactive. and whatever happens, who's going to remain outside and keep the apparatus in order?" radek nodded. his neck felt stiff, and within the airsuit he stank with sweat. "i've got the idea." "and yet--if the facts were known--if my questions had to be answered--how long do you think a society like ours would survive?" radek tried to speak, but his tongue was too dry. lang smiled grimly. "apparently i've convinced you. good. fine." suddenly his gloved hand shot out and gripped radek's shoulder. even through the heavy fabric, the newsman could feel the bruising fury of that clasp. "but you're only one man," whispered lang. "an unusually reasonable man for these days. there'll be others. "what are we going to _do_?" transcriber's note: this etext was produced from fantastic universe january . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed. _rejuvenation for the millions--or rejuvenation for the five hundred lucky ones, the select ones, that can be treated each year? tough, independent senator dan fowler fights a one-man battle against the clique that seeks perpetual power and perpetual youth, in this hard-hitting novel by alan e. nourse. why did it have to be his personal fight? the others fumble it--they'd foul it up, fowler protested? but why was he in the fight and what was to happen to senator fowler's fight against this fantastic conspiracy? who would win?_ martyr _by ... alan e. nourse_ "i can break him, split his criterion committee wide open _now_ while there's still a chance, and open rejuvenation up to everybody...." * * * * * four and one half hours after martian sunset, the last light in the headquarters building finally blinked out. carl golden stamped his feet nervously against the cold, cupping his cigarette in his hand to suck up the tiny spark of warmth. the night air bit his nostrils and made the smoke tasteless in the darkness. atmosphere screens kept the oxygen in, all right--but they never kept the biting cold out. as the light disappeared he dropped the cigarette, stamping it sharply into darkness. boredom vanished, and warm blood prickled through his shivering legs. he slid back tight against the coarse black building front, peering across the road in the gloom. it was the girl. he had thought so, but hadn't been sure. she swung the heavy stone door shut after her, glanced both left and right, and started down the frosty road toward the lights of the colony. carl golden waited until she was gone. he glanced at his wrist-chrono, and waited ten minutes more. he didn't realize that he was trembling until he ducked swiftly across the road. through the window of the low, one-story building he could see the lobby call-board, with the little colored studs all dark. he smiled in unpleasant satisfaction--no one was left in the building. it was routine, just like everything else in this god-forsaken hole. utter, abysmal, trancelike routine. the girl was a little later than usual, probably because of the ship coming in tomorrow. reports to get ready, supply requisitions, personnel recommendations-- --and the final reports on armstrong's death. mustn't forget that. the _real_ story, the absolute, factual truth, without any nonsense. the reports that would go, ultimately, to rinehart and only rinehart, as all other important reports from the mars colony had been doing for so many years. carl skirted the long, low building, falling into the black shadows of the side wall. halfway around he came to the supply chute, covered with a heavy moulded-stone cover. now? it had taken four months here to know that he would have to do it this way. four months of ridiculous masquerade--made idiotic by the incredible fact that everyone took him for exactly what he pretended to be, and never challenged him--not even terry fisher, who drunk or sober always challenged everything and everybody! but the four months had told on his nerves, in his reactions, in the hollows under his quick brown eyes. there was always the spectre of a slip-up, an aroused suspicion. and until he had the reports before his eyes, he couldn't fall back on dan fowler's name to save him. he had shook dan's hand the night he had left, and dan had said, "remember, son--i don't know you. hate to do it this way, but we can't risk it now--" and they couldn't, of course. not until they knew, for certain, who had murdered kenneth armstrong. they already knew why. * * * * * the utter stillness of the place reassured him; he hoisted up the chute cover, threw it high, and shinned his long body into the chute. it was a steep slide; he held on for an instant, then let go. blackness gulped him down as the cover snapped closed behind him. he struck hard and rolled. the chute opened into the commissary in the third deep-level of the building, and the place was black as the inside of a pocket. he tested unbroken legs with a sigh of relief, and limped across to where the door should be. in the corridor there was some light--dim phosphorescence from the martian night-rock lining the walls and tiling the floor. he walked swiftly, cursing the clack-clack his heels made on the ringing stone. when he reached the end of the corridor he tried the heavy door. it gave, complaining. good, good! it had been a quick, imperfect job of jimmying the lock, so obviously poor that it had worried him a lot--but why should they test it? there was still another door. he stepped into the blackness again, started across the room as the door swung shut behind him. a shoe scraped, the faintest rustle of sound. carl froze. his own trouser leg? a trick of acoustics? he didn't move a muscle. then: "carl?" his pocket light flickered around the room, a small secretary's ante-room. it stopped on a pair of legs, a body, slouched down in the soft plastifoam chair--a face, ruddy and bland, with a shock of sandy hair, with quixotic eyebrows. "terry! for christ sake, what--" the man leaned forward, grinning up at him. "you're late, carl." his voice was a muddy drawl. "should have made it sooner than this, sheems--seems to me." carl's light moved past the man in the chair to the floor. the bottle was standing there, still half full. "my god, you're _drunk_!" "course i'm drunk. whadj-ya think, i'd sober up after you left me tonight? no thanks, i'd rather be drunk." terry fisher hiccupped loudly. "i'd always rather be drunk, around this place." "all right, you've got to get out of here--" carl's voice rose with bitter anger. of all times, of _all_ times--he wanted to scream. "how did you get in here? you've _got_ to get out--" "so do you. they're on to you, carl. i don't think you know that, but they are." he leaned forward precariously. "i had a talk with barness this morning, one of his nice 'spontaneous' chats, and he pumped the hell out of me and thought i was too drunk to know it. they're expecting you to come here tonight--" carl heaved at the drunken man's arm, frantically in the darkness. "get _out_ of here, terry, or so help me--" terry clutched at him. "didn't you hear me? they _know_ about you. personell supervisor! they think you're spying for the eastern boys--they're starting a mars colony too, you know. barness is sure you're selling them info--" the man hiccupped again. "barness is an ass, just like all the other retreads running this place, but i'm not an ass, and you didn't fool me for two days--" carl gritted his teeth. how could terry fisher know? "for the last time--" fisher lurched to his feet. "they'll get you, carl. they can try you and shoot you right on the spot, and barness will do it. i had to tell you, you've walked right into it, but you might still get away if--" it was cruel. the drunken man's head jerked up at the blow, and he gave a little grunt, then slid back down on the chair. carl stepped over his legs, worked swiftly at the door beyond. if they caught him now, terry fisher was right. but in five more minutes-- the lock squeaked, and the door fell open. inside he tore through the file cases, wrenched at the locked drawers in frantic haste, ripping the weak aluminum sheeting like thick tinfoil. then he found the folder marked kenneth armstrong on the tab. somewhere above him an alarm went off, screaming a mournful note through the building. he threw on the light switch, flooding the room with whiteness, and started through the papers, one by one, in the folder. no time to read. flash retinal photos were hard to superimpose and keep straight, but that was one reason why carl golden was on mars instead of sitting in an office back on earth-- he flipped the last page, and threw the folder onto the floor. as he went through the door, he flipped out the light, raced with clattering footsteps down the corridor. lights caught him from both sides, slicing the blackness like hot knives. "_all right, golden. stop right there._" dark figures came out of the lights, ripped his clothing off without a word. somebody wrenched open his mouth, shined a light in, rammed coarse cold fingers down into his throat. then: "all right, you bastard, up stairs. barness wants to see you." they packed him naked into the street, hurried him into a three-wheeled ground car. five minutes later he was wading through frosty dust into another building, and barness was glaring at him across the room. * * * * * odd things flashed through carl's mind. you seldom saw a repeater get really angry--but barness was angry. the man's young-old face (the strange, utterly ageless amalgamation of sixty years of wisdom, superimposed by the youth of a twenty-year-old) had unaccustomed lines of wrath about the eyes and mouth. barness didn't waste words. "what did you want down there?" "armstrong." carl cut the word out almost gleefully. "and i got it, and there's nothing you or rinehart or anybody else in between can do about it. i don't know _what_ i saw yet, but i've got it in my eyes and in my cortex, and you can't touch it." "you stupid fool, we can _peel_ your cortex," barness snarled. "well, you won't. you won't dare." barness glanced across at the officer who had brought him in. "tommy--" "dan fowler won't like it," said carl. barness stopped short, blinking. he took a slow breath. then he sank down into his chair. "fowler" he said, as though dawn were just breaking. "that's right. he sent me up here. i've found what he wants. shoot me now, and when they probe you dan will know i found it, and you won't be around for another rejuvenation." barness looked suddenly old. "what did he want?" "the truth about armstrong. not the 'accident' story you fed to the teevies.... "_tragic end for world hero, died with his boots on_". dan wanted the truth. who killed him. why this colony is grinding down from compound low to stop, and turning men like terry fisher into alcoholic bums. why this colony is turning into a glorified, super-refined birdie's rest for old men. but mostly who killed armstrong, how he was murdered, who gave the orders. and if you don't mind, i'm beginning to get cold." "and you got all that," said barness. "that's right." "you haven't read it, though." "not yet. plenty of time for that on the way back." barness nodded wearily, and motioned the guard to give carl his clothes. "i think you'd better read it tonight. maybe it'll surprise you." golden's eyes widened. something in the man's voice, some curious note of defeat and hopelessness, told him that barness was not lying. "oh?" "armstrong didn't have an accident, that's true. but nobody murdered him, either. nobody gave any orders, to anybody, from anybody. armstrong put a bullet through his head--quite of his own volition." ii "all right, senator," the young red-headed doctor said. "you say you want it straight--that's how you're going to get it." moments before, dr. moss had been laughing. now he wasn't laughing. "six months, at the outside. nine, if you went to bed tomorrow, retired from the senate, and lived on tea and crackers. but where i'm sitting i wouldn't bet a plugged nickel that you'll be alive a month from now. if you think i'm joking, you just try to squeeze a bet out of me." senator dan fowler took the black cigar from his mouth, stared at the chewed-up end for a moment, and put it back in again. he had had something exceedingly witty all ready to say at this point in the examination; now it didn't seem to be too funny. if moss had been a mealy-mouthed quack like the last doc he had seen, okay. but moss wasn't. moss was obviously not impressed by the old man sitting across the desk from him, a fact which made dan fowler just a trifle uneasy. and moss knew his turnips. dan fowler looked at the doctor and said, "garbage." the red-headed doctor shrugged. "look, senator--sometimes a banana is a banana. i know heart disease, and i know how it acts. i know that it kills people if they wait too long. and when you're dead, no rejuvenation lab is going to bring you back to life again." "oh, hell! who's dying?" fowler's grey eyebrows knit in the old familiar scowl, and he bit down hard on the cigar. "heart disease! so i get a little pain now and then--sure it won't last forever, and when it gets bad i'll come in and take the full treatment. but i can't do it now!" he spread his hands in a violent gesture. "i only came in here because my daughter dragged me. my heart's doing fine--i've been working an eighteen hour day for forty years now, and i can do it for another year or two--" "but you have pain," said dr. moss. "so? a little twinge, now and then." "whenever you lose your temper. whenever anything upsets you." "all right--a twinge." "which makes you sit down for ten or fifteen minutes. which doesn't go away with one nitro-tablet any more, so you have to take two, and sometimes three--right?" * * * * * dan fowler blinked. "all right, sometimes it gets a little bad--" "and it used to be only once or twice a month, but now it's almost every day. and once or twice you've blacked clean out for a while, and made your staff work like demons to cover for you and keep it off the teevies, right?" "say, who's been talking to you?" "jean has been talking to me." "can't even trust your own daughter to keep her trap shut." the senator tossed the cigar butt down in disgust. "it happened once, yes. that god damned rinehart is enough to make anybody black out." he thrust out his jaw and glowered at dr. moss as though it were all _his_ fault. then he grinned. "oh, i know you're right, doc. it's just that this is the wrong _time_. i can't take two months out now--there's too much to be done between now and the middle of next month." "oh, yes. the hearings. why not turn it over to your staff? they know what's going on." "nonsense. they know, but not like i know. after the hearings, fine--i'll come along like a lamb. but now--" dr. moss reddened, slammed his fist down on the desk. "dammit, man, are you blind and deaf? or just plain stupid? didn't you hear me a moment ago? _you may not live through the hearings._ you could _go_, just like that, any minute. but this is a.d., not the middle ages. it would be so utterly, hopelessly pointless to let that happen--" fowler champed his cigar and scowled. "after it was done i'd have to free-agent for a year, wouldn't i?" it was an accusation. "you _should_. but that's a formality. if you want to go back to what you were doing the day you came from the center--" "yes, _if_! but supposing i didn't? supposing i was all changed?" the young doctor looked at the old man shrewdly. dan fowler was years old--and he looked forty. it seemed incredible even to moss that the man could have done what he had done, and look almost as young and fighting-mad now as he had when he started. clever old goat, too--but dan fowler's last remark opened the hidden door wide. moss smiled to himself. "you're afraid of it, aren't you, senator?" "of rejuvenation? nonsense." "but you are. you aren't the only one--it's a pretty frightening thing. cash in the old model, take out a new one, just like a jet racer or a worn out talk-writer. only it isn't machinery, it's your body, and your life." dr. moss grinned. "it scares a man. _rejuvenation_ isn't the right word, of course. aside from the neurones, they take away every cell in your body, one way or another, and give you new ones. a hundred and fifty years ago cancelmo and klein did it on a dog, and called it _sub-total prosthesis_. a crude job--i've seen their papers and films. vat-grown hearts and kidneys, revitalized vascular material, building up new organ systems like a patchwork quilt, coaxing new tissues to grow to replace old ones--but they got a living dog out of it, and that dog lived to the ripe old age of years before he died." * * * * * moss pushed back from his desk, watching dan fowler's face. "then in nimrock tried it on a man, and almost got himself hanged because the man died. that was a hundred and forty-two years ago. and then while he was still on trial, his workers completed the second job, and the man _lived_, and oh, how the jig changed for nimrock!" the doctor shrugged. as he talked, dan fowler sat silent, chewing his cigar furiously. but listening--he was listening, all right. "well, it was crude, then," moss said. "it's not so crude any more." he pointed to a large bronze plaque hanging on the office wall. "you've seen that before. read it." dan fowler's eyes went up to the plaque. a list of names. at the top words said, "_these ten gave life to mankind._" below it were the names: martin aronson, ph. d. education thomas bevalaqua literature and art chauncy devlin music frederick a. kehler, m. s. engineering william b. morse, l. l. d. law rev. hugh h. f. norton philosophy and theology jacob prowsnitz, ph. d. history arthur l. rodgers, m. d. medicine carlotta sokol, ph. d. sociopsychology harvey tatum business "i know," said dan fowler. "june st, . they were volunteers." "ten out of several dozen volunteers," moss amended. "those ten were chosen by lot. already people were dreaming of what sub-total prosthesis could do. it could preserve the great minds, it could compound the accumulated wisdom of one lifetime with another lifetime--and maybe more. those ten people--representing ten great fields of study--risked their lives. not to live forever--just to see if rejuvenation could really preserve their minds in newly built bodies. all of them were old, older than you are, senator, some were sicker than you, and all of them were afraid. but seven of the ten are _still alive today_, a hundred and thirty years later. rodgers died in a jet crash. tatum died of neuro-toxic virus, because we couldn't do anything to rebuild neurones in those days. bevalaqua suicided. the rest are still alive, after two more rejuvenations." "fine," said dan fowler. "i still can't do it now." "that was just ten people," moss cut in. "it took five years to get ready for them. but now we can do five hundred a year--only five hundred select individuals, to live on instead of dying. and you've got the gall to sit there and tell me you don't have the time for it!" * * * * * the old man rose slowly, lighting another cigar. "it could be five thousand a year. that's why i don't have the time. fifteen thousand, fifty thousand. we could do it--but we're not doing it. walter rinehart's been rejuvenated--twice already! _i'm_ on the list because i shouted so loud they didn't dare leave me off. but _you're_ not on it. why not? you could be. everybody could be." dr. moss spread his hands. "the criterion committee does the choosing." "_rinehart's_ criteria! only five hundred a year. use it for a weapon. build power with it. get a strangle-hold on it, and never, never let it go." the senator leaned across the desk, his eyes bright with anger. "i haven't got time to stop what i'm doing now--because i can _stop_ rinehart, if i only live that long, i can break him, split his criterion committee wide open _now_ while there's still a chance, and open rejuvenation up to everybody instead of five hundred lucky ones a year. i can stop him because i've dug at him and dug at him for twenty-nine years, and shouted and screamed and fought and made people listen. and if i fumble now, it'll all be down the drain, finished, washed up. "if that happens, _nobody_ will ever stop him." there was silence in the room for a moment. then moss spread his hands. "the hearings are that critical, eh?" "i'm afraid so." "why has it got to be _your_ personal fight? other people could do it." "they'd fumble it. they'd foul it up. senator libby fouled it up once already, a long time ago. rinehart's lived for a hundred and nineteen years, and he's learning new tricks every year. i've only lived fifty-six of them, but i know his tricks. i can beat him." "but why _you_?" "somebody's got to do it. my card is on top." a 'phone buzzer chirped. "yes, he's here." dr. moss handed dan the receiver. a moment later the senator was grinning like a cat struggling into his overcoat and scarf. "sorry, doc--i know what you tell me is true, and i'm no fool. if i have to stop, i'll stop." "tomorrow, then." "not tomorrow. one of my lads is back from the mars colony. tomorrow we pow-wow--but hard. after the hearings, doc. and meanwhile, keep your eye on the teevies. i'll be seeing you." the door clicked shut with a note of finality, and dr. david moss stared at it gloomily. "i hope so," he said. but nobody in particular heard him. iii a volta two-wheeler was waiting for him outside. jean drove off down the drive with characteristic contempt for the laws of gravity when dan had piled in, and carl golden was there, looking thinner, more gaunt and hawk-like than ever before, his brown eyes sharp under his shock of black hair, his long, thin aquiline nose ("if you weren't a jew you'd be a discredit to the gentiles," dan fowler had twitted him once, years before, and carl had looked down his long, thin, aquiline nose, and sniffed, and let the matter drop, because until then he had never been sure whether his being a jew had mattered to dan fowler or not, and now he knew, and was quite satisfied with the knowledge) and the ever-present cigarette between thin, sensitive fingers. dan clapped him on the shoulder, and shot a black look at his daughter, relegating her to an indescribable fowler limbo, which was where she belonged, and would reside until dan got excited and forgot how she'd betrayed him to dr. moss, which would take about ten or fifteen minutes all told. jean fowler knew her father far too well to worry about it, and squinted out the window at the afternoon traffic as the car skidded the corner into the boulevard throughway, across the river toward home. "god damn it, boy, you could have _wired_ me at least. one of jean's crew spotted the passage list, so i knew you'd left, and got the hearing moved up to next month--" carl scowled. "i thought it was all set for february th." dan chuckled. "it was. but i was only waiting for you, and got the ball rolling as soon as i knew you were on your way. dwight mckenzie is still writing the committee's business calendar, of course, and he didn't like it a bit, but he couldn't find any solid reason why it _shouldn't_ be set ahead. and i think our good friend senator rinehart is probably wriggling on the stick about now, just on the shock value of the switch. always figure in the shock value of everything you do, my boy--it pays off more than you'd ever dream--" carl golden shook his head. "i don't like it, dan." "what, the switch in dates?" "the switch. i wish you hadn't done that." "but why? look, son, i know that with ken armstrong dead our whole approach has to be changed--it's going to be trickier, but it might even work out better. the senate knows what's been going on between rinehart and me, and so does the president. they know elections are due next june. they know i want a seat on his criterion committee before elections, and they know that to get on it i'll do my damnedest to unseat him. they know i've shaken him up, that he's scared of me. okay, fine. with armstrong there to tell how he was chosen for retread back in ' , we'd have had rinehart running for his life...." "but you don't," carl cut in flatly, "and that's that." "what, are you crazy, son? _i needed armstrong, bad._ rinehart knew it, and had him taken care of. it was fishy--it stunk from here to mars, but rinehart covered it up fast and clean. but with the stuff you got up in the colony, we can charge rinehart with murder, and the whole senate knows his motive already. he didn't _dare_ to let armstrong testify." * * * * * carl was shaking his head sadly. "well, what's wrong?" "you aren't going to like this, dan. rinehart's clean. armstrong comitted suicide." fowler's mouth fell open, and he sat back hard. "oh, no." "sorry." "ken armstrong? suicided?" he shook his head helplessly, groping for words. "i--i--oh, jesus. i don't believe it. if ken armstrong suicided, i'm the scarlet whore of babylon." "well, we'll try to keep _that_ off the teevies." "there's no chance that you're wrong," said the old man. carl shook his head. "there's plenty that's funny about that mars colony, but armstrong's death was suicide. period. even barness didn't understand it." sharp eyes went to carl's face. "what's funny about the colony?" carl shrugged, and lit a cigarette. "hard to say. this was my first look, i had nothing to compare it with. but there's _something_ wrong. i always thought the mars colony was a frontier, a real challenge--you know, man against the wilderness, and all that. saloons jammed on saturday nights with rough boys out to get some and babes that had it to give. a place that could take earthbound softies and toughen them up in a week, working to tame down the desert--" his voice trailed off. "they've got a saloon, all right--but everybody just comes in quietly and gets slobbery drunk. met a guy named fisher, thought the same thing i did when he came up five years ago. a real go-getter, leader type, lots of ideas and the guts to put them across. now he's got a hob-nail liver and he came back here on the ship with me, hating mars and everything up there, most of all himself. something's wrong up there, dan. maybe that's why armstrong bowed out." the senator took a deep breath. "not a man like ken armstrong. why, i used to worship him when i was a kid. i was ten when he came back to earth for his second retread." the old man shook his head. "i wanted to go back to mars with him--i actually packed up to run away, until dear brother paul caught me and squealed to dad. imagine." "i'm sorry, dan." the car whizzed off the throughway, and began weaving through the residential areas of arlington. jean swung under an arched gate, stopped in front of a large greystone house of the sort they hadn't built for a hundred years. dan fowler stared out at the grey november afternoon. "well, then we're really on thin ice at the hearings. we can still do it. it'll take some steam-rollering, but we can manage it." he turned to the girl. "get schirmer on the wire as soon as we get inside. i'll go over carl's report for whatever i can find. tell schirmer if he wants to keep his job as coordinator of the medical center next year, he'd better have all the statistics available on all rejuvenated persons past and present, in my office tomorrow morning." jean gave her father a queer look. "schirmer's waiting for you inside right now." "oh? why?" "he wouldn't say. nothing to do with politics, he said. something about paul." * * * * * nathan shirmer was waiting in the library, sipping a brandy and pretending to scan a congressional record in the viewer-box. he looked up, bird-like, as dan fowler strode in. "well, nate. sit down, sit down. i see you're into my private stock already, so i won't offer you any. what's this about my brother?" schirmer coughed into his hand. "why--dan, i don't quite know how to tell you this. he was in washington this afternoon--" "of course he was. he was supposed to go to the center--" dan broke off short, whirling on schirmer. "wait a minute! there wasn't a slip-up on this permit?" "permit?" "for rejuvention, you ass! he's on the starship project, coordinating engineer of the whole works out there. he's got a fair place on the list coming to him three ways from sunday. follmer put the permit through months ago, and paul has just been diddling around getting himself clear so he could come in--" the little coordinator's eyes widened. "oh, there wasn't anything wrong on _our_ side, if that's what you mean. the permit was perfectly clear, the doctors were waiting for him. it was nothing like that." "then what was it like?" nathan schirmer wriggled, and tried to avoid dan's eyes. "your brother refused it. he laughed in our faces, and told us to go to hell, and took the next jet back to nevada. all in one afternoon." the vibration of the jet engines hung just at perception level, nagging and nagging at dan fowler, until he threw his papers aside with a snarl of disgust, and peered angrily out the window. they were high, and moving fast. far below was a tiny spot of light in the blackness. pittsburgh. maybe cleveland. it didn't matter which. jets traveled at such-and-such a rate of speed; they left at such-and-such a time and arrived elsewhere at such-and-such a time later. he could worry, or he could not-worry. the jet would bring him down in las vegas in exactly the same time, to the second, either way. another half-hour taxi ride over dusty desert roads would bring him to the glorified quonset hut his brother called home. nothing dan fowler could do would hurry the process of getting there. dan had called, and received no answer. he had talked to the las vegas authorities, and even gotten lijinsky at the starship, and neither of them knew anything. the police said yes, they would check at dr. fowler's residence, if he wasn't out at the ship, and check back. but they hadn't checked back, and that was two hours ago. meanwhile, carl had chartered him a plane. god damn paul to three kinds of hell. of all miserable times to start playing games, acting like an imbecile child! and the work and sweat dan had gone through to get that permit, to buy it beg it, steal it, gold-plate it. of course the odds were good that paul would have gotten it without a whisper from dan--he was high on the list, he was critical to starship, and certainly starship was critical enough to rate. but dan had gone out on a limb, way out--the senator's fist clenched, and he drummed it helplessly on the empty seat, and felt a twinge of pain spread up his chest, down his arm. he cursed, fumbled for the bottle in his vest pocket. god damned heart and god damned brother and god damned rinehart--did _everything_ have to split the wrong way? now? of all times of all days of all his fifty-six years of life, _now_? _all right, dan. cool, boy. relax. shame on you. can't you quit being selfish just for a little while?_ dan didn't like the idea as it flickered through his mind, but then he didn't like anything too much right then, so he forced the thought back for a rerun. big dan fowler, _senator_ dan fowler, selfish dan fowler loves dan fowler mostly. _poor paul._ * * * * * the words had been going through his mind like a silly chant since the first moment he had seen nate schirmer in the library. poor paul. dan did all right for himself, he did--made quite a name down in washington, you know, a fighter, a real fighter. the boy with the golden touch (joke, son, laugh now). everything he ever did worked out with him on top, somehow. paul was different. smart enough, plenty of the old gazoo, but he never had dan's drive. bad breaks, right down the line. kinda tough on a guy, with a comet like dan in the family. poor paul. he let his mind drift back slowly, remembering little things, trying to spot the time, the single instant in time, when he stopped fighting paul and started feeling sorry for him. it had been different, years ago. paul was the smart one, all right. never had dan's build but he could think rings around him. dan was always a little slow--never forgot anything he learned, but he learned slow. still, there were ways to get around that-- dad and mom always liked paul the best (their first boy, you know) and babied him more, and that was decidedly tougher to get around--still there were ways. like the night the prize money came from the lottery, when he and paul had split a ticket down the middle. how old was he then--ten? eleven? and paul was fifteen. he'd grubbed up the dollar polishing cars, and met paul's dollar halfway, never dreaming the thing would pay off. and when it did! oh, he'd never forget that night. he wanted the jet-racer. the ticket paid two thousand, a hell of a lot of cash for a pair of boys--and the two thousand would buy the racer. he'd been so excited tears had poured down his face.... but paul had said no. split it even, just like the ticket, paul had said. there were hot words, and pleading, and threats, and paul had just laughed at him until he got so mad he wanted to kill him with only his fists. bad mistake, that. paul was skinny, not much muscle, read books all the time it looked like a cinch. but paul had five years on him that he hadn't counted on. important five years. paul connected with just one--enough to lay dan flat on his back with a concussion and a broken jaw, and that, my boy, was that. almost. dan had won the fight, of course. it was the broken jaw that did it, that night, later the fight mom and dad had, worse than usual, a cruel one, low blows, mean--but dan got his racer, on the strength of the broken jaw. that jaw had done him a lot of good. never grew quite right after that, got one of the centers of ossification, the doc had said, and dan had been god's gift to the pen-and-brush men with that heavy, angular jaw--a fighter's jaw, they called it. * * * * * that started it, of course. he knew then that he could beat paul. good to know. but never _sure_ of it, always having to prove it. the successes came, and always he let paul know about them, watched paul's face like a cat. and paul would squirm, and sneer, and tell dan that in the end it was brains that would pay off. sour grapes, of course. if paul had ever squared off to him again, man to man, they might have had it over with. but paul just seemed content to sit and quietly hate him. like the night he broke the universalists in new chicago, at the hundred-dollar-a-plate dinner. he'd told them, that night. that was the night they'd cold-shouldered him, and put libby up to run for mayor. oh, he'd raised a glorious stink that night--he'd never enjoyed himself so much in his life, turning their whole twisted machine right over to the public on a silver platter. cutting loose from the old crowd, appointing himself a committee of one to nominate himself on an independent reform ticket, campaign himself, and elect himself. a whippersnapper of thirty-two. paul had been amused by it all, almost indulgent. "you _do_ get melodramatic, don't you, dan? well, if you want to cut your own throat, that's your affair." and dan had burned, and told paul to watch the teevies, he'd see a thing or two, and he did, all right. he remembered paul's face a few months later, when libby conceded at : pm on election night, and dan rode into office with a new crowd of livewires who were ready to help him plow into new chicago and clean up that burg like it'd never been cleaned up. and the sweetest part of the victory pie had been the look on paul's face that night-- so they'd fought, and he'd won and rubbed it in, and paul had lost, and hated him for it, until that mysterious day--when had it really happened?--when "that big-brained brother of mine" changed subtly into "christ, man, quit floundering! who wants engineers? they're all over the place, you'll starve to death" and then finally, to "poor paul." when had it happened? why? dan wondered, suddenly, if he had ever really forgiven paul that blow to the jaw-- perhaps. he shook himself, scowling into the plastiglass window blackness. okay, they'd fought it out. always jolly, always making it out to be a big friendly game, only it never was a game. he knew how much he owed to paul. he'd known it with growing concern for a lot of years. and now if he had to drag him back to washington by the hair, he'd drag the silly fool-- iv they didn't look very much alike. there was a spareness about paul--a tall, lean, hungry-looking man, with large soft eyes that hid their anger and a face that was lined with tiredness and resignation. a year ago, when dan had seen him last, he had looked a young , closer to ; now he looked an old, old . how much of this was the cancer dan didn't know. the pathologist had said: "not a very malignant tumor right now, but you can never tell when it'll blow up. he'd better be scheduled at the center, if he's got a permit--" but some of it was paul, just paul. the house was exactly as dan had expected it would be (though he had never been inside this house since paul had come to starship project fifteen years ago)--stuffy, severe, rather gloomy, rooms packed with bookshelves, drawing boards, odds and ends of papers and blueprints and inks, thick, ugly furniture from the early 's, a cluttered, improvised, helter-skelter barn of a testing-lab, with modern equipment that looked lost and alien scattered among the mouldering junk of two centuries. "get your coat," said dan. "it's cold outside. we're going back to washington." "have a drink." paul waved him toward the sideboard. "relax. your pilot needs a rest." "paul, i didn't come here to play games. the games are over now." paul poured a brandy with deliberation. handed dan one, sipped his own. "good brandy," he murmured. "wish i could afford more of it." "_paul._ you're going with me." the old man shrugged with a little tired smile. "i'll go with you if you insist, of course. but i'm not going." "do you know what you're saying?" "perfectly." "paul, you don't just say 'thanks, but i don't believe i'll have any' when they give you a rejuvenation permit. _nobody_ refuses rejuvenation. why, there are a million people out there begging for a place on the list. it's _life_, paul. you can't just turn it down--" "this _is_ good brandy," said paul. "would you care to take a look at my lab, by the way? not too well equipped, but sometimes i can work here better than--" dan swung on his brother viciously. "i will tell you what i'm going to do," he grated, hitting each word hard, like knuckles rapping the table. "i'm going to take you to the plane. if you won't come, my pilot and i will drag you. when we get to washington, we'll take you to the center. if you won't sign the necessary releases, i'll forge them. i'll bribe two witnesses who will swear in the face of death by torture that they saw you signing. i'll buy out the doctors that can do the job, and if they won't do it, i'll sweat them down until they _will_." * * * * * he slammed the glass down on the table, feeling his heart pounding in his throat, feeling the pain creep up. "i've got lots of things on lots of people, and i can get things done when i want them done. people don't fool with me in washington any more, because when they do they get their fingers burned off at the knuckles. for christ sake, paul, i knew you were stubborn but i didn't think you were block-headed stupid!" paul shrugged, apologetically. "i'm impressed, dan. really." "you don't think i can do it?" dan roared. "oh, no doubt you _could_. but such a lot of trouble for an unwilling victim. and i'm your brother, dan. remember?" dan fowler spread his hands in defeat, then sank down in the chair. "paul, tell me _why_." "i don't want to be rejuvenated." as though he were saying, "i don't want any sugar in my coffee." "why not? if i could only see why, if i knew what was going through your mind, maybe i could understand. but i can't." dan looked up at paul, practically pleading. "you're _needed_. i had a tape from lijinsky last month--do you know what he said? he said why couldn't you have come to starship ten years earlier? nobody knows that ship like you do, you're making it go. that ship can take men to the stars, now, with rejuvenation, and the same men can come back again to find the same people waiting for them when they get here. they can _live_ that long, now. we've been tied down to seventy years of life, to a tight little universe of one sun and nine planets for thousands of years. well, we can change that now. we can go out. that's what your work can do for us." he stared helplessly at his brother. "you could go out on that ship you're building, paul. you've always wanted to. _why not?_" paul looked across at him for a long moment. there was pity in his eyes. there was also hatred there, and victory, long awaited, bitterly won. "do you really want me to tell you?" "i want you to tell me." then paul told him. it took about ten minutes. it was not tempered with mercy. it split dan fowler's world wide open at the seams. * * * * * "you've been talking about the starship," said paul fowler. "all right, that's as good a starting place as any. i came to starship project--what was it, fifteen years ago? almost sixteen, i guess. this was my meat. i couldn't work well with people, i worked with _things_, processes, ideas. i dug in hard on starship. i loved it, dreamed it, lived with it. i had dreams in those days. work hard, make myself valuable here, maybe i'd _get_ rejuvenation, so i could work more on starship. i believed everything you just said. alpha centauri, arcturus, vega, anywhere we wanted to go--and i could go along! it wouldn't be long, either. we had lijinsky back with us after his rejuvenation, directing the project, we had keller and stark and eddie cochran--great men, the men who had pounded starship project into reality, took it out of the story books and made the people of this country want it bad enough to pay for it. those men were back now--new men, rebuilt bodies, with all their knowledge and experience preserved. only now they had something even more precious than life: _time_. and i was part of it, and i too could have time." paul shook his head, slowly, and sank back into the chair. his eyes were very tired. "a dream, nothing more. a fantasy. it took me fifteen years to learn what a dream it was. not even a suspicion at first--only a vague puzzlement, things happening that i couldn't quite grasp. easy to shrug off, until it got too obvious. not a matter of wrong decisions, really. the decisions were right, but they were in the wrong places. something about starship project shifting, changing somehow. something being lost. slowly. nothing you could nail down, at first, but growing month by month. "then one night i saw what it was. that was when i equipped the lab here, and proved to myself that starship project was a dream." * * * * * he spread his hands and smiled at dan like a benign old chips to a third-form schoolboy. "the starship isn't going to alpha centauri or anywhere else. it's not going to leave the ground. i thought i'd live long enough to launch that ship and be one of its crew. well, i won't. that ship wouldn't leave the ground if i lived a million years." "garbage," said dan fowler succinctly. "no, dan. not garbage. unfortunately, we sometimes have to recognize our dreams as dreams, and look reality right square in the face. starship project is dying. our whole civilization is dying. nimrock drove the first nail into the coffin a hundred and thirty years ago--lord, if they'd only hanged him when his first rejuvenation failed! but that would only have delayed it. now we're dying, slowly right now, but soon it will be fast, very fast. and do you know who's getting set to land the death-blow?" he smiled sadly across at his brother. "you are, dan." dan fowler sprang from his chair with a roar. "my god, paul, you're _sick_! of all the idiot's delights i ever heard, i--i--oh, jesus." he stood shaking, groping for words, staring at his brother. "you said you wanted me to tell you." "tell me! tell me what?" dan took a trembling breath, and sat down, visibly, gripping himself. "all right, all right, i heard what you said--you must mean something, but i don't know what. let's be reasonable. let's forget philosophy and semantics and concepts and all the frills for just a minute and talk about facts, huh? _just facts._" "all right, facts," said paul. "kenneth armstrong wrote man on mars in --he was fifty-seven years old then, and he hadn't been rejuvenated yet. fundamentally a good book, analyzing his first mars colony, taking it apart right down to the silk undies, to show why it had failed so miserably, and why the next one could succeed if he could ever get up there again. he had foresight; with rejuvenation just getting started, he had a whole flock of ideas about overpopulation and the need for a mars colony--he was all wet on the population angle, of course, but nobody knew that then. he kicked keller and lijinsky off on the starship idea. they admit it--it was man on mars that first started them thinking. they were both young, with lots of fight in them. okay?" "just stick to facts," said dan coldly. * * * * * "okay. starship project got started, and blossomed into the people's baby. they started work on the basic blueprints about years ago. everybody knew it would be a long job--cost money, plenty of it, and there was so much to do before the building ever began. that was where i came in, fifteen years ago. building. they were looking for engineers who weren't eager to get rich. it went fine. we started to build. then keller and stark came back from rejuvenation. lijinsky had been rejuvenated five years before." "look, i don't need a course in history," dan exploded. "yes, you do," paul snapped. "you need to sit down and listen for once, instead of shooting your big mouth off all the time. that's what you need real bad, dan." paul fowler rubbed his chin. there were red spots in his cheeks. "okay, there were some changes made. i didn't like the engine housing--i never had, so i went along with them a hundred percent on that. even though i designed it--i'd learned a few things since. and there were bugs. it made perfectly good sense, talking to lijinsky. starship project was pretty important to all of us. dangerous to risk a fumble on the first play, even a tiny risk. we might never get another chance. lijinsky knew we youngsters were driving along on adrenalin and nerves, and couldn't wait to get out there, but when you thought about it, what was the rush? was it worth a chance of a fumble to get out there _this_ year instead of _next_? couldn't we take time to find a valid test for that engine at ultra-high acceleration before we put it back in? after all, we _had_ time now--keller and stark just back with sixty more years to live--why the rush? "okay. i bought it. we worked out a valid test on paper. took us four years of work on it to find out you couldn't build such a device on earth, but never mind that. other things were stalling all the while. the colony-plan for the ship. choosing the crew--what criteria, what qualifications? there was plenty of time--why not make _sure_ it's right? don't leave anything crude, if we can refine it a little first--" paul sighed wearily. "it snowballed. keller and stark backed lijinsky to the hilt. there was some trouble about money--i think you had your thumb in the pie there, getting it fixed for us, didn't you? more refining. work it out. detail. get sidetracked on some aspect for a few years--so what? lots of time. rejuvenation, and all that, talk about the universalists beating rinehart out and throwing the center open to everybody. et cetera, et cetera. but somewhere along the line i began to see that it just wasn't true. the holdups, the changes, the digressions and snags and refinements were all excuses, all part of a big, beautiful, exquisitely reasonable facade built up to obscure the real truth. _lijinsky and keller and stark had changed._" dan fowler snorted. "i know a very smart young doctor who told me that there _weren't_ any changes." "i don't mean anything physical--their bodies were fine. nothing mental, either--they had the same sharp minds they always had. it was a change in values. they'd lost something that they'd had before. the _drive_ that made them start starship project, the _urgency_, the vital importance of the thing--it was all gone. they just didn't have the push any more. they began to look for the easy way, and it was far easier to build and rebuild, and refine, and improve the starship here on the ground than to throw that starship out into space--" * * * * * there was a long, long silence. dan fowler sat grey-faced, staring at paul, just shaking his head and staring. "i don't believe it," he said finally. "you do maybe, because you want to, but you're mixed up, paul. i've seen lijinsky's reports. there's been progress, regular progress, month by month. you've been too close to it, maybe. of course there have been delays, but only when they were necessary. the progress has gone on--" paul stood up suddenly. "come in here, dan. look." he threw open a door, strode rapidly down a corridor and a flight of stairs into the long, low barn of a laboratory. "here, here, let me show you something." he pulled out drawers, dragged out rolls of blueprints. "these are my own. they're based on the working prints from starship that we drew up ten years ago, scaled down to model size. i've tested them, i've run tolerances, i've checked the math five ways and back again. i've tested the parts, the engine--model size. the blueprints haven't got a flaw in them. they're perfect as they'll ever get. no, wait a minute, look--" he strode fiercely across to slide back a floor panel, drew up the long, glittering thing from a well in the floor--sleek, beautiful, three feet long. paul maneuvered a midget loading crane, guided the thing into launching position on the floor, then turned back to dan. "there it is. just a model, but it's perfect. every detail is perfect. there's even fuel in it. no men, but there could be if there were any men small enough." anger was blazing in paul's voice now, bitterness and frustration. "i built it, because i had to be sure. i've tested its thrust. i could launch this model for alpha centauri tonight--and _it would get there_. if there were little men who could get into it, _they'd_ get there, too--alive. starship project is completed, it's been completed for ten years now, but do you know what happened to these blueprints, the originals? they were studied. they were improvements. they almost had the ship built, and then they took it apart again." "but i've read the reports," dan cried. "have you _seen_ the starship? have you _talked_ to them over there? it isn't just there, it's _everywhere_, dan. there are only about , rejuvenated men alive in this hemisphere so far, but already the change is beginning to show. go talk to the advertising people--_there's_ a delicate indicator of social change if there ever was one. see what they say. who are they backing in the government? you? like hell. rinehart? no, they're backing up 'moses' tyndall and his abolitionist goon-squad who preach that rejuvenation is the work of satan, and they're giving him enough strength that he's even getting _you_ worried. how about roderigo aviado and his solar energy project down in antarctica? do you know what he's been doing down there lately? you'd better find out, dan. what's happening to the mars colony? do you have any idea? you'd better find out. have you gone to see any of the noble ten that are still rattling around? oh, you ought to. how about all the suicides we've been having in the last ten years? what do the insurance people say about that?" * * * * * he stopped, from lack of breath. dan just stared at him, shaking his head like silly willy on the teevies. "find out what you're doing, dan--before you push this universal rejuvenation idea of yours through. find out--if you've got the guts to find out, that is. we've got a monster on our hands, and now you've got to be big dan fowler playing god and turning him loose on the world. well, be careful. find out first, while you can. it's all here to see, if you'll open your eyes, but you're all so dead sure that you want life everlasting that nobody's even bothered to _look_. and now it's become such a political bludgeon that nobody _dares_ to look." the model ship seemed to gleam in the dim laboratory light. dan fowler walked over to it, ran a finger up the shiny side to the pinpoint tip. his face was old, and something was gone from his eyes when he turned back to paul. "you've known this for so long, and you never told me. you never said a word." he shook his head slowly. "i didn't know you hated me so much. but i'm not going to let you win this one, either, paul. you're wrong. i'm going to prove it if it kills me." v "well, try his home number, then," dan fowler snarled into the speaker. he gnawed his cigar and fumed as long minutes spun off the wall clock. his fingers drummed the wall. "how's that? dammit, i want to speak to dwight mckenzie, his aide will _not_ do--well, of course he's in town. i just saw him yesterday--" he waited another five minutes, and then his half dollar clanked back in the return, with apologies. "all right, get his office when it opens, and call me back." he reeled off the number of the private booth. carl golden looked up as he came back to the table and stirred sugar-cream into half-cold coffee. "no luck?" "son of a bitch has vanished." dan leaned back against the wall, glowering at carl and jean. through the transparent walls of the glassed-in booth, they could see the morning breakfast-seekers drifting into the place. "we should have him pretty soon." he bit off the end of a fresh cigar, and assaulted it with a match. "dad, you know what dr. moss said--" "look, little girl--if i'm going to die in ten minutes, i'm going to smoke for those ten minutes and enjoy them," dan snapped. the coffee was like lukewarm dishwater. both the young people sipped theirs with bleary early-morning resignation. carl golden needed a shave badly. he opened his second pack of cigarettes. "did you sleep on the way back?" dan snorted. "what do you think?" "i think paul might be lying to you." dan shot him a sharp glance. "maybe--but i don't think so. paul has always been fussy about telling the truth. he's all wrong, of course--" (fresh coffee, sugar-cream)--"but i think _he_ believes his tale. does it sound like he's lying to you?" carl sighed and shook his head. "no. i don't like it. it sounds to me as though he's pretty sure he's right." dan clanked the cup down and swore. "he's demented, that's what he is! he's waited too long, his brain's starting to go. if that story of his were true, why has he waited so long to tell somebody about it?" "maybe he wanted to see you hang yourself." "but i can only hang myself on facts, not on the paranoid ramblings of a sick old man. the horrible thing is that he probably believes it--he almost had me believing it, for a while. but it isn't true. he's wrong--good lord, he's _got_ to be wrong." dan broke off, staring across at carl. he gulped the last of the coffee. "if he _isn't_ wrong, then that's all, kiddies. the mountain sinks into the sea, with us just ten feet from the top of it." "well, would _you_ walk into the center for a retread now without being sure he's wrong?" "of course i wouldn't," said dan peevishly. "paul has taken the game right out from under our noses. we've got to stop everything and find out _now_, before we do another damned thing." the senator dragged a sheaf of yellow paper out of his breast pocket and spread it out on the table. "i worked it out on the way back. we've got a nasty job on our hands. more than we can possibly squeeze in before the hearing come up on december th. so number one job is to shift the hearings back again. i'll take care of that as soon as i can get mckenzie on the wire." "what's your excuse going to be?" jean wanted to know. "anything but the truth. mckenzie thinks i'm going to win the fight at the hearings, and he wants to be on the right side of the toast when it's buttered. he'll shift the date back to february th. okay, next step: we need a crew. a crowd that can do fast, accurate, hard work and not squeal if they don't sleep for a month or so. tommy sandborn should be in washington--he can handle statistics for us. in addition, we need a couple of good sharp detectives. jean?" * * * * * the girl nodded. "i can handle that end. it'll take some time getting them together, though." "how much time?" "couple of days." "fine, we can have lots of work for them in a couple of days." the senator turned back to carl. "i want you to hit starship project first thing." carl shook his head. "i've got a better man for that job. saw him last night, and he's dying for something to do. you don't know him--terry fisher. he'll know how to dig out what we want. he was doing it for five years on mars." "the alky?" dan didn't like it. "we can't risk a slip to the teevies. we just don't dare." "there won't be any slip. terry jumped in the bottle to get away from mars, that's all. he'll stay cold when it counts." "okay, if you say so. i want to see the setup there, too, but i want it ready for a quick scan. get him down there this morning to soften things up and get it all out on the table for me. you'd better tackle the ad-men, then. let's see--tenner's agency in philly is a good place to start. then hit metro insurance. don't waste time with underlings, go to the top and wave my name around like an orange flag. they won't like it a damned bit, but they know i have the finger on kornwall in communications. we'll take his scalp if they don't play ball. all you'll have to do is convince them of that." "what's on kornwall?" "kornwall has been fronting for 'moses' tyndall for years. that's why tyndall never bothered me too much, because we could get him through kornwall any time we wanted to. and the ad-men and metro have everything they own sunk into tyndall's plans." carl's frown still lingered. "don't worry about it, son. it's okay." "i think maybe you're underestimating john tyndall." "why?" "i worked for him once, remember? he doesn't like you. he knows it's going to be you or him, in the long haul, with nobody else involved. and you realize what happens if 'moses' gets wind of this mess? finds out what your brother told you, or even finds out that you're worried about something?" dan chewed his lip. "he _could_ be a pain, couldn't he?" "he sure could. more than a pain, and kornwall wouldn't be much help after the news got out." "well, we'll have to take the risk, that's all. we'll have to be fast and quiet." he pushed aside his coffee cup as the phone blinker started in. "i think that gets us started. jean, you'll keep somebody on the switchboard, and keep track of us all. when i get through with mckenzie, i may be leaving the country for a while. you'll have to be my ears, and cover for me. _yes_, yes. i was calling dwight mckenzie--" the phonebox squawked for a moment or two. "hello, dwight?--what? oh, thunder! well, where is he? timagami--ontario? an island!" he covered the speaker and growled, "he's gone moose-hunting." then: "okay, get me eastern sea-jet charter service." five minutes later they walked out onto the street and split up in three different directions. * * * * * a long series of grey, flickering pictures, then, for dan fowler. a fast meal in the car to the charter service landing field. morning sun swallowed up, sky gray, then almost black, temperature dropping, a grey drizzling rain. cold. wind carrying it across the open field in waves, slashing his cheeks with icy blades of water. grey shape of the ski-plane ("eight feet of snow up there, according to the iwb reports. lake's frozen three feet thick. going to be a rough ride, senator"). jean's quick kiss before he climbed up, the sharp worry in her eyes ("got your pills, dad? try to sleep. take it easy. give me a call about anything--") (but there aren't any phones, the operator said. better not tell her that. why scare her any more? damned heart, anyway). a wobbly takeoff that almost dumped his stomach in his lap, sent the briefcase flying across the cabin. then rain, and grey-black nothing out through the mid-day view ports, heading north. faster, faster, why can't you get this crate to move? sorry, senator. nasty currents up here. maybe we can try going higher-- time! paul had called it more precious than life, and now time flew screaming by in great deadly sweeps, like a black-winged buzzard. and through it all, weariness, tiredness that he had never felt before. not years, not work. weary body, yes--and time was running out, he should have rejuvenated years ago. but now--_what if paul were right?_ can't do it now. not until paul is wrong, a thousand times wrong. that was it, of course, that was the weariness that wasn't time-weariness or body-weariness. just mind-weariness. weariness at the thought of wasted work, the wasted years--a wasted life. unless paul is very wrong. a snarl of disgust, a toggle switch snapped, a flickering teevie screen. wonderful pickup these days. news of the world brought to you by atomics international, the fuel to power the starship--the president returned to washington today after three-week vacation conference in calcutta with chinese and indian dignitaries--full accord and a cordial ending to the meeting--american medical supplies to be made available--and on the home front, appropriations renewed for antarctica project, to bring solar energy into every home, aviado was quoted as saying--huge abolitionist rally last night in new chicago as john 'moses' tyndall returned to that city to celebrate the fifteenth birthday of the movement that started there back in --no violence reported as tyndall lashed out at senator daniel fowler's universal rejuvenation program--twenty-five hour work week hailed by senator rinehart of alaska as a great progressive step for the american people--senator rinehart, chairman of the policy-making criterion committee held forth hope last night that rejuvenation techniques may increase the number of candidates to six hundred a year within five years--and now, news from the entertainment world-- going down, then, into flurries of northern snow, peering out at the whiter gloom below, a long stretch of white with blobs of black on either side, resolving into snow-laden black pines, a long flat lake-top of ice and snow. taxi-ing down, engines roaring, sucking up snow into steam in the orange afterblast. and ahead, up from the lake, a black blot of a house, with orange window lights reflecting warmth and cheer against the wilderness outside-- then dwight mckenzie, peering out into the gloom, eyes widening in recognition, little mean eyes with streaks of fear through them, widening and then smiling, pumping his hand. "dan! my god, i couldn't _imagine_--hardly ever see anybody up here, you know. come in, come in, you must be half frozen. what's happened? something torn loose down in washington?" and more questions, fast, tumbling over each other, no answers wanted, talky-talk questions to cover surprise and fear and the one large question of why dan fowler should be dropping down out of the sky on _him_, which question he didn't think he wanted answered just yet-- * * * * * a huge, rugged room, blazing fire in a mammoth fireplace at the end, moose heads, a rug of thick black bear hide. "like to come up here a day or two ahead of the party, you know," mckenzie was saying. "does a man good to commune with his soul once in a while. do you like to hunt? you should join us, dan. libby and donaldson will be up tomorrow with a couple of guides. we could find you an extra gun. they say hunting should be good this year--" one chair against the fireplace, a book hastily thrown down beside it, sextra special, cartoons by kulp. great book for soul-searching senators. things were all out of focus after the sudden change from the cold, but now dan was beginning to see. one book, one chair, but two half-filled sherry glasses at the sideboard-- "can't wait, dwight, i have to get back to the city, but i couldn't find you down there, and they didn't know when you were coming back. i just wanted to let you know that i put you to all that trouble for nothing--we don't need the hearing date in december, after all." wariness suddenly in mckenzie's eyes. "well! nice of you to think of it, dan--but it wasn't really any trouble. no trouble at all. december th is fine, as a matter of fact, better than the february date would have been. give the committee a chance to collect itself during the holidays, ha, ha." "well, it now seems that it _wouldn't_ be so good for me, dwight. i'd much prefer it to be changed back to the february date." "well, now." pause. "dan, we _have_ to settle these things sooner or later, you know. i don't know whether we can do that now--" "don't know! why not?" the moose-hunter licked both lips, couldn't keep his eyes on dan's eyes, focused on his nose instead,--as if the nose were _really_ the important part of the conversation. "it isn't just me that makes these decisions, dan. other people have to be consulted. it's pretty late to catch them now, you know. it might be pretty hard to do that--" no more smiles from dan. "now look--you make the calendar, and you can change it." face getting red, getting angry--careful, dan, those two sherry glasses, watch what you say--"i want it changed back. and i've got to know right now." "but you told me you'd be all ready to roll by december th--" to hell with caution--he _had_ to have time. "look, there's no reason you can't do it if you want to, dwight. i'd consider it a personal favor--i repeat, a very large personal favor--if you'd make the arrangements. i won't forget it--" what did the swine want, an arm off at the roots? "sorry," said a voice from the rear door of the room. walter rinehart walked across to the sideboard. "you don't mind if i finish this, dwight?" a deep breath from mckenzie, like a sigh of relief. "go right ahead, walt. sherry, dan?" "no, i don't think so." it was walter, all right. tall, upright, dignified walter, fine shock of wavy hair that was white as the snow outside. young-old lines on his face. some men looked finer after rejuvenation, much finer than before. there had been a chilly look about walter rinehart's eyes before his first retread. not now. a fine man, like somebody's dear old grandfather. just give him a chunk of wood to whittle and a jack-blade to whittle it with-- but inside, the mind was the same. inside, no changes. author of the rinehart criteria, the royal road to a self-perpetuating "immortal elite." * * * * * dan turned his back on rinehart and said to mckenzie: "i want the date changed." "i--i can't do it, dan." an inquiring glance at rinehart, a faint smiling nod in return. he knew he'd blundered then, blundered badly. mckenzie was afraid. mckenzie wanted another lifetime, one of these days. he'd decided that rinehart would be the one who could give it to him. but worse, far worse: rinehart knew now that something had happened, something was wrong. "what's the matter, dan?" he said smoothly. "you need more time? why? you had it before, and you were pretty eager to toss it up. well, what's happened, dan?" that was all. back against the wall. the thought of bluffing it through, swallowing the december th date and telling them to shove it flashed through his mind. he threw it out violently, his heart sinking. that was only a few more days. they had weeks of work ahead of them. they needed more time, they _had_ to have it-- rinehart was grinning confidently. "of course i'd like to cooperate, dan. only i have some plans for the hearings, too. you've been getting on people's nerves, down in the city. there's even been talk of reconsidering your rejuvenation permit--" your move, dan. god, what a blunder! why did you ever come up here? and every minute you stand there with your jaw sagging just tells rinehart how tight he's got you--_do_ something, _anything_-- there was a way. would carl understand it? carl had begged him never to use it, ever, under any circumstances. and carl had trusted him when he had said he wouldn't--but if carl were standing here now, he'd say yes, go ahead, use it, wouldn't he? he'd have to-- "i want the hearings on february th," dan said to rinehart. "sorry, dan. we can't be tossing dates around like that. unless you'd care to tell me why." "okay." dan grabbed his hat angrily. "i'll make a formal request for the change tomorrow morning, and read it on the teevies. then i'll also announce a feature attraction that the people can look forward to when the hearing date comes. we weren't planning to use it, but i guess you'd like to have both barrels right in the face, so that's what we'll give you." walter rinehart roared with laughter. "_another_ feature attraction? you do dig them up, don't you? ken armstrong's dead, you know." "peter golden's widow isn't." * * * * * the smile faded on rinehart's face. he looked suddenly like a man carved out of grey stone. dan trembled, let the words sink in. "you didn't think _anybody_ knew about that, did you, walt? sorry. we've got the story on peter golden. took us quite a while to piece it together, but we did with the help of his son. carl remembers his father before the accident, you see, quite well. his widow remembers him even before that. and we have some fascinating recordings that peter golden made when he applied for rejuvenation, and when he appealed the committee's decisions. some of the private interviews, too, walter." "i gave peter golden forty more years of life," rinehart said. "you crucified him," said dan, bluntly. there was silence, long silence. then: "are you selling?" "i'm selling." cut out my tongue, carl, but i'm selling. "how do i know you won't break it anyway?" "you don't know. except that i'm telling you i won't." rinehart soaked that in with the last gulp of sherry. then he smashed the glass on the stone floor. "change the date," he said to mckenzie. "then throw this vermin out of here." back in the snow and darkness dan tried to breathe again, and couldn't quite make it. he had to stop and rest twice going down to the plane. then he was sick all the way back. vi early evening, as the plane dropped him off in new york crater, and picked up another charter. two cold eggs and some scalding coffee, eaten standing up at the airport counter. great for the stomach, but there wasn't time to stop. anyway, dan's stomach wasn't in the mood for dim lights and pale wine, not just this minute. questions howling through his mind. the knowledge that he had made the one class a colossal blunder of his thirty years in politics, this last half-day. a miscalculation of a man! he should have known about mckenzie--at least suspected. mckenzie was getting old, he wanted a retread, and wanted it badly. before, he had planned to get it through dan. then something changed his mind, and he decided rinehart would end up on top. why? armstrong's suicide, of course. pretty good proof that even rinehart hadn't known it was a suicide. if carl had brought back evidence of murder, dan would win, mckenzie thought. but evidence of suicide--it was shaky. walt rinehart has his hooks in too deep. they piped down the fifteen minute warning for the washington jet. dan gulped the last of his coffee, and found a visi-phone booth with a scrambler in working order. two calls. the first one to jean, to line up round-the-clock guards for peter golden's widow on long island. jean couldn't keep surprise out of her voice. dan grunted and didn't elaborate--just get them out there. then a call to locate carl. he chewed his cigar nervously. two minutes of waiting while they called carl from wherever he was. then: "i just saw mckenzie. i found him hiding in rhinehart's hip pocket." "jesus, dan. we've got to have time." "we've got it--but the price was very steep, son." silence then as carl peered at him. finally: "i see." "if i hadn't been in such a hurry, if i'd only thought it out," dan said miserably. "it was an awful error--and all mine, too." "well, don't go out and shoot yourself. i suppose it had to happen sooner or later. what about mother?" "she'll be perfectly safe. they won't get within a mile of her. look, son--is fisher doing all right?" carl nodded. "i talked to him an hour ago. he'll be ready for you by tomorrow night, he thinks." "sober?" "sober. and mad. he's the right guy for the job." worried lines deepened on golden's forehead. "everything's o.k.? rinehart won't dare--" "i scared him. he'd almost forgotten. everything's fine." dan rang off, scowling. he wished he was as sure as he sounded. rinehart's back was to the wall, now. dan wasn't too sure he liked it that way. an hour later he was in washington, and jean was dragging him into the volta. "if you don't sleep now, i'll have you put to sleep. now shut up while i drive you home." a soft bed, darkness, escape. when had he slept last? it was heaven. * * * * * he slept the clock around, which he had not intended, and caught the next night-jet to las vegas, which he had intended. there was some delay with the passenger list after he had gone aboard, a fight of some sort, and the jet took off four minutes late. dan slept again, fitfully. somebody slid into the adjoining seat. "well! good old dan fowler!" a gaunt, frantic-looking man, with skin like cracked parchment across his high cheekbones, and a pair of carradine eyes looking down at dan. if death should walk in human flesh, dan thought, it would look like john tyndall. "what do you want, 'moses'?" "just dropped by to chat," said tyndall. "you're heading for las vegas, eh? why?" dan jerked, fumbled for the upright-button. "i like the climate out there. if you want to talk, talk and get it over with." tyndall lifted a narrow foot and gave the recline-button a sharp jab, dumping the senator back against the seat. "you're onto something. i can smell it cooking, and i want my share, right now." dan stared into the gaunt face, and burst out laughing. he had never actually been so close to john tyndall before, and he did _not_ like the smell, which had brought on the laugh, but he knew all about tyndall. more than tyndall himself knew, probably. he could even remember the early rallies tyndall had led, feeding on the fears and suspicions and nasty rumors grown up in the early days. it was evil, they had said. this was not god's way, this was man's way, as evil as man was evil. if god had wanted man to live a thousand years, he would have given him such a body-- or: they'll use it for a tool! political football. they'll buy and sell with it. they'll make a cult of it, they're doing it right now! look at walter rinehart. did you hear about his scheme? to keep it down to five hundred a year? they'll make themselves a ruling class, an immortal elite, with rinehart for their black pope. better that _nobody_ should have it-- or: immortality, huh? but what kind? you hear what happened to harvey tatum? that's right, the jet-car man, big business. he was one of their 'noble ten' they're always bragging about. but they say he had to have special drugs every night, that he had _changed_. that's right, if he didn't get these drugs, see, he'd go mad and try to suck blood and butcher up children--oh, they didn't dare publish it, had to put him out of the way quietly, but my brother-in-law was down in lancaster one night when-- * * * * * all it really needed was the man, and one day there was 'moses' tyndall. leader of the new crusade for god. small, at first. but the ad-men began supporting him, broadcasting his rallies, playing him up big. abolish rejuvenation, it's a blot against man's immortal soul. amen. then the insurance people came along, with money. (the ad-men and the insurance people weren't too concerned about man's immortal soul--they'd take their share now, thanks--but this didn't bother tyndall too much. misguided, but they were on god's side. he prayed for them.) so they gave tyndall the first abolitionist seat in the senate, in , just nine years ago, and the fight between rinehart and dan fowler that was brewing even then had turned into a three-cornered fight-- * * * * * dan grinned up at tyndall and said, "go away, john. don't bother me." "you've got something," tyndall snarled. "what is that damn shadow of yours nosing around tenner's for? why the sudden leaping interest in nevada? two trips in three days--what are you trying to track down?" "why on earth should i tell you anything, holy man?" the parchment face wrinkled unpleasantly. "because it would be very smart, that's why. rinehart's out of it, now. washed up, finished, thanks to you. now it's just you or me, one or the other. you're in the way, and you're going to be gotten out of the way when you've finished up rinehart, because i'm going to start rolling them. go along with me now and you won't get smashed, dan." "get out of here," dan snarled, sitting bolt upright. "you gave it to carl golden, a long time ago when he was with you, remember? carl's my boy now--do you think i'll swallow the same bait?" "you'd be smart if you did." the man leaned forward. "i'll let you in on a secret. i've just recently had a--_vision_, you might say. there are going to be riots and fires and shouting, around the time of the hearings. people will be killed. lots of people--spontaneous outbursts of passion, of course, the great voice of the people rising against the abomination. and against _you_, dan. a few repeaters may be taken out and hanged, and then when you have won against rinehart, you'll find people thinking that you're really a traitor--" "nobody will swallow that," dan snapped. "just watch and see. i can still call it off, if you say so." he stood up quickly as dan's face went purple. "new chicago," he said smoothly. "have to see a man here, and then get back to the capitol. happy hunting, dan. you know where to reach me." he strode down the aisle of the ship, leaving dan staring bleakly at an empty seat. paul, paul-- * * * * * he met terry fisher at the landing field in las vegas. a firm handshake, clear brown eyes looking at him the way a four-year-old looks at santa claus. "glad you could come tonight, senator. i've had a busy couple of days. i think you'll be interested." remarkable restraint in the man's voice. his face was full of things unsaid. dan caught it; he knew faces, read them like typescript. "what is it, son?" "wait until you see." fisher laughed nervously. "i thought for a while that i was back on mars." "cigar?" "no thanks. i never use them." the car broke through darkness across bumpy pavement. the men sat silently. then a barbed-wire enclosure loomed up, and a guard walked over, peered at their credentials, and waved them through. ahead lay a long, low row of buildings, and a tall something spearing up into the clear desert night. they stopped at the first building, and hurried up the steps. small, red-faced lijinsky greeted them, all warm handshake and enthusiasm and unmistakable happiness and surprise. "a real pleasure, senator! we haven't had a direct governmental look-see in quite a while. i'm glad i'm here to show you around." "everything is going right along, eh?" "oh, yes! she'll be a ship to be proud of. now, i think we can arrange some quarters for you for the night, and in the morning we can sit down and have a nice, long talk." terry fisher was shaking his head. "i think the senator would like to see the ship now--isn't that right, senator?" lijinsky's eyes opened wide, his head bobbed in surprise. young-old creases on his face flickered. "tonight? oh, you can't really be serious. why, it's almost two in the morning! we only have a skeleton crew working at night. tomorrow you can see--" "tonight, if you don't mind." dan tried to keep the sharp edge out of his voice. "unless you have some specific objection, of course." "objection? none whatsoever." lijinsky seemed puzzled, and a little hurt. but he bounced back: "tonight it is, then. let's go." there was no doubting the little man's honesty. he wasn't hiding anything, just surprised. but a moment later there was concern on his face as he led them out toward the factory compounds. "there's no question of appropriations, i hope, senator?" "no, no. nothing of the sort." "well, i'm certainly glad to hear that. sometimes our contacts from washington are a little disappointed in the ship, of course." dan's throat tightened. "why?" "no reason, really. we're making fine progress, it isn't that. yes, things really buzz around here; just ask mr. fisher about _that_--he was here all day watching the workers. but there are always minor changes in plans, of course, as we recognize more of the problems." terry fisher grimaced silently, and followed them into a small whirlwind groundcar. the little gyro-car bumped down the road on its single wheel, down into a gorge, then out onto the flats. dan strained his eyes, peering ahead at the spear of starship gleaming in the distant night-lights. pictures from the last starship progress report flickered through his mind, and a frown gathered as they came closer to the ship. then the car halted on the edge of the building-pit and they blinked down and up at the scaffolded monster. dan didn't even move from the car. he just stared. the report had featured photos, projected testing dates--even ventured a possible date for launching, with the building of the starship so near to completion. that had been a month ago. now dan stared at the ship and shook his head, uncomprehending. the hull-plates were off again, lying in heaps on the ground in a mammoth circle. the ship was a skeleton, a long, gawky structure of naked metal beams. even now a dozen men were scampering around the scaffolding, before dan's incredulous eyes, and he saw some of the beaming coming _off_ the body of the ship, being dropped onto the crane, moving slowly to the ground. ten years ago the ship had looked the same. as he watched, he felt a wave of hopelessness sweep through him, a sense of desolate, empty bitterness. ten years-- his eyes met terry fisher's in the gloom of the car, begging to be told it wasn't so. fisher shook his head. then dan said: "i think i've seen enough. take me back to the air field." * * * * * "it was the same thing on mars," fisher was telling him as the return jet speared east into the dawn. "the refining and super-refining, the slowing down, the changes in viewpoint and planning. i went up there ready to beat the world barehanded, to work on the frontier, to build that colony, and maybe lead another one. i even worked out the plans for a break-away colony--we would need colony-builders when we went to the stars, i thought." he shrugged sadly. "carl told you, i guess. they considered the break-away colony, carefully, and then barness decided it was really too early. too much work already, with just one colony. and there was, in a sense: frantic activity, noise, hubbub, hard work, fancy plans--all going nowhere. no drive, no real direction." he shrugged again. "i did a lot of drinking before they threw me off mars." "nobody saw it happening?" "it wasn't the sort of thing you see. you could only _feel_ it. it started when armstrong came to the colony, rejuvenated, to take over its development. and eventually, i think armstrong did see it. that's why he suicided." "but the starship," dan cried. "it was almost built, and they were _tearing it down_. i saw it with my own eyes." "ah, yes. for the twenty-seventh time, i think. a change in the engineering thinking, that's all. keller and lijinsky suddenly came to the conclusion that the whole thing might fall apart in midair at the launching. can you imagine it? when rockets have been built for years, running to mars every two months? but they could prove it on paper, and by the time they got through explaining it every damned soul on the project was saying yes, it might fall apart at the launching. why, it's a standing joke with the workers. they call keller "old jet propulsion" and always have a good laugh. but then, keller and stark and lijinsky should know what's what. they've all been rejuvenated, and working on the ship for years." fisher's voice was heavy with anger. dan didn't answer. there didn't seem to be much _to_ answer, and he just couldn't tell fisher how it felt to have a cold blanket of fear wrapping around his heart, so dreadful and cold that he hardly dared look five minutes ahead right now. _we have a monster on our hands--_ vii he was sick when they reached washington. the pain in his chest became acute as he walked down the gangway, and by the time he found a seat in the terminal and popped a nitro-tablet under his tongue he was breathing in deep, ragged gasps. he sat very still, trying to lean back against the seat, and quite suddenly he realized that he was very, very ill. the good red-headed dr. moss would smile in satisfaction, he thought bitterly. there was sweat on his forehead; it had never seemed very probable to him that he might one day die--he didn't _have_ to die in this great, wonderful world of new bodies for old, he could live on, and on, and on. he could live to see the golden centuries of man. a solar system teeming with life. ships to challenge the stars, the barriers breaking, crumbling before their very eyes. other changes, as short-lived man became long-lived man. changes in teaching, in thinking, in feeling. disease, the enemy, was crushed. famine, the enemy, slinking back into the dim memory of history. war, the enemy, pointless to extinction. all based on one principle: man must live. he need not die. if a man could live forty years instead of twenty, had it been wrong to fight the plagues that struck him down in his youth? if he could live sixty years instead of forty, had the great researchers of the 's and ' 's and ' 's been wrong? was it any more wrong to want to live a thousand years? who could say that it was? he took a shuddering breath, and then nodded to terry fisher, and walked unsteadily to the cab stand. he would not believe what he had seen at starship project. it was not enough. collect the evidence, _then_ conclude. he gave fisher an ashen smile. "it's nothing. the ticker kicks up once in a while, that's all. let's go see what carl and jean and the boys have dug up." fisher smiled grimly, an eager gleam in his eye. carl and jean and the boys had dug up plenty. the floor of offices dan rented for the work of his organization was going like washington terminal at rush hour. a dozen people were here and there, working with tapes, papers, program cards. jean met them at the door, hustled them into the private offices in the back. "carl just got here, too. he's down eating. the boys outside are trying to make sense out of his insurance and advertising figures." "he got next to them okay?" "sure--but you were right, they didn't like it." "what sort of reports?" * * * * * the girl sighed. "only prelims. almost all of the stuff is up in the air, which makes it hard to evaluate. the ad-men have to be figuring what they're going to do next half-century, so that they'll be there with the right thing when the time comes. but it seems they don't like what they see. people have to buy what the ad-men are selling, or the ad-men shrivel up, and already the trend seems to be showing up. people aren't in such a rush to buy. don't have the same sense of urgency that they used to--" her hands fluttered. "well, as i say, it's all up in the air. let the boys analyze for a while. the suicide business is a little more tangible. the rates are up, all over. but break it into first-generation and repeaters, and it's pretty clear who's pushing it up." "like armstrong," said dan slowly. jean nodded. "oh, here's carl now." he came in, rubbing his hands, and gave dan a queer look. "everything under control, dan?" dan nodded. he told carl about tyndall's proposition. carl gave a wry grin. "he hasn't changed a bit, has he?" "yes, he has. he's gotten lots stronger." carl scowled, and slapped the desk with his palm. "you should have stopped him, dan. i told you that a long time ago--back when i first came in with you. he was aiming for your throat even then, trying to use me and what i knew about dad to sell the country a pack of lies about you. he almost did, too. i hated your guts back then. i thought you were the rottenest man that ever came up in politics, until you got hold of me and pounded sense into my head. and tyndall's never forgiven you that, either." "all right--we're still ahead of him. have you just finished with the ad-men?" "oh, no. i just got back from a trip south. my nose is still cold." dan's eyebrows went up. "and how was dr. aviado? i haven't seen a report from antarctica project for five years." "yes you have. you just couldn't read them. aviado is quite a theoretician. that's how he got his money and his project, down there, with plenty of room to build his reflectors and nobody around to get hurt if something goes wrong. except a few penguins. and he's done a real job of development down there since his rejuvenation." "ah." dan glanced up hopefully. "now there," said carl, "is a real lively project. solar energy into power on a utilitarian level. the man is fanatic, of course, but with his plans he could actually be producing in another five years." he lit a cigarette, drew on it as though it were bitter. "could?" "seems he's gotten sidetracked a bit," said carl. dan glanced at terry fisher. "how?" "well, his equipment is working fine, and he can concentrate solar heat from ten square miles onto a spot the size of a manhole cover. but he hasn't gone too far converting it to useful power yet." carl suddenly burst out laughing. "dan, this'll kill you. billions and billions of calories of solar heat concentrated down there, and what do you think he's doing with it? he's digging a hole in the ice two thousand feet deep and a mile wide. that's what." "a hole in the ice!" "exactly. conversion? certainly--but first we want to be sure we're right. so right now his whole crew is very busy _trying to melt down antarctica_. and if you give him another ten years, he'll have it done, by god." * * * * * this was the last, most painful trip of all. dan didn't even know why he was going, except that paul had told him he should go, and no stone could be left unturned. the landing in new york crater had been rough, and dan had cracked his elbow on the bulkhead; he nursed it now as he left the volta on the deserted street of the crater city, and entered the low one-story lobby of the groundscraper. the clerk took his name impassively, and he sat down to wait. an hour passed, then another. then: "mr. devlin will see you now, senator." down in the elevator, four--five--six stories. above him was the world; here, deep below, with subtly efficient ventilators and shafts and exotic cubby-holes for retreat, a man could forget that a world above existed. soft lighting in the corridor, a golden plastic door. the door swung open, and a tiny old man blinked out. "mr. chauncey devlin?" "senator fowler!" the little old man beamed. "come in, come in--my dear fellow, if i'd realized it was you, i'd never have dreamed of keeping you so long--" he smiled, obviously distressed. "retreat has its disadvantages, too, you see. nothing is perfect but life, as they say. when _you've_ lived for a hundred and ninety years, you'll be glad to get away from people, and to be able to keep them out, from time to time." in better light dan stared openly at the man. a hundred and ninety years. it was incredible. he told the man so. "isn't it, though?" chauncey devlin chirped. "well, i was a was-baby! can you imagine? born in london in . but i don't even think about those horrid years any more. imagine--people dropping bombs on each other!" a tiny bird of a man--three times rejuvenated, and still the mind was sharp, the eyes were sharp. the face was a strange mixture of recent youth and very great age. it stirred something deep inside dan--almost a feeling of loathing. an uncanny feeling. "we've always known your music," he said. "we've always loved it. just a week ago we heard the washington philharmonic doing--" "the eighth." chauncey devlin cut him off disdainfully. "they always do the eighth." "it's a great symphony," dan protested. devlin chuckled, and bounced about the room like a little boy. "it was only half finished when they chose me for the big plunge," he said. "of course i was doing a lot of conducting then, too. now i'd much rather just write." he hurried across the long, softly-lit room to the piano, came back with a sheaf of papers. "do you read music? this is just what i've been doing recently. can't get it quite right, but it'll come, it'll come." "which will this be?" asked dan. "the tenth. the ninth was under contract, of course--strictly a pot-boiler, i'm afraid. thought it was pretty good at the time, but _this_ one--ah!" he fondled the smooth sheets of paper. "in this one i could _say_ something. always before it was hit and run, make a stab at it, then rush on to stab at something else. not _this_ one." he patted the manuscript happily. "with this one there will be _nothing_ wrong." "it's almost finished?" "oh, no. oh, my goodness no! a fairly acceptable first movement, but not what i _will_ do on it--as i go along." "i see. i--understand. how long have you worked on it now?" "oh, i don't know--i must have it down here somewhere. oh, yes. started it in april of . seventy-seven years." they talked on, until it became too painful. then dan rose, and thanked his host, and started back for the corridor and life again. he had never even mentioned his excuse for coming, and nobody had missed it. chauncey devlin, a tiny, perfect wax-image of a man, so old, so wise, so excited and full of enthusiasm and energy and carefulness, working eagerly, happily-- accomplishing nothing. seventy-seven years. the picture of a man who had been great, and who had slowly ground to a standstill. and now dan knew that he hadn't really been looking at chauncey devlin at all. he had been looking at the whole human race. viii february th, . the day of the hearings, to consider the charges and petition formally placed by the honorable daniel fowler, independent senator from the great state of illinois. the long oval hearing-room was filling early; the gallery above was packed by : in the morning. teevie-boys all over the place. the criterion committee members, taking their places in twos and threes--some old, some young, some rejuvenated, some not, taking their places in the oval. then the other senators--not the president, of course, but he'll be well represented by senator rinehart himself, ah yes. don't worry about the president. * * * * * bad news in the papers. trouble in new chicago, where so much trouble seems to start these days. bomb thrown in the medical center out there, a _bomb_ of all things! shades of lenin. couple of people killed, and one of the doctors nearly beaten to death on the street before the police arrived to clear the mob away. dan fowler's name popping up here and there, not pleasantly. whispers and accusations, _sotto voce_. and 'moses' tyndall's network hookup last night--of course nobody with any sense listens to _him_, but did you hear that hall go wild? rinehart--yes, that's him. well, he's got a right to look worried. if dan can unseat him here and now, he's washed up. according to the rules of the government, you know, fowler can legally petition for rinehart's chairmanship without risking it as a platform plank in the next election, and get a hearing here, and then if the senate votes him in, he's got the election made. dan's smart. they're scared to throw old rinehart out, of course--after all, he's let them keep their thumbs on rejuvination all these years with his criteria, and if they supported him they got named, and if they didn't, they didn't get named. not quite as crude as that, of course, but that's what it boiled down to, let me tell you! but now, if they reject dan's petition and the people give him the election over their heads, they're _really_ in a spot. out on the ice on their rosy red-- how's that? can't be too long now. i see tyndall has just come in, bible and all. see if he's got any tomatoes in his pockets. ol' moses really gets you going--ever listen to him talk? well, it's just as well. damn, but it's hot in here-- in the rear chamber, dan mopped his brow, popped a pill under his tongue, dragged savagely on the long black cigar. "you with me, son?" carl nodded. "you know what it means." "of course. there's your buzzer. better get in there." carl went back to jean and the others around the -inch screen, set deep in the wall. dan put his cigar down, gently, as though he planned to be back to smoke it again before it went out, and walked through the tall oak doors. * * * * * the hubbub caught, rose up for a few moments, then dropped away. dan took his seat, grinned across at libby, leaned his head over to drop an aside into parker's ear. rinehart staring at the ceiling as the charges are read off in a droning voice-- _--whereas the criteria for selection of candidates for sub-total prosthesis, first written by the honorable walter rinehart of the great state of alaska, have been found to be inadequate, outdated, and utterly inappropriate to the use of sub-total prosthesis that is now possible--_ _--and whereas that same honorable walter rinehart has repeatedly used the criteria, not in the just, honorable, and humble way in which such criteria must be regarded, but rather as a tool and weapon for his own furtherance and for that of his friends and associates--_ dan waited, patiently. was rinehart's face whiter than it had been? was the hall quieter now? maybe not--but wait for the petition-- _--the senate of the united states of north america is formally petitioned that the honorable walter rinehart should be displaced from his seat as chairman in the criterion committee, and that his seat as chairman of that committee should be resumed by the honorable daniel fowler, author of this petition, who has hereby pledged himself before god to seek through this committee in any and every way possible, the extention of the benefits of sub-total prosthesis techniques to all the people of this land and not to a chosen few--_ screams, hoots, cat-calls, applause, all from the gallery. none below--senatorial dignity forbade, and the anti-sound glass kept the noise out of the chamber below. then dan fowler stood up, an older dan fowler than most of them seemed to remember. "you have heard the charges which have been read. i stand before you now, formally, to withdraw them--" what, what? jaws sagging, eyes wide; teevie camera frozen on the senator's face, then jerking wildly around the room to catch the reaction-- "you have also heard the petition which has been read. i stand before you now, formally, to withdraw it--" slowly, measuring each word, he told them. he knew that words were not enough, but he told them. "only , men and women have undergone the process, at this date, out of almost two hundred million people on this continent, yet it has already begun to sap our strength. we were told that no change was involved, and indeed we saw no change, but it was there, my friends. the suicides of men like kenneth armstrong did not just _occur_. there are many reasons that might lead a man to take his life in this world of ours--selfishness, self-pity, hatred of the world or of himself, bitterness, resentment--but it was none of these that motivated kenneth armstrong. _his death was the act of a bewildered, defeated mind_--for he saw what i am telling you now and knew that it was true. he saw starships built and rebuilt, and never launched--colonies dying of lethargy, because there was no longer any drive behind them--brilliant minds losing sight of goals, and drifting into endless inconsequential digressions--lifetimes wasted in repetition, in re-doing and re-writing and re-living. he saw it: the downward spiral which could only lead to death for all of us in the last days. "this is why i withdraw the charges and petition of this hearing. this is why i reject rejuvenation, and declare that it is a monstrous thing _which we must not allow to continue_. this is why i now announce that i personally will nominate the honorable john tyndall for president in the elections next spring, and will promise him my pledged support, my political organization and experience, and my every personal effort to see that he is elected." * * * * * it seemed that there would be no end to it, when dan fowler had finished. 'moses' tyndall had sat staring as the blood drained out of his sallow face; his jaw gaped, and he half-rose from his chair, then sank back with a ragged cough, staring at the senator as if he had been transformed into a snake. carl and terry were beside dan in a moment, clearing a way back to the rear chambers, then down the steps of the building to a cab. senator libby intercepted them there, his face purple with rage, and mckenzie, bristling and indignant. "you've lost your mind, dan." "i have not. i am perfectly sane." "but _tyndall_! he'll turn washington into a grand revival meeting, he'll--" "then we'll cut him down to size. he's _my_ candidate, remember, not his own. he'll play my game if it pays him well enough. but i want an abolitionist administration, and i'm going to get one." in the cab he stared glumly out the window, his heart racing, his whole body shaking in reaction now. "you know what it means," he said to carl for the tenth time. "yes, dan, i know." "it means no rejuvenation, for you or for any of us. it means proving something; to people that they just don't want to believe, and cramming it down their throats if we have to. it means taking away their right to keep on living." "i know all that." "carl, if you want out--" "yesterday was the time." "okay then. we've got work to do." ix up in the offices again, dan was on the phone immediately. he knew politics, and people--like the jungle cat knows the whimpering creatures he stalks. he knew that it was the first impact, the first jolting blow that would win for them, or lose for them. everything had to hit right. he had spent his life working with people, building friends, building power, banking his resources, investing himself. now the time had come to cash in. carl and jean and the others worked with him--a dreadful afternoon and evening, fighting off newsmen, blocking phone calls, trying to concentrate in the midst of bedlam. the campaign to elect tyndall had to start _now_. they labored to record a work-schedule, listing names, outlining telegrams, drinking coffee, as dan swore at his dead cigar like old times once again, and grinned like a madman as the plans slowly developed and blossomed out. then the phone jangled, and dan reached out for it. it was that last small effort that did it. a sledge-hammer blow, from deep within him, sharp agonizing pain, a driving hunger for the air that he just couldn't drag into his lungs. he let out a small, sharp cry, and doubled over with pain. they found him seconds later, still clinging to the phone, his breath so faint as to be no breath at all. * * * * * he regained consciousness hours later. he stared about him at the straight lines of the ceiling, at the hospital bed and the hospital window. dimly he saw carl golden, head dropping on his chest, dozing at the side of the bed. there was a hissing sound, and he raised a hand, felt the tiny oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. but even with that help, every breath was an agony of pain and weariness. he was so very tired. but slowly, through the fog, he remembered. cold sweat broke out on his forehead, drenched his body. _he was alive._ yet he remembered crystal clear the thought that had exploded in his mind in the instant the blow had come. _i'm dying. this is the end--it's too late now._ and then, cruelly, _why did i wait so long?_ he struggled against the mask, sat bolt upright in bed. "i'm going to die," he whispered, then caught his breath. carl sat up, smiled at him. "lie back, dan. get some rest." had he heard? had carl heard the fear he had whispered? perhaps not. he lay back, panting, as carl watched. do you know what i'm thinking, carl? i'm thinking how much i want to live. people don't _need_ to die--wasn't that what dr. moss had said? it's such a terrible waste, he had said. too late, now. dan's hands trembled. he remembered the senators in the oval hall, hearing him speak his brave words; he remembered rinehart's face, and tyndall's, and libby's. he was committed now. yesterday, no. now, yes. paul had been right, and dan had proved it. his eyes moved across to the bedside table. a telephone. he was still alive, moss had said that sometimes it was possible _even when you were dying_. that was what they did with your father, wasn't it, carl? brave peter golden, who had fought rinehart so hard, who had begged and pleaded for universal rejuvenation, waited and watched and finally caught rinehart red-handed, to prove that he was corrupting the law and expose him. simple, honest peter golden, applying so naively for his rightful place on the list, when his cancer was diagnosed. peter golden had been all but dead when he had finally whispered defeat, and given rinehart his perpetual silence in return for life. they had snatched him from death, indeed. but he had been crucified all the same. they had torn away everything, and found a coward underneath. _coward? why? was it wrong to want to live?_ dan fowler was dying. why must it be him? he had committed himself to a fight, yes, but there were others, young men, who could fight. men like peter golden's son. but you are their leader, dan. if you fail them, they will never win. carl was watching him silently, his lean dark face expressionless. could the boy read his mind? was it possible that he knew what dan fowler was thinking? carl had always understood before. it had seemed that sometimes carl had understood dan far better than dan did. he wanted to cry out to carl now, spill over his dreadful thoughts. there was no one to run to. he was facing himself now. no more cover-up, no deceit. life or death, that was the choice. no compromise. life or death, but decide _now_. not tomorrow, not next week, not in five minutes-- he knew the answer then, the flaw, the one thing that even paul hadn't known. that life is too dear, that a man loves life--not what he can _do_ with life, but very life itself for its own sake--too much to die. it was no choice, not really. a man will _always_ choose life, as long as the choice is really his. dan fowler knew that now. it would be selling himself--like peter golden did. it would betray carl, and jean, and all the rest. it would mean derision, and scorn, and oblivion for dan fowler. carl golden was standing by the bed when he reached out his arm for the telephone. the squeaking of a valve--what? carl's hand, infinitely gentle, on his chest, bringing up the soft blankets, and his good clean oxygen dwindling, dwindling-- _carl!_ _how did you know?_ * * * * * she came in the room as he was reopening the valve on the oxygen tank. she stared at dan, grey on the bed, and then at carl. one look at carl's face and she knew too. carl nodded, slowly. "i'm sorry, jean." she shook her head, tears welling up. "but you loved him so." "more than my own father." "then _why_?" "he wanted to be immortal. always, that drove him. greatness, power--all the same. now he will be immortal, because we needed a martyr in order to win. now we will win. the other way we would surely lose, and he would live on and on, and die every day." he turned slowly to the bed and brought the sheet up gently. "this is better. this way he will never die." they left the quiet room. * * * * *