Short Fiction, Poul Anderson [simple e reader .TXT] 📗

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 multicolored 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 cigarette.

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