Part 1

Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

Rich Living

By MICHAEL CATHAL

Illustrated by MEL HUNTER

[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

[Sidenote: No other planet in the entire Galaxy was at all like Rejuvenal ... it was the only world worth one's whole fortune for a short visit!]

Curtis Delman was the last to leave the space liner. It was only when the Captain entered that he ceased dictating and put down the microphone. Then, with the clumsy deliberation of the aged, he pressed home the lid of the recorder and turned the key in the lock. There was almost a mile of fine wire in that box--a mile of detailed instruction, compiled over the past four days. For a centenarian, his energy was prodigious.

The Captain stood respectfully by the door, waiting to be noticed. Delman beckoned him into the suite.

Hat in hand, the Captain walked over to the desk. "I thought you'd like to know, sir, the rest of the passengers have disembarked." He spoke with deference.

"Good," said Delman. "I shan't delay you more than a few minutes longer."

"Oh, no delay, I assure you, sir," the Captain replied hastily. "Only too happy to be of service. The crew asked me to thank you on their behalf, sir, for your great generosity. It was more than--er--generous." Words seemed to fail him.

"Not at all, Captain," Delman said. "You've all done your best to make the crossing as comfortable as possible and I'm very grateful to you. Perhaps you'd do one more thing for me on your return--deliver this to my representative in London." He pointed to the recording machine.

"Certainly, sir."

"Then that takes care of everything." The great lawyer rose creakily to his feet. Though bent with age, he was still an impressive figure, tall and powerfully built, his white hair spilling out over the massive forehead. "I suppose the press is here?"

"I'm afraid so, sir."

"Well, one can't dodge them on Jupiter. There's no room to move as it is."

* * * * *

The Captain laughed sympathetically. No one knew better than himself the limitations of the planet. He'd lived here as a child, grown up under that plastic bubble which Man had built to preserve an atmosphere--two thousand acres of habitable land in a wilderness of millions of square miles. It was enough to break the heart of any boy.

Delman stooped to pick up his two heavy canes. The Captain leaped forward and handed them to him. Then lawyer and skipper left the suite and moved slowly toward the gangway. As they reached the steps, the Captain broke the silence.

"It's been a privilege to have you on board, sir, and perhaps we may hope to take you home again on your return from Rejuvenal."

Curtis Delman smiled. "Well, Captain, it's foolhardy for me to plan nearly two years ahead, but I hope so, too."

They shook hands.

With a steward supporting him on either side, the ancient lawyer climbed carefully down the steps.

A spacelines official had thoughtfully provided a chair. He sat down. The usual array of microphones and tele-cameras was grouped around him. Someone appealed for silence. In the hush that followed, only his own persuasive voice was heard.

"I have no prepared statement," he said, "but I assume you gentlemen wish to ask me some questions. In that event, I'd just like to stress that I'm not as young as I used to be--or perhaps I should say, _as I hope to be_--and I'd be obliged if you kept them short and to the point."

There were about thirty reporters present and among them he recognized several faces that he had seen before. A few would belong to the local network, but most of them were probably attached to one of the Universal syndicates. It was a red-headed youngster who got in the first question; the others were quick to follow.

"Is it true, sir, that this will be your fourth visit to Rejuvenal?"

"Yes, perfectly true."

"Has anyone else been there four times?"

"No. To the best of my knowledge, I'm the first person to attempt it. Several others have been at least twice."

"Because no one else could afford it?"

"I didn't say that. Most people tire of life. I don't."

Years of experience had accustomed the lawyer to these interviews. The purring cameras failed to distract him. In fact, he almost relished the buzz of competent confusion around him.

"How long does the trip take?"

"Two hundred and fifty days out, the same back, and ninety days on the planet."

"Don't you find that a tedious journey?"

"Long, yes. Tedious, no. Don't forget, one has expectations. Besides, the early trips from Earth to Jupiter took twice as long."

"Now they take four days."

"No doubt, but that doesn't alter the argument."

"Mr. Delman, what is the speed of change?"

"You mean the rate at which the burden of years drops from one's shoulders?"

"Yes, sir."

"Almost exactly one year for every twenty-four hours spent on the planet."

"So that, in ninety days, you're ninety years younger?"

"Correct."

"How old are you now, sir?"

* * * * *

Delman scratched his head reflectively. The reporters laughed.

"That's a difficult question. So far as natural decay is concerned, I think I'm a hundred and fifteen. Of course, my actual life-span has been nearer three hundred and eighty-seven; but please don't credit me with being a Methuselah. I've a long way to go yet."

"Is it a fact that the round trip costs five million dollars?"

"I'm afraid I can't answer that. It's a condition of the contract that passengers refrain from disclosing the price of their tickets."

"It is expensive, though?"

"Oh, naturally. But remember, the overhead is heavy. Three refueling bases on the minor planets, Borenius, Ziar and Algon, require constant maintenance, apart from the initial cost of runways. Then only five--er--patients can be housed on Rejuvenal at any given time. And one also has to consider the constant change of staff. You'd scarcely expect it to be cheap."

There was a sudden pause in the questioning. The lawyer took the opportunity to rise up out of his chair. This provoked an immediate response; all spoke at once in deafening unison. Delman held up his hand for silence, then turned and addressed the red-headed reporter on his left.

"Young man, since you were the first to begin this examination, I'll give you two questions with which to wind up for your side. Only two, mind."

The reporter thought for a moment. "Who are your fellow passengers?" he asked.

"I don't know. I thought _you_ might be able to tell me that. And the second question?"

"Well, sir, I suppose I ought to ask whether you have any special message for the Universe."

Curtis Delman chuckled. "No," he said, "nothing of importance. Just that I'd be glad if the law remained substantially unaltered during my absence. It's hard enough to keep abreast as things are. Now if you'll excuse me, gentlemen--"

The tele-cameras swiveled as, cane in each hand, he hobbled toward the Terminal Building. Security officers cleared a path for him. A group of onlookers began to applaud. It was a reception more in keeping with a politician than a lawyer, but Curtis Delman held a unique position.

He had been the acknowledged leader of his profession for over three hundred years--a record no politician could ever hope to equal.

* * * * *

The Vice President of Rejuvenal Enterprises, Inc., had been speaking for the best part of half an hour. He was a dapper little man whose white tunic was fringed with green and purple. He had a slight Venusian accent, very bookish, very precise and very irritating. All five passengers sat in his office and waited with varying degrees of patience for the departure signal.

Curtis Delman had been introduced to each of them in turn. Of the four, only Walter Pellinger, President of Galactic Stores, had made a previous trip. The lawyer knew of him by reputation as a shrewd businessman, but there was little to be said in favor of his disposition, which was rumored to be morose and unfriendly. Certainly his appearance was surly enough to support the rumor.

"Of course," the Vice President was saying, "Mr. Curtis Delman and Mr. Pellinger have heard all this before, but I'm sure they'll both forgive me for repeating it." Walter Pellinger mumbled something uncomplimentary. "And now for a last word about the ship. Most of you will have come here by space liner, and very comfortable it is, too. Unfortunately, we can't look after you that well. Not only would it be uneconomical to employ a liner, it would also be impossible--there just aren't the landing facilities. And if you can't land, there's not much point in going, is there?" The Vice President laughed at his little joke. No one else seemed to find it amusing.

"No," he continued, "the best we can provide is a Stellano-type spaceboat--the very latest model, naturally--but, even so, I'm afraid the men will have to share berths. Of course, there's plenty of room in the lounge. As for the staff, Captain Ross, who is to look after you, is a man of considerable--"

The Vice President rambled on. Curtis Delman ceased listening to him; it was only because he had heard his name mentioned that his interest had been drawn in the first place. He focused his attention on the three remaining passengers.

They were a strangely assorted trio. Of the two men, one was extravagantly attired in dark-blue silk, obviously hand-woven, with large sapphire rings on the fingers of both hands, and a slim, eight-dial chronometer on the left wrist. Despite his advanced age, his face remained lean and swarthy, the eyes set close above a strong hooked nose, the lips taut and cruel.

He'd been introduced as Jason Tarsh. The lawyer seemed to associate the name with a criminal case--something to do with smuggling--but the details eluded him.

The other was ordinary and ill at ease, a plump, red-faced man in a badly cut tweed tunic who looked out of place in the present company. His knuckles rapped nervously on the elbow-rest of his chair. Clearly, Mr. John Bridge had none of that confidence usually acquired by the millionaire. Yet only a wealthy man could afford the trip. Curtis Delman was puzzled.

And then there was the woman.

* * * * *

It was difficult to believe that the third and last of his fellow-passengers was Gillian Murray. She sat by herself in the far corner, a formless, shrunken creature in deep black. He remembered seeing her, eighty years ago, on the stage of the Palladia. She had been shapely and vivacious in those days. Now only a faint sparkle lingered in her eyes. There was nothing to suggest that she had once been the toast of the Universe. Old, withered, gray-haired--time treated beauty harshly, mercilessly. He realized how much this trip must mean to her.

"Unlike Jupiter," the Vice President was saying, "this section of the Galaxy is composed of oxygen planets. In fact, the proportion of oxygen is rather higher than on Earth, so you needn't bother about spacesuits and the like. I remember--"

A green light blinked on the Vice President's desk, stemming the flood of reminiscence. It was the embarkation signal.

The Vice President rose. "It only remains," he said, "to wish you all a very happy and successful journey."

The handshaking over, the five passengers filed out onto the escalator. Below them, by the side of the Terminal Building, lay the spaceboat, a slim, cone-shaped vessel, gleaming in the artificial light. They all tottered on board.

Clearance was granted almost immediately. Slowly, they passed through the main airlock and into the open. It was dark outside and only the change in elevation told them that they were climbing the launching ramp. Behind them, the huge inverted bowl of the city glowed in hermetic splendor. Movement ceased. The warning indicator flashed on: LIE BACK AND FASTEN SAFETY HARNESS. A steward checked their positions.

They lay, tensed and motionless, waiting for the sudden thrust that would hurl them into space.

* * * * *

It was the two-hundred-and-twentieth day.

As Curtis Delman returned to consciousness, his first feeling was of relief. The cumulative strain of one takeoff after another could prove disastrous. It was one of the drawbacks to a spaceboat that the effect of rapid acceleration should be so marked. In a liner, the takeoff was little more than an inconvenience--and, despite exhaustive tests, there was no telling how an old heart would react to a series of blackouts. Now the danger no longer existed, for in thirty days they would arrive at Rejuvenal. As for the journey back, he would make it with the heart of a young man.

He unclipped the safety harness and lowered his legs over the side of the bunk.

He had no wish to remain in his cabin. It was too small for comfort, though, like all Stellano products, superbly designed. Not an inch had been wasted. Personal luggage was stowed under the bunk, cupboards were built in, tables folded back and even the basin was retractable. Every conceivable necessity had been crammed into a few square feet.

When he reached the lounge, he found the others already seated.

There were two vacant chairs, one next to John Bridge, the other between Tarsh and Pellinger. He chose the former.

"So you survived?" said Pellinger. He sounded disappointed.

"Yes, I survived," replied Delman. "And since we appear to be exercising our powers of observation, I hope the same may be said of you?"

Gillian Murray laughed. Walter Pellinger opened his mouth as if to make some retort, then thought better of it, and turned back to the vidar screen.

The screen took up most of the far wall. The image in focus was the scene behind them. In the center, like a giant grapefruit, hung the planet Algon--a world of water with a few islands dotting the surface of an ocean--while anchored in space, some hundreds of miles above, lay a small satellite.

"That's a funny one," said John Bridge.

The lawyer smiled. He'd grown to like Bridge. The mystery of his wealth had been discovered months ago--he'd won a sweepstake fortune. That and his own meager savings had together proved just sufficient to buy him a new lease of life. His family hadn't liked the idea; but, as he'd pointed out to them, it was his money and what use was it to him if he was too old to enjoy it? The simplicity and good nature of the man came as a refreshing change from the sullenness of Pellinger and the cynicism of Jason Tarsh.

"It's a radio-platform," Delman explained.

* * * * *

Sometimes it seemed almost incredible that John Bridge had never left the Earth. He was a Londoner by birth and, before this trip, had traveled no farther than New York. To him, everything they saw and did was a new adventure.

"But we don't have radio-platforms back home," Bridge said. "Why do they need them here?"

"In our own solar system," Delman told him, "there's an interplanetary link-up--an expensive business--but we did have them four hundred years ago. Out here, it's not worth the cost. The platform acts as a go-between. It can intercept messages and pass them down to the spacedrome on Algon, or it can transmit to a spaceship in flight. But direct contact between spaceship and spacedrome is impossible, because the ionized layer of the atmosphere deflects the radio waves."

"I see. Is there one over Rejuvenal, then?"

"I don't think so. At least, there wasn't when I was last there. It doesn't really warrant it. There's only the house and a small landing-ground. And a spaceboat arrives and departs every thirty days, so nothing can happen."

"What about boots? Do we have to wear them?"

"You mean gravity-boots?" Delman asked.

Walter Pellinger scowled irritably and shifted his position. "Yes, I suppose so--those heavy things we wore on Borenius and Ziar."

Delman shook his head. "No, curiously enough, we don't. It's only a tertiary planet--less than one-eighth of Earth's volume--but its specific gravity is enormous. Rejuvenite, the rock it's composed of, is one of the heaviest minerals ever discovered. They say--"

"Look, Delman," Walter Pellinger interrupted, "let that blasted man wear his boots, if he wants to. I'm sure I don't care. But for heaven's sake, stop this geological survey! It's bad enough being cooped up in this tub without having to listen to a lot of nursery small-talk."

"Gosh, I'm sorry, Mr. Pellinger--" John Bridge began.

"I wasn't talking to you," said Pellinger curtly, "but, since you've chosen to butt in, I'll say this--you don't belong here. You're a stupid, ignorant lout, and if you worked in any of my stores, which could never happen in the first place, I'd fire you on the spot and the idiot who hired you, too."

"Aren't you being a little unjust?" Curtis Delman spoke softly, but there was an edge of underlying menace in his voice.

* * * * *

This was the first time Walter Pellinger had overstepped the boundaries of acceptable behavior. That he despised John Bridge, he had made clear from the beginning. Now he had come into the open. They all looked at him. Tarsh, who was nearest, seemed to find it amusing.

"I've got nothing against you, Delman." Pellinger picked his words carefully. "You worked your passage like the rest of us, but _that_ fellow--" he pointed toward John Bridge--"has no right to be here at all. He's a nitwit and a nobody. You're a success and I'm a success. It's not luck, Delman; we both have ability. Call it natural selection, if you like.

"Darwin did. We've fought for the chance to prolong our lives and, by doing so, we're able to marry again and have children and pass that ability down to them. Why, our lives are _essential_ to the human race!"

"I should have thought there were sufficient chain-store magnates," said Tarsh.

Walter Pellinger turned on him. "Don't tempt me, Jason. Your activities on Neptune and Arcturus won't bear close investigation."

Jason Tarsh smiled and remained silent. There was little humor in his smile. That last remark had done much to heighten his opinion of Walter Pellinger.

"To return to my point," Pellinger continued, "that man won a sweepstake. He's here not because he's intelligent, but because he's lucky, the something-for-nothing principle. A fat lot of use that is to the Universe. Why, his descendants will be as stupid as himself and there's no room for the manual laborer in this Age. It's an intolerable waste."

"If I thought you believed any of that," said Delman, "I should be the first to respect your feelings. But we've been 'cooped up' together, to use your expression, for seven months and I know you better than your shareholders do. Oh, yes, you can put it across at a Board Meeting, this lofty idea of self-sacrifice and the sum of human good; but it isn't true and you know it. You're here for the same reason I'm here--because you're afraid to die. And that goes for all of us." He looked at each of them in turn, as if daring them to contradict him. "Yes, we've got ability, all right, and self-confidence. But what do we do with these fancied qualities? We use them to make money with which to buy back our youth."

* * * * *

Delman got to his feet and hobbled over toward the vidar screen. He stood with his back to the screen, looking down on them.

"And what do we do with our youth?" he asked. "We use _that_ to make money for our old age. We have no choice. Not only is the price of rejuvenation extortionate in itself, but also, by a whim of the legislature, we are declared dead and the burden of 'death duty' falls on our estates. When we return, we return poor. And so the cycle continues--the endless quest for money, the means of perpetual preservation.

"We are careers, not men and women!" the lawyer went on vehemently. "We don't enjoy life. We have neither the time nor the courage to enjoy it. Our children are few and we ignore them, for should they inherit this terrible urge, they would be our competitors. No, Mr. Pellinger, there is only one real man among us and that is John Bridge. He alone has enjoyed life and he goes back determined to enjoy it for a second and last time. But we, by dint of work and learning and sharp-practice, may prolong the agony once again. Ours are the wasted lives."

"Oh, Mr. Delman! Surely, that's overstating the case?" Gillian Murray had the reedy voice common to so many elderly spinsters. "What about all those difficult problems you've solved? Many of them are of great importance. Everybody says so."

"Then I don't agree with everybody, Miss Murray," Delman replied. "Complications are the bread and butter of my trade. We make them for money and we unravel them for more money. One day, you draft a will; the next, you break a Trust deed--the balance remains even. It's true you perform a function, but it's questionable whether that function is of any real value."

John Bridge got up from his chair. His rubicund features were creased in bewilderment.

"This is beyond me," he said. "I'm sorry if I annoyed Mr. Pellinger. I didn't mean to. I think I'll take a nap."

He walked thoughtfully out into the corridor, a book in his left hand, his right arm stretched out to the handrail overhead.

"There's something about Mr. Bridge," Gillian Murray said reflectively, "that reminds me of the Statue of Liberty."

"Probably the hollow head," said Jason Tarsh.

* * * * *

It was ninety years since the lawyer had last seen Rejuvenal. And now, after all those decades of unremitting toil, he saw it again--a small purple blob on the vidar screen, a hundred thousand miles away--a blob that would grow and grow until it filled the entire screen. Soon the distant harmony of light and shade would break up, throwing into relief the jagged peaks and plunging crevices that formed the surface of the planet.

He watched it, fascinated, wondering whether this approach was to be his last, or whether he would be asking himself the same questions a thousand years to come. Perhaps it was this moment above all others that made the endless months of scraping and self-sacrifice suddenly worthwhile.

"It won't run away," said a voice beside him. He turned his head. Gillian Murray stood there, wrinkled and benign, her keen blue eyes regarding him with quizzical humor.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "I didn't know you were here."

"Oh, don't apologize, Mr. Delman. It's just that you've seen it all before, so I'm the one who should be excited."

The lawyer nodded. "Yes," he admitted, "you've got something to be excited about. Years ago, longer than either of us would want to remember, I saw you on the stage. It was one of the important moments in my life. You see, before then, I'd always regarded 'beauty' and 'perfection' as abstract qualities. I was wrong. Are you going back to the theatre?"

Gillian Murray paused for a moment. "No," she replied finally. "I did intend to and, after your flattery, I almost feel I should, but I've been thinking over what you said a few weeks back--you know, about us being careers rather than flesh and blood. Mind you, I don't agree completely; we're not as bad as all that. No, it's more the feeling that I've lived one sort of life and it would be stupid to repeat the same thing over again. This time, I'd like to marry and have a family and settle down--all the ordinary things. Does that sound sensible?"

"Very sensible," said Curtis Delman.

* * * * *

Their eyes strayed back to the vidar screen. The planet had grown larger. Already it was possible to make out the rippling serrulation of contours. Another hour and the spaceboat would rest motionless on the purple rock.