Part 1

THE OLD ONES

By Betsy Curtis

They had outlived their usefulness on Earth and society waited patiently for them to die. Thus it was only natural for them to seek a new world....

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy December 1950 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Dr. Warner didn't usually burst into Dr. Farrar's office. Usually he paced slowly up the hospital corridor, pulling down his glistening white lastijac uniform, meditating on all the mistakes he might have made during the past week, reluctantly turning the knob on the outer door, hesitatingly asking Miss Herrington if the doctor wished to see him now, stepping humbly through the inner door into the presence. But this morning he burst in and slammed the inner door.

"Two this morning in Block Nineteen!" he blurted. "Two suicides at once; Saul Forsythe and Madam LePays!"

Only a few minutes before, Dr. Farrar had been reading and sighing, sighing at the thought that there were no excitements left, only annoyances and minor gratifications.

"The publication of _The One-Hundred-Year-Old in the Culture of Today_ marks the date of another notable contribution to human understanding by the justly famous young doctor, Jules Farrar." The review grew more laudatory from paragraph to glowing paragraph. Dr. Farrar, re-reading it word by word, was inclined to smile at the adjective 'young'; he was fifty-eight and felt every day of it this smiling spring morning. He ran his hand back over his head smoothing the place where, twenty years ago, there had been hair. He looked up from the paper on his desk, through the glimmering sunlight at the row of dark green file cases banking the opposite end of the office, the first five now ticketed "closed" and the "closed" sign lying on top of the sixth, the 100-year case. He gazed on down the row--110, 120, 130, 140 and the rest--and sighed deeply. Futility washed over him, and an echo of the old story of the man who wrote his autobiography taking a year to write the doings of each day. The job would never be finished and the amusement of writing of youth was too far behind.

He quoted grimly from his own _Sixty-Year-Old_, "Among males at this time, the conviction, often amounting to panic, that the time for accomplishment is almost past begins to grow and obscure the comfortable mellowness of being in the midst of important activity." How could he have known so much at thirty and still have arrived at almost sixty without having solved anything, discovered anything new, done nothing but descriptive studies steadily for thirty-five years? And there were no excitements left--nothing but annoyances.

His office door now flew open with a crash against the 50-year file case, then was banged shut again and Bob Warner's white-jacketed body was leaning toward him over his desk.

"Two suicides at once, Dr. Farrar!" Dr. Warner was almost shouting at him, "and one last week and four others in the past year! They'll investigate us and upset the subjects and everybody. They'll get out of Block Nineteen and go poking around in genetics and new diseases and want to know where and why every cent is being spent and wind up trying to cut the staff or change the diets or some other stupidity." (Jules Farrar smiled wryly: there had been two Congressional Investigations at the hospital since he came, and Bob's description from hearsay was all too accurate.) "I tell you, Doctor, we've got to hush this up. Congress won't let us get away with firing a couple of floor nurses this time!" Ione Phillips was in Nineteen and much too pretty for a scapegoat. It wasn't his responsibility anyway. "What are we going to do, Doctor?"

"Saul Forsythe and Madame LePays," Jules Farrar's voice was low with concern, "How old were they? What was the matter?"

"Madame was 182 and Forsythe was a year or two older. There wasn't anything wrong that I know. They'd both been reading last night. He had the last volume of the _Britannica_ and she had a little old book of poems--French poems."

"No animosities, no quarrels with other subjects?"

"No, no! They weren't very social types, you know; we haven't had much culture-pattern data on either of them for some time. It's not as if they were a great loss to the experiments," he added reassuringly. Mustn't get old Farrar upset.

* * * * *

The older doctor looked oddly at the younger. "There must be something wrong in Block Nineteen. We'll call a meeting of staff. You can't cover up this sort of thing, Doctor. Everybody probably knows it already. You know how nurses gossip. But we'd better talk to Daneshaw first. He's always sound on what's going on in Block Nineteen."

"But Dr. Farrar, Daneshaw can't bring them back. He's just another subject. You could swear the nurses to secrecy for the good of the hospital. It's not as if it were anything strange or exciting. If we get an investigation, the subjects will run amok. Blood pressures will go up and some of them won't eat and others won't sleep thinking up fancy stories to tell the investigating commission and the smooth curve charts will be all shot to...."

Farrar laughed, "Intriguing thought, a thousand near-200-year-oldsters running amok. But seriously, if they kill themselves off this way, it will mess things up. Don't worry about your job yet, Doctor. Daneshaw will think of something. On your way out, ask Miss Herrington to get in touch with him. Now you get back to Block Nineteen and see that everything stays quiet for a while. I'd rather not have an investigation either."

"But, Doctor...."

"It's an order. Well, on second thought, get everybody over 150 out of the hospital on an expedition of some kind." He scribbled on a pad.

"But, Dr. Farrar...."

"Here's an order for cars ... and ... (writing) ... buses and field kitchens. Take them out in the country for a picnic. Come back here as soon as you can get away." He held out a paper.

"A picnic! For a thousand?"

"You can do it. You're the best organizer in the hospital."

"Well ... I suppose so."

"Excellent," concluded Dr. Farrar and rose, indicating dismissal. "Daneshaw will think of something," he repeated to himself as Warner walked out and slammed the door.

R. N. Ione Phillips flounced down Corridor Five of Block Nineteen, white elaston uniform rustling with permanent and indignant starch.

"Those old biddies," she muttered. "Both of them say they want lilac pattern dresses and then when they come they're mad because they have dresses just alike. They're just like children!" Miss Phillips didn't care much for children.

"Won't wash for meals but spend hours taking up all the driers in the beauty salon. Bob Warner doesn't realize what we have to put up with."

Her angry stalk slowed to a demure mincing as she approached the elevator and imagined Dr. Warner coming out of it.

Behind the door she had just closed with apparently thoughtful gentleness, Mrs. Maeva McGaughey and Mrs. Alice Kaplan in lilac acelle were considering the meal on the table between them.

"Creamed spinach, Maeva, for breakfast!" Mrs. Kaplan was withering in her distaste.

"And that Miss Phillips--treats us as if we were babies," whined Mrs. McGaughey. "The way she talks you'd think she'd brought us a couple of wedding gowns. Shoddy stuff these days, too."

Mrs. Kaplan looked slyly at Mrs. McGaughey. "I know how to fix her, Maeva. Let's pour this spinach down our fronts."

* * * * *

Ione had reached the end of the corridor and was tripping abstractedly by the desk facing the row of elevators.

"Phillips," the receptionist's voice was startling and cool, "will you tell Mr. Daneshaw, Room 563, that Dr. Farrar would like to see him at once in his office."

"It's my breakfast hour! I'm just going off duty." Receptionists thought they owned the hospital ordering people around all the time.

"I can't leave the desk and your relief hasn't come up. Dr. Farrar says it's urgent."

"Oh, all right." Ione turned on her heel and strode with something of the old swish up the hall to the left of the one she'd come from.

She knocked sharply at the door of room 563. "Mr. Daneshaw?"

"Come in."

She turned the knob and economically stuck only her head around the frame. "Dr. Farrar wants you in his office at once." She withdrew and closed the door in one motion. Don't give them a chance to argue or ask questions. They'd waste your whole day for you if you gave them a chance. She headed for the elevators once more.

Professor Emeritus Charles Timothy Daneshaw had lain in bed in the comfortable insulation of the bulky grey plastine autometab case which covered him to the waist. He really enjoyed this five minutes after waking when the world was entirely shut off and he could collect his thoughts for the day with no other business but regular inhale and exhale.

_Sweet day, so calm, so cool, so bright_, he quoted mentally. This was a comfortable poem for springtime in one's 186th year. _The bridal of the earth and sky, The dews shall weep thy fall tonight, For thou must die._ No one would have to weep for him. He wasn't going to die. He would walk on the lawns today and enjoy the burgeoning of spring without pain, without fear. He would read Wordsworth and plan a vacation walking trip.

The bell next to his ear pinged--the machine had finished his daily metabolic record--he pressed the button that raised the heavy case to the ceiling. He stretched and put his feet over the edge of the bed.

_Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses_, he headed for the bathroom, _A box where sweets compacted lie._ The shaving cabinet was not such a box. He had to stoop to see the shock of white hair in the mirror, and shaving was a daily nuisance in a bent-kneed position. Some architect must have decided that it was the custom for old men not to be over five feet eight and installed accordingly. Old men should be bowed down with years, but Tim Daneshaw was still six feet three in spite of four inches shrinkage since his thirties, his tall body still unbowed by years or habit.

_Only a sweet and virtuous soul, like seasoned timber never gives_ ... he was finishing the Herbert quotation as he wiped off the remaining shaving soap, when there was a sharp rap on the outer door of his room.

"Mr. Daneshaw?"

"Come in."

"Dr. Farrar wants you in his office at once." Miss Phillips' white-capped head bobbed in and out, the door shut, and he could hear the click of her retreating heels.

He stepped out of the bathroom and began pulling on his clothes. "Poor Jules," he mused. "Hard at work on a beautiful spring morning before I've even had breakfast. Maybe he'll give me a cup of coffee."

* * * * *

He was half-way to the elevator, pacing slowly, imagining the aroma of a hot cup of coffee, seeing a thin twist of steam, when a door opened a few steps ahead of him. A wiry little man in a maroon bathrobe beckoned.

"Come in here a minute, Tim," said the little man, his voice almost a whisper.

"Jules wants me over in Administration Block, El."

Elbert Avery grabbed Daneshaw's arm. "He can wait. This is important, Tim."

"Just for a minute, then. The nurse said 'at once'." He went in and Avery closed the door quickly.

"Have you heard about Saul and Clarice? How they both got out this morning?" Avery seated himself in the swivel chair beside the tremendous desk that made his room look much smaller than Daneshaw's.

"Got out?"

"They were both found dead this morning at breakfast time. I just heard about it. Saul cut his wrist with his razor and Clarice fiddled with the autometab so it wouldn't raise and then went to sleep in it. Some people are just born with more nerve than others!" Avery sounded actually envious.

"This is no joke, El." Tim Daneshaw leaned against the high white bed. "Don't talk that way to anybody--there's nothing noble in killing yourself and you know you wouldn't do it even if you had the chance."

"Oh, I don't know," responded the little man defiantly, tipping back in his chair. "What's the percentage in living on here forever? Nobody knows what you were and nobody cares what you are and there's not one damn thing worth spending ten minutes on that they don't say, 'Take it easy, don't strain yourself, don't get worked up, why don't you take a rest or play a nice relaxing game of checkers.' I don't like pet mice and I think raffia baskets are an abomination. You're right about suicide not being noble--it's just common sense!"

"Elbert, Elbert," Tim was gentle, reproachful, "wait a minute. Everybody here knows how you built up Avery, Inc. singlehanded into the biggest transport corporation in the world and how you bowed out to let younger men have their chance at running the most successful business in the country." He came over and perched on the edge of the desk close to Avery. "You know the Block Nineteen Association wouldn't even be able to buy Christmas cards if you weren't handling our little investments. There isn't one person on this experiment that doesn't respect you."

"On this experiment, hell!" exploded Avery. "There isn't anybody in Block Nineteen that doesn't know I ran out when the government began hemming in big corporations with thousands of petty restrictions on mansized business so that a company president was nothing more than a yes-man to a regiment of lawyers and government accountants. If the boys in Washington knew I was handling a little stock for Block Nineteen they'd think of some way to close us up in five minutes. They'd be just as happy if they knew I was out of the way."

"But you are a genius at keeping your tracks covered and we do need you. We'll need you especially at the block meeting today," soothed Daneshaw.

"The meeting's not till day after tomorrow," Avery objected.

"We'll have to hold it now before some of us forget we're grown up and start going to pieces like the two this morning you were so excited about a minute ago." He paused. "I just can't understand it about Clarice LePays. She was so self-possessed, a charming and dignified woman. We will miss her, Elbert. She added a great deal of grace to our gatherings."

"Grace! She was just another old woman in a young woman's world. Don't be a hypocrite, Tim."

Daneshaw got up. "Anyhow, you have a job now. It's up to you and me as officers of the Block Nineteen Association to keep the others calm and give them something else to think about. You put that magic brain of yours to work on that while I go down to see Jules. I'll tell him we must have our meeting today." He put his hand on the knob.

"Calm, bah!" Avery bit the end off a stogy and spat it at the floor vehemently. "You better warn that Jules Farrar that his guinea pigs are sick and tired of his hotel-concentration-camp and of the whole world where we don't belong. I hope he lives to be a million."

"I'll tell him what you say," smiled Daneshaw grimly. "Now you get to work on a speech." He went out, a set smile still on his face.

* * * * *

When the amber light showed on the intercom on his desk, Dr. Farrar flipped the switch and barked a brief, "Send him in!"

Expecting the lanky white-maned Daneshaw in familiar heather-tweed, he was shocked by the appearance of the natty little man in midnight-blue dulfin slacks and ultra-conservative tabarjak. A Congressman so soon? He rose, extended his hand, half expecting the newcomer to refuse it coldly.

This little man smiled and grasped the outstretched hand heartily, saying, "Dr. Farrar? I'm Jeremy Brill of Far-Western Insurance and Annuity. Your secretary said you might have some time to spare this morning." He relinquished the hand and Dr. Farrar was freed to motion him to the green easy chair at the right of the desk.

"Glad to know you." He wasn't--he was lining up a few words for Miss Herrington on the subject of admitting salesmen. "Miss Herrington was mistaken, though, about my having much time. Something important has come up in the hospital this morning. Another day might be much better if you have anything extensive to discuss." He tried to remain courteous, keep his voice pleasant.

"I won't take but a few minutes of your day, Dr. Farrar, but there is a matter upon which The Company needs advice from you as soon as possible."

This sounded different from the usual opening. "Yes? What can I do for you?"

"You have a large group of patients here, Doctor, all of whom are well over a hundred years old."

"Not patients, Mr. Brill. Subjects. Subjects for observation on patterns of old age."

"Subjects, then. Well, a considerable number of these subjects have annuities with us and it is of great concern to us to have some estimate of their present condition."

"You mean physiologically? This group is in excellent health."

"Not exactly," the little man leaned forward confidentially. "We are more concerned with their mental state. You probably know that when a person is adjudged mentally incompetent or even gravely 'insecure,' the state takes over the care and support of such a person and The Company is released from financial obligation to that person. As a tremendous taxpayer, The Company aids in state support, but not to the extent of, shall we say, a perpetual annuity."

"Oh, I see. The company is feeling the pinch of a few long-term payments to those subjects of ours and would like to have them put away to cut expenses?" Dr. Farrar could not completely keep the scorn out of his voice.

"Oh, no, Doctor. You misunderstand me completely." Brill's tones were rich with wounded innocence. "The Company only wants to know what are the probabilities of mental breakdown at different ages, say a hundred and sixty, a hundred and eighty, two hundred. If we had some assurance of even a slight but definite tendency to, shall we say, mental erosion, with an increase in age above a hundred and fifty, The Company might find it possible to continue some such annuity plan as is now in operation." The man talked like an annual report, it seemed to Dr. Farrar, but with the difference that it had something to do with him.

"You or your medical colleagues," Brill went on brightly, "have done humanity yeoman service. Not only have you lengthened life and made living it less painful, but you have reduced the consumer-costs of life insurance to a level which makes premiums ridiculously low. Of course," he added complacently, "this has resulted in a great increase in the number of the insured and the size and scope of The Company."

"But if people are going to live forever, your company is going to have to discontinue the annuity system, is that it?" Dr. Farrar asked pointedly. "You'd leave the old folks cut off from jobs by custom and from any other income by expediency?"

* * * * *

Jeremy Brill was suddenly serious. "The problem of the support of paupers is hardly the immediate responsibility of Far-Western. Besides," he added hopefully, "by the time the thirty-year olders whose policies we would have to refuse to write now are old enough to worry about it, our society will no doubt have found some way for them to maintain their independence. I have the greatest faith in you social researchers, so great that my company can surely feel free to turn that problem over to you with utter confidence.

"And perhaps, as a matter of fact," he continued, "you can already tell me that there is little hope that man can pass his two-hundredth year without serious impairment of his faculties, and we shall only have to raise the age at which annuities begin to pay. The Company naturally prefers the gentle road of reform to the cataclysm of revolution." He relaxed after this burst of metaphor.

"I am not at all sure that there is any sanity data on those over 150 in statistical form. It would take me some time to be sure of any exact present correlation of mental erosion, as you call it, with age." Dr. Farrar reflected on the state of the file cases in the further corner. He wasn't at all sure, either, how much it was wise to tell this eager representative of The Company. (Mr. Brill always said it as if "The Company" were written entirely in capital letters.) There might be other angles. This increase in suicide, for instance.

"You see," he went on, "Block Nineteen does not have a very high complement of psychiatrists. If the subjects get too difficult to handle, we usually send them to Mayhew Mental Observing Hospital and close their files here. We do chiefly physiological research here, you know. The older subjects seem to mistrust young psychiatrists and the more practical men seem to prefer working in places like the Mayhew where the material is more interesting." Maybe he could get rid of the man by offering a better bait.

"The Company would be more than willing to offer the services of a couple of trained statistical analysts if you would like to put your unorganized material at our disposal for, shall we say, a week?"

So that was the angle--let The Company in on the files where they would uncover a number of other interesting things--the suicides too, as the other subjects reacted to them. Now he'd have to take time off, at work on the _Hundred-and-Ten-Year-Old_ to dig about in the advanced data. One couldn't violate the privacy of the records, not at this moment, anyhow.

"That won't be necessary, thanks. I could have some word for you in a couple of weeks--as soon as certain other matters are taken care of. I'd be interested in the results myself, naturally." And he would. There might be some clue to poor Clarice LePays and Forsythe and the earlier ones. A promise of figures soon would put Brill off temporarily. Now change the subject and close the talk.

"I suppose you have to do a lot of odd investigating like this in the course of company work?" Dr. Farrar asked politely.

"Yes, indeed, Doctor. Every event in the world is somehow connected with the insurance business. You might be interested to know that some of our men are now in Washington investigating space ship conditions. Confidentially, we shall probably soon be pushing a government subsidy for insurance for space crews and extra-territorial colonists. Sounds fantastic, doesn't it?"

"I should say so. But I thought the _Colonia_ wasn't due to take off for another year. I rather lose track of world news in my job here."

"She'd be ready to blast in fourteen months if they could decide about passengers and crew. Every nation in the Assembly and every bloc from farm and free-lifers to commists wants to be the first to start the colony, mostly from distrust of the others, but no particular individuals seem to want to be the first to cut the ties. The crew has to stay with the colony for months, you know, until they're settled and know what else they need. The _Colonia's_ the only large ship under construction. The Company doesn't want to be responsible for possible mishaps and we've just started writing in space-travel exception clauses in our regular policies."

* * * * *

The intercom bulb burned amber again. This time Farrar was more cautious.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"Mr. Daneshaw."

"Send him in in about a minute."

He turned to Brill. "The man who's coming in is one of our older subjects. You might like to meet him." He smiled. "Not that he's exactly typical of his age."

"You won't tell him why I'm here?" Brill requested. "The Company naturally doesn't want any publicity on this matter yet, Doctor."

"Naturally, Mr. Brill, you don't want a run on annuity policies any more than the Government wants to alarm prospective settlers on Venus by refusing to insure them. Old Daneshaw has probably forgotten more secrets than we'll ever know: but if you think best...."

"I do."