Short Fiction Poul Anderson (reading a book .TXT) đ
- Author: Poul Anderson
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And today he had been fired. Radek chanced across him drinking out a vast resentment and attached himself like a reverse lampreyâ âbuying 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 unpleasantâ ââ ⊠otherwise, why all the mystery? If the facts werenât 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. âThree hundred years now. I think itâs three hundred years since X-rays came in. Damn scientists, fooling around with X-rays, atomic energy, radioactivesâ ââ ⊠sure, safe levels, established tolerances, but what about the long-range effects? What about cumulative genetic effects? Those chickens are coming home at last.â
âNo use blaming our ancestors,â said Radek. âBe rather pointless to go dance on their graves, wouldnât it?â
Barwell moved closer to Radek. His breath was powerful with whisky. âBut are they in those graves?â he whispered.
âHuh?â
âLook. Been known for a long time, ever since first atomic energy workâ ââ ⊠heavy but nonlethal doses of radiation shorten lifespan. You grow old faster if you get a strong dose. Why dâyou think with all our medicines weâre not two, three hundred years old? Background countâs gone up, thatâs 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 itâs more than the level in nature by a good big factorâ âtwo or three.â
Radek sipped his beer. Heâd been drinking slowly, and the beer had gotten warmer than he liked, but he needed a clear head. âThatâs common knowledge,â he stated. âThe lifespan hasnât been shortened any, either.â
âBecause of more medicinesâ ââ ⊠more ways to help cells patch up radiation damage. All but worst radiation sickness been curable for a long time.â Barwell waved his hand expansively. âThey knew, even back then,â he mumbled. âIf radiation shortens life, radiation sickness cures ought to prolong it. Huh? Reasânable? Only the goddam scientistsâ ââ ⊠population problemâ ââ ⊠social stasis if everâbody lived for centuriesâ ââ ⊠kept it secret. Easy tâ do. Change yâr name and face everâ ten, twenây yearsâ âkeep to yârself, donât make friends among the short-lived, you might see âem grow old and die, might start feelinâ sorry for âem anâ that would never do, would itâ â?â
Coldness tingled along Radekâs spine. He lifted his mug and pretended to drink. Over the rim, his eyes stayed on Barwell.
âThaâs why they fired me. I know. I know. I got ears. I overheard things. I readâ ââ ⊠notes not intenâed for me. They fired me. âS a wonder they didnâ murder me.â Barwell shuddered and peered at the curtains, as if trying to look through them. âOr dâyâ thinkâ âmaybeâ ââ
âNo,â said Radek. âI donât. Letâs stick to the facts. I take it you found mention of work onâ âshall we sayâ âincreasing the lifespan. Perhaps a mention of successes with rats and guinea pigs. Right? So whatâs wrong with that? They wouldnât want to announce anything till they were sure, or the hysteriaâ ââ
Barwell smiled with an irritating air of omniscience. âMoreân that, friend. Moreân that. Lots more.â
âWell, what?â
Barwell peered about him with exaggerated caution. âOne thing I found in filesâ ââ ⊠plans of whole buildinâs anâ grounâsâ âgreat, great big room, lotsa rooms, way way underground. Secret. Only thâ kitchen was makinâ food anâ sendinâ it down thereâ âhuman food. Food for people I never saw, people who never came upâ ââ Barwell buried his face in his hands. âDonâ feel so good. Whirlinââ ââ
Radek eased his head to the table. Out like a spent credit. The newsman left the booth and addressed a bouncer. âChap in there has had it.â
âUh-huh. Want me to help you get him to your boat?â
âNo. I hardly know him.â A bill exchanged hands. âPut him in your dossroom to sleep it off, and give him breakfast with my compliments. Iâm going out for some fresh air.â
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 Lunaâ ââ ⊠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 valueâ âbut 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 publicâ ââ ⊠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 reinsâ ââ ⊠for the peopleâs 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
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