“Peter, it’s not looking good right now for us.” “You’re leaving me?” he asked, noting the hospital room was rotating slowly without actually moving. What a neat trick, he thought, and one that might serve as an atomic paradigm of some sort. “Peter,” said Beatrice sharply. “Be serious, “I am being serious,” he said. “Actually I was thinking of spin momentum-” “You’re dying,” she said.
Peter said nothing. Was that all she had to tell him? “Did you hear what I said?”
“I’m dying. Yes, I know. Aren’t we all?”
“But you’re dying a hell of a lot faster, you stubborn old fart. Stop playing games with me. “All right,” said Peter. The pain in his gut was making it difficult to speak. He tried to smile. “I gather,” he said, with forced mischief, “you’ve been talking to those quacks again. Beatrice closed her eyes briefly, then opened them. “Even a first-year medical student could figure this one out. It’s metastatic. It’s in your liver and your marrow. “And Cod knows where else.”
She gripped his hand.
“Peter, there’s a chance. There’s a possible solution. He fixed his eyes on the slowly moving ceiling, counting the rows of perforations in the acoustical tile. “And just what might that be?” Beatrice looked in her lap. “Frederick thinks we’re ready at our end.” “Ready? Ready for what?”
He could see she was steeling herself, choosing her words, fending off confusion and conflict. In a crisis, this was her way. “Henderson likes what he saw on the testing range. So do the other brass.” “Yes, I know what Henderson likes.”
“They’re more excited than ever.
“About the weapon.”
He heard her teeth click together.
“About you. Your longevity.”
“I’m delighted for them. And what miracle has Wolfe got up his sleeve?” “So you do know. You know it’s Freddy.”
“It’s always Freddy. Tell me, Beatrice, stop beating around the bush.” And so she began to talk. For a while he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t slipped into a nightmare. The difference was that when a dream became too stressful, he had developed long ago the knack of waking himself from it. But there was waking up from this one. Beatrice was going on and on, in a pseudo-confident drone that reminded him of nothing so much as Frederick Wolfe himself. And the fact was, Wolfe had told her exactly what to say, prepped her so thoroughly that she scarcely had to think. The more she said, the calmer she forced her voice to become. The problem was, the horror of what she was saying juxtaposed with this bogus calm made Peter’s head feel like it would explode. “God in heaven,” he heard himself say. How long had she been sitting there beside him? The light outside the window was now a dismal gray. “Peter, you must have guessed what was going on. “Never,” he insisted wanly.
“My research? I know you’ve lost interest in the past year, but come on-you knew the implications. What did you think was going on here? And in the Caribbean? The fertility clinic Freddy used to run. Did you think he was involved in it out of the goodness of his heart?” “Why not.”
“Don’t tell me it never crossed your mind. What this was all about?” “Of course it crossed my mind. There’s nothing I’d put past Freddy. I just didn’t think-” “What? What didn’t you think?”
“That the technology was there,” he said hopelessly. “That it would ever be.” “Well, it’s there. It’s here. And here we are. He felt the little strength he had left trickling away. “You’re right,” he admitted. “I turned a blind eye.” Beatrice folded her hands patiently. “Whether you like it or not,” she said, with the barest edge of regret, “you’re a charter member.” “Charter member! What is this, Cooperstown? Does Wolfe think he’s running a country club? Charter member of what?” “The Society”
“Typical of Wolfe-tricking it up with euphemistic bullshit-” She took his handher own was shaking. “They had to call the subjects something. The Fountain Society, you know, for the Fountain of-” “Beatrice, please, I’m ill, not stupid.” “I’m sorry. Don’t get testy. Please.”
“God, Beatrice, doesn’t this appall you?” “Of course it appalls me. I never thought it would come to this, but it has. And we did discuss it, you just don’t remember.” “We did not discuss it.”
“When I had that blood dyscrasia scare? The thrombocytosis? And the hydroxyurea wasn’t working?” “That was a thought experiment,” said Peter. She was a marvel of persistence. “And what did we conclude?” He knew, but he couldn’t bring himself to face it. “This is different,” he said. “This is monstrous.” “Why? Why is it different? You agreed-a necessary evil. A wretched Hobson’s choice. That’s the best life offers sometimes. And this is one of those times.” Peter gazed toward the darkening window. Now he thought he saw smoke drifting. Maybe it was his dreams. Burning. Maybe it was his life turning into ashes. “Peter, please! There isn’t any time. There’s even less than you know.” “That’s hardly the point.”
“It is precisely the point.”
“And what about my work, come to think of it? What the hell was that all about? Building something to vaporize whoever displeased people like Henderson? God help us. This disease, Beatrice-maybe it was meant to happen-” “Oh, for God’s sakes, Peter, listen to yourself-” “Maybe I did it to myself. Maybe it’s a punishment.” “From where? On high? For what? For doing what you were born to do? A Thousand Year Peace, Peter, that’s what the Army’s talking about, that’s what they think the Hammer can bring-” “Oh, really? They’re ready to put themselves out of business? Now who’s turning a blind eve?” She flared. “Then for me, all fight? If not for yourself. You bastard!” she cried, and suddenly she was weeping, the tears welling up through her rage. Peter gazed at her and saw the terror, and the stark, wholesale love. He shut his eyes-her emotion was too intense, too evocative. If he was about to die-and there was no doubt about that, no doubt whatsoever-his entire life should be flashing before him. But it wasn’t. What came surging up in his vision was their life together. The love, the houses, the beds, the laboratories, the gritty determination to make it work, the very length of it. Scarred and sinewy and there. All this was about to vanish. But it couldn’t be salvaged at a cost like this. “No,” he heard himself say. “Not even for you. After he said it, he thought that at least he might feel better. He rolled over and waited for something. Deliverance, perhaps. Instead, he found that he merely rolled over into more pain. By the next night, he felt himself sliding, driven down a slick decline by a cold wind. He became increasingly aware of something huge and black gaping before him, sucking him toward an oblivion that was terrifying in its completeness. The pain was now incredibly intense-beyond anything they could give him to quiet it. It had been less than twenty-four hours since he had declared his adamant refusal to Beatrice, and yet it seemed like ages. The pain was time’s elasticizer and reagent. It stretched seconds to centuries and stoked his fear. Suddenly he felt everything he had believed with all his heart slipping away, leaving him with only a raw desire to be delivered from his torment at any cost. Everything else was revealed in the white-hot light of this impulse as idiocy, or, worse, as hateful threat. He tried to rise back to the level of his own humanity, but it was like trying to crawl naked up a frigid, mossy waterfall. To his utter surprise, he only wanted to live. When he opened his eyes, there was Beatrice, sitting by his bed. He reached out his hand, felt her take it, and for the moment he felt anchored. She had read his thoughts, and she was there to answer his prayers. The warmth of her flesh made him feel the cold of his own even more keenly. He shut his eyes as a sudden, even more brutal pain swept over him and the breath stopped in his throat. He felt his heart racing like a horse trapped in a burning barn, and he heard himself sealing his own fate. “God save us all, Beatrice. I’ll do whatever you say. She took in her breath in a sudden expression of relief. He in turn was filled now with a sense of panic; he was already afraid it was too late. And the pain had become unbearable. “I need a morphine drip,” he said hoarsely. “Peter. Thank you.”
Her eyes were already tearing up as she turned toward the corridor: Frederick Wolfe was already there, a spectral shadow in the doorway. How long had he been hovering, so near he knew the instant Peter had relented? Beatrice gave him a nod and Wolfe clattered off down the hall, shouting names. Almost immediately there were running feet and muffled voices, then myriad shapes hovering over him like so many angels of death, and with a sense of incredible excitement and relief he felt the needle enter his arm. The last things he saw were these: Beatrice with her hand clutched to her face, shaking with sobs, and Wolfe’s pale form beside her, long fingers tented as in prayer, black eyes gleaming over a triumphant smile. Then the world went out like a light.