“So they imagine. His real constituency is industries that vote their tariff protections and subsidies, bums who vote their handouts, and intellectuals who vote their slogans. As for mis new-found pacifism of his, that’s the current fashion. Before, his breed was always hell-bent to get us into foreign wars, except that we mustn’t win any that were fought against Communists. Now he’s picking up extra votes— someday they may help him into the White House—by telling us that violence never settles anything. If only the city fathers of Carthage could talk to bun.”
She put irritation aside and riposted with a grin, “Plagiarizing Heinlein, are you?”
He had come to admire the deftness with which she could defuse a quarrel. They’d had too many lately. Chuckling, he relaxed. “You’re right, I am a fool to waste good drinking time on politics, especially when it’s in the company of a sexy woman.”
Inwardly there passed through him: He may have delivered himself into my hands, though. I’ll get a tape of the proceedings tomorrow. If they went as I imagine, well, the next issue of The Chart Room is almost ready to go to press. I barely have time to pull TannahuTs editorial and slip in another that’ll be pure Schadenfreude to write.
Natalia laid a hand over his. “You’re pretty sexy yourself, for your information,” she said. “Horrible old reactionary, but if word got around about what you’re like in bed, I’d have to fight the women off with a shillelagh.”
Her smile faded. She sat quiet a while before adding softly, “No, I take that first part back. I think you’re down on governments because you’ve seen victims of their blunders and, yes, cruelties. It would be better if you were in charge. Under that crusty exterior, you’re fine and considerate.”
“And too smart to want power,” he interpolated.
“And you are not old, either,” she went on. “Not in any way that counts.”
“Sixty-seven, last time I looked.” At Robert Cauldwell’s birth certificate. “I could be your father, or your grandfather if my son and I had been a tad precocious.” I could be your hundredfold-great-grandfather. Quite possibly I am.
He felt her gaze on him, but didn’t meet it. “When / look, I see a person who appears younger than me. It’s eerie.”
“Persistent ancestors, I’ve told you.” A bottle of hair dye, to pretend indulgence of that small vanity. “I’ve also told you you should start shopping for a newer model. I honestly don’t want it to get too late for you.”
“We’ll see.” A single time in their three-year union had she suggested marriage. Were he using a different, younger personality he might well have gone through with it. As was, he couldn’t explain what a dirty trick on her it would be.
The thought flitted through him that if he did make known what he was and Giannotti’s estimate of the rate of progress thereafter proved right, Natalia could become immortal herself. Probably rejuvenated, too; given such a command of biochemistry, that ought to be easy. But while he was fond of her, he had not permitted himself to fall really in love for centuries; and he didn’t feel ready to unleash incalculable consequences on the world. Not this evening, at least.
She put on gaiety. “Who’s your Danish pen pal?”
He blinked. “What?”
“In today’s mail. Otherwise nothing special— Hey, important, is it?”
His heart thudded. “I’ll see. Excuse me a minute.”
He’d not thought about the post. It lay on a corner table. As he took the envelope postmarked Copenhagen, he saw the printed name and address of a hotel and, hand-written above it, “Helmut Seeker.”
His agent in Frankfurt, receiving responses to an advertisement published throughout northern Europe, then following up on any that seemed to come from a person who might fit his requirements—of course, Becker had merely been told that the Rufus Lab wanted to contact members of long-lived families; if they were young but showed intelligence, as evinced by an interest in history, that was ideal—
Hanno forced his mouth and hands into steadiness. He opened the letter. It was in stilted English, but there was no reason Natalia shouldn’t read it. She knew about the project, considered the approach unscientific but tolerated it together with the rest of his eccentricities. In fact, he should give her every appearance of openness, to hide the excitement that roared within him. “Apparently I’ve got a little trip ahead of me,” he told her.