them on across the years—but there won’t be anyone left on board to pilot them.”
And when he had said that, he would chuckle and prophesy that one fine day even the interplanetary and interstellar flight technicians would be acknowledging the importance of a biologist’s work.
Philipson was working on the prolongation of human life. In moments of great enthusiasm, carried away by his obsession, he would declare that the secrets of immortality were within his grasp.
Matthew was several years younger than his friend. He was not a scientist. His interests lay in other directions. He looked forward to a career in the Interplanetary Development Corporation—a financial career. Already his father’s firm of brokers was expanding as the first stages of Martian colonisation and development took place. There were setbacks—a series of disasters to some of the early space ships, for example—but this was a time when a man with influence in the City used that influence to get his sons or relatives into the I.D.C. Matthew’s father had such influence, and Matthew had a head for figures.
“This is going to be something big,” said his father. “We won’t live to see the really colossal profits that will come as the I.D.C. spreads wider and wider, but at least we’ll be comfortable, and more than comfortable, for the rest of our lives.”
We won’t live to see the really colossal profits.... Comfortable for the rest of our lives....
The words echoed in Matthew’s mind. He could not help feeling a certain nagging resentment. He would be one of those who laid the foundations for a future generation that would reap huge profits. Life was too short. He wanted to live a long way into the future: he was ambitious, and he wanted time to get to the top, time to watch men going out to the stars, time to indulge in the pleasures that power and riches might bring.
If only that crank Philipson could strike lucky, and add a couple of hundred years to his life span! Never mind about immortality, a dream with many of the disturbing implications of a dream: two hundred years would do to be going on with.
But although he saw Philipson regularly and listened to his wilder theories over a period of three years in his early twenties, Matthew did not really pay a great deal of attention to what was said. He did not really believe in the possibility of any substantial extension of human life. Ever since the grafting and rejuvenation experiments of the mid-century, there had been steady progress in combatting the worst manifestations of old ages, but a man who lived to be more than a hundred was still a rarity. Senility was less obvious than it had once been, but death was not to be held back.
And then there came that day when, as though for the first time, Matthew took a long look at his friend Philipson and said:
“You’re looking very well. You look as though you’ve been on a long holiday or something.”
The other flushed. “Hard work, not holidays,” he said with a nervous laugh, and went on to chatter about some recent research in genetics that had attracted his attention.
Matthew did not listen. He studied the brightness of Philipson’s restless eyes, and his clear skin. The unhealthy pallor that had once been there was gone. Philipson did not appear to have aged at all in the last year or two. He might have been the same age as Matthew himself. Matthew was, he realized with shock and dawning suspicion, catching up with Philipson.
He suddenly interrupted the flow of technical jargon. He said harshly:
“Philipson, you’ve found what you were after.”
“Mm?” The off-handed reply was unconvincing.
“I believe you’ve found a serum—a process—something—that will give you immortality.”
“Oh, nothing like immortality,” Philipson rashly blurted out.
“Then a prolongation of life, at least. A renewal. That’s it, isn’t it?” Matthew demanded.
“My experiments have had a certain amount of success. But it’s early. It’s too soon to say. I mean....”
“You mean that you’re pretty certain you’ve done it, and in fact you’re confident enough to experiment on yourself.”
“Got to use some sort of guinea-pig,” said Philipson uneasily.
“Why not me?”
The two men stared at one another. Philipson backed away, resting his right hand on a drawer in a bench and tugging it slightly open.
Matthew went on remorselessly: “Why haven’t you published your results? Why are you keeping it all to yourself? You want to live on while others die: you want to take advantage of the rest of the human race.”
Philipson shook his head. “You don’t understand.”
“You’d better try to make me understand then.”
There was a long silence. A strange feeling of fear and apprehension seemed to enter into the untidy laboratory.
Matthew was suddenly possessed by the conviction that he had only to reach out and grasp a hundred years, two hundred years of the future: they were within reach, and he was not going to be cheated of them.
At last Philipson said: “There is not yet room enough in the universe. Already Earth is overcrowded, and although Mars is admirably suited to industrial development and can supply Earth with needed raw materials, it will not provide a home for ordinary people. With the conquest of disease the growth of population has been more rapid than ever before, and there has been no major war for thirty years. Unless we can find homes on the other planets for our people—and at present there is no indication that we shall be able to adapt ourselves very easily to the inimical conditions on most of the other planets in this solar system—we are going to face famine in a very short time. Yet you think, knowing all this, that I ought to try to prolong the life of every other human being? If the birth rate stays the same, can’t you imagine what the situation will be like? Instead of dying off and making at least a little room for the newcomers, old people will go on living. They won’t grow old. The Earth will never sustain them all.”
He spoke with conviction. But for Matthew it was not good enough. It might be true that the world would soon be overcrowded if human life were prolonged. But that didn’t mean that he, Matthew, was prepared to give up his longing for the future. He said:
“What do you propose to do, then? You can’t keep it to yourself.”
“My idea is that a small group of brilliant men and women might take advantage of the discovery, without letting the rest of the world know at first. Think of the advantages to everyone else! A man who can afford to spend a hundred years on, say, one piece of research, is going to be able to extend immeasurably the frontiers of knowledge. And in due course, when men have perfected a ship that will reach out to the other star systems, injections can be given to volunteers who will go along with that ship. The journey may take hundreds of years—but they will be alive at the end of it. And somewhere in all the galaxies must be many more planets on which the men of our race can be comfortable. When they have been discovered, longevity can be granted to everybody. Until then, it is best kept secret, shared by a few chosen beings only.”
“And did you propose,” asked Matthew shakily, “to include me in your choice?”
Philipson hesitated, then said: “No.”
“As an old friend, I should have thought—”
“We are friends,” Philipson said, “but that doesn’t mean I’m blind to your defects, Matthew. You are one of those who search for personal power. I think you might be dangerous. A man who lives beyond the normal span has too much time in which to work mischief. An undying dictator—even an undying financial juggler, holding the economic fate of millions in his hands—is a menace to the future of the race.”
Matthew said: “I intend to share in this experiment. You’ve no right to deny me this gift. After all the encouragement I’ve given you—”
“It’s