syneresis, the slow solidifying of the lifeelements within him. He sat quietly and grew old, thinking the chancewould never come.
But it did come, when he had least expected it.
It was a treat--his birthday. Because of it, they had given him actualfood for the first time in years: a cake, conspicuous in its barrennessof candles; a glass of real vegetable juices; a dab of potato; anindescribable green that might have been anything at all; and a littlesteak. A succulent, savory-looking piece of genuine meat.
The richness of the food would probably make him sick, so unaccustomedto solid food was his digestive tract by now, but it would be worth thepain.
And it was then that he saw the knife.
It lay there on the tray, its honed edge glittering in the light of thesun. A sharp knife, capable of cutting steak--or flesh of any kind.
"Well, how do you like your birthday present, Mr. Symmes?"
He looked up quickly at the woman standing beside the tray. The yellowpallor of her middle-aged skin matched the color of her uniform. Shewore the insignia of a geriatrics supervisor.
He let a little smile flicker across his face. "Why, it's ... it'swonderful. I never expected it at all. It's been so long, you know. Sovery long."
How could he get rid of her? If he tried anything with her watching, shewould stop him. And then he'd never get another chance.
"I'm glad you like it, Mr. Symmes. Synthetic foods do get tiresomeafter a while, don't they?"
The idea came with suddenness and he responded to it quickly.
"But where are my pink pills? I always take them at lunch."
"You won't need them if you're eating real food."
He whipped his voice into petulance. "Yes, I will! I don't care if it isreal food--I want my pills!"
"I'll get them for you later. Go ahead and eat first."
"I can't eat until I take my pink pills! You ought to know that! I won'ttouch a thing until I get them! You've ruined my birthday party."
The whims of the aging are without logic, so she went to get the pills,leaving Oliver Symmes and the gleaming, sharp knife together,unattended.
* * * * *
Where should he start? The heart? No, that would be too quick, too easyto repair. Then where?
He remembered his studies of the middle Japanese culture and the methodsof suicide practiced at that time. The intestines! So many of them tocut and slash at, so much damage that might be done before death set in!Maybe even the lungs! But he must hurry.
Picking up the knife, he pointed it at his appendix. For a moment hehesitated, and his eyes observed again the little feast laid out beforehim. He thought briefly about pausing for just a while to taste thelittle steak, to nibble briefly at the delectable-looking cake. He hatedto leave it untouched. It had been such a long time....
The sudden memory of time, and how much of it he had spent hoping forthis moment, snapped his attention back to the knife. Steeling his gripon it, he pressed it in hard.
His eyes bulged with the excruciating pain as he wrenched the knife fromright to left, twisting it wildly as he went, blindly slashing at hisvital organs with the hope that once and for all he could stop the longand eternal waiting.
His mouth filled with the taste of blood. He spat it out throughclenched teeth. It gushed down his chin, staining the cleanness of hisrobe. His lips parted to scream.
And then his eyes closed.
* * * * *
And opened again! He was staring at the ceiling, but the men and womenstanding around him got in his way.
Their lips were moving, their faces unperturbed.
"That was a nasty thing for him to do."
"They all do it, once or twice, until they learn."
"Third time for him, isn't it?"
"Yes, I believe so. First time he tried hanging himself. Second time hewas beating his head against the wall when we came and stopped him.Bloody mess that one was."
"Nothing to compare with this, of course."
"Well, naturally."
Oliver Symmes felt sick with fear of frustration.
"Nice technique you showed, Doctor. He'd been dead at least an hour whenwe started, hadn't he?"
"Almost two," someone else said. "An amazing job."
"Thank you. But it wasn't too difficult. Just a little patching here andthere."
He felt his legs being shifted for him.
"Be careful there, Nurse. Handle him gently. _Fragilitas Ossium_, youknow. Old bones break very easily."
"Sorry, Doctor."
"Not that we couldn't fix them up immediately if they did."
"Naturally, Doctor."
"I wish they'd try something different for a change."
"The woman in the next room lost an eye last year, trying to reach theprefrontals. Good as new now, of course."
He wanted to vomit at the uselessness of it all.
"By the way, what's he in for? Do you know?"
"No, I'd have to look it up."
"Probably newness."
"Or taxes."
"Or maybe even slander."
"Is that on the prescribed antisocial list now?"
"Oh, yes. It was passed just before the destructive criticism law."
"Think he'll try this messy business again?"
"They all do."
"They do, don't they? Don't they ever learn it's no use?"
"Eventually. Some are just harder to convince than others."
The pain was gone. He closed his eyes and slipped off into darknessagain and into ...
* * * * *
Shadows. In slow and ponderous fashion they float across the sea of hismind, like wandering bits of sargasso weed on the brackish water of adying ocean. Each one dreamed a thousand times too many, each separatestrand of memory-weed now nothing but a stereotyped shred of what mighthave once been a part of life and of living.
With the quietness of deserted ships they drift in procession past hissphere of consciousness. Wait! There's one that seems familiar. He stopsthe mental parade for a moment, not hearing the voice of his companion,the woman in the green uniform.
"It's getting late, Mr. Symmes." She turned from the window and glancedat the wizenedness, the fragile remainder of the man, the almost emptyshell. It was a pity he wasn't able to play games with her like some ofthe others. That made it so much easier. "Don't you think it's abouttime you went to bed? Early to bed and early to rise, you know."
That memory of a needle, pointed and gleaming. What was it?
Oh, yes. Stick it in his arm, push the plunger, pull it out; and waitfor him to die. First one disease and then another, to each he happilysuccumbed, in the interests of science, only to be resuscitated. Eachtime a willing volunteer, an eager guinea pig, he had hoped for the easeof death, praying that for once they'd wait too long, the germs wouldprove too virulent, that something would go wrong.
"There, now, you just lie back and get comfortable," she said, walkingover to the table. "But it has been fun, hasn't it? Watching the crowds,I mean." She felt he must be much happier now, and the knowledge of itgave her a sense of success. She was living up to her pledge, "To Carefor the Aged."
Diabetes, tuberculosis, cancer of the stomach, tumor of the brain. He'dhad them all, and many others. They had swarmed to him through thegouged skin-openings made by the gleaming needle. And each had broughtthe freedom of blackness, of death, sometimes for an hour, sometimes fora whole week. But always life returned again, and the waiting, waiting,waiting.
"I enjoy New Year's myself," the woman said, her hands caressing a dial.Slowly, with gentle undulation, his chair rose from the floor andcradled the aged tiredness that was Oliver Symmes to his bed. Withalmost tender devotion, his body was mechanically shifted from theportable chair to the freshly made bed.
* * * * *
One of his arms was caught for just a moment under the slight weight ofhis body. There was a
short, snapping sound, but Oliver Symmes took nonotice. His face remained impassive. Even pain had lost its meaning.
"It's a pity we couldn't have been outside with the rest of them,celebrating," she said, as she arranged the covers around him, notnoticing the arm herself.
This was the part of her job she enjoyed most--tucking the nice littleman into bed. He did look sweet there, under the covers, didn't he?
"Just imagine, Mr. Symmes, another year's gone by, and what have weaccomplished?"
Her prattle seeped in and he became aware of it and what she was saying.New Year?
"What--what year--is this?" He spoke with great difficulty, from thelong disuse of vocal cords. It was hardly more than a whisper, but sheheard