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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/29889-h.zip b/29889-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..abb1ceb --- /dev/null +++ b/29889-h.zip diff --git a/29889-h/29889-h.htm b/29889-h/29889-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cbec211 --- /dev/null +++ b/29889-h/29889-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1642 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Life Sentence, by James McConnell + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + + p {margin-top: .75em; text-align: justify; margin-bottom: .75em;} + h1 {text-align: left; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em; margin-top: 0;} + h2 {font-size: large;} + hr {width: 45%; margin: 2em auto; visibility: hidden;} + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .rgt {text-align: right;} + .trn {border: solid 1px; margin: 3em 15%; padding: 1em; text-align: justify;} + p.cap:first-letter {float: left; margin-right: .05em; padding-top: .05em; font-size: 300%; line-height: .8em; width: auto;} + .dcap {text-transform: uppercase;} + .bk1 {background: url("images/001.png") top left no-repeat; width: 559px; height: 550px; margin: 0 auto 2em; overflow: hidden;} + .bk2 {padding-bottom: 185px; padding-left: 283px;} + .bk3 {margin: 2.5em auto;} + .hd1,h2 {text-align: center;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Life Sentence, by James McConnell + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Life Sentence + +Author: James McConnell + +Illustrator: Dick Francis + +Release Date: September 2, 2009 [EBook #29889] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE SENTENCE *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="bk1"> + +<div class="bk2"><h1>Life<br /> +Sentence</h1> + +<h2>By JAMES McCONNELL</h2> + +<div class="bk3"><p><big><b><i>"Happy New Year!" she cried. But how often +should one hear it said in a single lifetime?</i></b></big></p></div> + +<p class="hd1"><b>Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS</b></p></div></div> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Outside</span>, bells were ringing. +"Happy New Year!"</p> + +<p>The mad sound of people +crazed for the moment, shouting, +echoed the bells.</p> + +<p>"Happy New Year!"</p> + +<p>A sound of music, waxing, +waning, now joined in wild symphony +by the voices, now left +alone to counterpoint the noise +of human celebration....</p> + +<p>For a while, Oliver Symmes +heard the raucous music of the +crowd. It became a part of him, +seemed to come from somewhere +inside him, gave him life. And +then, as always, it passed on, +leaving him empty.</p> + +<p>Shadows....</p> + +<p>The door to his room opened +and a young-looking woman, +dressed in a pleasant green uniform, +came in and turned up the +light. On her sleeve she wore the +badge of geriatrician, with the +motto, "To Care for the Aged."</p> + +<p>"Happy New Year, Mr. Symmes," +she said, and went over to +stand by the window. In the mild +light, the sheen of her hair attracted +attention away from the +slight imperfections of her face.</p> + +<p>She watched the crowd outside, +wishing she could be a part +of it. There seemed so little life +inside the prison where the only +function of living was the awaiting +of death. "To Care for the +Aged." That meant to like and +love them as well as to take +physical care of them. Only, +somehow, it seemed so hard to +<i>really</i> love them.</p> + +<p>She sighed and turned away +from the window to look at one +of the reasons she could not +be with the rest of the world +that night.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">He</span> sat bunched up in his chair +like a vegetable. She could +have closed one of her hands +around both his arms together. +Or his legs. Bones and skin and +a few little muscles left, and that +was all. Skin tight, drumlike, +against the skull. Cheeks shrunk, +lips slightly parted by the contraction +of the skin. Even the +wrinkles he should have had +were erased by the shrinkage of +the epidermis. Even in a strong +light, the faint wrinkle lines were +barely visible.</p> + +<p>After a moment of looking at +him, she put a smile back on her +face and repeated her greeting.</p> + +<p>"I said, 'Happy New Year,' +Mr. Symmes."</p> + +<p>He raised his eyes to her for +a moment, then slowly lowered +them, uncomprehendingly.</p> + +<p>"He looks just a little bit like +a caricature," she said to herself, +feeling a little more tenderness +toward him. "A cute little stick +man made of leaves and twigs +and old bark and ..."</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="cap"><i><span class="dcap">Shadows.</span></i> For so long there +had been shadows. And for a +time the fleeting passage of +dreams and past memories had +been a solace. But now the shadows +were withered and old, debilitated +and desiccated. They +had been sucked dry of interest +long ago.</p> + +<p>But still they flitted through +his mind on crippled wings, +flapping about briefly in the now-narrowed +shell of his consciousness, +then fading back among the +cobwebs. Every once in a while, +one of them would return to exercise +its wings.</p> + +<p>"Did she say, 'Happy New +Year?'" he wondered. "New +Year's?"</p> + +<p>And, at the thought of it, there +came shadows out of the past....</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Young</span> Oliver Symmes +laughed. The girl laughed, +too. She was good to hold in +one's arms, soft like a furry animal, +yielding and plush of +mouth.</p> + +<p>"I love you, Ollie," she said; +the warmness of her body close +against his.</p> + +<p>He laughed again and wrapped +her in his arms. He owned her +now, owned her smile, her love +for him, her mind and her wonderful +body. She belonged to him, +and the thrill of ownership was +strong and exciting.</p> + +<p>"I'll always love you, Ollie. +I'll love only you." She ran her +fingers in and out of his hair, +caressing each strand as it went +through her fingers. "I love the +strength of your arms, the firmness +of your body."</p> + +<p>Again he laughed, surrendering +all his consciousness to the warm +magic of her spell.</p> + +<p>"I love the shading of your +hair and eyes, the smooth angularity +of your tallness, the red +ecstasy of your mind." Her fingers +slipped down the back of +his neck, playing little games +with his flesh and hair. "I'll always +love you, Ollie."</p> + +<p>He kissed her savagely.</p> + +<p>During the daytime, there was +his work at the anthropological +laboratories, the joy of poking +among the cultures of the past. +And at night there was the joy +of living with her, of sharing the +tantalizing stimulations of the +culture of the present, the infinite +varieties of love mingling with +passions.</p> + +<p>For months there was this happiness +of the closeness of her. +And then she was gone from him, +for the moment. He still owned +her, but they were physically +apart and there was the hunger +of loneliness in him. The months +his work kept them apart seemed +like centuries, until, finally, he +could return.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">He</span> was walking through a +happy, shouting crowd, +walking back to her. It was the +eve of the new year, a time for +beginnings, a time for looking +from the pleasures of the past to +those waiting in the future. There +was a happy outcry inside him +that matched the mood of the +crowd.</p> + +<p>"Happy New Year!"</p> + +<p>Women stopped him on the +street, asking for his affection. +But he passed them by, for she +was waiting for him and he was +hungry for the possessive love of +his slave.</p> + +<p>He went eagerly into the building +where they lived.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">The</span> crowd was gone. A door +was opening. The voice of his +love, sudden, full of naked +surprise, bleated at him. And another +voice, that of a man standing +behind her, croaked with +hasty excuses and fear.</p> + +<p>A change of hungers—it +seemed no more complex than +that.</p> + +<p>He put his hand to his side and +took out a piece of shaped metal, +pointing it at the man. A blast of +light and the man was dead. He +put the weapon aside.</p> + +<p>Young Oliver Symmes walked +toward the girl. She backed away +from him, pleading with words, +eyes, body. He noticed for the +first time the many small imperfections +of her face and figure.</p> + +<p>Cornered, she raised her arms +to embrace him. He raised his +arms to answer the embrace, but +his hands stopped and felt their +way around the whiteness of her +neck. He pressed his hands together, +thumbs tight against each +other.</p> + +<p>Minutes later, he dropped her +to the floor and stood looking at +her. He had owned her and then +destroyed her when his ownership +was in dispute.</p> + +<p>He bent to kiss the lax lips.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Shadows</span>. As a man grows +older, the weight and size of +his brain decrease, leaving cavities +in his mind. The years that +pass are a digger, a giant excavator, +scooping the mass of past +experience up in the maw of dissipation. +The slow, sure evacuation +of the passing decades leaves +wing-room in a man's head for +stirring memories.</p> + +<p>The withered man looked up +again. The woman in the green +uniform was smiling at him +through parted, almost twisted +lips.</p> + +<p>"I suppose that this time of +year is the worst for you, isn't +it?" she asked sympathetically. +The first requirement of a good +geriatrician was sympathy and +understanding. She determined +to try harder to understand.</p> + +<p>The old man made no answer, +only staring at her face. But his +eyes were blank—seeing, yet +blind to all around him. She +frowned for a moment as she +looked at him. The unnatural +hairlessness of his body puzzled +her, making it difficult for her +to understand him while the +thought was in her mind—that +and the trouble she had getting +through to him.</p> + +<p>She stared at him as if to +pierce the blankness of his gaze. +Behind his eyes lay the emptiness +of age, the open wound of stifled +years.</p> + +<p>"I'll move you over to the window, +Mr. Symmes," she told him +in soothing tones, her smile reappearing. +"Then you can look +out and see all the people. Won't +that be fun?"</p> + +<p>Picking up a box from the +table, she adjusted a dial. The +chair in which he was sitting rose +slightly from the floor and positioned +itself in front of the window. +The woman walked to the +wall beside him and corrected the +visual index of the glass to match +the weakness of the old man's +eyes.</p> + +<p>"See, down there? Just look at +them pushing about."</p> + +<p>A rabble of faces swam on the +glass in front of him, faces of +unfamiliar people, all of them unknown +and unknowable to him.</p> + +<p>Inside him the whisper of the +wings mounted in pitch with a +whining, leathery sound. The images +of dead faces came flying up, +careening across his mind, mingling +and merging with the faces +of the living. The glass became +an anomalous torrent of faces.</p> + +<p>Dead faces....</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Four</span> walls around him, bare +to the point of boredom. +Through the barred window, the +throbbing throat of the crowd +talked to him. His young body +took it in, his young mind accepted +it, catalogued it and +pushed it out of consciousness. +And for each individual voice +there was an individual face, +staring up at his cell from the +comparative safety of outside. +Young Oliver Symmes could not +see the faces from where he sat, +waiting, but he could sense them.</p> + +<p>There came a feel of hands on +his shoulder; his reverie was interrupted. +Arms under his raised +him to his feet. A face smiled, +almost kindly, in understanding.</p> + +<p>"They're waiting for you, Mr. +Symmes. It's time to go."</p> + +<p>More words. Walking from +this place to that, mostly with a +crowd of people at his shoulders, +pressing him in. Then a door +ahead of him, ornate in carving, +a replica of the doors to the Roman +Palace of Justice many centuries +before. Again his mind +catalogued the impressions.</p> + +<p>Then, like the faces of the +people outside his cell, the pictures +of the bas-relief faded +away, melted and merged into a +pelagic blackness.</p> + +<p>The doors opened and, with +part of the crowd still at his side, +he went through. The people inside +were standing; stick men, it +seemed to him, with painted balloons +for faces. The sound of the +rapping of a gavel caught his +ear. The people sat, and the trial +began.</p> + +<p>"This court will admit to evidence +only those events and artifacts +which are proved true and +relevant to the alleged crime."</p> + +<p>An obsequious clearing of +throats. A coughing now and +then.</p> + +<p>"... And did you see the defendant, +Oliver Symmes, enter +the apartment of the deceased on +the night of the Thirty-first of +December, two thousand and ..."</p> + +<p>"I did. He was wearing a sort +of orange tunic ..."</p> + +<p>Someone whispered in his ear. +Oliver Symmes heard and shook +his head.</p> + +<p>"... You are personally acquainted +with the defendant?"</p> + +<p>"I am. We worked for United +Anthropological Laboratories before +he ..."</p> + +<p>"Objection."</p> + +<p>"Sustained."</p> + +<p>The blackness of the judge's +robe puzzled him. A vestige, an +anachronism, handed down from +centuries before. White was the +color of truth, not black.</p> + +<p>"You swear that you found the +defendant standing over the body +of the deceased woman on the +night of ..."</p> + +<p>"Not standing, sir. He was +bending over, kissing ..."</p> + +<p>"Your witness."</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Days</span> of it, back and forth, +testimony and more testimony. +Evidence and more evidence +and the lack of it. Smiling +lawyers, grimacing lawyers, +soothing lawyers and cackling +lawyers. And witnesses.</p> + +<p>"You will please take the +stand, Mr. Symmes."</p> + +<p>He walked to the chair and +sat down. The courtroom leaned +forward, the stick men bowed +toward him slightly, as in eager +applause of the coming most +dramatic moment of a spectacle.</p> + +<p>"You will please tell the court +in your own words ..."</p> + +<p>He mouthed the words. The +whole story, the New Year's +crowd, his hunger for her, his +arrival, the other man and his +babbling, the woman and how +she looked, his feelings, his transfigured +passions, and the deaths. +He told the story again and +again until they seemed satisfied.</p> + +<p>"You understand, Mr. Symmes, +that you have committed a +most heinous crime. You have +killed two people in a passion +that, while it used to be forgiven +by the circumstances, is no longer +tolerated by this government. +You have killed, Mr. Symmes!"</p> + +<p>The face before him was intense. +He looked at it, not understanding +the reason for the +frozen look of malice and hatred.</p> + +<p>"She was mine. When she betrayed +me, I killed her. Is that +wrong?"</p> + +<p>The stick men snorted and +poked each other in the ribs with +derisive elbows.</p> + +<p>There were more words and +more questions. He looked at the +face of the judge and wondered, +for a moment, if perhaps the color +of the robe was to match the +apparent disposition of the man.</p> + +<p>And then came the silence, a +time of sitting and waiting. He +sensed the wondering stares of +the stick men, wide-eyed in apprehension, +suspended from the +drabness of their own lives for +the moment by the stark visitation +of tragedy in his. They +gabbled among themselves and +wagered on the verdict.</p> + +<p>The man next to him leaned +over and tapped him on the arm. +Everyone stood up and then, +curiously, sat down again almost +at once. He felt the tension present +in the courtroom, but was +strangely relaxed himself. It was +peculiar that they were all so +excited.</p> + +<p>"Your Honor, having duly +considered the seriousness of the +crime and the evidence presented ..."</p> + +<p>The balloon faces on the stick +men stretched in anticipation.</p> + +<p>"... taking full cognizance of +the admitted passion on the part +of the defendant and the circumstances ..."</p> + +<p>The balloons were strained, +contorted out of all proportion in +their eagerness.</p> + +<p>"... we find the defendant +guilty of murder, making no +recommendation for consideration +by the Court."</p> + +<p>The balloons exploded!</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Deafening</span> and more than +deafening, the uproar of the +voices was beyond belief. He +threw his hands up over his ears +to shut out the noise.</p> + +<p>The gavel crashed again and +again, striking the polished oak +in deadly cadence, stifling the +voices. Over the stillness, one +man spoke. He recognized the +black voice of the judge and took +his hands from his ears and put +them in his lap. He was told to +stand and he obeyed.</p> + +<p>"Oliver Symmes, there has +been no taking of human lives in +this nation for many years, until +your shockingly primitive crime. +We had taken pride in this record. +Now you have broken it. +We must not only punish you +adequately and appropriately, +but we must also make of your +punishment a warning to anyone +who would follow your irrational +example.</p> + +<p>"Naturally, we no longer have +either the apparatus to execute +anyone or an executioner. We do +not believe that a stupidly unreasoning +act should incite us to +equally unreasoning reprisal, for +we would then be as guilty of irrationality +as you.</p> + +<p>"We must establish our own +precedent, since there is no recent +one and the ancient punishments +are not acceptable to us. +Therefore, because we are humane +and reasoning persons, the +Court orders that the defendant, +Oliver Symmes, be placed in the +National Hospital for observation, +study and experimentation +so that this crime may never +again be repeated. He is to be +kept there under perpetual care +until no possible human skill or +resource can further sustain life +in his body."</p> + +<p>Someone jumped erect beside +him, quivering with horror and +indignation. It was his lawyer.</p> + +<p>"Your Honor, we throw ourselves +upon the mercy of the +Court. No matter what the crime +of the defendant, this is a greater +one. For this is a crime not +just against my client, but +against all men. This sentence +robs all men of their most precious +freedom—the right to die at +their appointed times. Nothing +is more damaging to the basic +dignity of the human race than +this most hideous ..."</p> + +<p>"... This Court recognizes +only the four freedoms. The freedom +of death is not one of these. +The sentence stands. The Court +is adjourned."</p> + +<p>There were tears in the eyes of +his lawyer, although young Oliver +Symmes did not quite comprehend, +as yet, their meaning. +Hands, rougher than before, +grasped his arms with strange +firmness and led him off into ...</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Shadows</span>. They come in +cycles, each prompted to activity +by the one preceding it. +They flutter in unbelievable +clusters, wheel in untranslatable +formations through the cerebric +wasteland that is the aged mind +of Oliver Symmes. They have no +meaning to him, save for a furtive +spark of recognition that intrudes +upon him once in a while.</p> + +<p>The woman in the green uniform, +standing to one side of the +window, smiled at him again. It +was much simpler to care for +him, she thought, if only one +conceived of him as being a sort +of sweet little worn-out teddy +bear. Yes, that was what he was, +a little teddy bear that had gotten +most of its stuffing lost and +had shriveled and shrunk. And +one can easily love and pamper +a teddy bear.</p> + +<p>"Can you see the crowd all +right, Mr. Symmes? This is a +good place to watch from, isn't +it?"</p> + +<p>Her words fell upon his ears, +setting up vibrations and oscillations +in the basilar membranes. +Nerve cells triggered impulses +that sped along neural pathways +to the withered cortex, where +they lost themselves in the welter +of atrophy and disintegration. +They emerged into his consciousness +as part of a gestaltic confusion.</p> + +<p>"Isn't it exciting, watching +from here?" she asked, showing +enthusiasm at the sight of the +crowd below. "You should be enjoying +this immensely, you know. +Not all the people here have +windows to look out of like this." +There, now, that should make +him feel a little better.</p> + +<p>His eyes, in their wandering, +came to rest upon her uniform, +so cool and comforting in its +greenness. A flicker of light +gleamed from the metallic insignia +on her sleeve: "To Care +for the Aged." Somewhere inside +him an association clicked, a +brief fire of response to a past +event kindled into a short-lived +flame, lighting the way through +cobwebs for another <i>shadow</i>....</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">How</span> many years he had been +waiting for the opportunity, +he did not know. It seemed like +decades, although it might have +been only a handful of months. +And all the time he had waited, +he could feel himself growing older, +could sense the syneresis, the +slow solidifying of the life elements +within him. He sat quietly +and grew old, thinking the chance +would never come.</p> + +<p>But it did come, when he had +least expected it.</p> + +<p>It was a treat—his birthday. +Because of it, they had given him +actual food for the first time in +years: a cake, conspicuous in its +barrenness of candles; a glass of +real vegetable juices; a dab of +potato; an indescribable green +that might have been anything at +all; and a little steak. A succulent, +savory-looking piece of genuine +meat.</p> + +<p>The richness of the food would +probably make him sick, so unaccustomed +to solid food was his +digestive tract by now, but it +would be worth the pain.</p> + +<p>And it was then that he saw +the knife.</p> + +<p>It lay there on the tray, its +honed edge glittering in the light +of the sun. A sharp knife, capable +of cutting steak—or flesh of any +kind.</p> + +<p>"Well, how do you like your +birthday present, Mr. Symmes?"</p> + +<p>He looked up quickly at the +woman standing beside the tray. +The yellow pallor of her middle-aged +skin matched the color of +her uniform. She wore the insignia +of a geriatrics supervisor.</p> + +<p>He let a little smile flicker +across his face. "Why, it's ... +it's wonderful. I never expected +it at all. It's been so long, you +know. So very long."</p> + +<p>How could he get rid of her? +If he tried anything with her +watching, she would stop him. +And then he'd never get another +chance.</p> + +<p>"I'm glad you like it, Mr. +Symmes. Synthetic foods do get +tiresome after a while, don't +they?"</p> + +<p>The idea came with suddenness +and he responded to it +quickly.</p> + +<p>"But where are my pink pills? +I always take them at lunch."</p> + +<p>"You won't need them if +you're eating real food."</p> + +<p>He whipped his voice into petulance. +"Yes, I will! I don't care +if it is real food—I want my +pills!"</p> + +<p>"I'll get them for you later. Go +ahead and eat first."</p> + +<p>"I can't eat until I take my +pink pills! You ought to know +that! I won't touch a thing until +I get them! You've ruined my +birthday party."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Where</span> should he start? The +heart? No, that would be +too quick, too easy to repair. +Then where?</p> + +<p>He remembered his studies of +the middle Japanese culture and +the methods of suicide practiced +at that time. The intestines! So +many of them to cut and slash +at, so much damage that might +be done before death set in! Maybe +even the lungs! But he must +hurry.</p> + +<p>Picking up the knife, he pointed +it at his appendix. For a moment +he hesitated, and his eyes +observed again the little feast +laid out before him. He thought +briefly about pausing for just a +while to taste the little steak, to +nibble briefly at the delectable-looking +cake. He hated to leave +it untouched. It had been such a +long time....</p> + +<p>The sudden memory of time, +and how much of it he had spent +hoping for this moment, snapped +his attention back to the knife. +Steeling his grip on it, he pressed +it in hard.</p> + +<p>His eyes bulged with the excruciating +pain as he wrenched +the knife from right to left, twisting +it wildly as he went, blindly +slashing at his vital organs with +the hope that once and for all he +could stop the long and eternal +waiting.</p> + +<p>His mouth filled with the taste +of blood. He spat it out through +clenched teeth. It gushed down +his chin, staining the cleanness +of his robe. His lips parted to +scream.</p> + +<p>And then his eyes closed.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">And</span> opened again! He was +staring at the ceiling, but the +men and women standing around +him got in his way.</p> + +<p>Their lips were moving, their +faces unperturbed.</p> + +<p>"That was a nasty thing for +him to do."</p> + +<p>"They all do it, once or twice, +until they learn."</p> + +<p>"Third time for him, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I believe so. First time +he tried hanging himself. Second +time he was beating his head +against the wall when we came +and stopped him. Bloody mess +that one was."</p> + +<p>"Nothing to compare with this, +of course."</p> + +<p>"Well, naturally."</p> + +<p>Oliver Symmes felt sick with +fear of frustration.</p> + +<p>"Nice technique you showed, +Doctor. He'd been dead at least +an hour when we started, hadn't +he?"</p> + +<p>"Almost two," someone else +said. "An amazing job."</p> + +<p>"Thank you. But it wasn't too +difficult. Just a little patching +here and there."</p> + +<p>He felt his legs being shifted +for him.</p> + +<p>"Be careful there, Nurse. Handle +him gently. <i>Fragilitas Ossium</i>, +you know. Old bones break very +easily."</p> + +<p>"Sorry, Doctor."</p> + +<p>"Not that we couldn't fix them +up immediately if they did."</p> + +<p>"Naturally, Doctor."</p> + +<p>"I wish they'd try something +different for a change."</p> + +<p>"The woman in the next room +lost an eye last year, trying to +reach the prefrontals. Good as +new now, of course."</p> + +<p>He wanted to vomit at the uselessness +of it all.</p> + +<p>"By the way, what's he in for? +Do you know?"</p> + +<p>"No, I'd have to look it up."</p> + +<p>"Probably newness."</p> + +<p>"Or taxes."</p> + +<p>"Or maybe even slander."</p> + +<p>"Is that on the prescribed antisocial +list now?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes. It was passed just +before the destructive criticism +law."</p> + +<p>"Think he'll try this messy +business again?"</p> + +<p>"They all do."</p> + +<p>"They do, don't they? Don't +they ever learn it's no use?"</p> + +<p>"Eventually. Some are just +harder to convince than others."</p> + +<p>The pain was gone. He closed +his eyes and slipped off into +darkness again and into ...</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Shadows</span>. In slow and ponderous +fashion they float +across the sea of his mind, like +wandering bits of sargasso weed +on the brackish water of a dying +ocean. Each one dreamed a thousand +times too many, each separate +strand of memory-weed +now nothing but a stereotyped +shred of what might have once +been a part of life and of living.</p> + +<p>With the quietness of deserted +ships they drift in procession +past his sphere of consciousness. +Wait! There's one that seems familiar. +He stops the mental parade +for a moment, not hearing +the voice of his companion, the +woman in the green uniform.</p> + +<p>"It's getting late, Mr. Symmes." +She turned from the window +and glanced at the wizenedness, +the fragile remainder of the +man, the almost empty shell. It +was a pity he wasn't able to play +games with her like some of the +others. That made it so much +easier. "Don't you think it's +about time you went to bed? +Early to bed and early to rise, +you know."</p> + +<p>That memory of a needle, +pointed and gleaming. What was +it?</p> + +<p>Oh, yes. Stick it in his arm, +push the plunger, pull it out; +and wait for him to die. First +one disease and then another, +to each he happily succumbed, +in the interests of science, only +to be resuscitated. Each time a +willing volunteer, an eager guinea +pig, he had hoped for the ease +of death, praying that for once +they'd wait too long, the germs +would prove too virulent, that +something would go wrong.</p> + +<p>"There, now, you just lie back +and get comfortable," she said, +walking over 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 it +gave her a sense of success. She +was living up to her pledge, "To +Care for the Aged."</p> + +<p>Diabetes, tuberculosis, cancer +of the stomach, tumor of the +brain. He'd had them all, and +many others. They had swarmed +to him through the gouged skin-openings +made by the gleaming +needle. And each had brought +the freedom of blackness, of +death, sometimes for an hour, +sometimes for a whole week. But +always life returned again, and +the waiting, waiting, waiting.</p> + +<p>"I enjoy New Year's myself," +the woman said, her hands caressing +a dial. Slowly, with gentle +undulation, his chair rose +from the floor and cradled the +aged tiredness that was Oliver +Symmes to his bed. With almost +tender devotion, his body was +mechanically shifted from the +portable chair to the freshly made +bed.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">One</span> of his arms was caught +for just a moment under the +slight weight of his body. There +was a short, snapping sound, but +Oliver Symmes took no notice. +His face remained impassive. +Even pain had lost its meaning.</p> + +<p>"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, not noticing the arm herself.</p> + +<p>This was the part of her job +she enjoyed most—tucking the +nice little man into bed. He did +look sweet there, under the covers, +didn't he?</p> + +<p>"Just imagine, Mr. Symmes, +another year's gone by, and what +have we accomplished?"</p> + +<p>Her prattle seeped in and he +became aware of it and what she +was saying. New Year?</p> + +<p>"What—what year—is this?" +He spoke with great difficulty, +from the long disuse of vocal +cords. It was hardly more than +a whisper, but she heard and +was startled.</p> + +<p>"Why, Mr. Symmes, it's been +so long since you've talked." She +paused, but realized that she had +not answered his question.</p> + +<p>"It's '73, of course. Last year +was '72, so tonight's the start of +'73."</p> + +<p>'73? Had it been fifty years +since he came here? Had it been +just that long?</p> + +<p>"What—" She leaned closer to +him as he struggled for the word. +"What—century?"</p> + +<p>Her astonishment was gone. +He was teasing her, like the +woman on the next level. These +old ones were great for that!</p> + +<p>"Now, Mr. Symmes, everybody +knows what century it is." She +smiled at him glowingly, thinking +she had caught him at a +prank. It was nice, she thought, +to have gotten through to him +tonight, on the eve of the new +year. That meant that she was +living up to her motto the way +she ought to be.</p> + +<p>She'd have to tell the supervisor +about it.</p> + +<p>Oliver Symmes turned to face +the ceiling, his mind full of dusty +whispers. What century was it? +She hadn't answered. It might +have been a hundred and fifty +years ago he came here, instead +of just fifty. Or possibly two hundred +and fifty, or ...</p> + +<p>"Now, you be good, and sleep +tight, and I'll see you in the +morning." Her hand passed over +a glowing stud and the room +light dimmed to a quiet glow. +Lying there in the bed, he did +look like a teddy bear, a dear +little teddy bear. She was so +happy.</p> + +<p>"Good night, Mr. Symmes."</p> + +<p>She closed the door.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Outside</span>, bells were ringing.</p> + +<p>"Happy New Year."</p> + +<p>The ceiling stared back at him.</p> + +<p>The mad sound of people +crazed for the moment, shouting, +echoed the bells.</p> + +<p>"Happy New Year!"</p> + +<p>He turned his head to one side.</p> + +<p>"Happy New Year!"</p> + +<p>And again ... and again ... +and again.</p> + +<p class="rgt"><b>—JAMES McCONNELL</b></p> + +<div class="trn"><b>Transcriber's Note:</b> +This etext was produced from <i>Galaxy Science Fiction</i> January 1953. +Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. +copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and +typographical errors have been corrected without note.</div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Life Sentence, by James McConnell + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE SENTENCE *** + +***** This file should be named 29889-h.htm or 29889-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/8/8/29889/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Life Sentence + +Author: James McConnell + +Illustrator: Dick Francis + +Release Date: September 2, 2009 [EBook #29889] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE SENTENCE *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + +[Illustration] + + + Life + Sentence + + By JAMES McCONNELL + + Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS + + + _"Happy New Year!" she cried. But how often + should one hear it said in a single lifetime?_ + + +Outside, bells were ringing. "Happy New Year!" + +The mad sound of people crazed for the moment, shouting, echoed the +bells. + +"Happy New Year!" + +A sound of music, waxing, waning, now joined in wild symphony by the +voices, now left alone to counterpoint the noise of human +celebration.... + +For a while, Oliver Symmes heard the raucous music of the crowd. It +became a part of him, seemed to come from somewhere inside him, gave him +life. And then, as always, it passed on, leaving him empty. + +Shadows.... + +The door to his room opened and a young-looking woman, dressed in a +pleasant green uniform, came in and turned up the light. On her sleeve +she wore the badge of geriatrician, with the motto, "To Care for the +Aged." + +"Happy New Year, Mr. Symmes," she said, and went over to stand by the +window. In the mild light, the sheen of her hair attracted attention +away from the slight imperfections of her face. + +She watched the crowd outside, wishing she could be a part of it. There +seemed so little life inside the prison where the only function of +living was the awaiting of death. "To Care for the Aged." That meant to +like and love them as well as to take physical care of them. Only, +somehow, it seemed so hard to _really_ love them. + +She sighed and turned away from the window to look at one of the reasons +she could not be with the rest of the world that night. + + * * * * * + +He sat bunched up in his chair like a vegetable. She could have closed +one of her hands around both his arms together. Or his legs. Bones and +skin and a few little muscles left, and that was all. Skin tight, +drumlike, against the skull. Cheeks shrunk, lips slightly parted by the +contraction of the skin. Even the wrinkles he should have had were +erased by the shrinkage of the epidermis. Even in a strong light, the +faint wrinkle lines were barely visible. + +After a moment of looking at him, she put a smile back on her face and +repeated her greeting. + +"I said, 'Happy New Year,' Mr. Symmes." + +He raised his eyes to her for a moment, then slowly lowered them, +uncomprehendingly. + +"He looks just a little bit like a caricature," she said to herself, +feeling a little more tenderness toward him. "A cute little stick man +made of leaves and twigs and old bark and ..." + + * * * * * + +_Shadows._ For so long there had been shadows. And for a time the +fleeting passage of dreams and past memories had been a solace. But now +the shadows were withered and old, debilitated and desiccated. They had +been sucked dry of interest long ago. + +But still they flitted through his mind on crippled wings, flapping +about briefly in the now-narrowed shell of his consciousness, then +fading back among the cobwebs. Every once in a while, one of them would +return to exercise its wings. + +"Did she say, 'Happy New Year?'" he wondered. "New Year's?" + +And, at the thought of it, there came shadows out of the past.... + + * * * * * + +Young Oliver Symmes laughed. The girl laughed, too. She was good to hold +in one's arms, soft like a furry animal, yielding and plush of mouth. + +"I love you, Ollie," she said; the warmness of her body close against +his. + +He laughed again and wrapped her in his arms. He owned her now, owned +her smile, her love for him, her mind and her wonderful body. She +belonged to him, and the thrill of ownership was strong and exciting. + +"I'll always love you, Ollie. I'll love only you." She ran her fingers +in and out of his hair, caressing each strand as it went through her +fingers. "I love the strength of your arms, the firmness of your body." + +Again he laughed, surrendering all his consciousness to the warm magic +of her spell. + +"I love the shading of your hair and eyes, the smooth angularity of your +tallness, the red ecstasy of your mind." Her fingers slipped down the +back of his neck, playing little games with his flesh and hair. "I'll +always love you, Ollie." + +He kissed her savagely. + +During the daytime, there was his work at the anthropological +laboratories, the joy of poking among the cultures of the past. And at +night there was the joy of living with her, of sharing the tantalizing +stimulations of the culture of the present, the infinite varieties of +love mingling with passions. + +For months there was this happiness of the closeness of her. And then +she was gone from him, for the moment. He still owned her, but they were +physically apart and there was the hunger of loneliness in him. The +months his work kept them apart seemed like centuries, until, finally, +he could return. + + * * * * * + +He was walking through a happy, shouting crowd, walking back to her. It +was the eve of the new year, a time for beginnings, a time for looking +from the pleasures of the past to those waiting in the future. There was +a happy outcry inside him that matched the mood of the crowd. + +"Happy New Year!" + +Women stopped him on the street, asking for his affection. But he passed +them by, for she was waiting for him and he was hungry for the +possessive love of his slave. + +He went eagerly into the building where they lived. + + * * * * * + +The crowd was gone. A door was opening. The voice of his love, sudden, +full of naked surprise, bleated at him. And another voice, that of a man +standing behind her, croaked with hasty excuses and fear. + +A change of hungers--it seemed no more complex than that. + +He put his hand to his side and took out a piece of shaped metal, +pointing it at the man. A blast of light and the man was dead. He put +the weapon aside. + +Young Oliver Symmes walked toward the girl. She backed away from him, +pleading with words, eyes, body. He noticed for the first time the many +small imperfections of her face and figure. + +Cornered, she raised her arms to embrace him. He raised his arms to +answer the embrace, but his hands stopped and felt their way around the +whiteness of her neck. He pressed his hands together, thumbs tight +against each other. + +Minutes later, he dropped her to the floor and stood looking at her. He +had owned her and then destroyed her when his ownership was in dispute. + +He bent to kiss the lax lips. + + * * * * * + +Shadows. As a man grows older, the weight and size of his brain +decrease, leaving cavities in his mind. The years that pass are a +digger, a giant excavator, scooping the mass of past experience up in +the maw of dissipation. The slow, sure evacuation of the passing decades +leaves wing-room in a man's head for stirring memories. + +The withered man looked up again. The woman in the green uniform was +smiling at him through parted, almost twisted lips. + +"I suppose that this time of year is the worst for you, isn't it?" she +asked sympathetically. The first requirement of a good geriatrician was +sympathy and understanding. She determined to try harder to understand. + +The old man made no answer, only staring at her face. But his eyes were +blank--seeing, yet blind to all around him. She frowned for a moment as +she looked at him. The unnatural hairlessness of his body puzzled her, +making it difficult for her to understand him while the thought was in +her mind--that and the trouble she had getting through to him. + +She stared at him as if to pierce the blankness of his gaze. Behind his +eyes lay the emptiness of age, the open wound of stifled years. + +"I'll move you over to the window, Mr. Symmes," she told him in soothing +tones, her smile reappearing. "Then you can look out and see all the +people. Won't that be fun?" + +Picking up a box from the table, she adjusted a dial. The chair in which +he was sitting rose slightly from the floor and positioned itself in +front of the window. The woman walked to the wall beside him and +corrected the visual index of the glass to match the weakness of the old +man's eyes. + +"See, down there? Just look at them pushing about." + +A rabble of faces swam on the glass in front of him, faces of unfamiliar +people, all of them unknown and unknowable to him. + +Inside him the whisper of the wings mounted in pitch with a whining, +leathery sound. The images of dead faces came flying up, careening +across his mind, mingling and merging with the faces of the living. The +glass became an anomalous torrent of faces. + +Dead faces.... + + * * * * * + +Four walls around him, bare to the point of boredom. Through the barred +window, the throbbing throat of the crowd talked to him. His young body +took it in, his young mind accepted it, catalogued it and pushed it out +of consciousness. And for each individual voice there was an individual +face, staring up at his cell from the comparative safety of outside. +Young Oliver Symmes could not see the faces from where he sat, waiting, +but he could sense them. + +There came a feel of hands on his shoulder; his reverie was interrupted. +Arms under his raised him to his feet. A face smiled, almost kindly, in +understanding. + +"They're waiting for you, Mr. Symmes. It's time to go." + +More words. Walking from this place to that, mostly with a crowd of +people at his shoulders, pressing him in. Then a door ahead of him, +ornate in carving, a replica of the doors to the Roman Palace of Justice +many centuries before. Again his mind catalogued the impressions. + +Then, like the faces of the people outside his cell, the pictures of the +bas-relief faded away, melted and merged into a pelagic blackness. + +The doors opened and, with part of the crowd still at his side, he went +through. The people inside were standing; stick men, it seemed to him, +with painted balloons for faces. The sound of the rapping of a gavel +caught his ear. The people sat, and the trial began. + +"This court will admit to evidence only those events and artifacts which +are proved true and relevant to the alleged crime." + +An obsequious clearing of throats. A coughing now and then. + +"... And did you see the defendant, Oliver Symmes, enter the apartment +of the deceased on the night of the Thirty-first of December, two +thousand and ..." + +"I did. He was wearing a sort of orange tunic ..." + +Someone whispered in his ear. Oliver Symmes heard and shook his head. + +"... You are personally acquainted with the defendant?" + +"I am. We worked for United Anthropological Laboratories before he ..." + +"Objection." + +"Sustained." + +The blackness of the judge's robe puzzled him. A vestige, an +anachronism, handed down from centuries before. White was the color of +truth, not black. + +"You swear that you found the defendant standing over the body of the +deceased woman on the night of ..." + +"Not standing, sir. He was bending over, kissing ..." + +"Your witness." + + * * * * * + +Days of it, back and forth, testimony and more testimony. Evidence and +more evidence and the lack of it. Smiling lawyers, grimacing lawyers, +soothing lawyers and cackling lawyers. And witnesses. + +"You will please take the stand, Mr. Symmes." + +He walked to the chair and sat down. The courtroom leaned forward, the +stick men bowed toward him slightly, as in eager applause of the coming +most dramatic moment of a spectacle. + +"You will please tell the court in your own words ..." + +He mouthed the words. The whole story, the New Year's crowd, his hunger +for her, his arrival, the other man and his babbling, the woman and how +she looked, his feelings, his transfigured passions, and the deaths. He +told the story again and again until they seemed satisfied. + +"You understand, Mr. Symmes, that you have committed a most heinous +crime. You have killed two people in a passion that, while it used to be +forgiven by the circumstances, is no longer tolerated by this +government. You have killed, Mr. Symmes!" + +The face before him was intense. He looked at it, not understanding the +reason for the frozen look of malice and hatred. + +"She was mine. When she betrayed me, I killed her. Is that wrong?" + +The stick men snorted and poked each other in the ribs with derisive +elbows. + +There were more words and more questions. He looked at the face of the +judge and wondered, for a moment, if perhaps the color of the robe was +to match the apparent disposition of the man. + +And then came the silence, a time of sitting and waiting. He sensed the +wondering stares of the stick men, wide-eyed in apprehension, suspended +from the drabness of their own lives for the moment by the stark +visitation of tragedy in his. They gabbled among themselves and wagered +on the verdict. + +The man next to him leaned over and tapped him on the arm. Everyone +stood up and then, curiously, sat down again almost at once. He felt the +tension present in the courtroom, but was strangely relaxed himself. It +was peculiar that they were all so excited. + +"Your Honor, having duly considered the seriousness of the crime and the +evidence presented ..." + +The balloon faces on the stick men stretched in anticipation. + +"... taking full cognizance of the admitted passion on the part of the +defendant and the circumstances ..." + +The balloons were strained, contorted out of all proportion in their +eagerness. + +"... we find the defendant guilty of murder, making no recommendation +for consideration by the Court." + +The balloons exploded! + + * * * * * + +Deafening and more than deafening, the uproar of the voices was beyond +belief. He threw his hands up over his ears to shut out the noise. + +The gavel crashed again and again, striking the polished oak in deadly +cadence, stifling the voices. Over the stillness, one man spoke. He +recognized the black voice of the judge and took his hands from his ears +and put them in his lap. He was told to stand and he obeyed. + +"Oliver Symmes, there has been no taking of human lives in this nation +for many years, until your shockingly primitive crime. We had taken +pride in this record. Now you have broken it. We must not only punish +you adequately and appropriately, but we must also make of your +punishment a warning to anyone who would follow your irrational example. + +"Naturally, we no longer have either the apparatus to execute anyone or +an executioner. We do not believe that a stupidly unreasoning act should +incite us to equally unreasoning reprisal, for we would then be as +guilty of irrationality as you. + +"We must establish our own precedent, since there is no recent one and +the ancient punishments are not acceptable to us. Therefore, because we +are humane and reasoning persons, the Court orders that the defendant, +Oliver Symmes, be placed in the National Hospital for observation, study +and experimentation so that this crime may never again be repeated. He +is to be kept there under perpetual care until no possible human skill +or resource can further sustain life in his body." + +Someone jumped erect beside him, quivering with horror and indignation. +It was his lawyer. + +"Your Honor, we throw ourselves upon the mercy of the Court. No matter +what the crime of the defendant, this is a greater one. For this is a +crime not just against my client, but against all men. This sentence +robs all men of their most precious freedom--the right to die at their +appointed times. Nothing is more damaging to the basic dignity of the +human race than this most hideous ..." + +"... This Court recognizes only the four freedoms. The freedom of death +is not one of these. The sentence stands. The Court is adjourned." + +There were tears in the eyes of his lawyer, although young Oliver Symmes +did not quite comprehend, as yet, their meaning. Hands, rougher than +before, grasped his arms with strange firmness and led him off into ... + + * * * * * + +Shadows. They come in cycles, each prompted to activity by the one +preceding it. They flutter in unbelievable clusters, wheel in +untranslatable formations through the cerebric wasteland that is the +aged mind of Oliver Symmes. They have no meaning to him, save for a +furtive spark of recognition that intrudes upon him once in a while. + +The woman in the green uniform, standing to one side of the window, +smiled at him again. It was much simpler to care for him, she thought, +if only one conceived of him as being a sort of sweet little worn-out +teddy bear. Yes, that was what he was, a little teddy bear that had +gotten most of its stuffing lost and had shriveled and shrunk. And one +can easily love and pamper a teddy bear. + +"Can you see the crowd all right, Mr. Symmes? This is a good place to +watch from, isn't it?" + +Her words fell upon his ears, setting up vibrations and oscillations in +the basilar membranes. Nerve cells triggered impulses that sped along +neural pathways to the withered cortex, where they lost themselves in +the welter of atrophy and disintegration. They emerged into his +consciousness as part of a gestaltic confusion. + +"Isn't it exciting, watching from here?" she asked, showing enthusiasm +at the sight of the crowd below. "You should be enjoying this immensely, +you know. Not all the people here have windows to look out of like +this." There, now, that should make him feel a little better. + +His eyes, in their wandering, came to rest upon her uniform, so cool and +comforting in its greenness. A flicker of light gleamed from the +metallic insignia on her sleeve: "To Care for the Aged." Somewhere +inside him an association clicked, a brief fire of response to a past +event kindled into a short-lived flame, lighting the way through cobwebs +for another _shadow_.... + + * * * * * + +How many years he had been waiting for the opportunity, he did not know. +It seemed like decades, although it might have been only a handful of +months. And all the time he had waited, he could feel himself growing +older, could sense the syneresis, the slow solidifying of the life +elements within him. He sat quietly and grew old, thinking the chance +would 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 actual +food for the first time in years: a cake, conspicuous in its barrenness +of candles; a glass of real vegetable juices; a dab of potato; an +indescribable green that might have been anything at all; and a little +steak. A succulent, savory-looking piece of genuine meat. + +The richness of the food would probably make him sick, so unaccustomed +to solid food was his digestive tract by now, but it would be worth the +pain. + +And it was then that he saw the knife. + +It lay there on the tray, its honed edge glittering in the light of the +sun. 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 yellow +pallor of her middle-aged skin matched the color of her uniform. She +wore the insignia of a geriatrics supervisor. + +He let a little smile flicker across his face. "Why, it's ... it's +wonderful. I never expected it at all. It's been so long, you know. So +very long." + +How could he get rid of her? If he tried anything with her watching, she +would stop him. And then he'd never get another chance. + +"I'm glad you like it, Mr. Symmes. Synthetic foods do get tiresome +after 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 is +real 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't +touch 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 easy +to repair. Then where? + +He remembered his studies of the middle Japanese culture and the methods +of suicide practiced at that time. The intestines! So many of them to +cut 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 he +hesitated, and his eyes observed again the little feast laid out before +him. He thought briefly about pausing for just a while to taste the +little steak, to nibble briefly at the delectable-looking cake. He hated +to leave it untouched. It had been such a long time.... + +The sudden memory of time, and how much of it he had spent hoping for +this moment, snapped his attention back to the knife. Steeling his grip +on it, he pressed it in hard. + +His eyes bulged with the excruciating pain as he wrenched the knife from +right to left, twisting it wildly as he went, blindly slashing at his +vital organs with the hope that once and for all he could stop the long +and eternal waiting. + +His mouth filled with the taste of blood. He spat it out through +clenched teeth. It gushed down his chin, staining the cleanness of his +robe. His lips parted to scream. + +And then his eyes closed. + + * * * * * + +And opened again! He was staring at the ceiling, but the men and women +standing 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 he +was 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 when +we 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 and +there." + +He felt his legs being shifted for him. + +"Be careful there, Nurse. Handle him gently. _Fragilitas Ossium_, you +know. 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 the +prefrontals. 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 darkness +again and into ... + + * * * * * + +Shadows. In slow and ponderous fashion they float across the sea of his +mind, like wandering bits of sargasso weed on the brackish water of a +dying ocean. Each one dreamed a thousand times too many, each separate +strand of memory-weed now nothing but a stereotyped shred of what might +have once been a part of life and of living. + +With the quietness of deserted ships they drift in procession past his +sphere of consciousness. Wait! There's one that seems familiar. He stops +the 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 glanced +at the wizenedness, the fragile remainder of the man, the almost empty +shell. It was a pity he wasn't able to play games with her like some of +the others. That made it so much easier. "Don't you think it's about +time 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 wait +for him to die. First one disease and then another, to each he happily +succumbed, in the interests of science, only to be resuscitated. Each +time a willing volunteer, an eager guinea pig, he had hoped for the ease +of death, praying that for once they'd wait too long, the germs would +prove too virulent, that something would go wrong. + +"There, now, you just lie back and get comfortable," she said, walking +over 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 it +gave her a sense of success. She was living up to her pledge, "To Care +for the Aged." + +Diabetes, tuberculosis, cancer of the stomach, tumor of the brain. He'd +had them all, and many others. They had swarmed to him through the +gouged skin-openings made by the gleaming needle. And each had brought +the freedom of blackness, of death, sometimes for an hour, sometimes for +a 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 and +cradled the aged tiredness that was Oliver Symmes to his bed. With +almost tender devotion, his body was mechanically shifted from the +portable chair to the freshly made bed. + + * * * * * + +One of his arms was caught for just a moment under the slight weight of +his body. There was a short, snapping sound, but Oliver Symmes took no +notice. 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, not +noticing the arm herself. + +This was the part of her job she enjoyed most--tucking the nice little +man 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 we +accomplished?" + +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 the +long disuse of vocal cords. It was hardly more than a whisper, but she +heard and was startled. + +"Why, Mr. Symmes, it's been so long since you've talked." She paused, +but realized that she had not answered his question. + +"It's '73, of course. Last year was '72, so tonight's the start of '73." + +'73? Had it been fifty years since he came here? Had it been just that +long? + +"What--" She leaned closer to him as he struggled for the word. +"What--century?" + +Her astonishment was gone. He was teasing her, like the woman on the +next level. These old ones were great for that! + +"Now, Mr. Symmes, everybody knows what century it is." She smiled at him +glowingly, thinking she had caught him at a prank. It was nice, she +thought, to have gotten through to him tonight, on the eve of the new +year. That meant that she was living up to her motto the way she ought +to be. + +She'd have to tell the supervisor about it. + +Oliver Symmes turned to face the ceiling, his mind full of dusty +whispers. What century was it? She hadn't answered. It might have been a +hundred and fifty years ago he came here, instead of just fifty. Or +possibly two hundred and fifty, or ... + +"Now, you be good, and sleep tight, and I'll see you in the morning." +Her hand passed over a glowing stud and the room light dimmed to a quiet +glow. Lying there in the bed, he did look like a teddy bear, a dear +little teddy bear. She was so happy. + +"Good night, Mr. Symmes." + +She closed the door. + + * * * * * + +Outside, bells were ringing. + +"Happy New Year." + +The ceiling stared back at him. + +The mad sound of people crazed for the moment, shouting, echoed the +bells. + +"Happy New Year!" + +He turned his head to one side. + +"Happy New Year!" + +And again ... and again ... and again. + + --JAMES McCONNELL + + + + +Transcriber's Note: + + This etext was produced from _Galaxy Science Fiction_ January 1953. + Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. + copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and + typographical errors have been corrected without note. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Life Sentence, by James McConnell + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE SENTENCE *** + +***** This file should be named 29889.txt or 29889.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/8/8/29889/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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