The Immortalist (8 page)

Adam:
Yeah. I mean, if anything goes wrong. I would just want 'em to know, you know, that I, uh . . . that I did this for them.

The camera zoomed to a tight shot of Adam's face. His lower lip was trembling, and tears glistened in his eyes.

Adam:
Look, I'm an old fart and I seen my years. I got no complaints. But if I could just . . . just have a little more time . . . for them . . . You know what I mean? If I could see my granddaughter
[bleep]
's baby, see little
[bleep]
graduate . . . I'd get down on my knees . . . and . .
 . and . . . thank the good Lord.

Suddenly Adam turned away from the camera, covering his face with his hands, and let out a long, loud sob.

The monitor went black.

Breaking the hushed silence in the tent, Gifford gestured toward someone in the aisle seats. “Because of the extraordinary nature of what you are about to see, I would next like to introduce Mr. Eugene Dobblemyer, from Bar Harbor. Mr. Dobblemyer is a notary public, licensed and bonded in the state of Maine, and an accountant with the firm of Dobblemyer and Lowe. Mr. Dobblemyer—”

A balding man in an off-the-rack, brown suit came up onto the stage.

“Mr. Dobblemyer, did you meet the man we call Subject Adam at the time that this video was made?”

“Yes, I had that pleasure,” he said without a trace of humor.

“And can you confirm his medical history?”

“Well, I'm no doctor, but those things are in his charts. I can swear to that.”

“And can you confirm his
identity
for us?”

“Yes, I can. I took fingerprints from him both before and after his treatment. I have seen him multiple times over the past three months, as recently as this morning.”

“So, if Subject Adam were to walk out onto this stage right now, you would be able to recognize him, and to confirm that he is the same man who appeared in this video?”

“Yes. Without a doubt.”

Gifford paused and scanned the room, then called out, as if conjuring a spirit out of the netherworld, “Subject Adam, would you please come forward?”

The flap of the tent parted, and a tall man dressed in a red spandex speedsuit ducked through it and hopped onto the stage. His hair was the same silvery white as that of the tottering wretch on the video, but with his flat stomach and hard-sculpted calves and pectorals, he was beyond comparison.

Gifford smiled slyly, relishing the crowd's astonishment. “Are you the man we just saw being interviewed?”

“You bet I am.”

Dobblemyer leaned toward the microphone. “I can attest to that as well.”

Teasing the audience, Gifford made a solicitous frown. “How do you feel this morning?” he asked Adam gingerly, as one might ask a man with terminal pneumonia.

“Like a million bucks.”

“Would you care to show us?”

Adam grinned. Without a word, he held his arms forward, palms down, and did a fast dozen squats. Next came a course of push-ups, in which he thrust his perfectly rigid body into the air and clapped for every count until he reached fifty. Then he leaped to his feet with a bounce.

Gifford led a short round of applause. “The medical records show that Subject Adam was given a single injection of 1.255 nanograms—around forty-four trillionths of an ounce—of the purified Methuselah Vector ninety-three days ago. Since then, he has had no medical or surgical treatment other than diet, vitamin supplementation, and intensive physical therapy. He no longer takes medication for high blood pressure, heart failure, or back pain. His heart, lungs, and kidneys are functioning like a thirty-year-old's.”

“I can bench-press three hundred and ninety pounds,” added Subject Adam.

“Perhaps you can show us later,” said Gifford with a laugh. “But for now, ladies and gentlemen, I need to ask you to move to the track bleachers outside to witness the centerpiece of our demonstration. Please follow the ushers at the door of the tent.”

A half dozen summer interns appeared on cue, each clad in a green T-shirt emblazoned with
THE METHUSELAH VECTOR
and the winking, white-bearded, red-cheeked face of Methuselah. They efficiently guided the murmuring crowd through the narrow aisles out into the August sunlight. Adam and Gifford watched from the platform, smiling and trading asides with Rick Beach, Niedermann, and a few others who sat in the front row. Cricket was struck by how alike the two men onstage were. Both were tall, lean, and tautly muscular. Both had the same pink complexion. Both stood like monarchs in repose, conveying an almost animal sense of physical ease.

For an instant Gifford's gaze met Cricket's, and he acknowledged her with a beaming smile. She tried to imagine her father standing on the stage, sharing the triumph. She wondered whether Emmy shared her pride in the greatness of his contribution. But when she tried to catch Emmy's eye, her daughter's face was as stiff as a mannequin's.

“Didn't I tell you?” asked Hank as they followed the crowd outside. “Wasn't this worth staying for?”

Cricket felt a bead of sweat run down her sun-baked back. “It feels a little bit like a circus.”

“Just watch.”

They climbed to the top of the bleachers and took the last seats available. Cricket watched as Gifford and Subject Adam walked onto the track. Alongside them was a slender black man with East African features: high, round cheekbones, flaring nose, and narrow eyes. To Cricket, he looked like a Ugandan or west Kenyan, possibly of the Kalenjin tribe from the high mountains.

“Ladies and gentlemen . . . colleagues . . . thank you . . . thank you.” Gifford held up his hand and waited for the applause to die down. “Judging by your welcome, I believe that many of you know the gentleman standing beside me. He is, of course, none other than Nelson Korongo, Olympic gold and silver medalist, three-time winner of the Boston Marathon—I believe as recently as this spring. Isn't that right, Nelson?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you took the Berlin Marathon last fall as well, didn't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Gifford faced the bleachers, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Today we aren't going to do the full marathon, but Mr. Korongo has kindly agreed to run the eight-hundred-meter—two laps of this track—against our contestant. Eden Pharmaceuticals has put up a twenty-five-thousand-dollar prize, to be donated to the charity of the winner's choice. That's a lot of money, isn't it, Nelson?”

“Yes, sir. It's very good money.”

“And you'll be sure to put up your best effort for it?”

“I will.”

“You won't be swayed by the fact that your challenger is seventy years old? You won't lighten up on him?”

“No, sir. He has very good legs.”

Gifford patted Korongo on the back. “Good, good! You've both had a chance to warm up now, so go to your marks and get ready.”

Cricket knew East Africans well enough to see that, despite his obsequious tone, Korongo was smirking. Clearly, he regarded his opponent and the race itself as a farce.

Gifford set his microphone down on a small table in front of the bleachers and picked up a starter's pistol. With the gun pointing aloft, he waited as both contestants finished a brief ritual of stretching and then crouched down, feet planted firmly against the pedals of the starting blocks. For a moment no one in the bleachers breathed. Then—a loud crack, and the two men shot forward.

Korongo took a big lead from the push-off. The track was his going into the first turn, and he ran as though he were on parade. Twenty feet back, Adam was having trouble finding his rhythm. Cricket noticed that the lengths of his strides were all over the place.
He's trying too hard. He's just pushing his legs as fast as he can
. But then, in the long straightaway after the first turn, something clicked. Adam fell into a long, reaching stride, pulled his head down, and started swinging his arms hard, like a swimmer pulling himself through water. Korongo turned his head, saw what was happening, and began to run as if he were actually in a race.

The second turn. Adam tramping on Korongo's shadow. Both men in a deep, smooth rhythm. Korongo sweating. For a long time, no change in position. Adam sticking to Korongo like a wingman. Then the third turn. Halfway down the straightaway, Adam tilting his head back, pulling in massive gusts of air through his big, aquiline nose and shooting forward as if on afterburners. Korongo left behind in a whoosh. Now Korongo goes all out, fighting to close the distance. Nostrils flaring like a stallion's. Chest heaving. Onyx skin glistening with rivers of sweat. The last turn—Korongo, with the cunning of experience, clings to the inside track, gaining a nose-length lead. But not enough. Adam has the stride of a racehorse—covering eight or nine feet each time his toes touch ground. The finish line—only yards away. Adam makes three incredible leaps that hurtle him past the gasping, grimacing African. Hurrahs and camera flashes as he wins the race by a foot and a half.

History! The bleachers emptied onto the field. Over the clamor, Cricket could barely hear Niedermann announcing that the winning time was one minute forty-six seconds—five seconds short of a world's record. Gifford stood beaming, jubilantly pumping Adam's hand into the air, and then, as an afterthought, plucked the dazed Korongo out of the crowd and lifted his hand, too. The three prodigies glistened like metal in the glare of the photographers' flashes.

“Look at Charles!” Hank laughed. “I think he's as astonished as anyone by the way things turned out.”

Down on the field, Gifford was trying to make himself heard above the ruckus. Rising up onto his toes, he waved his hands until Niedermann passed the microphone to him over the clamoring heads of the press. “Please! Please! Dear guests!” Gifford shouted, panting as hard as the runners on either side of him. “Give us space.”

Gifford repeated his plea several times, without effect. “There will . . . there will be time for everyone to meet Adam and Mr. Korongo. Photos . . . autographs . . . interviews . . . tables in the tent. But now . . . now I need you to bear with me for just a moment longer. I have an announcement . . . an important announcement to make about the Methuselah Vector.”

At these last words, as if at an incantation, the crowd suddenly stilled. Gifford backed off to gain a little breathing room. With Hannibal twirling nervously beside him, he raised one hand into the air.

“As I said, Subject Adam is but the first. We are now prepared to open the Methuselah Vector for wider human trials. Because of the extraordinary nature of this drug—because of what you yourselves have witnessed here today—we cannot possibly conduct these trials in the usual manner. The demand for the Vector would swamp our resources.

“We have therefore decided to take the unprecedented step of holding a Grand Lottery. Anyone over the age of sixty who wants a chance to receive the Methuselah Vector may submit an application to the corporate offices of Eden Pharmaceuticals by midnight Thursday. There are no excluding medical conditions. None whatsoever. All that is required is to show up for the drawing, and to agree to one year of follow-up at any one of twenty-four participating university medical centers. At precisely noon on Friday, on the Lower Plaza of Rockefeller Center in New York City, we will draw at random one hundred names out of the Lottery pool, and those lucky people will each receive one injection of the Methuselah Vector, on the spot.”

The crowd erupted once again. Even with the microphone, Gifford had to shout to be heard. “Mr. Niedermann here has the details for you,” he proclaimed, as Niedermann waved a stack of blue handout sheets. “I hope to see you in New York.” With the throng converging on Niedermann, Gifford hastened off the field toward Weiszacker House.

Rounding the corner of the bleachers, he stopped abruptly as he saw Cricket in his path. “I'm so glad you were able to stay,” he said with a cracking voice. “I really wanted you to see this.”

Cricket kissed him on the cheek. His skin had a salty taste, the taste of tears. “It's remarkable, Charles. Daddy would have been so proud.”

“Do you think so?”

Cricket nodded. “Thank you for remembering him.”

“He deserves the credit. Damn, it seems so strange not to have had him here for this.” Gifford cocked his head and grinned. “But we have
you
. Do you have to go? There's a select little banquet in a few hours. I'd love to have you there.” His eyes pleaded with her.

“Okay, Charles,” she said, surprised by her acquiescence.
I owe it to Daddy
.

“Good, good. Yolanda, could you come with me? I need you.”

Yolanda nodded demurely and blushed. Silently, she followed him toward the mansion, dragging Bonnie and Chuck by the hands as she struggled to keep up with Gifford's long, rapid strides.

Cricket watched them go. Had she not just witnessed a miracle—the dawn of a new era for mankind, as Hank had touted it? She was surrounded by euphoria. Yet, something inside her held back. She felt the same faceless apprehension she had had that morning driving up to the gate of Acadia Springs. What was wrong? Were the little shield-shaped pills wearing off? Was it envy at seeing Charles Gifford reap the field that her father had sown? Or was it just her ingrained habit of looking every gift horse in the mouth? She didn't know. She couldn't trust her feelings these days.