Anachronism
Gilbert Fremont was a man living under a death sentence. The most eminent specialists in the medical field had confirmed the diagnosis of his personal physician: Gilbert Reginald Fremont, multibillionaire industrialist, the third richest man in the world, had less than six months to live.
How my ex-wife, Lydia, will relish the news! Fremont thought bitterly. I can imagine just what she'll say: "All your money can't buy you out of this predicament." But this is one time I'll prove her wrong. I have enough money to buy off anyone, even the Grim Reaper himself.
Ever since his fortieth birthday, a major milestone in every man's life, Gilbert had feared his own mortality. Each morning over coffee he read the obituaries of men years younger than himself. Determined not to die before his time, he had hired a team of scientists specializing in the field of cryonics to construct a state-of-the-art facility where Gilbert would be kept frozen until a cure could be found for his disease.
"What should I expect, Doctor? When the time comes, will I have any indications that the end is near—you know, a sort of two-minute warning—or will I go just like that?" Gilbert asked, snapping his fingers.
"Over the next three or four months, your muscle coordination will deteriorate and you will gradually lose your motor skills and experience severe fatigue. Once you're totally incapacitated it will be a matter of only a day or two, a week at most."
The physician answered his questions with dispassionate professionalism. His patient was paying him for the truth, not for a candy-coated bedside manner.
"I suppose that's warning enough," Gilbert muttered to himself.
Dr. Abram Morris—who didn't personally care if Gilbert chose to take his own life—did feel, however, that he was morally and legally bound to remind his patient that doing so was against the law. It was a prudent course of action at a time when malpractice lawsuits were becoming epidemic.
"Mr. Fremont, I hope you are not contemplating suicide. As your doctor, I'm bound by a code of ethics to ...."
"Don't be an ass, Morris. I didn't get where I am by being a coward or a quitter. I assure you that I have no intention of killing myself. On the contrary, I plan on living to a ripe old age," the multibillionaire chuckled.
"That's the spirit, Mr. Fremont. Keep on praying for a miracle."
Gilbert's chuckle grew into hardy peals of laughter.
"Let the poor and ignorant people of the world put their faith in prayers, miracles and the Lord Almighty. I'll rely on the power of the Almighty Buck. It hasn't failed me yet."
Dr. Morris did not bother to argue the point. In less than a year, the man sitting across the desk from him would be dead, regardless of his substantial fortune.
* * *
The months passed quickly, and Gilbert Fremont put his remaining time to good use. When he wasn't tying up the loose ends of his personal fortune or making strategic decisions regarding the disposition of his business interests, he traveled to New York, London and Paris, the cities he would miss above all others. He ate the foods he enjoyed most at his favorite restaurants and basked in the company of the most beautiful women his money could buy. Gilbert even took a few hours out of his busy schedule to drive up to Hyannis, Massachusetts, to pay a short visit to his ex-wife.
"What do you want?" Lydia asked impatiently when Addison, her butler, showed Gilbert onto the patio where she was sitting on a porch swing, reading the newspaper.
"It's always nice to see you, too, Lydia," he parried.
A casual observer might suspect from their unpleasant behavior that the former husband and wife had gone through a bitter divorce, but such was not the case. Their separation was viewed by both as a blessing. It was the five, long miserable years of marriage that resulted in their eventual loathing of each other.
"I don't have the time or the inclination to go through another verbal fencing match with you, so just state your business and then get the hell out of here," Lydia ordered.
Why did I even bother coming here? Gilbert wondered.
It certainly wasn't because of any sentimental desire to see his former wife one last time. There had never been any love in the marriage. He had only married Lydia to gain control of her father's manufacturing company. Once he had accomplished that goal, he had no further need of the plain, shrewish woman several years his senior. Nor was his visit made out of any desire to gloat. In fact, he had no intention of telling her of his plans to conquer death or even revealing to her the fact that he was terminally ill. So why was he here?
"I've come to say goodbye," he finally replied. "I'm going away—retiring—so you won't see me again."
The explanation was short and sweet, no need to elaborate.
"That's the best news I've heard in a long time," Lydia said sarcastically, "if not the best news I've ever gotten in my life."
Check, he thought, making an analogy between their ongoing argument and a game of chess.
"Considering your age, darling, that's a very, very long time."
Checkmate.
While Lydia glared at her ex-husband's back, hurling a string of four-letter words at him, Gilbert turned and walked away, smiling in triumph.
* * *
Fremont lay in his bed, lacking the strength and ability to get up and dress himself.
This is it, he thought, my two-minute warning.
Gilbert rang the bell alongside his bed, and Alberto, his male nurse, who was built like a professional wrestler on steroids, immediately entered the room.
"I think I'll take that little trip to Switzerland today," he said with great difficulty. "Will you notify my secretary to make the necessary travel arrangements?"
"Yes, sir. Mr. Fremont," Alberto replied.
"Then come back here and help me get dressed. I'm feeling very weak today."
On the private plane to Switzerland, Gilbert spoke to Gunther Waldron, the young scientist sitting next to him.
"I wish I knew what stories they'll tell about me when I disappear."
"You already announced your retirement weeks ago, and I thought you left instructions that if anyone inquires as to your whereabouts, they're to be told you're traveling in some remote part of the world and can't be reached by telephone."
"That's the official story, yes, but I'm sure there will be doubters. Hell, some people refuse to believe it when someone dies! Take Elvis Presley for instance. There are conspiracy theorists that claim he's still alive."
"If you're worried about what people will say, why don't you just have your public relations man tell the truth then?"
"Are you kidding? You know how reporters are. They'll find out where my body is being kept, and it will be in all the newspapers. Before you know it, crowds of gawkers will come to stare at me. Leno and Letterman will make stupid jokes about me on late-night television."
"But you'll have the last laugh, Mr. Fremont," Gunther pointed out.
"I don't care. I won't be put on display like a two-headed dog at a carnival freak show."
The dying man closed his eyes and laid his head back on a pillow as a wave of dizziness engulfed him. He mustn't get upset. After all his carefully laid plans for beating death, he didn't want to die en route to the laboratory.
* * *
Gilbert was exhausted. He remained limp and silent when Alberto picked him up and carried him from the plane to the limo and then from the limo to the lab where his cryonic chamber awaited him. No sooner was he placed on the cushioned bed of the chamber than a horde of technicians descended upon him, sticking and pricking him with catheters, intravenous plugs and hypodermic needles. A bank of computer screens came to life around him, measuring his vital statistics. Many of these same technicians and those who succeeded them through the years ahead would continuously monitor the computer readings of his chamber. They were being paid extremely well to see that Gilbert's body remained at just the right temperature to guarantee its eventual successful thawing.
The billionaire opened his eyes, looked at Professor Waldron standing above him and joked, "Are you going to stamp Birdseye or Popsicle on my forehead before you seal me in here?"
"I thought you didn't want anyone making bad jokes about your situation?" the scientist asked with a laugh.
"I can joke about it all I want, but I'll be damned if I want Jon Stewart or Conan O'Brien taking potshots at me."
Goosebumps broke out on Gilbert's arms, and his teeth started to chatter.
"Beginning to get a bit chilly in there?" Gunther asked.
"That's an understatement. I feel like Jack Nicholson in the last scene of The Shining."
"It won't last long. In a few moments, you won't feel a thing. Goodbye and good luck to you, Mr. Fremont."
The scientist's voice began to fade away, and Gilbert lost consciousness.
* * *
Weeks went by, then months, years and centuries. The body of Gilbert Reginald Fremont—a frozen larva suspended in time in an icy pupal stage—waited for the day when it would emerge like a butterfly into the unknown world of the future.
Gilbert's first glimpse of that brave new world was of a young woman so unlike those of his own time that at first, he thought she was deformed. He realized such was not the case when the woman was joined by others like her.
What a freakish lot humans have become, he thought, staring at the men and women who had worked to revive him.
Their heads were enormous, nearly twice the size of his own, and not one of these people of the future was less than seven feet tall. Their fingers, although extremely long, worked quickly and with amazing agility. Yet there was no grace of movement, no feminine sway of the hips as the females walked, no swagger or strut in the males' gait. People of both sexes shuffled around like senior citizens hobbling on arthritic legs. All they needed to complete the picture were aluminum walkers.
Gilbert tried to speak, but he had difficulty getting any sound out of his vocal cords, which hadn't been used for centuries.
"Subject successfully revived," one man announced to his coworkers, none of whom seemed surprised at the news.
Maybe it was a common occurrence in this century to resuscitate cryonically stored human beings, no more earth-shattering than open-heart surgery had been in his day.
Gilbert's jaw continued to work, but to no avail; he couldn't utter a single sound.
"It appears the subject is attempting to communicate with us, Rom," the woman said to the man at her side.
"The P-12 compound should take effect shortly," the man responded.
"Wh-what year is this?" Gilbert finally managed to ask.
"Year?" Rom echoed as though he'd never heard the word.
The woman explained, "It's an archaic term once used to measure the passage of time."
Then she turned toward Gilbert and introduced herself.
"I am Zel, primary historic technician. This is Rom," she said, indicating her male companion. "He is primary biotech. He and his team will restore your biological functions and chemical balance. It is my responsibility to answer questions you may have about your new surroundings and, in turn, to acquire knowledge about the time period from which you came."
"I was frozen on May 23, 20 ...," Gilbert started to explain, but Zel shook her head.
"Your old chronologies have no meaning to us," she informed him.
"Then how do you measure time now?"
"It is done by what was probably referred to in your world as a computer. Of course, your early computers were extremely crude compared to ours, but you will learn more about our time later. Right now you must rest."
"Rest? You have got to be kidding me! I've just woken up after sleeping for God knows how many centuries, and you want me to rest? That's the last thing I ...."
Gilbert felt a pinch in his arm, and weariness suddenly overcame him.
He glanced at the misshapen man beside him and asked, "What did you give me?"
"You must rest now," Rom said firmly and then shuffled off with that ungainly walk of the people of the future.
In the weeks that followed, Gilbert was continually questioned by Zel who wanted to know every detail of his previous life, no matter how mundane or insignificant. She wanted to know about his shelter, his clothing, his diet and his social customs.
"Why do you want to know all this? Do you plan on writing a book?"
"A book? No. We no longer have use for printed materials in our society."
"Is that so? And just what do you find useful here in this world of the future?"
"Knowledge. Now, getting back to your time, let's discuss the ...."
"I've answered enough of your questions. It's time I got some answers."
Zel spoke into a wireless recording device fastened to the front of her clothing.
"The subject is showing annoyance with my questioning procedures."
"I insist you stop referring to me as the 'subject.' I have a name: it's Fremont, Gilbert Reginald Fremont. Maybe manners and courtesy have ceased to exist in your time, but while I'm paying your salary, I demand to be treated with a little respect."
"I'm afraid I don't understand," Zel said. "Are you under the assumption that we are being compensated in some way for our services?"
"Of course. You and the whole medical team that's cared for me since I was revived. You're all being well paid by the fund I established for my care before I was frozen."
"Neither I nor the biotechs are receiving any form of remuneration for our work here."
"Then where are the people who were supposed to be tending my cryonic chamber?"
"There were no other people. While on a general research expedition, a team of archeologists found you alone in your tomb."
"What?" Gilbert screamed with rage. "I left strict instructions with my bank in Zurich. I set aside billions to pay for around-the-clock supervision of my chamber. I want to hire a lawyer—the best money can buy. They can't cheat Gilbert Fremont and get away with it."
In his anger, he had forgotten that the employees of the bank, the scientists and the entire medical team had long since died. There would be no one left for him to sue.
"Why are you just sitting there? I told you to get me a lawyer."
"I can't do that."
"Why? Are you afraid an antique like me can't afford one?"
He laughed at the puzzled look on Zel's plain, lumpish face.
"I was the third richest man in the world. I have a vast fortune. Now, are you going to get me that lawyer or not?"
"I told you I can't. You see, there are no lawyers anymore because we have no laws."
"But that would result in anarchy."
"On the contrary, we have a very peaceful society, one without wars, crimes and violence."
Gilbert, long an observer of human nature, was highly skeptical.
"People are people in any time. I doubt you've managed to eliminate the greed, lust and hunger for power that lies deep within us all."
"In this world, no man has power over another. There are no longer any governments, and no man answers to another. Greed, too, is a thing of the past. There are no riches and no form of exchange, so I'm afraid your 'vast fortune,' as you call it, is quite worthless now."
"Maybe to you since you live in this high-tech think tank with a group of scientists who probably have no grasp of what's going on in the real world, but I'll bet somewhere out there I'll find people who will value my gold."
A light gleamed in Gilbert's narrowed eyes. The Bible thumpers always vowed that God worked in mysterious ways. If that were the case, he saw God's will in his illness and in his being revived in this particular time period.
These people of the future are like sheep, he thought with growing satisfaction, and the shepherd is nowhere to be found.
Gilbert, who had played hardball with corporate giants such as Microsoft, Exxon, Walmart and General Motors, estimated that his chances of doubling or tripling his fortune in this time would be as good as those of Babe Ruth getting a base hit against a Little League pitcher.
"And as for lust," Zel droned on, still lecturing him on the comparative merits of her society, "sexual reproduction was abandoned long ago. When a new or replacement human is deemed necessary, a genetically engineered offspring is produced in one of our laboratories. There is no further need for men and women to engage in physical or emotional relationships."
Gilbert continued to smile.
It will be like taking candy from a baby, he concluded.
* * *
A week later, as Gilbert sat dreaming of his new empire, he received a visit from Rom.
"I am certifying you completely recovered," the biotech announced.
"No trace of my former illness?"
"None at all."
The look of satisfaction on Gilbert's face bordered on smugness.
"You seem quite pleased with yourself, Mr. Fremont," Rom observed.
"I have a right to be. The best doctors of my day gave me six months to live. I guess I proved them wrong. I'll live to be ninety if I'm lucky."
"I don't understand your measurement of time, but I do know you'll live a good deal longer than you expect. In our time there is no disease known to man that can't be cured by our biotechs. The only way a person dies is when he or she suffers a fatal, accidental injury."
"But neither you nor Zel appears to be old."
"Old? I am unfamiliar with this term."
"Old is when your body ages and begins to deteriorate. Your skin wrinkles, your hair turns gray and you slowly lose the keenness of your senses and your brain."
"Our bodies don't change. Once we reach maturity, we remain the same until we are eventually killed by some mishap. We never experience a deterioration of our appearance, biological functions or mental capacities."
"Incredible! To stay young and not have to worry about death or dementia. This world of the future is a true paradise."
Rom, unfamiliar with the concepts of either paradise or purgatory, remained silent.
"Now that I'm healthy again, I suppose you'll be letting me out of this place soon. A good thing, too. I'm beginning to get what we used to call in my day cabin fever. I never could stand to stay in one place for too long."
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but you cannot leave here."
"What? Why the hell not?"
"You are too valuable a specimen to this museum."
"Museum?"
"Yes. You were brought back here by the archeologists to be exhibited and studied. You're a living, breathing example of primitive man."
"I'm not some ancient artifact, some rare fossil; I'm a man. You can't hold me against my will. I demand you let me go."
"That's impossible."
"Do you know who I am? I'm Gilbert Reginald Fremont, the third richest man in the world," he shouted.
Zel had walked into the room during Gilbert's outburst.
"Interesting behavior the subject is exhibiting," Rom commented.
"Yes. Typical of men of his time. Great personal wealth accorded a man a higher position in life and power over other men."
"What about knowledge?"
"Man's quest for knowledge was but a means to an end. He used his knowledge to acquire wealth."
"Barbaric people, weren't they?"
"Shut up, the both of you!" Gilbert screamed. "I'll show you how good it feels to be rich. Let me out of here, and I'll give you each a fortune in gold."
"I told you," Zel said. "Your gold has no value in our world."
"I've always put my faith in money, and it has never let me down. There hasn't been anything or anyone that I couldn't buy with it. I even bought my way out of dying."
Zel ignored him and turned to Rom.
"Notice the hostile reaction when the subject's request is denied. Such behavior often led to acts of violence."
"Very interesting, indeed."
"I'm going to get out of here even if I have to kill the both of you to do it."
Suddenly the idea of bashing their large, misshapen heads together appealed to Gilbert, but when he attempted to grab Zel, an electric shock sent him falling to the floor in pain.
Rom was amazed.
"Zel, I do believe the subject desired to commit an act of violence toward you."
"That is quite probable, but I'm sure the attempt won't be repeated. The energy emitted by our force field will deter him."
Without further word, Rom and Zel shuffled out the door, leaving Gilbert Fremont, once the third richest man in the world, curled in a fetal position on the museum floor.
"You can't do this to me," he cried. "I'm Gilbert Reginald Fremont. I beat death. I'll live forever and never grow old."
Suddenly that possibility was no longer viewed as a blessing but as a curse. Gilbert had survived the dangers of freezing and thawing and had been cured of the fatal disease that had threatened his life only to realize his worst fear. He had become an object of curiosity after all. He was destined to be a freak in the carnival-like world of the future. Rom and Zel, a space-age Barnum and Bailey, would keep him—the prize attraction of their museum—alive and well for centuries.
Gilbert Fremont wept, knowing the endless days ahead of him would prey upon his mind as a vulture feeding on dead flesh.
I wonder, the wretched man from the past thought bitterly, if some biotech in Zel and Rom's Utopia has found a cure for insanity.
Salem can always find a use for money. Here he made origami cats out of dollar bills.
