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East In the Morning

By DAVID E. FISHER

Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine February 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


<i>Natural laws are cliches--"what must be
must be," for instance--and what must be in
this case was, of all people, Dr. Talbot!</i>


The first thirty years of Henry Talbot's life were the most promising.
He was a bright student through high school, and in college his fellow
students often used the word "brilliant" in discussing his mentality;
occasionally even his instructors echoed them.

Upon receiving his bachelor's degree, he went to graduate school and
eventually received his Ph.D. as an experimental nuclear physicist.
He applied for and got a research position at Oak Ridge National
Laboratory, in the Electronuclear Research Division.

Dr. Henry Talbot, brilliant young scientist, began his career
enthusiastically, and ran into a brick wall.

Rather, he crawled up to and against it, for it took several years
for him to discover that his life's route lay not on an unobstructed
downhill slide. Those years slithered past before he looked up and
realized that he had not revolutionized the scientific world; he had
discovered no principle of relativity, no quantum theory.

He stopped working for a moment and looked around. All his colleagues
were enthusiastic and brilliant young scientists. Where at school,
where throughout his life, he had been outstanding, now he was one
of the crowd. What had passed for brilliance before was now merely
competence.

Henry Talbot felt a vague need which he perceived liquor might fill.
That afternoon he left work early for the first time since he had
arrived at Oak Ridge. He had to buy the vodka from a bootlegger,
Oak Ridge being in a dry county. But, as in most dry counties, that
presented no problem. He stopped by Shorty's cab stand, across the
street from the police department, and asked Shorty for a bottle.
Shorty reached into the glove compartment and, for fifty cents over
list price, the vodka changed hands. Henry didn't like to patronize the
bootleggers, but he did feel the need for a quick one just this once.

After drinking for several hours in his apartment, Henry Talbot took
stock of himself and came to two conclusions:

1. He was satisfied with himself and his life. He had always taken for
granted that he would one day be a famous figure in some scientific
field, true, but this was actually not so important as, upon casual
inspection, it might seem. He liked his work, otherwise he could never
have been so wrapped up in it, and he saw no reason for discontinuing
it or for becoming despondent over his lack of fame. After all, he
reasoned, he had never been famous and yet had been always perfectly
content.

2. He liked vodka.

<tb>

The next thirty years of Henry Talbot's life, now devoid of promise,
were fulfilling and content. He worked steadily and drank as the mood
fell upon him, publishing on the average one paper a year. These papers
were thorough, the experiments well worked out, without contrived
results or varnished sloppiness. The publications were accepted
everywhere as solid research papers.

Henry Talbot's name became familiar in the nuclear field. He did not
find his face on the cover of <i>Time</i>, nor was he ever invited to
participate as an "expert" on any television quiz programs, yet he was
well known to nuclear researchers--at least those in his own country.
He was honored with a banquet on his fiftieth birthday. <i>Person to
Person</i> once tentatively proposed to visit him, but the idea was
squelched, a visit to a more buxom personality being substituted.

Sex never reared its ugly head. He had not had time for it when young,
and so had never fallen into the habit.

At the age of sixty-five he retired. He canceled his subscription to
the <i>Physical Review</i>, bought a fishing rod, subscribed to the <i>New
Yorker</i>, and tried Florida. He started at Tallahassee and fished his
way down to Ocala. By the time he had reached St. Petersburg, he had
decided to try California.

In California he took up golf. He bought a hi-fi set and a dozen
progressive jazz records, advertised as unbreakable. They proved not to
be, although in fairness to the advertiser it must be said that Henry
Talbot had to exert himself.

He decided to try a world cruise. He left the scheduled tour in Japan
and visited the Institute for Theoretical Physics in Tokyo, spending
some time there just generally chewing the bilingual rag. When he
returned to the United States, he renewed his subscription to the
<i>Physical Review</i>, canceled his subscription to the <i>New Yorker</i>, and
looked around for another position.

He went to work for the Arnold Research Corporation on a part-time,
semi-retired basis. But he had his own lab, his hours were his own, and
in a few weeks he was working full time. No one was disturbed by this,
he did not apply for more money or recognition, he kept to himself, and
he began publishing his one paper each year.

On the tenth year afterward his paper was missing, though not missed.
He began to spend less time in his lab and more in the library and
behind his desk, scribbling on scraps of paper or staring into space.
He was forgotten by the Arnold Research Corporation. He was content
with his books and his monthly check.

In his seventy-fourth year, Henry Talbot published a paper in
the <i>Philosophical Magazine</i> on what he called the "Warped Field
Theory." The theory was entirely his own, from beginning to end, and
constituted--in his opinion--the first real breakthrough in theoretical
physics since Albert Einstein's little idea in 1905. The day the
article came out he sat behind his desk all day, puffing on his pipe,
not merely content but really happy for the first time in his life.

<tb>

Life continued undisturbed for three more months. Then Larry Arnold,
Jr., came into his office, carrying a copy of the <i>Philosophical
Magazine</i>. Larry Arnold, Jr., was not a scientist but, as he put it,
he was scientifically minded and was general overseer, public relations
man, and coordinator of coordinators of research.

He humphed a few times, groaned as he sat down across the desk from
Henry, wheezed twice, smiled once, and said, "Good morning, Dr. Talbot."

"Good morning," Henry replied, folding his hands and trying to look
humble yet brilliant.

"I read your article," Arnold said, feebly waving the magazine around
before him, "and I don't mind admitting I didn't understand a word
of it. Well, I'm not a man to hide his lack of knowledge so I went
right out and asked some of the men working here about it. They didn't
understand it either. I called up a few people around the country.
I--Dr. Talbot, I don't know how exactly to say this to you. I don't
know what you intended with this article, but it's got people laughing
at us and we can't have that."

Henry kept the same humble look on his face; he fought to keep the same
expression. He didn't know what his face might look like if he relaxed
for a moment.

"We didn't expect much research from you when we hired you. Well, we
know we're not paying you much, and we don't mind if you don't put out
much work. Hell, we don't care if you don't put out <i>any</i> work. We get
our money's worth in good will when people know we've got an old pro
like you on our payroll; the young kids can see we won't kick them out
when they're all used up. But when you put out papers like this one--"
and here he waved the magazine a bit more violently, getting warmed
up--"when you do this, and it says Arnold Research Corporation right
here under your name, people don't just laugh at you. They laugh at the
whole organization. They think that this whole place is going around
doing fantastic research like this--this warped field."

He stopped when he saw the look slip a bit from Henry's face, and he
saw what was there beneath it. He dropped his eyes and wheezed twice,
then heaved his bulk out of the chair.

"I didn't mean to slam into you that way, Dr. Talbot. You know it's
an honor to have you associated with the firm. We were even thinking
of giving you a testimonial banquet next week on your seventy-fifth
birthday.... It is next week, isn't it? Well, what I mean to say is--I
mean we all appreciate the good solid research you've been doing all
these years. It's just that--well, you won't fool around like this
any more, now will you? And we'll just forget all about it. No hard
feelings."

He left quickly, and the door closed behind him.

For the first time in seventy-five years, or in the last sixty-nine at
least, Henry Talbot cried.

After he cried, he became angry. He wanted to shout, so he left the
office early and hurried to his apartment where he could shout without
disturbing anyone, which he did. He then took out the vodka, settled
Bucephalus, his cat, on his lap and began to pour.

Several hours later Henry Talbot sprawled in the armchair and took
stock of himself. He came to two conclusions:

1. At his age, what did he care about fame? He knew his theory
was sound, and if the people in his own country didn't appreciate
it, what difference did it make? Now, free from rancor, he could
understand how they must have received his paper. They all knew old
Dr. Talbot--seventy-five and not dead yet. What a ridiculous age
for a nuclear physicist! Now he's turning theoretical, they must
have chuckled. So they started his paper. And when they came to the
first unorthodox assumption, when they reached the first of the many
mathematical complexities and indeed paradoxes, they must have closed
the magazine and had a good laugh over a cup of coffee.

Had the article been written by some unknown twenty-five-year-old, they
would all hail him as a new genius. But coming from old Henry Talbot,
the article was ludicrous.

Well, he didn't care. Abroad, he was not so well known. Some countries
would not have heard of him at all. They'd read the article seriously,
one or two men would understand it. They'd run some experiments to
confirm or deny the hypotheses and Henry was confident the experiments
would prove him right. He had only to wait. Of course he hadn't much
time left, but perhaps they would do it in a year or two, and perhaps
he'd still be here to see it and have the last laugh.

2. He still liked vodka.

<tb>

It was nineteen years before two Finnish physicists, Arkadt and
Findrun, ran the necessary experiments. Of the many who had read the
article, some knew Talbot and thus laughed it off, some could not
understand it and some understood it and waxed enthusiastic. Eventually
the enthusiasm spread to the Finnish Institute for Applied Research
where the essential equipment was available. The experiments were an
unqualified success.

As soon as the experiments were confirmed, Arkadt sent a telegram to
Dr. Henry Talbot, in care of the address which had appeared with his
original article, informing him of the happy developments. He and
Findrun were still celebrating their spectacular success a week later,
this time with Dr. Arrhenial, director of the institute, when Arkadt
mentioned that he had sent such a telegram and had received as yet no
answer.

Arrhenial smiled into his vodka. "Didn't you know? Talbot was
seventy-five years old when he wrote that article. I'm afraid you were
a little too late for him."

"I didn't know," Arkadt replied.

"A shame," Findrun murmured. "It would have made him so happy."

The telephone rang and Arkadt answered it. His wife was calling, with
unusual news. He had just received a letter from America. Imagine that.
From a Henry Talbot.

<tb>

Henry Talbot saw his face on the cover of <i>Time</i> magazine. He refused
a request to appear on a television quiz program. (The contestant
the network had had in mind to appear with Henry won his money
nevertheless, in the category Theoretical Physics, by correctly naming
the year in which Einstein first published his Theory of Relativity,
the number of papers which comprised the entire theory, the language
in which it was first published, the magazine in which it was first
published, the year in which the magazine was first printed, the
name of the first printer of the magazine, and the year in which he
died.) Henry Talbot was termed "The Dean of American Men of Science"
by the New York <i>Times</i>, which paper triumphantly reported that only
thirteen people in the world understood his Warped Field Theory.
When asked if there was now anything else for science to do, he
replied, "Indubitably." When pressed for more details, he said that
his housekeeper always removed his vodka from the refrigerator at
three-thirty, and that if he did not immediately return home, it would
become unbearably warm.

On the occasion of his ninety-fifth birthday, he was given a gigantic
testimonial banquet by the Arnold Research Corporation, "under whose
auspices the entire research which culminated in the justly famous
Warped Field Theory was conducted."

The next week, when he requested the use of their massive cyclotron to
run an experiment, he was told that the machine was in use at the time.
A week later, his request was again shunted off. This happened twice
more, and Henry went to see Larry Arnold, Jr.

The coordinator was affable, and told Henry that he had checked
himself, and that unfortunately the machine was in use and that of
course since he, Talbot, was actually at the lab on only a part-time
basis, he could not expect to usurp the machine from full-time research
workers.

Henry asked what kind of research was being done.

Larry wheezed twice and told him it was investigating certain aspects
of the Warped Field Theory.

"I invented the goddam theory and I can't even get at the machine?"
Henry shouted.

"Please, Dr. Talbot. Let's be reasonable. You discovered that theory
twenty years ago. I mean, after all. You're an older man now, and
that's an expensive piece of machinery--"

Henry slammed the door as he walked out, was not satisfied with the
effect, came back and slammed it again, this time shattering the glass.
He felt a little better, strode down the hall, and resigned the next
day, quietly and undramaticly.

He disappeared into retirement. Reports of his death were printed
occasionally. They were never denied. They stopped after several years,
were taken to be final, and his name was not often mentioned by the
newspapers.

One hundred and three years after his birth, the Nobel Prize was
awarded to Henry Talbot for his Warped Field Theory. The committee
decided not to look into the matter of discovering Dr. Talbot's heirs
until after the ceremony, expecting that someone would turn up to claim
the award in his name.

Henry Talbot accepted the medallion and check himself from the hand of
the King of Sweden, making his acceptance speech in hurriedly learned
but understandable Swedish. The newspapers of the world devoured him
and made big news of the fact that he had been practically fired nine
years before. He was deluged with offers of employment, most of which
sought him as a public-relations man. He accepted the offer of the
Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton, New Jersey. His duties here
were non-existent. He would be paid, cared for. He was to think, as
much or as little as he pleased. The Institute was apologetic that
they had not been aware of his unemployment previously. He was invited
to stay with them for as long as he liked. Henry Talbot settled back
finally, in comfort.

The research upon which he now embarked was so deep, so complex,
that he did not intend to come to any publishable conclusions in his
lifetime. He desired no experimentation now; he wanted only to think,
to think in purely mathematical terms of the universe as an entity. He
withdrew into the sanctity of his study, thankful to Princeton for the
peace and tranquility it offered.

Several years later a notice of his death was published in the New York
<i>Times</i>. Henry did not read the New York <i>Times</i>, but the treasurer at
the Institute evidently did. His checks stopped coming. Henry did not
complain. He had saved a lot of money and his tastes were simple. He
did not have to pay a bootlegger's price in Princeton.

In his hundred and eighty-first year, Henry first became seriously
aware of the possibility that he might not die.

<tb>

One night during his two hundred and forty-fifth year--it began to seem
to him purposeless, but he still kept accurate count--Henry pushed back
from his desk and sighed.

Outside the window, in the gently falling snow, the campus of Princeton
looked exactly as it had when he had first come, but things were
different. No one now at the Institute knew him; he had known no one
there for seventy-five years now. Probably at no other place in the
country than at the Institute for Advanced Study could he have kept his
study for so long, could he have been left so alone. And it was good,
but now he was lonely. Lonely, bored by his solitude, aware of his
boredom and utter lack of friends.

He had realized long ago the compensation demanded for eternity. When
he had first begun to think of the possibility that he might not die,
he had realized that it would mean leaving his friends, his family, and
continuing alone. When he had first begun to speculate on his seeming
immortality, how it had come about and why, he had known he would be
lonely.

/P
    This is the way to the Übermensch,
    This is the way to the Übermensch,
    This is the way to the Übermensch,
    Not in a crowd, but alone.
P/

Nearly every great mind within the past hundred years had pointed out
the difficulty of man's accomplishing anything in his brief hundred
years of life, had pointed out the necessity of immortality to a great
mind. And what is necessary will be. But this is the way of evolution:
not in a crowd, but alone. One man in a million, then another, then
another.

It was statistically improbable that he was the first. So there must be
others. But so far, in two hundred and forty-five years, he had not met
any that he knew of. Then again, there was no way of knowing. Anyone
passing him on the street would not know, and he meeting another would
not know.

A purring broke through into his reverie and, looking down, he became
aware of Bucephalus, his cat, rubbing against his legs. He laughed,
bent down and picked her up. Here was the exception, of course. Old
Bucephalus. He laughed again, shaking his head in wonder. He had had
Bucephalus for the past hundred and fifty years.

"Now what justification does a cat have for living forever?" he
wondered aloud, holding her at arm's length and smiling at her. She
lifted one paw and dabbed at his face. He put her down and went to get
her milk. "And how did we ever find each other?" Perhaps there was some
subliminal way of knowing. Perhaps, without knowing, the immortals knew.

While Bucephalus lapped at her milk, Henry Talbot walked out for a
breath of air. He wandered off the campus, finally pausing in front
of a candy-and-soda store. He felt a vague curiosity and went in to
look at the newspapers. After reading through one, he stood back and
sighed. The same old thing, always the same old thing. The new wave
of immigrants--he looked again to see where they were from this time;
he didn't recognize the name of the place, but it didn't matter--the
new wave of immigrants was a disgrace to New York, was destroying
real estate values, was a burden to society, to the <i>last</i> wave of
immigrants who had by now made their place. The President said we would
fight, if necessary, one last war to make the world safe for democracy.
Statistics showed that juvenile delinquency was on the increase; it was
traced to a lack of parental authority in the home.

Always the same old thing.

Only his work was new, always changing. But now, after nearly a hundred
and fifty years of thought, he felt he was in over his head. It was
getting too abstract. He needed some good solid experimental research,
he felt. Something concrete, down-to-earth. He wanted to play with
a hundred-channel analyzer, measure some cross sections, determine
a beta-decay scheme. But he couldn't ask them here for a lab. He
didn't dare tell them who he was. Too much commotion, notoriety. The
newspapers again. Good God, no.

He turned to go back to his study, and then stopped dead. He couldn't
go back there. His brain was spinning without a clamp; he needed to
fasten to something and orient himself in this vast universe. His
fingers itched to get at some experiment. He couldn't go back to his
study.

He decided to take a vacation. He had never gotten as far as Miami
Beach, he remembered. The sun would feel good, and he could do with a
bit of a tan.

He flew down that night.

After he had checked in at the Sea Lion, and as he was following
the bellboy across the high and wide lobby to the elevator, a woman
crossed his path. In her late twenties, perhaps early thirties, she was
simply stunning. Dark hair, light skin, blue eyes almost purple with a
Eurasian slant to them, long firm legs and slim ankles. For the first
time in many a year, Henry stopped to look at a woman.

The bellboy realized that he had walked on alone and returned to Talbot.

"That woman is beautiful." Henry gestured toward her back.

The bellboy smirked. Henry followed him to his room.

<tb>

Henry lay in the sun for two weeks and grew younger day by day. His
skin tanned, his muscles became hard with the exertion of lengthy
swims, the creases in his face smoothed out. Still he felt vaguely
dissatisfied, empty. He lay on the beach, gazing into the ocean, and
knew that something was missing.

The woman he had seen that first night crossed between him and the
ocean and continued down the beach. Henry watched her out of sight.

"That woman is beautiful," he thought.

Sex, he thought. I wonder if that's what's missing. There was another
aspect to be considered, of course. Two hundred and forty-five. And
then a blonde young lady in a bikini wavered by him and he knew in that
moment that he could.

He stood up and walked after her.

"I wonder if I might walk a bit with you," he said.

She looked him over carefully and then shrugged her shoulder, not quite
dislodging the upper portion of her suit. "Suitcha self."

After a while she asked, "What business ya in?"

"I'm sort of retired," he explained, finding her very charming and
refreshing to talk to. "I had a modest income a while ago. I invested
wisely, or prudently at least, and the interest has built up into quite
a fortune by now."

"Really," she said.

They walked down the beach, hand in hand.

<tb>

Five nights later he got out of bed when she fell asleep. He dressed
and walked despondently down to the lobby. This was not it, not it at
all. God, but her conversation was absolutely impossible. He couldn't
stay with her another minute.

His problem was still unsolved. He wanted to get back to work, he
wanted company, he wanted <i>life</i> again. As he came into the lobby, the
woman of the first night passed by him again. She looked at him as she
came, and smiled as she passed.

That, he thought, is a lovely woman. He stared at her back. How old
would you say she is? Late twenties, not a day over thirty. Yet with a
serenity in the eyes, in the smile somehow, that gives the impression
of lifetimes of living. Yet not a day over thirty, surely no older than
that.

That, he thought, is what I need. A woman like that to sleep with and,
yes, to be with, even to talk with. She would not be like the one
upstairs. But, he thought, one does not buy a woman like that. One
marries her. Somehow, without knowing, he knew that.

And why not?

Why not, indeed?

He returned to his own room, stripped and consulted the mirror. Dye his
hair, that was really all he needed. He smiled into the mirror. Forty,
he thought, even thirty-five. Certainly, with this tan and slim body
and his hair dyed, thirty-five at the most.

He went to bed, happily making plans. A new life opened up for him.

He would take a new name; he would live again. There was nothing to
stop him.

That night, in the Sea Lion Hotel in Miami Beach, Henry Talbot died.

<tb>

Two months later Arnold Bottal, an experimental nuclear physicist of
perhaps thirty-five, and his charming wife--with exquisite, nearly
purple Eurasian eyes--joined the new country club in Lincoln Hills, New
York, where Bottal had newly joined the Applied Physics Division of the
Carbide Nuclear Company.

This Arnold Bottal was not a brilliant physicist, but he was certainly
competent in his job. The company was satisfied with him. He and his
wife bought a bubble home in the suburbs of Lincoln Hills and, together
with their cat Bucephalus, lived happily ever after.