The senator took a step toward the door, then turned back.
“Look, Norton, I can’t die! Not now. Just one more continua-tion and I’d be—”
The look on Norton’s face stopped him in his tracks. The look he’d glimpsed on other faces at other times, but only glimpsed. Now he stared at it—at the naked hatred of a man whose life is short for the man whose life is long.
“Sure, you can die,” said Norton. “You’re going to. You can’t live forever. Who do you think you are!”
The senator reached out a hand and clutched the desk.
“But you don’t understand.”
“You’ve already lived ten times as long as I have lived,” said Norton, coldly, measuring each word, “and I hate your guts for it. Get out of here, you sniveling old fool, before I throw you out.”
* * *
Dr. Barton: You may think that you would confer a boon on humanity with life continuation, but I tell you, sir, that it would be a curse. Life would lose its value and its meaning if it went on forever, and if you have life continuation now, you eventually must stumble on immortality. And when that happens, sir, you will be compelled to set up boards of review to grant the boon of death. The people, tired of life, will storm your hearing rooms to plead for death.
Chairman Leonard: It would banish uncertainty and fear.
Dr. Barton: You are talking of the fear of death. The fear of death, sir, is infantile.
Chairman Leonard: But there are benefits—
Dr. Barton: Benefits, yes. The benefit of allowing a scientist the extra years he needs to complete a piece of research; a composer an additional lifetime to complete a symphony. Once the novelty wore off, men in general would accept added life only under protest, only as a duty.
Chairman Leonard: You’re not very practical-minded, doctor.