for the knowledge of the known world, past and present. Under our high ceilings were writings from the Hittites, the Phoenicians, the Etamites. There were pictographs from theancient Sumerians, writings in Akkadian on clay tablets from Babylon and Assyria, ivory boards covered with old Persian, Meriotic script from the African civilization of Kush.”
Eric was beginning to feel slightly unreal, as if he were watching everything through water.
He was there!
He had to keep reciting those words to himself in his head.
“I was translating some Babylonian writings on longevity,” Alexander went on. “They spoke of the possibility of living eternally. It is a subject to which every age has turned in fascination and longing. It intrigued me then—nothing more. But shortly afterwards I came across some Phoenician writings on the same subject. I delved into the library’s immense collection, looking for more. I translated writings from almost all the ancient civilizations, unable to sleep. It had obsessed me, you see, this idea of immortality.”
The elevator cable groaned. The numbers slid by: 7, 8, 9. Eric watched Alexander as he spoke. What was it like to have lived that long? he wondered.
“Coyle was my assistant then,” Alexander said. “He helped me find some of the material I needed. He had only a vague idea of my research, and I was careful to tell him as little as possible. He was an exceptional scholar, but wecouldn’t have been more dissimilar. I was content to sift through the past; he was interested only in the latest learning, the latest achievements. He had visions, you know—wild visions of the future that he said came to him in dreams. He ranted about machinery and inventions that seemed impossible at the time. Who could have known they would prove to be true?”
“The way of the future,” Eric mumbled to himself, remembering Coyle’s words in the medieval armoury.
“After several years,” Alexander went on, “I had collected all the writings I had found on eternal life, collated them, fused them into one text, and painstakingly transcribed it onto one long scroll of parchment. I called it, this one document, the live-forever machine—though, of course, it wasn’t really a piece of machinery at all, certainly not by today’s definition. But that was the way I thought of it then: an incredible, impossible machine. I half-believed it might work.”
So it was just paper. Eric felt a twinge of disappointment.
“Coyle found my working papers one day. He read them, translated them into Latin. Then, one night, he tried what I don’t think I would ever have tried myself. He tried to make himself immortal. It worked.”
“How, though?” Eric asked.
“How is one made immortal?” Alexander hesitated. “It would seem like madness to you. At night, under the eye of the moon, there are certain rituals that must be observed, incantations read aloud. But that is the least of it. When that is done, the person must immerse himself in deep water and drown.”
“Make yourself drown?” Eric cried out. “Can you even
do
that?”
“It’s the hardest thing in the world, to breathe water willingly into your lungs, to feel them icily fill, to hear your own breath leave your body in choking gasps. But yes, it is possible, by force of will, if you believe strongly enough.”
“What happens then?” Eric felt his chest tighten, as if his own lungs were being filled with water.
“You die. For three days, your body settles heavily on the bottom. But then there is the second awakening. You feel yourself stir, as from a drugged sleep. You strain to reach the surface of the water, and you pull yourself out onto the shore. You’ve become immortal.”
The elevator settled with a thud at the bottom of the shaft. The massive doors split apart and Alexander strode out into the harsh fluorescent light, down a long corridor lined with doors. Storage rooms.
“How did you know Coyle had done it?” Eric asked.
Eric was beginning to feel slightly unreal, as if he were watching everything through water.
He was there!
He had to keep reciting those words to himself in his head.
“I was translating some Babylonian writings on longevity,” Alexander went on. “They spoke of the possibility of living eternally. It is a subject to which every age has turned in fascination and longing. It intrigued me then—nothing more. But shortly afterwards I came across some Phoenician writings on the same subject. I delved into the library’s immense collection, looking for more. I translated writings from almost all the ancient civilizations, unable to sleep. It had obsessed me, you see, this idea of immortality.”
The elevator cable groaned. The numbers slid by: 7, 8, 9. Eric watched Alexander as he spoke. What was it like to have lived that long? he wondered.
“Coyle was my assistant then,” Alexander said. “He helped me find some of the material I needed. He had only a vague idea of my research, and I was careful to tell him as little as possible. He was an exceptional scholar, but wecouldn’t have been more dissimilar. I was content to sift through the past; he was interested only in the latest learning, the latest achievements. He had visions, you know—wild visions of the future that he said came to him in dreams. He ranted about machinery and inventions that seemed impossible at the time. Who could have known they would prove to be true?”
“The way of the future,” Eric mumbled to himself, remembering Coyle’s words in the medieval armoury.
“After several years,” Alexander went on, “I had collected all the writings I had found on eternal life, collated them, fused them into one text, and painstakingly transcribed it onto one long scroll of parchment. I called it, this one document, the live-forever machine—though, of course, it wasn’t really a piece of machinery at all, certainly not by today’s definition. But that was the way I thought of it then: an incredible, impossible machine. I half-believed it might work.”
So it was just paper. Eric felt a twinge of disappointment.
“Coyle found my working papers one day. He read them, translated them into Latin. Then, one night, he tried what I don’t think I would ever have tried myself. He tried to make himself immortal. It worked.”
“How, though?” Eric asked.
“How is one made immortal?” Alexander hesitated. “It would seem like madness to you. At night, under the eye of the moon, there are certain rituals that must be observed, incantations read aloud. But that is the least of it. When that is done, the person must immerse himself in deep water and drown.”
“Make yourself drown?” Eric cried out. “Can you even
do
that?”
“It’s the hardest thing in the world, to breathe water willingly into your lungs, to feel them icily fill, to hear your own breath leave your body in choking gasps. But yes, it is possible, by force of will, if you believe strongly enough.”
“What happens then?” Eric felt his chest tighten, as if his own lungs were being filled with water.
“You die. For three days, your body settles heavily on the bottom. But then there is the second awakening. You feel yourself stir, as from a drugged sleep. You strain to reach the surface of the water, and you pull yourself out onto the shore. You’ve become immortal.”
The elevator settled with a thud at the bottom of the shaft. The massive doors split apart and Alexander strode out into the harsh fluorescent light, down a long corridor lined with doors. Storage rooms.
“How did you know Coyle had done it?” Eric asked.
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