The Ups and Downs of Being Dead (23 page)

“Impossible? Isn’t that what people said about going to the
moon?” Sam crossed his arms, then raised a hand to tap his chin. “Isn’t that
what your friends and family said when you decided to be cryonically
preserved?”

As the crowd murmured in agreement, Robert glanced around
the room. No one was surreptitiously reading their Blackberry under the table,
or texting on their phone. He didn’t catch anyone glancing at his watch or
fidgeting in her seat. How odd it felt to be in a group where no one had
anywhere to go, and nothing to do but listen to Sam talk about the future.

“Here’s an interesting tidbit from Ray Kurzweil, the
inventor and futurist,” Sam continued. “He said that in the year 2000, if he’d
ordered a book online, it would have been shipped via FedEx. If he wanted it
overnight, he paid extra. But ten years later, if he ordered that same book, he
simply downloaded the information onto his e-reader in seconds. The same thing
was true with music and movies. Those
were
physical products. But now they’re information products. And once we have
full-scale nanotechnology, with the ability to reorganize matter and energy at
the molecular level, we’ll be able to download a toaster, or a blouse, or a
replacement panel for our solar heater.”

Sam began to pace in front of his captive audience.

“What about science and medicine? There are engineering
companies out there right now building replacement tissues and organs in
laboratories, other companies are experimenting with creating organs from stem
cells taken from the patient who needs the organ. Still other companies have
developed perfusates and protocols for long-term cryopreservation of human
organs, tissues and cells at cryogenic temperatures. One day, a human heart
will remain viable much longer than our current four to six hours, so the days
of scrambling to assemble surgical teams, and jetting organs from one hospital
to another will be over.”

Sam stopped and patted his belly with both hands. “Humans
have a fat insulin receptor gene that tells the body to hold onto every
calorie. Back in our distant past, this gene was a lifesaver because the next
hunting season might be poor, the next harvest might be destroyed by storms or
drought. But we don’t need this gene anymore, and pharmaceutical companies are
working on a way to turn this gene off.”

Sam’s enthusiasm had him wandering up and down between the
tables now, waving his arms as he rattled off more information. “Some day we
will have software programs to get our bodies into shape, we’ll have gene
therapy, designer babies. We are on the cusp of a nanoengineered device, the
size of a blood-cell, that will cure type 1 diabetes. It’s already being tested
on rats.”

As Sam wandered near Maggie, she faked a yawn, patting her
wide-open mouth with her hand. Evidently, Sam got the message, because his arms
dropped to his sides.

“My point is,” he said, “we are speeding into a
technological future that most of us cannot comprehend, much less predict. All
we know is that every exponential jump gets us closer to being reanimated.”

An appreciative burble of agreement rumbled through the
room, although there was no applause. Robert had actually tried to clap before
he realized it was futile.

Once Sam sat back down at their table, Stuart Greyson
returned to the front.

“Thank you, Sam. It’s always reaffirming to hear your
positive outlook on the future.” Stuart paused before continuing. “And now, hot
from Hollywood, our link to the stars, Madeline Wingate.”

A woman sitting directly behind Robert rose amid chatter
from others nearby. Dear God, the woman was a walking advertisement for
cosmetic surgery gone wrong. She had the gaunt cheekbones of skin pulled too
tight, set against voluptuous lips bulging from too much collagen. Robert
guessed her age at mid-seventies, yet she flaunted perky breasts in what must
have been a thirty-eight D. How many times had she had those babies hiked back
up?

At the fireplace, Madeline began running through a list of
Hollywood celebrities and their illnesses. Robert missed the name, but the
folks in the row behind him burbled with excitement when Madeline mentioned
some Hollywood icon who had recently slipped into a coma.

“Just last month,” she said, “four of us were there when
Alexander Jordan died. What a talented young man he was, to be struck down with
lymphoma at such an early age. And so charming. He visited with us for over two
hours. Told us absolutely scandalous stories about himself and Lily Cantrell.
He had us laughing hysterically with behind-the-scenes stories from a movie
he’d made with Joel and Ethan Coen.”

Turning to Maggie, Robert whispered, “Is she serious?”

“Oh, yeah,” Maggie nodded. “There are several death groupies
among us. They keep tabs on who is dying so they can be on hand for the event.
That’s the only way they’ll ever meet big-name stars. A couple guys do the same
thing with sports legends. They want to meet their favorite baseball hero or
golf pro. So when they hear they’re sick, they go hang out nearby.”

Robert snorted in disbelief.

“There aren’t too many young athletes or musicians, though,’
Maggie said. “You never know when they’re going to get shot by a girlfriend or
overdose on drugs. Movie stars have more predictable diseases like cancer and
AIDS.”

“They hang around their deathbed waiting for them to kick,”
Robert said.

“Basically,” Maggie replied. “Obviously, there are celebrity
spirits out there, but unless you stalk them, how do you know where they are?
It’s not like you can read about what they’re up to in the Enquirer or on some
Internet chat line. Every once in a while, there’s a dead celebrity sighting.
Someone swears they saw Paul Newman at the Indy 500 a couple years ago. And
Madeline swears she met Gilda Radner at some department store. Says they’re the
best of friends now.”

“Has anyone run into Elvis?”

Maggie laughed. “Not that I’ve heard.”

Several other members took turns announcing their plans for
the next six months. One man rallied last minute interest in the Super Bowl in
January; a woman was organizing a trip on the Orient Express.

A man in the back of the room stood at his seat.

“Just a warning here,” he said. “I went with a senate
fact-finding committee to the Middle East. Let me tell you, there’s nothing
like a room full of politicians to make you glad you’re dead.”

Everyone laughed.

“Seriously though,” he continued, “I wouldn’t recommend a
trip to the Middle East anytime soon. Even the dead ones hate us.”

A young man, maybe in his mid-forties, sprinted to the
front.

Maggie turned to Robert and said, “Check this guy out.”

“Many of you know me,” the man said. “I’m Eddie Baldwin.
Several of you have requested information on the next shuttle launch. NASA is
sending up a shuttle on February ninth to deliver yet another module to the
International Space Station.”

The noise level in the room rose to a raucous pitch of
chatter.

“Oh, Robert!” Suzanne gushed. “We should do that!”

“Go up in the shuttle?”

“Yes! Did you ever, in your wildest dreams, think that one
day you would get to go into space?”

Robert was too embarrassed to admit that he’d never had the
slightest desire. Instead, he asked Maggie on his other side, “Who is this guy?
Was he an astronaut?”

“No. But he worked for NASA in the control room. He tried to
get into the training program, but he had some kind of heart problem. I
guarantee, when Eddie comes back, he’ll command the first moon colony, or be
chosen for a deep space voyage. He knows more than anyone else at NASA. He’s
either auditing classes at MIT or hanging out at Kennedy and Houston. Once they
fix his ticker, there’ll be no holding him back.”

Stuart raised his hands to hush the crowd. “I promise we’re
just about done here, and then you can all get details from Eddie on the
shuttle.”

A woman seated next to Suzanne tsked the idea.

“I went with them two years ago. What an awful place,” she
bemoaned. “I was expecting something like the Starship Enterprise. But that
Space Station is abysmal. Cramped passageways, cables strewn everywhere, on the
floor, along the ceiling. And the sleeping quarters! My God, those astronauts
sleep upright in these tiny closets, hanging in sleeping bags like bats.”

After thanking Sam and Asa and Esther for their services,
Stuart asked for volunteers to serve as greeters at the Cryonics Center until
the next meeting in June.

“We also have to vote on where our next meeting will be,”
Stuart said.

People nominated Sydney, Paris, and London. When a husky man
stood and shouted, “Katmandu!” everyone laughed.

“Good old Pete,” Maggie said. “He suggests that every time.
But over the years, we’ve learned that it’s better to pick a city where English
is common. It’s tough enough getting around in a strange city when you can’t
ask anyone for directions. It gets a whole lot tougher when all the signs are
in a foreign language.”

Once Toronto was chosen for the June meeting, the group
broke up. Sam cornered Robert. “You’ve got to meet Jess Baxter.”

He ushered both Robert and Suzanne straight through the
dining tables to a burly man standing in the back, his chest thrust out, his
hands clasped behind his back like a general.

After quick introductions, Sam asked Jess, “When did you get
back?”

A huge smile parted the man’s heavy beard and mustache.
“About a week ago.”

“And was it incredible?” Sam asked.

“Yes, indeed.” Jess shook his head, the smile still
radiating. “I still can’t get over how much preparation goes into a climb like
that. You know, it took sixty yaks to haul all the teams’ provisions to base
camp. And the sherpas are just amazing.”

The smile wavered into a smirk. “Although a couple of the
climbers were total jerks. This one guy was always making exaggerated hand
gestures at his sherpa, treating him like an imbecile. And he’d make disgusting
cracks about his sherpa cozying up to his yak at night. One of the other
climbers finally reminded him his life depended on that guide. Sure enough, on
the way back down, the guy lost his footing and tried to self-arrest.”

Turning to Robert, Jess explained, “That’s where you roll
onto your stomach as you’re sliding, and drive your pick into the snow. If the
pick doesn’t catch, you roll again and keep driving that pick into the ice.
Sooner or later, you can gain purchase and stop your slide. But this idiot
panicked. Couldn’t roll. His sherpa went after him.” Jess pursed his lips.
“Saved his sorry ass.”

“So, what was it like, being on top of Everest?” Sam asked.

The smile broke through the shaggy beard again. “It was
fantastic. Unbelievable. I wish I could say breathtaking, but—” He shrugged,
and Sam chuckled.

“They call it the death zone up there, don’t they?” Sam
said.

Jess nodded. “The air is so thin, most men don’t climb
without oxygen these days. And that’s after they’ve spent four or five weeks at
middle camp, acclimating to the altitude.”

“Five weeks?” Robert blurted. “What do they do all day?”

Robert got the same dull-eyed look he’d gotten from the
golfer, and the football enthusiast, and now even Sam. The disbelief that
Robert didn’t find climbing Mount Everest the most fascinating adventure of
all.

Then he got a simplified explanation, as though Jess were
speaking to a child. “Well, they go on short climbs each day. They practice
using their picks and ropes. They learn how to stop a fall or slide. And most
important, they get acclimated to the lack of oxygen. Some of those climbers
come into it thinking they’re in top shape, but believe me, they come back to
camp at night panting like dogs.”

When Robert didn’t react with the proper enthusiasm, Jess
turned back to Sam.

“I wish I could have felt the cold, just for a moment. Or
struggled to breathe in the air at the very top.” As Jess spoke, Sam nodded as
though he understood perfectly. “You can’t truly grasp the experience until
you’ve walked across a flimsy bridge and stared down into a chasm so deep you
can’t see the bottom. It’s only when your heart is in your throat that you get
a real sense of the risks.”

More nods from Sam.

Robert took a quick peek at his wrist, but of course, his
watch was not there. How much longer would he need to hang around these macho
men before he could slip away?

Robert spotted Suzanne and Maggie, conferring off in a
corner.

“What are you two plotting?” he asked.

An anguished expression washed over Suzanne’s face, almost
like she wanted Robert to bail her out of something.

“I was at the Metropolitan Museum yesterday,” Maggie said.
“They have a fascinating Egyptian exhibit. It got me wondering about tombs that
are supposedly cursed. Maybe its really just lost souls. Like Stan in Florida.”

“That’s fascinating,” Robert said, going for a droll
expression. “Why don’t you go investigate that theory?”

She smiled at his insolence.

“I am. As soon as I can get a flight,” she said. “I’ve been
trying to talk Suzanne into going with me, but she’s not interested.”

“You don’t want to roam through dark, musty tombs? Where’s
your sense of adventure?”

“I’m going back to St. Louis to see how Angie’s doing,”
Suzanne told him. “And then I think I’ll check out some place warm. I’m tired
of gray skies and slush.”

“You can’t even feel the cold.”

“I know, but everyone else can. It makes my shoulders tight
just watching people all hunched up and shivering.”

“St. Louis is cold and rainy,” Robert reminded her.

“I know,” she said, then wagged her eyebrows. “But Cancun
isn’t.”

“Cancun?” Robert snorted. “Are you going to go get wild with
the college girls?”