The Seed of Evil

“Well, Mr, er, Neverdie, the decision does not of course rest with us. It will have to be placed before the appropriate department. However, let me assure you that your application will receive my commendation.”

“I thank you.”

Courdon waited by the door as they filed out. Julian was the last to go. Before he left he glanced back at Neverdie, enraged at his own impotence. That carapaced form contained the most precious jewel in the whole universe, and it looked as though they wouldn’t let him get at it.

There’ll be a time, he promised himself. Next time I have him on the table he won’t get away so easily.

Neverdie was glad to be left alone at last. He sank down on his specially constructed divan, relaxed and gave his mind up to sad thoughts.

He thought nostalgically of the other pleasant periods he had spent in the long spell of his existence. Of the fair civilisation beneath the blood-red Arcturus sun where he had recently lived for ten thousand years.

He had told the Earth people something like the truth, but not the whole truth. There had indeed been a ferocious battle from which he had barely escaped. A million years had made him adept at evading the pursuers that sooner or later came at him from all quarters.

But he sensed that at long last he was growing tired. He no longer felt the readiness for endless flight that had once possessed him. He had an intuition, half horrified, half resigned, that this would be his last refuge. Yet while it lasted he believed he would be happy here.

While it lasted … perhaps that would not be long. Already he scented the beginning of the hunt in the attitude of Julian Ferrg, the jerky one. Unless he acted carefully the surgeon would be drawn relentlessly into the continuing tragedy that was Neverdie’s life.

He continued to muse on these thoughts. The sun sank to the horizon, briefly visible through the low windows as a red ball reminiscent of beloved Arcturus. Sleeplessly Neverdie waited in the darkness for it to rise again.

THREE

Twenty-second-century London was bowl-shaped.

At the dead centre there still stood, as an archaic reminder, the old Houses of Parliament. Around them the numerous government departments had extended their premises until they swallowed up the previous commercial areas for a considerable distance around, stretching along Tottenham Court Road to the north, along both arms of the river to east and west, and into Waterloo to the south. The buildings were modest in dimensions, however, and mostly of a conservative twentieth-century style. Beyond the centre the suburbs had elevated themselves progressively in a step-like version of the habitat mode, rising at the perimeter to just under a mile in height. At close quarters the habitat suburbs, with their lack of any clear linear organisation, were like a three-dimensional jungle—especially since Londoners had rediscovered the pleasure of gardens. From a distance they merged into a sparkling, curved surface and gave the city the impression of being a vast arena. When the sun rose over the edge of the perimeter, the great bowl acted as a sun-trap; when it fell below it, illumination continued to filter through the myriad interstices and filled the interior with a panorama of light and shade.

Julian’s airplat floated down into the bowl, mingling with the traffic that hovered over the city like a haze of gnats, and came to rest on a rooftop platform. Courdon’s office was in Centre Point, a twentieth-century structure huddled among other, more modern buildings. Julian passed through the rooftop reception hall to the administrator’s office.

Courdon was waiting for him. He greeted Julian coolly.

“I think I know what you’re going to ask me, and I fear you will be disappointed,” the civil servant began.

Julian strode energetically to the proffered chair and flung himself into it. He looked quizzically at Courdon.

“Well?”

“Neverdie has been granted the world’s first extra-solar immigration permit. In five years’ time, if all goes well, he will be given West-European citizenship. To state things from your point of view, the permit was given with no strings attached. And Neverdie has declined to discuss the matter of technological advancement.”

“You’ve approached him about the question of longevity?”

“I conveyed your request to him, yes, but he’s not willing to co-operate. He hinted that knowledge of biological permanence, to use his term, would not be to our benefit.”

Julian’s lips compressed in annoyance. “Really, I can’t understand the attitude of you government people. Whose planet is this, ours or his? And what about his ship? It should be impounded.”

“But why? It’s his property. We must live according to the law.”

“The law! The law is whatever it’s made to be. Who can Neverdie call on to back his case? Nobody; he only has our gratuitous compliance. Anyway, the ship isn’t important. Immortality is, and that’s what we have to think about.”