Going

by Robert Silverberg

One

In the early spring of 2095, with his one hundred thirty-sixth birthday coming on, Henry Staunt decided quite abruptly that the moment had arrived for him to Go. He would notify the Office of Fulfillment, get himself a congenial Guide, take a suite in one of the better Houses of Leavetaking. With the most pleasant season of the year about to unfurl, the timing would be ideal; he could make his farewells and renunciations during these cool green months and get decently out of the way before summer’s blazing eye was open.

This was the first time that he had ever seriously considered Going, and he felt some surprise that the notion had stolen upon him so suddenly. Why, he wondered, was he willing to end it this morning, when he clearly had not been last week, last month, last year? What invisible watershed had he unknowingly crossed, what imperceptible valley of decision? Perhaps this was only a vagrant morning mood; perhaps by noon he would find himself eager to live another hundred years, after all. Eh? No, not likely. He was aware of the resolution, hard and firm, embedded, encapsulated, shining like a glittering pellet at the core of his soul. Arrange for your Going, Henry. Nothing equivocal about that. A tone of certainty. Of finality. Still, he thought, we must not hurry into this. First let me understand my own motives in coming to this decision. The unexamined death is not worth requesting.

He had heard that it was useful, when thoughts of Going first came into one’s mind, to consult that book of Hallam’s—the handbook of dying, the anatomy of world-renunciation. Very well. Staunt touched a bright enameled control stud and the screen opposite the window flowered into color. “Sir?” the library machine asked him.

Staunt said, “Hallam’s book. The one about dying.”

“The Turning of the Wheel: Departure as Consolation, sir?”

“Yes.”

Instantly its title page was on the screen. Staunt picked up the scanning rod and pressed it here and there and there, randomly, bringing this page and that into view. He admired the clarity of the image. The type was bold and elegant, the margins were wide; not for several moments did he begin paying attention to the text.

…essential that the decision, when it is made, be made for the proper reasons. Although sooner or later we must all turn the wheel, abandoning the world to those who await a place in it, nevertheless no one should leave in resentment, thinking that he has been driven too soon from the worldly sphere. It is the task of the civilized man to bring himself, in the fullness of time, to an acceptance of the knowledge that his life has been completed; Going should not be undertaken by anyone who is not wholly ready, and attaining that state of readiness should be our lifelong goal. Too often we delude ourselves into thinking we are truly ready, when actually we have not reached readiness at all, and choose Going out of unworthy or shallow motives. How tragic it is to arrive at the actual moment of Leavetaking and to realize that one has deceived oneself, that one’s motivations are false, that one is, in fact, not in the least ready to Go!

There are many improper reasons for choosing to Go, but they all may be classified as expressions of the desire to escape. One who is experiencing emotional frustration, or difficulty with his work, or a deterioration of health, or intense fatigue, or disappointment of some kind, may, in a moment of dark whim, apply to a House of Leavetaking; but his real intention is a trivial one, that is, to punish the cruel world by escaping from it. One should never look upon Going as a way of getting even. I must point out again that Going is something more than mere suicide. Going is not a petulant, irrational, vindictive deed. It is a positive act, an act of willing renunciation, a deeply moral act; one does not enter into it lightly, solely to escape. One does not say: I loathe you, foul world, therefore I take my leave, and good riddance. One says: I love you, fair world, but I have experienced your joys to the fullest, and now remove myself so that others may know the same joys.

When one first considers Going, therefore, one must strive to discover if one has attained true readiness—that is, the genuine willingness to put aside the world for the sake of others—or if one is simply seeking to satisfy the ego through the gesture of suicide—

There was much more in that vein. He would read it some other time. He turned the screen off.

So. To find the motive for wanting to Go. Walking slowly through the cool, spacious rooms of his old suburban house, Staunt searched for his reasons. His health? Perfect. He was tall, slender, still strong, with his own teeth and a full head of thick, close-cropped white hair. He hadn’t had major surgery since the pancreas transplant nearly seventy years before. Each year he had his arteries retuned, his eyesight adjusted, and his metabolism enhanced, but at his age those were routine things; basically he was a very healthy man. With the right sort of medical care, and everyone nowadays had the right sort of medical care, his body would go on functioning smoothly for decades more.

What then? Emotional problems? Hardly. He had his friends; he had his family; his life had never been more serene than it was now. His work? Well, he rarely worked any longer: some sketches, some outlines for future compositions, but he knew he would never get around to finishing them. No matter. He had only happy thoughts about his work. Worries over the state of the world? No, the world was in fine shape. Rarely finer.

Boredom, perhaps. Perhaps. He had grown weary of his tranquil life, weary of being content, weary of his beautiful surroundings, weary of going through the motions of life. That could be it. He went to the thick clear window of the living room and peered out at the view that had given him so much delight for so many years. The lawn, still pale from winter, sloped evenly and serenely toward the brook, where stubby skunk cabbages clustered. The dogwoods held the first hints of color; the crocuses were not quite finished; the heavy buds of the daffodils would be bursting by Saturday. All was well outside. Lovely. As it always was, this time of year. Yet he was unmoved. It did not sadden him to think that he would probably not see another spring. There’s the heart of it, Staunt thought: I must be ripe for Going, because I don’t care to stay. It’s that simple. I’ve done all I care to do, I’ve seen all I care to see; now I might just as well move along. The wheel has to turn. Others are waiting to fill my place. It is a far, far better thing I do, et cetera, et cetera.

“Get me the Office of Fulfillment,” he told his telephone.

A gentle female face appeared on the small screen.

Staunt smiled. “My name’s Henry Staunt, and I think I’m ready to Go. Would you send a Guide over as soon as you can?”

Two

An hour later, as Staunt stood by the studio window listening to one of his favorites among his own compositions, the string quartet of 2038, a green-blue copter descended and came fluttering to a halt on his lawn, resting on a cushion of air a short distance above the tips of the grass. It bore on its hull the symbol of the Office of Fulfillment—a wheel and a set of enmeshed gears. The hatch of the copter lifted and, to Staunt’s surprise, Martin Bollinger got out. Bollinger was a neighbor, a friend of long standing, possibly the closest friend Staunt had these days; he often came over for visits; lately there had been some talk of Staunt’s setting a group of Bollinger’s poems to music; but what was Bollinger doing riding around in a Fulfillment Office copter?

Jauntily Bollinger approached the house. He was short, compact, buoyant, with sparkling brown eyes and soft, wavy hair. Staunt supposed he must be seventy or so, eighty at most. Still a young man. Prime of life. It made Staunt feel youthful just to have Bollinger around, and yet he knew that to Bollinger, Bollinger was no youngster. Staunt hadn’t felt like a boy when he was eighty, either. But living to one hundred thirty-six changes your perspective about what’s old.

From outside Bollinger said, “Can I come in, Henry?”

“Let him in,” Staunt murmured. One of the sensors in the studio wall picked up the command and relayed it to the front door, which opened. “Tell him I’m in the studio,” Staunt said, and the house guided Bollinger in. With a flick of two fingers Staunt cut down the volume of the music.

Bollinger, as he entered, nodded and said pleasantly, “I’ve always loved that quartet.”

Staunt embraced him. “So have I. How good to see you, Martin.”

“I’m sorry it’s been so long. Two weeks, isn’t it?”

“I’m glad you’ve come. Although—to be really honest—I’m not going to be free this afternoon, Martin. I’m expecting someone else.”

“Oh?”

“In fact, someone from the very organization whose vehicle you seem to have borrowed. How do you happen to come here in one of their copters, anyway?”

“Why not?” Bollinger asked.

“I can’t understand why you should. It makes no sense.”

“When I come on official business, I use an official copter, Henry.”

“Official business?”

“You asked for a Guide.”

Staunt was shaken. “You?”

“When they told me who had called, I insisted I be given the assignment, or I’d resign instantly. So I came. So here I am.”

“I never realized you were with Fulfillment, Martin!”

“You never asked.”

Staunt managed a baffled smile. “How long ago did you go into it?”

“Eight, ten years. A while ago.”

“And why?”

“A sense of public duty. We all have to help out if the wheel’s going to keep turning smoothly. Eh, Henry? Eh?” Bollinger came close to Staunt, looked up at him, staring straight into his eyes, and flashed an unexpectedly brilliant, somehow overpowering grin. Then he said in a crisp, aggressive tone, “What’s all this about wanting to Go, Henry?”

“The idea came to me this morning. I was strolling around the house when suddenly I realized there was no further point in my staying here. I’m done: why not admit it? Turn the wheel. Clear a space.”

“You’re still relatively young.”

Staunt laughed harshly. “Coming up on one hundred and thirty-six.”

“I know men of one hundred sixty and one hundred seventy who haven’t even dreamed of Going.”

“That’s their problem. I’m ready.”

“Are you ill, Henry?”

“Never felt better.”

“Are you in any kind of trouble, then?”

“None whatever. My life is unutterably tranquil. I have only the purest of motives in applying for Leavetaking.”

Bollinger seemed agitated. He paced the studio, picked up and set down one of Staunt’s Polynesian carvings, clasped his hands to his elbows, and said finally:

“We have to talk about this first, Henry. We have to talk about this!”

“I don’t understand. Isn’t it a Guide’s function to speed me serenely on the way to oblivion? You sound as if you’re trying to talk me out of Going!”

“It’s the Guide’s function,” Bollinger said, “to serve the best interests of the Departing One, whatever those interests may be. The Guide may attempt to persuade the Departing One to delay his Going, or not to Go at all, if in his judgment that’s the proper course to take.”

Staunt shook his head. “There’s a whole bustling world full of healthy young people out there who want to have more children, and who can’t have them unless useless antiquities like myself get out of the way. I volunteer to make some space available. Are you telling me that you’d oppose my Going, Martin, if—”

“Maintaining the level of population at a consistent quantity is only one aspect of our work,” Bollinger said. “We’re also concerned with maintaining quality. We don’t want useful older citizens taking themselves out of the world merely to make room for a newcomer whose capabilities we can’t predict. If a man still has something important to give society—”

“I have nothing important left to give.”

“If he does,” Bollinger went on smoothly, “we will try to discourage him from Going until he’s given it. In your case I think Going may be somewhat premature, and so I’ve wangled the assignment to be your Guide so that I can help you explore the consequences of what you propose to do, and perhaps—”

“What do you think I still can offer the world, Martin?”

“Your music.”

“Haven’t I written enough?”

“We can’t be certain of that. You may have a masterpiece or two lurking in you.” Bollinger began to pace again. “Henry, have you read Hallam’s Turning of the Wheel?”

“I’ve glanced at it. This morning, in fact.”

“Did you look at the section in which he explains why our society is unique in western civilization?”

“It may have slipped my mind.”

Bollinger said, “Henry, ours is the first that accepts the concept of suicide as a virtuous act. In the past, you know, suicide was considered filthy and evil and cowardly; religions condemned it as an attack against the will of God, and even people who weren’t religious tended to try to cover it up when a friend or a relative killed himself. Well, we’re into a different concept. Since our medical skills are now so highly developed that almost no one ever dies naturally, even enlightened birth-limitation measures can’t keep the world from filling up with people. So long as anyone is born at all, and no one dies, there’s a constant and dangerous build-up of population, so that—”

“Yes, yes, but—”

“Let me finish. To cope with our population problem, we eventually decided to regard the voluntary ending of one’s life as a noble sacrifice, and so forth. Hence the whole mystique of Going. Even so, we haven’t entirely lost our old moral outlook on suicide. We still don’t want valuable people to Go, because we feel they have no right to throw away their gifts, to deprive us of what they have to give. And so one of the functions of the Office of Fulfillment is to lead the old and useless toward the exit in a civilized and gentle way, but another of our functions is to keep the old and useful from Going too soon. Therefore—”

“I understand,” Staunt said softly. “I agree with the philosophy. I merely deny that I’m useful any more.”

“That’s open to question.”

“Can it be, Martin, that you’re letting personal factors interfere with your judgment?”

“What do you mean? That I’d keep you from Going because I prize your friendship so dearly?”

“I mean my promise to set your poems to music.”

Bollinger reddened faintly. “That’s absurd. Do you believe that my ego is so bound up in those poems that I’d meddle with your Going, simply so that you’d live to—No. I like to think that my judgment is objective.”

“You could be wrong. You might disqualify yourself from being my Guide. Simply on the chance that—”

“No. I’m your Guide.”

“Are we going to fight, then, over whether I’ll be allowed to Go?”

“Of course not, Henry. We just want you to understand the significance of the step you’ve asked to take.”

“The significance is that I’ll die. Is that such a complicated thing to understand?”

Bollinger looked disturbed by Staunt’s blunt choice of words. One tried not to connect Going and dying. One was supposed to resort to the euphemisms.

He said, “Henry, I just want to follow orderly procedure.”

“Which is?”

“We’ll get you into a House of Leavetaking. Then we’ll ask you to examine your soul and see if you’re as truly ready to Go as you think you are. That’s all. The final decision about when you Go will remain in your hands. If you insisted, you could Go this evening; we wouldn’t stop you. Couldn’t. But of course such haste would be unseemly.”

“As you say.”

“The House of Leavetaking I recommend for you,” Bollinger said, “is known as Omega Prime. It’s in Arizona—beautiful desert country rimmed with mountains—and the staff is superb. I could show you brochures on several others, but—”

“I’ll trust your judgment.”

“Fine. May I use the phone?”

It took less than a minute for Bollinger to book the reservation. For the first time, Staunt felt a sense of inexorability about the course of events. He was on his way out. There would be no turning back now. He would never have the audacity to cancel his Going once he had taken up residence at Omega Prime. But why, he wondered, was he showing even these faint tremors of hesitation? Had Bollinger already begun to undermine his resolution?

“There,” Bollinger said. “They’ll have your suite ready in an hour. Would you like to leave tonight?”

“Why not?”

“Under our procedures,” Bollinger said, “your family will be notified as soon as you’ve arrived there. I’ll do it myself. A custodian will be appointed for your house; it’ll be sealed and placed under guard pending transfer of your property to your heirs. At the House of Leavetaking you’ll have all the legal advice you’ll require, assistance in making a distribution of assets, et cetera, et cetera. There’ll be no loose ends left dangling. It’ll all go quite smoothly.”

“Splendid.”

“And that completes the official part of my visit. You can stop thinking of me as your Guide for a while. Naturally, I’ll be with you a good deal of the time at the House of Leavetaking, handling any queries you may have, doing whatever I can to make things easier for you. For the moment, though, I’m here simply as your friend, not as your Guide. Would you care to talk? Not about Going, I mean. About music, politics, the weather, anything you like.”

Staunt said, “Somehow I don’t feel very talkative.”

“Shall I leave you alone?”

“I think that would be best. I’m starting to think of myself as a Departing One, Martin. I’d like a few hours to get accustomed to the idea.”

Bollinger bowed awkwardly. “It must be a difficult moment for you. I don’t want to intrude. I’ll come back just before dinnertime, all right?”

“Fine,” Staunt said.

Three

Afterward, feeling adrift, Staunt wandered aimlessly through his house, wondering how soon it would be before he changed his mind. He put no credence in Bollinger’s flattering, hopeful hypothesis that he might yet have important works of art to give the world; Staunt knew better. If he had ever owed a debt of creativity to mankind, that debt had long since been paid in full, and civilization need not fear it would be losing anything significant by his Going. Even so, he might find it difficult, after all, to remove himself from all he loved. Would the sight of his familiar possessions shake his decision? Here were the memorabilia of a long, comfortable life: the African masks, the Pueblo pots, the Mozart manuscript, the little Elizabethan harpsichord, the lunar boulder, the Sung bowl, the Canopic jars, the Persian miniatures, the dueling pistols, the Greek coins, all the elegant things that he had collected him in his years of traveling. Once it had seemed unbearable to him that he might ever be parted from these precious objects. They had taken on life for him, so that when a clumsy cleaning machine knocked a Cypriote statuette to the floor and smashed it, he had wept not for the monetary loss, but for the pain he imagined the little clay creature was suffering, for the humiliation it must feel at being ruined. He imagined it hurling bitter reproaches at him: I survived four thousand years so that I might become yours, and you let me get broken! As a child might pretend that her dolls were alive, and talk to them, and apologize to them for fancied slights. It was, he had known all along, a foolish, sentimental, even contemptible attitude, this attachment he had to his inanimate belongings, this solemn fond concern for their “comfort” and “feelings,” this way of speaking of them as “he” or “she” instead of “it,” of worrying about whether some prized piece was receiving a place of display that was properly satisfying to its ego. He acknowledged the half-submerged notion that he had created a family, a special entity, by assembling this hodgepodge of artifacts from a hundred cultures and a hundred eras.

Now, though, he deliberately confronted himself with ugly reality: when he had Gone, his “family” would be scattered, his beloved things sold or given away, some of them surely lost or broken in transit, some ending up on the dusty shelves of ignorant people, none of them ever again to know the warmth of ownership he had lavished on them. And he did not care. Except in the most remote, abstract way, he simply did not care. Today the life was gone out of them, and they were merely masks and pots and bits of bone and pieces of paper—objects, interesting and valuable and attractive, but lacking all feeling. Objects. They needed no coddling. He was under no obligation to them to worry about their welfare. Somehow, without his noticing it, his possessions had ceased to be his pets, and he felt no pain at the thought of parting from them. I must indeed be ready to Go, he told himself.

Here, in the little alcove off the studio, was his real family. A stack of portrait cubes: his wife, his son, his daughter, his children’s children, his children’s children’s children, each of them recorded in a gleaming plastic box a couple of inches high. There were so many of them—dozens! He had had only the socially approved two children, and so had his own children, and none of his grandchildren or great-grandchildren had had more than three, and yet look at the clutter of cubes! The multitude of them was the most vivid possible argument in favor of the idea of Going. One simply had to make room, or everyone would be overwhelmed by the tide of oncoming young ones. Of course in a world where practically no one ever died except voluntarily, and that only at a great old age, families did tend to accumulate amazingly as the generations came along. Even a small family, and these days there was no other kind, was bound to become immense over the course of eighty or ninety years through the compounding progressions of controlled but persistent fertility. All additions, no subtractions. Or very few. And so the numbers mounted. Look at all the cubes!

The cubes were clever things: computer-actuated personality simulations. Everyone got himself cubed at least once, and those who were particularly hungry for the odd sort of immortality that cubing conferred had new cubes made every few years. The process itself was a simple electronic transfer; it took about an hour to make a cube. The scanning machines recorded your voice and patterns of speech, your motion habits, your facial gestures, your whole set of standard reactions and responses. A battery of concise, cunningly perceptive personality tests yielded a character profile. This, too, went into the cube. They ended by having your soul in a box. Plug the cube into a receptor slot, and you came to life on a screen, smiling as you would smile, moving as you would move, sounding as you would sound, saying things you were likely to say. Of course, the thing on the screen was unreal, a mechanical mock-up, a counterfeit approximation of the person who had been cubed; but it was programmed to respond to conversation and to initiate its own conversational gambits without the stimulus of prior inputs, to absorb new data and change its outlook in the light of what it heard; in short, it behaved not like a frozen portrait but like a convincing imitation of the living person from whom it had been drawn.

Staunt studied the collection of cubes. He had five of his son, spanning Paul’s life from early middle age to early old age; Paul faithfully sent his father a new cube at the beginning of each decade. Three cubes of his daughter. A number of the grandchildren. The proud parents sent him cubes of the young ones when they were ten or twelve years old, and the grandchildren themselves, when they were adults, sent along more mature versions of themselves. By now he had four or five cubes of some of them. Each year there were new cubes: an updating of someone’s old one, or some great-great-grandchild getting immortalized for the first time, and everything landing on the patriarch’s shelf. Staunt rather liked the custom.

He had only one cube of his wife. They had developed the process about fifty years ago, and Edith had been dead since ’47, forty-eight years back. Staunt and his wife had been among the first to be cubed; just as well, for her time had been short, though they hadn’t known it. Even now, not all deaths were voluntary. Edith had died in a copter crash, and Staunt, close to ninety, had not remarried. Having the cube of her had been a great comfort to him in the years just after her death. He rarely played it now, mainly because of its technical imperfections; since the process was so new when her cube had been made, the simulation was only approximate, and her movements were jerky and awkward, not much like those of the graceful Edith he had known. He had no idea how long it had been since he had last played her. Impulsively, he slipped her cube into the slot.

The screen brightened, and there was Edith. Supple, alert, aglow. Long creamy-white hair, a purple wrap, her favorite gold pin clasped to her shoulder. She had been in her late seventies when the cube was made; she looked hardly more than fifty. Their marriage had lasted half a century. Staunt had only recently realized that the span of his life without her was now nearly as long as the span of his life with her.

“You’re looking well, Henry,” she said as soon as her image appeared.

“Not bad for an old relic. It’s 2095, Edith. I’ll be one hundred thirty-six.”

“You haven’t switched me on in a while, then. Not for five years, in fact.”

“No. But it isn’t that I haven’t thought of you, Edith. It’s just that I’ve tended to drift away from everything I once loved. I’ve become a sleepwalker, in a way. Wandering through the days, filling in my time.”

“Have you been well?”

“Well enough,” Staunt said. “Healthy. Astonishingly healthy. I can’t complain.”

“Are you composing?”

“Very little, these days. Nothing, really. I’ve made some sketches for intended work, but that’s all.”

“I’m sorry. I was hoping you’d have something to play for me.”

“No,” he said. “Nothing.”

Over the years, he had faithfully played each of his new compositions to Edith’s cube, just as he had kept her up to date on the doings of their family and friends, on world events, on cultural fads. He had not wanted her cube to remain fixed forever in 2046. To have her constantly learning, growing, changing, helped to sustain his illusion that the Edith on the screen was the real Edith. He had even told her the details of her own death.

“How are the children?” she asked.

“Fine. I see them often. Paul’s in fine shape, a tough old man just like his father. He’s ninety-one, Edith. Does it puzzle you to be the mother of a son who’s older than you are?”

She laughed. “Why should I think of it that way? If he’s ninety-one, I’m one hundred twenty-five.”

“Of course. Of course.” If she wanted it like that.

“And Crystal’s eighty-seven. Yes, that is a little strange. I can’t help thinking of her as a young woman. Why, her children must be old themselves, and they were just babies!”

“Donna is sixty-one. David is fifty-eight. Henry is forty-seven.”

“Henry?” Edith said, her face going blank. After a moment’s confusion she recovered. “Oh, yes. The third child, the little accident. Your namesake. I forgot him for a moment.” Henry had been born soon after Edith’s death; Staunt had told her cube about him, but imprinting of post-cubing events never took as well as the original programming; she had lost the datum for a moment. As if to cover her embarrassment, Edith began asking him about all the other grandchildren, the great-grandchildren, the whole horde that had accumulated after her lifetime. She called forth names, assigned the right children to the right parents, scampered up and down the entire Staunt family tree, showing off to please him.

But he forced an abrupt switch of subject. “I want to tell you, Edith, that I’ve decided it’s time for me to Go.”

Again the blank look. “Go? Go where?”

“You know what I mean. Going.”

“No, I don’t. Really, I don’t.”

“To a House of Leavetaking.”

“I still don’t follow.”

He struggled against being impatient with her. “I’ve explained the idioms to you. Long ago. They’ve been in use at least thirty or forty years. It’s voluntary termination of life, Edith. I’ve discussed it with you. Everyone comes to it sooner or later.”

“You’ve decided to die?”

“To Go, yes, to die, to Go.”

“Why?”

“Because of the boredom. The loneliness. I’ve outlived most of my early friends. I’ve outlived my own talent. I’ve outlived myself, Edith. A hundred thirty-six years. And I could go on another fifty. But why bother? To live just for the sake of living?”

“Poor Henry. You always had such a wonderful capacity for being interested in things. The day wasn’t long enough for you, with your collections, and your books, and your music, and traveling around the world, and your friends—”

“I’ve read everything I want to read. I’ve seen the whole world. I’m tired of collecting things.”

“Perhaps I was the lucky one, then. A decent number of years, a happy life, and then out. Quickly.”

“No. I’ve enjoyed living on like this, Edith. I kept my health, I didn’t go senile—it’s been good, all of it. Except for not having you with me. But I’ve stopped enjoying things. Quite suddenly I’ve realized that there’s no point in staying any longer. The wheel has to turn. The old have to clear themselves away. Somewhere there are people waiting to have a child, waiting for a vacancy in the world, and it’s up to me to create that vacancy.”

“Have you told Paul and Crystal?”

“Not yet. I made the decision just today. But I’ll notify them—or it’ll be done for me. They’ll have most of my property. I’ll give my cube of you to Paul. Everything’s handled very efficiently for a Departing One.”

“How soon will you—Go?”

Staunt shrugged. “I don’t know yet. A month, two months—there’s no rush about it.”

“You sound as though you don’t really want to do it.”

He shook his head. “I want to, Edith. But in a civilized way. Taking my leave properly. I’ve lived a long time; I can’t let go in a single day. But I won’t stay here much longer.”

“I’ll miss you, Henry.”

He pondered the intricacies of that. The cube missing the living man. Chuckling, he said, “Paul will play my cube to you, and yours to me. We’ll talk to each other through the machinery. We’ll always be there for each other.”

The image of Edith reached a hand toward him. He cursed the clumsiness of the simulation. Gently he touched his fingertips to the screen, making a kind of contact with her across the decades, across the barriers separating them. He blew a kiss to her. Then, quickly, before sentimentality overcame him, he pulled her cube from the slot and set it beside those of his son and daughter. In haste, nearly stumbling, he went on into his studio.

The big room held the tangible residue of his long career. Over here, the music itself, in recorded performance: disks and cassettes for the early works, sparkling playback cubes for the later ones. Here were the manuscripts, uniformly bound in red half-morocco, one of his little vanities. Here were the scrapbooks of reviews and the programs of concerts. Here were the trophies. Here were the volumes of his critical writings. Staunt had been a busy man. He looked at the titles stamped on the bindings of the manuscripts: the symphonies, the string quartets, the concerti, the miscellaneous chamber works, the songs, the sonatas, the cantatas, the operas. So much. So much. He had tried his hand at virtually every form. His music was polite, agreeable, conservative, even a bit academic, yet he made no apologies for it: he had followed his own inner voices wherever they led, and if he had not been led to rebellion and fulminations, so be it. He had given pleasure through his work. He had added to the world’s small stock of beauty. It was a respectable life’s accomplishment. If he had had more passion, more turbulence, more dynamism, perhaps, he would have shaken the world as Beethoven had, as Wagner. Well, the great gesture had never been his to brandish; yet he had done his best, and in his way he had achieved enough. Some men heal the sick, some men soothe the souls of the troubled, some men invent wondrous machines—and some make songs and symphonies, because they must, and because it is all they can do to enrich the world into which they had been thrust. Even now, with his life’s flame burning low, with everything suddenly seeming pointless and hollow to him, Staunt felt no sense of having wasted his time filling this room with what it held. Never in the past hundred years had a week gone by without a performance of one of his compositions somewhere. That was sufficient justification for having written, for having lived.

He turned on the synthesizer and rested his fingers lightly on the keys, and of their own will they played the opening theme of his Venus symphony of 1989, his first mature work. How far away all that seemed now—the glittering autumn of triumphs as he conducted it himself in a dozen capitals, the critics agog, everyone from the disgruntled Brahms-fanciers to the pundits of the avant-garde rushing to embrace him as the savior of serious music. Of course, there had been a reaction to that hysterical overpraise later, when the modernists decided that no one so popular could possibly be good and the conservatives began to find him too modern, but such things were only to be expected. He had gone his own way. Eventually others had recognized his genius—a limited and qualified genius, a small and tranquil genius, but genius nevertheless. As the world emerged from the storms of the twentieth century’s bitter second half, as the new society of peace and harmony took shape on the debris of the old, Staunt created the music a quieter era needed, and became its lyric voice.

Here. He pushed a cube into a playback slot. The sweet outcry of his wind quintet. Here: The Trials of Job, his first opera. Here: Three Orbits for Strings and Stasis Generator. Here: Polyphonies for Five Worlds. He got them all going at once, bringing wild skeins of sound out of the room’s assortment of speakers, and stood in the middle, trembling a little, accepting the sonic barrage and untangling everything in his mind.

After perhaps four minutes he cut off the sound. He did not need to play the music; it was all within his head, whenever he wanted it. Lightly he caressed the smooth, glossy black backs of his scrapbooks, with all the documentation of his successes and his occasional failures neatly mounted. He ran his fingers along the rows of bound manuscripts. So much. So very much. Such a long productive life. He had no complaints.

He told his telephone to get him the Office of Fulfillment again.

“My Guide is Martin Bollinger,” he said. “Would you let him know that I’d like to be transferred to the House of Leavetaking as soon as possible?”

Four

Bollinger, sitting beside him in the copter, leaned across him and pointed down.

“That’s it,” he said. “Omega Prime, right below.”

The House of Leavetaking seemed to be a string of gauzy white tentlike pavilions, arranged in a U-shape around a courtyard garden. The late afternoon sun tinged the pavilions with gold and red. Bare fangs of purplish mountains rose on the north and east; on the other side of Omega Prime the fiat flat brown Arizona desert, pocked with cacti and palo verde, stretched toward the dark horizon.

The copter landed silently. When the hatch opened, Staunt felt the blast of heat. “We don’t modulate the outdoor climate here,” Bollinger explained. “Most Departing Ones seem to prefer it that way. Contact with the natural environment.”

“I don’t mind,” Staunt said. “I’ve always loved the desert.”

A welcoming party had gathered by the time he emerged from the copter. Three members of Omega Prime’s staff, in smocks monogrammed with the Fulfillment insignia. Four withered oldsters, evidently awaiting their own imminent Going. A transport robot, with its wheelchair seat already in position. Staunt, picking his way carefully over the rough, pebble-strewn surface of the landing field, was embarrassed by the attention. He said in a low voice to Bollinger, “Tell them I don’t need the chair. I can still walk. I’m no invalid.”

They clustered around him, introducing themselves: Dr. James, Miss Elliot, Mr. Falkenbridge. Those were the staff people. The four Departing Ones croaked their names at him too, but Staunt was so astonished by their appearance that he forgot to pay attention. The shriveled faces, the palsied clawlike hands, the parchment skin—did he look like that, too? It was years since he had seen anyone his own age. He had the impression that he had come through his fourteen decades well preserved, but perhaps that was only an illusion born of vanity, perhaps he really was as much of a ruin as these four. Unless they were much older than he, one hundred seventy-five, one hundred eighty years old, right at the limits of what was now the human span of mortality. Staunt stared at them in wonder, awed and dismayed by their gummy grins.

Falkenbridge, a husky red-haired young man, apparently some sort of orderly, was trying to ease him into the wheelchair. Irritably Staunt shook him off, saying, “No. No. I’ll manage. Martin, tell him I don’t need it.”

Bollinger whispered something to Falkenbridge. The young man shrugged and sent the transport robot away. Now they all began walking toward the House of Leavetaking, Falkenbridge on Staunt’s right, Miss Elliot on his left, both of them staying close to him in case he should topple.

He found himself under unexpectedly severe strain. Possibly refusing the wheelchair had been foolish bravado. The fierce dry heat, the fatigue of his ninety-minute rocket journey across the continent, the coarse texture of the ground, all conspired to make his legs wobbly. Twice he came close to falling. The first time Miss Elliot gently caught his elbow and steadied him; the second, he managed to recover himself, after a short half-stumble that sent pain shooting through his left ankle.

Suddenly, all at once, he was feeling his age. In a single day he had begun to dodder, as though his decision to enter a House of Leavetaking had stripped him of all his late-staying vigor. No. No. He rejected the idea. He was merely tired, as a man his age had every right to be; with a little rest he’d be himself again. He walked faster, despite the effort it cost him. Sweat trickled down his cheeks. There was a stitch in his side. His entire left leg ached.

At last they reached the entrance to Omega Prime. He saw now that what had seemed to be gauzy tents, viewed from above, were in fact sturdy and substantial plastic domes, linked by an intricate network of covered passageways. The courtyard around which they were grouped, contained elaborate plantings of desert flora: giant stiff-armed cacti, looping white-whiskered succulents, odd and angular thorny things. The plants had been grouped with remarkable grace and subtleness around an assortment of strange boulders and sleek stone slabs; the effect was one of extraordinary beauty. Staunt stood a moment contemplating it. Bollinger said gently, “Why not go to your suite first? The garden will still be here this evening.”

He had an entire dome to himself. Interior walls divided it into a bedroom, a sitting room, and a kind of utility room; everything was airy and tastefully simple, and the temperature was twenty-five degrees cooler than outside. A window faced the garden.

The staff people and the quartet of Departing Ones vanished, leaving Staunt alone with his Guide. Bollinger said, “Each of the residents has a suite like this. You can eat here, if you like, although there’s a community dining room under the courtyard. There are recreational facilities there too—a library, a theater, a game room—but you can spend all of your time perfectly happily right where you are.”

Staunt lowered himself gingerly into a webfoam hammock. As his weight registered, tiny Mechanical hands began to massage his back. Bollinger smiled.

“This is your data terminal,” he said, handing Staunt a copper-colored rod about eight inches long. “It’s a standard access unit. You can get any book in the library—and there are thousands of them—screened on request, and you can play whatever music you’d like, and it’s also a telephone input. Ask it to connect you with anyone at all. Go on. Ask.”

“My son Paul,” Staunt said.

“Ask it,” said Bollinger.

Staunt activated the terminal and gave it Paul’s name and access number. Instantly a screen came to life just beside the hammock. Staunt’s son appeared in its silvery depths. The screen could almost have been a mirror, a strange sort of time-softening mirror that was capable of taking the face of a very old man and reflecting it as that of a man who was merely old. Staunt beheld someone who was a younger version of himself, though far from young: cool gray eyes, thin lips, lean bony face, a dense mane of white hair.

Paul’s face was deeply lined but still vigorous. At the age of ninety-one he had not yet retired from the firm of architects he headed. So long as a man’s health was good and his mind was sound and he still found his career rewarding, there was no reason to retire; when mind or body failed or career lost its savor, that was the time to withdraw and make oneself ready to Go.

Staunt said, “I’m calling you from Omega Prime.”

“What’s that, Henry?”

“You’ve never heard of it? A House of Leavetaking in Arizona. It looks like a lovely place. Martin Bollinger brought me here this evening.”

Paul looked startled. “Are you thinking of Going, Henry?”

“I am.”

“You never told me you had any such thing in mind!”

“I’m telling you now.”

“Are you in poor health?”

“I feel fine,” Staunt said. “Everyone asks me that, and I say the same thing. My health is excellent.”

“Then why—”

“Do I have to justify it? I’ve lived long enough. My life is over.”

“But you’ve been so alert, so involved—”

“It’s my decision to make. It’s ungracious of you to quarrel with me over it.”

“I’m not quarreling,” Paul said. “I’m trying to adapt to it. You know, you’ve been part of my life for nine decades. I don’t give a damn what the social conventions are: I can’t simply smile and nod and say how sweet when my father announces he’s going to die.”

“To Go.”

“To Go,” Paul muttered. “Whatever. Have you told Crystal?”

“You’re the first member of the family to know. Except for your mother, that is.”

“My mother?”

“The cube,” said Staunt.

“Oh. Yes. The cube.” A thin, edgy laugh. “All right. I’ll tell the others. I suppose I’ll have to learn how to be head of the family, finally. You’re not going to be doing this immediately, are you?”

“Naturally not. Where do you get such ideas? I’ll have a proper Leavetaking. Graceful. Serene. A few weeks, a month or two—the usual thing.”

“And we can visit you?”

“I’ll expect you to,” Staunt said. “That’s part of the ritual.”

“What about—pardon me—what about the legal aspects? Disposition of property, things like that?”

“It’ll all be managed in the customary way. The Office of Fulfillment is supposed to help me. Don’t worry: you’ll get everything that’s coming to you.”

“That isn’t a kind way to phrase it, Henry.”

“I don’t have to be kind any more. I don’t even have to make sense. I’m just a crazy old man getting ready to Go.”

“Henry—Father—”

“All right. I’m sorry. Somehow this conversation hasn’t worked right at all. Shall we start it over?”

“I’d like to,” Paul said.

Staunt realized he was quivering. The muscles of his face were drawn taut. He made a deliberate attempt to relax, and after a moment, said quietly, “It’s a perfectly normal, desirable step to take. I’m old and tired and lonely and bored. I’m no use to myself or to anybody else, and there’s really no sense troubling my doctors to keep me functioning any longer. So I’m going to Go. I’d rather Go now, when I’m still reasonably healthy and clear-witted, instead of trying to hang on another few decades until I’ve slid into senility. I’ve moved to Omega Prime, and you’ll all come to visit me before my Leavetaking, and it’ll be a peaceful and beautiful Going, I hope. That’s all. There’s nothing to weep about. In forty or fifty years you’ll understand all this a lot better.”

“I understand it now,” Paul said. “You caught me by surprise when you called, but I understand. Of course. Of course. We don’t want to lose you, but that’s only our selfishness talking. You’ve lived a full life, and, well, the wheel has to turn.”

How smoothly he does it, Staunt thought. How easily he slips into the jargon. How readily he agrees with me, after his first reflexive moment of shock. Yes, Henry, certainly, Henry, it’s wise of you to Go, Henry, you’ve lived long enough. Staunt wondered which was the fraud: Paul’s initial resistance to the idea of his Going, or his philosophical acquiescence. And what difference did it make? Why, Staunt asked himself, should I be offended if my son thinks it’s right for me to Go when I was offended two minutes earlier by his trying to talk me out of it?

He was beginning to be unsure of his own ground. Perhaps he did want to be talked out of it.

I must read Hallam shortly, he told himself.

He said to Paul, “I have a great deal to do this evening. I’ll call you tomorrow. Or you call me.”

The screen went blank.

Bollinger said, “He took it rather well, I thought. The children don’t always accept the idea that a parent is Going. They accept the theory of Leavetaking, but they always assume that it’s someone else’s old folks who’ll Go.”

“They want their own parents to live forever, even if the parents don’t feel like staying around any longer?”

“That’s it.”

“What if someone does feel like staying forever?” Staunt asked.

Bollinger shrugged. “We never try to force the issue. We hint a little, as subtly as we know how, if someone is one hundred forty or one hundred fifty or so, and really a wreck, but clinging to life anyway. For that matter, if he’s eighty or ninety, even, and just going through the motions of living, held together by his doctors alone, we’ll try to encourage Going. We have gentle ways of working through doctors or friends or relatives, trying to overcome the fear of dying in the ones who linger, trying to get across the idea that it’s not only best for society for them to move on, it’s best for themselves. If they don’t take the hint, there’s nothing we can do. Involuntary euthanasia just isn’t part of our system.”

“How old,” Staunt asked, “are the oldest living people now?”

“I think the oldest ones known are something like one hundred seventy-five or one hundred eighty. Which means they were born in the early part of the twentieth century, around the time of the First World War. Anyone born before that simply spent too much of his life in the era of medieval medicine to hope for a really long span. But if you were born, say, in 1920, you were still only fifty-five or sixty when the era of organ transplants and computerized health services and laser surgery was beginning, and if you were lucky enough to be in good shape in the 1970’s, the 1980’s, why, you could be kept going just about indefinitely thereafter. Into the era of tissue regeneration and all the rest. A few from the early twentieth century did hang on into the era of total medicine, and some of them are still with us. Politely declining to Go.”

“How much longer can they last?”

“Hard to say,” Bollinger replied. “We just don’t know what the practical limits of the human life-span are. Our experience with total medicine doesn’t go back far enough. I’ve heard it said that two hundred or two hundred ten is the top figure, but in another twenty or thirty years we may have some people who’ve reached that figure, and we’ll find that we can keep them going beyond it. Maybe there is no top limit, now that we can do the things we do to rebuild a decaying body. But how hideously antisocial it is of them to hang around for century after century just to test our medical skills!”

“But if they’re making valuable contributions to society through all those hundreds of years—”

“If,” Bollinger said. “But the fact is that ninety, ninety-five percent of all people never make any contributions to society, even when they’re young. They just occupy space, do jobs that could really be done better by machines, sire children who aren’t any more gifted than they are—and hang on, living and living and living. We don’t want to lose anyone who’s valuable, Henry; I’ve been through that with you already. But most people aren’t valuable to begin with, and get less valuable as they go along, and there’s no reason in the universe why they should live past one hundred or one hundred ten, let alone to two hundred or three hundred or whatever.”

“That’s a harsh philosophy. Cynical, even.”

“I know. But read Hallam. The wheel’s got to turn. We’ve reached an average life-span that would have seemed wild fantasy as late as the time when you were a child, Henry, but that doesn’t mean we have to strive to make everyone immortal. Not unless people are willing to give up having children, and they aren’t. It’s a finite planet. If there’s inflow, there has to be outflow, and I like to think that those flowing out are the ones who have the least to offer to the rest of us. The decrepit, the feeble, the slow-witted, the mean-souled. Thank God, most old folks agree. For every one who absolutely won’t give up his grip on life, there are fifty who are glad to go once they’ve hit one hundred or so. And as the remainder get even older, they change their minds about staying, just as you’ve done lately. Not many want to go on past one hundred fifty. The few who do, well, we’ll look on them as experiments in geriatrics, and let them be.”

“How old are those four who met my copter?” Staunt asked.

“I couldn’t tell you. One hundred twenty, one hundred thirty, something like that. Most of those who arrange for Leavetaking now are people born between 1960 and 1980.”

“Of my generation, then.”

“I suppose, yes.”

“Do I look as bad as they do? They’re a bunch of walking mummies, Martin. I’d have guessed they were fifty years older than I am.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“But I’m not like them, am I? I’ve got my teeth. My hair. My real eyes. I look old, but not ancient. Or am I fooling myself, Martin? Am I really a dried-up nightmare too? Is it just that I’ve grown accustomed to the way I look, I haven’t noticed the changes, decade after decade as I get older and older?”

“There’s a mirror,” Bollinger said. “Answer your own questions.”

Staunt stared at himself. Lines and wrinkles, yes: a contour map of time, the valleys and ravines of a long life. Blotches on the skin. The glittering eyes deeply recessed; the cheeks fleshless, revealing the sharp outlines of the skull beneath. An old face, tremendously old. But yet not like their faces. He was no mummy yet. He imagined that a man of the twentieth century would guess him to be no more than eighty or eighty-five, just as a man of the twentieth century would guess Paul to be in his late sixties and Martin Bollinger in his late fifties. Those others, those four, showed their true ages. It must take all the magic at their doctors’ command to keep them together. And now, weary of cheating death, they’ve come here to Go and be over with the farce. Whereas I am still strong, whereas I could continue easily, if only I wanted to continue.

“Well?” Bollinger asked.

“I’m in pretty good shape,” Staunt said. “I’m quitting while I’m ahead. It’s the right way to do it.” He picked up the data terminal again. “I wonder if they have any of my music in storage here,” he said, and opened the access node and made a request; and the room flooded with the first chords of his Twelfth Symphony. He was pleased. He closed his eyes and listened. When the movement ended, he looked around the room, and found that Bollinger had gone.

Five

Dr. James came to see him a little while later, as night was enfolding the desert. Staunt was standing by the window, watching the brilliant stars appear, when the room annunciator told him of his visitor.

The doctor was a youngish man—forty, fifty, Staunt was no longer good at guessing ages—with a long fragile-looking nose and a gentle, faintly unctuous, I-want-you-to-have-a-lovely-Going sort of manner. His first words to Staunt were, “I’ve been looking through your medical file. I really must congratulate you on the excellent state of your health.”

“There’s something about music that keeps people in good shape,” Staunt said.

“Are you a conductor?”

“A composer. But I’ve conducted my own works quite often. Waving the baton—it’s obviously good exercise.”

“I don’t know much about music, I’m afraid. Some afternoon you must program some of your favorite pieces for me.” The doctor grinned shyly. “The simpler ones. Music for an unsophisticated medic, if you’ve written any.” He was silent a moment. Then he said, “You really do have an excellent medical history. Your doctor’s computer transferred your whole file to us this afternoon when your reservation was made. Naturally, while you’re with us we want you to remain in perfect health and comfort. You’ll receive the same kind of care here that you were getting at home—the muscle therapies, the ion-balance treatments, the circulatory clearances, and so forth. Including any special supportive therapy that may become necessary. Not that I anticipate someone like you to need a great deal of that.”

“I could last another fifty years, eh?”

Dr. James looked abashed. His plump cheeks glowed. “That choice is entirely up to you, Mr. Staunt.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not about to change my mind.”

“No one here will hurry you,” the doctor said. “We’ve had people remain at Omega Prime for three, even four years. Each man’s Leavetaking is the most important event in his life, after all; he’s entitled to go about it at his own pace, to disengage himself from the world as gradually as he wants. You do understand that there is no cost to you for any part of your residence here. The government underwrites the whole business.”

“I think Martin Bollinger explained that to me.”

“Good. Let me discuss with you, then, some of your Leavetaking options. Many Departing Ones prefer to begin their withdrawal from the world by making a grand tour—a kind of farewell to all the great sights, the Pyramids, the Taj Mahal, Notre Dame, the Sahara, Antarctica, whatever. We can make any such travel arrangements you’d like. We have several organized tours, on which you’d travel with five or six or ten other Departing Ones and several Guides—a one-month tour of the most famous places, a two-month tour, or a three-month tour. These are packaged in advance, but we can make changes in itinerary by unanimous consent of the Departing Ones. Or, if you prefer, you could travel alone, that is, just you and your Guide, to any part of the world that—”

Staunt looked at him in astonishment. Was this man a doctor or a travel agent?

And did he want to take any such tour? It was vaguely tempting. At government expense to see the temples of Chichen Itza by moonlight, to float over the Andes and descend into Machu Picchu, to smell the scent of cloves on Zanzibar, to look up at a sequoia’s distant blue-green crown, to see the hippos jostling in the Nile, to roam the crumbling dusty streets of Babylon, to drift above the baroque intricacies of the Great Barrier Reef, to see the red sandstone spires of Utah, to tramp along the Great Wall of China, to make his farewells to lakes and deserts and mountains and valleys, to cities and wastelands, to penguins, to polar bears—

But he had seen all those places. Why go back? Why bother to make a breathless pilgrimage, dragging his flimsy bones from place to place? Once was enough. He had his memories.

“No,” he said. “If I had any desire to travel anywhere, I wouldn’t have thought of Going in the first place. If you follow me. The flavor’s gone out of everything, do you see? I don’t have the motivation for hauling myself around. Not even to make sentimental gestures of farewell.”

“As you wish, Mr. Staunt. Most Departing Ones do take advantage of the travel option. But you’ll find no coercion here. If you feel no urge to travel, why, stay right where you are.”

“Thank you. What are some of the other Leavetaking options?”

“It’s customary for the Departing Ones to seek experiences they may have missed during their lifetimes, or to repeat ones that they found particularly rewarding. If there’s some special type of food that you enjoy—”

“I was never a gourmet.”

“Or works of music you want to hear again, masterpieces you’d like to live with one last time—”

“There are some,” Staunt said. “Not many. Most of them bore me now. When Mozart and Bach and Beethoven begin to bore a man, he knows it’s time to Go. Do you know, even Staunt has begun to seem less interesting to me lately?”

Dr. James did not smile.

He said, “In any event, you’ll find that we’re programmed for every imaginable work of music, and if there are any you know of that we don’t have and ought to have, I hope you’ll tell us. It’s the same with books. Your screen can give you any work in any language—just put in the requisition. A number of Departing Ones use this opportunity at last to read War and Peace, or Ulysses, or The Tale of Genji, say.”

“Or The Encyclopæaedia Britannica,” Staunt said, “from ‘Aardvark’ to ‘Zwingli.’ ”

“You think you’re joking. We had a Departing One here five years ago who set out to do just that.”

“How far did he get?” Staunt wanted to know. “ ‘Antimony’? ‘Betelgeuse’?”

“ ‘Magnetism,’ I think. He was quite dedicated to the job.”

“Perhaps I’ll do some reading, too, doctor. Not the Britannica. But Hallam, at least. Maybe Montaigne, and maybe Hobbes, and maybe Ben Jonson. For about sixty years I’ve been meaning to read my way through Ben Jonson. I suppose this is my last chance.”

“Another option,” Dr. James said, “is a memory jolt.”

“Which is?”

“Chemical stimulation of the mnemonic centers. It stirs up the memories, awakens things you may not have thought about for eighty or ninety years, sends images and textures and odors and colors of past experiences through your mind in a remarkably vivid way. In a sense, it’s a trip through your entire past. I don’t know any Departing One who’s done it and not come out of it in a kind of ecstasy, a radiant glow of joy.”

Staunt frowned. “I’d guess that it could be a painful experience. Disturbing. Depressing.”

“Not at all. Never. It’s emotion recollected in tranquility: the experiences may have been painful originally, but the replay of them never is. The jolt allows you to come to terms with all that you’ve been and done. I’ve known people to ask to Go within an hour of coming out of the jolt, and not because they were depressed; they simply want to take their leave on a high note.”

“I’ll think about it,” Staunt said.

“Other than the things I’ve mentioned, your period of Leavetaking is completely unstructured. You write the script. Your family will come to see you, and your friends; I think you’ll get to know some of the other Departing Ones here; there’ll be Leavetaking parties as one by one they opt to Go, and then there’ll be Farewell ceremonies for them, and they’ll Go; and eventually, a month, six months, as you choose, you’ll request your own Leavetaking party and Farewell ceremony, and finally you’ll Go. You know, Mr. Staunt, I feel a tremendous sense of exhilaration here every day, working with these wonderful Departing Ones, helping to make their last weeks beautiful, watching the serenity with which they Go. My own time of Going is still ninety or a hundred years away, I suppose, and yet in a way I look forward to it now; I feel a certain impatience, knowing that the happiest hours of my life will come at the very end of it. To Go when still healthy, to step voluntarily out of the world in an atmosphere of peace and fulfillment, to know that you cap a long and successful life by the noblest of all deeds, letting the wheel turn, giving younger people an opportunity to occupy your place—how marvelous it all is!”

“I wish,” Staunt said, “that I could orchestrate your aria. Shimmering tremolos in the strings—the plaintive wail of the oboes—harps, six harps, making celestial noises—and then a great crescendo of trombones and French horns and bassoons, a sort of Valhalla music welling up—”

Looking baffled, Dr. James said, “I told you, I don’t really know much about music.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t mock, not at my age. I’m sure it is beautiful and marvelous. I’m very happy to be here.”

“A pleasure to have you,” said Dr. James.

Six

Staunt did not feel up to having dinner in the community dining room; he had had a long journey, crossing several time zones, and his appetite was awry. He ordered a light meal, juice and soup and fruit, and it arrived almost instantaneously via a subterranean conveyor system. He ate sparingly. Before I Go, he promised himself, I will have steak au poivre again, and escargots, and a curry of lamb, and all the other things I never cared much for while I was young enough to digest them. James offers me a chance; why not take it? I will become a preposthumous gourmet. Even if it kills me. Better to Go like that than by drinking whatever tasteless potion it is they give you at the end.

After dinner he asked where Bollinger was.

“Mr. Bollinger has gone home,” Staunt was told. “But he’ll be back the day after tomorrow. He’ll spend three days a week with you while you’re here.”

Staunt supposed it was unreasonable of him to expect his Guide to devote all his time to him. But Bollinger might at least have stayed around for the first night. Unless the idea was to have the Departing One make his own adaptation to life in the House of Leavetaking.

He toyed with his data terminal, testing its resources. For a while he amused himself by pulling obscure music from the machine: medieval organs, Hummel sonatas, eighteenth-century German opera, odd electronic things from the middle of the twentieth century. But it was impossible to win that game; apparently, if the music had ever been recorded, the computer had access to it. Staunt turned next to books, asking for Hobbes and Hallam, Montaigne and Jonson—not screenings but actual print-out copies of his own, and within minutes after he placed the requisitions, the fresh crisp sheaves of pages began arriving on the same conveyor that had brought his dinner. He put the books aside without looking through them. Perhaps some telephone calls, he thought: my daughter, maybe, or a friend or two. But everyone he knew seemed to live in the East or in Europe, and it was some miserable early hour of the morning there. Staunt gave up the idea of talking to anyone. He dropped into a dull leaden mood. Why had he come to these three little plastic rooms in the desert, giving up his fine well-tended house, his treasures of art, his dogwoods, his books? Surrendering everything for this sterile halfway station on the road to death? I could call Dr. James, I suppose, and tell him I’d like to Go right now. Save the staff some trouble, save the taxpayers some money, save my family the bother of going through the Farewell rituals. How is Going managed, anyway? He believed it was a drug. Something sweet and pleasant, and then the body goes to sleep. A tranquil death, like Socrates’, just a chill climbing quickly through the legs toward the heart. Tonight. Tonight. To Go tonight.

No.

I must play the game properly. I must do my Going with style.

He turned to the terminal and said, “I’d like someone to show me down to the recreation center.”

Miss Elliot, the nurse, appeared, as though she had been stored waiting in a box just outside his suite. So far as Staunt still had the capacity to tell, she was a handsome girl, golden-haired and buxom, with fine clear skin and large glossy blue eyes, but there was something remote and impersonal and mechanical about her; she could almost have been a robot. “The recreation center? Certainly, Mr. Staunt.” She offered her arm. He gestured as if to refuse it, but then, remembering his earlier struggle to walk, took it anyway, and leaned heavily on her as they went out. Thus I accept my mortality. Thus I speed my final decline.

A dropshaft took them into an immense, brightly lit area somewhere far underground. There was a moving slidewalk here; Miss Elliot guided him onto it and they trundled along a few hundred yards, to a step-off turntable that fed him smoothly into the recreation center.

It was a good-sized room, divided chapel-fashion at its far end into smaller rooms. Staunt saw screens, data terminals, playback units, and other access equipment, all of it duplicating what every Departing One had in his own suite. But of course they came here out of loneliness; it might be more comforting to do one’s reading or listening in public, he thought. There also were games of various kinds suitable for the very old, nothing that required any great degree of stamina or coordination: stochastic chess, polyrhythmers, double-orbit, things like that. We slide into childhood on our way to the grave.

There were about fifty Departing Ones in the center, he guessed. Most of them looked as old as the four who had met his copter earlier in the day; a few, frighteningly, seemed even older. Some looked much younger, no more than seventy or eighty. Staunt thought at first they might be Guides, but he saw on their faces a certain placid slackness that seemed common to all these Departing Ones, a look of dim mindless content, of resignation, of death-in-life. Evidently, one did not have to be heavily stricken in years to feel the readiness to Go.

“Shall I introduce you to some of the other Departing Ones?” Miss Elliot asked.

“Please. Yes.”

She took him around. This is Henry Staunt, she said again and again. The famous composer. And she told him their names. He recognized none of them. David Golding, Michael Green, Ella Freeman, Seymour Church, Katherine Parks. Names. Withered faces. Miss Elliot supplied no identifying tags for any of them, as she had done for him; no “Ella Freeman, the famous actress,” no “David Golding, the famous astronaut,” no “Seymour Church, the famous financier.” They had not been actresses or astronauts or financiers. God alone knew what they had been; Miss Elliot wasn’t saying, and Staunt found himself without the energy to ask. Accountants, stockbrokers, housewives, teachers, programmers. Anything. Nothing. Just people. Ordinary people. Survivors from previous geological epochs. So old, so old, so old. In hardly any of them could Staunt detect the glimmer of life, and he saw for the first time how fortunate he had been to reach this great old age of his intact. The walking dead. Seymour Church, the famous zombie. Katherine Parks, the famous somnambulist. None of them seemed ever to have heard of him. Staunt was not surprised at that; even a famous composer learns early in life that he will be famous only among a minority of his countrymen. But still, those blank looks, those unfocused eyes. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Stout. How d’ye do, Mr. Stint. Hello. Hello. Hello.

“Have you met some interesting people?” Miss Elliot said, passing close to Staunt half an hour later.

“I’m more tired than I thought,” Staunt said. “Perhaps you should take me back to my suite.”

Already the names of the other Departing Ones were slipping from his mind. He had had brief, fragmentary conversations with six or seven of them, but they could not keep their minds on what they were saying, and neither, he discovered, could he. A terrible fatigue that he had never known before was settling over him. Senility must be contagious, he decided. Thirty minutes among the Departing Ones and I am as they are. I must get away.

Miss Elliot guided him to his room. Mr. Falkenbridge, the orderly, appeared unbidden, helped him undress, and put him to bed. Staunt lay awake a long time in the unfamiliar bed, his tense mind ticking relentlessly. A time-zone problem, he thought. He was tempted to ask for a sedative, but as he searched for the strength to sit up and ring for Miss Elliot, sleep suddenly captured him and drew him down into a pit of darkness.

Seven

In the next few days he managed to get to know some of the others. It was a task he imposed on himself. Throughout his life Staunt had negotiated, sometimes with difficulty, the narrow boundary between reserve and snobbery, trying to keep to himself without seeming to reject the company of others, and he was particularly eager not to withdraw into self-sufficiency at this time of all times. So he sought out his fellow Departing Ones and did what he could to scale the barriers separating them from him.

It was late in life to be making new friends, though. He found it hard to communicate much about himself to them, or to draw from them anything of consequence beyond the bare facts of their lives. As he suspected, they were a dull lot, people who had never achieved anything in particular except longevity. Staunt did not hold that against them: he saw no reason why everyone had to bubble with creativity, and he had deeply loved many whose only gifts had been gifts of friendship. But these people, coming now to the end of their days, were hollowed by time’s erosions, and there was so little left of them that even ordinary human warmth had been worn away. They answered his questions perfunctorily and rarely responded with questions of their own. “A composer? How nice. I used to listen to music sometimes.” He succeeded in discovering that Seymour Church had been living in the House of Leavetaking for eight months at his son’s insistence but did not want to Go; that Ella Freeman had had (or believed she had had) a love affair, more than a century ago, with a man who later became President; that David Golding had been married six times and was inordinately proud of it; that each of these Departing Ones clung to some such trifling biographical datum that gave him a morsel of individual identity. But Staunt was unable to penetrate beyond that one identifying datum; either nothing else was in them, or they could not or would not reveal themselves to him. A dull lot, but Staunt was no longer in a position to choose his companions for their merits.

During his first week in Arizona most of the members of his family came to see him, beginning with Paul and young Henry, Crystal’s son. They stayed with him for two days. David, Crystal’s other son, arrived a little later, along with his wife; their children, and one of their grandchildren; then Paul’s two daughters showed up, and an assortment of youngsters. Everyone, even the young ones, wore sickly-sweet expressions of bliss. They were determined to look upon Staunt’s Going as a beautiful event. In their conversations with him they never spoke of Going at all, only of family gossip, music, springtime, flowers, reminiscences. Staunt played their game. He had no more wish for emotional turmoil than they did; he wanted to back amiably out of their lives, smiling and bowing. He was careful, therefore, not to imply in anything he said that he was shortly going to end his life. He pretended that he had merely come to this place in the desert for a brief vacation.

The only one who did not visit him, aside from a few great-grandchildren, was his daughter Crystal. When he tried to phone her, he got no reply. His callers avoided any mention of her. Was she ill, Staunt wondered? Dead, even? “What are you trying to hide from me?” he asked his son finally. “Where’s Crystal?”

“Crystal’s fine,” Paul said.

“That’s not what I asked. Why hasn’t she come here?”

“Actually she hasn’t been entirely well.”

“As I suspected. She’s seriously ill, and you think the shock of hearing about it will harm me.”

Paul shook his head. “It isn’t like that at all.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Visions of cancer, heart surgery, brain tumors. “Has she had some kind of transplant? Is she in a hospital?”

“It isn’t a physical problem. Crystal’s simply suffering from fatigue. She’s gone to Luna Dome for a rest.”

“I spoke to her last month,” Staunt said. “She looked all right then. I want the truth, Paul.”

“The truth.”

“The truth, yes.”

Paul’s eyes closed wearily for a moment, and in that moment Staunt saw his son for what he was, an old man, though not so old a man as he. After a pause Paul said in a flat, toneless voice, “The trouble is that Crystal hasn’t accepted your Going very well. I called her about it, right after you told me, and she became hysterical. She thinks you’re being hoodwinked, that your Guide is part of a conspiracy to do away with you, that your decision is at least ten or fifteen years premature. And she can’t speak calmly about it, so we felt it was best to get her away where she wasn’t likely to speak to you, to keep her from disturbing you. There. That’s the story. I wasn’t going to tell you.”

“Silly of you to hide it.”

“We didn’t want to spoil your Going with a lot of carrying on.”

“My Going won’t spoil that easily. I’d like to talk to her, Paul. She may benefit from whatever help I can give her. If I can make her see Going for what it really is—if I can convince her that her outlook is unhealthy—Paul, set up a call to Luna Dome for me, will you? The Fulfillment people will pay. Crystal needs me. I have to make her understand.”

“If you insist,” Paul said.

Somehow, though, technical problems prevented the placing of the call that day, and the next, and the one after that. And then Paul left the House of Leavetaking. When Staunt phoned him at home to find out where on the moon Crystal actually was, he became evasive and said that she had recently transferred from one sanatorium to another. It would be a few more days, Paul said, before the call could be placed. Seeing his son’s agitation, Staunt ceased pressing the issue. They did not want him to talk to Crystal. Crystal’s hysterics would ruin his Going, they felt. They would not give him the chance to soothe her. So be it. He could not fight them. This must be a difficult time for the whole family; if they wished to think that Crystal would upset him so terribly, he would let the matter drop, for a while. Perhaps he could speak to her later. There would be time before his Going. Perhaps. Perhaps.

Eight

Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Martin Bollinger came to him, usually in midafternoon, an hour or so after lunch. Generally Staunt received his Guide in his suite, although sometimes, on the cooler days, they strolled together through the garden. Their meetings invariably fell into three well-defined segments. First, Bollinger would display lively interest in Staunt’s current activities. What books are you reading? Have you been listening to music? Are there any interesting Departing Ones for you to talk with? Is the staff taking good care of you? Do your relatives visit you often enough? Has the urge to compose anything come over you? Is there anyone you’d especially like to see? Are you thinking of traveling at all? And so on and so on, the same questions surfacing frequently.

When the questions were over, Bollinger would glide into the second phase, a conversation with a quiet autumnal tone, a recollection of vanished days. Sometimes he spoke as though Staunt had already Gone; he talked of Staunt’s compositions in the same way he might refer to those of some early master. The symphonies, Bollinger would say: what a testament, what a mighty cumulative structure, nothing like them since Mahler, surely. The quartets, obviously akin to Beethoven’s, yet thoroughly contemporary, true expressions of their composer and his times. And Staunt would nod, solemnly accepting Bollinger’s verdicts in curious, dreamy objectivity. They would talk of mutual friends in the same way, viewing them as closed books, as cubes rather than as living, evolving persons. Staunt saw that Bollinger was helping to place distance between him and the life he had lived. Already, he felt remote from that life. After several weeks in the House of Leavetaking, he was coming to look upon himself more as someone who had very carefully studied Henry Staunt’s biography than as the actual living Staunt, the inhabitant of Staunt’s body.

The third phase of each meeting saw Bollinger turn quite frankly to matters directly related to Staunt’s Going. Constantly he pressed Staunt to examine his motives, and he avoided the false gentleness with which everyone else seemed to treat him. The Guide was pursuing truth. Do you truly wish to Go, Henry? If so, have you started to give thought to the date of your Leavetaking? Will you stay in the world another five weeks? Three months? Six? No, no one’s rushing you. Stay a year, if you want. I merely wonder if you’ve looked realistically, yet, at what it means to Go. Whether you comprehend your purpose in asking for it. Get behind the euphemism, Henry. Going is dying. The termination of all. For you, the end of the universe. Is this what you want, Henry? Is it? Is it? Is it? I’m not trying to make it harder for you. I’m trying to make it more pure. A truly spiritual Going, the rarest kind. But only if you’re ready. Are you aware that you can withdraw from the whole undertaking at any point? It isn’t cowardly to turn away from Going. See Hallam: Going isn’t suicide, it’s a sweet renunciation, properly reserved only for those who fully understand their motives. Anyone can kill himself in a fit of gloom. A proper going requires spiritual strength. Some people enroll in a House of Leavetaking two, even three times before they can take that last step. Yes, they go through the entire ritual of Farewell, almost to the end—and then they say they want to go home, and we send them home. We never push. We are not interested in sending victims out of the world. Only volunteers whose eyes are open. Have you been reading Hallam, Henry? Our philosopher of death. Look into yourself before you leap. Ask yourself, Is this what I want?

“What I want is to Go,” Staunt would reply. But he could not tell Bollinger how long it would actually be before he would find himself ready to take his leave.

There seemed to be some pattern in this thrice-weekly pas de deux of conversation with his Guide. Bollinger appeared to be maneuvering him patiently and circuitously toward some sort of apocalyptic burst of joyful insight, a radiant moment of comprehension in which he would be able to say, feeling worthy of Hallam as he did, “Now I shall Go.” But the maneuvers did not seem successful. Often, Staunt came away from Bollinger confused and depressed, less certain than ever of his desire to Go.

By the fourth week, most of his time was being given over to reading. Music had largely palled for him. His family, having made the obligatory first round of visits, had stopped coming; they would not return to the House of Leavetaking until word reached them that he was in the final phase of his Going and ready for his Farewell ceremony. He had said all he cared to say to his friends. The recreation center bored him and the company of the other Departing Ones chilled him. Therefore he read. At the outset, he went about it dutifully, mechanically, taking it up solely as a chore for the improvement of his mind in its final hours. Like an old pharaoh trying to repair his looks before he must be delivered into the hands of the mummifiers, Staunt meant to polish his soul with philosophy while he still had the chance. It was in that spirit that he plodded through Hobbes, whose political ideas had set him ablaze when he was nineteen, and who merely seemed crabbed and sour now. It may seem strange to some man, that has not well weighed these things; that nature should thus dissociate, and render men apt to invade, and destroy one another: and he may therefore, not trusting to this inference, made from the passions, desire perhaps to have the same confirmed by experience. Let him therefore consider with himself:, when taking a journey, he arms himself, and seeks to go well accompanied; when going to sleep, he locks his doors; when even in his house he locks his chests; and this when he knows there be laws, and public officers, armed, to revenge all injuries shall be done him; what opinion he has of his fellow-subjects, when he rides armed; of his fellow citizens, when he locks his doors; and of his children, and servants, when he locks his chests. Does he not there as much accuse mankind by his actions, as I do by my words? Growing up in a tense, bleak world of peace that was really war, Staunt had found it easy to accept Hobbes’ dark teachings. Now he was not so sure that the natural condition of mankind was a state of conflict, every man at war with every other man. Something had changed in the world, it seemed. Or in Staunt. He put Hobbes away in displeasure.

He was almost afraid to turn to Montaigne, fearing that that other great guide of his youth might also have soured over the long decades. But no. Instantly the old charm claimed him. I cannot accept the way in which we fix the span of our lives. I have observed that the sages hold it to be much shorter than is commonly supposed. “What!” said the younger Cato to those who would prevent him from killing himself, “am I now of an age to be reproached with yielding up my life too soon?” And yet he was but forty-eight years of age. He thought that age very ripe and well advanced, considering how few men reach it. Yes. Yes. And: Wherever your life ends, it is all there. The profit of life is not in its length but in the use we put it to: many a man has lived long, who has lived little; see to it as long as you are here. It lies in your will, not in the number of years, to make the best of life. Did you think never to arrive at a place you were incessantly making for? Yet there is no road but has an end. And if society is any comfort to you, is not the world going the selfsame way as you? Yes. Perfect. Staunt read deep into the night, and sent for a bottle of Chateau d’Yquem from the House of Leavetaking’s well-stocked cellars, and solemnly toasted old Montaigne in his own sleek wine, and read on until morning. There is no road but has an end.

When he was done with Montaigne, he turned to Ben Jonson, first the familiar works, Volpone and The Silent Woman and The Case is Altered, then the black, explosive plays of later years, Bartholomew Fair and The New Inn and The Devil Is an Ass. Staunt had always felt a strong affinity for the Elizabethans, and particularly for Jonson, that crackling, hissing, scintillating man, whose stormy, sprawling plays blazed with a nightmarish intensity that Shakespeare, the greater poet, seemed to lack. As he had always vowed he would, Staunt submerged himself in Jonson, until the sound and rhythm of Jonson’s verse echoed and reechoed like thunder in his overloaded brain, and the texture of Jonson’s mind seemed inlaid on his own. The Magnetic Lady, Cynthia’s Revels, Catiline his Conspiracy—no play was too obscure, too hermetic, for Staunt in his gluttony. And one afternoon during this period he found himself doing an unexpected thing. From his data terminal he requested a print-out of the final pages of The New Inn’s first act, with an inch of blank space between each line. At the top of the sheet he wrote carefully, The New Inn, an Opera by Henry Staunt, from the play of Ben Jonson. Then, turning to Lovel’s long speech, “O thereon hangs a history, mine host,” Staunt began to pencil musical notations beneath the words, idly at first, then with sudden earnest fervor as the proper contours of the vocal line suggested themselves to him. Within minutes he had turned the entire speech into an aria and had. even scribbled some preliminary marginal notes to himself about orchestration. The style of the music was strange to him, a spare, lean, angular sort of melodiousness, thorny and complex, with a curiously archaic flavor. It was the sort of music Alban Berg might have written during an extended visit to the early seventeenth century. It did not sound much like Staunt’s own kind of thing. My late style, he thought. Probably the aria was impossible to sing. No matter: this was how the muse had called it forth. It was the first sustained composing Staunt had done in years. He stared at the completed aria in wonder, astonished that music could still flow from him like that, welling up without conscious command from the gushing spring within.

For an instant he was tempted to feed what he had written into a synthesizer and get back a rough orchestration. To hear the sound of it, with the baritone riding tensely over the swooping strings, might carry him on to set down the next page of the score, and the next, and the next. He resisted. The world already had enough operas that no one listened to. Shaking his head, smiling sadly, he dated the page, initialed it in his customary way, jotted down an opus number—by guesswork, for he was far from his ledgers—and, folding the sheet, put it away among his papers. Yet the music went on unfolding in his mind.

Nine

In his ninth week at the House of Fulfillment, finding himself stranded in stagnant waters, Staunt sought Dr. James and applied for the memory-jolt treatment. It seemed to be the only option left, short of Going, and he rarely contemplated Going these days. He was done with Jonson, and the impulse to request other books had not come to him; he peeked occasionally at his single page of The New Inn, but did not resume work on it; he was guarded and aloof in his conversations with Bollinger and with his occasional visitors; he realized that he was sliding imperceptibly into a deathlike passivity, without actually coming closer to his exit. He would not return to his former life, and he could not yet surrender and Go. Possibly the memory jolt would nudge him off dead center.

“It’ll take six hours to prepare you,” Dr. James said, his long nose twitching with enthusiasm for Staunt’s project. “The brain has to be cleared of all fatigue products, and the autonomic nervous system needs a tuning. When would you like to begin?”

“Now,” Staunt said.

They cleansed and tuned him, and took him back to his suite and put him to bed, and hooked him into his metabolic monitor. “If you get overexcited,” Dr. James explained, “the monitor will automatically adjust the intensity of your emotional flow downward.” Staunt was willing to take his chances with the intensity of his emotional flow, but the medic was insistent. The monitor stayed on. “It isn’t psychic pain we’re worried about,” Dr. James said. “There’s never any of that. But. sometimes—an excess of remembered love, do you know?—a burst of happiness—it could be too much, we’ve found.” Staunt nodded. He would not argue the point. The doctor produced a hypodermic and pressed its ultrasonic snout against Staunt’s arm. Briefly Staunt wondered whether this was all a trick, whether the drug would really send him to his Going rather than for a trip along his time-track, but he pushed the irrational notion aside, and the snout made its brief droning sound and the mysterious dark fluid leaped into his veins.

Ten

He hears the final crashing chords of The Trials of Job, and the curtain, a sheet of dense purple light, springs up from the floor of the stage. Applause. Curtain calls for the singers. The conductor on stage, now, bowing, smiling. The chorus master, even. Cascades of cheers. All about him swirl the glittering mobile chandeliers of the Haifa Opera House. Someone is shouting incomprehensible jubilant words in his ear: the language is Hebrew, Staunt realizes. He says, Yes, yes, thank you so very much. They want him to stand and acknowledge the applause. Edith sits beside him, flushed with excitement, her eyes sparkling. His mind supplies the date: September 9, 1999. “Let them see you,” Edith whispers through the tumult. A hand claps his shoulder. Wild eyes blazing into his own: Mannheim, the critic. “The opera of the century!” he cries. Staunt forces himself to rise. They are screaming his name. Staunt! Staunt! Staunt! The audience is his. Two thousand berserk Israelis, his to command. What shall he say to them? Sieg! Heil! Sieg! Heil! He chokes on his own appalling unvoiced joke. In the end he can do nothing but wave and grin and topple back into his seat. Edith rubs his arm lovingly. His glowing bride. His night of triumph. To write an opera at all these days is a mighty task; to enjoy a premiere like this is heavenly. Now the audience wants an encore. The conductor at his station. The curtain fades. Job alone on stage: his final scene, the proud bass voice crying, “Behold, I am vile,” and the voice of the Lord replying to him out of a thousand loudspeakers, filling all the world with sound: “Deck thyself now with majesty and excellency.” Staunt weeps at his own music. If I live a hundred years, I will never forget this night, he tells himself.

Eleven

“The copter went down so suddenly, Mr. Staunt. They had it on the stabilizer beam all through the storm, but you know it isn’t always possible—”

“And my wife? And my wife?”

“We’re so sorry, Mr. Staunt.”

Twelve

He sits at the keyboard fretting over the theory and harmony. His legs are not yet long enough to reach the piano’s pedals: a nuisance, but temporary. He closes his eyes and strikes the keyboard. This is the key of C major, the easy one. The tonic chord. The dominant. Why did they wait so long to tell him about these things? He builds chord after chord. I will now moderate into the key of D minor. Modulate. I do this and this and this. He is nine years old. All this long hot Sunday afternoon he has explored this wondrous other language of sounds. While his family sits frozen by the television set. “Henry? Henry, they’re going to be coming out of the module any minute!” He shrugs. What does the moonwalk matter to him? The moon is dead and far away. And this is the world of D minor. He has his own exploring to do today. “Henry, he’s out! He came down the ladder!” Fine. Tonic. Dominant. And the diminished seventh. The words are strange. But how easy it is to go deeper and deeper into the maze of sound.

Thirteen

“The faculty and students take great pleasure, Mr. Staunt, to present you on the occasion of your one-hundredth birthday with this memorial of a composer who shared your divine productivity if not your blessed longevity: the original manuscript of Mozart’s ‘Divertimento in B,’ Köchel number—”

Fourteen

“A boy, yes. We’re calling him Paul, after Edith’s father. And what an odd feeling it is to tell myself I have a son. You know, I’m forty-five years old. More than half my life gone, I suppose. And now a son.”

Fifteen

The sun is huge in the sky, and the beach is ablaze with shimmering heat-furies, and beyond the crescent of pink sand the green Caribbean rests against its bed like water in a quiet tub. These are the hours when he remains under cover, in some shady hammock, reading, perhaps making notes for an essay or his next composition. But there is the girl again, crouched by the shore, gently poking at the creatures of the tidal pool, the shy anemones and the little sea-slugs and the busy hermit crabs. So he must expose his vulnerable skin, for tomorrow he will fly back to New York, and this may be his last chance to introduce himself to her. He has watched her through this whole week of vacation. Not a girl, exactly. Surely at least twenty-five years old. Very much her own person: self-contained, coolly precise, alert, elegant. Tempting. He has rarely felt so drawn toward anyone. Preserving his bachelorhood has been no chore for him; he glides as easily from woman to woman as he does from city to city. But there is something about the eyes of this Edith, something about her smile, that pulls him. He knows he is being foolish. All this is pure fantasy: he has no idea what she is like, where her interests lie. That look of intelligence and sympathy may be all his own invention; the girl inside the face may in truth be drab and empty, some programmer on holiday, her soul a dull haze of daydreams about glamorous holovision stars. Yet he must approach. The sun pounds his sensitive skin. She looks up, smiling, from the tidal pool. A purple sea-slug crawls lightly across her palm. He kneels beside her. She offers him the sea-slug, and he lets it crawl on his hand, and they laugh, and she points out limpets and periwinkles and barnacles for him, until there is a kind of contact between them through the creatures of this salty pond, and at last he says, feeling clumsy about it, “We haven’t even introduced ourselves. I’m Henry Staunt.”

“I know,” Edith says. “The composer.”

And it all becomes so much easier.

Sixteen

“—and the gold medal for the outstanding work in extended symphonic form by a student under sixteen years of age goes, as I’m sure everyone has already realized, to Henry Staunt, who—”

Seventeen

“And my wife? And my wife?”

“We’re so sorry, Mr. Staunt.”

Eighteen

“As long as we’re getting into that end of the evening, Henry, I’ll allow myself the privilege of delivering a little analysis, too. Do you know what the real trouble with you is? With your music, with your soul, with everything? You don’t suffer. You’ve never been touched by pain, or, if you have, it doesn’t sink in. Look, you’re forty years old, and you’ve never known anything but success, and your music is played everywhere, an incredible achievement for a living composer, and you could pass for thirty. Or even twenty-seven. Time doesn’t claw you. I don’t recommend suffering, mind you, but I do say it tempers an artist’s soul; it adds a richness of texture that—forgive me—you lack, Henry. You know, you could live to be a very old man, considering the way you don’t seem to age, and someday, when you’re ninety-seven or one hundred five or something like that, you may realize that you’ve never really intersected reality, that you’ve kept yourself insulated, and that in a sense you haven’t really lived at all or created anything at all or—forgive me, Henry. I take it all back, even if you are still smiling. Not even a friend should say things like that. Not even a friend.”

Nineteen

“The Pulitzer Prize for Music for the year 2002—”

Twenty

“I Edith do take thee Henry to be my lawful wedded husband—”

Twenty-One

“It isn’t as if she was a bride, Henry. God knows it’s terrible to lose her that way, but she was yours for fifty years, Henry, fifty years, the kind of marriage most people hardly dare to dream of having, and if she’s gone, well, be content that you had the fifty, at least.”

“I wish we had crashed together, though.”

“Don’t be childish. You’re—what?—eighty-five, eighty-seven years old? You’ve got fifteen or twenty healthy and productive years ahead of you. More, if you’re lucky. People live to fantastic ages nowadays. You might see one hundred ten or one hundred fifteen.”

“Without Edith, what good is that?”

Twenty-Two

“Put your hands in the middle of the keyboard. Spread the fingers out as wide as you can. Wider. Wider. That’s the boy! Now, Henry, this is what we call middle C—”

Twenty-Three

In haste, stumbling, he goes on into his studio. The big room holds the tangible residue of his long career. Over here, the music itself, in recorded performance: disks and cassettes for the early works, sparkling playback cubes for the later ones. Here are the manuscripts, uniformly bound in red half-morocco, one of his little vanities. Here are the scrapbooks of reviews and the programs of concerts. Here are the trophies. Here are the volumes of his critical writings. Staunt has been a busy man. He looks at the titles stamped on the bindings of the manuscripts: the symphonies, the string quartets, the concerti, the miscellaneous chamber works, the songs, the sonatas, the cantatas, the operas. So much. So much. Staunt feels no sense of having wasted his time, though, filling this room with what it holds. Never in the past hundred years has a week gone by without a performance of one of his compositions somewhere. That is sufficient justification for having written, for having lived. And yet, one hundred thirty-six years is such a long time.

He pushes cubes into playback slots, getting three of his works going at once, bringing wild skeins of sound out of the room’s assortment of speakers, and stands in the middle, trembling a little, accepting the sonic barrage. After perhaps four minutes he cuts off the sound and orders his telephone to ring up the Office of Fulfillment.

“My Guide is Martin Bollinger,” he says. “Would you let him know that I’d like to be transferred to the House of Leavetaking as soon as possible?”

Twenty-Four

Dr. James had told him, long before, that Departing Ones invariably came out of memory jolts in a state of ecstasy, and that frequently they were in such raptures that they insisted on Going immediately, before the high could ebb. Emerging from the drug, Staunt searched in vain for the ecstasy. Where? He was wholly calm. For some hours past, or maybe just a few minutes—he had no idea how long the memory jolt has lasted—he had tasted morsels of his past, scraps of conversation, bits of scenery, random textures of contact, a stew of incidents, nonchronological, unsorted. His music and his wife. His wife and his music. A pretty thin gruel for one hundred thirty-six years of life. Where were the storms? Where were the tempests? A single great tragedy, yes, and otherwise everything tranquil. Too orderly a life, too sane, too empty, and now, permitted to review it, he found himself with nothing to grasp but applause, which slipped through his fingers, and his love of Edith, and even that had lost its magic. Where was that excess of remembered love that Dr. James had said could be dangerous? Perhaps they had monitored him too closely, tuning down the intensity of his spirit. Or perhaps it was his spirit that was at fault. Old and dry, pale and lean.

Unlike the others he had heard about, he did not request immediate Going after his voyage. Without that terminal ecstasy, why Go? He felt not exactly depressed but certainly lowered; his tour of his yesterdays had thrust him into a sort of stasis, a paralysis of the will, that left him hung up as before, enmeshed by the strands of his own quiet past.

But if Staunt remained unready to Go, not so with others. “You are invited to the Farewell ceremony of David Golding,” Miss Elliot told him the day after his memory jolt.

Golding was the man who had had six wives—outliving some, divorcing some, being divorced by some. His heroic husbandry was no longer apparent: now he was small and gnarled and fleshless, and because he was nearly blind, his pinched ungenerous face was disfigured by the jutting cones of two optical transducers. They said he was one hundred twenty-five years old, but to Staunt he looked at least two hundred. For the Farewell ceremony, though, the technicians of the House of Leavetaking had transformed the little old man into something sublime. His face gleamed with make-up that obliterated the crevices of decades; he held himself buoyantly upright, no doubt inflated into a semblance of his ancient virility by some drug; he was clad in a radiant, shimmering gown. Scores of relatives and friends surrounded him in the Chambers of Farewell, a brightly decorated underground suite opposite the recreation center. Staunt, as he entered, was dismayed by the size of the crowd. So many, so young, so noisy.

Ella Freeman sidled up to him and touched her shriveled hand to Staunt’s arm. “Look there: two of his wives. He hadn’t seen one in sixty years. And his sons. All of them, his sons. Two or three by each wife!”

The ceremony, conducted by the relatively young man who was Golding’s Guide, was elegiac in tone, brief, sweet. Standing under the emblem of the Office of Fulfillment, the wheel and the gears, the Guide spoke briefly of the philosophy of making room for others, of the beauty of a willing departure. Then he praised the Departing One in vague, general terms; one of his sons delivered a more specific eulogy; lastly, Seymour Church, chosen to represent Golding’s companions at the House of Leavetaking, croaked out a short, almost incoherent speech of farewell. To this the Departing One, who seemed transfigured with joy and already at least halfway into the next world, made reply in a few faint syllables, blurrily expressing gratitude for his long and happy life. Golding barely appeared to comprehend what was going on; he sat beaming in a kind of throne, dreamy, distant. Staunt wondered if he had been drugged into a stupor.

When the speeches were done, refreshments were served. Then, accompanied only by his closest kin, fifteen or twenty people, Golding was ushered into the innermost room of the Chambers of Farewell. The door slid shut behind him, and in his absence the Leavetaking party proceeded merrily.

There were four such events in the next five weeks At two of them—the Goings of Michael Green and Katherine Parks—Staunt was asked to give the speech of farewell. It was a task that he performed gracefully, serenely, and, he thought, with a good deal of eloquence. He spoke for ten minutes about Michael Green, for close to fifteen about Katherine Parks, talking not so much about the Departing Ones, whom he had scarcely come to know well, but about the entire philosophy of Going, the beauty and wonder of the act of world-renunciation. It was not customary for the giver of the speech of farewell to manage such sustained feats, and his audience listened in total fascination; if the occasion had permitted it, Staunt suspected, they would have applauded.

So he had a new vocation, and several Departing Ones whom he did not know at all accelerated their own Goings so that they would not fail to have Staunt speak at the rites. It was summer now, and Arizona was caught in glistening tides of heat. Staunt never went outdoors any longer; he spent much of his time mingling in the recreation center, doing research, so to speak, for future oratory. He rarely read these days. He never listened to music. He had settled into a pleasing, quiet routine. This was his fourth month at the House of Leavetaking. Except for Seymour Church, who still refused to be nudged into Going, Staunt was now the senior Departing One in point of length of residence. And at the end of July, Church at last took his leave. Staunt, of course, spoke, touching on the Departing One’s slow journey toward Going, and it was difficult for him to avoid self-conscious references to his own similar reluctance. Why do I tarry here? Staunt wondered. Why do I not say the word?

Every few weeks his son Paul visited him. Staunt found their meetings difficult. Paul, showing signs of strain and anxiety, always seemed on the verge of blurting out, “Why don’t you. Go, already?” And Staunt would have no answer, for he did not know the answer. He had read Hallam four times. Philosophically and psychologically he was prepared to Go. Yet he remained.

Twenty-Five

In mid-August Martin Bollinger entered his suite, held out a sheet of paper, and said, “What’s this, Henry?”

Staunt glanced at it. It was a photocopy of the aria from The New Inn. “Where did you find that?” he asked.

“One of the staff people came across it while tidying your room.”

“I thought we were entitled to privacy.”

“This isn’t an inquisition, Henry. I’m just curious. Have you started to compose again?”

“That scrap is all I wrote. It was months ago.”

“It’s fascinating music,” Bollinger said.

“Is it, now? I thought it was rather harsh and forced, myself.”

“No. No. Not at all. You always talked about a Ben Jonson opera, didn’t you? And now you’ve begun it.”

“I was enlivening a dull day,” said Staunt. “Mere scribbling.”

“Henry, would you like to get out of this place?”

“Are we back to that?”

“Obviously you still have music in you. Perhaps a great opera.”

“Which you mean to squeeze out of me, eh? Don’t talk nonsense. There’s nothing left in me, Martin. I’m here to Go.”

“You haven’t Gone, though.”

“You’ve noticed that,” Staunt said.

“It was made clear to you at the beginning that you wouldn’t be rushed. But I’ve begun to suspect, Henry, that you aren’t interested in Going at all, that you’re marking time here, perhaps incubating this opera, perhaps coming to terms with something indigestible in your soul. Whatever. You don’t have to Go. We’ll send you home. Finish The New Inn. Think the thoughts you want to think. Reapply for Going next year or the year after.”

“You want that opera out of me, don’t you?”

“I want you to be happy,” said Bollinger. “I want your Going to be right. The bit of music here is just a clue to your inner state.”

“There won’t be any opera, Martin. And I don’t plan to leave Omega Prime alive. To have put my family through this ordeal, and then to come home, to tell them it’s all been just a holiday lark out here—no. No.”

“As you wish,” Bollinger said. He smiled and turned away, leaving an unspoken question hanging like a sword between them: If you want to Go, Henry, why don’t you Go?

Twenty-Six

Staunt realized that he had taken on the status of a permanent Departing One, a kind of curator emeritus of the House of Fulfillment. Here he was, enjoying this life of ease and dignity, accepting the soft-voiced attentions of those who meant to slide him gently from the world, playing his role of patriarch among the shattered hulks that were the other Departing Ones here. Each week new ones came; he greeted them solemnly, helped them blend with those already in residence, and, in time, presided over their Goings. And he stayed on. Why? Why? Surely not out of fear of dying. Why, then, was he making a career out of his Going?

So that he might have the prestige of being a hero of his time, possibly—an exponent of noble renunciation, a practitioner of joyful departure. Making much glib talk of turning the wheel and creating a place for those to come—a twenty-first-century Sydney Carton, standing by the guillotine and praising the far, far better thing that he will do, only he finds himself enjoying the part so much that he forgets to kneel and present his neck to the blade.

Or maybe he is only interrupting the boredom of a too-bland life with a feigned fling at dying. The glamour of becoming a Departing One injecting interesting complexities into a static existence. But diversion and not death his real object. Yes? If that’s it, Henry, go home and write your opera; the holiday should have ended by now.

He came close to summoning Bollinger and asking to be sent home. But he fought the impulse down. To leave Omega Prime now would be the true cowardice. He owed the world a death. He had occupied this body long enough. His place was needed; soon he would Go. Soon. Soon. Soon.

Twenty-Seven

At the beginning of September there were four days in a row of rain, an almost unknown occurrence in that part of Arizona. Miss Elliot said that the Hopi, doing their annual snake dances on their mesas far to the north, had overdone things this year and sent rain clouds all through the state. Staunt, to the horror of the staff, went out each day to stand in the rain, letting the cool drops soak his thin gown, watching the water sink swiftly into the parched red soil. “You’ll catch your death of cold,” Mr. Falkenbridge told him sternly. Staunt laughed.

He requested another wide-spaced print-out of The New Inn and tried to set the opening scene. Nothing came. He could not find the right vocal line, nor could he recapture the strange color of the earlier aria. The tones and textures of Ben Jonson were gone from his head. He gave the project up without regret.

There were three Farewell ceremonies in eight days. Staunt attended them all, and spoke at two of them.

Arbitrarily, he chose September 19 as the day of his own Going. But he told no one about his decision, and September 19 came and went with Staunt unchanged.

At the end of the month he told Martin Bollinger, “I’m a fraud. I haven’t gotten an inch closer to Going in all the time I’ve been here. I never wanted to Go at all. I still want to live, to see and do things, to experience things. I came here out of desperation, because I was stale, I was bored, I needed novelty. To toy with death, to live a little scenario of dying—that was all I was after. Excitement. An event in an eventless life: Henry Staunt Prepares to Die. I’ve been using all you people as players in a cynical charade.”

Bollinger said quietly, “Shall I arrange for you to go home, then, Henry?”

“No. No. Get me Dr. James. And notify my family that my Farewell ceremony will be held a week from today. It’s time for me to Go.”

“But if you still want to live—”

“What better time to Go?” Staunt asked.

Twenty-Eight

They were all here, close around him. Paul had come, and Crystal, too, back from the moon and looking feeble, and all the grandchildren and the great-grandchildren, and the friends, the conductors and the younger composers and some critics, more than a hundred people in all coming to see him off. Staunt, undrugged but already beginning to ascend, had moved coolly among them, thanking them for attending his Leavetaking party, welcoming them to his Farewell ceremony. He was amazed at how calm he was. Seated now in the throne of honor, he listened to the final orations and endured without objection a scrambled medley of his most famous compositions, obviously assembled hastily by someone inexpert in such matters. Martin Bollinger, giving the main eulogy, quoted heavily from Hallam: “Too often we delude ourselves into thinking we are truly ready, when actually we have not reached readiness at all, and choose Going out of unworthy or shallow motives. How tragic it is to arrive at the actual moment of Leavetaking and to realize that one has deceived oneself, that one’s motivations are false, that one is, in fact, not in the least ready to Go!”

How true, Staunt told himself. And yet how false. For here I am ready to Go and yet not in the least ready, and in my unreadiness lies my readiness.

Bollinger finished what he had to say, and one of the Departing Ones, a man named Bradford who had come to Omega Prime in August, began to fumble through the usual final speech. He stammered and coughed and lost the thread of his words, for he was one hundred forty years old and due for Going himself next week, but somehow he made it to the end. Staunt, paying little attention, beamed at his son and his daughter, his horde of descendants, his admirers, his doctors. He understood now why Departing Ones generally seemed detached from their own Farewell ceremonies: the dreary drone of the speeches launched them early into the shores of paradise.

And then they were serving the refreshments, and now they were about to wheel him into the innermost room. And Staunt said, “May I speak also?”

They looked at him, appalled, frightened, obviously fearing he would wreck the harmony of the occasion with this unconventional, ill-timed intrusion. But they could not refuse. He had delivered so many eulogies for others—now he would speak for himself.

Softly Staunt said, making them strain their ears to hear it, “I accept the concept of the turning wheel, and I gladly yield my place to those who are to come. But let me tell you that this is not an ordinary Going. You know, when I came here I thought I was weary of the world and ready to Go, but yet I stayed, I held back from the brink, I delayed, I pretended. I even—Martin knows this—began another opera. I was told I could go home, and I refused. Hallam forgive me, but I refused. For his way is not the only way of Going. Because life still seems sweet, I give it up today. And so I take my final pleasure: that of relinquishing the only thing left to me worth keeping.”

They were whispering. They were staring.

I have said all the wrong things, he thought. I have spoiled the day for them. But whose Going is it? Why should I care about them?

Martin Bollinger, bending low, murmured, “It’s still not too late, Henry. We can stop everything right now.”

“The final temptation,” Staunt said. “And I withstand it. Bring down the curtain. I’m ready to Go.”

They wheeled him to the innermost chamber. When they offered him the cup, he seized it, winked at Martin Bollinger, and drained it in a single gulp.

Content

Going
by Robert Silverberg

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight