Robert Silverberg - To Be Continued

Gaius Titus Menenius sat thoughtfully in his oddly-decorated apartment on Park Avenue, staring at the envelope that had just arrived. He contemplated it for a moment, noting with amusement that he was actually somewhat perturbed over the possible nature of its contents.

After a moment he elbowed up from the red contour-chair and crossed the room in three bounds. Still holding the envelope, he eased himself down on the long green couch near the wall, and, extending himself full-length, slit the envelope open with a neat flick of his fingernail. The medical report was within, as he had expected.

Dear Mr. Riswell, it read. I am herewith enclosing a copy of the laboratory report concerning your examination last week. I am pleased to report that our findings are positiveemphatically so. In view of our conversation, I am sure this finding will be extremely pleasing to you, and, of course, to your wife. Sincerely, F. D. Rowcliff, M.D.

Menenius read the letter through once again, examined the enclosed report, and allowed his face to open in a wide grin. It was almost an anticlimax, after all these centuries. He couldnt bring himself to become very excited over itnot any more.

He stood up and stretched happily. Well, Mr. Riswell, he said to himself, I think this calls for a drink. In fact, a night on the town.

He chose a smart dinner jacket from his wardrobe and moved toward the door. It swung open at his approach. He went out into the corridor and disappeared into the elevator, whistling gaily, his mind full of new plans and new thoughts.

It was a fine feeling. After two thousand years of waiting, he had finally achieved his maturity. He could have a son. At last!

Good afternoon, Mr. Schuyler, said the barman. Will it be the usual, sir?

Martini, of course, said W. M Schuyler IV, seating himself casually on the padded stool in front of the bar.

Behind the projected personality of W. M Schuyler IV, Gaius Titus smiled, mentally. W. M. Schuyler always drank martinis. And they had pretty well better be dryvery dry.

The baroque strains of a Vivaldi violin concerto sang softly in the background. Schuyler watched the swirl of colors that moved with the music.

Good afternoon, Miss Vanderpool, he heard the barman say. An old-fashioned?

Schuyler took another sip of his martini and looked up. The girl had appeared suddenly and had taken the seat next to him, looking her usual cool self.

Sharon, he said, putting just the right amount of exclamation point after it.

She turned to look at him and smiled, disclosing a brilliantly white array of perfect teeth. Bill! I didnt notice you! How long have you been here?

Just arrived, Schuyler told her. Just about a minute ago.

The barman put her drink down in front of her. She took a long sip without removing her eyes from him. Schuyler met her glance, and behind his eyes Gaius Titus was coldly appraising her in a new light.

He had met her in Kavanaughs a month before, and he had readily enough added her to the string. Why not? She was young, pretty, intelligent, and made a pleasant companion. There had been others like hera thousand others, two thousand, five thousand. One gets to meet quite a few in two millennia.

Only now Gaius Titus was finally mature, and had different needs. The string of girls to which Sharon belonged was going to be cut.

He wanted a wife.

Hows the lackey of Wall Street? Sharon asked. Still coining money faster than you know how to spend it?

Ill leave that for you to decide, he said. He signaled for two more drinks. Care to take in a concert tonight? The Bach Groups giving a benefit this evening, you know, and Im told there still are a few hundred-dollar seats left

There, Gaius Titus thought. The bait has been cast. She ought to respond.

She whistled, a long, low, sophisticated whistle. Id venture that business is fairly good, then, she said. Her eyes fell. But I dont want to let you go to all that expense on my account, Bill.

Its nothing, Schuyler insisted, while Gaius Titus continued to weigh her in the balance. Theyre doing the Fourth Brandenburg, and Renolis playing the Goldberg Variations. How about?

She met his gaze evenly. Sorry, Bill. I have something else on for the evening. Her tone left no doubt in Schuylers mind that there was little point pressing the discussion any further. Gaius Titus felt a sharp pang of disappointment.

Schuyler lifted his hand, palm forward. Say no more! I should have known youd be booked up for tonight already. He paused. What about tomorrow? he asked, after a moment. Theres a reading of Websters Duchess of Malfi down at the Dramatists League. Its been one of my favorite plays for a long time.

Silently smiling, he waited for her reply. The Webster was, indeed, a long-time favorite. Gaius Titus recalled having attended one of its first performances, during his short employ in the court of James I. During the next three and a half centuries, he had formed a sentimental attachment for the creaky old melodrama.

Not tomorrow either, Sharon said. Some other night, Bill.

All right, he said. Some other night.

He reached out a hand and put it over hers, and they fell silent, listening to the Vivaldi in the background. He contemplated her high, sharp cheekbones in the purple half-light, wondering if she could be the one to bear the child he had waited for so long.

She had parried all his thrusts in a fashion that surprised him. She was not at all impressed by his display of wealth and culture. Titus reflected sadly that, perhaps, his Schuyler facet had been inadequate for her.

No, he thought, rejecting the idea. The haunting slow movement of the Vivaldi faded to its end and a lively allegro took its place. No; he had had too much experience in calculating personality-facets to fit the individual to have erred. He was certain that W. M. Schuyler IV was capable of handling Sharon.

For the first few hundred years of his unexpectedly long life, Gaius Titus had been forced to adopt the practice of turning on and off different personalities as a matter of mere survival. Things had been easy for a while after the fall of Rome, but with the coming of the Middle Ages he had needed all his skill to keep from running afoul of the superstitious. He had carefully built up a series of masks, of false fronts, as a survival mechanism.

How many times had he heard someone tell him, in jest, You ought to be on the stage? It struck home. He was on the stage. He was a man of many roles. Somewhere, beneath it all, was the unalterable personality of Gaius Titus Menenius, cives Romanus, casting the shadows that were his many masks. But Gaius Titus was far below the surfacethe surface which, at the moment, was W. M. Schuyler IV; which had been Preston Riswell the week before, when he had visited the doctor for that fateful examination; which could be Leslie MacGregor or Sam Spielman or Phil Carlson tomorrow, depending on where Gaius Titus was, in what circumstances, and talking to whom. There was only one person he did not dare to be, and that was himself.

He wasnt immortal; he knew that. But he was relatively immortal. His life-span was tremendously decelerated, and it had taken him two thousand years to become, physically, a fertile adult. His span was roughly a hundred times that of a normal mans. And, according to what he had learned in the last century, his longevity should be transmissible genetically. All he needed now was someone to transmit it to.

Was it dominant? That he didnt know. That was the gamble hed be making. He wondered what it would be like to watch his children and his childrens children shrivel with age. Not pleasant, he thought.

The conversation with Sharon lagged; it was obvious that something was wrong with his Schuyler facet, at least so far as she was concerned, though he was unable to see where the trouble lay. After a few more minutes of disjointed chatter, she excused herself and left the bar. He watched her go. She had eluded him neatly. Where to next?