The Immortals by James Gunn

he caught only a glimpse of a face that great age had unsexed. It was wrinkled and gray and dead except for the eyes that still burned with life and desire.
    â€œInterruption,” Locke said smoothly. “Call you back.” The screen set into the wall opposite him went dark as he touched the arm of his executive chair. “Sibert,” he said, “you’re fired.”
    Locke was no youngster himself, Sibert thought. He was pushing ninety, surely, though he looked fit and vigorous. Medical care had kept his body healthy; geriatrics and hormone injections had kept his shoulders broad, his muscles firm and unwithered. Perhaps surgery had replaced his old heart and several other organs, but they could not rejuvenate his aging arteries and his dying cells.
    â€œRight,” Sibert said briskly, another man than the one who had spoken to the secretary in the outer office. “Then you won’t be interested in my information—”
    â€œMaybe I was hasty,” Locke said. His lips framed the unfamiliar words awkwardly. “If your information is important, I might reconsider.”
    â€œAnd a bonus, too?” Sibert prompted.
    â€œMaybe,” Locke growled, his eyes small. “Now, what’s so earth-shattering that it can’t come through channels?”
    Sibert studied Locke’s face. It had not spent all its days in an office. There were scars around the eyes and a long one down one cheek almost to the point of the jaw; the nose had been broken at least once. Locke was an old bear. He must be careful, Sibert thought, not to tease him too much.
    â€œI think I’ve found one of Marshall Cartwright’s children.”
    Locke’s face writhed for a moment before he got itback under control. “Where? What name is he using? What’s he—”
    â€œSlow down,” Sibert said calmly. He deposited his lean young body in the upholstered chair beside the desk and leisurely lit a cigarette. “I’ve been working in the dark for five years. Before I give anything away, I want to know what I’ve got.”
    â€œYou’re well paid,” Locke said coldly. “If this pans out, you’ll never have to worry about money. But don’t try to cut yourself into the game, Sibert. It’s too big for you.”
    â€œThat’s what I keep thinking about,” Sibert mused. “A few hundred thousand bucks—what’s that to an organization that spends at least one hundred million a year? Fifty years of that is five billion dollars. Just to find somebody’s kids.”
    â€œWe can get the information out of you.”
    â€œNot in time. And time is what you don’t have. I left a letter. If I don’t get back soon, the letter gets delivered. And Cartwright’s kid is warned that he is being hunted. . . .”
    â€œLet me check that statement with truth serum.”
    â€œNo. Not because it isn’t true. You might ask other questions. And it would take too long. That’s why I couldn’t wait for an appointment. Try to squeeze the information out if you want to.” He lifted his right hand out of his jacket pocket; a tiny, ten-shot plastic automatic was in it. “But it might take too long. And you might lose everything just when everything is within your grasp. You might die. Or I might die.”
    Locke sighed heavily and let his heavy shoulders relax. “What do you want to know?”
    â€œWhat’s so important about Cartwright’s kids?”
    â€œBarring accidents, they’ll live forever.”
    *  *  *
    The middle-aged man walked slowly through the station, his face preoccupied, his hands thrust deep in his jacket pockets. He retrieved an overnight bag from a locker and took it to the nearest washroom, where he rented a booth. He never came out of the washroom. A reservation on the Talgo express to Toronto was never picked up.
    A young man with a floppy hat and a