The very idea, the very word is repulsive, instinctively repulsive.
You can come a long way, gentlemen, in three thousand years."
He leaned across the table and tapped the sheaf of papers with a lean, tense finger.
"They didn't kill themselves," he said. "They did not commit suicide.
They just didn't give a damn.
They were tired of living ... as I am tired of living.
So they lived recklessly in every way. Perhaps there always was a secret hope that they would drown while drunk or their car would hit a tree or...."
He straightened up and faced them.
"Gentlemen," he said.
"I am 5,786 years of age.
I was born at Lancaster, Maine, on the planet Earth on September 21, 1968.
I have served humankind well in those fifty-seven centuries.
My record is there for you to see.
Boards, commissions, legislative posts, diplomatic missions. No one can say that I have shirked my duty.
I submit that I have paid any debt I owe humanity ... even the well-intentioned debt for a chance at immortality."
"We wish," said Riggs, "that you would reconsider."
"I am a lonely man," replied Young.
"A lonely man and tired.
I have no friends.
There is nothing any longer that holds my interest.
It is my hope that I can make you see the desirability of assuming jurisdiction in cases such as mine.
Someday you may find a solution to the problem, but until that time arrives, I ask you, in the name of mercy, to give us relief from life."
"The problem, as we see it," said Riggs, "is to find some way to wipe out mental perspective.
When a man lives as you have, sir, for fifty centuries, he has too long a memory. The memories add up to the disadvantage of present realities and prospects for the future."
"I know," said Young.
"I remember we used to talk about that in the early days.
It was one of the problems which was recognized when immortality first became practical.
But we always thought that memory would erase itself, that the brain could accommodate only so many memories, that when it got full up it would dump the old ones.
It hasn't worked that way."
He made a savage gesture.
"Gentlemen, I can recall my childhood much more vividly than I recall anything that happened yesterday."
"Memories are buried," said Riggs, "and in the old days, when men lived no longer than a hundred years at most, it was thought those buried memories were forgotten.
Life, Man told himself, is a process of forgetting.
So Man wasn't too worried over memories when he became immortal. He thought he would forget them."
"He should have known," argued Young.
"I can remember my father, and I remember him much more intimately than I will remember you gentlemen once I leave this room.... I can remember my father telling me that, in his later years, he could recall things which happened in his childhood that had been forgotten all his younger years.
And that, alone, should have tipped us off.
The brain buries only the newer memories deeply ... they are not available; they do not rise to bother one, because they are not sorted or oriented or correlated or whatever it is that the brain may do with them.
But once they are all nicely docketed and filed, they pop up in an instant."
Riggs nodded agreement.
"There's a lag of a good many years in the brain's bookkeeping.
We will overcome it in time."
"We have tried," said Stanford.
"We tried conditioning, the same solution that worked with suicides.
But in this, it didn't work.
For a man's life is built upon his memories.
There are certain basic memories that must remain intact.
With conditioning, you could not be selective.
You could not keep the structural memories and winnow out the trash.
It didn't work that way."