Photo courtesy of akabilk on Flickr.
The Thousandth Birthday Party
Durant Imboden, first published in If: Worlds of Science Fiction, December, 1966.
part 1
It was party time. Or rather it would be party time soon. The event was scheduled for the following day, at six in the evening, and Ogilvy Carr, the guest of honor, was nervously biting his finger nails in anticipation of the party game which would have a most profound effect on the outcome of the affair — an affair which celebrated his 1,000th birthday, as it happened.
Carr chewed his fingernails indeed. He pondered, and with each additional bit of pondering a little more calcium would leave his fingertips and find itself lolling in the warm recesses of Carr’s mouth.
“You’re chewing your fingernails again, love,” his wife said.
Carr looked down at his hand. “Or somebody’s fingernails,” he said. “I hardly know who I am — or who I’ll be — any more. I suppose I can thank medical science for that.”
“And the government, of course.” Helen made the remark with a somewhat tired smile adorning her face.
“Of course,” he answered.
“I suppose its kind of interesting, when you think of it, how many people we’re made up of,” she said. “Heaven knows, my great aunt Nellie could be the donor of that new bone in my hip, or Uncle Herbie, bless his lovely soul, could some day replace my heart or my lungs or my left foot. That left foot will have to be replaced one of these days, you know … Dr. French said he’s willing to bet that in another fourteen or fifteen years it’s going to be cancerous.”
Car wasn’t particularly happy. “And in fourteen or fifteen years … it could be my foot that replaces yours, you know.”
“I hardly think so, Ogie. More likely someone like Uncle Herbie will have the honor. You do have very large feet, you know. I’m a ladies’ seven, of course, but you’re a fat man’s twelve. Our feet would hardly match.” She thought a moment and giggled. “Of course, I could take both your feet and look like a duck. I could even go skiing, barefoot — and without skis.”
“It’s hardly funny, my dear,” Carr said softly.
“You’re quite right,” his wife agreed, this time speaking in a more serious tone of voice. “Ogie, love — Ogie, I’m so worried about the party.”
In this Sunday series of posts I will be “re-publishing” pulp science fiction short stories that have long since gone out of print. When possible I will seek out author’s and estates for permission.
