{"product_id":"the-first-immortalisbn-9780345421821","title":"The First Immortal","description":"\u003cb\u003e“[James Halperin] plots the book with thoroughness and imagination. . . . Innovative.”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn 1988, Benjamin Smith suffers a massive heart attack. But he will not die. A pioneering advocate of the infant science of cryonics, he has arranged to have his body frozen until the day when humanity will possess the knowledge, the technology, and the courage to revive him. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYet when Ben resumes life after a frozen interval of eighty-three years, the world is altered beyond recognition. Thanks to cutting-edge science, eternal youth is universally available and the perfection of cloning gives humanity the godlike power to re-create living beings from a single cell. As Ben and his family are resurrected in the mid-twenty-first century, they experience a complex reunion that reaches through generations—and discover that the deepest ethical dilemmas of humankind remain their greatest challenge. . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“[A] gripping story.”—United Press International\u003c\/b\u003e“[James Halperin] plots the book with thoroughness and imagination. . . . Innovative.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] gripping story.”\u003cb\u003e—United Press International\u003c\/b\u003eJames L. Halperin is the author of The Truth Machine. Born and raised in Massachusetts, he attended Harvard, and now lives in Dallas, Texas, with his wife and two young sons. He also co-owns the world's largest rare coin company. All of his royalties from the sale of this book will be donated to health- and education-related charities.June 2, 1988\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEchoes tumbled through the ambulance. Squeals, rattles, and torsion-bar \u003cbr\u003esways came at him in waves, magnified and ominous. The attendants standing \u003cbr\u003eover him seemed blurry, even extraneous. What mattered was the beeping \u003cbr\u003emonitor and all-too-familiar stench of emergency medicine. And every \u003cbr\u003esingle sensation blended with the mundane smell of the rain-soaked streets \u003cbr\u003ebeneath him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBenjamin Franklin Smith, my great-grandfather, knew he was about to die.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe morning had delivered Ben's third heart attack in six years--worse \u003cbr\u003ethan either of its predecessors. This time his chest felt vise-tight, more \u003cbr\u003econstricted than he'd imagined possible. His blood-starved muscles sagged \u003cbr\u003elike spent rubber, so weak he could barely feel them twitch, while a cold \u003cbr\u003eNovocain-like river prickled his left arm from shoulder blade to \u003cbr\u003efingertips: numb but so heavy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh, Christ! he thought, remembering his first seizure on that flight to \u003cbr\u003ePhoenix in 1982. He should have known better. If he hadn't stayed on the \u003cbr\u003edamn airplane, they could've given him treatment; minimized the damage.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow he was dying. Him, of all people. Ben snorted. Absent his pain and \u003cbr\u003efear, it might have been a laugh. Well, why in hell not him? He was \u003cbr\u003esixty-three years old.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGod, just sixty-three? Is that all I get? Please Jesus, spare me this. Not \u003cbr\u003eyet...\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo ambulance attendants wheeled Ben through the hospital emergency \u003cbr\u003eentrance, past check-in and dozens of less critical cases, sprinting \u003cbr\u003estraight for intensive care. All ignored them except one nurse who, \u003cbr\u003erecognizing the too-familiar patient, merely gaped. One of the attendants \u003cbr\u003ewhispered to her, \"Looks like myocardial infarction. Probably massive.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStill half conscious, Ben wondered if they realized he could hear them, or \u003cbr\u003eif they cared. He wondered whether these professionals tasted the same \u003cbr\u003eempathy for him that he had so often experienced with his own dying \u003cbr\u003epatients.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe also questioned his rationality.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis preparations over the previous half decade had included an oath to \u003cbr\u003ehimself that he would betray no ambivalence about the unusual instructions \u003cbr\u003ehe'd left. This despite understanding that his chances of staving off \u003cbr\u003edeath remained slight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd that if he succeeded, he might end up envying the dead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore surrendering consciousness, Dr. Benjamin Smith managed to whisper: \u003cbr\u003e\"Call Toby Fiske.\" These words would set in motion all his \u003cbr\u003eplans--irrevocably changing the nature of his death. Then the rush of \u003cbr\u003eunreality gathered speed, and as his awareness faded, his subconscious \u003cbr\u003emind began to play back the most important moments of life, as if by \u003cbr\u003egiving these experiences a new orderliness, he might somehow absolve \u003cbr\u003ehimself of, or at least comprehend, his mistakes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eImages assaulted him of his parents, his children, and the first time he \u003cbr\u003eever made love to his wife Marge. She was just a teenager then. How fiery \u003cbr\u003eand resilient she was. They were. Then he remembered sitting at her \u003cbr\u003ebedside when she was dying. For six weeks he had fed and bathed her, \u003cbr\u003econsoled her with stories and recollections, held her hand, and watched \u003cbr\u003ehelplessly as the cancer consumed her body and mind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow would he finally rejoin her?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBen Smith also knew the world would keep turning without him. So at the \u003cbr\u003eend of things, he pleaded to his God, praying that once he was dead, his \u003cbr\u003eonly son might finally forgive him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy great-grandfather was an only child. And despite his birth into \u003cbr\u003enear-poverty, his genetics and early environment favored him with certain \u003cbr\u003ecritical advantages. But timing was not among these: He was born in 1925.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis attempt to become immortal is a tale of character, luck, and daring. \u003cbr\u003eBenjamin Franklin Smith's story might have befallen any person of his \u003cbr\u003etime--that era when death seemed inevitable to every human being on earth. \u003cbr\u003eInevitable, and drawing ever closer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCHAPTER ONE: January 14, 1925\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy great-great-grandmother stared into a spiderweb crack spreading through \u003cbr\u003ethe dilapidated ceiling paint, its latticed shape taunting her as if she \u003cbr\u003ewere a fly ensnared in its grip. For several hours she'd been lying on \u003cbr\u003etheir bed, shivering and convulsing, in that drab and tiny apartment. Now \u003cbr\u003eshe felt a scream welling in her chest, like a tidal wave drawing mass \u003cbr\u003efrom the shallows. Alice Smith was only twenty years old, but she knew \u003cbr\u003esomething was deeply, perhaps mortally, wrong.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Oh-oh-oo-oo-ooo-e-e-e-ya-a-ah!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe shut her eyes, trying to focus on something, anything, other than the \u003cbr\u003epain-fueled firestorm raging inside of her. But there was only the \u003cbr\u003etortured stench of her own sweltering flesh. A single tear found its way \u003cbr\u003einto the corner of her mouth. It tasted of pain and fear, but she was \u003cbr\u003esurprised to discover another flavor within it: hope and a coming of new \u003cbr\u003elife.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer husband, Samuel, entered her consciousness as if to provide an outlet; \u003cbr\u003ea cathartic conversion of pain to anger. Like Alice, the man was a \u003cbr\u003esecond-generation American. He was a grocer by trade, and, also like \u003cbr\u003eherself, from Wakefield, Massachusetts. He had always been a hard worker \u003cbr\u003eand steadfast in his tenderness. But he was not there! She was in agony, \u003cbr\u003ewhile he was stacking cans of peaches!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJust when, she asked herself, had he judged his work more important than \u003cbr\u003ehis wife? and soundlessly cursed him with words women of the year 1925 \u003cbr\u003eweren't supposed to know.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhy did she need him there, anyway? To share her torment, or to seek the \u003cbr\u003ecomfort of him? All Alice knew was that right then she hated and loved her \u003cbr\u003ehusband in equal measure, and if this ordeal was to kill her, she needed \u003cbr\u003eto see his face one last time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo say goodbye.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo! she decided, as if her circumstance had been caused by nothing more \u003cbr\u003ethan a failure of will. She had to raise and love this child. She would \u003cbr\u003enot allow herself to die.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlice's membranes had ruptured twenty-six hours ago, yet she had not given \u003cbr\u003ebirth. She'd once read that in prolonged labor, omnipresent bacteria \u003cbr\u003ethreatened to migrate inside, infecting both mother and child. Even the \u003cbr\u003ehunched and hoary midwife, though ignorant of the danger in scientific \u003cbr\u003eterms, seemed well aware of peril, per se; Alice could sense a fear of \u003cbr\u003edisaster in the woman's every gesture.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhere in the hell was Sam?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEven in anguish, Alice understood this rage against her husband was \u003cbr\u003emisplaced. It had somehow become a societal expectation that women should \u003cbr\u003ebear children with stoic grace. And it was absurd. A keen student of \u003cbr\u003ehistory, she knew that anesthetics had been used for many surgeries since \u003cbr\u003ethe 1850s, yet had found little acceptance in obstetrics, the pain of \u003cbr\u003echildbirth considered by doctors to be a duty women were somehow meant to \u003cbr\u003eendure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStill, it could have been worse; Alice was equally aware that her odds had \u003cbr\u003eimproved. A hundred years earlier, doctors would often go straight from \u003cbr\u003eperforming autopsies to delivering babies, seldom even washing their \u003cbr\u003ehands. No wonder it had been common back then for men to lose several \u003cbr\u003ewives to complications of childbirth. At least now, sterilization was \u003cbr\u003epracticed with some modicum of care.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer nineteen-year-old sister, Charlotte, and the midwife stood at Alice's \u003cbr\u003ebedside. The older woman's facial expression evinced kindly resignation, \u003cbr\u003eas if to say, It's all we can do for you, dear, as she held a wet towel, \u003cbr\u003esponging Alice's forehead. Charlotte Franklin's intelligent eyes and \u003cbr\u003esanguine aspect seemed to magnify the midwife's aura of incompetence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Just breathe through it,\" said the midwife, who'd already told them that \u003cbr\u003ethe suffering and peril of delivery were \"natural,\" God's punishment for \u003cbr\u003ethe sins of womankind. \"It's in our Lord's hands now,\" she now added, as \u003cbr\u003eif these words held some sort of reassurance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlice felt her mind shove aside the hopeless bromide.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You'll be okay, Alice,\" Charlotte whispered nervously, gently massaging \u003cbr\u003eher sister's shoulders. \"You're doing fine.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Quick now, fetch the boiling water for the gloves,\" the midwife ordered. \u003cbr\u003e\"Won't be much longer.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlice screamed again, and Sam burst into the room. The snowstorm dripped \u003cbr\u003eits offerings from his clothes onto the stained wooden floor. He shivered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThank God, Alice thought, her rage forgotten. Sam would see their child be \u003cbr\u003eborn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Am I in time?\" he asked stupidly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis question went unanswered. \"Head's about through. Now push, girl!\" the \u003cbr\u003emidwife shouted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlice pressed down. Slowly, painstakingly, Charlotte and the midwife \u003cbr\u003emanaged to extract a perfect baby boy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThough bleeding heavily, Alice rallied a wan smile of optimism and hope, \u003cbr\u003equalities she intended to convey to her son, assuming she survived.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCharlotte cut the cord. The midwife spanked the infant's bottom. They \u003cbr\u003ewashed him with warm water. He wailed, but soon rested contentedly in his \u003cbr\u003emother's arms. His father gently stroked his back. The caresses, tentative \u003cbr\u003eat first, easily progressed in loving confidence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Benjamin Franklin Smith,\" Sam declared, as if in the ritual of naming, \u003cbr\u003ehis wife's pain might be banished to memory.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe next few days would be difficult. Having barely survived the ordeal, \u003cbr\u003eAlice sustained a dangerous postpartum infection of the uterus and tubes. \u003cbr\u003eHer fever would reach 105 degrees, often consigning her to the mad hands \u003cbr\u003eof delirium. She'd live through the illness, but not without loss: She \u003cbr\u003ewould never bear another child.","brand":"Del Rey","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304950976741,"sku":"NP9780345421821","price":7.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345421821.jpg?v=1730758933","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-first-immortalisbn-9780345421821","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}