The Far Arena Read Online Free PDF Page A

fleshy face hovered dangerously close to fat. His dark lips and dark eyes created a sense of unhappiness that if not dispelled by a definite smile gave the impression he was constantly dissatisfied with his surroundings. But when he smiled it was a leap into total joy.
    He dressed well, he knew - today, in British tweed jacket and grey flannel slacks, with a white Italian shirt and a severe British regimental tie. He was not one who believed in denying himself the pleasures of life, and in no way did this detract from his commitment to his work.
    He thought about this as he left his office on his way to the other side of the university complex. He had sought work as part of this exchange programme just because of his commitment. Not that Moscow would deny him any equipment or space. Indeed, the space was better back home. But back home the cold war was still being fought, this competition with the West.
    It had led to dramatizing those scientific achievements which most captured the imagination - creating a two-headed dog through grafting techniques; parapsychology; and of course the freezing of the cat's brain for two months and returning it to certain functions, that is, getting it to transmit waves which could be recorded.
    The important work here was not so much with the brain but with the blood, which at normal temperature provided life and which at low temperatures became crystallized, causing massive destruction of cells. It was not that the brain had been revived but that extensive work had been .done with blood elements. Unfortunately, red blood cell counts and white blood cell counts, osmotic fragility and hemolysis hardly trumpeted the triumph of socialism among the masses.
    Therefore, significant work was subordinated to the imagination of some propagandist. It was natural, humanly natural, to drift into what would gain the most fame.
    But Semyon Fyodor wanted more. He wanted more for his country and for the people whose labours had paid for his education. He wanted more for all those scientists who had preceded him and on whose work he built. What Dr Semyon Petrovitch wanted was to add another solid brick to the body of knowledge for others to build on. He was not in competition with the West. He was partners with them, from the ancient Egyptians to the latest brain surgeons in New York City.
    This made him no less a Russian, no less a believer in his form of government. It made him want to work outside of Russia and escape the competitive nature of Soviet science.
    These things he thought about, going down in the elevator toward the main floor. He suddenly noticed the nurse with the cleavage had taken the elevator down with him and he had ignored her. He was also aware that his headache was gone and his stomach contractions had ceased.
    He left the elevator stepping briskly. The big problem with cryonics, low-temperature medicine, was that too many people around the world had treated it as some form of medical miracle, like resurrection.
    Even today, especially in America, rich people with good bank accounts and a fear of death were arranging for their dead bodies to be incarcerated in capsules, temperatures rapidly lowered with liquid nitrogen and sustained in that state by technology supported by the interest of those good bank accounts.
    They froze the dead. And then expected some future scientist to resurrect the dead body. As Dr Petrovitch had told one person at one of those awful embassy parties, 'You don't need a scientist, you need a Christian minister. They believe in resurrection, I don't. It is possible as an article of faith, sir, not as a fact of science.'
    The embassy had also prevailed upon him to speak at one of those cryonics societies that had sprung up around the world, many of whose members entertained some fancy of having a double life, one natural and the other through freezing.
    'Yes, we might have a chance of suspending animation through cryonics. First, we need a volunteer. He, or she,