He wrote:
Five centuries ago the people of the world gave into the hands of a few trusted men and women the gift of continued life in the hope and belief that they would work to advance the day when longer life spans might be made possible for the entire population. From time to time, life continuation has been granted additional men and women, always with the implied understanding that the gift was made under the same conditions — that the persons so favored should work against the day when each inhabitant of the entire world might enter upon a heritage of near-eternity. Through the years some of us have carried that trust forward and have lived with it and cherished it and bent every effort toward its fulfillment. Some of us have not. Upon due consideration and searching examination of my own status in this regard, I have at length decided that I no longer can accept farther extension of the gift. Human dignity requires that I be able to meet my fellow man upon the street or in the byways of the world without flinching from him. This I could not do should I continue to accept a gift to which I have no claim and which is denied to other men.
The senator signed his name, neatly, carefully, without the usual flourish.
“There,” he said, speaking aloud in the silence of the night-filled room, “that will hold them for a while.”
Feet padded and he turned around.
“It’s long past your usual bedtime, sir,” said Otto.
The senator rose clumsily and his aching bones protested. Old, he thought. Growing old again. And it would be so easy to start over, to regain his youth and live another lifetime. Just the nod of some-one’s head, just a single pen stroke and he would be young again.
“This statement, Otto,” he said. “Please give it to the press.”
“Yes, sir,” said Otto. He took the paper, held it gingerly.
“Tonight,” said the senator.