PROCONNESUS

It was a good day for big decisions, he thought, watching the sunlight dance across the windshield. Then he saw the sign, fringed by evergreen shrubs, text black on white, one of those that could light up from within. It was subtle, but impossible to miss.

   He slowed down in anticipation of the turn, then pulled off the road between tall stone pillars, rumbled over the entrance cobblestones, and eased along the driveway. Admiring the glistening blacktop and the green lawn with its impeccable borders, he rounded a gentle curve and saw the main building ahead, square and solid. Six floors of white stone and mirrored glass, clean and precise.

   In the distance, beyond the building, he could see an ornamental lake and in the center a high thin fountain, spray dancing in the breeze, the hint of a rainbow.

   He pulled smoothly into a small parking lot with barely a dozen spaces, all empty. Obviously for visitors only. He wondered where the staff parked their cars. Behind the building? Underground parking, more likely. The blacktop here was new too, the white lines straight and pristine.

   He checked his watch. Ten minutes early. Good.

   Stepping out of the car, he stretched briefly, and paused to feel the sun on his face and the warm breeze. He gazed up at the bright scattered clouds and watched them for a moment, enjoying their lazy evolutions. Yes, he thought, a perfect day for big decisions.

   As he crossed the flagstones to a revolving door, he watched himself in the mirrored wall. “You look fine,” he told himself. “Relax.”

   The door hissed softly as he pushed through it. He stepped over a metal grid and entered a hushed atrium, six floors high, flooded with natural light, the ceiling and front constructed entirely of glass. Rough stone walls and smooth stone floor, offset by two hulking monoliths dominating the space. They evoked images of Stonehenge, of the ages, of millennia. In the middle was a marble counter and behind it a receptionist, watching him. Beyond, a mezzanine level, beyond that even more windows.

   He crossed the atrium, footfalls echoing, and when he reached the counter he saw her properly for the first time. She was slender in a black oriental jacket with soft buttons, high at the neck, with dark-rimmed glasses and dark hair in a French braid. She remained motionless, looking at him with her chin raised, comfortable in herself. He became aware of a beating in his temple.

   On her jacket, to the left of center, was a small nameplate that read, “A. Bentley.” He wondered what the A stood for. Anna? Abby? Alex?

   She was still looking at him. She still hadn’t moved.

   He straightened his shoulders and drew a breath. “Hi, my name’s Jim Cole. I believe I’m expected.”

   She lowered her gaze beneath the level of the counter, consulting some notes perhaps, or a computer monitor. Stillness for a heartbeat, and when she raised her head again, there was something new in her eyes, something evaluating, something appraising.

   And at that very moment an errant ray of sunlight broke through the clouds, refracting through the high glass walls, lancing through the foyer, illuminating the small space between them. Motes of dust drifted gently in the air. Their eyes met and held for a long second. Then the clouds moved again, transient and fickle, and the beam was shut off.

   She spoke in a soft voice and said only, “Thank you, Mr. Cole. Please have a seat.”

   He smiled at her, then turned and re-crossed the lobby to where a black sofa and a grey table sat low together near the entrance. No ornaments, no magazines, no books. The silence was thick, but he had the impression of huge activity humming behind the high stone walls. “Are you really going to go through with this?” he asked himself softly.

   He gazed slowly around the foyer, and stole a glance at the reception desk. He could see the top of her head. She still appeared not to have moved. He wondered what she did on a Saturday night, and was just beginning to speculate further when the elevator pinged. He looked up to see the door slide open, and a man emerged, crossing to him, hand outstretched. Of course there were no magazines; no-one would have time to read them.

   A tall man dressed in a conservative grey suit and white shirt, wearing a powder blue silk tie in a Windsor knot. Broad shouldered. Hair blond but turning to grey, cut short but not too short. Healthy, but not tanned. Grinning a wide grin, he grasped Cole’s hand. “Mr. Cole, I am Herman Peterson. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

   “Please call me Jim.”

   “Of course.”

   He felt his hand grasped in a firm grip, his wrist also encircled by Peterson’s left hand in a gesture of welcome. Peterson exerted a brief touch of strength, a warm familial friendliness, and held his hand just the correct amount of time, before releasing it and stepping back. It was the perfect salesman’s handshake.

   Peterson was smiling broadly. “I trust you had no problems finding us.”

   “No, your directions were excellent.”

   “I am so glad to hear it.” Peterson extended his arm toward the elevator. “Please come this way,” he said, and led the way across the smooth marble.

   With the enigmatic Miss Bentley still on his mind, as they passed the reception desk Cole turned his head to thank her, and she acknowledged him with a cool smile. He grinned a little self-consciously, then hurried after Peterson to the elevator. The door had remained open, awaiting them, and they stepped into its dark interior.

   “Thank you so much for coming. How was the drive?” asked Peterson, leaning forward and brushing his index finger over the number 6.

   As the doors swished closed, Cole realized that Peterson’s blue tie had been the only spot of color in the entire atrium. “Great,” he answered, “My GPS said an hour, and I’d added a few extra minutes, so I got here in plenty of time.”

   “Do you always build in contingency?” asked Peterson with a smile.

   Cole thought for a second. “I guess I usually do,” he answered.

   “I thought so. Most of our clients are the sort of people who value contingency. It is why they come to us.”

   He pondered that, as he watched 4 become 5, and 5 become 6.

   The door pinged again, slid open, and once again Peterson was ushering him forward gently, arm extended. They crossed a hall with immaculate white walls, and Peterson showed him into a long grey conference room, a large table in the center circled by a dozen high-backed swivel chairs in black leather. In the middle of the table, a set of polished stone coasters rested in a polished stone box. The opposite wall contained a single outsized window with horizontal blinds. A silver coffee pot sat in a recess, next to a jug of water, slices of lemon floating on the surface. Beads of condensation cooled on the jug’s side.

   A folder, it too in black leather, lay before the chair at the head of the table. The folder’s corners were perfectly aligned with the table’s edge. Peterson laid his hand casually but possessively over the back of the chair. “Please sit anywhere you like, Mr. Cole.”

   Cole rounded the table to the window spanning the length of the room, overlooking the same lake he had spied from the driveway. He placed his right index and right middle finger between two blinds and made a vee. Peering through the enlarged gap, he could see that a statue had been incorporated within the fountain. A human figure, copper green, male and sleekly muscled, arms upstretched, reaching for the sky. The water plume shooting into the air cascaded downward in waves over the statue. The figure was impressive, the effect hypnotic, and he wondered idly if Peterson had chosen this specific room for that reason.

   “I see you like our fountain,” said Peterson.

   “Yes, it’s quite striking.”

   “We are very proud of it. It is a replica of the Fountain of Eternal Youth in Cleveland. The figure represents mankind escaping his history of conflict and reaching for eternal peace. We think it rather appropriate.”

   There was something unusual about Peterson’s speech patterns, but Cole couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. He tucked the thought away.

   Peterson leaned forward conspiratorially, and lowered his voice a little. “We believe it imparts a sense of permanence. This principle underpins our philosophy here at Proconnesus. By definition, we deal in permanence.”

   They watched the fountain together for a moment, and then Cole turned and continued to the chair at the end of the row, nearest to Peterson’s. “Where does the name Proconnesus come from?” he asked.

   Peterson smiled. “Not far off the coast of Turkey lies an island named Marmara. In ancient times Marmara was known as Proconnesus. In mythology, about seven hundred BC, there lived a citizen of Proconnesus named Aristeas, and according to legend, this Aristeas lived for several hundred years. Aristeas of Proconnesus is the earliest documented immortal in literature.”

   Cole nodded. “I like it.”

   “Plus there are other phonetic connotations that the name suggests.”

   “Like what?”

   “The French verb connaitre means to know someone. Also suggestions of pro-fessional, pro-active, conn-ectivity, etcetera. As I said, it imparts a sense of permanence.”

   “Now I’m impressed.”

   “Thank you,” Peterson said.

   They were still standing facing each other across the table.

   “May I offer you something?” asked Peterson, “Some coffee? Water?”

   “No, thanks,” answered Cole.

   With an open palm Peterson gestured at the seat Cole had chosen. “Then shall we sit?”

   Cole rotated the chair on its axis, lowered himself into it, and rotated it back to face the table. Peterson waited politely until Cole was seated, then he sat down himself.

   Cole reached forward and picked up a coaster. He turned it idly in his hands. It was light grey in color and bore a logo in darker grey. He had first noticed this logo on the Proconnesus web site several weeks earlier: a large circle surrounding a small square with one side missing. He spun the coaster around in his fingers. Was it a square letter C? He spun it again. A square letter U? He glanced at Peterson, who was smiling distantly.

   “Keep going,” Peterson said.

   He spun it again. Now it was a square lower case N. He glanced at Peterson again, whose eyes flicked down to the coaster, then back up to meet Cole’s. The question was implicit: can you solve it?

   Cole focused on the logo once more, and thought hard. “This has to be the Proconnesus logo. But I can’t tell what it means.”

   “Proconnesus starts with a P,” said Peterson.

   Cole remained silent, still focused upon the coaster.

   Several seconds passed.

   Without expression, Peterson reached into his pocket and removed a small silver case. Popping it open, he removed a business card from inside. With his index fingers he slid it across the smooth surface of the table, stopping when the card’s long side was an inch from the table’s edge, and then sat back.

   Cole leaned forward and looked at its simple black type.

                       Proconnesus

        T h e   f u t u r e   i s    y o u r s

                Herman L. Peterson

        Vice President, Customer Service

         HLPeterson@Proconnesus.com

   No telephone number.

   Cole was surprised at the simplicity of Peterson's card, at the scarcity of information. He put down the coaster and picked up the card. It was made from thick woven paper: heavy, creamy, almost fabric in its quality. He glanced at Peterson again, who was still watching him, and turned the card over.

   On the reverse he saw the same logo: the large circle containing the small square with one side missing. It was the bottom side that was missing. This helped.

   He concentrated. Three-sided square. P for Proconnesus. And then in a flash he understood what he was looking at. He grinned in triumph. “It’s pi! It’s the Greek letter pi, in upper case. I didn’t recognize it because we usually see the lower case version with the wiggly horizontal line. But the upper case pi has a straight horizontal and it doesn’t overhang the verticals. Upper case Greek pi meaning P for Proconnesus.”

   Peterson beamed with approval. “We love its solidity and simplicity, and we love that there is so much more beneath the surface.”

   Cole couldn’t help feeling he had passed some kind of test. He turned the card back over again and re-read it. “Vice President? I’m honored.”

   Peterson allowed himself a humble smile. “It is a small thing. I merely coordinate the activities of some very bright people. Their success has become my success. I stand on the shoulders of giants.”

   Cole doubted that this were fully true. He asked, “Do you handle all your clients personally?”

   “Alas no, Mr. Cole. That is impossible. We receive hundreds of inquiries every week, and we have a sizable office staff to handle those interactions.”

   “Please call me Jim.”

   “Of course. We also have a team of very competent specialists who deal with complex questions and process genuine applications for membership.”

   Cole noticed the qualification. “Genuine applications?”

   Peterson sighed. “Yes, unfortunately we also receive many speculative applications, ones that have not been sufficiently thought through by the applicant. Not sufficiently . . . planned. Or they simply change their minds and withdraw the application. Naturally, we are courteous and professional to such people, politely directing them to a different path.”

   “A more conventional path?”

   “Exactly.”

   “I’m sorry to hear that.”     “It is their prerogative. And in our line of business it is inevitable.”

   Cole’s brow furrowed. Peterson’s sentence structure seemed odd, clunky, and Cole repeated it silently to himself, “It is their prerogative. And in our line of business it is inevitable,” and suddenly realized that both times Peterson had specifically said “it is” rather than “it’s”. Peterson was fully enunciating all of his words, without using any contractions. It made his speech very unusual, but also very precise.

   Peterson was waiting, and Cole forced his attention back to the conversation. “What makes people withdraw their applications?” he asked.

   “We have found that while the concept of our service appeals to many people, the reality can sometimes be a little too much for them. Although the final destination is attractive, they do not always fully consider the road that will lead them there. If they start to investigate more deeply, and ask questions, then of course we are obliged to give them frank and honest answers. And the truth can be quite . . . graphic. Consequently our answers tend to be equally graphic, and the nirvana they had imagined becomes a little less attractive. Once confronted with the details, many of our potential clients change their minds. They back out.”     

“How many is ‘many’?”

   “Sadly, most of them. Joining Proconnesus requires making a substantial commitment, Mr. Cole. A moral commitment. A lifestyle commitment. A commitment of faith. We understand that it is not for everyone. It takes a certain kind of person.”

   Although Peterson hadn’t asked a question, a clear challenge seemed to hang in the air between them. After letting the silence extend for a moment, Peterson continued. “By the nature of our business, and by the nature of our commitment to full disclosure, we ultimately lose many of the very people who have sought us out.”

   “That’s a shame.”

   “It is a shame, Mr. Cole. For them as well as us.”     

He wondered if it would be rude to say for a third time that his name was Jim, and chose to let it go. Instead, he said, “Plus the press hasn’t been very sympathetic.”

   Peterson nodded gravely. “It is true we have our critics. But at the root of their skepticism is a misunderstanding. A misunderstanding about what we do and how we do it. If only these journalists would inform themselves fully, then we would receive fair reporting in the press. We are very happy to be judged by anyone who understands us. But very few take the trouble to seek that truth. As you have done.”

   He noticed how Peterson’s lips had curled slightly when he said ‘journalists', and decided it was time to address Peterson’s unspoken question. “I haven’t signed up yet.”

   “No indeed. But your mind is open. And when someone comes to visit us, when someone chooses to spend his valuable time on a trip to our facility, as you have done, then it is my great pleasure to welcome that individual personally.”

   “Thanks. I was curious.”

   "It is my privilege. Now, is there anything about which you are particularly curious?” Peterson repeated his word.

   He glanced outside at the statue, enjoying the play of water cascading over its surface. He hesitated. “I’ve read everything on your web site, but I still have several questions. You mentioned your service. I’d like to understand that better. If you don’t mind.”

   He was not being as articulate as he would have liked, but Peterson just steepled his fingers and replied earnestly, “On the contrary, Mr. Cole.  We certainly want you going into this with your eyes wide open. This is an important decision. Truly the most important decision of your life.”

   Cole thought that might be an exaggeration, but nodded nonetheless.

   Peterson placed his palms on the black folder in front of him. “Well then, let us start at the beginning, with an overview of our product suite, and take it from there.”

   “Great.”

   Peterson leaned back in his chair for a moment, looking at the ceiling, as if preparing his words. It was an understated but effective performance. Then he sat up again and looked straight at Cole. “Immortality, Mr. Cole. We offer true immortality, and nothing less. Not in any abstract way, but in a perfectly real and physical way. If you choose to join our family here at Proconnesus, you will become immortal. You will live forever."