David Duncan's The Immortals opens with a striking juxtaposition: Dr. Clarence Peccary, an objective scientist, is torn between a vast fortune and his conscience, while Dr. Roger Staghorn leers at a computer screen showing a shabby park where all inhabitants appear young but wear rags and move with languid indifference. The narrative voice shifts between Peccary's internal conflict and Staghorn's focused fascination, establishing a tension between scientific ambition and moral unease. The prose is brisk, with short paragraphs that mirror the characters' impatience, and the dialogue—such as Jenny Cheever's casual mention of her twenty-fifth husband—conveys a world where emotional bonds have eroded. The pace quickens as Staghorn probes the taboo word "Atavar," which provokes immediate, visceral reactions, hinting at a deeper societal fracture.

The Computer as a Window and a Mirror

Humanac, Staghorn's "electronic monster," is more than a plot device; it shapes the story's structure and voice. The narrative repeatedly returns to the screen, which displays a future that is both vivid and repulsive. Duncan describes the park with precise, unglamorous details—"rags and tattered papers waggled indolently," a leaning steeple, broken windows—that ground the speculative setting in a tangible decay. The computer does not merely show events; it filters them through Staghorn's and Peccary's reactions, creating a layered perspective. Peccary's initial joy at seeing "all young! All handsome!" quickly curdles as he notices the careless clothing and vacant expressions. This shift in tone, from wonder to revulsion, mirrors the reader's own journey and underscores how technology can reveal uncomfortable truths. The screen becomes a mirror for the scientists' own values, exposing their assumptions about progress and happiness.

Dialogue as a Barometer of Social Collapse

The conversations in the future park are marked by a chilling flatness. Jenny Cheever's exchange with Staghorn is emblematic: she responds to his questions with languid curiosity, asking "Do you want to marry me?" as if marriage were a trivial game. Her admission of twenty-four previous husbands and her companion's thirty-one wives is delivered without emotion, and the phrase "use up all the men" suggests a commodification of relationships. The dialogue is punctuated by abrupt shifts—Jenny leaps to her feet at the word "Atavar," and the man declares "Let's go get married" as a reflex to emotional discomfort. Duncan uses these verbal tics to convey a society where deep feelings have been replaced by shallow impulses. Miss Terry's tears over her pupil Paul contrast sharply with her near-indifference to his death, revealing a world where grief is fleeting and purpose has evaporated. The clipped, often monosyllabic exchanges accelerate the pace, creating a sense of urgency beneath the surface apathy.

Pacing and the Unspoken Threat

Duncan controls the story's rhythm through a careful alternation between exposition and action. Early passages linger on Peccary's internal debate and the screen's static imagery, building a mood of uneasy observation. Then, with Staghorn's entry into the future, the pace quickens: he moves from person to person, each encounter more unsettling than the last. The word "Atavar" functions as a narrative accelerant, triggering sudden, violent reactions that break the languor. Miss Terry's plea "Don't say it" and the man's flushed face inject a jolt of adrenaline. The threat remains unnamed and unexplained in the excerpts, which heightens tension. Duncan also uses physical details—Staghorn's "clammy" sensation, the "reptilian lassitude"—to externalize psychological dread. The prose becomes more fragmented as Staghorn's anger rises, with short sentences like "He'll die, of course" delivered with chilling indifference. This variation in sentence length and emotional intensity keeps the reader off-balance, mirroring Staghorn's own disorientation.

Readers should attend to how Duncan uses the computer not as a deus ex machina but as a narrative lens that distorts and clarifies. The excerpts leave key questions—the nature of the Atavars, the fate of the child Paul—unresolved, and the story's power lies in its refusal to provide easy answers. Pay attention to the way characters' voices flatten or sharpen in response to taboo subjects; these shifts are the story's true engine. The brevity of the novella (under 15,000 words) means every scene carries weight, and the pacing rewards close reading of its tonal transitions.