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His fervor for the feldeath problem had diminished rather substantially, of late. He had always despised the idea of "giving up," no matter what the experiment entailed, but living as long as he had, he'd slowly grown to have a different understanding of what that meant. To him, he wasn't so much giving up as he was just shelving the project for a while. He'd return to it whenever his interest in it was rekindled. True, that could be a hundred years from now or more, but such was the nature of immortality.

On the other hand, though, a part of him didn't think he would actually last another hundred years. In truth, a part of him didn't want to--but not because he was so miserable or otherwise tired of living, as several of his contemporaries seemed to be.

Rather, it was just the opposite.

The idea that someone out there might finally punch his ticket for him?

That would be so exciting. Who could pull off such a feat? And how?

There was a time when he genuinely thought that Jercash might be the one to do it, but that sourpuss didn't seem interested in the idea, anymore. What a disappointing realization that had been. Jercash obviously wanted to lead Abolish, but apparently, he didn't much care about getting the credit for doing so. These days, the sly boy seemed only too happy to use his "crazy" boss as an excuse for all manner of things, whether it be scapegoating him or feigning an inferiority complex or some other underhanded thing.

There was no doubt in Morgunov's mind that Jercash had a hand in the untimely deaths of Gunther and Dunhouser. Sure, Jackson may have been the one that actually killed them, but Jercash probably manufactured the circumstances that had allowed that to happen.