![]() ![]() As a child he had read about the idea of suspended animation in a popular science book he had found in his grandfather’s library. Bauge had not given up hope of saving his grandfather, even though he was many thousands of miles away. The young man persuaded his distraught mother that burial or cremation would be premature, acts of resignation. Now Morstøl himself could no longer fight back against the assaults of fate, but his grandson could. Neither man was inclined to give in to ill fortune. From his grandfather, Bauge had learnt independence and resilience. Not even an earlier heart attack had stopped this active, outdoor life. He had taken his grandson, Trygve Bauge, with him as soon as the boy was old enough, spending the summers fishing and hiking in the mountains, staying in the high-country cabin that Morstøl had built with his own hands. The grandfather, Bredo Morstøl, had been a vital, vigorous man, a nature-lover who skied and painted well into old age. But he had not woken up: he had had another heart attack in his sleep. She needed to tell him that his beloved grandfather had gone to take a short nap. On the line was his mother in Oslo, where it was already evening dark with a November chill. Boulder, Colorado, 1989: the young Norwegian’s phone rang. ![]()
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