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  Twenty minutes later Dan Fowler was in the air again, flying north into an evil-looking winter sky.

  VIII

  A long series of gray, flickering pictures, then, for Dan Fowler. A fast sandwich eaten on the plane as the Capitol’s pale sun was swallowed up. A gray sky, then almost black, temperature dropping, a gray drizzling rain. Cold. Wind bouncing the gray shape of the little ski-plane around like a stick in a stream. Gray news from the pilot: “Eight feet of snow up there, according to reports. Lake’s frozen three feet thick. Going to a rough ride, Senator.” A gray memory of Jean’s quick kiss before he climbed aboard, the sharp worry in her eyes—“Got your pills, Dad? Try to sleep. Take it easy. Give me a call about anything—” (Tough thing to do without any phones, but why tell her that? She’s already scared enough. Confounded heart, anyway.) A wobbly takeoff that almost dumped his stomach into his lap and sent the briefcase flying across the cabin. Then rain, and gray-black nothing out there as they headed north. Faster, man, can’t you get this crate to move a little? Sorry, Senator, nasty currents up here. Maybe if we go higher—

  Time! Paul had said it was more precious than life, and now time ran screaming by in great deadly seeps, like a black-winged buzzard. And through it all, weariness, tiredness that Dan had never felt before. Not the weariness of years, nor of hard work, just a gray, heartsick, sense that time at last was running out on him. He should have rejuvenated months ago, then at least he’d have time. But now—what if Paul were right?

  No rejuvenation for Dan Fowler now, of course. Not until Paul is proven wrong, a thousand times wrong. That was it, that was the real weariness that wasn’t time-weariness or body-weariness. Just mind-weariness. Weariness at the thought of wasted work, the wasted years—a wasted life. Unless Paul were proven wrong.

  Angry at his grayness, Dan snapped on the little TV, searched for diversion. Wonderful pickup these days. News of the world brought to you by Atomics International, the fuel that will power the Starship. . the President returned to Washington today after three-week vacation conference in Calcutta with Chinese and Indian dignitaries. . full accord and a cordial ending to the meeting. . American medical supplies to be made available. . and on the home front, appropriations renewed for Antarctica Project. . solar energy in every home within a decade, according to Project Director Roderigo Aviado. . Special bulletin: huge Abolitionist rally last night in New Chicago as John “Moses” Tyndall returned to that city for the fifteenth anniversary of the movement he started there back in 2119. . cut to scene of wild, placard-waving crowd and a huge banner proclaiming DOWN WITH REJUVENATION THE DEVILS WORK . . . then back to Tyndall’s hawk face and strident voice lashing out at Senator Daniel Fowler’s universal rejuvenation program. . twenty-five hour work week hailed by Senator Rinehart of Alaska as a great progressive step for the American people. . Senator Rinehart, chairman of the all-powerful Criterion Committee, holding forth hope last night that improved rejuvenation techniques may enable the Hoffman Center to handle up to six hundred candidates a year within five years. . Dan snarled in disgust, cut Rinehart’s comforting, confidence-inspiring face off in mid-smile.

  His ears popped and the plane was descending, then, into flurries of northern snow. He peered out at the whiter gloom below, a long stretch of white with blobs of black on either side, resolving into snow-laden black pines, a vast expanse of frozen, snow-covered lake, the slight jolt as the skis touched down. Taxiing across a cove of the lake, engines roaring, throwing up a whirlwind of powdery snow. And ahead, on the shore above the lake, a black blot of a house, with yellow window lights glowing warm and cheerful in the middle of this frozen wilderness.

  Then Dwight MacKenzie, mouse-like, peering out into the gloom, startled eyes with streaks of fear in them, widening in recognition. MacKenzie throwing open the door, smiling, pumping Dan’s hand, a too-hearty greeting. “Dan I I couldn’t imagine who was coming in this snowstorm, hardly ever see anybody up here, you knbw. Come in, come in, you must be half frozen. What’s happened? Something torn loose down in Washington?” And more talk, more questions, tumbling over each other, but something wrong in the voice, no answers wanted, just talk to cover up surprise and fear and the one real question of why Dan Fowler should be dropping down out of the winter sky right then.

  A huge lodge room, open beams, blazing fire in a mammoth fireplace at the one end, moose heads, a thick black bearhide on the floor. “I like to come up here a day or two before the others arrive for hunting,” MacKenzie was saying. “Does a man good to commune with his soul once in a while, eh? You a hunter, Dan? You ought to join us. Libby and Donaldson will be up tomorrow with a couple of guides. There’s always an extra rifle around. Ought to be good hunting this year.”

  One chair near the fireplace, a book hastily thrown down beside it, Sextra Special, Cartoons by Kulp. Great book for soul-searching senators. Things were a little out of focus at first after the biting cold, but now Dan was beginning to see. One book, one chair, but two half-filled cocktail glasses at the sideboard—

  Dan shook his head. “No thanks, Dwight, I have to get right back to the city. Tried to catch you before you left, nothing too urgent, but I wanted to let you know that I put you to all that trouble for nothing, switching the Hearing dates around. We don’t need the Hearings next week after all.”

  Wariness in MacKenzie’s eyes. “Well! It wasn’t any trouble, Dan. No trouble at all. Next week was fine with everybody, better than the February date would have been, as a matter of fact. This way the committee can collect itself before Christmas holidays, ha, ha.”

  “Well, it now seems that it wouldn’t be so good for me, Dwight. I’d much prefer the dates changed back to February again.”

  A long silence while MacKenzie pursed his lips. “Well, now. That’s—awkward. You know, Dan, we really have to settle these things sooner or later. Can’t just shove dates around willy-nilly. And to change back at this late date—I just don’t know.”

  “Don’t know! Why not? You call the meetings and set the agenda.”

  The moose-hunter licked his lips. “Yes, but it isn’t just me that makes these decisions, Dan. Other people have to be consulted. It’s a little late to catch them now, you know. It might be pretty hard to do that.”

  No more smiles from Dan. “Now look, you make the calendar, and you can change it.” Face getting red, getting angry—careful, Dan, those two cocktail glasses, watch what you say—“I want it changed back. And I’ve got to know right now.”

  “But you told me you’d be all ready to roll by next week.”

  No more caution—he had to have time. “Look, there’s no reason you can’t do it if you want to, Dwight. I’d consider it a personal favor—I repeat, a very great personal favor—if you’d make the arrangements. Believe me, I won’t forget it” What did the swine want, an arm off at the roots?

  “Sorry,” said a deep voice from the rear door of the room. Walter Rinehart walked across to the glass on the sideboard. “You don’t mind if I finish this, Dwight?”

  A deep breath from MacKenzie, like a sigh of relief. “Go right ahead, Walt. Drink, Dan?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” It was Walter, all right. Tall, upright, dignified Walter, fine shock of wavy hair as white as the snow outside. Young-old lines on his face. Some men looked finer after rejuvenation, much finer than before. There had been a weakness in Walter Rinehart’s eyes and face before his first Retread. Not now. A fine man, the picture of mature wisdom and social responsibility. A man you could trust to guide the committee that decided whether you were going to be the one to live or die.

  But inside, the mind was the same as it was before. Inside, no changes. Author of the Rinehart Criteria, back in the days when rejuvenation first became possible. Rinehart’s supporters compared that manifesto with the Gettysburg address, with Churchill’s “blood, sweat and tears” speech, with the Markheim Doctrine that had finally brought East and West to the end of the Cold War. The criteria to be used by an impartial committ
ee in selecting those individuals most worthy, by service to mankind, to enjoy the fruits of the new rejuvenation process until such time as it could be available to all—Rinehart’s work. Some said it was a work of genius, and it secured Walter Rinehart a perpetual seat in the Senate, and chairmanship of the Criterion Committee. But other men, less impressed and more far-seeing—men like Dan Fowler- had insisted that Rinehart’s real intent was to set up a small, self-perpetuating “immortal elite” who would ultimately use their control over rejuvenation as a weapon to control the world.

  No one had fought Rinehart harder or longer than Dan Fowler. The world knew that, but the world was not present in this secluded hunting lodge tonight.

  Dan turned his back on Rinehart and said to MacKenzie, “I want the date changed.”

  “I—I can’t do it, Dan.” An inquiring glance at Rinehart, a faint smiling nod in return.

  Suddenly it dawned on Dan how badly he had blundered. MacKenzie was afraid. MacKenzie wanted another lifetime, one of these days. He had decided that Rinehart was the one who could give it to him. But worse, fax worse: Rinehart knew now that something had happened, something was wrong. “What’s the matter, Dan?” he said smoothly. “You need more time before the Hearings? Why? You had plenty of time before, but you threw it away, made poor Dwight here shift the dates right up under our noses. Now you want them changed back, all of a sudden. What happened, Dan? Hit a snag somewhere?”

  That was all. Back against the wall. The thought of bluffing it through, swallowing the December 15 date and telling them to drop dead flashed through his mind. He threw it out violently, his heart sinking. That was only a few days, and.he had weeks of work ahead of him. He needed more time, he had to have it—

  Rinehart was grinning confidently. “Of course I’d like to cooperate, Dan. But I have some plans for the Hearings, too. You’ve been getting on people’s nerves, down in the city. There’s even been talk on the committee of revoking your rejuvenation permit.”

  Your move, Dan. Oh, what a blunder! Why did you ever come up here? And every minute you stand there with your jaw sagging just tells Rinehart how tight he’s got you—do something, anything—

  Well, there was a way. Would Carl ever understand it? No telling. Carl had begged him never to use it, ever, under any circumstances, and Carl had trusted him implicitly when he had promised that he wouldn’t. It would be an outright betrayal, but if Carl Golden were standing here in his shoes, what would he say? He’d say yes, go ahead, use it, wouldn’t he? He’d have to.

  “I want the Hearings on February 15,” Dan said to Rinehart.

  “Sorry, Dan. We can’t be tossing dates around like that Unless you care to tell me just why.”

  “Okay.” Dan grabbed his hat angrily. “I’ll make a formal request for the change tomorrow morning, and read it on the TV. Then I’ll also announce a feature attraction that the people can look forward to when the Hearings begin. We weren’t planning to use it, but you seem to want both barrels right in the face, so that’s what we’ll give you.”

  Walter Rinehart roared with laughter. “Another feature attraction? You do dig them up, don’t you? Ken Armstrong’s dead, you know.”

  “Peter Golden’s widow isn’t.”

  The smile faded on Rinehart’s face. He looked suddenly like a man carved out of gray stone. Dan’s whole body was shaking as he let the words sink in. “You didn’t think anybody knew about that, did you, Walter? That’s too bad. We’ve got the whole story on Peter Golden, the whole story. Took quite a while to piece it together, but we did it with the help of his son. Carl remembers his father before the accident, you see, quite well. His widow remembers him even before that. And we have some fascinating video tapes that Peter Golden made when he applied for rejuvenation, and later when he appealed the committee’s decisions. Some of the private interviews, too, Walter.”

  “I gave Peter Golden forty more years of life,” Rinehart said.

  “You crucified him,” said Dan, bluntly.

  There was silence, a long silence. Then: “Are you selling?”

  “I’m selling.” Cut out my tongue, Carl, but I’m selling.

  “How do I know you won’t use it anyway?”

  “You don’t know. Except that I’m telling you I won’t.”

  Rinehart soaked that in with the last gulp of his drink. Then he smashed the glass on the stone floor. “Change the date,” he told MacKenzie. “Then throw this vermin Out of here.”

  Back in the snow and darkness Dan tried to breathe again, and couldn’t quite make it. He had to stop and rest twice going down to the plane. Then he was sick all the way home.

  IX

  It was early evening when the plane dropped him off in New York Crater, and picked up another charter. Two cold eggs and some scalding coffee, eaten standing up at the airport counter. Great for the stomach, but no time to stop. Anyway, Dan’s stomach wasn’t in the mood for dim lights and pale wine, not just this minute. Questions and recriminations howled through his mind. The knowledge that he had made the one Class A colossal blunder of his thirty years in politics, this last half-day. The miscalculation of a man! He should have known about MacKenzie, or at least suspected. MacKenzie was getting old, he wanted a Retread, and wanted it badly. Before, he had figured Dan to get it for him. Then something changed his mind, and he threw in with Rinehart.

  Why?

  Armstrong’s suicide, of course. Pretty good proof that even Rinehart hadn’t known it was a suicide. If Carl had brought back evidence of murder, Dan was certain to win, MacKenzie had thought. But evidence of suicide—that was far too shaky. Walt Rinehart had his hooks in too deep to be dislodged by that.

  The loudspeaker blared the boarding signal for the Washington Jet. Dan gulped the last of his coffee, and found a visiphone booth with a scrambler in working order. Two calls. The first was to Jean, to line up round-the-clock guards for Peter Golden’s widow on Long Island. Jean couldn’t keep surprise out of her voice. Dan grunted and didn’t elaborate; just get them out there.

  Then a call to Carl. He chewed his cigar nervously. Two minutes of waiting while they corralled Carl from wherever he was. Then: “Carl, I just saw MacKenzie. I found him hiding in Rinehart’s hip pocket.”

  “Oh, oh.” Carl’s face on the screen looked desolate. “Dan, we’ve got to have time.”

  “We’ve got it, but the price was very steep, son.”

  Silence then as Carl peered at him. “Do you mean what I think you mean?”

  “I’m afraid that’s what I mean.”

  “I see.”

  “Lad, I’ll try to make it up to you, somehow, I swear I will,” Dan said miserably. “I hated myself, but I was trapped. If I just hadn’t been in such a hurry, if I’d only thought it out, but I was trapped. It was an awful error, and every bit of it was my fault.”

  “Well, don’t go out and shoot yourself over it,” Carl said.

  “I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later. What about Mother?”

  “Shell be perfectly safe. They won’t get within £ mile of her. Look, son, is Fisher doing all right?”

  Carl nodded. “I talked to him an hour ago. He’ll be ready for you by tomorrow night, he thinks.”

  “Sober?”

  “Sober. And mad. He was the right guy for the job.” Worried lines deepened on Golden’s forehead. “Look, Dan, don’t worry about—the price. What about you? How did Rinehart take it?”

  “It scared him. He’d almost forgotten, I think. You carry on, now. Everything’s going to be fine.” Dan rang off, scowling. He wished he was as sure as he sounded. It was Rinehart with his back to the wall, now, and Dan wasn’t too sure he liked that.

  An hour later he landed in Washington, and Jean was dragging him into the Volta. “Dad, if you don’t get some sleep now, I’ll personally put you out with ether. You’re lolling yourself. Now shut up while I drive you home.”

  A soft bed, darkness, escape. When had he slept last? He couldn’t remember, but it wa
s like heaven, with no dreams to bother him.

  X

  He slept the clock around, over twenty-three hours, which he had not intended, and then caught the next night jet to Las Vegas, which he had intended. There was some delay with the passenger list after he had gone aboard. Somebody raising a howl with the disbursing officer, and the jet took off four minutes late. Dan slept again, fitfully.

  Somebody slid down into the adjoining seat like a stealthy shadow. “Weill Good old Dan Fowler!”

  A gaunt, frantic-looking man, with skin like cracked parchment across his high cheekbones, and a pair of Dracula eyes looking down at Dan. If Death walked in human flesh, Dan thought, it would look like John Tyndall.

  “What do you want, ‘Moses’?”

  “Just dropped by to chat,” said Tyndall. “You’re heading for Las Vegas, eh? Why?”

  “I like the climate out there,” Dan said. “Look, if you want to talk, talk and get it over with.”

  Tyndall lifted a narrow foot and gave the recline-button a sharp jab, dumping the senator back against the seat. “You’ve got something cooking, and I like the smell. I want my share, right now.”

  Dan stared into the gaunt face, and burst out laughing. He had never actually been so close to John Tyndall before, and he did not like the smell, which had brought on the laugh, but he knew all about Tyndall. More than Tyndall himself knew, probably. He could even remember the early rallies Tyndall had led, feeding on the fears and suspicions and nasty rumors about rejuvenation that had grown up in the early days. It was evil, they had said. This was not God’s way, this was Man’s way, as evil as Man was evil. If God had wanted Man to live a thousand years, he would have given him such a body—

  Or: