Senator Vorys:You knew the late Wayne Janson well?Bryant:I was his closest friend.Vorys:When did he first mention reanimation to you?Bryant:About January. He said his doctor had told him about the experiments going on in Litchfield.Vorys:What is the name of this doctor?Bryant:I'm sorry, I don't know, Senator Vorys.Vorys:Very well. Go ahead.Bryant:Well, Wayne suffered a stroke in February and he told me that he was going to Litchfield, that he felt close to death and was volunteering for reanimation.Vorys: (Interrupting)The FBI did check and found that Janson had been away from home during February and March.Bryant:Yes, sir. Well, Janson came home late in March and told me of his experiences. He seemed moody, depressed, very different from usual. I tried without success to cheer him up. Then one night several weeks ago he phoned me and said he was going to end it all, to jump off the George Washington Bridge. In his conversation he attributed his desire for death to a morbid change that had come over his mind as a result of the Beller treatment.Vorys:You're aware, are you not, of the FBI statement which says that to the best of their knowledge Janson never had any contact with the Beller people?Bryant:Of course. The key phrase there is "to the best of their knowledge." I have no doubt that the Beller people have suppressed this case as they've suppressed so many other things since James Harker started running them.
Senator Vorys:You knew the late Wayne Janson well?
Bryant:I was his closest friend.
Vorys:When did he first mention reanimation to you?
Bryant:About January. He said his doctor had told him about the experiments going on in Litchfield.
Vorys:What is the name of this doctor?
Bryant:I'm sorry, I don't know, Senator Vorys.
Vorys:Very well. Go ahead.
Bryant:Well, Wayne suffered a stroke in February and he told me that he was going to Litchfield, that he felt close to death and was volunteering for reanimation.
Vorys: (Interrupting)The FBI did check and found that Janson had been away from home during February and March.
Bryant:Yes, sir. Well, Janson came home late in March and told me of his experiences. He seemed moody, depressed, very different from usual. I tried without success to cheer him up. Then one night several weeks ago he phoned me and said he was going to end it all, to jump off the George Washington Bridge. In his conversation he attributed his desire for death to a morbid change that had come over his mind as a result of the Beller treatment.
Vorys:You're aware, are you not, of the FBI statement which says that to the best of their knowledge Janson never had any contact with the Beller people?
Bryant:Of course. The key phrase there is "to the best of their knowledge." I have no doubt that the Beller people have suppressed this case as they've suppressed so many other things since James Harker started running them.
The ten-minute colloquy between Vorys and Bryant, widely quoted and republished everywhere, served not only to discredit the FBI statement utterly, but to convince the public that Harker had indeed suppressed the records of the Janson reanimation.
A magnificent scientific discovery discredited because of a ten percent imperfection. An FBI investigation thrown into the rubbish-heap because of one man's bitter determination to crush an old enemy.
Harker studied the newspapers each day with increasing bitterness. The original importance of the Beller process seemed to be getting lost under the welter of side-issues, the jackal-like snapping of Klaus-Mitchison and Bryant, the political fencing of the two great parties, the hysteria of the people when faced with something new and beyond easy acceptance.
Only one issue had not been raised yet—luckily, for it was the deadliest of all, having a basis of truth. No one had accused the Beller people of murdering Senator Thurman.
It was a logical accusation, against the background of insane charges already raised. After all, Thurman had been the most vigorous and most important of the enemies of reanimation, and he had disappeared on the eve of the hearings themselves! It seemed obvious to Harker thatsomeonewould think of implying that the Beller group had done away with their tough, intractable enemy.
But no one raised the cry, perhaps because it was too obvious. A thousandth time, Harker was grateful for that momentary impulse of steely purposefulness that had led him to condemn Barchet to continuing death. Of the six people who had known the fate of Senator Thurman, only Barchet was likely to crack and reveal the truth—and Barchet was out of the picture now.
The eighth day of the hearing came and went; Vorys grilled poor Luric mercilessly on minor scientific details, while Brewster got Vogel to explain some of the surgical fine points of the reanimation technique.
"You have to admire those two boys," Harker said after that session. "They've really brushed up on the pertinent subjects."
"I haven't had a quizzing like that since I left medical school," Vogel said, nervously tugging at the dark strands of his beard.
"And for what?" Raymond wanted to know. "Just to use up the taxpayers' money. They've found out all they want to know about us."
Harker nodded gloomily. You only had to pick up any newspaper, listen to any reasonably right-wing news commentator, attend any church, even walk in the street and talk to people at random.
The response was the same. Fear.
Fear of reanimation, fear of that one-chance-out-of-six that the result would be a so-called zombie. Desperately Harker tried to counteract the swelling tide of fear. He scraped up money for a full-page ad in theTimes, headed,Throw Out the Baby With the Bathwater?
His line of argument was that the reanimation process should not be condemned for its failures, but praised for its successes. It was in the early stages, the experimental years. What if aviation had been suppressed because of the early crashes? Research had to go on.
The response to the advertisement was a lessening of hysteria in responsible places; theTimesitself echoed his feelings in its own editorial the next day. But he sensed he was not reaching the people. And the people feared reanimation. There was no doubt of that, now.
The hearing rolled along into early June, and then one day Dixon announced that this was the last week; the committee would enter private deliberations preparatory to delivering its findings to the Senate as a whole.
Harker approached Senator Dixon privately and said, "Tell me, Senator—how are our chances?"
The Wyoming liberal frowned quizzically. "Hard to say. The Committee's deadlocked two-and-two, you see. We may fight all summer about it."
"Vorys and Brewster are dead against it?"
"Absolutely. They heed the voice of the people, you see. Every minority party has to. It's the way they become a majority again."
Harker said doubtfully, "How's the feeling in high Nat-Lib circles?"
Dixon shrugged. "Right now, the feeling runs toward taking the Beller labs over and continuing reanimation research under federal supervision—with you and Raymond still in charge, of course."
"Fine!"
"Not so fast," Dixon warned. "We've got a Congressional majority, but that doesn't mean a thing. The way the people are murmuring, it looks pretty bad for getting that measure through."
"You mean you may have to switch your stand?"
Dixon nodded. "Jim, you know all about political expediency. You tried to knock down the stone wall when you were Governor, and got nowhere. If the people say, 'Junk reanimation,' then we'll have to junk it."
Hotly Harker said, "Junk it? The way I was junked as Governor?"
Dixon smiled. "I'm afraid so. It's this business of the seven idiots, Jim. That scares people more than you can imagine."
"But we can lick that problem—eventually!"
"Maybe you can. But the voters don't believe that. All they see is the short-range possibility. And they're more afraid of having a loved one turn into a zombie than they are of death. After all, you can't very well kill your wife or son or father if you've had him reanimated and he turns out to be an idiot. You have to go on supporting him. It's pretty frightening."
Doggedly Harker said, "I think we can get over that particular hump."
"Then reanimation's in. Jim, I'm not so foolish as to think that we can ever go back to where we were two months ago. The Beller process exists; it can't be destroyed. But it can be batted around in committee and side-channelled and circumvented until the time is ripe for popular acceptance. And the Party may have to do that to you, though I hope it doesn't happen."
"Do you think it will, though?"
Again the sad smile. "Read the newspapers, man. Read your mail!"
Harker read his mail.
He ploughed through hundreds of vicious, sweat-provoking letters. He sorted them out: favorable on one side, unfavorable on the other. Theunfavorablepile grew so high it toppled over, and he started a new one; the pile of encouraging letters was no more than three inches thick.
They were letters of raw hate, most of them. The kind of thing that went,My beloved mother/father/sister/brother/son/daughter/aunt/uncle/grandmother/grandfather died last week, and I want to tell you she/he had a decent Christian burial and went to his/her eternal repose. Naturally I feel sorrow at my loss, but I'd rather be dead myself than let a loved one of mine get into your hands. Sure, maybe you'll bring him/her back to life—but who wants to see the hollow mindless shell of someone you once loved? Not me, brother. Not me.
It was an enlarging experience to read those letters. Even when he had held public office, Harker had never received so many, nor such loaded ones.
It was astonishing. They gloated in the triumph of death, they thanked God they had not allowed their beloved ones to be reanimated, they extended curses for Harker and his whole family.Hewas the target of their hate, the symbol for reanimation.
At first he was irritated, then angered; anger passed, and turned into compassion. Perhaps some of these same people had written to him a month ago, pleading to have a loved one restored to them by the new miracle of science. Now, confused by the haze of conflicting tales, of lies and partial truths, their earlier willingness turned to repulsion.
Harker wearily baled the letters up again, and left Litchfield to spend some time with his puzzled, unhappy family. They were accustomed to seeing their father's name in the headlines; it was old stuff to them. But this public hatred was new to them, and difficult for them to understand.
It was not too late, Harker thought. The forces of confusion could be put to rout; the dominion of death could at last have boundaries staked out.
But the public faith had to be regained. Some spectacular demonstration, some act of faith that would capture their imagination and end the dominating sway of ignorance.
But what? How?
Harker had no answer.
CHAPTER XIX
At Litchfield again, the next day, Harker was reading through a lab report, comprehending not very much of it, when a diffident knock sounded outside his door.
Probably Lurie with the papers, he thought. "Come in!"
A slim figure in ecclesiastical robes entered. Harker blinked and said, "I didn't expect to seeyouhere, Father Carteret."
"Nor I. But I thought I would make the trip."
"Sit down," Harker urged. "What's on your mind?"
"Jim, I asked you to come to me if you ever had any troubles. You have them now. I thought I'd stop over and find out if I could be of any help."
Harker felt faintly irritated. He liked the priest, but he felt no desire for unasked advice. "Father, if you've come to tell me I ought to quit this outfit while I still have my soul, forget it."
"The time for telling you that is past."
Harker stared at the priest coolly. "Then why are you here?"
"To help you. I have a suggestion for you—a rather strange one. But first let me tell you that the Church is reconsidering its stand."
"What?"
Carteret smiled gently. "The Church moves slowly; don't anticipate anything for the next several years. But I have it on good understanding that as soon as your technique is perfect—that is, as soon as you can restore body and mind every time—the Church will no longer withhold its approval from reanimation."
Harker chuckled. "I'd say that bet was pretty well coppered. Theifthere is a pretty big one."
"I know. But a necessary one. I'm praying for your success, Jim."
"You?But you warned me away from this thing!"
Carteret nodded. "You took the step anyway. And perhaps I made an original error in judgment."
"Well, that's neither here nor there. Reanimation is going to be squashed by Congress anyway."
"What do you mean?"
"Simply that the defect in the process has aroused such public horror that Congress is afraid to legislate in our favor."
"And you don't expect to overcome that defect?"
"Not immediately. Another six months, maybe—but by that time it'll be too late."
Carteret steepled his long thin fingers reflectively. "You tell me, then, that your real problem is a failure of public relations. If you could sell your product to the people, Congress would follow along.
"In a word, that's it."
"I thought so."
"You said you had a suggestion to make," Harker reminded the priest.
"I did. It's an idea for capturing the stream of public opinion. I'm anxious to see your project succeed, Jim. It may sound strange, coming from my lips, but that's the truth. I suffered to reach this option."
"And what's your idea?"
An odd smile appeared on Carteret's thin face. "It's one that bears the test of time, Jim. Our Savior went meekly to the Cross, and on the third day He arose. It was an act that has captured the imaginations and hearts of men for two thousand years."
Harker frowned. "I don't quite see—"
He stopped. Abruptly the deeper meaning of the priest's words was borne in on him, and he stared at Carteret aghast, wondering.
"Wouldyoudo something like that?" he asked.
"If I had faith in my cause," Carteret said. "Do you have faith in yours?"
Hesitantly Harker said, "I—think so."
"Therein lies the answer, Jim. Think about it a while. Don't rush yourself. I'll leave you now, and let you get used to the idea."
Alone, Harker stared through the office window at the dark, rain-streaked sky outside. Summer lightning crackled suddenly across the darkness; moments later thunder came rolling down from the hills.
A cold sweat came over him as he revolved Carteret's words in his mind:Our Savior went meekly to the Cross, and on the third day He arose.
Do I dare, he wondered?
It was, he knew without doubt, the act that would settle the fate of reanimation for good. With success would come triumph; failure for him unquestionably meant the downfall of the project.
Shall I risk it?
Do I dare?
He thought back over a life that had lasted forty-three years, a comfortable life, most of it spent in easy circumstances as he rose through law school to political prominence, then down the other side of the curve into a short-lived obscurity. He had never known real danger in his life. There had been enemies, of course—political ones, who had worked his downfall. But that was a gentle kind of strife, a chess-game more than a pitched war.
This was different.
This was life or death, on the line—and for what? For a cause. He had never known a cause he might be willing to risk death for. Now that the risk presented itself, he wondered if he had the courage to submit to it.
Harker sat quietly for perhaps half an hour, thinking. Then he reached for the phone and dialed his home number. Lois answered. In a calm, level voice, he told her exactly what he was going to do.
She was silent for a moment; then she said simply, "Jim, why do you have to do this thing?"
How can I explain?he wondered.How can I show her that a moment can come when you stand between life and death, and the choice is entirely yours?
He said, "I think it's the only way, Lois. It'll prove to the world that reanimation can be trusted."
"But the awful risk, Jim—"
One-chance-out-of-six for idiocy, he thought bleakly. "I wouldn't do it if I thought it was risky, Lois. The whole point is that itisn'trisky. You think I want to be a goddam martyr?"
"Sometimes I think you do, Jim," she said very quietly.
He chuckled harshly. "Well, maybe. But I know what I'm doing. It'll hammer home reanimation the way no amount of talking ever could."
After a long pause she said, "When—when would you do this thing?"
"I don't know. I'd have to discuss it with the others here first. And we'd need to arrange for proper publicity. Unless the whole world finds out about it, there's no sense in doing it."
Forty-three years of life converging toward one moment of decision in a bare little room on a rain-soaked New Jersey hill, Harker thought.And this is probably the weirdest motive for suicide in the history of the human species.
Lois said, "Do you have that much faith in those men?"
"Yes. How can we expect the people to trust us, if we don't trust ourselves?"
"All right," she said. Her voice held undertones of quiet resignation. "I guess I ought to fight and cry and tell you not to do it, but I know you too well, Jim. Go ahead, if you think you have to do this thing. I—I guess you might as well have my permission, because I know you'll go ahead and do it anyway."
There was the hint of a crack in her voice. Harker smiled palely, thankful that the roughly-furnished office he had here did not have a visual pickup on the phone. He did not want her to see his face now, for he knew his face was that of a frightened man.
"Everything's going to be okay," he told her, and broke the contact.
It was still raining. He pulled a waterproof from the closet, slung it over his shoulders, and dashed across the clearing to Mart Raymond's office. The sky was dark, gray, bleak.
Raymond was working on records when Harker entered—proceeding mechanically, with the air of a man marking time. They were all marking time, waiting for the Congressional decision.
Harker said, "Mart, tell me something."
"Go ahead."
"How close are you to ironing out the business of loss of mind?"
Raymond shrugged. "I told you. A month's more work, maybe. A little less, if we're lucky."
Nodding, Harker said quietly, "Look here, Mart: I'm going to pull a Mitchison."
"Huh?"
"I mean, I'm going to jump the gun and announce that you'vealreadystraightened things up, and that from now on reanimation will work every time, provided no vital organs are damaged and that decay hasn't begun."
"What's the point of doing that? It isn't so."
"Itwillbe so, sooner or later. Sooner, I hope. But I have an idea for a sort of publicity stunt, a grandstand play that should clinch the idea of reanimation's safety. Or else finish us altogether."
Harker walked to the window and stared out. Raymond said, "Jim, what the dickens are you talking about?"
Harker turned sharply. "Very simple. We're going to give a public demonstration of reanimation, sometime in the next couple of days. In order to prove the absolute safety of the process, I'm going to allow you to kill me under laboratory conditions and bring me back to life."
"Are you crazy?"
"Desperate. It's not quite the same thing."
"But suppose it doesn't work? What if—you remember how Thurman looked?"
"I do. I'll take my chances. If it doesn't work, then we're not much worse off than we are now." Harker turned again and stared out the window.
The rain had stopped; the sun was out. A rainbow arched proudly across the low hills, a many-colored ribbon stretching out to the horizon.
Harker drafted two press releases during the afternoon, and by nightfall they had reached print in the newspapers. Both caused sensations.
At seven that evening he tuned in the video at one of the laboratory dorm lounges, and heard a news commentator say, "Exciting news from the Beller Research Laboratories of New Jersey today. The last technical flaw in the reanimation process has been licked, according to lab director Martin Raymond. The Beller Lab statement declared that from now on reanimation will be virtually fool-proof, with no risk of possible insanity as before.
"As if to drive home the importance of this new development, a simultaneous statement comes from James Harker, who of course is closely affiliated with the reanimation researchers. Harker let it be known this afternoon that he is suffering from a rare heart ailment, one which has been hitherto impossible to correct because the necessary surgery cannot be performed on a living man.
"Harker declared that he is so confident of the Beller technique's results that he will submit to the operation, necessitating temporary 'death,' and then will be reanimated at the conclusion of the operation."
Harker listened soberly to this largely fictitious news broadcast. He had no heart ailment; the last technical flaw had not been eliminated.
But never mind, he thought. The essential fact was the last—the reanimation. The rest was camouflage.
Five chances out of six. He felt oddly calm about his decision. At last he found a cause in which he had faith, and he did not expect to be let down.
CHAPTER XX
There seemed to be a sheath of fog wrapped around him, or perhaps it was a section of cloud. White, soft, without substance, it buoyed him up. He did not open his eyes. He did not need to; the images he saw against the inner surfaces of his eyelids far eclipsed any the mundane world might hold.
Harker saw glowing masses of color, a sky of red bordered with turquoise, clouds of gold, smaller flecks of chocolate and ultramarine. He heard the distant rumble of voices, or was it the sound of thunder?
He remembered things.
He remembered someone (Mart Raymond?) looking down at him, lips drawn, eyes ringed with shadows, saying, "Jim, do you really want to go through with this thing?"
He remembered Lurie, looking awkward and ungainly. Poor Lurie. Lurie had got him into this whole mess in the beginning, hadn't he?
Lois had been there too, her face a blank emotionless mask. And there had been others—the four senators, Vorys, Brewster, Dixon, Westmore. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. The ghostly riders of death.
Reporters? Video men? Yes, there had been quite a crowd.
Harker stirred gently in the cradling mass of fog that held him. He had never been so comfortable in his life as now, lying in what seemed to be free fall, no weight on him, no conflicts clashing in his tired brain, nothing to do but relax and dream of yesterday.
There's Vogel, he thought. The surgeon wielding his tools. Complex dark many-tendriled machine loomed up over me. Yes.
Vogel is whispering something to someone now; I can't quite catch it.
They lower something over my face. Sweet, too sweet; I breathe deeply.
I sleep. Time passes.
Harker floated gently, guiding himself with his arms, travelling lightly down a river of radiant brightness. No weight. No sensations. Only the endless lovely bath of color, and the distant rumble of thunder.
This is heaven, he thought pleasantly. Not a bad place at all.
Timeless, voiceless, airless, lifeless. A kaleidoscope of blues and violets overhead. I am pure energy, he thought, unfettered by the ties of flesh.
This is the kingdom of death. There was the odor of lilies somewhere, a cool sweet white smell. I, James Harker, being of sound mind—
A golden flame, child-sized, soared near him in the nothingness. It's Eva, he thought. Hello, Eva. Don't you remember your dad?
The golden flame swooped laughingly past him and was gone. Harker felt a momentary pang, but it too passed on; this was heaven, where there was no sadness.
The rumble of thunder grew louder.
(Voices?)
(Here?Harker thought.)
I have given myself voluntarily into the hands of death, he announced silently. Of my own free will did I consent to have the sanctity of my body violated and the free passage of air through my nostrils interfered with. And with the stoppage of the heart came death.
Frowning, he tried to remember more. Recollection grew dim, though, as if he were glimpsing the world he had left behind through a series of warped mirrors. He could see faintly into the world of living people, but the surface was oddly glazed, unreal.
Again came thunder, louder, closer.
Someone said, "I think he's waking up."
Harker remained perfectly still, struggling to penetrate the meaning of those words.I think he's waking up.
Waking up? From death?
"He's definitely coming out of it."
Yes, Harker thought, I'm waking up. Returning to the blurred world I left behind so long ago.
He was still bound to that world. It would not release its grip on him. It wanted him, was calling him.
Recalled to life!
With a sudden convulsive moan and whimper, Harker woke.
His mouth tasted cottony, and at first his eyes would not focus. Gradually the world took shape about him. He saw three faces hovering above the bed in which he lay; behind them were green electroluminescent hospital walls, broken by a window through which warm summer sunshine streamed in. Yes, he thought. Recalled life.Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.
He matched faces with identities. The squarish face badly in need of a shave—that belonged to Mart Raymond. The oval one, tinged by blonde hair shading into gray—that face belonged to Lois. And the other, the lean ascetic rectangle of a face, that was owned by Father Carteret.
Harker said, "I guess it worked. Where am I?" His voice was hoarse and rusty-sounding, like a musical instrument long neglected.
Mart Raymond said, "It worked beautifully. You're in Newark General Hospital. You've been here in anesthetic coma for two weeks. Ever since the operation."
Two weeks, Harker thought. It seemed like two minutes ago that Vogel had lowered the anesthesia cone over his face.
"How—did things work out?" he asked.
It was the priest who spoke. "Perfectly, Jim. You're a national hero."
He glanced at Lois, who bent over Harker and clutched his hand. Hers seemed cold, Harker thought.
They left him after a while, and he lay back in the bed, thinking that it was good to be alive again. The sunlight was bright and warm in the room; it should be nearly August, he thought.
Some time later he was fed, and some time after that a nurse appeared bearing a thick stack of newspapers. "TheTimessince your operation, Mr. Harker. Your wife thought you'd like to see them."
He thanked her and reached hungrily for the topmost paper. It was today's—the latest edition. The banner headline was,Harker Out of Coma, and they had the picture of him that had been used for his campaign posters back in 2028.
He leafed back ... July 30, July 29, July 28 ...
At the bottom of the heap was the July 16 paper, with the account of his sensational submission to death. They described the event in detail: how, cheerful to the last, he had been wheeled into the operating room, anesthetized, killed. The operating room had then been cleared of all but the surgeons, who proceeded with the cardiac operation according to the papers. When the "operation" had been "successfully concluded," an hour later, the observers were called back. Thirty-eight people had watched his untroubled return to life.
He thumbed on through the papers. The suit of Klaus and Mitchison against Beller Laboratories had been thrown out of court on the 18th. The next day, the FBI had repeated its earlier statement exonerating the labs of any guilt in the matter of the death of Wayne Janson, and this time there was no further statement from Jonathan Bryant.
There were statements from various ranking government officials, though. They unanimously favored setting up a federal research grant project for studying further applications of the techniques of reanimation.
The nurse appeared and said, "Mr. Raymond would like to see you, sir."
"Send him in."
Raymond grinned and remarked, "You look like you've been getting up to date."
"I have been. Things look pretty good, don't they?"
"They look tremendous," Raymond said. "Dixon phoned from Washington to say that Vorys and Brewster have been won over. The Committee's recommending a multi-million dollar federal grant to us for continuing research."
"Great! Now I suppose you can lick the business of insanity, Mart."
Raymond grinned cheerfully again. "Didn't I tell you? We broke through that wall about four days ago. It's a matter of insulating the hormone feed lines. Yours was the last risky reanimation."
Before Harker could reply, the phone by the side of his bed chimed briefly. He picked it up and heard a voice say, "Albany calling for Mr. James Harker."
"That's me," Harker said.
"Go ahead, Albany."
There was a pause; then a new voice said, "Jim? Leo Winstead here. Just heard the news. Everything all right?"
"Couldn't be okayer, Leo."
Winstead coughed. "Jim, maybe this is too soon to ask you to think about returning to work, but I want to put a proposition to you."
"What kind?"
"New York State is short one senator right now. I have to appoint somebody to replace Thurman. And it seemed to me thatyou—"
Harker nearly let the phone drop. When he had recovered his poise he said, "I'm still a sick man, Leo. Don't shock me like that."
"Sorry if I did. But it's a job I think you're equipped to handle. Interested?"
"I sort of think I am," Harker said wryly.
When he had finished talking to Winstead, he hung up the phone and looked at Mart Raymond. "That was Governor Winstead. He's naming me to the Senate to fill the rest of Thurman's term."
"Wonderful!"
"I suppose it is," Harker admitted.
He sent for Lois and told her about it, and she wept a little, partly for joy and partly, he suspected, because she did not want him to take on any new responsibilities.
Harker flicked the tears away. He stretched gently, mindful of his sutures.
Lois said, "It's all finished, isn't it? The struggling and the conniving, the plotting and scheming? Everything's going to be all right now."
He smiled at her. He was thinking that the stream of events could have come out much worse. He had taken a desperate gamble, and he and humanity both were that much the richer for it.
But the world as he had known it for forty-odd years was dead, and would not return to life. This was a new era—an era in which the darkest fact of existence, death, no longer loomed high over man.
Staggering tasks awaited mankind now. A new code of laws was needed, a new ethical system. The first chapter had closed, but the rest of the book remained to be written.
He squeezed her hand tightly. "No, Lois. Itisn'tall finished. The hardest part of the job is just beginning. But everything's going to be all right, now. Yes. Everything's going to be all right."