"But he _did_ change," Curt pointed out. "He _was_ carrying out your work. Wasn't that enough for you? Why did you decide he had to die?" "Ordinarily, we don't want to kill if the change is produced. Sometimes the brain cells are refractory and the characteristics too ingrained. The cells develop tumorous activity as a result of the treatment. So it was with Dell. In his case, however, we would have been forced to kill him by other means if he had not died as he did. This, too, he understood very well. That was why he really wanted no doctor to help him." "You must have driven him insane first!" "Look at this and see if you still think so." Sark led the way to a small instrument and pointed to the eyepiece of it. "Look in there." Curt bent over. Light sprang up at Sark's touch of a switch. Then a scene began to move before Curt's eyes. "Dell!" he exclaimed. The scene was of some vast and well-equipped biological laboratory, much like those of Camp Detrick. Silent, mask-faced technicians moved with precision about their tasks. Dr. Dell was directing operations. But there was something wrong. The figure was not the Dell that Curt knew. As if Sark sensed Curt's comprehension of this, the scene advanced and swelled until the whole area of vision was filled with Dell's face. Curt gasped. The face was blank and hideous. The eyes stared. When the scene retreated once more, Curt saw now that Dell moved as an automaton, almost without volition of his own. * * * * * As he moved away from the bench like a sleepwalker, there came briefly into view the figure of an armed guard at the door. The figure of a corporal, grim in battle dress. Curt looked up, sick as if some inner sense had divined the meaning of that scene which he could not yet put into words. "Had enough?" asked Sark. "What does it mean?" "That is Dell as he would have been. That is what he was willing to die to avoid." "But what _is_ it?" "A military research laboratory twelve years into your future. You are aware that in your own time a good deal of research has come to a standstill because many first-string scientists have revolted against military domination. Unfortunately, there are plenty of second-stringers available and they are enough for most tasks--the youngsters with new Ph.D.s who are awed by the glitter of golden laboratories. But, lacking experience or imagination, they can't see through the glitter or have the insight for great work. Some will eventually, too late, however, and they will be replaced by eager new youngsters." "This scene of Dell--" "Just twelve years from what you call now. Deadlier weapons will be needed and so a bill will be passed to draft the reluctant first-line men--against their will, if necessary." "You can't force creative work," Curt objected.