He was at peace now, as he had never been at peace before. For a time, he did not question--was entirely content to lie there and savor the wonderful feeling. He had lost even the definition of fear. No terror now from the slow closing of the five doors; no regrets; no forebodings. Only a vast happiness as he seemingly viewed life, suffering, and death as a man standing on a cliff looking out over a great misty valley. But soon came wonder and analysis. He looked backward and thought: _It was a world, but not my world. These are memories but not my memories. I lived them and knew them--yet none of them belongs to me. Strange--this soul-fiber with which I think--the last function left to me--is not a soul-fiber I have ever known before._ And he knew. _I have never existed before this moment._ He could not prove it nor explain it there in the dark house of his thinking. But he knew it was true. He wondered if he had taken over the body and mind--complete with all the mental trappings--of some other being. Or whether he had been just now conceived, full-blown and with memories of a synthetic past perhaps implanted also in the minds of those with whom he was supposed to have come in contact. He did not know. He was only sure that, before this moment, he had not been. * * * * * With the realization came the certainty that he would not die. The force he felt within him--he was not certain whether it was a part of himself, or the evidence of an outside control--was too powerful. The inner spontaneity gathered strength until it became a striving, persistent vital force, a will of imperious purpose. It moved him and he moved his tongue and spoke. "I will not die!" he shouted. Some time later he grew aware that his sense of hearing had returned. He heard a voice say, "He was in the last stages about an hour ago, before he spoke. I thought I'd better call you." "You did right," a second voice answered. "What's his name?" "Clifford Buckmaster." They're talking about me, he thought. Like a burst of glory, sight returned. He looked up and saw two men standing beside his bed. The older man wore a plain black suit. The younger was dressed in the white uniform of a doctor. "He can see now," the older man said. His was a voice Buckmaster disliked. "It looks as if he's going to recover," the doctor said. "That's never happened before. Do you want me to leave him here with the dying ones?" "No. Wheel him into your office. And leave us alone there. My name is James Wagner. You have, of course, heard of me. I am the Director of Security." Buckmaster still rested in his hospital bed. They had screwed up the back until he sat almost straight. In his mouth there was a slight tang and knew the sense of taste returned. When he was able to feel again he would be entirely well. Yes, he'd heard of Wagner before. He nodded.