His eyes moved across to the bedside table. A telephone. He was still alive, Moss had said that sometimes it was possible _even when you were dying_. That was what they did with your father, wasn't it, Carl? Brave Peter Golden, who had fought Rinehart so hard, who had begged and pleaded for universal rejuvenation, waited and watched and finally caught Rinehart red-handed, to prove that he was corrupting the law and expose him. Simple, honest Peter Golden, applying so naively for his rightful place on the list, when his cancer was diagnosed. Peter Golden had been all but dead when he had finally whispered defeat, and given Rinehart his perpetual silence in return for life. They had snatched him from death, indeed. But he had been crucified all the same. They had torn away everything, and found a coward underneath. _Coward? Why? Was it wrong to want to live?_ Dan Fowler was dying. Why must it be him? He had committed himself to a fight, yes, but there were others, young men, who could fight. Men like Peter Golden's son. But you are their leader, Dan. If you fail them, they will never win. Carl was watching him silently, his lean dark face expressionless. Could the boy read his mind? Was it possible that he knew what Dan Fowler was thinking? Carl had always understood before. It had seemed that sometimes Carl had understood Dan far better than Dan did. He wanted to cry out to Carl now, spill over his dreadful thoughts. There was no one to run to. He was facing himself now. No more cover-up, no deceit. Life or death, that was the choice. No compromise. Life or death, but decide _now_. Not tomorrow, not next week, not in five minutes-- He knew the answer then, the flaw, the one thing that even Paul hadn't known. That life is too dear, that a man loves life--not what he can _do_ with life, but very life itself for its own sake--too much to die. It was no choice, not really. A man will _always_ choose life, as long as the choice is really his. Dan Fowler knew that now. It would be selling himself--like Peter Golden did. It would betray Carl, and Jean, and all the rest. It would mean derision, and scorn, and oblivion for Dan Fowler. Carl Golden was standing by the bed when he reached out his arm for the telephone. The squeaking of a valve--what? Carl's hand, infinitely gentle, on his chest, bringing up the soft blankets, and his good clean oxygen dwindling, dwindling-- _Carl!_ _How did you know?_ * * * * * She came in the room as he was reopening the valve on the oxygen tank. She stared at Dan, grey on the bed, and then at Carl. One look at Carl's face and she knew too. Carl nodded, slowly. "I'm sorry, Jean." She shook her head, tears welling up. "But you loved him so." "More than my own father." "Then _why_?"