The doctor shrugged. As he talked, Dan Fowler sat silent, chewing his cigar furiously. But listening--he was listening, all right. "Well, it was crude, then," Moss said. "It's not so crude any more." He pointed to a large bronze plaque hanging on the office wall. "You've seen that before. Read it." Dan Fowler's eyes went up to the plaque. A list of names. At the top words said, "_These ten gave life to Mankind._" Below it were the names: Martin Aronson, Ph. D. Education Thomas Bevalaqua Literature and Art Chauncy Devlin Music Frederick A. Kehler, M. S. Engineering William B. Morse, L. L. D. Law Rev. Hugh H. F. Norton Philosophy and Theology Jacob Prowsnitz, Ph. D. History Arthur L. Rodgers, M. D. Medicine Carlotta Sokol, Ph. D. Sociopsychology Harvey Tatum Business "I know," said Dan Fowler. "June 1st, 2005. They were volunteers." "Ten out of several dozen volunteers," Moss amended. "Those ten were chosen by lot. Already people were dreaming of what sub-total prosthesis could do. It could preserve the great minds, it could compound the accumulated wisdom of one lifetime with another lifetime--and maybe more. Those ten people--representing ten great fields of study--risked their lives. Not to live forever--just to see if rejuvenation could really preserve their minds in newly built bodies. All of them were old, older than you are, Senator, some were sicker than you, and all of them were afraid. But seven of the ten are _still alive today_, a hundred and thirty years later. Rodgers died in a jet crash. Tatum died of neuro-toxic virus, because we couldn't do anything to rebuild neurones in those days. Bevalaqua suicided. The rest are still alive, after two more rejuvenations." "Fine," said Dan Fowler. "I still can't do it now." "That was just ten people," Moss cut in. "It took five years to get ready for them. But now we can do five hundred a year--only five hundred select individuals, to live on instead of dying. And you've got the gall to sit there and tell me you don't have the time for it!" * * * * * The old man rose slowly, lighting another cigar. "It could be five thousand a year. That's why I don't have the time. Fifteen thousand, fifty thousand. We could do it--but we're not doing it. Walter Rinehart's been rejuvenated--twice already! _I'm_ on the list because I shouted so loud they didn't dare leave me off. But _you're_ not on it. Why not? You could be. Everybody could be." Dr. Moss spread his hands. "The Criterion Committee does the choosing."