Harker returned to the office, reflecting that the final _Governor_ had either been savagely unkind or else a bit of unconscious absent-mindedness. Either way, he tried to ignore it. He dumped himself behind his desk, frowning deeply, and dug his thumbs into his eyeballs. After a moment he got up, crossed to the portable bar, and dialed himself a whiskey sour. He sipped thoughtfully. _Resurrection._ A crazy, grotesque idea. A frightening one. But science had come up with a method for containing the hundred-million-degree fury of a fusion reaction; why not a method for bringing the recent dead back to life? No, he thought. He wasn't primarily in doubt of the possibility of the process. It was dangerous to be too skeptical of the potentialities of science. It was his own part in the enterprise that made him hold back. What Lurie evidently had in mind was for him to act as a sort of public advocate, arguing their case before the courts of law and of human opinion. It was a frighteningly big job, and if the tide swept against him he would be carried away. Then he smiled. _What have I to lose?_ He eyed the tri-dims of his wife and sons that occupied one corner of his desk. His political career, he thought, couldn't be any deader than it was now. His own party had cast him loose, refusing to name him for a second term when he indiscreetly defied the state committee in making a few appointments. His law practice did well, though not spectacularly; in any event, he was provided for financially by his investments. He had nothing to lose but his good name, and he had already lost most of that in the political mess. And he had a whole world to win. Revival of the dead? _How about a dead career_, Harker wondered. _Can I revive that too?_ Rising from his desk, he paced round the office, pausing to depolarize the windows. Bright morning sunshine poured in. Through his window he could see the playground of the public school across the street. Thin-legged girls of nine or ten were playing a punchball game; he could hear the shrieks of delight and anguish even at this distance. A sudden sharp image came to him: himself, nine years before, standing spread-legged on the beach at Riis Park, with Lois staring white-faced at him and three-year-old Chris peeking strangely around her legs. It was a blisteringly hot day; his skin, to which sand had adhered, was red, raw, tender. He heard the booming of the surf, the overhead _zoop_ of a Europe-bound rocket, the distant cry of refreshment-venders and the nearer laughter of small girls. He was not laughing. He was holding a small, cold, wet bundle tight, and he was crying for the first time in twenty years. He huddled his drowned five-year-old daughter to him, and tried to pretend it had not happened. It _had_ happened, and Eva was dead--the girl-child who he had planned would be America's darling when he reached the White House, fifteen years or so from now.