He got up fast, before they could swarm all over him, yanked the gun from his jumper, poked it against Larkin's ribs. "You know what this is?" "Yes--a gun." "Well, call your friends off or I'll kill you. I'm not joking, Larkin. Call them off--" "I can't. Look at them, a mob. What can I do now?" "You'd better do something, because soon you won't have a chance to do anything. Now!" Larkin made a motion to the trumpeteer. He blew two loud notes this time, and uniformed men appeared, brandishing clubs. Evidently, they were on hand in case the crowd became too wild, threatened Larkin, Lindquist and the other nameless rulers. With their clubs they beat the mob back, slowly, held them off as Eric pushed Larkin before him. The crowd surged close, fought once or twice with the guards on their immediate flanks. Once Larkin tried to bolt away, but thereafter Eric held him firmly until they reached an exit. Together they sprinted down a corridor, Larkin puffing and staggering. "Beat it," Eric told him. "Go on, scram!" "You won't kill me as I run? I know that thing can kill over long distances--" "Don't give me any ideas," Eric said, but he felt a little sick as Larkin ran, whimpering, back toward the hall. This man was their ruler, their leader. He found the door, activated its mechanism, waited impatiently while he heard the sounds of pursuit. Something clanged against the door, and again. They were throwing things. Eric ducked, felt pain stab at his shoulder. He could see their faces in the corridor when the door began to slide clear. He slipped in, punched the levers that would close it again, saw a hand and a leg come through the crack, heard a scream. The limbs withdrew, and Eric watched grimly as it slid all the way shut. Lazaruses Eight, Nine, and Ten, he thought, as he went to the three remaining tubs. For a moment he gazed down through the pinkish liquid at the men curled up, sleeping their long sleep. He shook the tubs gently. All it would take was that--direct motion. Once that had started the cycle, each sleeper's hypothalamus took over, twenty-five, fifty, and seventy-five years ahead of schedule. He watched them twitch, shiver, slowly uncurl, watched the vapors rising from their tubs. He had plenty of time. In a week, he helped them from their tubs. They were ready to listen--smiling baby-faced Chambers, gaunt Striker, rotund Richardson. He explained, slowly. He told them everything. "My God," Striker said when he had finished. "Be thankful you could get back here, lad," Richardson told him. "What do we do now?" "What _can_ we do?" Chambers demanded. Then: "Will you look at that--a hundred seventy five years and I haven't even grown a beard!" They all laughed, and the tension was broken. "We go back," Eric said, "armed to the teeth. It won't be difficult. Some of them will die, but we can set the ship on its course again, teach them--I'd hate to see the disappointment on Earth if we went back after six generations."