SIXTY-YEAR EXTENSION By ALAN E. NOURSE _They told only half the story to Daniel Carter Griffin when he volunteered to die. They told him of the glories of life re-born; youth re-captured; love re-won; of Free Agenting around the cosmos. Of many things, they spoke about ... but never once did they mention the lurid second death._ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It occurred to Griffin as he sat waiting in the office that he had forgotten what day it was. It was a silly thing, and it upset him all out of proportion to its importance. At first it had been no more than a disturbing flicker in the back of his mind, an uneasy half-thought, not even consciously formed. He had been waiting for Cranstead for a quarter of an hour, and he hadn't been thinking very coherently about much of anything. His right arm was still a bit sore, but mostly he was aware of a curious feeling of strength and exhilaration as he eyed the cool gray walls of the office. But something bothered him, nibbling away deep in his mind; he crossed and uncrossed his legs, feeling a trifle impatient. And then, with a shiver, he realized that he didn't even know what the date was! He pulled out his wallet with a frown, and searched for the pocket calendar he carried. He glanced at it, and then put it back with a grunt. It didn't help him a bit. He didn't even know what month it was, or even year, for sure. He leaned back, trying to remember what day it was, and his mind was abruptly flooded with the implications of the staggering thing he had done-- That they had done-- He stood up and threw open the door into the reception room. A girl sat typing at the desk. She typed on for a moment, then paused and looked up. "How soon will he be ready?" Griffin asked, trying hard to keep the panic out of his voice. The girl smiled professionally. "I'm sorry, Mr. Griffin. He won't keep you waiting long. Can I get you something to read?" He shook his head. "No--I'll just wait. I'll tell you what you can do, though. You can tell me what date it is." Suddenly he felt very foolish. "Certainly. This is the seventeenth of July."