Suddenly he grinned and leaned back, lit up and closed his eyes. The parade of pictures began in front of his eyeballs. First a picture of human lungs, and slowly the cancer virus invades them and eats them away. Then the parade of men and women clutching their chests, writhing in death throes. Chuck Dane smiled, enjoying each hallucination. Pretending that the unlucky victims were the Propagandists. He lit another cigarette from the butt of the first one, and leaned back, feeling his lungs pleasantly saturated with smoke. When ten cigarettes were snubbed in a row on the glass top of the desk, he stopped and mused. Now, he guessed he would die of cancer for sure. He wondered how long.... Then another thought hit him. With two temptations, he wondered why he had given in to the cigarette first. He lit another Puffie and leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. A perfect technicolor picture of Sally crossed his mind, swishing the pony tail provocatively. He got up. Left the den. Went to the kitchen and leaned in the door watching her. Tomorrow was Tuesday. His day for S-Count. But he wouldn't submit to that again. Or have that little talk with Doctor Benton. Tomorrow, going to work, when he crossed U.S. 75 he would give some Teenager a hell of a thrill! But tonight ... tonight.... "Come here, baby!" he whispered harshly. End of Project Gutenberg's The Downhill Side of Thirty, by Virgil F. Shockley