Lee Hayden had sent eleven men to their death in deep space. Now he wanted only to die himself. It was at this crucial point that he met-- The Man With The Golden Eyes By Alexander Blade [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy August 1956 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He lay in the gutter. In his mouth was the taste of whiskey and defeat. There was mud and filth on his face, on his two-week shirt, on his rag-tag suit; and as the street and the buildings rippled and wavered before his eyes, a tape recorder in his mind played over and over: _You're through, Hayden--all washed up--this is the bottom--you can't go any lower--Lee Hayden--boy genius--all washed up--you made the trip in a hurry, son--right down from the top to the bottom in nothing flat--why don't you give up, why don't you kite off, you gutless wonder of the ages--too weak to live--too yellow to die--_ On and on the tape played while along the street, came the fastidious to step daintily around the wreck in the gutter; the callous to grin and sneer; the timid to hurry by without looking. Then a voice: "Can I help you?" "Go 'way." A hand on his shoulder. The voice brisk, cheerful. "Come now--the gutter is no place for a man of your caliber." Lee grunted and rolled over. Someone who knew him evidently; someone echoing the myth of his "brilliance". "I said get the hell--" He opened an eye. If this was an old friend, the man had gone out of memory. Plump, cheerful, rosy-faced, well-cut clothes. A man with an air of confidence. And something more. It was the _something more_ that stopped Lee from swinging at the man's plump chin after allowing himself to be lifted to his feet. The man looked critically into Lee's face as the latter swayed. He took a snowy handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped filth from Lee's face in the manner of one wiping the face of a child. "I think you need a drink, young fellow." Lee grinned crookedly. "Now you're talkin'." The plump man steered Lee down the street, around a corner, under a glittering marquee. An immaculate doorman glared with frosty eyes. His look of disgust partially sobered Lee. "Now wait a minute," Lee mumbled. After all, a man never lost _all_ his pride. He was drawing away, instinctively seeking shadows, when the doorman's eyes shifted to the plump man. They cleared instantly. He saluted, bowed, said "Good evening, Mr. Clifford." "Good evening, John. We need a snifter or two of your excellent scotch." "Certainly, sir." The doorman opened the portal as though the Secretary of State were honoring the Lotus Room with his presence.