"Good, good!" Garry boomed, rubbing his hands briskly. "I knew Dr. Stevens would see the point. He has a head on his shoulders. "Now, as I was saying, Mr. Haworth, we'll have space in the vault for a hundred or so. That should be enough, I think, but we'll rush yours through first, of course, and have it ready in jig time, just in _case_.... And after that...." And so their plans were laid and something new was born under that sun which shone with such ridiculous indiscrimination on H.D. Haworth and on the common people. According to the outline sketched that afternoon, the vault was to be safeguarded and the sleepers' interests looked after by the establishment of a Haworth Trust, with Garibaldi Jones the first Administrator. Only one person in each generation, the Administrator, would know all about the vault. Of each generation the Administrator and one or two of his closest relatives would join the ranks of the sleepers. The Administrator's responsibilities and discretion would include all measures necessary for the safety of the sleepers and the trust funds would be ample, to allow for unforeseen future contingencies. A number of experimental animals closely duplicating H.D.'s condition would be included for the future biologists first to try their skill on--because if Stevens should not perfect a practicable method of suspending animation in time, and H.D. should actually die, his resuscitation would be a ticklish matter. H.D. did not want to wake up blind, for instance, or with an altered personality--although Stevens, for one, thought _any_ change in the old pirate's personality would be a step in the right direction. The blasted Washington administration wouldn't let a citizen buy radioactives without a lot of busybody questions, but Garry had an idea for a reliable source of power for the coolers. An improvement on the new "heat pumps," his design dispensed entirely with moving parts, providing a large safety factor. Successfully reversing the refrigeration cycle, the device utilized the heat potential between sub-frost level ground and surface to produce power, using buried coils of a common refrigerant gas. Caches of treasure were to be tucked away in unlikely places, the key to their location securely hidden in H.D.'s mind. No Tut-ankh-amen he, to invite grave-robbers by foolish ostentation. And so it came to pass, and H.D.'s last months, despite the physical pain his increasing debilitation caused him, were light-hearted ones. He was sustained by the bubbling knowledge that he tottered down life's highway toward--not that great, silent abyss that the common folk's imagination called Heaven or Hell and peopled with childish gods and demons anxiously waiting to take him to task for his many "sins"--but merely a bend in the road beyond which lay unknown, but surely friendly, lands.