Marc's conscious mind ... at least the portion of it that was visible to Toffee ... was like nothing so much as a great, dark cavern. At one end, however, the darkness was relieved by a large circular screen-like arrangement that reflected scenes and images with a penetrating, third dimensional clarity. These reflections were, of course, of the innumerable things upon which Marc gazed throughout the day. Looking at the screen from within was like looking through a great, round window. As Toffee watched, the screen registered only a blank expanse of ceiling. Then the scene shifted abruptly, and an oak panel slid into view. A blur followed. Then a window. The window remained a moment, then skidded nervously out of range to be replaced by an eager, hawk-featured face. Behind Toffee the storm clouds began to thicken and multiply more swiftly. The face on the screen was furiously animated, the mouth wagging away at a terrific clip. Toffee couldn't hear the words that were the result of this frantic facial activity, but she could watch closely and try to read the lips. * * * * * In his private office in the Pillsworth Advertising Agency, Marc Pillsworth stared fixedly at the little man as though trying to will him out of existence. The fellow had been yammering at him steadily for half an hour and had yet to show the first signs of weakening. Marc's gaze wavered and moved wearily to the small green bottle standing before him on the desk. He sighed. "Just think of it!" the little man was saying. "All humanity will be fairly trampling itself, trying to get _Fixage_. And you will be in on the ground floor for a whole twenty-five percent! Think of it!" "I don't want to think of it," Marc muttered, then, realizing with a start that he had actually managed to get a word in edgewise, he pressed his advantage. "As I understand it, Mr. Culpepper, you want me to bring this ... uh ... this ..." he waggled a finger at the bottle on the desk "... to the attention of the manufacturers in the interests of gaining a backer. In exchange for this service you will make me a quarter owner of the invention." He fixed the little man with a severe gaze. "In other words, you haven't been able to slither through a single door with the thing ... except mine. And no wonder, if you ask me. Pills that are supposed to make a person immortal are just too...." The little man held up an arresting hand. "You misunderstand!" he cried. "They don't make you immortal. Mercy, no! Nothing as fantastic as that. Oh, they might prolong your life twenty years or so, but their main effect is to arrest physical deterioration. In other words.... How old are you, Mr. Pillsworth?" "Thirty-two," Marc sighed. "But it seems more like fifty." "Thirty-two! You're right at the peak!" "If I were at the peak," Marc said, "I would jump off."