He sat in his chair, very erect and quiet, like a small scared child that won’t admit it’s scared, and the old, old fear came tugging at his brain. Too long, he thought. I’ve already waited longer than I should. Waiting for the party to renew my applica-tion and now the party won’t. They’ve thrown me overboard. They’ve deserted me just when I needed them the most.

Death sentence, he had said back in the office, and that was what it was—for he couldn’t last much longer. He didn’t have much time. It would take a while to engineer whatever must be done. One would have to move most carefully and never tip one’s hand. For there was a penalty—a terrible penalty.

* * *

The girl said to him: “Dr. Smith will see you now.”

“Eh?” said the senator.

“You asked to see Dr. Dana Smith,” the girl reminded him. “He will see you now.”

“Thank you, miss,” said the senator. “I was sitting here half dozing.”

He lumbered to his feet.

“That door,” said the girt.

“I know,” the senator mumbled testily. “I know. I’ve been here many times before.”

Dr. Smith was waiting.

“Have a chair, senator,” he said. “Have a drink? Well, then, a cigar, maybe. What is on your mind?”

The senator took his time, getting himself adjusted to the chair. Grunting comfortably, he clipped the end off the cigar, rolled it in his mouth.

“Nothing particular on my mind,” he said. “Just dropped around to pass the time of day. Have a great and abiding interest in your work here. Always have had. Associated with it from the very start.”

The director nodded. “I know. You conducted the original hearings on life continuation.”

The senator chuckled. “Seemed fairly simple then. There were problems, of course, and we recognized them and we tried the best we could to meet them.”