Hovering above his laboratory tables--gaunt, hairless, six and a half feet in height and pale as bone--his long, thin fingers adjusting a flame or tilting a squeeze-bulb toward a vacuum-sphere, Dr. Pels seemed uniquely appropriate for the investigation of the many-splendored forms of death. Now, while it was true that he was not liable to the common exercises of living things, there was one pleasure which he possessed in addition to his work. He had music wherever he went. Light music, profound music; there was music about him constantly. His numbed body could feel it, whether he listened or ignored it. It may be that in some way it substituted for the heartbeat and the breathing and all the other little bodily sounds and feelings most men take for granted. Whatever the reason, it had been years since he had been without music.

Amid music and with folded hands, therefore, he waited. Once he glanced at Lavona, in its black and tawny beauty above him, a tiger in the night. Then he turned his mind to other matters.

For two decades he had wrestled with a particular disease. Realizing then that he was only a little further along than when he had begun, he decided upon a different avenue of attack: locate the one man who survived it and find out why.

With this in mind, he had set out in a roundabout fashion for the hub of the Combined Leagues--Solon, Elizabeth and Lincoln, the three artificial worlds designed by Sandow himself, orbiting Kwale's Star--where he might consult the Panopath computer for information as to the whereabouts of the man called H, whose identity he had recently ascertained. The information should be there, though few would know the proper questions to put to the machine.