He saw himself again as a prominent scientist, engaged with others of his kind on a project of great consequence to mankind. He recalled his own secret misgivings as he had boldly embarked on the experiment.

He heard again the sonorous overtones and the pith and substance of his talk with Fennimore. He heard it more clearly than the blast and rush of the thunder outside…

“Charles, I don’t think we should do it this way. If something were to happen—”

“Ben, nothing whatever can possibly happen—unless we become careless. The compound is safe, and you know it. First we demonstrate its applicability. Then we let the dunderheads scream about it. After they know its worth, they’ll be the first to acclaim us.”

“But you don’t seem to understand, Fenimore. There are too many random. factors in the formulae. There’s a fundamental flaw in them. If I could only put my finger on it—”

“Get this, Ben. I don’t like to pull seniority on you, but I have no choice. I’m not a harsh man, but this is a dream I’ve had for twenty years, and no unjustified timidity on your part is going to put it off. We test the compound Thursday!”

And Fenimore’s dream had overnight turned into a nightmare of twenty-five thousand dead, and hospitals filled to overflowing with screaming patients.

The nightmare had reached out thready tentacles and dragged in Kettridge, too. In a manner of days a reputation built on years of dedicated work had been reduced to rubble. But he had not escaped the inquests. What little reputation he had left had saved him—and a few others—from the gas chamber. But life was at an end for him.

Ten years of struggling for mere survival—no one would hire him even for the most menial of jobs—had sunk Kettridge lower and lower. There was still a common decency about him that prevented utter disintegration, just as there was an inner desire to continue living.