and faster through the high clean air.
Well--he'd worked with the Underground against the System for a long
time. He had known that eventually he would be caught. There were rumors
of what happened to men then, and even the vaguest, unsubstantiated
rumors were enough to indicate that death was preferable. That was the
Underground's philosophy--better to die standing up as a man with some
degree of personal integrity and freedom than to go on living as a
conditioned slave of the state.

He'd missed--but he wasn't through yet though. In a hollow tooth was a
capsule containing a very high-potency poison. A little of that would do
the trick too. But he would have to wait for the right time....

* * * * *

The Manager was thin, his face angular, and he matched up with the harsh
steel angles of the desk and the big room somewhere in the Security
Building. His face had a kind of emotion--cold, detached, cynically
superior.

"We don't get many of your kind," he said. "Political prisoners are
becoming more scarce all the time. As your number indicates. From now
on, you'll be No. 5274."

He looked at some papers, then up at Marquis. "You evidently found out a
great deal. However, none of it will do you or what remains of your
Underground fools any good." The Manager studied Marquis with detached
curiosity. "You learned things concerning the Managerials that have so
far remained secret."

It was partly a question. Marquis' lean and darkly inscrutable face
smiled slightly. "You're good at understatement. Yes--I found out what
we've suspected for some time. That the Managerial class has found some
way to stay young. Either a remarkable longevity, or immortality. Of all
the social evils that's the worst of all. To deny the people knowledge
of such a secret."

The Manager nodded. "Then you did find that out? The Underground knows?
Well, it will do no good."

"It will, eventually. They'll go on and someday they'll learn the
secret." Marquis thought of Marden. Marden was as old as the New System
of statism and inhumanity that had started off disguised as
social-democracy. Three-hundred and three years old to be exact.

The Manager said, "No. 5274--you will be sent to the work colony on the
Moon. You won't be back. We've tried re-conditioning rebels, but it
doesn't work. A rebel has certain basic deviant characteristics and we
can't overcome them sufficiently to make happy, well-adjusted workers