had been going to
scream. He--Hal Barlow! Where was the excitement, the great thrill,
the big kick he had anticipated, to compensate for a voluntary dying?

He felt only anxiety. Afraid the terror would return. He had never
admitted fear before. He thought back a little, trying to recall
something that would explain the fear.

"_X minus one!_"

He felt as if an immense cyst of suppuration had burst inside of him.
Sweat teared his eyes.

_If they had psyched me, I'd know. I wouldn't be afraid. What would
they have found? Why am I afraid now when I've never been afraid in my
life?_

Or had he? He couldn't remember. He tried to think of something
immediate....

* * * * *

Two hours before, Barlow had paused on the second floor of the men's
barracks on the White Sands, New Mexico, Proving Grounds and looked
put. He shivered a little. It was a lonely spot, maybe the loneliest
in the world. Especially at night. Even here, Barlow managed to be
with someone most of the time--but the same dullards got boring. Even
women (like Lorraine), who said they loved him, were futile
companions; a guy whose future was death couldn't get emotionally
involved.

He went into his three-room dump and switched on the radio at once. He
needed the sound of voices and the music. He started to undress in the
dark. But the cold and frigid moonlight came in and shone on the bed;
it revealed the body lying there. The face looking up at Barlow was
his own! His breath thinned. His hands were wet.

It did him a lot more justice than any mirror, or the reflection in a
woman's eyes. The half-boyish, half-man face with the thin wiry lips,
the blond curling hair and the sun-burned, cynical face. The blue eyes
that seemed never quite able to smile. The face on the bed never
would; it was dead.

Barlow turned. Part of the shadow in the corner moved. A voice.
"D-716."

The 16 meant that this was that number among the hundred possible
goals of duty and sacrifice. The D of course meant Death, and Barlow
had known since having been given the number years ago what his end
would be.

There were many other ways, some worse than dying. Loss of identity
by plastic surgery. Barlow's appearance had been thoroughly altered
three times. Some had volunteered for the torture and concentration
camps of the East. Barlow had done that, too; anything for kicks.

He'd never bothered to indoctrinate himself with the philosophy of t