of wisdom,
superimposed by the youth of a twenty-year-old) had unaccustomed lines
of wrath about the eyes and mouth. Barness didn't waste words. "What
did you want down there?"

"Armstrong." Carl cut the word out almost gleefully. "And I got it,
and there's nothing you or Rinehart or anybody else in between can do
about it. I don't know _what_ I saw yet, but I've got it in my eyes
and in my cortex, and you can't touch it."

"You stupid fool, we can _peel_ your cortex," Barness snarled.

"Well, you won't. You won't dare."

Barness glanced across at the officer who had brought him in.
"Tommy--"

"Dan Fowler won't like it," said Carl.

Barness stopped short, blinking. He took a slow breath. Then he sank
down into his chair. "Fowler" he said, as though dawn were just
breaking.

"That's right. He sent me up here. I've found what he wants. Shoot me
now, and when they probe you Dan will know I found it, and you won't
be around for another rejuvenation."

Barness looked suddenly old. "What did he want?"

"The truth about Armstrong. Not the 'accident' story you fed to the
teevies.... "_Tragic End for World Hero, Died With His Boots On_". Dan
wanted the truth. Who killed him. Why this colony is grinding down
from compound low to stop, and turning men like Terry Fisher into
alcoholic bums. Why this colony is turning into a glorified,
super-refined Birdie's Rest for old men. But mostly who killed
Armstrong, how he was murdered, who gave the orders. And if you don't
mind, I'm beginning to get cold."

"And you got all that," said Barness.

"That's right."

"You haven't read it, though."

"Not yet. Plenty of time for that on the way back."

Barness nodded wearily, and motioned the guard to give Carl his
clothes. "I think you'd better read it tonight. Maybe it'll surprise
you."

Golden's eyes widened. Something in the man's voice, some curious note
of defeat and hopelessness, told him that Barness was not lying. "Oh?"

"Armstrong didn't have an accident, that's true. But nobody murdered
him, either. Nobody gave any orders, to anybody, from anybody.
Armstrong put a bullet through his head--quite of his own volition."

II

"All right, Senator," the young red-headed doctor said. "You say you
want it straight--that's how you're going to get it." Moments before,
Dr. Moss had been laughing. Now he wasn't laughing. "Six months, at
the outside. Nine, if you went to bed tomorrow, retired from the
Senate, and lived on