from death, indeed. But he had been crucified all the
same. They had torn away everything, and found a coward underneath.

_Coward? Why? Was it wrong to want to live?_ Dan Fowler was dying. Why
must it be him? He had committed himself to a fight, yes, but there
were others, young men, who could fight. Men like Peter Golden's son.

But you are their leader, Dan. If you fail them, they will never win.

Carl was watching him silently, his lean dark face expressionless.
Could the boy read his mind? Was it possible that he knew what Dan
Fowler was thinking? Carl had always understood before. It had seemed
that sometimes Carl had understood Dan far better than Dan did. He
wanted to cry out to Carl now, spill over his dreadful thoughts.

There was no one to run to. He was facing himself now. No more
cover-up, no deceit. Life or death, that was the choice. No
compromise. Life or death, but decide _now_. Not tomorrow, not next
week, not in five minutes--

He knew the answer then, the flaw, the one thing that even Paul hadn't
known. That life is too dear, that a man loves life--not what he can
_do_ with life, but very life itself for its own sake--too much to
die. It was no choice, not really. A man will _always_ choose life, as
long as the choice is really his. Dan Fowler knew that now.

It would be selling himself--like Peter Golden did. It would betray
Carl, and Jean, and all the rest. It would mean derision, and scorn,
and oblivion for Dan Fowler.

Carl Golden was standing by the bed when he reached out his arm for
the telephone. The squeaking of a valve--what? Carl's hand, infinitely
gentle, on his chest, bringing up the soft blankets, and his good
clean oxygen dwindling, dwindling--

_Carl!_

_How did you know?_

* * * * *

She came in the room as he was reopening the valve on the oxygen tank.
She stared at Dan, grey on the bed, and then at Carl. One look at
Carl's face and she knew too.

Carl nodded, slowly. "I'm sorry, Jean."

She shook her head, tears welling up. "But you loved him so."

"More than my own father."

"Then _why_?"

"He wanted to be immortal. Always, that drove him. Greatness,
power--all the same. Now he will be immortal, because we needed a
martyr in order to win. Now we will win. The other way we would surely
lose, and he would live on and on, and die every day." He turned
slowly to the bed and brought the sheet up gently. "This is better.
This way he wi