Griffin flushed. "I couldn't remember it."
"You'd have been remarkable if you could," Cranstead chuckled. "It went pretty well with you. Eight months is almost dead minimum for a complete job. But then they told me you cooperated very well."
Griffin shrugged. "Naturally."
"Well, it's over now. As of—" he peered at his wrist watch for an instant, then jotted the time down on the top sheet of paper—"3:15 P.M., 17 July, 2173, I can no longer call you Dan Griffin. You're a Free Agent now. Or you will be." He picked up the paper, glanced at it, and handed it across the desk to Griffin. "Don't let it throw you," he said.
Griffin glanced down at the paper, with a terrifying feeling of unreality, as if this were all part of a very bad dream. They had told him, of course. They had explained it all very carefully. But then, they had told him so many things. At the top of the paper he saw the Hoffman Medical Center seal, and just below it, in heavy Gothic letters, he read:
CERTIFICATE OF DEATH
His eyes ran down the page to his own name. Daniel Carter Griffin, male, aged 53. Cause of death: Subtotal Prosthesis, Voluntary. And below that, somewhere near the bottom, a line marked "signature."
Griffin looked up at Cranstead's smiling face. "I'm supposed to sign this?"
"That's right. There are a few other forms to sign—legal claims papers for the Metropolitan Death Insurance Company, a few other customary papers—" He broke off with a smile. "Don't look so horrified. It's really not as paradoxical as it seems. After all, Dan Griffin is quite dead. You'll certainly agree to that."
Griffin nodded, signing the papers rapidly. "When do I get my name back?"