Why not, indeed?
He returned to his own room, stripped and consulted the mirror. Dye his hair, that was really all he needed. He smiled into the mirror. Forty, he thought, even thirty-five. Certainly, with this tan and slim body and his hair dyed, thirty-five at the most.
He went to bed, happily making plans. A new life opened up for him.
He would take a new name; he would live again. There was nothing to stop him.
That night, in the Sea Lion Hotel in Miami Beach, Henry Talbot died.
Two months later Arnold Bottal, an experimental nuclear physicist of perhaps thirty-five, and his charming wife—with exquisite, nearly purple Eurasian eyes—joined the new country club in Lincoln Hills, New York, where Bottal had newly joined the Applied Physics Division of the Carbide Nuclear Company.
This Arnold Bottal was not a brilliant physicist, but he was certainly competent in his job. The company was satisfied with him. He and his wife bought a bubble home in the suburbs of Lincoln Hills and, together with their cat Bucephalus, lived happily ever after.