He was sustained by the bubbling knowledge that he tottered down life's highway toward—not that great, silent abyss that the common folk's imagination called Heaven or Hell and peopled with childish gods and demons anxiously waiting to take him to task for his many "sins"—but merely a bend in the road beyond which lay unknown, but surely friendly, lands.
In course of time Harley D. Haworth was carefully laid away in his ice-cold "coffin," and those who read the obituaries did not suspect that he was the first of men to die a qualified death.
He lay on his back, staring at the white ceiling—it had not occurred to him yet to move. His uncoördinated muscles left his face blank but he was frowning mentally. There was something he wanted to remember, something....
He struggled laboriously to pin down those elusive shapes, but the words wouldn't come. It's hard to think when the words won't come. His eyes sharpened their focus a little and he perceived that he was in bed. Hospital, he thought clearly, I'm in a hospital, of course.
He felt more and more secure now and, after a moment's relaxation, tried again to remember.
A man's voice said clearly, "What am I?"
A feminine voice said pleasantly, "You're a man, and your name is Haworth. Feeling all right?"
Thousands of little relays clicked in H.D.'s brain and he sat up quickly. This room was white and windowless, but it was not the vault in Michigan—and that tall, clear-eyed brownette with the grave eyes and tender lips was certainly not Dr. Stevens.
The man's voice said, "I guess so," and this time H.D. realized that he had spoken. The blood rushed to his head and pounded in his ears, for it had been a strong, young voice.