"That doesn't explain," remarked Downey, grimly, "where the new bodies would come from."
"No, it doesn't." The speaker arose, pointed to a crimson wall-chart marked, "Selective Decapitation Draft," and then went on to state, "There has been a great deal of trouble on that score. In fact, the Anti-Draft Revolution of the Twenties was fought on these grounds alone. First, as to whose lives would be preserved by the new invention. Of course, our rulers voted themselves that privilege. Also, the friends and relations of the rulers. Then all persons whose income tax was high enough were automatically entitled to remain alive. Furthermore, those who got in by what is vulgarly called graft—unfortunately, there have been some scandals on that account. And, finally, if there were bodies enough to go around, a place was to be made for the geniuses, such as great scientists, philosophers, poets, etc.
"I regret greatly to say, however," the Doctor concluded, with a sigh, "that we have never yet gotten that far down on the list."
"That still doesn't tell me," Downey insisted, "where you get the young bodies to attach to the old heads."
"Well, that has always been a problem," admitted the Doctor. "At first we used the bodies of criminals condemned to capital punishment. But the age was a humane one, and abolished capital punishment. Then we called for volunteers. But people showed a decided lack of patriotism. So finally we adopted the draft. All young men between twenty-one and thirty-one must be permanently registered. If they are selected in the great annual lottery and are found to be without taint or disease, they will have the blessed fate of giving their bodies to rejuvenate their country's aged leaders."
"But are the drafted men the only ones taken?" inquired Downey, anxiously.
"No, we are broad-minded. We offer the same distinguished lot to criminals—and to aliens without a passport. That is how you gained your chance, young man. As it happens, we are now far down the list. Your turn will come in just three days."
With a groan, Downey stared at the gray, knife-lined walls that hedged him about like a fortress prison. For the first time in his life he regretted—and bitterly regretted—the care he had always taken to keep in prime physical condition. He chewed his lips in mortification to think that he had come to the twenty-third century only in order to nourish some tottering dodo with his life blood. But for one reason above all others he was stabbed with grief: a vision had burst over him of Judith's eager face and burning bright blue eyes; and with a rush of vehement emotion it came to him that he could not, must not die! How would she fare, alone and friendless in this strange century? To escape from the bleak steel walls appeared impossible; yet for her sake, more than for his own, he must find a way to avert the threatened doom.
IV