"You do not trust me?"
Lans stared straight back into his eyes without replying. The Leader struck him, hard, across the mouth. The surgeon made no effort to avoid the blow, but took it, with no change of expression.
"YOU ARE WILLING TO GO THROUGH WITH IT, SAMUEL?" The younger man looked at Doctor Lans without fear as he answered,
"Certainly, Doctor."
"I can not guarantee that you will recover. The Leader's pituitary gland is diseased; when I exchange it for your healthy one your younger one may not be able to stand up under it—that is the chance you take. Besides—a complete transplanting has never been done before."
"I know it—but I'm out of the concentration camp!"
"Yes. Yes, that is true. And if you do recover, you are free. And I will attend you myself, until you are well enough to travel."
Samuel smiled. "It will be a positive joy to be sick in a country where there are no concentration camps!"
"Very well, then. Let us commence."
They returned to the silent, nervous group at the other end of the room. Grimly the money was counted out, every penny that the famous surgeon had laid claim to before the Leader had decided that men of his religion had no need for money. Lans placed half of the gold in a money belt and strapped it around his waist. His wife concealed the other half somewhere about her ample person.