_by
Dick Purcell_
"I'm getting old," Sam Chipfellow said, "and old men die."
His words were an indirect answer to a question from Carter Hagen, his
attorney. The two men were standing in an open glade, some distance from
Sam Chipfellow's mansion at Chipfellow's Folly, this being the name Sam
himself had attached to his huge estate.
Sam lived there quite alone except for visits from relatives and those
who claimed to be relatives. He needed no servants nor help of any kind
because the mansion was completely automatic. Sam did not live alone
from choice, but he was highly perceptive and it made him uncomfortable
to have relatives around with but one thought in their minds: _When are
you going to die and leave me some money?_
Of course, the relatives could hardly be blamed for entertaining this
thought. It came as naturally as breathing because Sam Chipfellow was
one of those rare individuals--a scientist who had made money; all kinds
of money; more money than almost anybody. And after all, his relatives
were no different than those of any other rich man. They felt they had
rights.
Sam was known as The Genius of the Space Age, an apt title because there
might not have been any space without him. He had been extremely
versatile during his long career, having been responsible for the
so-called eternal metals--metal against which no temperature, corrosive,
or combinations of corrosives would prevail. He was also the pioneer of
telepower, the science of control over things mechanical through the
electronic emanations of thought waves. Because of his investigations
into this power, men were able to direct great ships by merely
"thinking" them on their proper courses.
[Illustration]
These were only two of his contributions to progress, there being many
others. And now, Sam was facing the mystery neither he nor any other
scientist had ever been able to solve.
Mortality.
There was a great deal of activity near the point at which the men
stood. Drills and rock cutters had formed three sides of an enclosure in
a ridge of solid rock, and now a giant crane was lowering thick slabs of
metal to form the walls. Nearby, waiting to be placed, lay the slab
which would obviously become the door to whatever Sam was building. Its
surface was entirely smooth, but it bore great hinges and some sort of a
locking device was built in along one edge.
Carter Hagen watched the activity and considered Sam's reply to his
question. "Then this is to be a mausoleum?"
Sam chuckled. "Only in a sense. Not a place to house my dead bones if
that's what you mean."
Carter Hagen, understanding this lonely old man as he did, knew further
questions would be useless. Sam was like that. If he wanted you to know
something, he told you.
So Carter held his peace and they returned to the mansion where Sam gave
him a drink after they concluded the business he had come on.
Sam also gave Carter something else--an envelope. "Put that in your
safe, Carter. You're comparatively young. I'm taking it for granted you
will survive me."
"And this is--?"
"My will. All old men should leave wills and I'm no exception to the
rule. When I'm dead, open it and read what's inside."
* * * * *
Carter Hagen regarded the envelope with speculation. Sam smiled. "If
you're wondering how much I left you, Carter, I'll say this: You might
get it all."
Hagen strove to appear nonchalant but his eyes widened regardless. Sam
enjoyed this. He said, "Yes, you'll have as much chance as anyone else."
"You mean as much chance as any of your relatives?"
"I mean what I said--as much as anyone. I've given them no more
consideration than anyone else."