Up in the offices again, Dan was on the phone immediately. He knew
politics, and people--like the jungle cat knows the whimpering
creatures he stalks. He knew that it was the first impact, the first
jolting blow that would win for them, or lose for them. Everything had
to hit right. He had spent his life working with people, building
friends, building power, banking his resources, investing himself. Now
the time had come to cash in.
Carl and Jean and the others worked with him--a dreadful afternoon and
evening, fighting off newsmen, blocking phone calls, trying to
concentrate in the midst of bedlam. The campaign to elect Tyndall had
to start _now_. They labored to record a work-schedule, listing names,
outlining telegrams, drinking coffee, as Dan swore at his dead cigar
like old times once again, and grinned like a madman as the plans
slowly developed and blossomed out.
Then the phone jangled, and Dan reached out for it. It was that last
small effort that did it. A sledge-hammer blow, from deep within him,
sharp agonizing pain, a driving hunger for the air that he just
couldn't drag into his lungs. He let out a small, sharp cry, and
doubled over with pain. They found him seconds later, still clinging
to the phone, his breath so faint as to be no breath at all.
* * * * *
He regained consciousness hours later. He stared about him at the
straight lines of the ceiling, at the hospital bed and the hospital
window. Dimly he saw Carl Golden, head dropping on his chest, dozing
at the side of the bed.
There was a hissing sound, and he raised a hand, felt the tiny oxygen
mask over his mouth and nose. But even with that help, every breath
was an agony of pain and weariness.
He was so very tired. But slowly, through the fog, he remembered. Cold
sweat broke out on his forehead, drenched his body. _He was alive._
Yet he remembered crystal clear the thought that had exploded in his
mind in the instant the blow had come. _I'm dying. This is the
end--it's too late now._ And then, cruelly, _why did I wait so long?_
He struggled against the mask, sat bolt upright in bed. "I'm going to
die," he whispered, then caught his breath. Carl sat up, smiled at
him.
"Lie back, Dan. Get some rest."
Had he heard? Had Carl heard the fear he had whispered? Perhaps not.
He lay back, panting, as Carl watched. Do you know what I'm thinking,
Carl? I'm thinking how much I want to live. People don't _need_ to
die--wasn't that what Dr. Moss had said? It's such a terrible waste,
he had said.
Too late, now. Dan's hands trembled. He remembered the Senators in the
oval hall, hearing him speak his brave words; he remembered Rinehart's
face, and Tyndall's, and Libby's. He was committed now. Yesterday, no.
Now, yes.
Paul had been right, and Dan had proved it.
His eyes moved across to the bedside table. A telephone. He was still
alive, Moss had said that sometimes it was possible _even when you
were dying_. That was what they did with your father, wasn't it, Carl?
Brave Peter Golden, who had fought Rinehart so hard, who had begged
and pleaded for universal rejuvenation, waited and watched and finally
caught Rinehart red-handed, to prove that he was corrupting the law
and expose him. Simple, honest Peter Golden, applying so naively for
his rightful place on the list, when his cancer was diagnosed. Peter
Golden had been all but dead when he had finally whispered defeat, and
given Rinehart his perpetual silence in return for life. They had
snatched him from death, indeed. But he had been crucified all the
same. They had torn away everything, and found a coward underneath.
_Coward? Why? Was it wrong to want to live?_ Dan Fowler was dying. Why
must it be him? He had committed himself to a fight, yes, but there
were others, young men, who could fight. Men like Peter Golden's son.
But you are their leader, Dan. If you fail them, they will never win.
Carl was watching him silently, his lean dark face expressionless.
Could the boy read his mind? Was it possible that he knew what Dan
Fowler was thinking? Carl had always understood before. It had seemed
that sometimes Carl had understood Dan far better than Dan did. He
wanted to cry out to Carl now, spill over his dreadful thoughts.
There was no one to run to. He was facing himself now. No more
cover-up, no deceit. Life or death, that was the choice. No
compromise. Life or death, but decide _now_. Not tomorrow, not next
week, not in five minutes--
He knew the answer then, the flaw, the one thing that even Paul hadn't
known. That life is too dear, that a man loves life--not what he can
_do_ with life, but very life itself for its own sake--too much to
die. It was no choice, not really. A man will _always_ choose life, as
long as the choice is really his. Dan Fowler knew that now.
It would be selling himself--like Peter Golden did. It would betray
Carl, and Jean, and all the rest. It would mean derision, and scorn,
and oblivion for Dan Fowler.
Carl Golden was standing by the bed when he reached out his arm for
the telephone. The squeaking of a valve--what? Carl's hand, infinitely
gentle, on his chest, bringing up the soft blankets, and his good
clean oxygen dwindling, dwindling--
_Carl!_
_How did you know?_
* * * * *
She came in the room as he was reopening the valve on the oxygen tank.
She stared at Dan, grey on the bed, and then at Carl. One look at
Carl's face and she knew too.