Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
Rejuvenation for the millions—or rejuvenation for the fivehundred lucky ones, the select ones, that can be treatedeach year? Tough, independent Senator Dan Fowler fights aone-man battle against the clique that seeks perpetual powerand perpetual youth, in this hard-hitting novel by Alan E.Nourse. Why did it have to be his personal fight? The otherswould fumble it—they'd foul it up, Fowler protested? Butwhy was he in the fight and what was to happen to SenatorFowler's fight against this fantastic conspiracy? Who wouldwin?
martyr
by ... ALAN E. NOURSE
"I can break him, split his Criterion Committee wide opennow while there's still a chance, and open rejuvenation upto everybody....."
Four and one half hours after Martian sunset, the last light in theHeadquarters Building finally blinked out.
Carl Golden stamped his feet nervously against the cold, cupping hiscigarette in his hand to suck up the tiny spark of warmth. The nightair bit his nostrils and made the smoke tasteless in the darkness.Atmosphere screens kept the oxygen in, all right—but they never keptthe biting cold out. As the light disappeared he dropped thecigarette, stamping it sharply into darkness. Boredom vanished, andwarm blood prickled through his shivering legs.
He slid back tight against the coarse black building front, peeringacross the road in the gloom.
It was the girl. He had thought so, but hadn't been sure. She swungthe heavy stone door shut after her, glanced both left and right, andstarted down the frosty road toward the lights of the colony.
Carl Golden waited until she was gone. He glanced at hiswrist-chrono, and waited ten minutes more. He didn't realize that hewas trembling until he ducked swiftly across the road. Through thewindow of the low, one-story building he could see the lobbycall-board, with the little colored studs all dark. He smiled inunpleasant satisfaction—no one was left in the building. It wasroutine, just like everything else in this god-forsaken hole. Utter,abysmal, trancelike routine. The girl was a little later than usual,probably because of the ship coming in tomorrow. Reports to get ready,supply requisitions, personnel recommendations—
—and the final reports on Armstrong's death. Mustn't forget that. Thereal story, the absolute, factual truth, without any nonsense. Thereports that would go, ultimately, to Rinehart and only Rinehart, asall other important reports from the Mars Colony had been doing for somany years.
Carl skirted the long, low building, falling into the black shadows ofthe side wall. Halfway around he came to the supply chute, coveredwith a heavy moulded-stone cover.
Now?
It had taken four months here to know that he would have to do it thisway. Four months of ridiculous masquerade—made idiotic by theincredible fact that everyone took him for exactly what he pretendedto be, and never challenged him—not even Terry Fisher, who drunk orsober always challenged everything and everybody! But the four monthshad told on his nerves, in his reactions, in the hollows under hisquick brown eyes. There was always the spectre of a slip-up, anaroused suspicion. And until he had the reports before his eyes,