Death was a pleasant thought at that moment, as the water caressed his lips. There was a tiredness past resting, and a sickness past healing. Now it would be easy to let go, go down, abandon—
“Very good,” Dillon whispered, pulling himself to his feet. “Very good try, Arek. Perhaps you’re tired, too? Perhaps there’s not much left in you but a little emotion?”
It grew dark, and in the dark something whispered to Dillon, something that looked like him in miniature, that curled itself warmly on his shoulder.
“But there are worse things than death,” his miniature said. “There are things no living being can face, guilty knowledge concealed in the very bottom of the soul, loathed and detested, but knowledge, and never to be denied. Death is better than this knowledge, Dillon. Death becomes precious, and infinitely costly. Death is to be prayed for, and cunning schemes are laid to capture death—when you must face what lies at the bottom of your soul.”
Dillon tried not to listen to the creature who looked so much like himself. But the miniature clung to his shoulder and pointed. And Dillon saw something forming in the darkness, and recognized its form.
“Not this, Dillon,” his double pleaded. “Please, not this! Be courageous, Dillon! Choose your death! Be bold, be brave! Know how to die at the right time!”
Dillon, recognizing the shape of what was coming toward him, felt a fear he would never have imagined possible. For this was knowledge from the bottom of his soul, guilty knowledge of himself and all he ever thought he stood for.
“Quickly, Dillon!” his double cried. “Be strong, be bold, be true! Die while you still know what you are!”
And Dillon wanted to die. With a vast sigh of relief he began to release his hold, to let his essence slip away ...
And couldn’t.
“Help me!” he screamed.
“I can’t!” his miniature screamed back. “You must do this for yourself!”
And Dillon tried again, with knowledge pressing close to his eyeballs, asked for death, begged for death, and could not let himself die.
So there was only one thing to do. He gathered his last strength and flung himself despairingly forward, at the shape that danced before him.
It disappeared.
After a moment Dillon realized that every threat was gone. He was standing alone in territory he had conquered. In spite of everything, he had won! Before him now lay the citadel, untenanted, waiting for him. He felt a wave of respect for poor Arek. He had been a good fighter, a worthy adversary. Perhaps he could spare him a little living space, if Arek didn’t try to—
“That’s very kind of you, Dillon,” a voice boomed out.
Dillon had no time to react. He was caught in a grip so powerful that any thought of resistance was futile. Only then did he sense the real power of the K’egran’s mind.
“You did well, Dillon,” Arek said. “You need never be ashamed of the fight you fought.”
“But I never had a chance,” Dillon said.
“No, never,” Arek said gently. “You thought the Earth invasion plan was unique, as most young races feel. But K’egra is ancient, Dillon, and in our time we have been invaded many times, physically and mentally. So it’s really nothing new for us.”
“You played with me!” Dillon cried.
“I wanted to find out what you were like,” Arek said.
“How smug you must have felt! It was a game with you. All right, get it over with, finish it!”
“Finish what?”
“Kill me!”
“Why should I kill you?” Arek asked.
“Because—because what else can you do with me? Why should I be treated differently from the rest?”
“You met some of the others, Dillon. You wrestled with Ehtan, who had inhabited a swamp on his home planet, before he took to voyaging. And the miniature who whispered so persuasively in your ear is Oolermik, who came not too long ago, all bluster and fire, much like yourself.”
“But—”
“We accepted them here, made room for them, used their qualities to complement ours. Together we are more than we had been apart.”
“You live together?” Dillon whispered. “In your body?”
“Of course. Good bodies are scarce in the galaxy, and there’s not much room for the living. Dillon, meet my partners.”
And Dillon saw the amorphous swamp creature again, and the scaly-hided Oolermik, and a dozen others.
“But it can’t be!” Dillon cried. “Alien races can’t live together! Life is struggle and death! That’s a fundamental law of nature.”
“An early law,” Arek said. “Long ago we discovered that cooperation means survival for all, and on far better terms. You’ll get used to it. Welcome into the confederacy, Dillon!”
And Dillon, still dazed, entered the citadel, to sit in partnership with many races of the galaxy.
DOUBLE INDEMNITY
EVERETT Barthold didn’t take out a life insurance policy casually. First he read up on the subject, with special attention to Breach of Contract, Willful Deceit, Temporal Fraud, and Payment. He checked to find how closely insurance companies investigated before paying a claim. And he acquired a considerable degree of knowledge on Double Indemnity, a subject which interested him acutely.
When this preliminary work was done, he looked for an insurance company which would suit his needs. He decided, finally, upon the Inter-Temporal Insurance Corporation, with its main office in Hartford, Present Time. Inter-Temporal had branch offices in the New York of 1959; Rome, 1530; and Constantinople, 1126. Thus they offered full temporal coverage. This was important to Barthold’s plans.
Before applying for his policy, Barthold discussed the plan with his wife. Mavis Barthold was a thin, handsome, restless woman, with a cautious, contrary feline nature.
“It’ll never work,” she said at once.
“It’s foolproof,” Barthold told her firmly.
“They’ll lock you up and throw away the key.”
“Not a chance,” Barthold assured her. “It can’t miss—if you cooperate.”
“That would make me an accessory,” said his wife. “No, darling.”
“My dear, I seem to remember you expressing a desire for a coat of genuine Martian scart. I believe there are very few in existence.”
Mrs. Barthold’s eyes glittered. Her husband, with canny accuracy, had hit her weak spot.
“And I thought,” Barthold said carelessly, “that you might derive some pleasure from a new Daimler hyper-jet, a Letti Det wardrobe, a string of matched ruumstones, a villa on the Venusian Riviera, a—”
“Enough, darling!” Mrs. Barthold gazed fondly upon her enterprising husband. She had long suspected that within his unprepossessing body beat a stout heart. Barthold was short, beginning to bald, his features ordinary, and his eyes were mild behind horn-rimmed glasses. But his spirit would have been perfectly at home in a pirate’s great-muscled frame.
“Then you’re sure it will work?” she asked him.
“Quite sure, if you do what I tell you and restrain your fine talent for overacting.”
“Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Barthold, her mind fixed upon the glitter of ruumstones and the sensuous caress of scart fur.
Barthold made his final preparations. He went to a little shop where some things were advertised and other things sold. He left, several thousand dollars poorer, with a small brown suitcase tucked tightly under his arm. The money was untraceable. He had been saving it, in small bills, for several years. And the contents of the brown suitcase were equally untraceable.
He deposited the suitcase in a public storage box, drew a deep breath, and presented himself at the offices of the Inter-Temporal Insurance Corporation.
For half a day, the doctors poked and probed at him. He filled out the forms and was brought, at last, to the office of Mr. Gryns, the regional manager.