hollow-eyed face a foot away, so much like a withered plant dying of a vicious blight, was his own. The thought seemed too horrible to bear,
"Oh God, I'm dying! Why must I suffer so?" His hot, damp hands beat his forehead and pushed back his unkempt hair with quick and desperate motions.
Suddenly he straightened. His jaws tightened firmly together, and his mouth became a thin, bloodless slit. If he was to die, there were things to do first.
Stiffly, he walked, to the large table near his bed. Briefly, he scanned the jumble of paraphernalia on it. Glass bottles and tubing of every description were heaped with bewildering scientific apparatus. Disregarding the disorder, he roughly pushed everything aside and uncovered a soiled book. Though almost worn away, the words on the cover were still faintly visible: "The Human Brain."
For a moment he appeared to caress it, then abruptly, he opened it. A piece of paper fluttered from the open page to fall to the littered floor.
Recovering the paper, he read for the last time those words which he had copied. "All the functions of man are controlled by the brain, yet less than a fourth of the brain tissues are used. Size has no importance relative to brain capacity, which exists solely because of synapses among the neurons, more simply explained as connections among the different cells. Thus, the more of these connections, the more brain capacity and proportionately the more intelligence is produced."
Then a paralyzing shock seemed to grip the man. On the paper were words to which he had never paid much attention. They caught his eye as if written in red. How strangely prophetic they were. He had read of his death many times and had never realized it! "The control of the brain makes it possible for the body to function properly."
He was a fool! A blind, blundering fool! Mad with anger, he flung the book at the window; it smashed through the dusty pane, hitting three floors below with a smack that was heard clearly in the still night. The paper had crumpled in his fist.
Out of the confusion on the table
he pulled a bunsen burner. A
sputtering match lit it. He smoothed
out the paper and thrust a corner
into the blue flame. The fire raced
along its top edge, slowly eating
downward. He watched it burn, enchanted
by the way it erased those
words: "The control of the brainmakes
it possible for—the body—to
function—pro—pe—r—l—y." The
flickering flames seared his fingertips.
The last bit became ash and the
sparks floated to the stained table.
"Mother of God!" he suddenly screamed. His face contorted with agony and from his twisting lips came choking, gasping sounds. His fingers dug into his chest, and the veins in his neck pounded with blood. His heart was being consumed with a fire like that which had consumed the paper. He staggered against the table and collapsed. Abruptly the wooden legs gave way and with a roar all crashed against the wall. The plaster was ripped away as they slid to the floor.
In one corner the bunsen burner glowed. Next to it a small blaze began. Flames crept along the shattered wood and spilt chemicals.
The man dragged himself to his feet.
"I must get it back. I must destroy it I must!"
He pulled open a drawer of the
