Its results are now generally considered absolute. There is a rejuvenation of all body tissues and glands: in short, a return to youth. I foresee the time when man, at his choice, can enjoy the glow of youth far beyond his allotted time . . . I . . . I wonderful . . . I . . ."
Martin Zucker, still reviewing the film of his past life as he hesitated on the threshold of consciousness, couldn't remember all of the doctor's words. He recalled his desire that the doctor would cease talking, hurry with the wonderful operation. Then, more vividly, came back to him the doctor's description:
"This man, Zucker, sixty-nine years old, approaching senile decay, has agreed to submit to the transplanting of glands before the clinic. He is a prisoner in this institution, has been for years. Yet he is a particularly favorable patient for the operation. As far as I can determine, his family history is without pathological or psychological incident. His forebears were poor, sturdy woodsmen; he followed in their footsteps and has an unusually rugged physique. Except for the commission of a single crime, a crime of an emotional nature, his own life is without interesting features. He approaches the operation in an optimistic frame of mind, believing, as I do, that he will leave the hospital a young man, rejuvenated—that he will have another lifetime ahead of him, virile . . . Nurse, place the cone . . . The operation . . . pituitary region . . . careful suturing . . ."
Zucker recalled now how the doctor's words faded out in the sweet oblivion of ether.
And now the operation was over and Martin Zucker, on a bed in the hospital, was resting with half-closed eyes and reviewing all the events that had brought him there. He was not in great pain. True, there was nausea, there was aggravating dryness of his throat, which water could not relieve. And there had been moments of terror as he came from under the influence of ether; moments in which he fell clutching through space; other moments in which he again beat Lars Behr to death with his fists, took the white throat of Hilda Juessing in his hands and strangled her.
But these terrors left him as his brain cleared. Suddenly he smiled. Youth! He, Martin Zucker, sixty-nine years old, was a young man! Wonderful! No call now to review his past life; no, be would think only of the future.
He began to picture youth; he pictured it in many ways. At first the vision was only of physical strength and vigor, of freedom from fatigue and aches. Then it widened and included the woods—the woods in which he had worked in his prime. He was back there again, young and stalwart, sinking his two-bitted ax into the odorous wood of a Norway pine; he was scuffing through the snow, dragging a logging chain which few men could lift; he was in the bunkhouse, challenging all the jacks to a free-for-all.
Gradually that picture faded and another, even more brightly tinted, came. There was a woman in this picture. Of course Hilda was gone. But there were other fair-haired, physically attractive girls, such as Hilda had been. And they would love Martin Zucker—love him because he was young and powerful and virile. They would see him, smile at him, almost court him. . . Youth seeking youth, girls seeking Martin Zucker. . .
HE SMILED happily. He was smiling in a superior sort of way when the prison warden walked to his bedside and asked, "How are you feeling this morning, Zucker?"
Martin's smile was sufficient answer; he was much too happy for words.
"The doctor says the operation was entirely successful," the warden as-
