the woman in the green uniform.

"It's getting late, Mr. Symmes." She turned from the window and glanced
at the wizenedness, the fragile remainder of the man, the almost empty
shell. It was a pity he wasn't able to play games with her like some of
the others. That made it so much easier. "Don't you think it's about
time you went to bed? Early to bed and early to rise, you know."

That memory of a needle, pointed and gleaming. What was it?

Oh, yes. Stick it in his arm, push the plunger, pull it out; and wait
for him to die. First one disease and then another, to each he happily
succumbed, in the interests of science, only to be resuscitated. Each
time a willing volunteer, an eager guinea pig, he had hoped for the ease
of death, praying that for once they'd wait too long, the germs would
prove too virulent, that something would go wrong.

"There, now, you just lie back and get comfortable," she said, walking
over to the table. "But it has been fun, hasn't it? Watching the crowds,
I mean." She felt he must be much happier now, and the knowledge of it
gave her a sense of success. She was living up to her pledge, "To Care
for the Aged."

Diabetes, tuberculosis, cancer of the stomach, tumor of the brain. He'd
had them all, and many others. They had swarmed to him through the
gouged skin-openings made by the gleaming needle. And each had brought
the freedom of blackness, of death, sometimes for an hour, sometimes for
a whole week. But always life returned again, and the waiting, waiting,
waiting.

"I enjoy New Year's myself," the woman said, her hands caressing a dial.
Slowly, with gentle undulation, his chair rose from the floor and
cradled the aged tiredness that was Oliver Symmes to his bed. With
almost tender devotion, his body was mechanically shifted from the
portable chair to the freshly made bed.

* * * * *

One of his arms was caught for just a moment under the slight weight of
his body. There was a short, snapping sound, but Oliver Symmes took no
notice. His face remained impassive. Even pain had lost its meaning.

"It's a pity we couldn't have been outside with the rest of them,
celebrating," she said, as she arranged the covers around him, not
noticing the arm herself.

This was the part of her job she enjoyed most--tucking the nice little
man into bed. He did look sweet there, under the covers, didn't he?

"Just imagine, Mr. Symmes, another year's gone by, and what hav