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gone through it and the substitute organisms had madeno fundamental change in them. It didn't in my case either. But now Iwas more second matter than any man in history.

  "It's the old question of Achilles' Ship," Dr. Erics told me.

  "Never heard of it," I said.

  "It's a parable, Treb, about concretised forms of a continuum in itsdiscrete aspects."

  "I see the theoretical question but what has Achilles' Ship to do withit?"

  He furrowed his protoplast brow that looked as youthful as it had acentury ago. "This ship consisted of several hundred planks, most ofthem forming the hull, some in the form of benches and oars and amainmast. It served its primitive purpose well but eventually sprang aleak. Some of the hull planks had to be replaced after which it was asgood as new. Another year of hard use brought further hull troubles andsome more planks were removed for new ones. Then the mast collapsed anda new one was put in. After that the ship was in such good shape that itcould outrace most of those just off the ways."

  I had an uneasy feeling about where this parable was leading us but mymind shied away from the essential point and Erics went relentlessly on."As the years passed more repairs were made--first a new set of oars,then some more planks, still newer oars, still more planks. EventuallyAchilles, an unthinking man of action who still tried to be aware ofwhat happened to the instruments of action he needed most, realized thatnot one splinter of the original ship remained. Was this, then, a newship? At first he was inclined to say yes. But this only evoked thefurther question: when had it become the new ship? Was it when the lastplank was replaced or when half had been? His confidently stated answercollapsed. Yet how could he say it was the old ship when everythingabout it was a substitution? The question was too much for him. When hecame to Athens he turned the problem over to the wise men of that city,refusing ever to think about it again."

  * * * * *

  My mind was now in turmoil. "What," I demanded, "_what_ did theydecide?"

  Erics frowned. "Nothing. They could not answer the question. Everyavailable answer was equally right and proved every other right answerwrong. As you know, philosophy does not progress in its essentials. Itmerely continues to clarify what the problems are."

  "I prefer to die next time!" I shouted. "I want to be a live human beingor a dead one, not a machine."

  "Maybe you won't be a machine. Nothing exactly like this has happenedbefore to a living organic being."

  I knew I had to be on my guard. What peculiar scheme was afoot? "You'retrying to say something's still wrong with me. It isn't true. I feel aswell as I ever have."

  "Your 'feeling' is a dangerous illusion." His face was space-dust greyand I realized with horror that he meant all of it. "I had to tell youthe parable and show the possible alternatives clearly. Treb, you'reriddled with Centaurian Zed virus. Unless we remove almost all theremaining first growth organisms you will be dead within six months."

  I didn't care any more whether he meant it or not; the idea was tooridiculous. Death is too rare and anachronistic a phenomenon today."You're the one who needs treatment, Doctor. Overwork, too much study,one idea on the brain too much."

  Resigned, he shrugged his shoulders. "All the first matter should beremoved except for the spinal chord and the vertebrae. You'd still havethat."

  "Very kind of you," I said, and walked away, determined to have no moreof his lectures now or in the future.

  Marla wanted to know why I seemed so jumpy. "Seems is just the word," Isnapped. "Never felt better in my life."

  "That's just what I mean," she said. "Jumpy."

  I let her have the last word but determined to be calmer from then on.

  I was. And, as the weeks passed, the mask I put on sank deeper anddeeper until that was the way I really felt. 'When you can face deathserenely you will not have to face it.' That is what Sophilus, one ofour leading philosophers, has said. I was living this truth. My work oninfinite series went more smoothly and swiftly than any mathematicalresearch I had engaged in before and my senses responded to living withgreater zest than ever.

  * * * * *

  Five months later, while walking through Hydroponic Park, I felt thefirst awful tremor through my body. It was as if the earth beneath myfeet were shaking, like that awful afternoon on Nirva's moon. But norocks fell from this sky and other strollers moved across my vision asif the world of five minutes ago had not collapsed. The horror was onlyinside me.

  I went to another doctor and asked for Stabilizine. "Perhaps you need acheckup," he suggested.

  That was the last thing I wanted and I said so. He, too, shruggedresignedly and made out my prescription for the harmless drug. Afterthat the hammer of pain did not strike again but often I could feel itbrush by me. Each time my self-administered dosage had to be increased.

  Eventually my equations stopped tying together in my mind. I would stareat the calculation sheets for hours at a time, asking myself why _x_should be here or integral operation there. The truth could not beavoided: my mind could no longer grasp truth.

  I went, in grudging defeat, to Erics. "You have to win," I said anddescribed my experiences.

  "Some things are inevitable," he nodded solemnly, "and some are not.This may solve all your problems."

  "Not _all_," I hoped aloud.

  Marla went with me to hospital. She realized the danger I was in but putthe best possible face on it. Her courage and support made all thedifference and I went into the second matter chamber, ready for whateverfate awaited me.

  Nothing happened. I came out of the chamber all protoplast except forthe spinal zone. Yet I was still Treb Hawley. As the coma faded away,the last equation faded in, completely meaningful and soon followed byall the leads I could handle for the next few years.

  Psychophysiology was in an uproar over my success. "Man can now be _all_protoplast," some said. Others as vehemently insisted some tiny buttangible chromosome-organ link to the past must remain. For my part itall sounded very academic; I was well again.

  There _was_ one unhappy moment when I applied for the new CentauriExpedition. "Too much of a risk," the Consulting Board told me. "Notthat you aren't in perfect condition but there are unknown, untestedfactors and out in space they might--mind you, we just say might--provedisadvantageous." They all looked embarrassed and kept their eyes offme, preferring to concentrate on the medals lined up across the tablethat were to be my consolation prize.

  I was disconsolate at first and would look longingly up at the starswhich were now, perhaps forever, beyond my reach. But my sons were goingout there and, for some inexplicable reason, that gave me great solace.Then, too, Earth was still young and beautiful and so was Marla. I stillhad the full capacity to enjoy these blessings.

  * * * * *

  Not for long. When we saw the boys off to Centauri I had a dizzy spelland only with the greatest effort hid my distress until the long trainof ships had risen out of sight. Then I lay down in the Visitors Loungefrom where I could not be moved for several hours. Great waves of painflashed up and down my spine as if massive voltages were being releasedwithin me. The rest of my body stood up well to this assault but everyfew seconds I had the eerie sensation that I was back in my old body, aghostly superimposition on the living protoplast, as the spinal chordprojected its agony outward. Finally the pain subsided, succeeded by ablank numbness.

  I was carried on gravito-cushions to Erics' office. "It had to be," hesighed. "I didn't have the heart to tell you after the last operation.The subvirus is attacking the internuncial neurones."

  I knew what that meant but was past caring. "We're not immortal--notyet," I said. "I'm ready for the end."

  "We can still try," he said.

  I struggled to laugh but even gave up that little gesture. "Anotheroperation? No, it can't make any difference."

  "It might. We don't know."

  "How could it?"

  "Suppose, Treb, just suppose you do come o
ut of it all right. You'd bethe first man to be completely of second matter!"

  "Erics, it can't work. Forget it."

  "I won't forget it. You said we're not immortal but, Treb, your survivalwould be another step in that direction. The soul's immortality has tobe taken on faith now--if it's taken at all. You could be the first_scientific_ proof that the developing soul has the momentum to carrypast the body in which it grows. At the least you would represent a stepin the direction of soul freed from matter."

  I could take no more of such talk. "Go ahead," I said, "do what youwant. I give my consent."

  The last