Dr. Seymour Jurgens lived alone. He had been married once and had reared a large family but they were all gone. His wife had been dead for twenty-five years, and none of his children had chosen to be workers. It seemed almost fantastic to him now that his loins had ever produced. He was an old man, he thought, a very old man indeed.
He turned out the light of his bedroom and sank back against the soft cradle of his bed. He had witnessed on his news screen the rioting in the park.
He had witnessed, he thought, the close of an Age.
He must have slept, he decided later, but it didn’t seem like it when he first became aware of the presence within the room. He didn’t know whether his name had been called or not. He only knew that it was there. He turned on the light.
He recoiled at the sigh
