The perspiration trickled down Hennes's temples. He made choking noises in the back of his throat.

The Space Ranger waited patiently.

Hennes cried, "I'll talk. I'll talk. Take it out! Take it out!"

The words were muffled through his distorted lips, but their intent and the hideous terror in every line of his face were plain enough.

"Good! You had better take notes, Dr. Silvers."

It was three days before Dr. Silvers met David Starr again. He had had little sleep in that interval and he was tired, but not too tired to greet David gladly. Bigman, who had not left Silvers in all that interval, was equally effusive in his greetings.

"It worked," said Silvers. "You've heard about it, I'm sure. It worked unbelievably well."

"I know," said David, smiling. "The Space Ranger told me all about it."

"Then you've seen him since."

"Only for a moment or two."

"He disappeared almost immediately afterward. I mentioned him in my report; I had to, of course. But it certainly made me feel foolish. In any case, I have Bigman here and old Makian as witnesses."

"And myself," said David.

"Yes, of course. Well, it's over. We located the poison stores and cleaned out the Asteroids. There'll be two dozen men up for life sentences and Benson's work will actually be beneficial in the end. His experiments on Martian life were, in their way, revolutionary. It's possible a whole new series of antibiotics may be the final results of his attempts to poison Earth into submission. If the poor fool had aimed at scientific eminence, he would have ended a great man. Thank Hennes's confession for stopping him."

David said, "That confession was carefully planned for. The Space Ranger had been working on him since the night before."

"Oh, well, I doubt that any human could have withstood the danger of poisoning that Hennes was subject to. In fact, what would have happened if Hennes had been really innocent? The chance the Space Ranger took was a big one."

"Not really. There was no poison involved. Benson knew that. Do you suppose Benson would have left his sampler in his laboratory smeared with poison as evidence against himself? Do you suppose he kept any poison where it might be found by accident?"

"But the poison on the pellet."

"… was simple gelatin, unfavored. Benson would have known it would be something like that. That's why the Space Ranger did not try to get a confession out of him. That's why he had him gagged, to prevent a warning. Hennes might have figured it out for himself, if he hadn't been in blind panic."

"Well, I'll be tossed out into Space," said Dr. Silvers blankly.

He was still rubbing his chin when he finally made his excuses and went off to bed.

David turned to Bigman.

"And what will you be doing now, Bigman?"

Bigman said, "Dr. Silvers has offered me a permanent job with the Council. But I don't think I'll take it."

"Why not?"

"Well, I'll tell you, Mr. Starr. I sort of figure on going with you, wherever you happen to be going after this."

"I'm just going to Earth," said David.

They were alone, yet Bigman looked cautiously over his shoulder before he spoke. "It seems to me you'll be going lots of places besides Earth-Space Ranger."

"What?"

"Sure. I knew that when I first saw you come in with all that light and smoke. That's why I didn't take,you serious when it looked as if you were accusing me of being the poisoner." His face was broken out in a giant grin.

"Do you know what you're talking about?"

"I sure do. I couldn't see your face, or the details of your costume, but you were wearing hip boots and you were the right height and build."

"Coincidence."

"Maybe. I couldn't see the design on the hip boots but I made out a little of them, the colors, for instance. And you're the only farmboy I ever heard of that was willing to wear simple black and white."

David Starr threw his head back and laughed. "You win. Do you really want to join forces with me?"

"I'd be proud to," said Bigman.

David held out his hand and the two shook.

"Together then," said David, "wherever we go."

Isaac Asimov was born in the Soviet Union to his great surprise. He moved quickly to correct the situation. When his parents emigrated to the United States, Isaac (three years old at the time) stowed away in their baggage. He has been an American citizen since the age of eight.

Brought up in Brooklyn, and educated in its public schools, he eventually found his way to Columbia University and, over the protests of the school administration, managed to annex a series of degrees in chemistry, up to and including a Ph.D. He then infiltrated Boston University and climbed the academic ladder, ignoring all cries of outrage, until he found himself Professor of Biochemistry.

Meanwhile, at the age of nine, he found the love of his life (in the inanimate sense) when he discovered his first science-fiction magazine. By the time he was eleven, he began to write stories, and at eighteen, he actually worked up the nerve to submit one. It was rejected. After four long months of tribulation and suffering, he sold his first story and, thereafter, he never looked back.

In 1941, when he was twenty-one years old, he wrote the classic short story "Nightfall" and his future was assured. Shortly before that he had begun writing his robot stories, and shortly after that he had begun his Foundation series.

What was left except quantity? At the present time, he has published over 260 books, distributed through every major division of the Dewey system of library classification, and shows no signs of slowing up. He remains as youthful, as lively, and as lovable as ever, and grows more handsome with each year. You can be sure that this is so since he has written this little essay himself and his devotion to absolute objectivity is notorious.

He is married to Janet Jeppson, psychiatrist and writer, has two children by a previous marriage, and lives in New York City.