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For only a little higher cost you too can enjoy endless, exhilarating, wonderful youth!”
    Preston sniffed. The old buildup, he thought. Tell them it’s new. Drive home the fact that it’s bigger, better, brighter than ever before. Sell the product as something startling. A new package, he thought, but the same old contents. Cynical, he could still appreciate the expert skill behind the production.
    “This is how it is done,” said the man. His face dissolved, was replaced by a spartan, hospital-like interior. A line of old people sat on a bench against a wall. A man in a green coat turned as the camera zoomed in on his face. He was smiling, benign. Behind him, subtly out of focus, loomed the expanse of a gigantic machine; a wall of dials, lights and coloured tabs.
    “If a thing lacks colour,” murmured Preston, rememberring,“put it in.”
    “Be quiet,” said Ed.
    “… grow old, age and finally die,” the man in the green coat was saying. “All you young people need to do to prove this is to look around. But, because of the Kaltich, no one now need be old. Watch!”
    The scene widened. An old woman hobbled from the bench to where the man in the green coat was standing. Her eyes were sunken, her back bowed, knotted varicose veins showed like blue snakes on legs and arms. She seemed to smell of decay.
    “First,” said the doctor, “we test for organic malfunction. If a heart is diseased,” he explained, “or lungs rotted with cancer, these organs must first be replaced. A simple check will determine what is needed.” He attached wires to the stooped figure of the crone. “She is fortunate,” he said. “Replacements will not be necessary. However,” his face loomed huge, no longer smiling, the voice deadly serious, “you can see how important it is that you safeguard your health. Do not leave the rejuvenation treatment until the last possible moment.”
    “That’s it,” said Preston. “That’s the new product. From now on they’ll call it the rejuvenation treatment. You see.”
    Ed said nothing, sucking on his cigarlet.
    “And now,” said the doctor, “for the metamorphosis. By a special process,” he explained, “we are going to show you exactly what happens to this old lady. You are going to witness something never seen before and which may never be seen again!”
    The background music rose as the old woman was led into a compartment, faded as the door closed. Colours swirled hypnotically. The calm voice of the doctor returned.
    “To understand the process you must realize that the science of the Kaltich is far above that of our own. They have managed to isolate and synthesize the basic elements of life itself. The old woman is now being checked by a machine which is taking over a million readings of her bodyand comparing them with the minute ‘blueprint’ which is inherent in every cell. It is finding out just how far she has strayed from the optimum and deciding the exact therapy to rectify the situation. While this is being done we shall play you the famous second movement of Hashman’s Subsea Symphony.”
    “Bunk,” said Preston. His cigarlet had gone out and he relit it with a shaking hand. “Bunk,” he repeated. “A stinking load of rotten fish.”
    “How come?” said Ed.
    “The whole thing’s a phony. That was never the inside of a Gate. You think the Kaltich would ever allow it? And that machine — a prop if ever I saw one.”
    “But the treatment’s real,” protested Ed. “What the doc said was basically true.”
    “Yes,” Preston admitted. “It was.” He winced as the music reached a crescendo and turned down the volume. “Damned racket,” he muttered. “Why don’t they play something from the old days? You don’t get music like they used to have,” he complained. “That smooth beat, that swing …” He shook his head. “Nothing like it now.”
    “You can say that again,” said Ed. He cleared his throat. “Say, Bill, do you think the pot would