The fundamental idea of the Crypt was hardly new to him. He had read the old legends—the Seven Sleepers, the tales of Herla, Frederik Barbarossa, and Holger Danske—of men for whom time had stopped until the remote future date when they awoke. Only last night, his last night in this world, he had played the whole Tannhäuser in an orgy of sentimentality.

There was always a catch. But he had very little to lose. A cancer which had metastasized to the lymph glands meant a short and unpleasant life, perhaps prolonged by operations hopelessly carving away more and more of his flesh—better to take some poison and go out like a gentleman.

Or, better yet, go into the future when they would have worked out some sure and easy cure for his sickness. And perhaps, he thought, a cure for the political cancers which ate at his own society, a cure for war and poverty and misery. Utopia was not inherently unattainable, to a close approximation anyway…For a moment he was almost looking forward to the adventure, but the tightness and the heavy pulse wouldn’t leave him. He liked his present existence, and the future would have to be pretty good to make up for his present.

Though I’m lucky, he thought. I have no really close ties, none who’ll really miss me or whom I can’t live without. And I have a high I.Q. and adaptability, I can get along with almost anybody. I won’t suffer.

He asked, “Are there any people besides those with diseases at present incurable going into the Crypt?”

“No,” answered the doctor, “except, of course, husbands and wives who wish to accompany their sick spouses, and a few other special cases like that. We just don’t have room for any more.

“Naturally,” he went on, “we’re swamped with applications from people who want to escape the tribulations of the present for a presumably happier future. But those we ignore. There’s been talk of developing level-entropy units which can be used for everyday purposes like preserving food or other perishables, or even in the household. Imagine cooking a chicken dinner, putting it in the field, and taking it out piping hot whenever needed, maybe twenty years hence! But the manufacturers are very careful about releasing stasis generators, precisely because too many people would try to take a one-way ride into tomorrow. What would become of the present—and would the future want our neurotic escapists?

“Several state legislatures have already tried to regulate the use of the Seaton effect, and Congress is arguing about a Federal law. Meanwhile, the Crypt staff uses it simply to save lives which are lost to the present anyway.”

“If you can be sure they are saved—” murmured Hart. “Of course, we can give no hundred-percent guarantee,” said the doctor with elaborate patience, “but I think it’s a very safe bet. The Crypt is in an underground vault well away from any area which might be presumable atomic-bomb targets. Not that even an atom bomb could penetrate a stasis field. Once the fields are set up, they’re self-maintaining until neutralized from outside. Information about the Crypt is diffused throughout the world by now, even if something should happen to the permanent staff, which is unlikely. Whenever a cure for a specific disease is found, we will consult our records and release those suffering from it.”