Men have always sought eternal youth and eternal life - and always with disastrous results.
 

    I thought it would be a routine case until the car doors locked and Agnes, my auto-computer, turned left when I had told her to go right.

    I punched the buttons on the dashboard. "Agnes, what's going on?"

    "I've been reprogrammed, Clint," she said.

    "Reprogrammed? I thought only the driver could do that."

    "In theory that's true," she told me calmly. "Reality is a bit different."

    I stomped on the brake, but it refused to move. The muscles in my arm tensed as I tried to turn the steering wheel. It didn't budge. Agnes sped into the older, more dilapidated business areas of the city. She pulled into what appeared to be an empty warehouse. It was evening. Her lights were on. I could see the outlines of three men waiting. When the car stopped, the doors unlocked and two pairs of steel-strong hands gripped me and pulled me from the driver's seat. Skullcrushers. They seemed well made, excellently modified for efficient service.

    Two held my arms while the third landed a hard punch to my abdomen. I gasped for air and doubled up in pain.

    "Don't you ask questions first?" I asked.