Sember

Drans has to die!"
"For three days and three nights I've wrestled with it," Drans said dully. "Pro and con, trust or mistrust, kill—or welcome. There are so many factors to consider, so terrible a risk . . ."
"And you decided: it had to be death, because how could man, who had betrayed his own species, trust another race?" Bailey accused.
"Is it possible?" Drans stared from Aliea to Bailey. "Can you know the future? In some miraculous way, were you sent here to save me from this terrible decision? Can we trust them? Are they what they say?"
"They come as friends," Aliea said softly.
Drans stood. "I believe you," he said. "Because the alternative is too bitter to contemplate." He stepped forward, gently thrust the girl aside. "Do your duty," he said flatly to Bailey.
"William—no!" Aliea said swiftly. "You know now, don't you? You see?"
Bailey looked at the defenseless man before him. He lowered the gun, nodded.
"The voice—the dying man, a hundred years from now. It was—is—will be you: Micael Drans. You sent me back to kill yourself before you gave the death order."
"Only a very good man would have done that, William," Aliea said. "Micael Drans is one of the few good men alive in these vicious times. He has to live—to meet the ship, a