As one of the original psychadelic astronauts, one who explored the mind and soul more than just about anyone, Leary knew his last punch of the Delete key held the promise of the ultimate rush, the most profound trip ever. But in his inimitable style, he recognized the political moment as well. Death remains such a taboo in our culture that, in typical Leary defiance -- "question authority, think for yourself" -- he decided this last journey was public domain.

Privately, however, in the still moments of the days and nights as the cancer began to assume control of his body, his friends knew it was a trip he feared. It's easier to talk about taking one's own life than actually doing it. In the end, there was no need for Leary to carry out what would have been his last act of defiance against the establishment.

And so Timothy Leary's final trip was one upon which he embarked quietly, however uncharacteristically, in his sleep, in his room, in his own bed, at his home. To the world at large, it might have seemed like, well . . . a boring exit for Leary, High Priest of the sixties. Indeed, Leary reveled in the limelight no matter what the decade, what the cause. But at the end, what he really wanted was simple, what any human being wants: to die with dignity. That he did. And he was not logged on. And he was not frozen or placed in suspended animation. Instead, he was cremated. But you know that Leary couldn't go that quietly. His remains will be launched into space. Estimated time of departure

-- December 3, 1996.