Now Wait for Last Year

FIVE

On the night of his return from Wash-35 Eric Sweetscent encountered his wife at their conapt across the border in San Diego. Kathy had arrived before him. The meeting, of course, was inevitable.

'Back from little red Mars,' she observed as she shut the living room door after him. 'Two days doing what? Shooting your agate into the ring and beating all the other boys and girls? Or exposing sun pictures of Tom Mix?' Kathy sat in the center of the couch, a drink in one hand, her hair swept back and tied, giving her the look of a teen-ager; she wore a plain black dress and her legs were long and smooth, strikingly tapered at the ankles. Her feet were bare and each toenail bore a shiny decal depicting – he bent to see – a scene in color of the Norman Conquest. The smallest nail on each foot glittered with a picture too obscene for him to contemplate; he went to hang his coat in the closet.

'We pulled out of the war,' he said.

'Did we? You and Phyllis Ackerman? Or you and somebody else?'

'Everybody was there. Not just Phyllis.' He wondered what he could fix for dinner; his stomach was empty and in a state of complaint. As yet, however, there were no pains. Perhaps that came later.

'Any special reason why I wasn't asked along?' Her voice snapped like a lethal whip, making his flesh cringe; the natural biochemical animal in him dreaded the exchange which was in store for him – and also for her. Obviously she, like himself, was compelled to press head on; she was as much caught up and helpless as he.

'No special reason.' He wandered into the kitchen, feeling a little dulled, as if Kathy's opening had flattened his senses. Many such encounters had taught him to shield himself on the somatic level, if at all possible. Only old husbands, tired, experienced husbands, knew to do this. The newcomers... they're forced on by diencephalic responses, he reflected. And it's harder on them.

'I want an answer,' Kathy said, appearing at the door. 'As to why I was deliberately excluded.'

God, how physically appealing his wife was; she wore nothing, of course, under the black dress and each curved line of her confronted him with its savory familiarity. But where was the smooth, yielding, familiar mentality to go with this tactile form? The furies had seen to it that the curse – the curse in the house of Sweetscent, as he occasionally thought of it — had arrived full force; he faced a creature which on a physiological level was sexual perfection itself and on the mental level—

Someday the hardness, the inflexibility, would pervade her; the anatomical bounty would calcify. And then what? Already her voice contained it, different now from what he remembered of a few years back, even a few months. Poor Kathy, he thought. Because when the death-dealing powers of ice and cold reach your loins, your breasts and hips and buttocks as well as your heart – it was already deep in her heart, surely – then there will be no more woman. And you won't survive that. No matter what I or any man chooses to do.

'You were excluded,' he said carefully, 'because you're a pest.'

Her eyes flew open wide; for an instant they filled with alarm and simple wonder. She did not understand. Fleetingly, she had been brought back to the level of the merely human; the goading ancestral pressure in her had abated.

'Like you are now,' he said. 'So leave me alone; I want to fix myself some dinner.'

'Get Phyllis Ackerman to fix it for you,' Kathy said. The super-personal authority, the derision conjured up from the malformed crypto-wisdom of the ages, had returned. Almost psionically, with a woman's talent, she had intuited his slight romantic brush with Phyllis on the trip to Mars. And on Mars itself, during their overnight stay—

Calmly, he assumed that her heightened faculties could not genuinely ferret out that. Ignoring her, he began, in a methodical manner, to heat a frozen chicken dinner in the infrared oven, his back to his wife.

'Guess what I did,' Kathy said. 'While you were gone.'

'You took on a lover.'

'I tried a new hallucinogenic drug. I got it from Chris Plout; we had a jink session at his place and none other than the world-famous Marm Hastings was there. He made a pass at me while we were under the influence of the drug and it was – well, it was a pure vision.'

'Did he,' Eric said, setting a place for himself at the table.

'How I'd adore to bear his child,' Kathy said.

'"Adore to." Christ, what decadent English.' Ensnared, he turned to face her. 'Did you and he—'

Kathy smiled. 'Well maybe it was an hallucination. But I don't think so. I'll tell you why. When I got home—'

'Spare me!' He found himself shaking.

In the living room the vidphone chimed.

Eric went to get it and when he lifted the receiver he saw on the small gray screen the features of a man named Captain Otto Dorf, a military adviser to Gino Molinari. Dorf had been at Wash-35, assisting in security measures; he was a thin-faced man with narrow melancholy eyes, a man utterly dedicated to the protection of the Secretary. 'Dr Sweetscent?'

'Yes,' Eric said.'But I haven't—'

'Will an hour be enough? We'd like to send a 'copter to pick you up at eight o'clock your time.'

'An hour will do,' Eric said. 'I'll have my things packed and will be waiting in the lobby of my conapt building.'

After he had rung off he returned to the kitchen.

Kathy said, 'Oh my God. Oh Eric – can't we talk? Oh dear.' She slumped at the table and buried her head in her arms. 'I didn't do anything with Marm Hastings; he is handsome and I did take the drug, but—'

'Listen,' he said, continuing to prepare his meal. This was all arranged earlier today at Wash-35. Virgil wants me to do it. We had a long, quiet talk, Molinari's needs are at present greater than Virgil's. And actually I can still serve Virgil in org-trans situations but I'll be stationed at Cheyenne.' He added, 'I've been drafted; as of tomorrow I'm a medic in the UN military forces, attached to Secretary Molinari's staff. There's nothing I can do to change it; Molinari signed the decree to that effect last night.'

'Why?' Terror-stricken, she gazed up at him.

'So I can get out of this. Before one of us—'

'I won't spend any more money.'

'There's a war on. Men are being killed. Molinari is sick and he needs medical help. Whether you spend money or not—'

'But you asked for this job.'

Presently he said, 'I begged for it, as a matter of fact. I gave Virgil the greatest line of hot fizz ever strung together at one time in one place.'

She had drawn herself together now; she had become poised. 'What sort of pay will you receive?'

'Plenty. And I'll continue to draw a salary from TF&D, too.'

'Is there any way I can come with you?'

'No.' He had seen to that.

'I knew you'd dump me when you finally became a success – you've been trying to extricate yourself ever since we met.' Kathy's eyes filled with tears. 'Listen, Eric; I'm afraid that that drug I took is addictive. I'm terribly scared. You have no idea what it does; I think it comes from somewhere off Earth, maybe Lilistar. What if I kept taking it? What if because of your leaving—'

Bending, he picked her up in his arms. 'You ought to keep away from those people; I've told you so goddam many times—' it was futile talking to her; he could see what lay ahead for both of them. Kathy had a weapon by which she could draw him back to her once more. Without him she would be destroyed by her involvement with Plout, Hastings, and company; leaving her would simply make the situation worse. The sickness that had entered them over the years could not be nullified by the act he had in mind, and only in the Martian babyland could he have imagined otherwise.

He carried her into the bedroom and set her gently on the bed.

'Ah,' she said, and shut her eyes. 'Oh Eric—' She sighed.

However, he couldn't. This, too. Miserably, he moved from her, sat on the edge of the bed. 'I have to leave TF&D,' he said presently. 'And you have to accept it.' He stroked her hair. 'Molinari is cracking up; maybe I can't help him but at least I can try. See? That's the real—'

Kathy said, 'You're lying.'

'When? In what way?' He continued stroking her hair but it had become a mechanical action, without volition or desire.

'You would have made love to me just now, if that was why you were leaving.' She rebuttoned her dress. 'You don't care about me.' Her voice held certitude; he recognized the drab, thin tone. Always this barrier, this impossibility of getting through. This time he did not waste his time trying; he simply went on stroking her, thinking, It'll be on my conscience, whatever happens to her. And she knows it, too. So she's absolved of the burden of responsibility, and that, for her, is the worst thing possible.

Too bad, he thought, I wasn't able to make love to her.

'My dinner's ready,' he said, rising.

She sat up. 'Eric, I'm going to pay you back for leaving me.' She smoothed her dress. 'You understand?'

'Yes,' he said, and walked into the kitchen.

'I'll devote my life to it,' Kathy said, from the bedroom. 'Now I have a reason for living. It's wonderful to have a purpose at last; it's thrilling. After all these pointless ugly years with you. God, it's like being born all over again.'

'Lots of luck,' he said.

'Luck? I don't need luck; I need skill, and I think I have skill. I learned a lot during that episode under the effects of that drug. I wish I could tell you what it is; it's an incredible drug, Eric – it changes your entire perception of the universe and especially of other people. You don't ever view them the same again. You ought to try it. It would help you.'

'Nothing,' he said, 'would help me.'

His words, in his ears, sounded like an epitaph.

He had almost finished packing – and had long since eaten – when the doorbell of the conapt rang. It was Otto Dorf, already here with the military 'copter, and Eric soberly went to open the door for him.

Glancing about the conapt, Dorf said, 'Did you have an opportunity to say good-by to your wife, doctor?'

'Yes.' He added, 'She's gone now; I'm alone.' He closed his suitcase and carried it and its companion to the door. 'I'm ready.' Dorf picked up one suitcase and together they walked to the elevator. 'She did not take it very well,' he remarked to Dorf as they presently descended.

'I'm unmarried, doctor,' Dorf said. 'I wouldn't know.' His manner was correct and formal.

In the parked 'copter another man waited. He held out his hand as Eric ascended the rungs. 'Doctor; it's good to meet you.' The man, hidden in the shadows, explained, 'I'm Harry Teagarden, chief of the Secretary's medical staff. I'm glad you're joining us; the Secretary hadn't informed me in advance but that's no matter – he invariably acts on impulse.'

Eric shook hands with him, his mind still on Kathy. 'Sweet-scent.'

'How did Molinari's condition strike you when you met him?'

'He seemed tired.'

Teagarden said, 'He's dying.'

Glancing at him swiftly, Eric said, 'From what? In this day and age, with artiforgs available—'

I am familiar with current surgical techniques; believe me.' Teagarden's tone was dry. 'You saw how fatalistic he is. He wants to be punished, obviously, for leading us into this war.' Teagarden was silent as the 'copter ascended into the night sky and then he continued, 'Did it ever occur to you that Molinari engineered the losing of this war? That he wants to fail? I don't think even his most rabid political enemies have tried that idea out. The reason I'm saying this to you is that we don't have bales of time. Right at this moment Molinari is in Cheyenne suffering from a massive attack of acute gastritis – or whatever you care to call it. From your holiday at Wash-35. He's flat on his back.'

'Any internal bleeding?'

'Not yet. Or perhaps there has been and Molinari hasn't told us. With him it's possible; he's naturally secretive. Essentially he trusts nobody.'

'And you're positive there's no malignancy?'

'We can't find any. But Molinari doesn't allow us to conduct as many tests as we would like; he bolts. Too busy. Papers to sign, speeches to write, bills to present to the General Assembly. He tries to run everything singlehandedly. He can't seem to delegate authority and then when he does he sets up overlapping organizations that immediately compete – it's his way of protecting himself.' Teagarden glanced curiously at Eric. 'What did he say to you at Wash-35?'

'Not much.' He did not intend to disclose the contents of their discussion. Molinari had beyond doubt meant it for his ears exclusively. In fact, Eric realized, that was the cardinal reason for being brought to Cheyenne. He had something to offer Molinari that the other medics did not, a strange contribution for a doctor to be making... he wondered how Teagarden would react if he were to tell him. Probably – and for good reason – Teagarden would have him put under arrest. And shot.

'I know why you're going to be with us,' Teagarden said.

Eric grunted. 'You do?' He doubted it.

'Molinari is simply following his instinctive bias, having us double-checked by infusing new blood into our staff. But no one objects; in fact we're grateful – we're all overworked. You know, of course, that the Secretary has a huge family, even larger than that of Virgil Ackerman, your paterfamilias-style former employer.'

'I believe I've read it's three uncles, six cousins, an aunt, a sister, an elderly brother who—'

'And they're all in residence at Cheyenne,' Teagarden said. 'Constantly so. Hanging around him, trying to wangle little favors, better meals, quarters, servants – you get the pic. And—' He paused. 'I should add there's a mistress.'

That Eric did not know. It had never been mentioned, even in the press hostile to the Secretary.

'Her name is Mary Reineke. He met her before his wife's death. On paper Mary's listed as a personal secretary. I like her. She's done a lot for him, both before and after his wife's death. Without her he probably wouldn't have survived. The 'Starmen loathe her ... I don't quite know why. Perhaps I've missed out on some fact.'

'How old is she?' The Secretary, Eric guessed, was in his late forties or early fifties

'As young as it's humanly possible to be. Prepare yourself, doctor.' Teagarden chuckled. 'When he met her she was in high school. Working in the late afternoons as a typist. Perhaps she handed him a document... nobody knows for sure, but they did meet over some routine business matter.'

'Can his illness be discussed with her?'

'Absolutely. She's the one – the only one – who's been able to get him to take phenobarbital and, when we tried it, pathabamate. Phenobarb made him sleepy, he said, and path made his mouth dry. So of course he dropped them down a waste chute; he quit. Mary made him go back on. She's Italian. As he is. She can bawl him out in a way he remembers from his childhood, from his mama, perhaps... or his sister or aunt; they all bawl him out and he tolerates it, but he doesn't listen, except to Mary. She lives in a concealed apt in Cheyenne guarded by lines of Secret Service men – because of the 'Star people. Molinari dreads the day they'll—' Teagarden broke off.

'They'll what?'

'Kill her or maim her. Or weed out half her mental processes, turn her into a debrained vegetable; they've got a spectrum of techniques they can make use of. You didn't know our dealings with the ally were so rough at the top, did you?' Teagarden smiled. 'It's a rough war. That's how Lilistar acts toward us, our superior ally beside which we're a flea. So imagine how the enemy, the reegs, would treat us if our defense line cracked and they managed to pour in.'

For a time they rode in silence; no one cared to speak.

'What do you think would happen,' Eric said finally, 'if Molinari passed out of the pic?'

'Well, it would go one of two ways. Either we'd get someone more pro-Lilistar or we wouldn't. What other choices are there, and why do you ask? Do you believe we're going to lose our patient? If we do, doctor, we also lose our jobs and possibly our lives. Your one justification for existence – and mine – is the continual viable presence of one overweight, middle-aged Italian who lives in Cheyenne, Wyoming, with his enormous family and his eighteen-year-old mistress, who has stomach pains and enjoys eating a late-evening snack of batter-fried giant prawns with mustard and horse-radish. I don't care what they told you or what you signed; you're not going to be inserting any more artiforgs into Virgil Ackerman for a long time; there won't be the opportunity because keeping Gino Molinari alive is a full-time task.' Teagarden seemed irritable and upset now; his voice, in the darkness of the 'copter cab, was jerky. 'It's too much for me, Sweetscent. You won't have any other life but Molinari; he'll talk your ear off, deliver practice speeches to you on every topic on Earth – ask your opinion about everything from contraception to mushrooms – how to cook them – to God to what would you do if, and so forth. For a dictator – and you realize that's what he is, only we don't like to use the name – he's an anomaly. First of all he's probably the greatest political strategist alive; how else do you suppose he rose to be UN Secretary General? It took him twenty years, and fighting all the way; he dislodged every political opponent he met, from every country on Terra. Then he got mixed up with Lilistar. That's called foreign policy. On foreign policy the master strategist failed, because at that point a strange occlusion entered his mind. You know what it's called? Ignorance. Molinari spent all his time learning how to knee people in the groin, and with Freneksy that isn't called for. He would no more deal with Freneksy than you or I could – possibly worse.'

'I see,' Eric said.

'But Molinari went ahead anyhow. He bluffed. He signed the Pact of Peace which got us into the war. And here's where Molinari differs from all the fat, overblown, strutting dictators in the past. He took the blame on his shoulders; he didn't fire a foreign minister here or shoot a policy adviser from the State here. He did it and he knows it. And it's killing him, by quarter inches, day in, day out. Starting from the gut. He loves Terra. He loves people, all of them, washed and unwashed; he loves his wretched pack of sponging relatives. He shoots people, arrests people, but he doesn't like it. Molinari is a complex man, doctor. So complex that—'

Dorf interrupted drily, 'A mixture of Lincoln and Mussolini.'

'He's a different person with everyone he meets,' Teagarden continued. 'Christ, he's done things so rotten, so goddam wicked that they'd make your hair stand on end. He's had to. Some of them will never be made public, even by his political foes. And he's suffered because of doing them. Did you ever know anyone who really accepted responsibility, guilt and blame, before? Do you? Does your wife?'

'Probably not,' Eric admitted.

'If you or I ever really accepted the moral responsibility for what we've done in our lifetime – we'd drop dead or go mad. Living creatures weren't made to understand what they do. Take the animals we've run over on the road, or the animals we eat. When I was a kid it was my monthly job to go out and Poison rats. Did you ever watch a poisoned animal die? And not just one but scores of them, month after month. I don't feel it. The blame. The load. Fortunately it doesn't register – it can't, because if it did there'd be no way I could go on. And that's how the entire human race gets by. All but the Mole. As they call him.' Teagarden added, '"Lincoln and Mussolini." I was thinking more of One Other, back about two thousand years.'

'This is the first time,' Eric said, 'I ever heard anyone compare Gino Molinari to Christ. Even in his captive press.'

'Perhaps,' Teagarden said, 'it's because I'm the first person you've ever talked to who's been around the Mole twenty-four hours a day.'

'Don't tell Mary Reineke about your comparison,' Dorf said. 'She'll tell you he's a bastard. A pig in bed and at the table, a lewd middle-aged man with rape in his eye, who ought to be in jail. She tolerates him... because she's charitable.' Dorf laughed sharply.

'No,' Teagarden said, 'that's not what Mary would say ... except when she's sore, which is about a fourth of the time. I don't really know what Mary Reineke would say; maybe she wouldn't even try. She just accepts him as he is; she tries to improve him, but even if he doesn't improve – and he won't – she loves him anyhow. Have you ever known that other kind of woman? Who saw possibilities in you? And with the right kind of help from her—'

'Yes,' Eric said. He wished to see the subject changed; it made him think about Kathy. And he did not care to.

The 'copter droned on toward Cheyenne.

In bed alone Kathy lay half sleeping as morning sunlight ignited the variegated textures of her bedroom. All the colors so familiar to her in her married life with Eric now became distinguished one from another as the light advanced. Here, where she lived, Kathy had established potent spirits of the past, trapped within the concoctions of other periods: a lamp from early New England, a chest of drawers that was authentic bird's-eye maple, a Hepplewhite cabinet... She lay with her eyes half open, aware of each object and all the connecting strands involved in her acquisition of them. Each was a triumph over a rival; some competing collector had failed, and it did not seem farfetched to regard this collection as a graveyard, with the ghosts of the defeated persisting in the vicinity. She did not mind their activity in her home life; after all she was tougher than they.

'Eric,' she said sleepily, 'for chrissake get up and put on the coffee. And help me out of bed. Push or speak.' She turned toward him, but no one was there. Instantly she sat up. Then she got from the bed, walked barefoot to the closet for her robe, shivering.

She was putting on a light gray sweater, tugging it with difficulty over her head, when she realized that a man stood watching her. As she had dressed he had lounged in the doorway, making no move to announce his presence; he was enjoying the sight of her dressing, but now he shifted, stood upright and said, 'Mrs Sweetscent?' He was perhaps thirty, with a dark, rough muzzle and eyes which did not encourage her sense of well-being. In addition he wore a drab-gray uniform and she knew what he was: a member of Lilistar's secret police operating on Terra. It was the first time in her life that she had ever run into one of them.

'Yes,' she said, almost soundlessly. She continued dressing, sitting on the bed to slip on her shoes, not taking her eyes from him. 'I'm Kathy Sweetscent, Dr Eric Sweetscent's wife, and if you don't—'

'Your husband is in Cheyenne.'

'Is he?' She rose to her feet. 'I have to fix breakfast; please let me by. And let me see your warrant for coming in here.' She held out her hand, waiting.

'My warrant,' the Lilistar grayman said, 'calls for me to search this conapt for an illegal drug, JJ-180. Frohedadrine. If you have any, hand it over and we'll go directly to the police barracks at Santa Monica.' He consulted his notebook. 'Last night in Tijuana at 45 Avila Street you used the drug orally in the company of—'

'May I call my attorney?'

'No.'

'You mean I have no legal rights at all?'

'This is wartime.'

She felt afraid. Nevertheless she managed to speak with reasonable calm. 'May I call my employer and tell him I won't be in?'

The gray policeman nodded. So she went to the vidphone and dialed Virgil Ackerman at his home in San Fernando. Presently his birdlike, weathered face appeared, owlishly waking in a fuss of confusion. 'Oh, Kathy. Where's the clock?' Virgil peered about.

Kathy said, 'Help me, Mr Ackerman. The Lilistar—' She ceased, because the grayman had broken the connection with a swift movement of his hand. Shrugging, she hung up.

'Mrs Sweetscent,' the grayman said, 'I'd like to introduce Mr Roger Corning to you.' He made a motion and into the apartment, from the hall, came a 'Starman dressed in an ordinary business suit, a briefcase under his arm. 'Mr Corning, this is Kathy Sweetscent, Dr Sweetscent's wife.'

'Who are you?' Kathy said.

'Someone who can get you off the hook, dear,' Corning said pleasantly. 'May we sit down in your living room and discuss this?'

Going into the kitchen, she twisted the knobs for soft-boiled eggs, toast, and coffee without cream. There's no JJ-180 in this apt. Unless you put it here yourself during the night.' The food was ready; she carried it to the table on its throwaway tray and seated herself. The smell of the coffee vanquished the remnants of fear and bewilderment in her; she felt capable again and not so intimidated.

Corning said, 'We have a permanent photographic sequence of your evening at 45 Avila Street. From the moment you followed Bruce Himmel up the stairs and inside. Your initial words were, "Hello, Bruce. It looks as if this is an all-TF&D—"'

'Not quite,' Kathy said. 'I called him Brucie. I always call him Brucie because he's so hebephrenic and dumb.' She drank her coffee, her hand steady as it held the throwaway cup. 'Does your photographic sequence prove what was in the capsules we took, Mr Gorning?'

'Corning,' he corrected good-naturedly. 'No, Katherine, it doesn't. But the testimony of two of the other participants Hoes Or will when it's entered under oath before a military tribunal.' He explained. This falls outside the jurisdiction of vour civilian courts. We ourselves will handle all details of the prosecution.'

'Why is that?' she inquired.

'JJ-180 can only be acquired from the enemy. Therefore your use of it – and we can establish this before our tribunal – constitutes intercourse with the enemy. In time of war the tribunal's demand naturally would be death.' To the gray-uniformed policeman Corning said, 'Do you have Mr Plout's deposition with you?'

'It's in the 'copter.' The grayman started toward the door.

'I thought there was something subhuman about Chris Plout,' Kathy said. 'Now I'm meditating about the others ... who else last night had a subhuman quality? Hastings? No. Simon Ild? No, he—'

'All this can be avoided,' Corning said.

'But I don't want to avoid it,' Kathy said. 'Mr Ackerman heard me on the vidphone; TF&D will send an attorney. Mr Ackerman is a friend of Secretary Molinari; I don't think—'

'We can kill you, Kathy,' Corning said. 'By nightfall. The tribunal can meet this morning; it's all arranged.'

After a time – she had ceased eating – Kathy said, 'Why? I'm that important? What is there in JJ-180? I—' She hesitated. 'What I tried last night didn't do so very much.' All at once she wished like hell that Eric had not left. This wouldn't have happened with him here, she realized. They would have been afraid.

Soundlessly, she began to cry; she sat hunched over at her Plate, tears sliding down her cheeks and dropping to disappear. She did not even try to cover her face; she put her hand to her orehead, rested leaning against her arm, saying nothing.—it, she thought.

Your position,' Corning said, 'is serious but not hopeless; there's a difference. We can work out something... that's why I'm here. Stop crying and sit up straight and listen to me and I'll try to explain.' He unzipped his briefcase.

'I know,' Kathy said. 'You want me to spy on Marm Hastings. You're after him because he advocated signing a separate peace with the reegs that time on TV. Jesus, you've infiltrated this whole planet. Nobody's safe.' She got up, groaned with despair, went to the bedroom for a handkerchief, still sniffling.

'Would you watch Hastings for us?' Corning said, when she returned.

'No.' She shook her head. Better to be dead, she thought.

'It's not Hastings,' the uniformed Lilistar policeman said.

Corning said, 'We want your husband. We'd like you to follow him to Cheyenne and take up where you left off. Bed and board, I think the Terran phrase is. As soon as it possibly can be arranged.'

She stared at him. 'I can't.'

'Why can't you?'

'We broke up. He left me.' She could not understand why, if they knew everything else, they didn't know that.

'Resolutions of that type in a marriage,' Corning said, as if speaking with the weary wisdom of an infinity of ages, 'can always be reduced to the status of a temporary misunderstand-ing. We'll take you to one of our psychologists – we have several excellent ones in residence here on this planet – and he'll brief you on the techniques to use in healing this rift with Eric. Don't worry, Kathy; we know what went on here last night. Actually it works out to our advantage; it gives us an opportunity to talk with you alone.'

'No.' She shook her head. 'We'll never be back together. I don't want to be with Eric. No psychologist, even one of yours, can change that. I hate Eric and I hate all this crap you're mixed up in. I hate you 'Starmen, and everyone on Terra feels the same way – I wish you'd get off the planet, I wish we'd never gotten into the war.' Impotently, with frenzy, she glared at him.

'Cool off, Kathy.' Corning remained unruffled.

'God, I wish Virgil were here; he's not afraid of you – he's one of the few people on Terra—'

'No one on Terra,' Corning said absently, 'has that status. It's time you faced reality; we could, you know, take you to Lilistar, instead of killing you ... had you thought about that, Kathy?'

'Oh God.' She shuddered. Don't take me to Lilistar, she said to herself, praying in silence. At least let me stay here on Terra with people I know. I'll go back to Eric; I'll beg him to take me back. 'Listen,' she said aloud. 'I'm not worrying about Eric. It isn't what you might do to him that frightens me.' It's myself, she thought.

'We know that, Kathy,' Corning said, nodding. 'So this really ought to please you, when you examine it without distracting emotion. By the way...' Dipping into the briefcase, Corning brought out a handful of capsules; he laid one on the kitchen table and the capsule rolled off and fell on the floor. 'No offense meant, Kathy, but—' He shrugged. 'It is addictive. From even one exposure, such as you indulged yourself in at 45 Avila Street last night. And Chris Plout isn't going to get you any more.' Picking up the capsule of JJ-180 which had fallen to the kitchen floor, he held it out to Kathy.

'It couldn't be,' she said faintly, declining. 'After just one try. I've taken dozens of drugs before and never—' She regarded him then. 'You bastards,' she said. 'I don't believe it and anyhow, even if it is true, I can get unaddicted – there're clinics.'

'Not for JJ-180.' Returning the capsule to his briefcase. Corning added casually, 'We can free you of your addiction, not here but at a clinic in our own system ... perhaps later we can arrange this. Or you can stay on it and we can supply you for the rest of your life. Which won't be long.'

'Even to break a drug habit,' Kathy said, 'I wouldn't go to Lilistar. I'll go to the reegs; it's their drug – you said so. They must know more about it than you do if they invented it.' Turning her back to Corning, she walked to the living room closet and got her coat. 'I'm going to work. Good-by.' She opened the door to the hall. Neither 'Starman made a move to halt her.

It must be true, then, she thought. JJ-180 must be as addictive as they say. I haven't got a goddam chance; they know it and I know it. I have to co-operate with them or try to escape all the way across to the reeg lines, where it originates, and even then I'd still be addicted; I wouldn't have gained anything. And the reegs would probably kill me.

Corning said. Take my card, Kathy.' He walked to her, extending the small white square. 'When you find yourself requiring the drug, must at any cost have it—' He dropped the card into the breast pocket of her coat. 'Come and see me. We'll be expecting you, dear; we'll see you're supplied.' He added, as an afterthought, 'Of course it's addictive, Kathy; that's why we put you on it.' He smiled at her.

Shutting the door after her, Kathy made her way blindly to the elevator, numbed now to the point where she felt nothing, not even fear. Only a vague emptiness inside her, the vacuum left by the extinction of hope, of the ability even to conceive a possibility of escape.

But Virgil Ackerman could help me, she said to herself as she entered the elevator and touched the button. I'll go to him; he'll know exactly what I should do. I'll never work with the 'Starmen, addiction or not; I won't co-operate with them about Eric.

But she knew, before long, that she would.