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  Minister Freneksy conferred, speaking in his own tongue, with the Empire doctor; he lifted his head all at once and said crisply, 'I would like Dr Gornel to assist in this operation.'

  Vice Secretary Prindle spoke up. 'It can't be permitted. Molinari has given strict orders that only his own staff doctors, chosen by himself personally, are to touch his person.' He nodded to Tom Johannson and his corps of Secret Service men; they moved closer to Molinari.

  'Why?' Freneksy asked.

  'They're familiar with his case history,' Prindle said woodenly.

  Freneksy shrugged, walked away; he seemed even more baffled now, even bewildered. 'It's inconceivable to me,' he said aloud, his back to the table, 'that this could be permitted to happen, that Secretary Molinari could let his physical condition deteriorate to such a point.'

  To Teagarden, Eric said, 'Has this happened before?'

  'You mean has Molinari died during a conference with the 'Starmen?' Teagarden smiled reflexively. 'Four times. Right here in this room, even in the same chair. You may start your borer, now.'

  Placing the homeostatic surgical tool against Molinari's lower right side, Eric activated it; the device, the size of a shot glass, at once flung itself into activity, delivering first a strong local anaesthetic and then beginning its task of cutting its way to the renal artery and the kidney.

  The only sound in the room now was the whirring caused by the action of the tool; everyone, including Minster Freneksy, watched it disappear from sight, burrowing into Molinari's heavy, motionless, slumped body.

  'Teagarden,' Eric said, 'I suggest that we keep—' He stood back and lit a cigarette. 'Watch for a case of hypertension occurring somewhere here in the White House, another partially blocked renal artery or—'

  'It's come up already. A maid on the third floor. Hereditary malformation, as it has to be of course. But coming to a crisis in this woman during the last twenty-four hours because of an overdose of amphetamines; she began to lose her sight and we decided to go ahead and operate – that's where I was when summoned here. I was just finishing up.'

  'Then you know,' Eric said.

  'Know what?' Teagarden's voice was low, concealed from those across the table. 'We'll discuss it later. But I can assure you that I know nothing. Nor do you.'

  Coming over to them, Minister Freneksy said, 'How soon will Molinari be capable to resuming this discussion?'

  Eric and Teagarden glanced at each other. Caught each other's eye.

  'Hard to say,' Teagarden said presently.

  'Hours? Days? Weeks? Last time it was ten days.' Freneksy's face writhed with impotence. 'I am simply unable to remain here on Terra that long; the conference will have to be rescheduled for later in the year if it's to be a wait of more than seventy-two hours.' Behind him his consulting staff, his military and industrial and protocol advisers, were already putting their notes away in their briefcases, closing up shop.

  Eric said, 'Probably he won't be strong enough within the two-day period generally allowed in cases like this; his over-all condition is too—'

  Turning to Prindle, Minister Freneksy said, 'And you decline any authority as Vice Secretary to speak in his place? What an abominable situation! It's obvious why Terra—' He broke off. 'Secretary Molinari is a personal friend of mine,' he said, then. 'I'm keenly concerned as to his welfare. But why must Lilistar bear the major burden in this war? Why can Terra go on dragging her feet indefinitely?'

  Neither Prindle nor the two doctors answered.

  In his own language Freneksy spoke to his delegation; they rose en masse, obviously prepared to depart.

  The conference, because of Molinari's sudden near-fatal illness, had been called off. At least for now. Eric felt overwhelming relief.

  Through his illness Molinari had escaped. But only temporarily.

  Nevertheless, that was something. That was enough. The million and a half Terrans, demanded by Lilistar for its factories, would not be rounded up ... Eric glanced at Teagarden, exchanged a brief flash of agreement and comprehension. Meanwhile, the borer went about its task, unaided, whining on.

  A psychosomatic, hypochrondiacal illness had protected the lives of a great many people and it made Eric rethink, already, the value of medicine, the effect of bringing about a 'cure' for Molinari's condition.

  It seemed to him as he listened to the borer at work that he was now beginning to understand the situation – and what was really required of him by the ailing U N Secretary who lay against the conference table, neither seeing nor hearing, in a state where the problems of the discussion with Minister Freneksy did not exist.

  Later, in his well-guarded bedroom, Gino Molinari sat propped up on pillows, weakly contemplating the homeopape the New York Times, which had been placed at his disposal.

  'It's okay to read, isn't it, doctor?' he murmured faintly.

  'I think so,' Eric said. The operation had been totally successful; the elevated blood pressure had been restored to a normal plateau, commensurate with the patient's age and general condition.

  'Look at what the papes are able to get wind of.' Molinari passed the first section to Eric.

  POLICY MEET CALLED OFF ABRUPTLY DUE TO

  SECRETARY'S ILLNESS. 'STAR DELEGATION

  HEADED BY FRENEKSY IN SECLUSION.

  'How do they find those things out?' Molinari complained peevishly. 'God, it makes me look bad; makes it obvious I finked out at a crucial time.' He glared at Eric. 'If I had any guts I'd have stood up to Freneksy on that labor-force conscription demand.' He shut his eyes wearily. 'I knew the demand was coming. Knew it last week, even.'

  'Don't blame yourself,' Eric said. How much of the physiological fugal dynamism was comprehensible to Molinari? None of it, evidently; Molinari not only did not grasp the purpose of his illness – he did not even approve of it. And so it continued to function at an unconscious level.

  But how long can this go on? Eric wondered. With such a powerful dichotomy between conscious aspiration and unconscious will to escape ... perhaps, finally, an illness would be produced from which the Secretary would never emerge; it would not only be fatal, it would be final.

  The door to the next room opened; there stood Mary Reineke.

  Taking her by the arm, Eric led her back out into the hall, shutting the door after them. 'Can't I see him?' she demanded indignantly.

  'In a minute.' He studied her, still unable to determine just how well she understood the situation. 'I want to ask you something. Has Molinari undergone any psychiatric therapy or analysis that you know of?' No mention existed in the file ; but he had a hunch.

  'Why should he?' Mary toyed with the zipper of her skirt. 'He's not crazy.'

  That certainly was true; he nodded. 'But his physical—'

  'Gino has had back luck. That's why he's always getting sick. You know no psychiatrist is going to change his luck.' Mary Reineke added with reluctance, 'Yes, he did consult an analyst once, last year, a few times. But that's a top secret; if the homeopapes got hold of it—'

  'Give me the analyst's name.'

  'The hell I will.' Her black eyes snapped with hostile triumph; she glared at him unwinkingly. 'I won't even tell Dr Teagarden, and him I like.'

  'After watching Gino's illness in action I feel I—'

  'The analyst,' Mary broke in, 'is dead. Gino had him killed.'

  Eric stared at her.

  'Guess why.' She smiled with the random malice of a teen-age girl, the purposeless, delicious cruelty which took him back in a flash to his own boyhood. To the agonies such girls had caused him before. 'It was something the analyst said. About Gino's illness. I don't know what it was but I assume he was on the right track ... as you think you are. So do you really want to be so clever?'

  'You remind me,' he said, 'of Minister Freneksy.'

  She pushed by him, toward Gino's door. 'I want to go on in; good-by.'

  'Did you know that Gino died there in that conference room today?'

  'Yes, he had to. Just for a f
ew moments, of course; not long enough to muddle his brain cells. And of course you and Teagarden cooled him right down; I know about that, too. Why do I remind you of Freneksy, that crulp!' She came back toward him, studying him intently. 'I'm not like him at all. You're just trying to make me sore so I'll tell you something.'

  Eric said, 'What do you think I want you to tell me?'

  'About Gino's suicide impulses.' She spoke matter-of-factly. 'He has them; everybody knows that. That's why I was brought here by his relatives, to make sure somebody spent every night with him, snuggled right up against him in bed every hour or watching him while he paces around when he can't sleep. He can't be alone at night; he's got to have me to talk to. And I can talk sense to him – you know, restore his perspective at four o'clock in the morning. That's hard to do but I do it.' She smiled. 'See? Do you have somebody to do that for you, doctor? At your four a.m. moments?'

  Presently he shook his head no.

  'A shame. You need it. Too bad I can't do it for you, too, but one's enough. Anyhow you're not my type. But good luck – maybe someday you'll find someone like me.' Opening the door, she disappeared. He stood alone in the corridor, feeling futile. And, all at once, extremely lonely.

  I wonder what became of the analyst's files? he thought mechanically, turning his mind back to his job. No doubt Gino had them destroyed, so as not to fall into 'Star hands.

  That's right, he thought. It is about four a.m. when it hits hardest. But there's no one else like you, he thought. So that's that.

  'Dr Sweetscent?'

  He glanced up. A Secret Service man had approached him. 'Yes.'

  'Doctor, there's a woman outside who says she's your wife; she wants to be admitted to the building.'

  'It can't be,' Eric said, with fear.

  'You want to come with me and see if you can identify her, please?'

  Automatically he fell in beside the Secret Service man. Tell her to go away,' he said. No, he thought, that won't do; you don't handle your problems like that, like a child waving a wand. 'I have no doubt it's Kathy,' he said. 'Followed me here after all. In the name of God – what dreadful luck. Did you ever feel this way?' he asked the Secret Service man. 'Did you ever find yourself unable to live with someone you had to live with?'

  'Nope,' the Secret Service man said unfeelingly, leading the way.

  TEN

  His wife stood in a corner of the outside compound which was the White House receiving room, reading a homeopape, the New York Times; she wore a dark coat and a good deal of make-up. Her skin, however, looked pale and her eyes seemed enormous, filled with anguish.

  As he entered the compound she glanced up and said, 'I'm reading about you; it seems you operated on Molinari and saved his life. Congratulations.' She smiled at him but it was a bleak, trembling smile. 'Take me somewhere and buy me a cup of coffee; I have a lot to tell you.'

  'You've got nothing to tell me,' he said, unable to keep his stunned dismay out of his voice.

  'I had a major insight after you left,' Kathy said.

  'So did I. It was that we'd done the right thing by splitting up.'

  'That's strange, because my insight was just the opposite,' she said.

  'I see that. Obviously. You're here. Listen: by law I don't have to live with you. All I'm required to do—'

  'You ought to listen to what I have to say,' Kathy said steadily. 'It wouldn't be morally right for you just to walk off; that's too easy.'

  He sighed. Useful philosophy by which to achieve one's goals. But nevertheless he was snared. 'Okay,' he agreed. 'I can't do that, just as I couldn't honestly deny you're my wife. So let's have the coffee.' He felt fatalistic. Perhaps it was an attenuated form of his self-destructive instinct. In any case he had given in; taking her arm, he guided her along the passage, past the White House guards, toward the nearest cafeteria. 'You look bad,' he said. 'Your color. And you're too tense.'

  'I've had a bad time,' she admitted, 'since you left. I guess I'm really dependent on you.'

  'Symbiosis,' he said. 'Unhealthy.'

  'It's not that!'

  'Sure it is. This proves it. No, I'm not going to go back with you on the old basis.' He felt – at least for the moment — determined; he was prepared to fight it out, here and now. Eyeing her, he said, 'Kathy, you look quite sick.'

  'That's because you've been hanging around the Mole; you're getting used to a sick environment. I'm perfectly well, just a little tired.'

  But she looked – smaller. As if something in her had dwindled away, as if she had dried up. It was almost – age. Yet not quite. Could their separation have done this much damage? He doubted it. His wife, since he had seen her last, had become frail, and he did not like this; despite his animosity he felt concern.

  'You better get a multiphasic,' he said. 'A complete check-up.'

  'Christ,' Kathy said, 'I'm okay. I mean, I'll be okay, if you and I can iron out our misunderstanding and—'

  'The termination of a relationship,' he said, 'is not a misunderstanding. It's a reorganization of life.' He got his coffee cup and hers, filled both from the dispenser, paid the robant cashier.

  When they had seated themselves at a table, Kathy lit a cigarette and said, 'All right, suppose I admit it; without you I'm completely falling apart. Do you care?'

  'I care, but that doesn't mean—'

  'You'd just let me fade away and perish.'

  'I have one sick man who occupies all my time and attention. I can't heal you too.' Especially, he thought, when I don't genuinely want to.

  'But all you have to do is—' She sighed, sipped her coffee glumly; her hand trembled, he noticed, in an almost pseudo Parkinsonism. 'Nothing. Just accept me back. Then I'll be well.'

  'No,' he said. 'I frankly don't believe it. You're sicker than that; there's some other cause.' I'm not in the medical profession by mistake, he thought. I can spot a thoroughgoing illness pattern when I see it. But he could not diagnose it beyond that. 'I think you know what ails you,' he said bluntly. 'You could tell me if you cared to. This makes me more wary than ever; you're not telling me all that you should, you're not being honest or responsible, and that's a hell of a basis on which to—'

  'Okay!' She stared at him. 'I'm sick; I admit it! But let's just say it's my business; you don't have to worry.'

  'I'd say,' he said, 'that there's been neurological damage.'

  Her head jerked; what color she had now drained from her face.

  'I think,' he said suddenly, 'that I'm going to do something I genuinely think may be premature and overly drastic, but I'll try it and see what comes of it. I'm going to have you arrested.'

  'Good God why?' Panic stricken, she gazed at him, now speechless; her hands lifted in defense, then fell back.

  He rose, walked over to a cafeteria employee. 'Miss,' he said, 'would you have a Secret Service man come to my table?' He pointed to his table.

  'Yes sir,' the woman said, blinking but unperturbed. She turned to a busboy who, without further discussion, scampered off into the kitchen.

  Eric returned to his table, reseated himself opposite Kathy. He resumed sipping his coffee, trying to keep himself calm and at the same time bracing himself for the scene that lay ahead. 'My rationale,' he said, 'is that it's for your own good. Of course I don't know yet. But I think it'll turn out that way. And I think you know it.'

  Blanched, wizened with fright, Kathy implored. 'I'lll leave. Eric; I'll go back to San Diego – okay?'

  'No,' he said. 'You got yourself into this by coming here; you made it my business. So you'll have to suffer the consequences. As they say.' He felt completely rational and in control; it was a bad situation but he sensed the possibilities of something imminent which was far worse.

  Kathy said huskily, 'Okay, Eric. I'll tell you what it is. I've got myself addicted to JJ-180. That's the drug I told you about, the drug we all, including Marm Hastings, took. Now you know. I have nothing more to say; that covers it. And I've taken it once since. And just one exposure
is addicting. As you no doubt realize; after all, you are a doctor.'

  'Who else knows?'

  'Jonas Ackerman.'

  'You got it through Tijuana Fur & Dye? From our subsidiary?'

  'Y-yes.' She did not meet his gaze. Presently she added, That's why Jonas knows; he got it for me – but don't tell anybody that. Please.'

  Eric said, 'I won't.' His mind had begun to function properly again, thank God. Was this the drug which Don Festenburg had obliquely referred to? The term JJ-180 roused dormant memories; he tried to straighten them out. 'You made a hell of a mistake,' he said, 'from what I remember hearing about Frohedadrine, as it's also called. Yes, Hazeltine makes it.'

  At the table a Secret Service man appeared. 'Yes, doctor?'

  'I just wanted to inform you that this woman is my wife, as she says. And I'd like to have her cleared to remain here with me.'

  'All right, doctor. We'll run a routine security probe on her. But I'm certain it's okay.' The Secret Service man nodded and departed.

  'Thanks,' Kathy said presently.

  'I consider addiction to such a toxic drug a major illness,' Eric said. 'In this day and age worse than cancer or a massive cardiac arrest. It's obvious I can't dump you. You'll probably have to enter a hospital; you're probably aware of that already. I'll contact Hazeltine, find out all they know ... but you understand it may be hopeless.'

  'Yes.' She ducked her head in a spasmodic nod.

  'Anyhow, you seem to have a great deal of courage.' He reached out, took hold of her hand; it was dry and cold. Lifeless. He let it go. 'That has always been one thing I've admired in you – you're not a coward. Of course that's how you got yourself into this in the first place, by having the guts to try some new substance. Well, so now we're back together.' Glued fast to each other by your possibly fatal drug habit, he thought with morose despair. What a reason to resume our marriage. It was just a little too much for him.

  'You're a good egg, too,' Kathy said.

  'Do you have any more of the stuff?'

  She hesitated. 'N-no.'