Eric, as he accepted the tin, said, 'You're not very happy about this invention of your company's.'

'Happy?' Hazeltine echoed. 'Oh sure; can't you see? Doesn't it show? You know, oddly enough, the worst has been watching the POWs after they've taken it. They just plain fold up, wilt; there's no remission at all for them ... they live JJ-180, once they've touched it. They're glad to be on it; the hallucinations are that – what should I say? — entertaining for them ... no, not entertaining. Engrossing? I don't know, but they act as if they've looked into the ultimate. But it's one which clinically speaking, physiologically speaking, constitutes an insidious hell.'

'Life is short,' Eric pointed out.

'And brutish and nasty,' Hazeltine added, vaguely quoting, as if responding unconsciously. 'I can't be fatalistic, doctor. Maybe you're lucky or smart, some such thing.'

'No,' Eric said. 'Hardly that.' To be a depressive was certainly not desirable; fatalism was not a talent but a protracted illness. 'How soon after taking JJ-180 do the withdrawal symptoms appear? In other words must—'

'You can go from twelve to twenty-four hours between dosages,' Miss Bachis said. 'Then the physiological requirements, the collapse of adequate liver metabolism, sets in. It's unpleasant. So to speak.'

Hazeltine said hoarsely, 'Unpleasant – God in heaven, be realistic; it's unendurable. It's a death agony, literally. And the person knows it. Feels it without being able to label it. After all, how many of us have gone into our death agonies?'

'Gino Molinari has,' Eric said. 'But he's unique.' Placing the tin of JJ-180 in his coat pocket, he thought, So I have up to twenty-four hours before I'll be forced to take my second dose of the drug. But it could come as soon as this evening.

So the reegs may have a cure, he thought. Would I go over to them to save my life? Kathy's life? I wonder. He did not really know.

Perhaps, he thought, I'll know after I undergo my first bout with the withdrawal symptoms. And, if not that, after I detect the first signs of neurological deterioration in my body.

It still dazed him that his wife had, just like that, addicted him. What hatred that showed. What enormous contempt for the value of life. But didn't he feel the same way? He remembered his initial discussion with Gino Molinari; his sentiments had emerged then and he had faced them. In the final analysis he felt as Kathy did. This one great effect of war; the survival of one individual seems trivial. So perhaps he could blame it on the war. That would make it easier.

But he knew better.

ELEVEN

On his way to the infirmary to turn over to Kathy her supply of the drug, he found himself facing unbelievably, the slumped, ill figure of Gino Molinari. In his wheel chair the UN Secretary sat with his heavy wool rug over his knees, his eyes writhing like separate living things, pinning Eric into immobility.

'Your conapt was bugged,' Molinari said. 'Your conversation with Hazeltine and Bachis was picked up, recorded, and delivered in transcript form to me.'

'So quickly?' Eric managed to say. Thank God he had made no reference to his own addiction.

'Get her out of here,' Molinari moaned. 'She's a 'Star fink; she'll do anything – I know. This has happened before.' He was shaking. 'As a matter of fact she's already out of here; my Secret Service men grabbed her and took her to the field, to a 'copter. So I don't know why I'm getting myself upset like this . .. intellectually I know the situation's in hand.'

'If you have a transcript you know that Miss Bachis already arranged for Kathy to—'

'I know! All right.' Molinari panted for breath, his face unhealthy and raw; his skin hung in folds, dark wrinkled wattles of loose flesh. 'See how Lilistar operates? Using our own drug against us; it's just like the bastards, something they'd get a kick out of. We ought to drop it in their reservoirs. I let you in here and then you let your wife in; to obtain that crap, that miserable drug, she'd be willing to do anything – assassinate me if they asked her to. I know everything there is to know about Frohedadrine; I'm the one who thought up the name. From the German Froh, meaning joy, and the Latin heda-, the root for pleasure. Drine, of course—' He broke off, his swollen lips twitching. 'I'm too sick to get agitated like this; I'm supposed to be recovering from that operation. Are you trying to heal me or kill me, doctor? Or do you know?'

Eric said, 'I don't know.' He felt confused, numbed; this was just too much.

'You look bad. This is tough on you, even though according to your security file and your own statements you detest your wife – and her you. I guess you figure if you'd stayed wtih her she wouldn't have become an addict. Listen: everyone has to live his own life; she has to take the responsibility. You didn't make her do it. She decided to do it. Does that help you? Feel any better?' He scanned Eric's face for his reaction.

'I'll – be okay,' Eric said briefly.

'In a pig's ass. You look as bad as she does; I went down there to have a look at her, I couldn't resist. The poor goddam dame; you already can make out the destruction caused by that stuff. And giving her a new liver and all new blood won't help; that's been tried before, as they told you.'

'Did you talk to Kathy at all?'

'Me? Talk to a 'Star fink?' Molinari glared at him. 'Yes, I talked to her a little. While they were wheeling her out. I was curious to see what sort of woman you'd get mixed up with; you've got a masochistic streak eight yards wide and she proves it; she's a harpy, Sweetscent, a monster. Like you told me. You know what she said?' He grinned. 'She told me you're an addict. Anything to cause trouble, right?'

'Right,' Eric said stiffly.

'Why are you looking at me that way?' Molinari regarded him, his black, fat eyes showing his regained control. 'It upsets you to hear that, doesn't it? To know she'd do everything possible to destroy your career here. Eric, if I thought you'd dabbled with that stuff I wouldn't have you kicked out of here; I'd have you killed. During wartime I kill people; it's my job. Just as you know and I know, because we discussed it, there may come a time not far from now when it will be necessary for you to—' He hesitated. 'What we said. Kill even me. Right, doctor?'

Eric said, 'I have to give her the drug supply. May I go. Secretary? Before they take off.'

'No,' Molinari said. 'You can't go because there's something I want to ask you. Minister Freneksy is here still; you are aware of that. With his party, in the East Wing, in seclusion.' He held out his hand. 'I want one capsule of JJ-180, doctor. Give it to me and then forget we had this talk.'

To himself Eric thought, I know what you're going to do. Or rather try to do. But you don't have a chance; this isn't the Renaissance.

'I'm going to hand it to him personally,' Molinari said. 'To see that it actually gets there and isn't drunk by some pimp along the way.'

'No,' Eric said. 'I absolutely refuse.'

'Why?' Molinari cocked his head on one side.

'It's suicidal. For everyone on Terra.'

'You know how the Russians got rid of Beria? Beria carried a pistol into the Kremlin, which was against the law; he had it in his briefcase and they stole his briefcase and shot him with his own pistol. You think matters at the top have to be complex? There're simple solutions average people always overlook; that's the main defect of the mass man—' Molinari broke off, put his hand suddenly to his chest. 'My heart. I think it stopped. It's going now, but for a second there, nothing.' He had blanched and his voice now ebbed to a whisper.

'I'll wheel you to your room.' Eric stepped behind Molinari's wheel chair and began to push it; the Mole did not protest but sat slumped forward, massaging his fleshy chest, exploring and touching himself, with the tentativeness of disintegrating, overwhelming fear. Everything else was forgotten; he perceived nothing more than his sick, failing body. It had become his universe.