"...the burdens of the flesh, eh, Hemlock?" Dragon's voice quivered fragilely. His body was thin and weightless under the black silk sheets; his brittle-boned head scarcely dented the ebony pillow upon which his ovine hair crumpled damply. Jonathan watched the long albescent hands flutter weakly at the hems of the turned-back bedding. A certain dim light was necessary to those who attended to his medical needs, and against the pain of this light, his eyes were covered with a thick, padded black mask.

Mrs. Cerberus bent over him, her lepidote face creased with concern as she withdrew a large needle from his hip. Dragon winced, but quickly converted the expression into a thin smile.

It was the first time Jonathan had been in the bedroom behind Dragon's office. The chamber was small and draped entirely in black, and the hospital stench was overpowering. Jonathan sat unmoving on a wooden bedside chair.

"They feed me intravenously for a few days after each transfusion. Sugar and salt solution. Not a gourmet's menu, you will agree." Dragon turned his head on the pillow, directing the black eyepads toward Jonathan. "I take it by your arctic silence that you are not overwhelmed by my stoicism and brave good humor?"

Jonathan did not respond.

With a wave so feeble that gravity tugged the hand down, Dragon dismissed Mrs. Cerberus, who brushed past Jonathan with a swish of starched clothes.

"I normally enjoy our chats, Hemlock. They have an exhilarating spice of dislike about them." He spoke in aspirate breaths, stopping midphrase when necessary, allowing his labored exhalation to group the words arbitrarily. "But in this condition I am not an adequate intellectual rival. So forgive me for coming directly to the point. Where is Miss Brown?"

"Oh? Is that really her name?"

"As it happens, yes. Where is she?"

"You're telling me you don't know?"

"She turned the money over to Mr. Pope yesterday. After which she quite disappeared. You'll forgive me if I suspect you."

"I don't know where she is. But I'm interested. If you find out, please tell me."

"I see. Remember, Hemlock, she is one of ours. And you are in an ideal position to know what happens to those who harm our people."

"Let's talk about the assignment."

"Nothing must happen to Miss Brown, Hemlock."

"Let's talk about the assignment."

"Very well." Dragon sighed, shuddering with the effort. "But I regret your loss of sportsmanship. How does the Americanism go? Win a few...?"

"Did you used to pull the wings off flies when you were young, Dragon?"

"Certainly not! Not flies."

Jonathan chose not to pursue the subject. "I assume the sanction has to do with the second man in Montreal. The one who was wounded in the struggle with whoeveritwas?"

"Agent Wormwood. Yes. At the time we sent you to Montreal, Search knew almost nothing about this second man. Since that time, they have been piecing together fragments of information—rumors, second sheets from note pads, statements from informers, swatches of taped telephone conversations—all the usual bits from which guilt is constructed. To be truthful, we still have less information than we have ever worked with before. But it is absolutely vital that the man be sanctioned. And quickly."

"Why? It wouldn't be the first time your people pulled a blank. What's so important about this man?"

Dragon's phosphorescent brow wrinkled as he balanced a problem for a moment, then he said, "Very well, I'll tell you. Perhaps then you will understand why we have behaved so harshly with you. And perhaps you will share our anxiety over this man." He paused, seeking a place to begin. "Tell me, Hemlock. From your Army Intelligence experience, how would you describe the ideal biological weapon?"

"Is this small talk?"

"Most pertinent."

Jonathan's voice took on the pendulum rhythm of recitation. "The disease should kill, but not quickly. The infected should require hospitalization and care, so that each case pulls one or two attendants out of action along with the victim. It should spread of itself by contact and contagion so that it will expand beyond the perimeters of the attack zone, carrying panic with it. And it must be something against which our own forces can be protected."

"Exactly. In short, Hemlock, certain virulent forms of bubonic would be ideal. Now, for years the other side has been working to develop a biological weapon based on bubonic. They have come a long way. They have perfected the delivery device; they have isolated a strain of virus with ideal characteristics; and they have injections that render their forces immune."

"I guess we'd better not piss them off."

Dragon winced with semantic pain. "Ah, the slums. Never far from the surface with you, are they? Fortunately, our own people have not been idle. We have made considerable strides in similar directions."

"Defensively, of course."

"A retaliatory weapon."

"Certainly. After all, we wear the white hats."

"I'm afraid I do not understand."

"An Americanism."

"I see. Now, both sides have reached impasses. Our people lack the ability to immunize against the virus. The other side lacks a satisfactory culture medium that will keep the virus alive through the extremes of temperature and shock involved in intercontinental missile delivery. We are working on discovering their process of immunization, and they would like very much to know the composition of our culture medium."

"Have you considered direct barter?"

"Please don't feel called upon to lighten my illness with little jokes, Hemlock."

"How does all this fascinating business affect me?"

"CII was given the assignment of delaying the other side's progress."

"The task was entrusted to CII? The CII of the Cuban Invasion? The CII of the Gaza incident? The CII of the Spy Ships? It would seem our government enjoys playing Russian roulette with an automatic."

Dragon's voice was crisp. "In point of fact, Dr. Hemlock, we have gone a long way toward effectively negating their entire biological warfare program."

"And how was this wonder accomplished?"

"By allowing them to intercept our formula for the culture medium." There was a certain pride in Dragon's tone.

"But not the real one," Jonathan assumed.

"But not the real one."

"And they are so stupid that they will not discover this."

"It is not a matter of stupidity. The medium passes every laboratory test. When our people stumbled upon it—"

"Sounds like our people."

"...when our people came upon the medium, they believed they had the answer to keeping the virus alive under ail conditions. We gave it exhaustive tests. If we had not chanced to test it under combat conditions, we would never have discovered its flaw."

"Under combat conditions?"

"This is none of your affair." Dragon was angry at himself for the slip.

"It's about those white hats."

Dragon seemed to slump with fatigue, although he made no movement. He appeared to collapse from within, to become smaller in the chest and thinner in the face. He drew several shallow breaths, blowing each out through slack lips and puffing cheeks.

"So then, Hemlock," he continued after recovery, "you can understand our urgency."

"Frankly, I don't. If we're so far out ahead in this criminal competition..." he shrugged.

"We recently suffered a great setback. Three of our most important scientists have died within the last month."

"Assassination?"

"No-o." Dragon was palpably uncomfortable. "I told you that we had not yet developed an effective immunization, and... This is not a laughing matter, Hemlock!"

"I'm sorry." Jonathan wiped the tears from his eyes and attempted to control himself. "But the poetic justice..." He laughed afresh.