Chris shrugged. That's the poog as I get it, Hastings. Take it or leave it.' He was not bothered; he knew, as they all did, that under these circumstances no brief of warranty was incumbent on him.

Then it's not actually German,' Hastings said, with a faint nod. 'I see. Could this JJ-180, or Frohedadrine as it's also called ....ould it possibly originate entirely off Terra?'

After a pause Chris said, 'I dunno, Hastings. I dunno.'

To all of them Hastings said in his educated, severe voice, There have been cases of illegal non-terrestrial drugs before. None of them of any importance. Derived from Martian flora, mostly, and occasionally from Ganymedean lichens. I suppose you've heard; you all seem informed on this topic, as you should be. Or at least—' His smile grew, but his eyes, behind his rimless glasses, were codlike. 'At the very least you seem satisfied as to the pedigree of this JJ-180 for which you've paid this man fifty US dollars.'

'I'm satisfied,' Simon Ild said in his stupid way. 'Anyhow it's too late; we paid Chris and we've all taken the caps.'

'True,' Hastings agreed reasonably. He seated himself in one of Chris's tottering easy chairs. 'Does anyone feel any change yet? Please speak up as soon as you do.' He glanced at Katherine Sweetscent. 'Your nipples seem to be watching me, or is that just my imagination? In any case it makes me decidedly uncomfortable.'

'As a matter of fact,' Chris Plout said in a strained voice, 'I feel something, Hastings.' He licked his lips, trying to wet them. 'Excuse me. I – to be frank, I'm here alone. None of you are with me.'

Marm Hastings studied him.

'Yes,' Chris went on. 'I'm all alone in my conapt. None of you even exist. But the books and chairs, everything else exists. Then who'm I talking to? Have you answered?' He peered about, and it was obvious that he could not see any of them; his gaze passed by them all.

'My nipples are not watching you or anybody else,' Kathy Sweetscent said to Hastings.

'I can't hear you,' Chris said in panic. 'Answer!'

'We're here,' Simon Ild said, and sniggered.

'Please,' Chris said, and now his voice was pleading. 'Say something: it's just shadows. It's – lifeless. Nothing but dead things. And it's only starting – I'm scared of how it's going on; it's still happening.'

Marm Hastings laid his hand on Chris Plout's shoulder.

The hand passed through Plout.

'Well, we've gotten our fifty dollars' worth,' Kathy Sweet-scent said in a low voice, void of amusement. She walked toward Chris, closer and closer.

'Don't try it,' Hastings said to her in a gentle tone.

'I will,' she said. And walked through Chris Plout. But she did not reappear on the other side. She had vanished; only Plout remained, still bleating for someone to answer him, still flailing the air in search of companions he could no longer perceive.

Isolation, Bruce Himmel thought to himself. Each of us cut off from all the others. Dreadful. But – it'll wear off. Won't it?

As yet he did not know. And for him it had not even started.

'These pains,' UN Secretary General Gino Molinari rasped, lying back on the large, red, hand-wrought couch in the living room of Virgil Ackerman's Wash-35 apartment, 'generally become most difficult for me at night.' He had shut his eyes; his great fleshy face sagged forlornly, the grimy jowls wobbling as he spoke. 'I've been examined; Dr Teagarden is my chief GP. They've made infinite tests, with particular attention directed toward malignancy.'

Eric thought. The man's speaking by rote; it's not his natural speech pattern. This has become that ingrained in his mind, this preoccupation; he's gone through this ritual a thousand times, with as many physicians. And – he still suffers.

There's no malignancy,' Molinari added. 'That seems to have been authoritatively verified.' His words constituted a satire of pompous medical diction, Eric realized suddenly. The Mole had immense hostility toward doctors, since they had failed to help him. 'Generally the diagnosis is acute gastritis. Or spasms of the phyloric valve. Or even an hysterical re-enactment of my wife's labor pains, which she experienced three years ago.' He finished, half to himself, 'Shortly before her death.'

'What about your diet?' Eric asked.

The Mole opened his eyes wearily. 'My diet. I don't eat, doctor. Nothing at all. The air sustains me; didn't you read that in the homeopapes? I don't need food, like you simple schulps do. I'm different.' His tone was urgently, acutely embittered.

'And it interferes with your duties?' Eric asked.

The Mole scrutinized him. 'You think it's psychosomatic, that outmoded pseudo science that tried to make people morally responsible for their ailments?' He spat in anger; his face writhed and now the flesh was no longer hanging and loose – it was stretched taut, as if ballooned out from within. 'So I can escape my responsibilities? Listen, doctor; I still have my responsibilities – and the pain. Can that be called secondary neurotic psychological gain?'

'No,' Eric admitted. 'But anyhow I'm not qualified to deal with psychosomatic medicine; you'd have to go to—'

'I've seen them,' the Mole said. All at once he dragged himself to his feet, stood swaying, facing Eric. 'Get Virgil back here; there's no point in your wasting your time interrogating me. And anyhow I don't choose to be interrogated. I don't care for it.' He strode unsteadily toward the door, hitching up his sagging khaki trousers as he went.

Eric said, 'Secretary, you could have your stomach removed, you realize. At any time. And an artiforg planted in replacement. The operation is simple and almost always successful. Without examining your case records I shouldn't say this, but you may have to have your stomach replaced one of these days. Risk or no risk.' He was certain that Molinari would survive; the man's fear was palpably phobic.

'No,' Molinari said quietly. 'I don't have to; it's my choice. I can die instead.'

Eric stared at him.

'Sure,' Molinari said. 'Even though I'm the UN Secretary General. Hasn't it occurred to you that I want to die, that these pains, this developing physical – or psychosomatic – illness is a way out for me? I don't want to go on. Maybe. Who knows? What difference does it make, to anybody? But the hell with it.' He tore open the hall door. 'Virgil,' he boomed in a surprisingly virile voice. 'For chrissake, let's pour and get this party started.' Over his shoulder he said to Eric, 'Did you know this was a party? I bet the old man told you it was a serious conference for solving Terra's military, political, and economic problems. In one half hour.' He grinned, showing his big, white teeth.

'Frankly,' Eric said, 'I'm glad to hear it's a party.' The session with Molinari had been as difficult for him as it had been for the Secretary. And yet – he had an intuition that Virgil Ackerman would not let it end there. Virgil wanted something done for the Mole; he desired to see the man's distress eased, and for a good, practical reason.

The collapse of Gino Molinari would signify an end to Virgil's possession of TF&D. Management of Terra's economic syndromes no doubt held priority for Freneksy's officials; their agenda had probably been drawn up in detail.

Virgil Ackerman was a shrewd businessman.

'How much,' Molinari asked suddenly, 'does the old fruit Pay you?'

'V-very well,' Eric said, taken by surprise.

Molinari, eyeing him, said, 'He's talked to me about you. Before this get-together. Sold me on you, how good you are. Because of you he's still alive long after he ought to be dead, all that crap.' They both smiled. 'What's your choice in liquor, doctor? I like anything. And I like fried chops and Mexican food and spare ribs and fried prawns dipped in horse-radish and mustard ... I treat my stomach kind.'