'I guess,' Eric said, 'I'm a fool.'

'More than that: polymorphic perverse. You could be going back armed with incredible weapons – in the figurative sense, of course – to save yourself, your wife, Molinari. And for one year you'll stew ... assuming that you survive your drug addiction that long. We'll see.'

For the first time Eric felt a wavering doubt. Was he making an error? After all, he had not even heard what he would need to pony up in order to consummate the deal. But now the antidote had been destroyed; it was too late. This was just talk.

Rising, Eric took a quick look out of the window at the city of Cheyenne.

The city was in ruins.

While he stood staring at that he felt the reality of the room, the substantiality of what he saw, ebb; it eased away from him and he clutched at it, trying to retain it.

'Much luck, doctor,' Festenburg said hollowly, and then he, too, became a streak of foglike wispiness that eddied gray and indistinct around him, blending with the disintegrated remnants of the desk, the walls of the room, the objects that a moment before had been utterly stable.

He lurched – and struggled to catch himself. Losing his balance, he pitched into the sickening experience of no weight... and then, with pain banging at his head, he looked up, saw around him the tables and people of the White House cafeteria.

A group had formed around him. Concerned but hesitant. Unwilling to actually touch him; they remained spectators.

'Thanks for the help,' he grated, and got unsteadily to his feet.

The spectators melted guiltily off to their tables, leaving him alone. Alone – except for Kathy.

'You were out about three minutes,' she said.

He said nothing; he had no desire to speak to her, to have anything to do with her. He felt nauseated and his legs shook under him; his head felt splintered and broken and he thought, This must be how it feels to experience carbon monoxide poisoning. As described in the old textbooks. A sense of having imbibed of death itself.

'Can I help you?' Kathy asked. 'I remember how I felt the first time.'

Eric said, 'I'll take you to the infirmary now.' He grabbed her by the arm; her purse bobbed against him. 'You must have your supply in your purse,' he said, and yanked it away from him.

A moment later he held two elongated spansules in his hand. Dropping them into his pocket, he returned her purse to her.

'Thanks,' she said with massive irony.

'Thank you, too, dear. We've each got a lot of love for one another. In this new phase of our marital relationship.' He led her from the cafeteria then; she accompanied him without resistance.

I'm glad I didn't make a deal with Festenburg, he thought. But Festenburg would be after him again; this was not the end. However, he possessed an advantage over Festenburg, one which the sallow-faced speech writer did not – at this date – know of.

From this encounter a year hence he knew that Festenburg had political ambitions. That in some fashion he would attempt a coup and would try to buy support. The UN Secretary uniform had turned out to be ersatz, but Festenburg's aspirations had not.

And it was entirely possible that Festenburg had not yet begun this phase of his career.

Festenburg, in this time period, could not take Eric Sweet-scent by surprise because one year in the future, unknown to his present self, he had tipped his hand. And, in doing so, had not grasped the implications of what he had done.

It was a major political error and one which could not be retrieved. Especially in view of the fact that other political strategists, some with immense capabilities, were on the scene.

One of these was Gino Molinari.

After he had gotten his wife admitted to the White House infirmary he placed a vidphone call to Jonas Ackerman at TF&D in Tijuana.

'So you know about Kathy,' Jonas said. He did not look happy.

'I'm not going to ask you why you did it,' Eric said. 'I'm calling in order to—'

'Did what?' Jonas' face convulsed. 'She told you I put her on the stuff, did she? Not true, Eric. Why should I do that? Ask yourself.'

'We won't discuss that now.' There was no time. 'I want to find out, first if Virgil knows anything about JJ-180.'

'Yes, but no more than I do. There's not much—'

'Let me talk to Virgil.'

Reluctantly, Jonas switched the call to Virgil's office. Eric after a moment faced the old man, who leered with guileless abandon when he saw who was calling. 'Eric! I read in the pape – you've already saved his life once. I knew you'd make out. Now, if you can do that every day—' Virgil chuckled delightedly.

'Kathy is addicted to JJ-180. I need help; I have to get her off it.'

The pleased emotions left Virgil's face. 'That's horrible! But what can I do, Eric? I'd like to, of course. We all love Kathy around here. You're a doctor, Eric; you ought to be able to do something for her.' He tried to babble on but Eric interrupted.

'Tell me who to contact at the subsidiary. Where JJ-180 is made.'

'Oh yes. Hazeltine Corporation, in Detroit. Let's see . .. who should you talk to there? Maybe Bert Hazeltine himself. Just a minute; Jonas is up here in my office. He's saying something.'

Jonas appeared on the vidscreen. 'I was trying to tell you, Eric. When I found out about Kathy's situation I contacted Hazeltine Corporation immediately. They've already sent someone out; he's on his way to Cheyenne; I figured Kathy would show up there after she disappeared. Keep Virgil and me posted as to what progress he can make. Good luck.' He disappeared from the screen, evidently relieved to have contributed his share.

Thanking Virgil, Eric rang off. Rising, he at once went to the White House receiving room to see if the representative of Hazeltine Corporation had shown up yet.

'Oh yes, Dr Sweetscent,' the girl said, checking her book. Two persons arrived just a moment ago; you're being paged in the halls and in the cafeterias.' She read the names from the book. 'A Mr Bert Hazeltine and a woman. Miss Bachis... I'm trying to read her writing; I think that's it. They were sent upstairs to your conapt.'

When he reached his conapt he found the door ajar; in the small living room sat two individuals, a middle-aged man, well dressed, in a long overcoat, and a blonde-haired woman, in her late thirties; she wore glasses and her features were heavy and professionally competent.

'Mr Hazeltine?' Eric said, entering with his hand out.

Both the man and the woman rose. 'Hello, Dr Sweetscent.' Bert Hazeltine shook hands with him. This is Hilda Bachis; she's with the UN Narcotics Control Bureau. They had to be informed of your wife's situation, doctor; it's the law. However—'

Miss Bachis spoke up crisply, 'We're not interested in arresting or punishing your wife, doctor; we want to help her, as you do. We've already arranged to see her but we thought we'd talk with you first and then go down to the infirmary.'

In a quiet voice Hazeltine said, 'Your wife has how large a supply of the drug with her?'

'None,' Eric said.

'Let me explain to you, then,' Hazeltine said, 'the difference between habituation and addiction. In addiction—'

'I'm a doctor,' Eric reminded him. 'You don't have to spell it out for me.' He seated himself, still feeling the effects of his bout of the drug; his head still ached and his chest hurt when he breathed.

'Then you realize that the drug has entered her liver metabolism and now is required for that metabolism to continue. If she's denied the drug she'll die in—' Hazeltine calculated. 'How much has she taken?' Two or three capsules.'

'Without it she'll die very possibly within twenty-four hours.'

'And with it?'

'She'll live roughly four months. By that time, doctor, we may have an antidote; don't think we're not trying. We've even tried artiforg transplant, removing the liver and substituting—'