Now Wait for Last Year

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.'

'You're lying.'

'I won't give it up. I'd rather leave you and try to make it on my own.' Her fear had become, momentarily, obstinate defiance. 'Look, if I'm hooked on JJ-180 I can't give you the supply I possess – that's what it means to be hooked! I don't want to take any more; I have to take it. Anyhow, there's not much.' She shuddered. 'It makes me wish I were dead; that goes without saying. God, I don't know how I got myself into this.'

'What's the experience like? I understand it involves time.'

'Yes, you lose your fixed point of reference; you pass easily back and forth. What I'd like to do is put myself at the service of someone or something, find a use for the period that I'm in the hands of. Could the Secretary use me? Eric, maybe I could get us out of the war; I could warn Mplinari before he signs the Pact of Peace.' Her eyes glowed with hope. 'Isn't it worth trying?'

'Maybe so.' However, he recalled Festenburg's statements on the subject; perhaps Molinari had use of JJ-180 already. But the Mole clearly had not tried – or been able – to find a route back to pre-pact days. Perhaps the drug affected each person uniquely. Many stimulant, hallucinogenic drugs did.

'Can I get access to him through you?' Kathy asked.

'I – suppose so.' But something sprang to life inside him and made him wary. 'It would take time. Right now he's recovering from the kidney operation, as you seem to know.'

She shook her head then, nodding with pain. 'Jesus, I feel awful, Eric. Like I'm not going to survive. You know... impending disaster. Give me a bunch of tranquilizers; it might help a little.' She held out her hand and again he saw How badly it shook. Even worse, it seemed, than before.

'I'll put you in the building's infirmary,' he decided, rising to his feet. 'For the time being. While I figure out what to do. I'd prefer not to give you any medication, though; it might further potentiate the drug. With a new substance you never—'

Kathy broke in, 'Want to know what I did, Eric, while you were off getting the Secret Service? I dropped a cap of JJ-180 into your coffee cup. Don't laugh; I'm serious. It's true, and you've drunk it. So you're addicted now. The effects should begin any time; you'd better get out of this cafeteria and to your own conapt, because they're enormous.' Her voice was flat and drab. 'I did it because I thought you were going to have me arrested; you said you were and I believed you. So it's your own fault. I'm sorry ... I wish I hadn't, but anyhow now you have a motive for curing me; you've got to find a solution. I just couldn't depend on your sheer goodwill; we've had too much trouble between us. Isn't that so?'

He managed to say, 'I've heard that about addicts in general; they like to hook other people.'

'Do you forgive me?' Kathy asked, also rising.

'No,' he said. He felt wrathful and dizzy. Not only do I not forgive you, he thought, but I'll do everything I can to deny you a cure; nothing means anything to me now except getting back at you. Even my own cure. He felt pure, absolute hate for her. Yes, this was what she would do; this was his wife. This was precisely why he had tried to get away.

'We're in this together,' Kathy said.

As steadily as possible he walked toward the exit of the cafeteria step by step, past the tables, people. Leaving her.

He almost made it. He almost.

Everything returned. But totally different. New. Changed.

Across from him Don Festenburg leaned back, said, 'You're lucky. But I'd better explain this. Here. The calendar.' He pushed a brass object; across the desk Eric saw. 'You've moved slightly over one year ahead.' Eric stared. Sightlessly. Ornate inscriptions. 'This is June 17, 2056. You're one of the happy few the drug affects this way. Most of them wander off into the past and get bogged down in manufacturing alternate universes; you know, playing God until at last the nerve destruction is too great and they degenerate to random twitches.'

Eric tried to think of something useful to say. Could not.

'Save yourself the effort,' Festenburg said, seeing him struggle. 'I can do the talking; you'll only be here a few minutes so let me get it said. A year ago, when you were given JJ-180 in the building cafeteria, I was fortunate enough to get in on the flurry; your wife became hysterical and you of course – disappeared. She was taken in tow by the Secret Service and she admitted her addiction and what she had done.'

'Oh.' The room dropped and rose as he reflexively nodded.

'So that – you're feeling better? So anyhow, but now Kathy is cured, but we won't go into that; it hardly matters.'

'What about—'

'Yes, your problem. Your addiction. There was no cure then, a year ago. However, you'll be gratified to hear that there is now. It came into being a couple of months ago, and I've been waiting for you to show up – so much more is known about JJ-180 now that I was privileged to compute almost to the minute when and where you'd appear.' Reaching into his rumpled coat pocket, Festenburg brought out a small glass bottle. This is the antidote which TF&D's subsidiary now manufactures. Would you like it? If you took it now, twenty milligrams, you'd be free of your addiction even after you return to your own time.' He smiled, his sallow face wrinkling unnaturally. 'But – there are problems.'

Eric said, 'How is the war going?'

Deprecatingly, Festenburg said, 'What do you care? Good God, Sweetscent; your life depends on this bottle – you don't know what addiction to that stuff is like!'

'Is Molinari still alive?'

Festenburg shook his head. 'Minutes he's got and he wants to know about the Mole's state of health. Listen.' He leaned toward Eric, his mouth turned down poutingly, his face puffy with agitation. 'I want to make a deal, doctor. I'm asking astonishingly little in return for these medication tablets. Please do business with me; the next time you take the drug – if you're not cured – you'll go ten years into the future and that'll be too late, too far.'

Eric said, 'Too late for you, but not for me. The cure will still exist.'

'You won't even ask what I want in return?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

Eric shrugged. 'I don't feel comfortable; I'm being subjected to pressure and I don't care for that – I'll take my chances with the drug without you.' It was sufficient merely to know that a cure existed. Such knowledge obliterated his anxiety and left him free to do as he liked. 'Obviously, my best bet is to use the drug as often as physiologically possible, two or three times, going farther into the future each time, and then when its destructive effects become too great—'

'Even one use,' Festenburg said between his clenched teeth, 'causes irreversible brain damage. You damn fool – you've already used it too much. You saw your wife; you want that damage for yourself?'

After a moment, considering deeply, Eric said, 'For what I'll get out of it, yes. By the time I've used it twice I'll know the outcome of the war and if the outcome is unfavorable possibly I'll be in a position to advise Molinari how it could be avoided. What's my health compared to that?' He was silent then; it seemed perfectly clear to him. There was nothing to discuss: he sat waiting for the effects of the drug to wear off. He waited to return to his own time.

Opening the glass bottle, Festenburg poured out the white tablets; he dropped them to the floor and ground them to dust under his heel.

'Did it occur to you,' Festenburg said, 'that within the next ten years Terra may be so destroyed in the war that TF&D's subsidiary may no longer be in a position to supply this antidote?'

It had not occurred to him; although jolted, he managed not to show it. 'We'll see,' he murmured.

'Frankly I have no knowledge of the future. However, I have knowledge of the past – of your future, this last year.' He produced a homeopape, which he turned toward Eric and spread out on the desk. 'Six months following your experience in the White House cafeteria. It'll interest you.'

Eric scanned the lead article and its headline.

SWEETSCENT IMPLICATED AS PRIME MOVER IN

DOCTOR'S PLOT AGAINST ACTING UN SECRETARY

DONALD FESTENBURG, HELD BY SECRET SERVICE.

Abruptly Festenburg whipped the newspaper away, crumpling it and tossing it behind him. 'I'm not saying what became of Molinari – find that out for yourself, since you're uninterested in reaching a rational agreement with me.'

After a pause Eric said, 'You've had a year to print up a fake of the Times. I seem to recall that such has been done before in political history... Joseph Stalin did it to Lenin during Lenin's last year. Had a completely phony edition of Pravda printed, given to Lenin, who—'

'My uniform,' Festenburg said wildly, his face dark red and quivering as if it were about to burst. 'Look at my shoulder patches!'

'Why couldn't that be faked, too? I'm not saying it is, or that the homeopape was faked.' After all, he was not in a position to know one way or another. 'I'm merely saying it could be, and that's enough to cause me to suspend my judgement.'

With enormous effort Festenburg managed to gain partial control of himself. 'All right; you're playing cautious. This entire experience is disorienting for you – I understand. But doctor, be realistic for a moment; you've seen the pape, you know that in a way which I'm not specifying I succeeded Molinari as UN Secretary. Plus the fact that six months from your own time period you were caught red-handed conspiring against me. And—'

'Acting UN Secretary,' Eric amended.

'What?' Festenburg stared at him.

'A pro tern situation is implied. Transitional. And I wasn't – or won't be – caught "red-handed." The pape merely relates an accusation; there's been no trial, no conviction. I could be innocent. I could be about to be framed, and by you. Again, recall Stalin during his last year, the so-called—'

'Don't lecture me in my own field! Yes, I know of the situation you related; I know how completely Stalin fooled the dying Lenin. And I know about the doctor's plot, paranoiacally engineered by Stalin during his final illness. Okay—' Festen-burg's voice was steady. 'I admit it. That homeopape which I showed you just now – it was faked.'

Eric smiled.

'And I'm not Acting UN Secretary,' Festenburg continued. 'But as to what actually has happened — I'll leave it to you to guess. And you're not going to be able to; you're going to return to your own time a few moments from now knowing nothing, not a damn thing, about the world of the future – whereas if you had made a few deals with me you could know everything.' He glowered at Eric.

'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—'

'Then she's got to have more of the drug,' Eric said, and he thought about himself. His own situation. 'Suppose she had only taken it once. Would that—'

'Doctor,' Hazeltine said, 'don't you understand? JJ-180 was not designed as a medicine; it's a weapon of war. It was intended to be capable of creating an absolute addiction by a single dose; it was intended to bring about extensive nerve and brain damage. It's odorless and tasteless; you can't tell when it's being administered to you in, say, food or drink. From the start we faced the problem of our own people becoming accidentally addicted; we were waiting until we had the cure and then we would use JJ-180 against the enemy. But—' He eyed Eric. 'Your wife was not accidentally addicted, doctor. It was done with deliberate intent. We know where she got it.' He glanced at Miss Bachis.

'Your wife couldn't have obtained it from Tijuana Fur & Dye,' Miss Bachis said, 'because no quantity of the drug whatsoever has been released by Hazeltine to its parent company.'

'Our ally,' Bert Hazeltine said. 'It was a protocol of the Pact of Peace; we had to deliver to them a sample of every new weapon of war produced on Terra. The UN compelled me to ship a quantity of JJ-180 to Lilistar.' His face had become slack with what for him was now a stale, flat resentment.

Miss Bachis said, The quantity of JJ-180, for security purposes, was shipped to Lilistar in five separate containers on five separate transports. Four reached Lilistar. One did not; the reegs destroyed it with an automine. And, since then, we've heard persistent rumors through our intelligence service operating within the Empire that 'Star agents have carried the drug back here to Terra, to use against our people.'

Eric nodded. 'All right; she didn't get it at Tijuana Fur & Dye.' But what does it matter where Kathy had gotten it?

'So your wife,' Miss Bachis said, 'has been approached by 'Star intelligence agents and therefore can't be kept in Cheyenne; we've already talked to the Secret Service and she's to be transferred back to Tijuana or San Diego. There's no alternative; she hasn't admitted it, of course, but she's being supplied in exchange for acting as a 'Star recruit. That could be why she followed you here.'

'But,' Eric said, 'if you cut her off her supply of the drug—'

'We don't intend that,' Hazeltine said. 'In fact just the opposite; the most thoroughgoing method of detaching her from the 'Star agents is to supply her directly from our stock. That's policy in cases such as this ... and your wife is not the first, doctor; we've seen this before and take my word for it, we know what to do. That is, within the limited number of possibilities open to us. First, she needs the drug merely to stay alive; that alone makes it essential to keep her supplied. But there's one more fact you should know. The shipment that was sent to Lilistar but was destroyed by a reeg mine ... we understand now that the reegs were able to salvage portions of that ship. They obtained a minute but nonetheless real quantity of JJ-180.' He paused. They're working on a cure, too.'

The room went silent.

'We don't have a cure anywhere on Terra,' Hazeltine continued, after a pause. 'Lilistar, of course, isn't even trying, despite what they may have told your wife; they're simply cranking out their own supply of the drug, no doubt to use against us as well as the enemy. That's a fact of life. But – a cure may already exist among the reegs; it would be unfair and morally wrong not to tell you this. I'm not suggesting that you defect to the enemy; I'm not suggesting anything – I'm just being honest with you. In four months we may have it or we may not; I have no way of knowing the future.'

'The drug,' Eric said, 'permits some of its users to pass into the future.'

Hazeltine and Miss Bachis exchanged glances.

'True,' Hazeltine said, nodding. That's highly classified information, as you no doubt know. I suppose you learned that from your wife. Is that the direction she moves when she's under the influence of the drug? It's relatively rare; withdrawal into the past seems to be the rule.'

Guardedly Eric said, 'Kathy and I have talked about it.'

'Well,' Hazeltine said, 'it's a possibility, logically at least. To go into the future, obtain the cure – perhaps not a quantity of it but anyhow the formula; memorize it and then return to the present, turn the formula over to our chemists at H. Corporation. And that would be that. It seems almost too easy, doesn't it? The drug's effects contain the method for procuring the nullifying agent, the source of a new, unknown molecule to enter the liver metabolism in place of JJ-180 ... The first objection that occurs to me is that there may never be such an antidote, in which case going into the future is useless. After all, there is not yet any sure cure for addiction to opium derivatives; heroin is still illegal and dangerous, as much so as a century ago. But another objection, a deeper one, occurs to me. Frankly – and I've supervised all phases of testing JJ-180 – I feel that the time period entered by the subject under its influence is phony. I don't believe it's the real future or the real past.'

Then what is it?' Eric asked.

'What we at Hazeltine Corporation have maintained from the start; we claim that JJ-180 is an hallucinogenic drug and we mean just that. Just because the hallucinations seem real, that's no criterion to go by; most hallucinations seem real whatever the cause, whether from a drug, a psychosis, brain damage, or electrical stimulation given directly to specific areas of the brain. You must know that, doctor; a person experiencing hallucinosis doesn't merely think he sees, say, a tree of oranges – he really does see it. For him it's an authentic experience, as much so as our presence here in your living room. No one who's taken JJ-180 and gone into the past has returned with any artifact; he doesn't disappear or—'

Miss Bachis interrupted, 'I disagree, Mr Hazeltine. I've talked to a number of JJ-180 addicts and they've given details about the past which I'm positive they wouldn't know except by having gone there. I can't prove it but I do believe it. Excuse me for interrupting.'

'Buried memories,' Hazeltine said irritably. 'Or Christ, possibly past lives; maybe there is reincarnation.'

Eric said, 'If JJ-180 did induce authentic time travel it might not constitute a good weapon to use against the reegs. It might give them hallucinosis, Mr Hazeltine. As long as you have plans of selling it to the government.'

'An ad hominem argument,' Hazeltine said. 'Attack my motives, not my argument; I'm surprised, doctor.' He looked glum. 'But maybe you're right. How do I know? I've never taken it, and we've given it to no one once we discovered its addictive properties; we're limited to animal experiments, our first – and unfortunate – human subjects, and more recent ones such as your wife whom the 'Starmen have made into addicts. And—' He hesitated, then shrugged and continued. 'And, obviously, we've given it to captured reegs in POW camps; otherwise we would have no way of determining its effects on them.'

'How have they responded?' Eric asked.

'More or less as our own people. Complete addiction, neurological decay, hallucinations of an overpowering order which made them apathetic to their actual situation.' He added, half to himself, The things you have to do in wartime. And they talk about the Nazis.'

Miss Bachis said, 'We must win the war, Mr Hazeltine.'

'Yes,' Hazeltine said lifelessly. 'Oh, you're so goddam right, Miss Bachis; how truly right you are.' He stared sightlessly down at the floor.

'Give Dr Sweetscent the supply of the drug,' Miss Bachis said.

Nodding, Hazeltine reached into his coat. 'Here.' He held out a flat metal tin. 'JJ-180. Legally we can't give it to your wife; we can't supply a known addict. So you take it – this is a formality, obviously – and what you do with it is your own business. Anyhow, there's enough in that tin to keep her alive for as long as she'll live.' He did not meet Eric's gaze; he continued to stare at the floor.

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.