. "Not just to this lab but to the
Institute."

[Illustration: ILLUSTRATED BY BARBERIS]

She nodded. "I am, but how did you know?"

"Thurston's Disease. Everyone in the Institute knows that name for the
plague, but few outsiders do." He smiled sardonically. "Virus pneumonic
plague--that's a better term for public use. After all, what good does
it do to advertise a doctor's stupidity?"

She eyed him curiously. "_De mortuis?_" she asked.

He nodded. "That's about it. We may condemn our own, but we don't like
laymen doing it. And besides, Thurston had good intentions. He never
dreamed this would happen."

"The road to hell, so I hear, is paved with good intentions."

"Undoubtedly," Kramer said dryly. "Incidentally, did you apply for this
job or were you assigned?"

"I applied."

"Someone should have warned you I dislike cliches," he said. He paused a
moment and eyed her curiously. "Just why did you apply?" he asked. "Why
are you imprisoning yourself in a sealed laboratory which you won't
leave as long as you work here. You know, of course, what the conditions
are. Unless you resign or are carried out feet first you will remain
here ... have you considered what such an imprisonment means?"

"I considered it," she said, "and it doesn't make any difference. I
have no ties outside and I thought I could help. I've had training. I
was a nurse before I was married."

"Divorced?"

"Widowed."

Kramer nodded. There were plenty of widows and widowers outside. Too
many. But it wasn't much worse than in the Institute where, despite
precautions, Thurston's disease took its toll of life.

"Did they tell you this place is called the suicide section?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Weren't you frightened?"

"Of dying? Hardly. Too many people are doing it nowadays."

He grimaced, looking more satanic than ever. "You have a point," he
admitted, "but it isn't a good one. Young people should be afraid of
dying."

"You're not."

"I'm not young. I'm thirty-five, and besides, this is my business. I've
been looking at death for eleven years. I'm immune."

"I haven't your experience," she admitted, "but I have your attitude."

"What's your name?" Kramer said.

"Barton, Mary Barton."

"Hm-m-m. Well, Mary--I can't turn you down. I need you. But I could wish
you had taken some other job."

"I'll survive."

He looked at her with faint admiration in his greenish eyes. "Perhaps
you will," he said. "All right. As to your duti