and cried when he made a jackpot.

I'm not going to cry any more.

Supper was the usual, beef-yeast and vita-ale. I remember setting
Bishop's plate in front of him, and the way his pale eyes gleamed
between mouthfuls. "Three thousand points ahead," he gloated. "You'll
never catch me now. Never, never!"

That was when he gripped his throat and began writhing on the floor.

Max felt his pulse. He stared at me.

"Very nice," he said. "Quick. Did you use a derivative of that green
fungus?"

I said nothing. Max's nostrils were white and pinched. "Must I make an
autopsy?"

"Why bother?" I said. "It's obviously heart failure."

"Yes, why bother?" he said. He looked tired. "Stay in your cabin,
Greta. I'll bring your meals."

"I don't trust you."

His laughter had a touch of madness.

* * * * *

_March 10_

Max unlocked my cabin door this morning. He looked drawn. "Listen," he
said. "I've checked my respiration, pulse, saliva, temperature. All
normal."

"So?"

"Come here," he said. I followed him into the lab. He indicated a
microscope. His eyes were bright.

"Well?"

"A drop of my blood," he said. "Look."

I squinted into the microscope. I saw purple discs. Oddly, they did not
attack the red blood cells. There was no fission, no mitosis. The
leucocytes, strangely enough, let them alone.

My hands were shaking as I took a sterile slide and pricked my finger. I
put the slide under the microscope. I adjusted the lens and stared.

Purple discs, swimming in my bloodstream. Thriving. Minding their own
business.

"Me, too," I said.

"They're inert," Max said hoarsely. "They don't affect metabolism, cause
fever, or interfere with the body chemistry in any way. Do they remind
you of anything?"

I thought about it. Then I went to the slide file that was marked
_flora--negative_.

"Right," Max said. "The purple thistle. Spores! The atmosphere is
clogged with them. Greta, my sweet, we're infected."

"I feel fine," I said.

All day long we ran tests. Negative tests. We seem to be disgustingly
healthy. "Symbiosis," Max said finally. "Live and let live. Apparently
we're hosts."

Only one thing disturbs me.

Most symbiotes _do_ something for their host. Something to enhance the
host's survival potential.

We played chess this evening. I won. Max is furious. He's such a poor
sport.

* * * * *

_March 11_

Max talked with Senator Farrag